Genre: rivals to lovers; (debatable) exes to lovers; holiday romance
Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (f)
Rating/Genre: M (18+); smut
Summary: In a town like Merriman, there are three things you can count on: first, that the holiday season is the busiest tourist time of the year; second, that any presentation given by Remmy Quarrels, elected treasurer, during town hall will be boring; and third, that Yoongi Min will find a way to be infuriating throughout.
This year is no exception, but instead of the usual presentation from Remmy, he announces the bane of small businesses everywhere: Emerald Corporation, hotel conglomerate and killer of joy, plans to open a ski resort on the next mountain. This would be fine, except your family owns the Rosy Finch, a cozy inn at the center of town, and Emerald Corp is a death sentence to places like yours – and the Lodge at Blue Glenn, owned by none other than your rival, Yoongi Min.
When you team up to stop this from happening (okay, fine – when you bully Yoongi into helping), you soon realize things are not what they seem. Not only with Emerald Corp, but your feelings for Yoongi seem to change by the day. As the countdown to Christmas continues, two important questions emerge in your mind: Will you be able to save your businesses in time?
And, more importantly, have you misjudged Yoongi Min from the start?
Warnings (other): death of a parent (past tense), corporate America *shudder*
Content Creator: thank you @kithtaehyung for the AMAZING PAGE BREAKS AND END BANNER!
Twelve Years Ago
Overly romantic and prone to flights of fancy – words written by your fourth-grade teacher on your report card, and words that come to mind now, seated with your nose pressed against the second-floor window. Delicately, you lean back and wipe the pane with your sweater.
Long ago, you decided to embrace your (unfortunately immutable) overzealous nature. It’s your superpower; the ability to make the best of a situation and always figure out a path forward. Even your high school drama teacher agrees – last spring, she declared your performance of Fantine in Les Mis to be the most spirited rendition she had ever seen.
Which, come to think of it, may not have been a compliment.
Regardless, it is not in your nature to do things half-measure. And honestly, you would dare even the most cynical high schooler to feel anything less than ecstasy when faced with a date with Yoongi Min. Impossible.
Bright lights swing onto your drive, and you snap the blinds shut, nearly toppling over in your haste to stand. The window seat on the second floor remains your favorite place to spy on the neighborhood. Never mind that things have been cramped since last summer’s growth spurt when you sprang upward four inches.
Below, your dad’s voice drifts up the stairs. “Y/N!” he yells. “Your gentleman caller has arrived!”
Coming to a stop at the landing, you smooth down your sweater and grimace at your hair in the mirror. No matter what you do, it refuses to behave the same way your mom’s does, which always looks perfect. When your dad calls your name again, you give up and head down the stairs.
One thing you never question is where in the family your dramatics came from. While you were upstairs snooping, your dad was in the living room, doing the exact same. He would never miss an opportunity to reenact the scene from Twilight with Charlie Swann and his shotgun. Never mind that your dad has never so much as held a gun, let alone threatened with one. Instead of a rifle, he makes do with the wooden cane your grandma left in your garage last Christmas.
Grabbing your coat, you shove one arm through the sleeve. “Don’t wait up,” you call as you pass by the kitchen.
Your mom barely looks up from where she’s dicing tomatoes. “Be safe, honey. Don’t forget your curfew is 10:00, and there are to be no drugs, no alcohol, and no destruction of public property!”
“Cool, cool – private property is fine, though. Right?”
She laughs, never ceasing with the knife. “Have fun, honey,” she adds as you continue down the hall.
Rushing to the front door, you meet your dad halfway, who emerges from the living room with the cane in one hand.
“Dad, no!” you blurt, nearly tripping on your coat in your haste to reach him. “Please,” you beg, skidding to a stop between him and the door. “You are not allowed to embarrass me tonight.”
Adjusting the cane, he places one hand on his heart. “Who, me?”
Not breaking eye contact, you lower yourself and shove your feet into boots. “Yes, you,” you huff, not trusting him out of your sight. “Or are you not the same dad who humiliated me last year before the homecoming dance?”
Your dad taps his chin. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Oh, no? So, when my date showed up with his pants too high, you did not say, ‘One time I thought the dryer shrunk my clothes, but it turns out it was just –”
“The refrigerator!” Your dad guffaws, remembering the punchline. “And your date didn’t think that was funny?” he asks, sobering at the idea of you dating someone with no sense of humor.
Dad humor, that is.
“Honey,” your mom calls from the kitchen. “Why don’t you come help set the table? We can spy on Y/N from the window when she leaves, like normal parents.”
“Why isn’t Bea helping?” you ask, zipping your coat. “Where is she?”
Bea is your younger sister, and most school nights are spent studying at the library, although she’s usually home by now on Fridays.
“Model UN,” comes your mom’s voice.
Before your dad can form a new argument – his expression looks dangerously close – you dart around him and wrench open the door.
“Thanks!” you yell, stepping outside and slamming it shut. “See you!”
Perhaps you slam the door a tad harder than necessary, since when you turn, you find yourself nose-to-nose with your date.
Yoongi blinks at you, his right hand outstretched as though he were about to knock. Slowly, he lowers his arm. “Uh…” He looks over your shoulder. “Shouldn’t I meet your parents?”
Images of Yoongi facing down the barrel of a wooden cane fill your mind, and you visibly wince.
“Nope,” you blurt, grabbing him by the elbow to steer him towards his car. His car, because – swoon – Yoongi is sixteen and already has his license. “We’re fine, let’s go.”
Yoongi looks once more over his shoulder but eventually follows. Shutting yourself in the passenger seat, you balance your purse on your lap. A purse borrowed from your mom, since no fifteen-year-old needs a purse for everyday life.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Yoongi methodically checks his mirrors. When he looks over and meets your gaze, butterflies erupt in your stomach.
“Hey.” He smiles. “You look nice tonight.”
Thrilled, you glance down, as though you didn’t spend hours with your best friend Jasmine picking out this very outfit.
“Oh, this?” you say, casually. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Yoongi chuckles and faces forward.
Not bad is an understatement – Yoongi looks devastating. His straight, black hair falls across his forehead and those rips in his skinny jeans must be strategic. Also impractical, since it’s winter in Merriman. Hell, you’re cold, even wearing your peacoat, and Yoongi has on only a dark leather jacket.
Placing one hand on the back of your headrest, Yoongi looks behind you while backing out of your driveway. It takes everything in you not to swoon. As a result, your face scrunches in an approximation of pain, which Yoongi notices when he faces forward.
“Cold?” he asks, reaching to turn up the heat.
“No,” you say, only to realize this is the lesser of evils. It would be weird to admit you were pained by his dating moves. “I mean, uh, yeah. A bit.”
He simply nods, returning his errant hand to the wheel. The two of you drive in silence for a few minutes, until you clear your throat.
“Thanks for driving tonight,” you tell him.
Yoongi’s lips twitch. “I didn’t think you had a license.”
Blinking over the console, it takes you a moment to digest. When you rehearsed this in your mind earlier, you pictured him saying something different. The Yoongi in your imagination accepted your thanks with ease, then commented how he’d been watching you from afar.
In a non-creepy way.
But that’s fine. You can be flexible with the best of them.
You manage to smile. “I don’t,” you say. As though you needed another reminder Yoongi is older than you and, frankly, out of your league.
He glances at you. “Then, I’m not sure I had a choice – did I?”
Before you can stop yourself, you roll your eyes. “Just take the compliment, Min.”
Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, then starts to laugh, his shoulders shaking. Some of the tension you felt releases, and you can’t help but smile as you look towards the window. Although it’s December, a layer of snow already blankets the ground, sparkling violet-white under the moon.
A faint buzzing interrupts your reverie. Retrieving your phone from your purse, you glance at the screen and see Jasmine’s name.
Jazzy-Jaz: HOW IS THE DATE GOING [7:06 PM]
Jazzy-Jaz: Wait, don’t answer that [7:06 PM]
Jazzy-Jaz: In fact!! Why are you even looking at your phone?? [7:07 PM]
Jazzy-Jaz: PS I ate all the brownies you made and need more. I am a fiend. You created a monster. Stop being so good at baking [7:07 PM]
You stifle a laugh, beginning to type out a response when the car stops, and you realize you’ve reached your destination. Looking up, you spot the neon sign for Brewsters, the dive-bar-slash-restaurant.
“Oh!” you blurt, lamely. “We’re here.”
Yoongi unbuckles his seatbelt, turning away so you can’t see his face. “Yeah, we are.”
Heat rises when you realize he may have seen you texting. Again, in your daydreams, you never made your date feel like they were unwanted. You’re beginning to realize this whole dating thing might be trickier than you realized.
Hastily, you climb out of the car. “Sorry,” you say, when Yoongi appears from the other side. “That was my best friend. Jaz – uh, Jasmine. Pillai. Do you know her?”
Yoongi shrugs. “Not really.”
“Oh. Well, she was just texting me about this date.”
He nods, the gesture tight.
Shit. That could mean anything. Get it together, Y/N, you sternly internalize. “Because I’ve been so nervous,” you explain.
Yoongi’s expression softens and he pauses at the restaurant, one hand on the door. “You were nervous?” he asks. “About tonight?”
“Of course, I was. You’re, well” – seeing how interested Yoongi gets, you fumble a little – “you.”
He lifts a brow. “And that’s… bad.”
“No! It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Very good,” you clarify.
“Very good. Hm.” Nodding, Yoongi pulls open the door. When you pass him, he leans forward to murmur, “For what it’s worth, I was nervous about tonight, too.”
Your brain fills with static, barely able to think as he leads you inside. Five minutes later, you find yourself seated with Yoongi in a booth near the back. To your dismay, what seems like half your high school is already here.
Admittedly, you could have predicted this. There are exactly three places in town to go to on weekends, and two are in hotels owned by your family and Yoongi’s.
That was how you met Yoongi years ago. Your family owns the Rosy Finch, a cozy inn situated in the center of town, while Mr. Min owns the Lodge at Blue Glenn, a four-star luxury resort nested in the Blue Mountains. Despite their differences, your lodgings are considered the best within a one-hundred-mile radius.
You grew up attending conferences with your family and would inevitably run into Yoongi, dragged along by his parents. Mostly, you two ignored each other. Or – well, he ignored you and you pretended to do the same. Lately though, you found yourself watching him, wondering when the Min kid got so damn hot. You were as shocked as anyone when he appeared at your locker last week and asked you out.
It still doesn’t seem real to you as you open your menu – and open, and open, until the entire table is covered.
“What the…” Yoongi trails off. “How many pages is this thing?”
“Have you never been here before?”
His cheeks turn slightly pink. “No. My dad is kind of picky about where we eat.”
Sensing this to be a sensitive topic, you quickly move on. “Here,” you say, reaching for his menu. “The trick is only to order from page three. Pub food is the safe zone – anything else is a risk.”
“Oh?” Painstakingly, Yoongi flips the giant page. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t get the quesadilla with… holy shit, is that mayonnaise?”
“Oh, wait, no – I actually hear that’s delicious. If you lack tastebuds.”
Yoongi solemnly nods. “Before that though, we should get this onion stick platter. Not sure if that’s a typo, but–”
“Y/N!”
You barely have time to react before fuzzy arms in a cardigan are flung about you. Face squished against Lucy Walsh’s chest, you struggle to free yourself.
“Y/N,” she repeats, yanking you back to hold you by the shoulders. “I thought I saw you back here! Did you get the group text?”
“The… group text?”
It’s hard to focus on what she’s saying with Yoongi across from you. Idly, he flips a page in the menu, as though its contents may have changed.
“The group chat!” Lucy laughs, curls bouncing. “A bunch of us decided to go to Brewsters at the last minute. I assumed you saw the text and – oh!” she says, finally noticing Yoongi. “I didn’t see you there. You’re in my brother’s grade, right?”
Before Yoongi can respond, Lucy adds, “Yes, that’s right.” She snaps her fingers. “You’re friends with Seokjin Kim, right? The mayor’s kid.”
Yoongi frowns. “Seokjin isn’t the mayor’s kid.”
“No, but doesn’t his family like, own half the town? He’s basically royalty if Merriman had royalty, which we don’t but–”
“Luce,” you interrupt, smiling brightly. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”
Her gaze bounces between you and Yoongi, and then her eyes widen. “Oh,” Lucy says. “This is a date, isn’t it? Okay, I am so dumb. I just assumed you were here because Jaz is on her way. I’ll make myself scarce. Nice to meet you,” she calls to Yoongi as she retreats.
Yoongi stares at the back of her fuzzy, pink cardigan. Awkwardly, you fiddle with the spoon on the table.
“Um, sorry about that,” you say, forcing a laugh. “Lucy is nice, but kind of oblivious.”
Yoongi returns to you. “It’s no problem,” he says mildly. “Did you want to go and say hi to your friends? It sounded like they were–”
“Hi, there!”
Twisting in your seat, you curse internally when you see your waitress is Annie Summers. Annie is seventeen and gorgeous, which wouldn’t be a problem if she didn’t have the nasty habit of hitting on all her friends’ boyfriends.
Flipping open her notepad, Annie props one hand on her hip. Her smile is directed at Yoongi. “See anything you like?”
Yoongi glances at his menu. “I’ll have the burger.”
“Same,” you say, syrupy sweet as you close your menu.
Annie nods, collecting the menus without looking at you. “Of course. And if you need anything else” – she drops a wink at Yoongi – “you know where to find me.”
Sauntering away from your table, she tucks both the menus beneath her free arm. You glower at her backside until Yoongi clears his throat.
“Oh.” Blinking, you face forward. “Sorry. What did you say?”
Yoongi opens his mouth, then hesitates. He sits back. “Nothing. So – the burger, huh? Should we be worried that technically, it was on page four?”
You laugh and before you know it, a bus boy is dropping two burgers off at your table. For a moment, you think Brewsters has set a new service record, but then you look at your watch and realize you’ve been talking for nearly an hour.
Blinking at your meal, you take this fact in. Ever since Yoongi asked you out, you’ve built this up in your mind. Not only is this your first date with Yoongi, but your first date ever and you admit you may have come in with high expectations. The direct result of your obsession with movies like How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and When Harry Met Sally.
Somehow, though, tonight has exceeded them all. Sure, there were a few hiccups at the start – and do you love the fact that Annie keeps hitting on Yoongi? No. But there’s still something about tonight that leaves your stomach giddy, high with anticipation that this might be the real thing.
Yoongi fiddles with the wrapper of his straw, his hand inches away. You watch his gaze dart to your fingers, lingering before he exhales and withdraws.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Annie appears like a bad habit, and you try not to wince. Forcing a smile, you shake your head, no, then look at Yoongi.
His gaze is on Annie. “I’m good, thanks.”
Her smile widens. “Okay, cool.” Before she leaves, she drags her finger along the table. “You’re Yoongi, right? I think I’ve seen you around.”
“Yeah,” he says, then falls silent.
Your fingers begin tapping a rhythm on the booth. You wait, expecting for Yoongi to shut things down, but nothing happens.
Uncomfortable, you sit there as your skin starts to itch. Something about the moment feels… wrong, but you can’t put a name to it. Maybe it’s more noticeable because only five minutes ago, you felt on top of the world.
Right as you think this, the door to Brewsters opens. Your jaw drops when you see two familiar faces, and you jump out of your seat.
Both Yoongi and Annie swivel to face you. “Sorry!” you blurt, grabbing your purse. “I, um, need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
Annie’s face shifts to something like pity, but Yoongi looks concerned.
“Okay.” He half-rises. “Are you okay, Y/N?”
“Yeah,” you add, panicked that he’ll turn around and see the new entrants. “I just, um, need to pee. Be right back.”
Before he can respond, you dart away. Powerwalking to the front of Brewsters, you have a clear view of Jasmine and Namjoon seated at a table. Jasmine withdraws a beanie from her backpack to squash over her hair. Namjoon wears no disguise, although he has on his glasses instead of the usual contacts.
“What are you doing here,” you hiss, dropping both hands on their table. Namjoon, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed. “I am on a date.”
“Exactly!” Jasmine squints from under her beanie. “We’re here as your back-up. You never texted me back.”
“You were the one who told me not to respond!”
Her lips purse. “Okay, that was dumb of me. What if Yoongi kidnapped you? From now on, ignore what I say and send me hourly updates.”
Slowly, your eyes close.
Namjoon chooses this moment to chime in with, “You look nice tonight, Y/N.”
“I know,” you snap, your eyes flying open. “I look nice for Yoongi, not you two clowns, who are ruining my date with your presence!”
“Uh…” Jasmine points over your shoulder. “Actually, I think Annie Summers might be the one ruining your date. Not us.”
Following her hand, your entire body goes still. Annie has taken your seat at the booth, and while you watch, she laughs at something Yoongi just said. A second later, she slides her hand forward to brush against his.
Heat – and embarrassment – claws up your throat.
You knew this whole thing was too good to be true. Yoongi is older, more attractive than you, and he has the whole mysterious, cool guy vibe women go nuts for. It never made sense for him to ask you out, and now you have proof. You’re a nerdy, theatre-loving loudmouth with no significant plans to go to college.
Tears prick the back of your eyes, and you do your best to quell them. Jasmine and Namjoon continue speaking, but you barely hear. All you can do is concentrate on recovering enough to march over and end this. Ideally, without crying.
Squaring your shoulders, you gather yourself. “Okay,” you say. “I’m heading in. Jaz – you have my location on Find My Friends. That should be enough; there’s no need for hourly texts. And Namjoon…” Disappointed, you shake your head. “I expected better from you. You’re supposed to be the reasonable one of this group.”
Visibly, he deflates. “Sorry. Jaz promised me ice cream.”
“In December?” you ask. “Do better. Okay, I’ll text you both later – way later,” you clarify before turning around.
Wiping your palms on your pants, you head towards your table. Annie remains seated and Yoongi’s back is to you, so you don’t see his expression, but clearly, he hasn’t said to get lost before now.
Closing the distance, your heart starts to thud.
Noticing your approach, Annie slides from the booth, but not before sliding Yoongi a pink scrap of paper. “Call me,” she says, not bothering to be quiet.
She moves towards the kitchen, swaying her hips, and you watch Yoongi slip the paper into his pocket.
Your heart plummets. Although your feet are frozen, it feels like the world tilts beneath you. Dizzily, you try to hold on to what you felt before – the way Yoongi made you laugh, the way he confessed his nerves, and the easy way you conversed.
All of it is marred by the image of him accepting that phone number. Mindless, your hands curl into fists at your sides. Somewhere amidst the devastation, a sliver of anger worms its way into your thoughts.
Annie isn’t the problem. Yes, it was shitty of her to hit on your date, but Yoongi is the one who accepted her advance. He could have shut it all down. He could have told her to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he sat across from her in the booth and he talked. He accepted her phone number.
The fact hurts worse than you thought it would. Granted, you don’t have much to compare things to, but you didn’t think rejection would feel so wholly tangible. Once, when you were younger, you dared Bea to punch you in the stomach as hard as she could. You nearly threw up, and your mom barred you from fighting, but you can’t help but think of that in this moment.
The idea of staying any longer is sickening, so all you can hope for is to escape with your dignity.
Marching up to the table, you grab your purse. “I’m not feeling well,” you say, also collecting your jacket.
Yoongi half-stands. “Y/N,” he says, then frowns when he registers what you just said. “You aren’t feeling well?” His gaze scans your empty plate. “Was it the burger?”
“Maybe,” you say, buttoning your coat. “I think it would be best if I leave.”
“Okay.” Yoongi scoots to the edge of the booth. “I can drive you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Yoongi freezes, one foot on the floor.
“I mean” – you glance over your shoulder – “my friends can drive me home. There’s no need for you to go out of your way.”
More importantly, the last thing you want is to sit in a car with Yoongi for another twenty minutes knowing Annie’s phone number burns a hole in his pocket. Meeting his gaze, you watch his confusion morph to something close to suspicion. His gaze travels to fix on a point over your shoulder.
Slowly, his brows lower. “Isn’t that the friend you were texting?” he asks. “Did… you know they were coming?”
“No?” you ask, uncertain where this is heading.
His gaze flickers. “Okay.”
Yoongi’s tone has cooled, and you try not to flinch. It’s at that point you register what this must look like. It must look like you texted Jasmine in the car to come save you. As soon as you realize this though, you bristle, because you’re supposed to be the one with the moral high ground.
Yoongi was flirting with a waitress in front of you.
“Right,” you announce, pulling on your gloves. “I’m going to head out. I’ll send you money for the food, okay?”
Yoongi tenses. “Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m the one who asked you out. I’ll pay.”
“I insist,” you respond, well-aware you’re just being petty, but beyond the point of caring.
Yoongi slowly stands, taking a step forward until you’re inches apart. His chest rises and falls, hands clenched at his sides – fuck, his forearms are vascular. The visual sends heat flushing through you, since all of it is (unfortunately) extremely attractive.
When you move backwards, Yoongi follows. He looks at you down his nose, his gaze almost calculating.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
You can’t help but feel this is about more than the drive home, and for a moment, you falter. Yoongi’s gaze is so open that you wonder briefly if this is all some misunderstanding. But then your gaze falls on the now-empty table, and you remember the phone number Yoongi just pocketed.
You lift your chin. “I’m good.”
Yoongi nods. “Okay. Sure.”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
The heat of his chest is practically tangible. Standing this close, you’re aware Yoongi smells of citrus and amber, an intoxicating combo you wish you had never known. His pupils are blown out, leaving mostly black.
Each second that passes brings you closer together – and then your name is called from somewhere behind you. Snapping free of the trance, you turn around.
“Bye,” you choke before leaving.
Jasmine and Namjoon stand beside Lucy, laughing at something her table just said. Appearing next to Namjoon, you tug on his sleeve. Looking down at you, his eyes widen and he swiftly sequesters you to stand beside Jasmine.
“Shit,” she mutters, placing her arm around you. “Do you want to leave?”
Silent, you nod as tears prick your eyes.
“I’ll call my dad,” Namjoon says, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “He should be able to turn around and come back.”
You nod again, wobbling, and Jasmine leads you away to a plate of trash fries. Trash fries are exactly what they sound like – heaped with anything and everything that is bad for your body. When Remmy Quarrels, a senior that every girl hates, hoots and asks where your date went, Jasmine flips him off until he turns around.
Collapsing into a booth by the window, you watch Yoongi’s tail lights leave the parking lot. The slightest hint of indignation stirs in your belly. He didn’t even wait to see if you were okay before leaving.
Anger is a more useful emotion than hurt, so you do your best to hold onto it. By the time Namjoon’s dad parks, your group has landed head-first in We Hate Yoongi mode. Jasmine declares herself captain, insisting skinny jeans will be a thing of the past in less than ten years.
Taking a deep breath, you do your best to convince yourself that tonight meant nothing. No one ends up with their first date from high school. No one ends up with their first date, period. This was merely a moment in your dating timeline, and if you’re lucky, you’ll never have to see Yoongi again.
And from now on, you’re determined to guard your heart better. Never again will you be so easily sucked in. You may be overzealous, but you are no longer naïve.
At least you have Yoongi Min to thank for that.
Present Day
“Oh my god,” Jasmine whispers, way too loud in your ear. “Yoongi looks fucking hot. Doesn’t he?”
It takes everything in you not to punch her in the arm. Instead, you grip your notebook and force a tight nod. “He looks… fine. I guess.”
Jasmine makes a loud snort of objection. Settling in her uncomfortable folding chair, she shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” she says. “I know you two had that weird falling out in high school–”
“You were there, Jaz. He hit on someone else. On our date.”
“–but like, damn. Look at that outfit. An open blazer and scarf? Only a hot person can pull that off. I should know – I do it often.”
Your lips twitch, unable to come up with a suitable response. The worst part is Jasmine is not wrong. Yoongi is every bit as handsome as he was twelve years ago – more so, now that he’s twenty-eight and no longer sixteen.
His outfit is, unfortunately, as heart-melting as Jasmine implies. Yoongi has grown out his hair long enough for the ends to curl against his throat. Everything about his look screams expensive – the exact opposite of your outfit, thrifted from local craft stores.
Shifting away from him, you pointedly turn your face towards the stage. Well, stage is a loose term. Your high school musicals were set in a better venue. Every month for town meetings, Larry the janitor sets up a small platform in your town hall. The stage can only hold one person at a time and right now, that person is Judy Relis, town mayor. Judy has been the mayor since you were a small child, although admittedly, her campaigns in your youth had more vigor.
Tapping the microphone, Judy leans in and asks, “Is this thing on?”
Feedback echoes around the room, and you clap both hands over your ears. In the front row, Yoongi and Seokjin do the same. The two have been best friends for what seems like forever; even when Yoongi moved away from Merriman, the entire town knew of his doings through Seokjin.
“Sorry!” Judy beams at the crowd – well, at the approximately thirty people present. “Thank you for coming out on short notice. We have a packed agenda tonight, so I won’t take up too much of your time. I just wanted to thank you all for coming and let you know that tonight’s snacks were supplied by the Van Buren family. Thank you, Melissa and Jeff!”
Jasmine elbows your side. “That could be you,” she hisses. “The Van Burens brought store-bought goods. Your pastries are way better. And more impressive.”
Shaking your head, you give her a look. No matter how many times you tell Jasmine that you have a job, she pretends not to hear. Granted, you have invested a lot of time in baking as of late, and the town’s patisserie recently moved away, but that’s beside the point.
“First on the agenda,” Judy says, “I want to invite to the stage your new town treasurer, Remmy Quarrels.”
A light smattering of applause fills the room. You and Jasmine pointedly remain silent – as do Yoongi and Seokjin, seated at the front. Twisting, you spot Namjoon next to Jimin at the back of the room. The two launched their travel agency while they were roommates in college and decided to move to Merriman and establish their headquarters. Lately, their main effort has been increasing the town’s exposure.
Flipping open your notebook, you scribble the date at the top. Earlier this week, an email went out to every town businessperson, requesting their presence. Granted, you usually attend the town meetings, but the email explains Yoongi Min’s attendance. He rarely goes anywhere unless requested.
Lifting your gaze, you watch him lean over and whisper something to Seokjin. The two of them smirk when Remmy takes the stage.
You wish you could say they were in the wrong, but honestly, Remmy Quarrels is the worst. It was to your horror that he won the election last summer. Since then, he’s made it his mission to make the town money – often in unusual and unsavory ways. At one point, he approached your dad about a per head tax for children at the Rosy Finch. Your dad pretended not to hear until Remmy left.
“Good evening,” says Remmy, smiling at the room from the stage. “We have a full house tonight. I see those personalized emails did the trick.”
A few attendees laugh politely, but mostly they stay silent. Removing the microphone from the stand, Remmy smooths a hand over his hair. Blonde and thinning, the strands are plastered to his scalp by some kind of gel. Few things about him have changed since high school, including Remmy’s tendency to overuse hair products.
His smile widens. “I have an important proposition to share with you all tonight. I’m not exaggerating when I say this idea could be life changing.”
In the front row, Yoongi loudly coughs. Remmy glances down, slightly thrown, and you unfortunately find yourself rooting for Yoongi. The enemy of your enemy is your friend, as the saying goes.
Although more than a decade has passed, things remain frosty between you and Yoongi. After your disastrous date back in high school, he adopted radio silence, avoiding you at school until he graduated. He went to some rich, fancy college where he majored in hospitality, and secured a job afterwards at a luxury resort far from town.
He only returned to Merriman three years back when his dad died and Yoongi inherited the Lodge at Blue Glenn. The two of you have run into each other a few times since – hard not to, since your family still runs the Rosy Finch – but he retains an air of frigid professionalism.
It drives you insane.
“When you all voted for me as town treasurer,” Remmy continues, breaking into your thoughts.
Jasmine leans over. “I didn’t vote for him.”
“Me, either,” you whisper from the side of your mouth.
“Our town was struggling,” Remmy continues, adopting a serious face. “It was, but we’ve grown since then.”
“He was voted in four months ago,” Jasmine mutters. “Why is he acting like years have gone by?”
A snort escapes you, and you duck your head when Remmy glances your way.
“I promised,” he continues, voice raised, “that as your town treasurer, I would bring us success. New businesses! New partnerships! And in my role as town treasurer, I will –”
“We should have brought vodka,” Jasmine groans, slumping further. “And done a shot every time Remmy says the word treasurer.”
“We would have been drunk.”
“We would not have been bored.”
A true laugh escapes and now, Remmy is flat-out glaring in your direction. Desperate, you slide down in your chair to escape him.
“How many of you have heard of Emerald Corporation?”
Emerald Corporation? Oh, no.
You shoot upward so fast, the chair legs rattle ominously. The Emerald Corporation is a hospitality group headquartered in some giant city. Last year, you heard they bought a bunch of boutique hotels and renovated them extensively. They also fired the original management teams to do so, which escaped the press notices.
Other people in the room nod though, and your stomach churns as you see several grins. Not Yoongi, though. He remains seated in the front row with arms crossed and feet planted.
Remmy allows the excitement to build. “Well,” he says, pausing dramatically, “I recently had a meeting with their head of development, Phil Jones. Emerald Corporation is interested in purchasing the old Tully estate on Mount Bowler and turning it into a luxury ski resort.”
Mount Bowler, named for the ridge around its summit which gives it the shape of said hat, is next to Mauve Peak, on which sits the Lodge at Blue Glenn. The Tully estate is nothing but an empty piece of land. The family bought it decades ago, intending to build a chalet, but lost interest before they broke ground. It’s been for sale ever since.
If only they weren’t planning to sell it to Emerald Corp. Merriman barely has the tourism to keep you and Yoongi in business. A third hotel – let alone a giant resort – would be devastating to bookings. Glowering, you bend over your notebook and scribble Mount Bowler.
When you look up, Yoongi speaks quietly to Seokjin. His face has turned in your direction, allowing you to see his utterly tranquil expression. Annoyingly so.
Remmy continues, “This would be a major investment in Merriman. The Emerald Corporation would position their resort as a top offering, and they plan to spend big on marketing and publicity. All of our businesses would benefit from the boom.”
Your hand shoots up.
Remmy closes his eyes, as though anticipating what you have to say. Eventually, he exhales and points in your direction. “Do you have a question, Y/N?”
“No.” Primly, you fold your hands over your notebook. “But I do have a correction – your proposal would not benefit all town businesses.”
If his lips thinned any further, they might become invisible. “Fine, Miss Y/L/N,” Remmy acquiesces. “You’re right. Most of the town’s businesses – by which I mean the vast majority – would benefit.”
“Except for the two already existing hotels.”
“Yes,” Remmy snaps. “Two businesses, while the hundreds that remain would greatly – ah, yes. Mr. Min, what is it?”
Yoongi has raised his hand in the front row. When Remmy points, he lowers his arm and leans forward. “Two hotels that currently employ over a hundred members of the community, not to mention support many local businesses.”
Remmy’s expression sours. Clearly, he thought, due to Yoongi’s clothing and stature, he would be on his side. Instead, his comment sends a discontented murmur throughout the room.
Glancing around, Remmy adjusts his mic. “I am sure Emerald Corporation would plan to staff their resort with members of the community.”
Your eyebrows shoot upward. That’s a bold promise to make. Based on what you’ve heard, Emerald Corp tends to clean house before they take over.
If Remmy’s promise is real, though, it would make the task ahead of you more arduous. It would be hard to argue against the idea if you and Yoongi are the only two individuals who might suffer.
Luckily, Yoongi seems to be thinking the same. “Have you gotten that promise in writing?” he asks. “My friend owned the Knotted Pine until Emerald Corp took over, and he was pushed out. He said Emerald Corp preferred to bring in their own employees rather than staff from the town.”
Another wave of whispers follows.
Remmy has clearly had enough of this conversation. “Yes, well, there’s plenty of time to work out the details,” he snaps. “The point is this will be good for the town.”
“Debatable,” you mutter to Jasmine, who nods.
“People are noticing us!” Remmy adds, throwing his arms out wide. This brings the microphone away from his mouth, and he hurriedly pulls it back. “People are noticing you, and with more attention like this, we can bring more jobs to Merriman. Speaking of which, we’ve had incredibly successful fall events this year. Tourism is at an all-time high, which…”
Tuning him out, you lean over to Jasmine. “How bad do you think this is, on a scale of wet to dry mac and cheese?”
Jasmine blinks. “Wait, which is the worse end of the scale?”
“Dry, obviously.”
“But… what if it’s wet in a weird way? Like… slimy.”
“Ew,” you groan. “Jaz, why would you put that in my mind?”
“You put it in my mind! And I don’t know,” she admits, biting her lip. “It doesn’t sound good, but maybe it’s worse for Yoongi than you?”
You pause. “Oh. Maybe you’re right? I mean, it’s not like the Rosy Finch’s clientele can afford Emerald Corp’s prices.”
“Exactly.” She nods. “But Yoongi’s resort? Direct competition.”
The Rosy Finch markets itself as a family inn, with prices that fit the agendas of budget-conscious travelers. Yoongi’s lodge caters to an exclusive, luxury crowd who want a well-guarded retreat.
Settling back, you should feel some relief, but instead, your thoughts continue to drift towards Yoongi. After taking over the Lodge at Blue Glenn, he raised its status from four to five stars and utilized his industry connections to cater to the rich and famous. Merriman is far enough off the map that they’re willing to pay top prices to escape.
A gigantic resort on the next mountain would likely put a stop to all that. And although your inn may not be in direct competition, Emerald Corp is not known for being merciful in their strategy. They’re known to undercut pricing to kill all competition, which you can’t afford to match.
Fidgeting with your pen, you do your best to stem the rising tide of anxiety. You’ve never been good at the financial side of the business. The prospect of cutting prices makes your insides wither, since you already operate on extremely slim margins. Unfortunately, that was the part of the business your mom was good at.
Your fingers freeze when the dull pain washes through you. Last September marked ten years since she passed away, but there are still moments when you think of her and it catches you off-guard. The pain is no longer as sharp as it was – more of an ache than a stab – but you aren’t sure it will ever fully fade.
Lowering your head, you distract yourself by taking copious notes the rest of the meeting. Sadly, your penmanship leaves something to be desired and at the end, you find yourself squinting at the third line you wrote. Standing from the hard plastic chair, you show your notebook to Jasmine, the only one capable of deciphering your writing.
“What do you think I meant here?” you muse. “Lax efficiency. Lax – like lacrosse?”
“Tax deficiency, I think,” says a familiar voice right behind you.
Snapping your notebook shut, you whirl around. Yoongi Min stands in the aisle, watching you with amusement. Always amusement – and always directed at you.
He glances at your closed notebook. “If you can’t read your own notes, Y/N, I don’t think you need to worry about me reading them.”
Scowling, you recover and take a step closer. “Nice try, Yoongi, but I’m not falling for that one. You’re probably just trying to steal my Christmas decorations – again.”
Yoongi blinks at you down his nose. “Y/N, there are precisely three holiday decorators in town.”
“Which, frankly, seems like a lot.” Seokjin Kim appears by his side. Adjusting his coat, he smiles at Jasmine. “Is there really enough work for three holiday decorators?”
Yoongi ignores this. “Odds are, our holiday décor will overlap, Y/N. There’s only so much a person can do with red and green.”
“Sure,” you say loftily. “If you’re burdened by the smallest thimble of creativity.”
His lips twitch. “Thimble?”
“Thimbles are small, Yoongi. Didn’t you ever watch Thumbelina? Where she floats down the river and –”
“Anyways,” Jasmine loudly interrupts. “What did you think of Remmy’s presentation, Yoongi?”
His expression flattens. “I think Remmy is full of crap,” Yoongi says, still looking at you.
Most of the room has now emptied, leaving the four of you standing alone in your row. Remmy has also disappeared from the premises – likely in a cloud of sulfur and bullshit.
Surprised, you manage a nod. “For once, we agree on something.”
“Do we disagree on so much, Y/N?”
You wish Yoongi would stop saying your name like that. Purposefully – savoringly – as though the word were melting. It must be distracting to people other than you.
Jasmine has certainly noticed. She keeps glancing between you with an expression you once described as her Emma Woodhouse look. Inevitably, a matchmaking scheme will follow, and you still haven’t recovered from the time she tried to set Jimin up with the woman from the candle shop.
“Do you think the offer is legit?” Jasmine muses, turning to Seokjin. If anyone in town would know, it would be him. “Have you heard anything?”
“No.” Seokjin shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean much, since the sale would be private. I’ll ask my cousin – she works in the mayor’s office. She’ll know of any large property being bought or sold.”
“Okay, cool.”
Returning your gaze to Yoongi, your eyes narrow. “What if the offer is real?” you demand. “What if Emerald Corp does plan to buy land on Mount Bowler? What will you do about it?”
Yoongi seems taken aback. “Doabout it?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would I be responsible in that scenario? And what do you expect me to do, egg someone’s house?”
“Please be serious, Yoongi.”
“I–”
“This is a corporation we’re talking about. You would need to egg several houses.”
Jasmine and Seokjin burst out laughing, and you hide a smile, pleased. You don’t know Seokjin very well, since he was two grades older than you were in school. It would seem your humor matches, though, which is nice. Anything which frustrates Yoongi Min is music to your ears.
Unfortunately though, Yoongi doesn’t seem frustrated. If anything, it looks like he’s suppressing his laughter.
“This is typical Remmy,” you mutter, cracking open your notebook to search for something – anything – useful. “You know he tried selling parking permits on Main Street this winter?”
A crease mars Yoongi’s forehead. “Don’t the snowplows go through there?”
“Yep.”
Seokjin seems appalled. “Dastardly. Who would pay for a parking permit they have to shovel themselves out of?”
You snap your notebook shut again. “Hence why the motion never passed. Yoongi, come on,” you groan, stepping closer and poking him – hard – in the bicep. “We have to do something.”
Staring at your hand, he swiftly shakes his head. “There is no we, Y/N.”
Stiffening, you withdraw. Of course, there’s no we. Yoongi made that crystal clear to you in high school, but there’s no need for him to be so emphatic. You get it. Yoongi does not – and will not – ever like you like that.
Jasmine is scowling, likely thinking along the same lines, and you hasten to interject before she can say something embarrassing.
“Do you or do you not,” you ask, “own the Lodge at Blue Glenn.”
“I do,” he says slowly.
“And as the town’s only lodgings, don’t you think we should stick together?”
“Not true,” Jasmine pipes in cheerfully. “Mr. Moldove is renting the room above his barn. I saw an ad.”
Twisting around, you glare daggers at her. “Whose side are you on?”
Holding up both hands, Jasmine takes a step backwards to stand beside Seokjin.
Returning to Yoongi, you cross your arms. “Well?”
His gaze moves between you and Seokjin, who seems to echo Jasmine’s philosophy of not getting involved.
Eventually, Yoongi sighs. “Fine. Why don’t I reach out to Emerald Corporation and ask them for a meeting? We can explain to them our situation and try to convince them to build elsewhere.”
You pause. It’s not a bad idea, although privately, you feel nothing will come from it. At the very least, you’ll be able to say that you tried.
“Okay,” you say, turning to Jasmine. “Ready to go?”
Nodding, she zips her coat up to her chin. “It was nice meeting you,” she says to Seokjin. Her expression turns stony when she beholds Yoongi. “Always a pleasure.”
“I’ll send an email once I arrange the meeting,” says Yoongi, seemingly oblivious to Jasmine’s death stare. “Is your work email okay?”
Stomach plummeting, you realize what this means. Yoongi deleted your number.
Attempting to rally, you convince yourself it doesn’t matter. Not everyone is a hoarder whose contacts section of their phone reads like a who’s who of late-night occupants of Brewsters’ bar bathroom. Yoongi is probably the type of person who reviews their contacts periodically and deletes names he doesn’t talk to.
Well, that’s fine. If Yoongi wants to keep this professional, you can do that. You can be corporate as hell.
Lifting your chin, you scan the recesses of your brain for something relevant. “Perfect,” you say grandly. “Let’s circle back on this.”
Yoongi frowns. “You want to… circle back before we’ve had the meeting?”
Shit. You took a shot in the dark. “Um, no,” you cough. “I just meant, let’s put a pin in this. Find time on my calendar.”
Even Jasmine is looking at you as though you’ve grown a second head. Swiftly, you turn around and head for the exit. “See you!” you squeak, striding towards the doors.
Luckily, Jasmine chooses to follow, and when you burst outside, you find Namjoon and Jimin waiting beside the main door. They stand beneath the streetlight, Jimin loudly complaining about his hair and the static. Despite this being his fifth winter in the mountains, he still complains about the climate.
Without breaking stride, you link your arm in his and begin dragging him down the road.
“Hey, Y/N!” Jimin says brightly, rolling with your antics. “Where are we going?”
“Bar,” you grunt. “Need shots. Now.”
Jasmine laughs from behind, where she walks with Namjoon.
“Uh-oh,” says Namjoon. “Does this have something to do with Emerald Corporation?”
“And Yoongi Min,” Jasmine singsongs.
Beside you, Jimin’s eyes alight with an unholy glee. Shit. You forgot that when it comes to matchmaking, he ranks second only to Jasmine.
“Tell me everything,” he gushes, grip like iron while steering you through the snow.
You make it to Brewsters in record time. Several shots in, things don’t seem quite so bleak. Namjoon points out that no one in town likes Remmy or corporations, so it’s unlikely this whole thing will even come to pass. Jasmine whips out an impression of Yoongi that sounds more like Mr. Darcy, and Jimin falls off his stool from laughing too hard.
All in all, when you collapse into your bed that night, much of the day has been pleasantly dulled. Except for one thing, cutting through the haze like a knife.
The sound of Yoongi Min saying your name.
Early the next week, Yoongi reaches out – via email – to say Emerald Corporation has responded. They’ll be in town Thursday and are open to meeting and discussing their proposed expansion.
Yoongi offered no personal commentary along with the email. He simply forwarded a thread begun by his general manager, Taehyung Kim. Vaguely, you remember Taehyung from high school. He was a grade below and, while also musical, was more into band than theatre.
Trying to make a good impression, you arrive at the Lodge at Blue Glenn more than an hour early. Politely, a woman named Cheryl shows you a cushy seating area before a roaring fire and informs you Yoongi is still in another meeting.
Seated before the fire, you cross your legs and scowl into the flames. Unfortunately for you, the chair is extremely comfortable, and the décor is hospitable. Unwittingly, you feel much calmer.
Eyes wandering the lobby, you must admit Yoongi has done a good job. The few times you visited Blue Glenn as a child you remember the vibe being stuffy and old. Since Yoongi took over, he retained the air of old-world sophistication but renovated the lodge in a way that feels fresh.
Floor-to-ceiling windows look onto the mountain, watching the ski lift bring people up and down the white slopes. The interior looks as though it’s been spit from a Ralph Lauren catalogue – in a good way.
In fact, you’re so busy perusing your surroundings, you do not see Yoongi standing before you for several moments.
“Ah!” you yelp, jerking backwards.
Yoongi lifts a brow, both hands in his pockets. “That’s good. Get it all out before the meeting.”
Scowling, you try to get up from the chair – and sink further down. You attempt this twice more before Yoongi sighs, holding his hand out to help you up. His palm is calloused and warm, sending a brief flutter through you when your eyes lock.
Abruptly, Yoongi releases you and takes a step backwards.
Feeling oddly bereft at the loss, you glance over his shoulder. “Should we get going?” you ask.
He pauses, then nods and gestures for you to follow. “The conference room is this way,” he says, leading you down a long hall.
You fall into step alongside him, keeping your gaze straight ahead. In the email Yoongi forwarded, he volunteered Blue Glenn as a meeting place, and you swiftly agreed. The Rosy Finch is cozy and charming, which in real estate terms means small.
Most of your work is conducted from the tiny back office or your apartment on Bell Street, several blocks over. There is absolutely no space for conferences or meetings, so when you walk into the room, you’re momentarily speechless.
“Whoa,” you breathe, turning around.
The wall opposite you is entirely made of glass, showcasing a different view of the ski runs outside. In the middle rests a long, oval table stocked with pen and paper. The entire back is taken up by a drink console offering water, coffee, and tea.
Making a beeline for this, you pour yourself a large mug of coffee – and add several sugars. Taking a sip, you sigh before turning around.
Yoongi has seated himself at the head of the table, which does not surprise you. What does surprise you is how natural he looks, as though he were born to wear bespoke suits and speak business-ese. In high school, Yoongi was more likely to be dressed in converse and ripped jeans than a Bijan jacket.
Not that anyone in your small town has the money or know-how to buy Bijan couture. As though he can read your mind, Yoongi tilts his head.
“You look nice,” he says bluntly.
You wore what you’ve deemed your work power outfit, which is a pencil skirt and heels. It is also the only work power outfit you own, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Deliberate, you march to the opposite end of the table. “Is that your strategy?” you ask as you sit. “Catch me off guard with a compliment?”
Yoongi blinks. “What would I gain from that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe make a bid for Emerald Corp by yourself. It would make sense,” you add, fingers tapping the table. “Your lodge fits neatly within their portfolio. You could sell to the group and stay on to run things. Why not?”
When this thought occurred to you earlier this week, it kept you awake for several nights. You don’t want to assume the worst about Yoongi, but the fact remains that you’re business rivals, and you had to convince him to help in the first place.
His jaw tenses. “Didn’t you hear me at town hall? Emerald Corp has a tradition of ousting management teams once they take over. Consider me crazy, Y/N, but I plan to stay employed.”
“There are ways around that.”
A dangerous gleam enters his eyes. “I said you look nice because you look nice, Y/N. When I think you look differently, I’ll tell you that, too.”
You stare him down from across the table. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
Anger simmers between you, but beneath it, you think you catch a rare glimpse of hurt. It’s hard to tell, since he shifted to anger so quickly, but it’s possible Yoongi took offense to your assumption that he would sell out.
You open your mouth to apologize when the door to the room opens.
Taehyung Kim pokes his head inside. “Emerald Corporation is here, Mr. Min. Are you ready for them?”
While Yoongi’s attire is appropriate for a board meeting, Taehyung is dressed as though Christmas threw up on him. His holiday sweater has a bright Rudolph nose, and he wears green plaid pants and a red Santa hat. Honestly, unsurprising from what you remember of him in high school.
When Yoongi nods, Taehyung throws open the door. “Come in,” he tells the row of bland suits behind him.
Each of them files in and you stiffen, counting no less than five men. Wonderful. Always a treat to be the only woman in a business meeting.
Yoongi does not stand when they enter, so you do the same.
“Gentlemen,” he says, inclining his head. “Welcome to Merriman. Which one of you is Mr. Jones? We spoke over email.”
The last man through the door lifts a hand in greeting. He deposits his briefcase on top of the table, choosing a seat in the middle. Taehyung winces at the dirty briefcase before he withdraws, shutting the door behind him.
“Glad we could make this happen,” says Mr. Jones. He clicks his briefcase open. “You can call me Phil.”
You choose this moment to jump in. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Phil. My name is Y/N Y/L/N. My family owns the Rosy Finch here in town.”
Slowly, his gaze swings your way. He surveys you once, head-to-toe, then returns to Yoongi. “Then, you must be Mr. Min. My secretary said there would be coffee.”
He speaks without question marks, as though each word of his is a statement to be taken seriously.
Yoongi leans back. “Help yourselves,” he says, gesturing to the back wall.
A man immediately jumps up and pours the rest of them coffee, so you assume he must be an intern or associate. Your younger sister, Bea, interned at a law firm last summer, and you remember her complaining about the menial tasks.
Sitting pin-straight, you wait until they’re settled before speaking again. “Thank you for joining us this morning,” you say. “It was good of you to make time in your busy schedule.”
You may be laying it on a bit thick. Yoongi seems to think so, based on the way his eyebrows raise. Choosing to ignore this, you smile at Mr. Jones. One thing you’ve learned over the years is that women in business need to use every tool in their arsenal. You may lack your mom’s financial prowess, but you’re well-adept at killing people with kindness.
“It was no problem.” Phil takes a sip of his coffee. “We were coming up here already to check the land on Mount Bowler.”
“A good segue,” says Yoongi. “The land purchase is exactly what we want to talk about.”
Slowly, Phil sits back in his chair. “Oh?” He swivels. “I expect you to tell us that the land is bad, Mr. Min? Or maybe that the sun doesn’t hit the mountain quite right? Is that it?”
Yoongi’s jaw clenches. “Not at all,” he says smoothly. “The spot is beautiful. But you see, both Y/N and I run successful hotels with loyal customers. The market is tapped out. I would hate to see the Emerald Corporation waste investor dollars on a purchase.”
The youngest suit seems thrown by this remark, but Mr. Jones never wavers. Holding out his hand, he waits until an associate hands over a binder. Flipping this open, he scans the first page.
“The Rosy Finch,” he reads aloud. “Fifteen bedrooms. Maximum capacity of fifty guests. Average 5% vacancy rate. Not bad,” he adds, sparing you a glance. Mr. Jones flips the page. “The Lodge at Blue Glenn. Seventy-five rooms. Maximum guest capacity of three hundred. Average 7% vacancy rate. Conference room capacity up to seventy people.”
“Your point, Mr. Jones?” asks Yoongi.
“Well.” Closing the binder, Mr. Jones leans back. “You both operate with low vacancy rates, which seems to imply a greater demand than what you can keep up with. The resort we plan on opening will have one hundred and fifty guest rooms for a maximum capacity of six hundred, so we should easily accommodate your current customers plus any surplus.”
You nearly spit out your coffee. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Jones smiles, and the result is not pleasant. “I will be frank, Mr. Min and Miss Y/L/N. Your businesses may be doing well, but I doubt that will be the case once we build our property. And, well – brand loyalty only goes so far. We can afford to undercut your current prices for a few years. Long enough to ensure loyalty from your current guests and close the doors of your businesses. After that, well.” Aimless, he waves a hand. “Who knows what the future will bring? We may need to raise rates to accommodate future costs.”
At the other end of the table, Yoongi has gone eerily still. “So, you acknowledge that demand for a third property is nonexistent,” he says softly. “And instead, you plan to steal our guests and drive us both out of business.”
Mr. Jones chuckles lightly. “I would not put things so crudely, Mr. Min. After all” – he waves in your direction – “we have a lady present.”
It takes everything in you not to give him the middle finger.
“No,” he sighs. “That’s not at all how I would put things. I would say we plan to offer a new service to travelers who already love the area. We will bring our trademark Emerald service at competitive rates. Any impact that occurs to your businesses would be unintentional – and, of course, regrettable.”
“Except you just told us your plan,” you point out. “Which makes it seem intentional.”
Unruffled, he shrugs. “I can’t predict the future, Miss Y/L/N. Who knows what might happen? There could be enough guests out there for everyone to survive, even thrive.”
Yoongi grips his pen tightly. “What you’re doing is unethical.”
“What we’re doing is capitalism,” Mr. Jones corrects. “If you cannot compete, you do not deserve to be in the market. Now,” he says, draining the rest of his coffee. “If you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting to get to with a potential builder.”
Pushing his chair back, he stands and – as though on cue – the other four stand, as well.
“Feel free to send any follow-up questions via email,” Mr. Jones says on his way out the door. “I don’t think another meeting between us will be necessary.”
One of his associates collects the binder and deposits the mugs on the back counter. Once they have gone, you and Yoongi remain seated, neither one of you speaking.
Abruptly, Yoongi swears and pushes his chair back. Running a hand through his hair, he stalks towards the window to glare at the slopes.
Your eyes widen. This is the first time you have seen Yoongi anything less than calm, and oddly, it provokes in you the opposite reaction. You have always been better at navigating times of crisis. The ability to look on the bright side, to see a path through the darkness, has always served you well.
Getting up from your chair, you cross the room and gently touch his elbow. “Hey,” you murmur. “It’s going to be okay.”
He roughly exhales. “Will it?” Yoongi demands. “Because it sounds like you were right from the start, and their goal is to put us both out of business.”
“Oh!”
Startled, he looks sideways. “What, Y/N? What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, poised to move closer.
“No.” You shake your head. “I’m just stunned that you – fancy hospitality school graduate and town success story – are telling me that I’m right.”
You expect Yoongi to roll his eyes, or maybe even laugh but instead, he slowly frowns. “What are you talking about, Y/N?” he asks. “You’re insanely smart.”
Oh, no. Discomfort wraps around you as you realize you may have been too self-deprecating. Usually, people respond well when you say things like that. It lessens the seriousness of the situation, which is often your main goal.
Forcing a smile, you shrug. “I don’t know. I just… you know, I didn’t go to college like you did.”
If anything, his frown deepens. “But you started running the Rosy Finch when your mom died,” Yoongi points out. “You were barely eighteen. If anything, you have nearly ten years of industry experience, and I’m entry-level.”
You laugh, a strangled sound. “You run this resort, Yoongi.”
“Through nepotism. Exactly.”
This time, the laugh that escapes you is genuine. Somehow, Yoongi has managed to turn this conversation around and make you feel better. Odd. That’s usually your job.
“Well,” you say, struggling to regain your footing. “Regardless, we’re both in the same boat now. Seems like Emerald Corp is full of shitty people.”
“If they’re even people,” Yoongi mutters. “Maybe the lizard-people conspiracy theories are right.”
“You think so?” Visibly, you perk up. “Personally, I think that would be kind of cool. Although, if they are lizard people, opening a ski resort seems like a bad idea. Reptiles can’t regulate their own temperature,” you explain. “They’d freeze.”
Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Your mind is a fascinating place, Y/N.”
When he turns, you follow him back to the conference table. “Fascinating as in, belongs in a museum? Or a hospital?”
“Why limit yourself?”
You laugh again and when Yoongi hears this, he smiles. Retreating to your side, you grab your notebook to examine your notes from earlier. Something-something-Mr. Jones sucks-something-TAX deficiency-what suit is Yoongi wearing-his eyes are distracting-
You shut your notebook. That’s enough for now, you think.
Draining the rest of your coffee, you set the mug on the back wall with the rest. Turning around, you gaze at the slopes.
“I guess that’s that,” you sigh. “At least we did everything we could.”
Yoongi doesn’t respond right away, staring down at his notes. Eventually, he lifts his head and says, “Well. Not everything.”
You blink back at him. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you say earlier that we need to do something?” He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for you to catch on. When you do, Yoongi smiles. “What was it, exactly, that you had in mind?”
“No.” Yoongi stares, appalled, over his iced americano. “That’s a terrible idea, Y/N.”
Dejected, you slump in your seat. “Well, you think of something better, then!”
Yoongi’s lips twitch as he settles back to fiddle with the wrapper of his straw.
Merriman caught up with the times seven years ago, turning a vacant building into its first coffeehouse. The Bean Exchange is cute, with comfortable seating and delicious food, and at night it doubles as a wine bar and community space. Jasmine started working here after college and slowly worked her way up to the day manager. Ever since, it’s become your go-to spot.
When Yoongi reached out – via email again – and suggested you meet, it was the first place you thought of. Home turf advantage, and all that.
Not that you need it anymore. You have been thinking a lot since the meeting with Emerald Corp. Not just about Emerald Corporation and their villainous intentions, but about Yoongi – and more specifically, you and Yoongi, together.
It’s been a long time since the disastrous date back in high school. The two of you are older now, more mature and full-grown adults. Neither one of you live with your parents anymore, for example. In fact, last you heard, Yoongi’s mom moved back east to be closer to her sister.
Sure, Yoongi did something lousy to you in high school, but it was high school. You are no longer the same girl who daydreamed about Yoongi in gym class and at your parents’ conferences. Maybe he wasn’t in the right place to date back then. Maybe he was just sixteen and immature.
Either way, it’s pointless to continue treating him like the boy who broke your heart then. You need Yoongi’s help, and it would behoove you to be effective work partners.
If only he wasn’t so damn infuriating.
Yoongi stares while you sip your Frappuccino. “Is whipped cream the flavor of the Frappuccino,” he asks slowly, “or a nod to the metric ton of whipped cream Jasmine added on top?”
Ignoring this, you swipe your finger through the whipped cream to slide this into your mouth. “Does it matter?” you ask, pulling your finger out with a pop.
“No,” Yoongi says, slightly strangled.
“Anyways.” You continue swirling your drink. “As I was saying – do you have any better ideas?”
The two of you have been at the coffee shop for the better part of an hour, and Yoongi has shot down every one of your suggestions. Granted, not all have been winners, but you really thought you had something with the idea to release a herd of elk onto their property.
“How would we ensure the elk stayed on their property, though?” Yoongi wondered. “And how would we get them there? And then,” he added, “what would they do besides eat some bark?”
“Terrorize landscapers?” you offered, but he had a point.
Now, Yoongi leans back. “We could reach out to Phil Jones’ boss.”
You make a buzzer sound with your mouth. “Terrible idea. Why do you think higher up the corporate ladder will be less corrupt than Phil?”
Yoongi grunts but concedes. He sips his drink again, and you take the opportunity to examine his outfit. This is the most casual look you have seen Yoongi wear to date. It would appear on weekends he allows himself the luxury of wearing jeans. Admittedly, these are paired with a button-down that looks softer than anything you have in your closet.
“Fine,” Yoongi exhales. “What are your other plans?”
Beaming, you tout out your notebook. “So glad you asked. Okay, so you ruled out the herd of deer – right?” you add, glancing at him to check. Yoongi nods and looks pained. “Okay, fine. Your loss. Let’s see… we could pretend to be ghosts and haunt the property?”
“How?”
“What do you mean, how?”
“I’m at a loss for how my question can possibly be misinterpreted.”
“We powder our faces and say ooooo a lot.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “No.”
“So narrow-minded. Okay, what about sabotage? We could block the main road that leads up to Mount Bowler.”
“Again – how?”
You stifle a grin, because you honestly thought his objection would be the legality of the plan, not its logistics.
“Um, let’s see,” you say, flipping a page. “We could cut down a tree. Trees fall down all the time! We just do it on the road and make it look like an accident.”
Yoongi considers. “Admittedly, that’s the best plan so far.”
“Why, thank you–”
“Which doesn’t say much.”
Scowling, you flip the page. “And again, I don’t hear you contributing anything useful.”
“I know, I know,” Yoongi groans, massaging his temples. “I’m terrible at this part of the business. The creative, imaginative side. That’s why I have Taehyung.”
Your stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with whipped cream. Ducking your head, you stare at your drink as though you find the contents fascinating.
“Hey.”
Glancing up, you find Yoongi has shifted closer. His gaze is curious. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” you say on instinct, then pause.
Most men would rather chew off their own arm than admit to wrongdoing, yet Yoongi just offered it freely. An odd sensation rises within you – a desire to tell the truth. Usually, this is deeply repressed by the need not to be burdensome.
“It’s just…” You trail off. “I wish I had a Taehyung sometimes. Not like, in a weird way,” you hasten. “But it must be nice not having to do everything yourself. There are parts of the business I’m not good at, either.”
Yoongi contemplates. “Does your dad help, or…?”
You nod, then shrug. “Well, yeah. My dad helps a lot. We usually divide all the work, but through the curse of genetics, we both end up being good at the same things.” Rueful, you laugh. “I usually end up managing our finances and booking system, both of which I’m awful at.”
“Have you talked to your dad about it?”
“Kind of.”
The answer to his question is a big, fat no, but that’s not something you’re comfortable sharing just yet. Yoongi seems to understand, nodding as he sits back to sip his iced drink.
“You know,” he says. “I’ve always hated the idea that one person needs to be good at everything.”
“What?”
“You know. The idea that one person should be innovative and a hard worker and good with numbers plus a great communicator. It’s an impossible standard,” he says, “designed to make you feel bad, and ultimately, to ensure you go nowhere. It keeps the status quo.”
“That’s… intense.”
“That’s capitalism,” Yoongi responds, managing to keep a straight face.
Your lips twitch. “I didn’t expect to receive a socialist rant today.”
“You should expect that anytime you’re with me, to be honest.”
Unable to help yourself, you laugh. “Yoongi, you run a business.”
“Yeah,” he says, but he smiles, “one in which I pay people a livable wage.”
“Ooh,” you say, mock-shivering. “Keep talking, that’s sexy.”
“Want to hear more about our community garden project?”
“Stop, stop,” you joke, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I might swoon. Where was all this back in high school?”
The moment feels like a record-scratch.
You both freeze, staring at one another while facing the reality of what you’ve left unsaid. Immediately, you wish you could take it back. You had not recognized how fragile this newfound truce of yours was.
The messiness of your past lingers between you, until eventually, Yoongi clears his throat. “I don’t know that much has changed,” he says. “For me, anyways.”
Face hot, you look down, since you know what that means. Yoongi did not like you in high school, and that has not changed. It would be good for you to remember this as you work together. It would be all too easy to fall into the same trap again.
“Right. Okay,” you respond. Taking a deep breath, you force yourself to rally. “What should we do, then?”
When you look upward, Yoongi seems about to say something, but the look on your face makes him change his mind. He frowns, then carefully says, “I don’t know. Didn’t something similar happen in Garland a few years ago?”
Jumping on the change in subject, you reach for your phone. “I think so. A warehouse wanted to build within their town lines, right?”
“Yeah.” Yoongi nods. “Wait – hang on, no. That land was owned by the town, and they just refused to sell. It wasn’t the same.”
Frowning, you open a search engine. “What about in New York? Wasn’t there a big company that wanted to build their headquarters in Queens but ended up withdrawing? Whatever happened there?”
Yoongi grabs his own phone. “You’re right. Okay – hm,” he says as he scrolls. “In that case, a bunch of state and local politicians opposed the company’s presence. They refused to cooperate.”
“Well, that’s out,” you say glumly. “Remmy has practically made t-shirts with Emerald Corp’s logo on them.”
“I shudder to think of the graphic design elements.”
“Emerald Corp is Coming to Town?” you suggest.
Yoongi can’t help but laugh. “Terrible,” he agrees.
“Wait!” you blurt, stopping mid-page. “This says that the reason politicians objected was due to community backlash. People led protests, made petitions, even camped outside their offices.”
“Are you suggesting we camp in Remmy’s front yard?”
“What you do in your free time is up to you,” you sniff. “I was more thinking along the lines of petitions and protests.”
“That’s a good idea,” he admits. “We can reach out to other small businesses. Go door to door. I bet a lot of townspeople would stand with us.”
“Yeah,” you add, your excitement growing. “Remmy will have no choice but to listen if everyone bands together. He wants to run again for office, right?”
“Well, well, well.” Yoongi tsks, sitting back. “Look at you, being devious.”
“Is it devious?” you ask. “Or simply forcing politicians to represent the will of the people who voted for them?”
Yoongi whistles. “Got me there, Y/N.”
“And what I need to get is more whipped cream,” you say, standing from your chair. “Want anything?”
“No, I’m good,” says Yoongi, opening a spreadsheet on his phone.
Heading towards the front counter serves several purposes. On one hand, you really do need more whipped cream; on the other, it gives you a second to distance yourself.
Yoongi’s words from earlier play in your mind: not much has changed.
He’s wrong, though. A lot of things between you have changed. Yoongi left town, then came back, and now he runs his family lodge. Your mom passed away and since then, your outlook on life has been different. The two of you are no longer the same people you were then, even if you wanted to be.
Uncomfortably, you think about your interactions and realize that, for the past three years, you were the one avoiding him. Yoongi returned with his fancy degree and five-star work experience, and you assumed he would think less of you. Maybe though, that was all self-projection. After all, the two of you never really talked after the disaster date.
If nothing has changed, then Yoongi would not be here now, offering to help. He would not be seated here in this coffee shop, doing his best to brainstorm despite your past differences, and so, things are different.
Which means maybe it’s time you started acting like it. It might be time for you to consider who Yoongi is now, rather than who he was back in high school.
One positive about small-town living is that the total number of businesses in Merriman are less than one hundred. Which makes your task much easier on Friday when you set out to collect signatures. Most of the businesses are located on Main Street, so you start your trek early in the center of town.
Coffee in hand, you march up to the first business and loudly knock. Yoongi squints at the wreath, making a face.
“See, people have gone too far,” he murmurs, careful to keep his voice low. “A blue and orange wreath? That’s not Christmas-y. In fact, that’s –”
“Happy holidays!” you blurt as the door swings open. “Hello!”
Mrs. Larson, the owner of Larson’s Candy and Sweets, beams at you. “Oh my goodness,” she laughs, adjusting her glasses. “Y/N, is that you? For a second, I thought you were your mother. You look so much like her. Come in, come in,” she gushes, stepping backwards. “Come in from the cold.”
For a moment, you freeze, the way you always do when someone compares you to her.
Yoongi steps closer and lightly touches your back. “Hey,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
He examines you seriously. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” This time, you manage to smile. “Thanks. Let’s go get that signature.”
Yoongi hovers another moment, then nods and gestures for you to go first. The moment you enter, you find yourself ensconced in sugar and chocolate. Mrs. Larson steps before her main counter, where she readies the daily display of chocolate and candy.
Peering at the tray, you spot a few macarons near the back. “Oh!” you gasp, bending closer. “These are so difficult to make, Mrs. Larson. How did you make sure the top didn’t crack?”
Chuckling, she pushes the tray closer. “I’ll confess, I didn’t make these myself. Macarons are beyond me, I’m afraid. I asked Sara from Garland to make me a few batches to sell.”
You nod, examining them from one side. “I have trouble with the consistency. I think it’s because my oven is…” Trailing off, you realize Mrs. Larson and Yoongi are both watching you. “Sorry,” you say as you straighten. “That’s not what we came to discuss.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem, Y/N!” Mrs. Larson smiles. “If you ever decide to start selling your macarons, just let me know. Now” – she clasps both hands together – “how can I help you dears?”
Yoongi takes the first part of your rehearsed speech. “Were you at the last town hall, Mrs. Larson?”
“No, no. Couldn’t get away. Why? Anything fun happen? Did that Remmy Quarrels throw another tantrum when the projector died?”
Hiding a smile, you shake your head. It bodes well for you that Remmy’s ridiculousness is well-known around Merriman. You plan to use this to your full advantage.
“Not this time,” says Yoongi. “But Remmy did share a new proposal for the town. The hotel chain, Emerald Corporation, plans to buy land on Mount Bowler and open a new resort.”
Mrs. Larson seems stricken. “But that’s so close to Blue Glenn!”
“Exactly,” you say, jumping in. “Yoongi and I met with Emerald Corporation to see if we could find a solution, but it didn’t go well.”
Yoongi snorts. “Y/N is being polite. They said they intend to put us out of business and then hike up their resort prices.”
Mrs. Larson’s eyes flash. “Is that so, now?”
“It is.”
“Well!” She sniffs, wiping both hands on her apron. “We can’t have that type of attitude muddying the neighborhood, can we? What do you need me to do?”
Exchanging a swift glance with Yoongi, you contain your enthusiasm (a monumental task). Possibly this will be easier than you anticipated.
“We’re forming a petition,” you say. Handing over your iPad, you give Mrs. Larson the stylus. “We plan to submit this to Remmy before the next town hall. If we gather enough signatures from other businesses, maybe he’ll think twice.”
“Exactly right,” she says, signing with a flourish. “You kids let me know if you need anything else. Nothing fuels a righteous cause like chocolate!”
“Absolutely.” Yoongi nods, helping himself when she holds out a tray. “I’ve always said that.”
Mrs. Larson encourages him to take more, until eventually, you grab Yoongi by the elbow to drag him away. Steering him towards the door, you wave goodbye.
“Thanks, Mrs. Larson!” you call as you leave. “We appreciate your support!”
She waves you off, the bells tinkling overhead when you step outside. It’s still early, so most of the shops are not yet open. Heading in the direction of the next building, you look sternly at Yoongi, unwrapping his chocolate.
Blithely, he pops this in his mouth. “’aht?”
“You know what,” you say, the point somewhat lessened when you start to smile.
Yoongi blinks at you innocently. “I just didn’t want to offend her. That’s all.”
Rolling your eyes, you walk up the next drive and Yoongi follows. 14 Main Street is a cozy bungalow with a low, sloping red roof. Ringing the doorbell, you step back and wait.
Footsteps precede the door pulling open. Mr. Halloway looks between the two of you, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. “Hello,” he says politely. “How can I help you today?”
You don’t blame his confusion; Mr. Halloway owns a small law firm specializing in insurance law. He likely does not receive a lot of drop-in calls, especially not before visiting hours.
Smiling brightly, you take a step forward. “Hello, Mr. Halloway,” you say. “We are hoping for a minute of your time this morning.”
Mr. Halloway nods and then, seeing Yoongi, his expression brightens. “Of course! Mr. Min, it is good to see you looking healthy. Hope everything is going well with that new car service?”
Yoongi nods. “Good, sir. Thank you for the recommendation last spring. Our guests have been raving about them all summer.”
Waving a hand, Mr. Halloway steps aside and ushers you in. “It was nothing. Are you here on an insurance matter? Or is there something else I can do for you?” he asks, holding out a hand for your coat.
“Y/N,” you supply. “And actually, yes, there is.”
“Oh?”
Yoongi shuts the door. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Emerald Corporation?”
Mr. Halloway frowns, his spectacles slipping. “I have, but I’m afraid I don’t do any business with them. Not many do in my line of work,” he adds with a chuckle. “They have quite the reputation.”
You and Yoongi exchange another glance. This information could prove useful later.
“Then, you may have heard Emerald Corp plans to buy land on Mount Bowler,” you explain. “We met with their acquisition team last week, and it seems clear they do not have the best interests of Merriman at heart.”
“No, I would imagine not!” Mr. Halloway shakes his head. “That would be reserved for their shareholders.”
“Exactly,” says Yoongi. “Which is why we’re going door-to-door, gathering signatures from other small businesses. We want to show Remmy that–”
“Remmy Quarrels is behind this?” Mr. Halloway interrupts sharply. “Well, then, give me a pen and tell me where to sign. That man couldn’t tell a pebble from a diamond,” he complains, scribbling his name.
And so it goes, the rest of the morning.
By the time you reach the town square, you’re feeling optimistic. Yoongi has collected nearly forty signatures – as the shops began opening, several customers even asked to sign, which was encouraging.
Passing a snow-covered bench, Yoongi exhales and collapses upon it. He groans, stretching his arms and legs. “Let’s sit for a second. It’s nice outside.”
“You’re sounding like a true northerner,” you joke as you sit beside him. “Calling it warm when the temperature is below freezing.”
“Yeah, but after last week’s cold snap, this is nothing.”
“True,” you sigh.
The two of you stare at the snow-dusted gazebo, strung with Christmas lights. Garland has been wound around the spare railings, and even in daytime, the place is a winter paradise. After a full morning of speaking, it’s nice to rest and simply relax.
Eventually though, Yoongi exhales. “Does that ever get weird for you?”
You don’t need to ask to know what he means. Several other people compared you to your mom this morning, commenting about how you looked like her or had her smile. It was enough that, by the end, said smile was plastered unnaturally on your face.
“Kind of,” you admit. “But it’s also kind of… nice? It feels like she’s still here, in some way.”
Yoongi nods. He examines the row of icicles hanging from the gazebo.
Curiously, you look at him and find none of what you’ve come to expect in his gaze. Typically, when people ask about your mom, they expect you to be sad or respond with a platitude that won’t derail the conversation. Rarely do they ask and truly want to know.
If anyone can understand, you suppose it would be Yoongi. His interest seems genuine and what’s more, he seems to be interested in you, not just your mom. It makes you want to keep talking.
“But then again,” you add. “It can also be weird.”
“Why?”
“My mom and I… we couldn’t have been more different.” Roughly, you exhale. “So sometimes, when people compare us, all I can think about are the ways in which we weren’t the same.”
Yoongi waits for a beat. “How so?”
“She was always so put-together. So logical. She could calm things down in an instant, fix anything. And well, running the Rosy Finch was always her dream.”
Breaking off, you stare at your hands in your lap. A lump has lodged in your throat; one you can’t talk around.
Shifting closer, Yoongi’s right thigh presses against yours on the bench. The warmth of him is comforting, letting you know that he’s there.
“And it’s not yours?” he asks, carefully.
On instinct, a door in your mind slams itself shut. One that opens to what you really want to do, who you really want to be.
“I’ve always wanted to continue her dream,” you respond.
Yoongi looks at you like he sees through this, but won’t push you further. Nodding, he sits back and stares at the snow.
“You’re good at this, you know,” you murmur. “Convincing people to sign our petition. Getting them to believe in our cause.”
The corner of his lips lift. “That sounds like you thought I wouldn’t be.”
“Well…”
Yoongi looks over at you, a subtle gleam in his eye. “You did think I would be bad at it.”
Embarrassed, you shrug. Again, you hesitate, unsure how much to say. “You were always so quiet in high school,” you confess. “It was hard for me to tell what you were really thinking. I just assumed…”
“That it would be the same way with work,” Yoongi finishes for you.
You nod.
He thinks for a moment, then his expression changes. “You thought this about me back in high school?”
“Yeah.”
“So… on our date?”
Your words die again.
Yoongi seems to consider this, turning it over in his mind. “That makes sense. I used to struggle with speaking my mind back then. You were always better at that than me.”
“Sometimes,” you admit. “I’ve always been good at talking, but not so good at speaking my mind.”
Silence falls between you, though not as sharp as before.
“What would you do if you weren’t running the inn?”
Although your lips part, nothing comes out.
The question is a good one. One you’ve thought about often. And then swiftly, you un-think it, not wanting to tempt fate. Your mom died your senior year of high school when you were newly eighteen.
A few weeks after the funeral, you trudged downstairs in the middle of the night – sleeping was hard back then – for a glass of water and stumbled upon your dad. He was speaking on the phone with his brother, and you caught the tail end of their conversation.
“It’s too much,” your dad said lowly, rubbing his forehead at the kitchen table. “Running the Rosy Finch is impossible without her. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it alone.”
Stomach sinking, you immediately turned around, not wanting to intrude. You lay awake that night for hours, staring at the ceiling. The month prior had been devastating, but something about the conversation hit you in the gut.
The Rosy Finch had been your mom’s dream. She was not born in Merriman, but it always felt like she had been. When your dad brought her home over Christmas their first year of dating, she fell in love – both with him and the town, your mom liked to joke. She wanted to extend that feeling of warmth to others, and her joy could be felt all over the inn.
Selling the place felt like a betrayal. It felt like removing the last piece of her from your lives.
The next morning, you marched down at breakfast and informed your dad of your intention to stay. He was stunned at first, then in denial, but you eventually wore him down. College had never been your dream. You planned on going, but that was mostly to satisfy your parents’ expectations.
There was no career path that called to you, no job you found enticing, and at the time, the idea of carrying on your mom’s legacy was most important.
Now though, you find yourself wondering if this is still so. Or more importantly, you wonder if by choosing your mom’s dream, you passed over the prospect of having your own.
Shifting on the bench, you glance sideways at Yoongi. “I don’t know. I mean” – a self-deprecating laugh – “what would I even do?”
The way Yoongi looks at you says he, again, sees right through you but understands why you might not be ready to say it aloud. After a moment, you exhale, your breath frosting before you.
Glancing at your watch, you wince at the time. “We should get going,” you say, standing up from the bench. “Let’s continue on this street?”
Yoongi nods, ambling along you with both hands in his pockets. In the sunlight, his black hair has an almost-blue tint. You wonder why you didn’t notice that earlier.
Catching you staring, Yoongi lifts a brow. “What?”
“Nothing.” Cheeks hot, you face forward. Helpless, you search for the easy banter of earlier. “I’m just surprised you stayed out for so long, that’s all.”
His lips twitch. “Oh? Because it’s so cold?”
“Or because you can’t stand me,” you laugh and continue.
It takes you several steps to realize Yoongi has not followed. When you turn, you find him in the same spot, a weird look on his face.
“Y/N,” he says slowly. “What are you talking about?”
You backtrack to where he stands. Brow furrowed, you look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Hearing Yoongi use italics is enough to make you giddy, but you refrain from teasing him. “I really don’t.”
“You think… I can’t stand you, Y/N.”
You frown. “That’s not a question.”
“Okay, fine. Do you think I can’t stand you, Y/N?”
“Well…” Brows furrowed, you shake your head. “I mean, I don’t know? That seems kind of extreme, considering we’ve been hanging out all day.”
His gaze does not waver. “But you think I dislike you.”
“Um. Yeah?”
“Why?”
Your eyes bug out. “Why?”
Yoongi nods, somber and a laugh escapes you.
“Yoongi, come on,” you say.
“What? Tell me?”
Your teeth grit. “Don’t make me say it.”
He continues to look baffled, and you try – but fail – to suppress your annoyance. You aren’t sure how Yoongi can act like you’re the crazy one, when he’s barely talked to you in more than a decade.
“Say what?” he demands.
“Say – okay, fine,” you snap, taking a step closer. Yoongi looks down at you, his gaze dark and challenging. “Yoongi,” you say, speaking slowly. “I think you dislike me because during our date twelve years ago, you hit on another woman in front of me. If that doesn’t scream disinterest, I don’t know what does. Oh, and then you ignored me the rest of our time in high school. And also, when you returned to Merriman. That’s it. The end,” you declare, moving to stomp past him.
Yoongi’s hand closes around your upper arm. Gently, he pulls you about to face him. “That’s pretty damning,” he remarks.
“I agree.”
His brows arch. “Or it would be, if it were true.”
Your jaw drops. “Everything I just said is true!”
“No, it’s not,” Yoongi says, and then frowns. “Who did I hit on in front of you?”
“Uh, does the name Annie Summers ring a bell?”
“No. Should it?”
“Our waitress that night?”
Understanding dawns. “Oh.” His eyes widen. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” you huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me –”
When you try to leave again, Yoongi pulls you right back to face him. Admittedly, you don’t try very hard, but still – damn. Yoongi may be lean, but he’s strong.
“You didn’t see what you think you saw,” he insists.
“I didn’t get contacts until I was twenty-two, Yoongi. I saw plenty.”
His lips tilt. “No. I mean – yes, Annie was flirting with me. When you left to hang out with your friends, she sat down in your spot. I was… young and stupid. I didn’t want to be rude, so I let her talk. When I finally asked her to leave, she slid me her number. I didn’t want you to misunderstand, so I put it in my pocket –”
“Ha!”
“– and threw it away on my way out,” Yoongi finishes.
“Huh.”
He steps closer. “I wasn’t interested in anyone but you that night, Y/N.”
“But…” You stare at him, trailing off. “You were so quiet with me. You barely spoke our entire date! You let me leave.”
His cheeks flush. “I was nervous.”
“Oh,” you say, starting to feel very silly. After a moment though, something important registers. “Hang on. You said that I left to hang out with my friends.”
Yoongi looks away. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“Which time?”
Your eyes widen. “What do you mean, which time?”
“Well, there was the thing in the car,” Yoongi says in a way that makes you think he’s thought about it often. “And then, when we got there and your friend stopped by. And again, at the end,” Yoongi continues, matter-of-fact, “when you texted your friends to come get you. You left to talk to them, then returned and said they were taking you home. I got the hint, Y/N. Believe me.”
In an unfortunate turn of events, you cannot seem to scrape your jaw from the floor. It takes several attempts before you recover.
“That’s not what happened,” you manage to croak.
“No?” Yoongi demands. “Then what happened?”
“Jaz texted me in the car, but mostly to gush about how hot you were and how lucky I was.”
Yoongi pauses. “Oh.”
This seems to be your shared word of the moment. “Our date was at one of the three most popular hangouts in town, Yoongi, so, yeah – I knew someone there. It was a coincidence. I didn’t plan that.”
His eyes narrow. “And the rest?”
“The rest!” you sputter, barely catching your breath. “Namjoon and Jaz are busybodies, that’s all. They came to Brewsters to spy on our date. I left our table to tell them off, and then I saw Annie giving you her phone number on my way back. That’s why I left.”
Yoongi visibly flinches. You watch his thoughts churn, unusually visible through his calm exterior.
“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms. “I bet you feel silly now, huh? All this time you spent hating me, when you really –”
“I never hated you.”
His words stop you in your tracks, and you watch Yoongi, expectant.
He steps closer, his eyes never leaving your face. “I never hated you,” Yoongi repeats. “Even when I thought you hated me, and even when I thought you called your friends to end the date, I never hated you.”
“Oh,” you say, staring back at him.
He fights a smile. “We’ve been saying that a lot.”
“Yeah, well. It seems appropriate when you’re unwinding a pivotal event from your childhood.”
“Our date was a pivotal event for you?”
“It” – flummoxed, you stumble – “well, if you must know –”
“Because it was for me,” he adds, so soft you nearly miss it.
For a long moment, you stand there and simply take Yoongi in. Layering in the new context, you can see how, from his perspective, the events of the night would look different. In an odd way, it feels like the first time you’re truly seeing him.
“So,” you say slowly. “You thought that I wasn’t interested in you. That I called my friends to come get me.”
His cheeks redden. “Like I said, I wasn’t very confident back then. You were so… funny. And fun. And friends with everyone. I assumed you were bored of me, and that was that.”
“And meanwhile,” you say, a slight hitch to your voice, “I spent most of our date wondering how someone as cool and interesting as you would bother asking me out.”
His gaze sharpens. “Well, shit,” he says after a moment.
You laugh. “Yeah.”
Shaking his head, Yoongi glances around the town square. “What was it you said earlier, about me feeling silly?”
“Truthfully, I’m the one who feels silly right now.”
Yoongi turns around. “You? What for?”
“I should have asked you,” you say. “I mean, I saw Annie give you her number, but you’re right – I should have just asked you what happened instead of blowing you off.”
“Would it have helped?” Yoongi frowns. “I could have told Annie to leave earlier. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I was trying… I don’t know what I was trying to do,” he admits. “Let’s call it a draw. We both could have done things differently.”
“Deal,” you allow.
As though this has settled more than just that, the two of you begin walking, resuming your task. Snow crunches beneath your feet, and you wonder how you didn’t recognize how beautiful the town looks this way. Sometimes things sneak up on you, even though they’ve been there all along.
You glance over at Yoongi, wondering if this changes anything for him now.
There is nothing you can do to undo the past, but you meant what you felt earlier at the coffee shop. Things are so different for you now. Neither of you are the people you once were. With the misconception out of the way, you’re forced to admit to yourself what you’ve known for some time now: what you feel for Yoongi isn’t irritation, or annoyance, or even a rivalry.
You like him. You like Yoongi Min, and the more time you spend with him, your feelings only get stronger. Which means if you don’t want to suffer the same mistakes, you need to make sure Yoongi knows it. Or risk missing yet another opportunity at something that could be real.
By the time you finish canvassing, the sun has sunk nearly beyond the horizon. Your dad texted you to stop by for dinner, so you head there immediately and park on the street. Slipping in through the garage, you remove your coat and snow boots, hanging everything up in the mud room and entering through the kitchen – where you’re immediately accosted by your sister, Bea.
“Well, well, well,” she drawls, wine glass in hand. “Look who it is.”
Wincing, you come to a stop. Bea sits at the kitchen table while your dad chops onions at the counter behind her. He looks up, amused by your entrance and Bea’s uncordial welcome.
Unfolding an arm, she points at the clock. “Well?” she demands. “What time is it?”
Knowing you have no excuse, you cross the room to kiss your dad on the cheek. “Sorry I’m a little late. I got tied up. Wait,” you blurt, glancing between them. “If all three of us are here, who’s at the inn?”
Circling the kitchen, your dad drops onions into a pan. “Janine is holding things down at reception, and Drew is on housekeeping.”
“Okay,” you sigh, sinking into a chair. Reaching over, you grab Bea’s wine glass and take a large sip. “Thanks.”
“Hey!” she complains, yanking her wine back. “This wine is for members of our family who actually tell the truth.”
Brows raised, you look at your dad. “And this implies I… do not tell the truth? What’s Bea on about this time?”
Your dad sadly shakes his head. “I’m on Bea’s side, actually. When were you going to tell us about Emerald Corporation?”
You immediately freeze. Shit.
Snapping her fingers, Bea points at your expression. “See!” she declares. “I told you! She did know!”
“Know what?” you protest, voice weak.
Sighing emphatically, your dad returns to the stove. “I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, Y/N, but it seems your sister was right.”
“I always am,” Bea crows. “Okay, so now that all the lies are revealed, you might as well catch us up. What’s going on, Y/N?”
For a moment, you waver and contemplate playing dumb but decide there’s no point. If they don’t know already, they likely will soon.
“Fine,” you sigh. “What have you heard?”
“One of my law school friends used to consult for Emerald Corp,” Bea informs you. “They reached out and asked if I heard Emerald Corp was purchasing land in Merriman. No thanks to you,” she throws at you.
You slump in your seat, staring at the ceiling. “When did you get so annoying? And when did you stop listening to your elders?”
“Law school, bitch.”
“Language,” says your dad, not turning around.
Your heart twinges, since that used to be something your mother would say. After she passed, your dad seemed to feel the urge to take on both roles. You aren’t sure whether you or Bea ever told him he didn’t have to.
Bea is younger by only two years, but to you, it always seemed like more. She was fifteen when your mom died, but it was her dream to go to law school, so you and your dad worked to make it a reality. When she offered to stay home, you always refused.
Maybe there’s a part of you that resents her for this; you were able to convince your dad to let you stay, but Bea never succeeded. When Bea graduated in the spring and passed the bar exam, you wanted her to stay in the city and score a fancy job. Instead, she insists on living in Merriman, and maybe you resent her for that, as well.
You made the choice that made sense at the time, but Bea isn’t like you. She has big dreams, and the limit in Merriman is Mr. Halloway’s law practice. Which is great, but Bea is smart. Driven, like your mom. She deserves the most her field has to offer, and you and your dad are doing just fine.
Mostly. Current situation aside.
“Fine,” you gripe. “At the last town hall–”
“I have got to start going to those things,” mutters Bea.
“At the last town hall,” you repeat, “Remmy announced Emerald Corporation is looking to buy land on Mount Bowler. The Tully property.”
Your dad’s spoon clatters to the counter. “Near the Min family lodge?”
Bea blinks. “That’s an odd choice,” she says. “Why would Emerald Corp want to build a hotel where there already is one? The market is tapped out.”
“That’s what I said!” you blurt, then remember the situation. “Well, yeah. Since then, things have become more complicated.”
“More complicated… how?”
“Yoongi and I met with Emerald Corporation last week.”
“You met with them?” asks your dad, his shock clear.
When you turn, you see the hurt clear in his face before he can disguise it. Swiftly, he begins stirring the onions.
You fumble momentarily, guilt churning inside you. You avoided telling your dad because you didn’t want him to worry, but maybe that was the wrong call. You thought you could control this, fix things before they became real, but now things have snowballed and you’ve hurt them, too.
Bea may not be involved in the day-to-day running of the Rosy Finch, but your dad is co-owner. Admittedly, he hasn’t had the head for issues like this in the past. Your mom always took care of them and then, more recently, you have. Still, you should have told him – he deserves to be in the know.
“I’m sorry,” you say, helpless. “It just sort of… happened.”
An awkward silence falls before your dad nods and returns to his cooking. When you look at Bea, you expect to see disappointment, and you do – only hers is directed at your dad, not at you.
Her frown deepens, and then she turns to face you. “Wait,” Bea says. “Did you say you and Yoongi met with them?”
Heat climbs your throat. “Um… yes.”
Her jaw drops, and you sense more questions coming, but your dad jumps in to save you.
“What did Emerald Corp say?”
Grateful, you turn. “Basically, that they’re buying land on the mountain because of our proven profit. They plan to undercut us and the Lodge, take our guests, and then hike the prices.”
“What the fuck.”
“Bea!” both you and your dad chime in.
Rolling her eyes, Bea pulls out her phone. “I will not apologize for swearing when it’s appropriate. Emerald Corp is the true villain here.”
“Relativism is a dangerous philosophy,” your dad warns, returning to the stove.
Bea and you exchange a look that nearly dissolves into laughter. Your dad loves to do that – say something vague and retreat from an argument. You learned from the best. It used to drive your mom crazy, but you and Bea have grown fond of it. You love to see how far you can push things.
“Anyways,” you sigh. “It doesn’t seem like Emerald Corp can be reasoned with. Yoongi and I have been brainstorming other options.”
“Yoongi and I,” Bea muses, her smile growing. “Is that a thing now?”
“Can we please be mature about this?”
“We can,” she agrees, “once you address the elephant in the room. When did you start colluding with your ex-boyfriend?”
Your dad again drops the spoon. “Ex-boyfriend?” he gasps, and you remember where you got your dramatics. “Y/N, why don’t I remember this? Did Yoongi break your heart? Did you and your mother hide this from me?” he demands, brandishing the wooden spoon.
“Dad, no,” you groan. “Bea is overreacting. Yoongi and I went on one date in high school, and it ended badly. That’s all.”
He squints. “Define badly.”
“This is your fault,” you huff, glaring at Bea.
She places one hand on her throat. “Mine!” she says. “You’re the one who’s igniting old flames, then lying about them to the family.”
“We went on one date.”
“What happened on the date!” insists your dad, brandishing the spoon for emphasis.
“Nothing! It was all a misunderstanding. We’ve cleared it up. An-y-ways” – you speak loudly to drown out their protests – “what’s important is that Yoongi is now on our side, and we’re doing everything we can to take down Emerald Corp.”
Your dad pauses mid-brandish. “You know, the Lodge does have more resources than we do.”
“Exactly,” you soothe. “Honestly, I have this all under control. Yoongi and I went around Main Street this morning and collected signatures against the proposition. People don’t want Emerald Corporation in Merriman.”
Pulling the signatures up on your phone, you show this to Bea, who takes the device and reluctantly nods. “This is a good start,” she admits.
“Atta girl,” says your dad, crossing to the fridge. “So, is there anything your sister or I can do to help?”
“No!”
Bea peers over your phone. “Are you sure, Y/N? I mean, this is good, but…”
“But?”
She glances at your dad’s back, then seems to think better of what she was about to say. “Nothing.” Her lips tighten, and she sets down your phone. “I trust you, Y/N.”
Your dad moves to rummaging in the cabinets. “Y/N, do you know where the olive oil is?”
Standing from the table, you help your dad with dinner, and conversation turns into more mundane topics. Bea appears to forgive and forget, although you know better than to assume she’s fully given up.
In truth, everything your sister said has been quietly simmering under the surface for years. When you began working at the inn, it took several years to work out a rhythm with your dad. He’s good at customer interactions, at schmoozing with vendors and ensuring people return. Usually, your dad works at the front desk or manages business relationships.
Everything else falls to you. A patchwork job of event management (fun!) to building maintenance (less fun!) and financial analysis (an evil you would not wish upon your worst enemy!) has become your job. At the start, it was enjoyable. Each new task was a challenge; a puzzle you had to solve. There was joy you found in being good at something and in being needed.
Slowly though, the joy dwindled. Now, even your current challenge feels like a chore; something to figure out before the next one arrives. You aren’t sure when the change happened but can’t ignore its presence.
“Are you alright?” Bea asks as you wash up after dinner.
“Fine,” you reply, forcing a smile. “Good, even.”
She gives you a look, but before she can respond, your dad is bustling into the kitchen with leftovers. You hand over the dark chocolate pistachio cookies you baked in preparation, and it distracts them enough that you vacate the premises.
Still, you feel Bea’s eyes on you as you pull away. You may have everyone else in the town fooled, but if there is anyone who can see through your bullshit, it’s Jaz and Bea. Which means if you want to figure Emerald Corp out by yourself, then you need to do so – and fast.
The next morning, you meet Jasmine at Brewsters for brunch, a monthly ritual that began in your early twenties. At night, Brewsters may be a dive, but in the morning, they have a surprisingly edible and extensive brunch menu.
A menu you have been staring at for the past five minutes, prompting Jasmine to wave her napkin in your face.
“Y/N,” she calls. “Earth to Y/N – hello?”
Jerking to life, you swat the fabric away. “I’m fine. Just… a headache. I’ll be fine soon.”
“Good.” Settling, Jasmine drops her napkin into her lap. “Namjoon should be here soon. He was running late this morning.”
Nodding, you glance out the window at the parking lot. Mostly empty today, thanks to the snow last night. Only a few cars are clustered, including your own, and several maintain a light layer of snow.
A few minutes later, Namjoon bursts into Brewsters, glancing around and removing his hat. Spotting you at the back, he heads in your direction.
“Hey, guys,” he says, collapsing on the bench beside you. “Anything new on the menu?”
“Unfortunately.” Jasmine pulls a face. “Raf has been experimenting in the kitchen. His latest creation is creamed mushrooms and eggs.”
Namjoon frowns, then pauses and tilts his head. “You know what, that might not be terrible.”
Primly, you open your gigantic menu. “I’ll stick to my usual. The sausage breakfast sandwich with hot sauce.”
“A classic,” agrees Jasmine. “The same?” she asks Namjoon, who nods.
Jasmine leaves to go find your waiter. Her cousin works here on weekends and chooses to ignore your table until you’re ready to order.
When she disappears, Namjoon turns to face you.
“What?” you ask, sipping your water.
“Nothing.” He pauses. “Which is the problem. How did signature collecting go? We’ve gotten no updates.”
“I know,” you groan. “It felt like too much to update you over text.”
You launch into a description of yesterday’s canvassing, repeating the entire story when Jasmine rejoins you. You avoid replaying the talk with your family, which feels more private than the rest. Never mind that you confessed more intimate things to Yoongi yesterday.
“Besides all of that…” You shrug. “I have a shift at the inn this afternoon. Suzy is sick, so I’m working the front desk, which is always a nightmare. Yoongi and I need to grab some remaining signatures tomorrow, and then… we’ll see.”
Namjoon nods, and Jasmine asks a question, but you barely hear her, too distracted by the commotion at the front of the restaurant.
Remmy Quarrels has entered, speaking to none other than Bob Schwartz, owner of the Holly Jolly Toy Shop. You and Yoongi missed Bob yesterday, which was a disappointment. The Holly Jolly Toy Shop has a sizable online presence, and they ship all over the country.
They end up being seated at the next table, though neither one notices you. As a result, you hear Remmy’s pitch, crystal-clear.
“All I’m saying is that you should keep your options open,” says Remmy, pulling out a chair. “There’s no need to petition Emerald Corporation until you hear their full pitch. They’ve promised me they’ll keep local businesses in mind – and just think of the tourism boom, and what that would mean for your shop!”
Bob slowly nods, as though all this makes sense.
In the booth, your hands white-knuckle your silverware, and you can practically feel the steam coming from your ears. Namjoon and Jasmine are listening, too, rapt and incensed.
“I knew it,” Namjoon mutters. “Jimin said he saw Remmy parked on Main Street last night, but we didn’t know what he was doing. I just knew he was up to something shady.”
“Remmy was parked on Main Street?” you ask, dazed. “So… he was just walking behind us the entire time, countering our ask?”
Jasmine makes a noise close to a growl.
“Seems like it,” says Namjoon.
“That little snake,” you hiss.
Abruptly, you stand.
Namjoon looks up in alarm. “Y/N,” he says, trying and failing to catch your forearm. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to –”
“Oh, I think this is the perfect time,” you declare, marching away.
Remmy sees you coming first, his eyes widening comically over Bob’s head. When you stop beside them, smiling politely, you can see him sweating.
“Hi, Bob,” you greet. “Hi, Remmy. Hope your day is going well.”
“It is,” says Bob. He glances behind you. “Are you here for breakfast?”
“Mhm,” you say, your gaze sliding to Remmy. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation about Emerald Corp. Did Remmy share with you the conversation Yoongi and I had with their head of development?”
Bob blinks, then looks at Remmy. “You didn’t tell me Y/N and Yoongi had already met with Emerald Corp.”
Remmy, who has been glaring daggers, quickly stops to nod. “Oh, yes,” he says. “I mean – yes, it would seem they did. I didn’t know. How did things go?” he asks, turning to you.
“Extremely well,” you say sweetly. “That’s why Yoongi and I are gathering signatures to stop Emerald Corp from building here in Merriman.”
Bob guffaws, slapping his knee. “The same humor as your mother,” he chuckles. “She would have cut down a tree on the mountain road, or something by now.”
“That’s what I said!” you blurt, beaming at him.
Bob smiles back.
Jasmine appears at your side with your breakfast sandwich. “Sustenance, milady,” she says, then scowls at Remmy. “Oh, you’re here.”
Remmy’s expression looks as though he has swallowed something sour. This worsens when Bob turns to him, a frown on his face.
“What was that you said about Emerald Corp supporting local businesses?” he asks. “It doesn’t sound like that’s the case if they’re blatantly ignoring the concerns of our town hotels.”
You can practically see the wheels turning in Remmy’s mind. “Look,” he sighs. “I will admit, this deal has pros and cons. The con is what Y/N just said – most likely, Emerald Corp will end up as the town’s main accommodation. On the plus side though, their lodge will be able to host more than double the occupancy of Y/N and Yoongi’s buildings.”
Bob considers this. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” The look Remmy gives you is triumphant. “They also have substantial connections in the tourism industry and have promised me 100% capacity during the holiday season. Think of what that would mean for your sales, Bob! To the toy shop. Or the coffee shop,” he adds, pointing outside.
Jasmine crosses her arms. “I think I can speak for the Bean Exchange when I say we’re doing just fine.”
Namjoon stops beside her. “My company also has significant connections in the tourism industry,” he points out to Remmy. “I don’t see how that’s a large selling point for working with Emerald Corp.”
Remmy chooses to ignore him. “This is what I promised to do when I became town treasurer,” he says, practically a growl. “Find new opportunities for growth! Find the net positive, even when there are some negatives!”
Slowly, your anger begins to build. Thus far, you have been able to suppress it and keep your speech civil, but Remmy seems hell-bent on riling you up. Still, you do your best to stay calm.
“And what about when Emerald Corporation forces Yoongi and I out of business, Remmy?” you ask him. “Then what? What will your next idea be? A Barnes and Noble to replace Brooke’s Nook? A Target,” you add, throwing in the kicker, “to replace the Holly Jolly Toy Shop?”
Bob blinks, as though the thought had never occurred to him, and Remmy turns vaguely purple.
“I have had enough,” he huffs, pushing himself to stand, “of you running around, sticking your nose in where –”
A familiar silhouette steps between you. “Is there a problem?” Yoongi asks, sounding bored while holding his coffee.
Although he seems calm, you notice the stiff set to his shoulders. It seems that Yoongi has tells, and you now know him well enough to decipher his feelings.
Whatever Remmy sees on Yoongi’s face confirms this fact, and he swiftly sits down. “No,” he says. “Of course, not.”
Bob picks up his menu, although his expression is troubled, so you count this as a win. Nodding in his direction, you turn around.
“Well,” Jasmine says, grabbing Namjoon by the arm. “Our food is getting cold. Joon, let’s go wait at the table.”
Although Namjoon protests, he is swiftly dragged off. You try to follow but are stopped when someone lays a hand on your arm. Expecting Yoongi, you turn and find Bob.
He glances between you and Yoongi, who still stands beside you. “Well,” he says slowly. “Y/N, it was a real pleasure to see you. I’m thankful you stopped me and said what I needed to hear.”
“Oh,” you falter. “You’re welcome.”
Bob looks over his shoulder. Remmy has vacated their table, and when you look out the window, you see his car’s taillights.
“If I might return the favor,” Bob says, stepping closer. “You should know that Remmy and his team have been meeting with many of the town business owners. I think he’s convinced a large group of them – not me, anymore – to back his idea, and offput your signatures. They feel the increase in sales may be worth it.”
Slowly, the anger in your chest begins to deflate.
It was one thing to hear Remmy – slick-talking, unlikable Remmy – not care about you or your business. It is another thing entirely to hear the same being said from your neighbors and colleagues.
“Oh,” you murmur. “Thanks.”
Bob looks like he wants to say more, but Yoongi steps forward. “Thanks, Bob,” he says. “Can we reach out to you if we have any questions?”
“Yes, of course.” Bob fishes around for a business card. He hands this to Yoongi and walks away, patting you on the shoulder once as he leaves. “For what it’s worth, you two have my vote,” he says. “Happy holidays!
“Happy holidays,” you mumble.
Staring at your breakfast sandwich in hand, you begin to unravel. Remmy has been going around to undo all the hard work you accomplished. If Namjoon’s intel is correct, he was steps behind you all day, swaying opinions you thought you had won.
Worst of all, you are starting to wonder if maybe Remmy is right. Maybe you are being selfish in your plan for the inn. Maybe it would be better for the town to increase their tourist capacity through the Emerald Corp.
“Okay,” says Yoongi, breaking through your train of thought. “Let’s get out of here.”
Startled, you look upward.
Yoongi is standing before you, brows furrowed. His nose is red from the cold, matching the stripe down his puffy jacket. He must have come here for food and now, because you look rattled, he’s immediately suggesting you leave.
Warmth suffuses your body. “Get out of here and go where?”
Yoongi shrugs. “How do you feel about surprises?”
“Badly.”
“I know a spot,” he responds, failing to elaborate further. “You look like you could use a distraction.”
The warmth spreads even further, tingling your toes and your fingertips. “Alright,” you say, only to wince. “Wait – no. Your coffee! You must have come in here for coffee or food, right?”
He gives you a half-smile. “I can take it to go, Y/N.”
“Oh. Right.”
As though on cue, Jasmine’s cousin jogs up with a white paper bag. “Here you go,” he says, thrusting this at Yoongi. “Y/N, Jaz said you forgot your coffee on the table. She said you should uh, text her every hour so she knows you haven’t died.”
Starting to laugh, you give Jasmine the middle finger and turn to face Yoongi. “Well?” you say, grasping your coffee. “Let’s get out of here. Distract me.”
His smile takes your breath away. When Yoongi opens the front door and gestures to his waiting truck, the sense of déjà vu feels somehow freeing. “After you,” Yoongi says, and you follow him out.
Author's Note: thank you for reading part 1! Part 2 has now been posted and can be found here.
summary: you and Sylus have been arranged to be married since adolescence, until you're whisked off to the palace to join the imperial harem and Sylus would do anything to get you back
wc: 15.9k
warnings: not historically accurate, violence, arranged marriage, does a harem count?, male masturbation, nsfw, piv, oral (f receiving), voyeurism (not by Sylus or reader), pregnancy (extremely minimal)
an: based off that one story from apothecary diaries. also have plans for both caleb and zayne in this same universe <3
You'd known even in your early youth that your heart would only ever belong to one man.
Your families had strong ties, so he had always been within the periphery of your life. He was a few years your senior, so more often than not he was spending time with other boys his age rather than the little girl who was too shy to even speak to him. Nevertheless, your respective parents both thought it would be advantageous to solidify the bond between your two affluential families in the form of marriage.
You were promised to Sylus Qin when you were barely a teenager. The years passed, and gone was the child who used to follow him around asking him to play with her. In her place was a young woman that turned heads wherever she went. A known beauty in your small town, well-educated and from a wealthy family. Such was the same for Sylus. Wherever he went, the giggles of the town’s girls were sure to follow, especially since he’d taken up martial arts with his friend Caleb Xia, who was no less popular, and he had grown from a scrawny teenager to a full-fledged man. But despite the attention you both received, neither of you ever entertained the thought of another.
Regardless of what you thought, Sylus had never been blind to your presence in his life. He still remembered when you were 10 years old and had climbed a tree too high and subsequently became too frightened to climb down. He’d had to climb into the tree with you to help you down, and he had done it without a second’s hesitation. He remembered when you proudly showed him your first piece of needlework at 12, the flowers slightly misshapen and lopsided, but he’d praised it nonetheless. He remembered when you were standing next to him in front of both of your parents at 14, nervously twiddling your fingers as the two of you were told you’d been promised to each other as eventual spouses. He remembered when you were 17 and Caleb had made a passing comment to him about how pretty you were becoming and Sylus had shot him a look so quickly he nearly snapped his own neck. He remembered the first time he kissed you at 19, how soft your lips had been and how your hands felt cupping his jaw and how worth it it was to risk the scandal. But what he remembered most vividly was the way your face crumpled when you’d told him that you’d been chosen as a candidate for concubinage to the emperor. He’d never forget the raw grief and anger he felt the day you left for the interior palace.
Sylus would stand against God if it meant taking his rightful place at your side, so who was an emperor to stand in his way? But he waited. Plotted. Planned. He’d be yours and you would be his, even if he had to burn the whole palace to the ground.
----------
You weren’t sure how it had happened, but during one of your outings you had been noticed by a eunuch sent to your town with the express purpose of scouting potential companions for the emperor. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The eunuch visiting your family home. Discussing what this meant with your parents. Informing Sylus, whose face would be seared into your memory forever. You may as well have ripped his heart from his chest. But the wants of the emperor superseded all else. What you had thought to be fated, written in stone, was ripped from you before you could truly fight for it. Your bags were packed by the maids, your tears wiped clean by your mother, and your heart still held securely in Sylus’ hands, even as you were loaded into the carriage tasked with taking you far away from all that you had known and loved.
You didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then you did so in as few words as possible. The trip was long and tiresome, but you did eventually arrive at the gates of the Forbidden City, the grandeur of the palace stealing the breath from your lungs. You tried to remain positive. You really did. Thousands of girls were chosen for this process and the vast majority of them were sent back to their parents. So, in all likelihood, you would be back home within the week. Surely.
Upon arrival, you were sorted into a group of other girls your age. Everything about you was assessed: your height, weight, skin, face, hair—even the way you spoke. By the end of it all, the number of girls had drastically decreased, and yet still you remained. One month, you were told. You would remain for one month as an entry-level concubine under the observance of other court women. It was a terribly long month, as you were not allowed contact with anyone outside of the palace. Your entire world had shrunk to just the inner court.
As luck would have it, it was your inquiry about the possibility of sending letters that exposed you as literate, a valued quality. You had always considered your family’s noble background a privilege, but it was unfortunately that very privilege that gave you all the traits desired in a concubine.
50. There were only 50 of you left. Again and again you were needled about your knowledge of literature and the arts. You had always been studious, and it showed when you were ranked highly amongst the remaining girls. You had considered lying and making yourself seem far more uneducated than you actually were, but dishonesty towards the emperor was not taken lightly. You’d be flirting with severe capital punishment, possibly even execution. It wasn’t worth the risk of never going home again. Of breaking the hearts of your family—of Sylus—more than they already were.
So, you persevered. But marked were your words—the emperor would never touch you. You could abide being chosen, as much as you loathed the thought, but you would die before allowing him in your bed. Should that ever happen, you would never be permitted to leave, a fate worse than death.
In the end, no matter how much you wished to kick and scream and cry, you were chosen to remain in the inner court. Whether your family was notified or not was not disclosed to you. You hoped they were, and you hoped Sylus would not completely give up on you. In the meantime, you decided, you would keep your head low and not draw attention to yourself. An unnoticed concubine is an untouched concubine.
------------
After a month of your absence, Sylus joined the imperial army. If he remained idle waiting for your return, which grew more and more unlikely by the day, he was apt to completely fall apart. Caleb chose to join as well, and he had been the one to inform Sylus that it wasn’t unheard of for generals and high ranking military officials to be rewarded for valor with a concubine of their choosing. If he could swallow his pride and serve the man who had taken you from him in the first place, he could potentially win you back.
The training was grueling. The two men had already built quite the physiques with the training they had already done, but the army honed and polished their skills to their fullest potential. If they were intimidating before, they were downright formidable now. But that was only training. Sylus had yet to see battle. He had yet to earn any merit that could allow him to move up the considerable ranks it would take to garner any favor or notice from the emperor.
But he would do it. Would follow orders to a T, would shoulder every task, would cut down anyone who opposed him until the emperor himself was felled by his sword if that was what it took. Though for now, he would settle with helping quash the small insurgence that was causing trouble in the south.
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While Sylus was risking life and limb to make a name for himself in the army, you were navigating the complexities of the inner court’s social hierarchy. Though discouraged, there was much jealousy among the concubines, something you had come to know after witnessing an unfortunate interaction between two others.
Jingshu, the name one of your ladies whispered to you, was a high-ranked concubine, a favorite of the emperor. You caught ear of her berating Xinyue, whom you were surprised to recognize as one of the girls who had been evaluated in your group.
“Why would he go to you and not me?!” Jingshu’s face was red from anger, the stark white makeup not enough to hide the deep flush on her cheeks.
You witnessed how Xinyue did a remarkable job of not letting the injustice of such a public confrontation allow her to lose her composure. In a sure and steady voice, she responded, “Perhaps the emperor simply has no use for a concubine who is already pregnant.”
A sly grin slid over her face as her eyes drifted downwards to the slight bulge of Jingshu’s abdomen. That grin was enough to tell you that she knew exactly what she was doing, antagonizing Jingshu and very skillfully getting under her skin. You suppressed the small smile that would have turned Lady Jingshu’s wrath on you should she have seen it. It was unlikely through the audience that had gathered around the spectacle, but it was not a risk you thought worth taking. Xinyue had nerve, you’d give her that.
As entertaining as you found it, Jinghsu found it equally infuriating. “You—!” she reeled her hand back, prepared to strike Xinyue. The crowd stirred and a eunuch pushed his way through. He’d likely be punished for this later, but he wrapped a hand around Jinshu’s wrist, effectively preventing her from harming the other concubine. Jinshu looked at him incredulously, likely having never been opposed before due to her social standing within the inner court.
Jingshu yanked her arm from his grip, ready to rage at the poor eunuch who clearly only wanted to deescalate the volatile situation. Before she could get a word out, he sputtered, “Lady Jingshu, you should not be exerting yourself so much!” He gave a meaningful glance to her abdomen. Her words were arrested in her throat, a grimace on her face as she took in the implication. She lowered her arm and the eunuch released her, a clear expression of relief painted on his face.
With one last sneer towards Xinyue, JIngshu stormed off, her ladies in tow. The eunuch turned towards Xinyue, seemingly to ask if she was okay. Now that the yelling had stopped, you couldn’t hear as well as before from your spot at the edge of the courtyard, so you assumed that was what he was saying anyway, especially since Xinyue gave him a small smile and nod of affirmation. With your entertainment clearly having come to an end, you continued on your way.
That had been nearly two weeks ago, with no sign of Jingshu since, the concubine presumably staying cooped up in her room to be doted on by her ladies during her pregnancy. That, or she was rightfully embarrassed by the show she put on and was waiting for some other drama for people to gossip about. Xinyue, on the other hand, you saw quite often. The first time you had spoken was when you saw her painting in one of the open-air pavilions in the imperial garden. Your curiosity got the best of you and you found yourself wandering closer, trying to peer over her shoulder to see what she was painting. Unfortunately, your curiosity led you a bit too close, and she noticed your presence creeping up behind her.
She turned to you, somewhat surprised that anyone other than her attendants had been watching. Recognition shone in her eyes when she took in your face, sheepish expression and all. “I know you! We came here in the same group!”
You were shocked she remembered you, but pleased nonetheless that she seemed friendly despite what had occurred with Jingshu. You returned her smile before answering. “Yes, we did,” you said with a small laugh. “Truthfully, I’m surprised you remember me. There were so many girls.”
She acknowledged your words with a nod. “True, but you stood out so much it was hard not to notice you.”
Stood out? You had done your best just to blend in, what could possibly have made you stand out so much that Xinyue remembered you? “Did I really?” You asked.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, debating how best to word her thoughts. “You always seemed so sad. Never talked to anyone, never smiled…” she trailed off, her brows somewhat raised and eyes wide, concern practically radiating off of her.
Of course you had been sad. You still were. You didn’t want to be there. You should have been at home, helping your mother with the household tasks or having tea with your father. More than anything else, you should have been preparing for your wedding.
Xinyue could see the swirl of emotions in your eyes, and she gestured to an empty seat at the table where she was seated. “Would you like to join me? You could share whatever is bothering you. Might make you feel better. Or we could request more supplies and you can paint with me?” She asked hopefully.
You eagerly accepted the offer to join her, having spent most of your time in the palace alone, save for your ladies who didn’t seem to have the extra time to socialize with you in between their daily tasks. It wasn’t even proper for them to walk next to you on your walks around the gardens, always keeping at least two steps behind you at all times. Xinyue requested that one of her ladies bring more supplies, and you gladly took a seat beside her.
“Not to be too forward, but do you want to talk about whatever is making you sad? It seems like more than just not wanting to be here.” You hesitated and she picked up on it immediately. Waving her arms in front of her, she quickly backpedaled. “Of course, you don't have to if you're uncomfortable!”
You laughed at her franticness, the feeling almost foreign as it had been so long. You shook your head, “No, it’s okay. I think it would make me feel better to share with someone.”
You picked up the paintbrush one of the ladies had brought out to you, and Xinyue followed your lead, resuming her painting while glancing your way and waiting for you to begin your story.
You took a deep breath, trying to briefly collect your thoughts before finally speaking. “I was promised in marriage before coming here. We were going to marry next spring. I’ve known him my whole life. Our parents are close friends and business partners, so they thought that by arranging their children to marry they could ensure joint prosperity. It wasn’t just an arranged marriage for me.”
Xinyue had a soft, sympathetic look on her face. She knew exactly where this was going. You continued. “I really did want to marry him.” Your voice cracked and your throat was becoming painful with the effort to not cry. “It was a palace eunuch that thought I would be a good candidate. So now I’m here, and I’ll likely never see him again. He’ll marry someone else and I will still be trapped here.” The tears spilled then, against your wishes and best efforts to keep them at bay. You rushed to wipe them from your face, but she placed a gentle hand on your forearm.
“It’s okay to cry, y’know? I won’t judge you for being upset.”
You only shook your head, not quite ready to be that vulnerable with a woman you had only just made the acquaintance of, no matter how kind she’d been so far. When you had sufficiently pulled yourself back together you turned your full attention to her, unfinished painting left abandoned in front of you. “How did you come to be here?”
Xinyue flushed, somewhat ashamed at her circumstances after hearing yours. “I come from a noble family. My parents wanted to elevate their political and social standing.” She didn’t elaborate further. She didn't need to; hers was a common story. Many noble families sent their daughters as candidates to directly tie their family to the imperial line, especially if their daughter happened to bear a son.
From there, the conversation drifted to lighter topics. Discussing books you had both read, complimenting each other’s painting skill, even arranging to meet again the next day since you’d both found the other could play an instrument—why not play together? At some point, she leaned in to whisper to you if you had heard anything about the skirmishes in the poorer regions of the country. She seemed almost shocked. Apparently, it was a great hubbub where she was from, though you had heard of no such civil unrest.
Xinyue, sweet as she could be, was more than happy to fill you in. The emperor, and the government as a whole, really, wasn’t following through with their promises to send food to struggling townships. Some of the people took it upon themselves to attack traveling merchants, making the roads dangerous. You took in her words with rapt attention.
Though you didn’t know it, as you were learning about the strife that apparently riddled the nation, your beloved was actively fighting on behalf of the empire.
------------
One after the other they fell by his sword. Old, young, it didn’t matter. He had his orders and he would follow them. He would ride through the ranks, he would be recognized by the emperor, and he would have you as his. You were the one single point on which all of his drive and motivation was hinged. How the slaughter of bandits and petty thieves would get him there, he didn’t know, but he didn’t need to. He just knew that his tasks were important to his commanders, so he would complete them without fail or hesitation.
However, it didn’t escape his notice how frail some of the men looked. They were far too weak to fight imperial soldiers, but still they fought with the desperation of men that had everything to fight for. But so did he.
Still, he thought it odd that these men, who clearly were not equipped for this lifestyle, were so determined to condemn themselves. He never got the chance to ask them himself, and he certainly wasn’t going to question his senior officers. It wasn’t until he was promoted to captain that he finally got an answer. An answer for their desperation. Their frailness. Their hopeless yet unrelenting pursuits. Simply put, they were starving. Each time Sylus had fought what he was led to believe were petty bandits, he was really fighting ordinary citizens like himself, albeit much worse off financially than the Qin family.
It was only after he had made it to the rank of commander, the highest rank sent out on what the empire considered small, inconsequential skirmishes, that he was able to give the order to interrogate rather than kill on sight. From one of the countrymen he learned that a recent drought had decimated their crops, leaving the people in dire need of food. He turned to the men in his troop. “These men will not be harmed.”
The man who had been made to kneel before Sylus looked up in shock. Before he could say anything, Sylus continued, now addressing the man. “Hunger is not a crime. But thievery is. I may understand your motivations, but the emperor does not have a tolerance for such a crime. In return for sparing your life, I expect the theft to stop and for each of those involved to await further word from me.”
Sylus was playing with fire and he knew it. That night, with his men gathered around the campfire, he explained to them that not a word of this was to be spoken of. It wouldn't matter if Sylus took full responsibility—the entire regiment would be punished. It took some convincing, but none of them could deny that he had a point earlier. It wasn’t a crime to be hungry. As the men discussed how on board with this they actually were, Sylus stared into the fire, contemplating how he’d be able to tell Caleb about the development without anyone overhearing.
His opportunity came quicker than he anticipated. Caleb had found him first, leading him into the woods surrounding camp. “And what could you possibly have to show me?” Questioned Sylus.
“Oh, shut up and just follow me.”
Sylus rolled his eyes but continued anyway until the pair came to a pier that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. “Ta-da!” Caleb said in a sing-song voice, arms extended dramatically. He wasted no time stripping his outer layers and jumped right in. Sylus opted to sit on the edge of the old pier, his legs dangling in the water. Caleb groaned, “Man, I thought you were going to swim with me. And let's face it, you could use a bath.”
“Apologies for not wanting to strip down to my underwear in the presence of those young ladies,” Sylus chuckled, pointing to a pair of girls on the opposite bank giggling to each other, each with a basket of clothes in their arms.
Caleb looked horrified and almost made to get out of the water before thinking better of it. As long as he was mostly submerged, the murky water would keep him concealed. “Bet it wouldn’t have been a problem if it was Y/n over there,” Caleb mumbled.
Sylus shot him a pointed glare only to be rewarded with his friend’s self-satisfied smirk, pleased to have gotten under his skin. “If it was Y/n you’d have a black eye for undressing in front of her.”
Caleb rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, she’s off limits, I know. Wouldn't dream of taking your girl.”
The conversation lulled, and it wasn’t until the girls across the water left with their now-clean laundry that Sylus spoke up about what had been bothering him. “Those bandits they’ve been having us fight,” he started. “Do you know why there has been such an increase in merchant attacks?”
“Can’t say I do, why?”
“Has it not struck you as odd how weak they are?” Sylus raised a brow at his companion.
“In what sense? I mean, we are imperial soldiers, so of course average citizens would seem weak.”
Sylus sighed, exasperated. “No, not like that. Weak in the sense that they’re frail. The other day I spoke to one of them. Their villages are starving and the empire is doing nothing to help them. They rob the merchants and travelers to either take whatever food they have or anything of value they can sell.”
As Sylus was speaking, he’d been staring into the water, watching the ripples formed by Caleb’s movements. He didn’t return his gaze to his friend until he’d finished, finding a stormy expression in place of his usual carefree one.
Caleb huffed and pulled himself out of the water, seating himself next to Sylus and drawing one leg up, his arm propped on his knee. He seemed to be struggling to find the words to say. After a few moments’ thought, he asked, “So what did you do?”
Sylus gave Caleb a full debrief of what had transpired. “Y’know, if any higher ups find out what you did, you’ll get killed for treason.”
Sylus growled. “Which is why they won’t find out. Are you really going to continue to punish these people who are only trying to survive? To keep their families fed?”
A sigh of resignation. “No, I guess not. But what instead?”
“Talk to your men. Let them know we’ve all intentionally been kept in the dark. The generals know that most of the army come from the same types of villages and towns as these people. They would sympathize. But they’ve painted them as thieves and criminals. Of course there’s the threat of execution as well for not following orders.”
Sylus told Caleb of how, in return for sparing the lives of the bandits, the thievery would stop, else it would be all of their heads. It took time and convincing, but he and Caleb came to an agreement: have the men in their regiments spare the citizen’s lives, and convince the citizens that they’re on their side and are genuinely trying to help.
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Music floated through the open windows of the room you and Xinyue occupied. As agreed the last time you’d spent time together, you were playing your respective instruments to create a beautiful melody that caught the attention of any passerby within earshot. It had been many days of practice, and your piece was finally perfected.
As the last note faded away, Xinyue took the opportunity to tell you of her latest encounter with the emperor, sans the savory details. “I told him that I was practicing my music with another girl, and he seemed really interested. He wants to hear us play the piece once we have it down.”
Your face paled. She meant well. She did. But you had done your absolute best to not draw attention to yourself, to not stand out in any way. You knew you couldn’t outright refuse the emperor, but every cell in your body was screaming to stay far, far away from him.
You smoothed the fabric of your dress (the beautiful garment likely costing more money than you could fathom) in an attempt to soothe yourself and gather your thoughts enough to form a coherent sentence.
Still, Xinyue was nothing if not observant, as you’d come to find out when you first met her. Her brows pinched together. “You look upset. Should I have not said anything?”
You sighed, resigned to the fact that you would probably have to intentionally make a fool of yourself to tarnish your image in the emperor's eyes. “I don’t want the emperor's attention on me,” you finally confided. “Whether I’m here or at home my heart still belongs to Sylus. None that lie with the emperor are ever permitted to leave, and I simply can’t allow that to happen.”
Xinyue’s eyes widened, her lips forming a perfect O-shape. “I didn’t even think what it could mean for you. I was just talking—“
You cut her off quickly. “No! It’s not your fault!”
She looked ashamed for a moment at having brought such distress to her friend, but it was quickly replaced with a stern, determined expression, an idea forming in her head. “He likes graceful and confident women. Trip on your dress. Stutter when you speak and do so quietly. Keep your head down and twiddle with your fingers. I can’t undo my words and I can’t prevent him from coming, but I can help you be as unappealing as possible to him.”
Though you were still anxious that you were to be thrust into the spotlight before the emperor, you were thankful that Xinyue was there to help, even if she was the reason for the mess in the first place.
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Later that night, after you had gotten ready for bed, you found yourself unable to sleep. You just couldn’t get comfortable, and every sound was amplified in the stillness of the night. Clearly you weren’t getting any sleep, so you huffed and sat up, contemplating what to do with your newfound free time. Your eyes wandered to the small desk you had been provided with in your room, untouched stationary sitting atop it just waiting to be used. You hummed to yourself, thinking as you frowned at the lantern you had already blown out with no way of relighting it. You eyed the wooden brushes scattered on the desk. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work without having to wake someone.
You chose one brush at random and exited your room with it, on the lookout for the nearest lantern that still had a candle burning. You found one and scurried back to your room as soon as the wooden end of the paintbrush was lit. You probably looked like some kind of fool, but that could work in your favor given the circumstances, so you weren’t particularly bothered.
Now with an appropriate light source, you could start what you’d wanted to from the beginning. Even if you couldn’t send letters outside of the palace, you could still write them. You opted to use the paintbrush you’d sacrificed, almost as an apology for using it for anything other than its intended purpose.
My beloved Sylus,
The palace is a terribly dull place. It’s beautiful, but I find myself doing the same things every day. There was one instance when I witnessed an argument between two other girls. Jingshu, who has an ego larger than the palace itself, and Xinyue, with whom I am now friends. It was entertaining, short lived as it was. But now that I’m friends with Xinyue it’s not something I want to see repeated. With another girl perhaps.
Lately, Xinyue and I have taken to playing music together. She’s a lovely erhu player, but today she told me that the emperor wishes to hear us play. I haven’t met him and it worries me to be in his presence. Xinyue said she’d help me be less appealing to his tastes, so hopefully all will be well.
Life here is so boring there’s not much else for me to share. I’m well taken care of and never go without anything. Much of my copious free time is spent wondering what you’re doing at that exact moment. I hope you’re well.
Yours always,
Y/n
Not a literary masterpiece by any means, but it’s not as if you’d be able to send it anyway. You sighed, eyes downcast on the drying ink. When you were certain the ink would no longer smear, you folded the letter and placed it in one of the drawers. Couldn’t afford anyone reading that, could you?
With nothing left to occupy yourself, you decided to at least try to get some sleep tonight. You left the lantern lit this time, having learned your lesson the first time. If the candle burned out, then so be it. The palace could afford more. You settled into the sheets, and, thankfully, sleep found you quickly this time.
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“You mean, you’re not punishing us?” The man asked timidly from his knees, Sylus’ imposing figure standing over him.
“Consider the fear of being killed itself your punishment. I’d like to speak with you privately if I may?”
The man nodded quickly, more than willing to do whatever was asked of him if it meant his head remained attached to his shoulders. Sylus followed him to what he assumed was the man’s private residence. Upon entering, Sylus was greeted with the sight of two young children chasing each other around the home. The thinness of their arms did not escape his notice. He frowned, a small furrow forming between his brows.
“Do you see why—“
Sylus held up a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I know. It’s the same all across this region. It’s also why I want to speak to you.”
Sylus explained everything to the man. How he was on the cusp of being promoted again, how, if he could earn that sway with the emperor, then he could personally implore the government to help its people. It was asking a lot, he knew, but he needed to be able to tell his superiors that the thievery would not continue, and for that to work he needed the man’s cooperation, and that of his accomplices as well. The man was hesitant to agree, for obvious reasons, but acquiesced. Sylus informed him that he would be in touch.
Time and time again it was the same thing. Truth be told, he was tired of giving the same talk over and over again, but it would all be worth it in the end.
It was during one of these routine raids that Sylus came across a pair of young men. He had given them and the other men the spiel and deal he’d given everyone else. Instead of slinking back home like he’d expected them to, however, the two approached him. As they neared, Sylus couldn’t help but glance between the two. Twins, they had to be.
“We want to work for you,” declared one of them boldly, the other nodding his head in affirmation.
Sylus’ eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, shocked. He had been expecting to be confronted, argued with, or even fought, but certainly not this.
“Are you saying you wish to join the army?”
“No,” said the one who had nodded. “We want to work for you, specifically.”
Sylus’ initial shock morphed into confusion. These two couldn’t possibly be serious. He decided to gloss over it for the time being. “What are your names?” He asked, addressing the one who had first spoken so boldly.
“Luke,” he responded. Sylus looked to the other one.
“Kieran.”.
“Right, and why would you want to take orders from me, specifically?” His confusion was mounting every second he didn’t get an answer or know for sure that these two were genuine. Although, in the event that they were, he already had a task in mind.
“Because there’s nothing for us here. We don’t have a purpose of our own right now, but you seem like you do, so let us fight for your cause until we find our own.”
Sylus was taken aback. He pondered how best to go forth. On one hand, they could be advantageous to have in his service, on the other, they could get killed in the process, and Sylus wasn’t sure if that was a weight he wanted on his conscience. Still though…
He exhaled heavily through his nose. “Can the two of you pose as eunuchs in the Forbidden City?”
Initially, they had begun to smile, excited at the prospect of having a mission. But then the words actually registered. “We wouldn't have to actually become eunuchs, right?”
“Of course not. That is why I said ‘pose’ as eunuchs.”
Their relief was practically palpable. It was Kieran who pressed for more details. “Why do you want us to go there?”
“There’s a woman there I need to get in contact with. Her name is Y/n L/n.”
“We can do that, but why do you need our help with that?”
“Because she’s not a servant; she’s a concubine. They’re not permitted to contact anyone outside of the palace. So I need you two to relay messages.”
The twins nodded solemnly. “How will we know where to address our letters back to you once we’re there?”
Sylus raised a hand to his face, rubbing at his chin in thought. “There’s a depot nearby. Send your messages there. I should be in this region for a while, so I’ll be able to stop by and collect anything you send.”
Luke and Kieran nodded in understanding. “We’ll set out first thing tomorrow morning.”
With that settled, they each went their separate ways: Sylus back to his horse to return to camp, and the twins to their home to prepare for the long journey ahead of them.
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You were going to be sick. You could feel the bile rising in your throat as your nerves wreaked havoc on your body. With Xinyue’s coaching, you knew exactly how to behave to ensure the emperor took no interest in you now or, even better, ever.
The servant girls were scrambling around, ensuring that tea and snacks were prepared and the instruments set up and ready to be played with skill befitting a personal companion of the emperor.
You knew when he had arrived not because you saw him, but because the maids went deathly quiet. The idle chatter that had previously filled the ornately decorated room had come to a complete halt. Your heart pounded in your chest, threatening to burst with the intensity of its beats. You and Xinyue rose from your seats and turned to greet him.
Nervous as you were, perhaps you didn’t even need Xinyue’s help to make a fool of yourself. You felt more than capable of doing that all on your own.
The emperor returned the greeting to each of you, his eyes lingering on Xinyue in a way that made your skin crawl. You knew the purpose of having so many women at his fingertips, just waiting to be graced with his favor, but you could not imagine your entire life being dedicated to a man who may not ever so much as spare you a glance, much less love you. You thought of Sylus. He had looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, like you were the axis on which his whole world spun. The emperor did not look at you in such a way.
When his attention shifted to you, his eyes roved over your figure, almost analytical in the way he scanned up and down. He was younger than you had anticipated, but still clearly older than you and most of the other court ladies.
Once the emperor was fully settled in his seat, indulging in the steaming cup of tea that had been carefully poured for him, you and Xinyue took your respective seats. She got into position to play and looked over at you, ensuring you were ready as well, your fingers hovering over the strings.
You counted off together and began to play in sync, the long draw of her bow across the erhu creating a melody perfectly completed by the plucking of your guqin. It was a lovely piece, truly, just such a shame to be played for a man you harbored such animosity and fear towards.
He had a small smile on his face as he watched the two of you in silence. As the music continued, his attention drifted from Xinyue to you with a contemplative expression. You didn’t like that. Not one bit.
He likes confident women, you remembered Xinyue telling you. You plucked the wrong string, the sharp note ringing harshly in the air. It was a jarring sound, immediately disrupting the gentle melody that had been permeating the space. You spared a glance at the emperor, who seemed somewhat disgruntled. You also didn’t miss the sideways glance from Xinyue, who knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was intentional.
After your small error, you played up the act of a nervous woman. Of course, you truly were nervous, but not for the reasons you needed the emperor to think. You hunched your shoulders more and tucked your head lower than it needed to be. But this wasn’t the last of your little “mistakes”.
When the piece had come to its conclusion, you both waited for the emperor’s remarks.
“The music was lovely, though I falsely believed I gave you ample time to perfect it. It seems as though more practice time would have been beneficial.” He didn’t outright say if, but that was most assuredly directed at you. Even still, he didn’t seem as disinterested as you wanted him to be. You’d have to try harder.
As the emperor rose to take his leave, you and Xinyue did so as well to see him out, presenting you with the perfect opportunity to ensure that the emperor would never so much as look twice at you. When you went to step forward, you hooked your foot around the leg of the table that supported your guqin. You went sprawling to the floor, and, for a brief moment of horror, you thought the now-teetering table would come down with you, guqin and all. Thankfully, the table stabilized and your instrument was unharmed, but your reputation in the eyes of the emperor was certainly not. He looked down at you with mild disdain, the corners of his lips turned down slightly in a small frown.
Your little performance was made even better by Xinyue’s presence. She was regal and poised throughout the entire affair, the perfect contrast to the bumbling fool you had made yourself out to be.
Still, the show must go on. You scrambled to your feet, the servant girls having rushed forward to help you up. You hurriedly glanced at the emperor and plastered a panicked look on your face, ready to further tarnish his view of you with words (You should stutter when he speaks to you) instead of just actions. But he wasn’t even looking at you. No, he was thanking Xinyue again for the evening, and then he made his leave.
You walked forward to stand next to Xinyue, watching the emperor until he was out of sight. The moment you could no longer see him, Xinyue dismissed the servants. Upon their exit, she turned to you with all the excitement and giddiness of someone whose wildest dreams had come true. “It worked! It worked!” She lunged herself at you, her arms wrapped around your shoulders. She pulled back before you could return the gesture. Your own broad smile mirrored hers. Tears welled up in your eyes from sheer relief.
Even if you could not be with him, you would remain loyal to Sylus until the grave.
The remainder of your day was spent in the company of Xinyue. It wasn’t like either of you had any other important matters to attend to. Your only function in the inner palace was to be pretty and produce children. You were thrilled that you had been able to make such a good friend. It was also to your great amusement that she was very well informed about the happenings of the palace. She was quite the gossip. Apparently, Jingshu had caused a ruckus again, this time directed at a laundry girl who had been unable to remove a stain from one of her outfits. You rolled your eyes at the story. As if Jingshu wasn’t extremely pampered in the court and wouldn’t have a replacement by the end of the day.
Interestingly, there were also rumors of a new eunuch who was seemingly everywhere all at once.
“From what I’ve gathered from my ladies, one person might see him in one area, but someone else will say that they just saw him in a completely different part of the palace. It’s strange. Perhaps he runs everywhere he goes.”
The conversation naturally drifted towards other topics until, before either of you knew it, the sun was setting. “Oh my, it got late quickly,” giggled Xinyue.
“Indeed it did. We should both ready for bed. Would you like to visit the bathhouse tomorrow?” You offered, thoroughly enjoying the time spent with her and already looking forward to more chances to hang out.
She nodded eagerly. “But only if we look for that new eunuch first.” You recognized that familiar glint in her eye. You laughed lightly, your curiosity admittedly piqued as well. Palace life had been so boring that even this small mystery was enough to have you intrigued. You bid each other good night, and you made your way back to your own quarters.
During your walk, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. You quickened your steps, eager to return to your room. You tried to reason with yourself that you could simply be paranoid, or that those faint rustling sounds were from the trees and not the fabric of one’s clothes. Either way, you surely weren’t going to turn around.
When you made it back, you double checked that every door and window was firmly shut and locked. Your heart was racing, but for what? You didn’t even have proof, or reasonable suspicion for that matter, that you had been in any danger. You shook your head to clear the thoughts. It wouldn’t do you any good to dwell on it, and you would only make yourself even more paranoid.
With a sigh, you plopped down at your desk, intending to write another letter to Sylus. It had become a nightly ritual of sorts, though it was more like writing in a diary than letters meant to be sent to someone. They were mostly short, telling him about your day and asking questions about his that you so desperately wanted the answers to. How were your families? Was he faring well helping his father’s business? Are your peonies still blooming?
And, the one that you could never bring yourself to write for fear that you would write it into existence—
Has a new bride been chosen for him?
Again, you chose not to dwell on it. There was nothing you could do if your worst nightmare had actually come to pass, and it would only serve to upset you. As far as you were currently aware, it was only a hypothetical situation that deserved no more consideration than the dirt that kisses the bottom of one’s shoes. You took a deep breath to gather your scattered thoughts as you pulled out the appropriate materials to begin your nightly letter.
My beloved Sylus,
Today Xinyue and I played music for the emperor, and I made a right fool of myself. Intentionally, mind you. Plucked the wrong strings, refused eye contact, and even tripped over a table leg. I really thought I had overdone it and would take the table down with me, but it was fine. It would have been a shame to damage the guqin I was supplied with. It is of extraordinary craftsmanship. It was embarrassing having to pretend I’m less than what I am, but entirely worth it since I do believe that the emperor will not seek my company.
After that, I spent my day with Xinyue. Jingshu has been causing trouble again. It’s always something with her. This time it was a laundry girl who was victim to Jingshu’s anger. Something about a stain she couldn’t remove. Xinyue also told me about this new eunuch who seemingly has a knack for being in two places at once, so those are our plans tomorrow. Finding him, that is.
Also, while I was returning from Xinyue’s quarters I could have sworn I was being followed. Truthfully, I was too scared to turn around so I walked faster. I’m writing from the desk in the safety of my room now.”
A sharp rap sounded on the window. Your pen stilled and your breathing practically stopped as well. Your room was now dead silent as you sat motionless in your chair, waiting to see if the sound would come again or if your brain was just playing tricks on you. You were waiting on another knock, but instead you heard the whispers of a hushed argument from outside your window.
You took a deep breath and rose from your seat as silently as you could. You listened intently, only making out snippets here and there. Small phrases such as “right room” or “sleeping.” The occasional insult, as well.
You swallowed thickly and reached out a hand towards the window. With your grasp now firmly on the frame, you yanked it open, revealing two young eunuchs. In their startled state, they both jumped back a step.
“What are you doing?” You asked bluntly. Seeing that it was just some palace eunuchs, you calmed down somewhat, but you were still concerned about why they were there at all.
“Ah, well,” started one.
“We were just, um,” continued the other one.
“Just spit it out, please. What reason do you have to lurk outside of my bedroom at this time of night?” You were growing frustrated. Just who were these two? Granted, there were many eunuchs employed on the palace grounds, but in your few months there you had never seen these two.
“Are you F/n L/n?” Asked one suddenly.
“I am. Why?”
Their faces brightened and they turned to look at each other, ecstatic over something you didn’t understand.
“Mr. Sylus sent us!” Exclaimed one.
You immediately focused all of your attention on the one who had spoken. “Sylus sent you? Who are you and how do you know him?”
“I’m Luke, and this is Kieran. We were part of a not-so-legal group and Sylus was the captain of the—”
You cut him off. “Captain? Do you mean he’s joined the army?”
“Oh, did you not know that?” Asked Luke, his head tilted to the side.
You didn't answer, lost in thought about what could have possibly made him join. Somehow, you knew Caleb was involved.
“No, I didn’t,” you answered, your brows arching up in surprise. Sylus had never had any interest in military pursuits, so why now?
“Anyways,” continued one of the—whom you assumed to be, at least—twins.
. . .Twins.
It hit you just then, and you had to fight off the smile your lips so desperately wanted to form. Who could be in two places at once if not twins?
“Mr. Sylus took us on as his employees of sorts. We were sent here to find you.”
“He seems to care a lot about you,” chimed the other one. “Who are you to each other? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“We grew up together. We were even supposed to get married, until I got sent here.” Your voice took on a wistful tone as you spoke.
For a brief moment, the twins looked as if they regretted asking. With some hesitation, Kieran asked, “Why haven’t you written to him?”
Luke elbowed him. “Because she’s not allowed to, duh. Mr. Sylus told us this.”
Kieran had the proper sense to look embarrassed, his face flushing red. “Oh, yeah.”
Luke continued, “If there’s anything you want to send him, we can take care of it. It’s why we’re here.”
You were skeptical, you had to admit. You knew the rules about correspondence outside the palace walls, but these two knew Sylus by name. You were uncertain, but your eyes slowly drifted to the unfinished letter, and then to the drawer that housed every other you’d written with the belief that he’d never read them.
You turned back to the twins, ready to ask the question that had weighed heavily on your mind since your arrival in this horrid place. “How is Sylus? Is he well?” The deep care and concern you held for the man in question was written all over your face as you anxiously awaited their response.
“Uhhhh,” was the collective response of the two boys. “Sorry, but truthfully we don’t know him well enough to answer that.”
You nodded in understanding, disappointed but ultimately not surprised. “So, if I give you two something, you can get it to Sylus?”
Their previously apologetic expressions immediately morphed into ones of excitement. “That’s why we’re here! Give us what you’ve got and we’ll handle the rest!”
You chuckled at their enthusiasm, quickly becoming enamored with their amusing attitudes. While gathering all the letters you had written over the months, your eyes landed on the unfinished one at your desk. You looked to the window where the twins were waiting patiently, whispering amongst themselves. “Could you give me a few minutes to finish this?” You asked, holding up the letter.
With their somewhat overeager approval, you picked up where you had been interrupted, drawing a line under your last sentence.
“Shortly after writing the above portion, there was a knock on my window. Scared me half to death but I had nothing to worry about. Just two identical admirers.
P.S. The army? That has Caleb written all over it. Please be safe.
Yours always,
Y/n
The second the ink was sufficiently dry, you folded it and added it to the stack. It struck you then, that there was in fact something else you wanted Sylus to receive. You dug through your pockets and pulled out a small square of cloth. It was always on your person, but you rarely found actual need for it. You placed it within the stack and began to dig through your desk drawers. You could have sworn you had some string somewhere. Pulling the drawer out completely, you finally found it tucked away at the very back. Of course. You should have known the second you needed it it would practically be hiding.
With the string now in hand you wrapped the letters securely, using a small knife helpfully supplied by one of the twins to sever the material to a reasonable length.
Upon handing over the stack to Kieran, it was safely stashed away in his robes, hidden completely out of sight. “We’ll have these sent out first thing tomorrow, miss.”
With that, they were gone. No sign that they had ever been there. Certain you wouldn’t be writing any more letters tonight, you blew out the lamp and crawled into bed with a warm smile on your face, your mind filled with thoughts of ruby red eyes and silky silver hair.
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Letters. Filled with your handwriting. Your thoughts. Even your tears, if the small blotchy smudges were any indication. This was the closest Sylus had been to you in so long it was like having a tiny piece of his soul restored from when it had shattered all those months ago.
Overcome with the sheer relief that you were okay, he withdrew to his tent to pour over every letter like it was sacred text. He was meant to lead these men, not show them a side of himself they were never meant to see—the side that was only for you. As he read through them, he noticed that a “Xinyue” was mentioned frequently. You’d made a friend. Even if he couldn’t be there with you, it was comforting to know you had someone there who cared. There was also a Jingshu, whom Sylus couldn’t help but roll his eyes at with her every appearance in the day-to-day chronicles you wrote for him.
However, all the amusement of the palace gossip was washed away immediately when he read that the emperor would be visiting you. Not bothering to read the rest, he flipped through the mess of paper on his cot, looking for the appropriate date that followed what he had just read. He’d kill the man personally if he had forced anything.
The second he found what he was looking for, his hand shot out to take it from the pile, his overzealousness causing the fragile paper to crinkle in his grip, his lips a thin line and brows pulled into a deep furrow.
A table leg. You’d tripped over a table leg to intentionally make yourself undesirable. A deep chuckle erupted from Sylus’ chest, his nerves releasing themselves in the form of laughter. As his laughter abated and he looked over your letters fondly, still scattered around him, he realized that they all began and ended the same way. He was still your beloved, and you were still his. His heart clenched in his chest. Oh, how he missed you. Your laugh, your voice, your jokes, the way your hands fit in his, the way your lips had molded to his, how your waist had felt under his hands.
His thoughts were running away with him and he made no effort to stop them. You consumed his every waking thought and he didn’t even care. With every fantasy that gripped his imagination Sylus slipped further and further away from reality. He was no longer on his cot in a tent, he was home with you. It wasn’t his hands impatiently freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his pants. They weren’t his own fingers wrapping around the shaft, stroking up and down slowly with single-minded intent. He pictured you in front of him, on your knees with his legs on either side of your head, your warm breath blowing over his sensitive tip right before you took him in your mouth.
Sylus stifled a groan as the image morphed into you with teary eyes, struggling to take the full length of him into your mouth. Barely able to remain sitting upright, he collapsed onto his cot, your letters with their immaculate penmanship that had been so neatly tied together now spread beneath his large figure. He continued his ministrations, using every ounce of his self control to keep the pace steady, to make the fantasy last longer.
He thumbed his leaking slit, using his own precum as lubricant. This time, there was nothing he could do to stop the deep moan that pushed past his lips. The pleasure was overwhelming. The mental fantasy changed again. You’d look so pretty on top of him, taking what you wanted, what you needed from him. God, you could use him however you wanted and he’d say thank you.
Would you cry and wail for more? Would your nails scrape over his back as he pounded into you? Would you scream his name as he made you cum over and over again?
His hand shot out to grip the bedding, his fingers digging into a fabric much too soft to possibly be the military-supplied cloth. Your handkerchief. He’d completely forgotten about it. Without a second thought or a moment of hesitation, he snatched the small square of fabric and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head from the intensity of it all. The fantasy had just taken on a more real element now that he was able to smell the perfume you always wore.
It fully immersed him in the image of you riding his cock, your breasts bouncing every time your hips met his. His hands squeezing your hips, guiding your movements. Your tight cunt fluttering around him as he thrusted upwards from beneath you. He gave in to the unbearable need to quicken his hand, his orgasm so close he could practically taste it. He was panting heavily into the cloth still held over his face, the tight grip on his cock as unforgiving as he imagined your pretty pussy would be. With one last pump, he unraveled, his sticky cum splattering over his bare abdomen and the hand over his face pressing tighter, a pitiful attempt to muffle the obscene noises he couldn’t quite hold in, only succeeding in pushing your sweet floral scent further into his nose. It was all too much, and he all but whimpered into the palm of his hand, still riding out his high.
When he was finally thinking clearly, albeit still out of breath, he couldn’t help but wonder if you had ever indulged yourself to thoughts of him in the same manner. Even so, there was still a part of him that felt bad for sullying the letters, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, only thinking about the day you would be his again, in the flesh and not just his imagination.
He’d only barely gotten himself cleaned up and presentable when he heard his name being called from outside the tent.
He ducked through the flap, seeing a young soldier waiting anxiously. As soon as he saw that Sylus had exited, he straightened his spine and nearly shouted the message he had been sent to deliver. “There’s an invasion at the border! You and your troops have been ordered to move out!”
Sylus nodded. “Understood.” He hated taking orders, but it was a necessary evil for his end goal. And this was the perfect opportunity to see if Caleb’s words had any truth to them. He just had to follow through and ensure he earned glory for himself.
------------
Easier said than done, Sylus thought bitterly as he wiped the long-dried blood from his armor. It had been a difficult battle, but one that would hopefully award him with bountiful military prestige.
“Man, you’ve looked better,” said a joking voice off to Sylus’s right. He turned to see Caleb, who certainly had no room to talk, and Sylus told him as much.
“Fine, I guess you don’t want to hear that we’ve been summoned to the palace. And that the emperor himself is requesting an audience with the two captains that earned him victory. But whatever. I’ll let him know you can’t make it.” Caleb shrugged, making to walk away.
“Come back here,” Sylus called after him. Caleb turned to look at him, an amused grin on his handsome face. “Are you serious?”
“Yup,” he answered, popping the p.
Sylus immediately retreated into his thoughts, dirty armor completely forgotten where it lay in his lap. Caleb could see that his friend was no longer paying him any attention. As much as he poked fun at Sylus for his infatuation, there was a part of Caleb that was jealous. He longed to have that sort of relationship, where you would do anything for the other person. It seemed like everyone around him had a lover. Even the medic had a girl of his own (though Caleb wasn’t supposed to know that). She had done an impressive job of disguising herself as a man. He didn’t know her motivations to go to such lengths just to be on a battlefield, of all places, but he figured he’d find out sooner or later. In the meantime, he was waiting on Dr. Zayne to finally notice that his dear little apprentice wasn’t just an effeminate man.
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When the day came, and both Sylus and Caleb were standing before the emperor, you would never know from appearances that Sylus was equal parts nervous and excited.
“You have both proven yourselves more than worthy of advancement. Captain Xia, you will assume the rank of colonel. And Captain Qin, you will assume the rank of general, for your instrumental role in subduing the invaders and in keeping the peace in our great nation’s southern regions. I would like to reward each of you with a gift, as acknowledgement for your great deeds. Other than just the extra responsibility of your new positions!” The emperor chuckled heartily at his own joke.
Caleb was right. A reward for military valor. Maybe all of this strife and bloodshed would finally be worth it.
“Well, boys? Any requests? It’s not everyday you get to personally ask for something from me. Land? Money? A title?” He looked at them expectantly.
Caleb answered first. “Money. I’m not sure about anything in particular, but when I figure it out I’ll already have the funds on hand.
The emperor nodded, accepting the request.
When it was Sylus’ turn, he spoke smoothly and confidently. “There is a woman amongst your harem that I would like returned to me.”
The emperor was shocked at first, entirely taken back that someone had made such a bold request of him. His shock faded into incredulousness and then to mirth. It was laughable. He guffawed, but Sylus’ determined expression did not waver. This was not a joke.
“My dear boy, I am the only one permitted to pick the flowers of my garden. Their scent and petals are for my enjoyment alone.”
Sylus wasn’t stupid. He got the innuendo and he was absolutely seething. Even if you were still untouched by this man’s disgusting hands, you were still at his mercy in the palace. He had to choke back a snarl.
The emperor’s cocky grin dropped momentarily, the phrasing of the request only just now registering. “You said ‘returned’ to you. Elaborate.”
Sylus swallowed thickly. “There is a girl here that I have known since my youth. We were betrothed to each other, only months from marriage, when she was called to the selection process here at the palace. She never returned.”
The emperor nodded with faux sympathy, but he was all too eager to again inform his new general that, no, none of his girls would be leaving the palace grounds. A muscle in Sylus’ jaw twitched, but he gave no other indication of the rage and anguish he felt. He saw Caleb glance at him from his peripherals, his friend’s face practically screaming “don't you dare lose control.”
“So, again, I ask you, is there anything else I can reward you with? I’m nothing if not generous, even if I’m not quite as generous as you had been hoping.”
Sylus pursed his lips in thought. “The reason the people of the South are causing the empire so much trouble is because they're desperate. Could I use my favor on their behalf? To have food sent to the villages?”
For a second time in just a few minutes, the emperor was well and truly shocked. Most of the requests he’d received were about money or a title. Never this. There was no room for a bleeding heart in his military. Especially not one coveting after something that didn't belong to him. He exhaled heavily from his nose, at least pretending to think about it.
“Rice to the south. Done.” Those fools didn't deserve so much as a second of consideration as far as the emperor was concerned, but it was clear that Sylus wasn’t going to waver in his ideals.
It wasn’t as though he had to specify how much rice, anyway.
“Well, that was unproductive,” Caleb remarked as they were being escorted to the gate that would lead them back into the city. “For you, anyway. Why didn't you just ask for land or something? You know there’s no way he’s going to follow through on what you asked, right?”
“He declined the only thing I wanted from him. Nothing I asked for could make up for it,” Sylus answered. His posture was rigid and his jaw was clenched. Everything about him screamed frustration. Why Caleb even bothered trying to talk to him in this state was beyond him. Sylus fumed the entire journey back to camp, and for days after. He was harsher with his subordinates than he ever had been, not tolerating even a single infraction.
Caleb could see the impending snap in his friend’s reasoning abilities creeping closer by the day, and the thing that finally broke him was another letter that Sylus received from you. The emperor was having the eunuchs question all of the women of the palace—concubines of all ranks, servant girls, and court ladies—if any of them had been engaged to a man named Sylus Qin. He was looking for you. That greedy bastard was actively trying to find the most cherished love of his general. And Sylus wouldn’t stand for it. With both his and Caleb’s promotion, they had each been allotted a much larger battalion. And, unfortunately for the emperor, it’s not hard to radicalize men who see firsthand the suffering caused by the man they're supposed to be loyal to. Also unfortunately for the emperor, he was so dead set on making an example of the South that the ratio of soldiers was skewed in Sylus’ favor.
Additionally, the villages he had been to were eager for a chance to show the emperor just how much of an error he made in abandoning his people. With such influence and ability, it wasn’t shocking when Sylus had a detailed plan put together and delivered to the men within the same week of receiving your letter. The twins had made sure to give Sylus their own updates when you were unable, informing him that you had denied knowing him and that the emperor was losing his patience more easily these days. It seemed it was really getting under his skin.
If only such effort had been given to the people he was supposed to care for.
The weeks passed quickly, and, once again, Sylus found his armor covered in the blood of others. Screams rang out through the city, and he hoped it was from soldiers that were stationed here in the capital still upholding their sworn duty and not from the innocent civilians. Either way, he didn't have time to dwell on it. There was only one person he cared for at this moment; the person he was committing treason for in the first place and who kept him up at night well into the early hours of the morning.
Caleb, who he had lost track of early in the chaos, sidled up next to him. “There you are. Was starting to think you were worm food. The city is pretty much occupied, and they just got the palace gates open. Ready to head that way?”
Sylus nodded grimly, following his friend to the imposing structure that had been your beautiful prison. But not for much longer.
------------
Maids and eunuchs were rushing to and fro all around you, screams emanating from the surrounding city, but no one would take the time to tell you what was going on. You were near hysterical at this point, scared beyond anything you had ever experienced. You didn't know what was happening, but you knew something was wrong. So terribly wrong.
“Y/n!” You heard your name yelled from behind you. You whirled around, finding Xinyue in the doorway looking every bit as frightened as you felt. You embraced tightly, relieved to see the other unharmed.
“What’s happening, what do we do?” you asked frantically.
“I don’t know! I heard one of the eunuchs say something about the army, so whatever it is is already being handled.” She tugged your arm. “C’mon, we shouldn’t stay out in the open like this.” She was right. The entire way back to her quarters all either of you saw was panicking staff and other concubines. No one seemed to truly know what had started all this. When you reached her room, she made sure to lock the door behind you both. You could still hear the shouts of people in the halls, but were only able to catch snippets. From what you gathered, the army wasn't here to help like Xinyue had assumed, but rather, they were the ones invading in the first place. And from the sounds of it, had already made it to the inner court.
------------
“Inform the eunuchs that if they stand down they will not be harmed. And I want every single concubine gathered here in the inner courtyard,” Sylus commanded the first soldier he happened to lay eyes on. “Unharmed!” He added.
“Yes, sir,” responded the soldier with widened eyes, clearly downright terrified to be addressed by the imposing general.
Sylus and Caleb stood side by side, looking up at the emperor’s personal palace. As desperately as Sylus wanted to look for you himself, the emperor was still breathing, and that was a problem that needed to be dealt with swiftly.
“Want me to go with you or look for Yn?” Caleb asked, not particularly bothered with what he was tasked to do so long as he wasn't standing around doing nothing.
Sylus thought about it for a moment. “Find her. And if you see some identical eunuchs, send them my way,” he answered.
Caleb obviously had no idea who Sylus could possibly be talking about. Twin eunuchs? How does Sylus even know any of the palace eunuchs? But whatever. It wasn’t really his concern anyhow. He briefly watched the broad back of his friend ascend the stairs before redirecting his attention to his surroundings. There were pavilions in all directions. Had to start somewhere, he guessed, before picking the left side.
All around him, Caleb saw cornered eunuchs cooperating with the soldiers and helping escort the women to the courtyard. Still, no sign of you. Room after room after empty room.
“Miss Yn, Miss Yn!” He heard someone calling. His head jerked to where he heard your name. It wasn't just one eunuch. It was two. And they looked exactly the same. What luck.
“Hey! You two!”
They both screeched to a halt. “What!” Shouted one of them.
“Who are you?” Shouted the other.
“I’m Colonel Caleb with the imperial army and a personal friend of Sylus Qin. He asked me to look for two identical eunuchs. I’m guessing that's you two?
They looked much less wary now that Caleb had introduced himself as a friend of Sylus’. “Yeah, why? We really have to look for someone, so we gotta keep moving.”
“Yn, right? Sylus already asked me to do that. He wants you both to meet him in the emperor’s personal palace.”
They looked at each other and nodded, about to run off again before Caleb stopped them for a second time. “Wait! Where might I find her?”
“Well,” started one of them, “you were actually going in the right direction towards her room, but we already checked and she wasn't in there.” Caleb frowned at that. “So we were going to see Lady Xinyue, since she and Miss Yn are close.” They quickly explained to Caleb how to get there before both parties set off to fulfill their orders.
Caleb ran at full speed towards where he hoped to find you, but when he reached the room, the doors were already wide open and the room devoid of any presence. He swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair while glancing around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. He hoped at least some other soldier had found you and taken you to the courtyard as had been ordered. Otherwise it would take their full numbers to search the whole palace, massive as it is.
------------
Sylus couldn't believe that the sniveling man in front of him was the man who ran the entire country. After discovering the emperor holed up in his bedchambers, Sylus had Luke and Kieran restrain the poor excuse of a sovereign to a chair that likely cost more than what the average citizen made in a year.
“I made you a general, and this is how you repay me? Treason? What more do you want?”
Sylus leaned down, close enough for the emperor to see the pure unadulterated hatred swimming in Sylus’ ruby eyes. “I want my bride,” he growled, the sharp edge in his voice leaving no room for doubt that he was entirely serious.
The emperor blanched. “You spilled all of this blood, defied heaven, for a woman?” He exclaimed incredulously.
Without answering, Sylus straightened his back and strode out of the room, leaving the emperor where he was in the meantime. “Luke, Kieran. Stay with him.”
“Right, boss!”
Standing just outside the doors, Sylus could see the women of the palace gathered as he had instructed. Hell, even the eunuchs were accounted for. He made his way down the stairs quickly, all the while scanning through the crowd of immaculately dressed women, about one hundred in all, for one face in particular. His frustration and anxiety grew when he realized he probably couldn't even make out his own mother’s face at this distance, so he switched tactics. Now looking for Caleb’s imposing frame which would surely stand out in a crowd, he figured you’d be sticking by a familiar presence that you knew to be safe. By the time he made it to the bottom of the staircase, he still hadn't found you nor Caleb.
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You had been with Xinyue in her room when someone forced the door open. It was a soldier you didn't recognize.
“I need you two to come with me. All of the women are to be gathered in the courtyard by order of the general,” he demanded. You and Xinyue glanced at each other worriedly, but ultimately rose from your cowered positions, grasping each other’s hand for comfort. The soldier, for whatever it was worth, held the door open and gestured for the both of you to exit first.
He guided you towards the center of the inner court, where you saw many of the other women already gathered. He directed both you and Xinyue to join them. Still, no one had bothered to clarify the situation. All you knew was that the army was acting against the empire. The ladies around you were of even less help, unable to offer a modicum of new information.
“Look!” Xinyue whispered. “Someone is coming downstairs!”
You glanced at the staircase, seeing a tall figure descend the steps just as Xinyue had said. But what caught your attention was the silver hair that framed his face. His eyes were scanning the gathered crowd, but they didn't seem to linger anywhere in particular. Your breath caught in your throat. Could it actually be him? As he got closer and closer, still not stopping his obsessive search, his features grew clearer. There was no mistaking him.
He had only barely stepped off the last step when he heard it.
“Sylus!”
And there you were. Running towards him every bit as desperate to be in his arms as he was to have you there.
It felt like his heart and his breath stopped at the exact moment he saw your lovely face for the first time in what felt like millenia. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. But the second you threw your arms around his neck it felt like every broken piece of himself had never been broken in the first place. Without a second’s hesitation or thought, he wrapped one arm around your waist and placed his other hand on your upper back, pulling you into his sturdy frame as much as he could without hurting you.
There was no word for the euphoria you felt at being back in your lover’s arms, no word that could adequately describe the rush of emotions you were currently experiencing. “You came,” you sobbed into his chest.
“Darling, there is no force on this earth that could have even hoped to stand in my way,” he murmured solemnly, lips brushing against the top of your head.
He didn't even consider loosening his firm hold on you until you were pulling away to look up at him, eyes watery and ringed with a puffy red. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words quickly died in your throat. You had so many questions that you didn't even know where to start. Eventually, you settled on simply asking, “How?”
Sylus exhaled through his nose. It was now his turn to be unsure just where to start his tale. “The current emperor is unfit to rule, and these men bore witness to the proof. They were easily convinced. Will that satisfy you for now? I promise to answer every question you have for me, but right now I would like you to come with me.”
The last thing you expected to see when you walked into the room after Sylus was the emperor restrained to a chair with Luke and Kieran flanking either side of him.
“Sylus?” You started hesitantly, unsure what to make of the scene.
When the emperor saw who it was his oh-so-loyal general had brought with him, he couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of him. He recognized you as the pretty young thing his favored Xinyue often spent time with. A shame your other qualities weren't up to his standards.
“I recognize you. You're Xinyue’s friend,” he said, addressing you directly and opting to ignore his captor for the time being. He watched with narrowed eyes as Sylus stood directly behind you, arms winding around your waist, but continued speaking without commenting on it. “Yn, right?”
You swallowed thickly. Not trusting your voice, you only nodded.
“How does it feel,” began Sylus, the rumble of his voice sending vibrations through where his chest connected with your back. “To watch helplessly while I take what you consider yours?” His hands massaged your waist with sensual strokes as he spoke.
The emperor finally looked at Sylus, a deep scowl disfiguring his already relatively unpleasant face. “Arrogant, aren't you? You ought to know your place.”
“And you ought to know when to hold your tongue,” Sylus responded smoothly. He motioned to Kieran, who was already two steps ahead of Sylus with a strip of cloth in hand, wrapping it around the emperor’s jaw, forcing him to bite down on it. Satisfied, Sylus looked between the twins and the door. They took the hint, leaving you with Sylus and the still-struggling emperor.
When the door was again firmly shut after the twins’ exit, Sylus had to practically pry himself away from you so that he could maneuver you to face him. He exhaled softly when his eyes met yours, wide with uncertainty, but trusting him fully nonetheless.
He cupped one side of your face, his large hand cradling your cheek as he stroked your cheekbone with his thumb. “Are you ok?” He asked. It was a vague question that held a thousand more. He knew that this was a lot to take in, especially over the course of just a few hours.
You laid your own hand on top of his, nuzzling your cheek further into his palm. “I’m fine,” you answered, smiling softly. “Just really happy you’re here.” Sylus mirrored your smile with one of his own, his gaze glancing between your eyes and your lips. With slow, bated breath, he leaned in slowly. It was just a small peck, hardly even a kiss, but he hadn't even fully pulled away when he dove in for more, and you eagerly reciprocated. His lips were all that you knew in that moment—all that you could focus on—and nothing else mattered.
His arms again wound tightly around you, pulling you in close while he devoured your lips as though they were a fine delicacy he’d been deprived of his whole life. It wasn’t enough for Sylus, though. He needed more. He needed everything you were willing to give. His mouth trailed lines of fire down your jaw and neck until he reached a spot that had you gasping. He redoubled his attention to it, biting and sucking and leaving his claim on you for all to see.
“Sy,” you whined, the sensation of his tongue on your throat sending heat directly to your core. He hummed, but he didn't stop, not until you couldn’t speak again, unable to form a coherent thought.
He finally pulled away to look at your face. “Have you already had enough, kitten?” he asked mockingly. “Or is it that you need more?”
You answered without hesitation. “More. Please.”
He chuckled. “As my princess wishes.” Without any warning, he picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he plopped you onto the emperor’s extravagant bed. You were the very picture of perfection to Sylus, your legs spread just for him and your shallow breaths bordering on needy whines.
He leaned in, recapturing your lips with his. He swiped his tongue across the seam, urging you to open up for him. He groaned into your mouth when you did, tongues tangling together. He slid a hand across your front, settling on your breast and squeezing gently.
You pushed your hips up, hoping to relieve the ache that had quickly settled into your body. He tutted, pulling away from your lips once again and placing a hand on your hips, keeping you firmly in place. “Patience is a virtue,” he said, a teasing smirk that showed you just how much he enjoyed teasing you.
“We’ve been apart for so long I don't have any patience or restraint left,” you said shamelessly, taking it upon yourself to pull him back down, crashing your lips back onto his. He laughed into the kiss, eagerly reciprocating. As much as he enjoyed teasing you, he was no less desperate. This time, he hooked his fingers into your clothes. “Let’s remove these then, shall we?” He whispered against your skin, already pulling the layers of fabric away from your body to reveal your skin to his hungry eyes. He drank in the sight, marveling at every curve and committing it to memory.
“You're so perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than directly to you.
You tugged on the armor he still donned. “This is hardly fair,” you stated. “That I’m the only one naked.”
He chuckled. “You're right, so why don't I fix that?” He climbed from the bed and stripped himself of both armor and undergarments before resuming his position on top of you. “Better?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
You didn't even hear him, too busy admiring the physique he had surely worked hard on. Your gaze trailed from his solid shoulders to his defined chest and abs, and then it drifted even further to see his hard cock, swollen and dripping with precum.
“It’s rude to stare, you know. But if it’s you I guess I’ll make an exception.”
Before you could retort, his head swept downwards, his lips wrapping around your nipple and his tongue swirling around the bud, sucking lightly. Whatever you were going to say died in your throat, an unbidden moan escaping in its place. You felt the huff he exhaled from his nose, but he remained intent on his ministrations, using his other hand to give the same treatment to the other bud, tweaking it between his thumb and forefinger. You wound your hand through his silky hair, crying out his name and pulling him closer. Your heavy breathing and soft moans spurred him on as he switched sides, his teeth occasionally grazing the delicate skin in his fervor. Your poor, neglected cunt twitched desperately around nothing, aching to be filled. You clenched your thighs together, a pitiful attempt to produce even a little friction, a little relief.
With a soft pop, Sylus released your nipple, blowing cool air onto the wet skin. You shuddered, a soft sigh passing through your kiss-swollen lips. He began to trail open mouthed kisses down your torso, slowly, methodically, savoring the taste of your skin. Only when his head was snugly between your thighs did he look up at you, crimson eyes boring into yours. “Is this okay? Can I keep going?”
You didn't even think twice before giving him an eager nod of approval. A chaste kiss to your dripping folds was all the warning you were given before Sylus dropped all pretense of having any self control. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, gripping them tightly and preventing you from even attempting to close your legs. He licked a broad stripe from your clenching hole to your clit, which he eagerly laved in attention.
“Sy!” you squealed, writhing with pleasure in his iron hold, unable to move away from the overwhelming ecstasy. He moaned into your hot cunt, the vibrations adding to the stimulation. He released one of your legs to push a finger into you, curling the digit and providing the delicious friction you had been craving. He grew more and more fervent in his ministrations, his own hips grinding onto the bed. “Cum for me,” he growled, voice muffled from between your legs as he added another finger. “Give me everything.” With every lap and suck of his tongue and with every curl of his fingers you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. You were panting for air, nearly coming apart at the seams as Sylus brought you right to heaven’s doorstep with just his sinful mouth and hand. WIth a final suck on your clit, you were pushed over the edge, your vision going white as you called his name.
Sylus pulled his fingers out slowly and repositioned himself on top of you. He pressed his fingers to your lips, urging you to part them. You obliged, taking them into your mouth and sucking your own juices off of his fingers as you watched him slowly lick his bottom lip. Satisfied, he freed his fingers from your mouth, using the same hand to slowly stroke his cock. He teased your entrance with the head, muttering a small curse under his breath when he finally pushed forwards. The burn of the stretch was almost completely overshadowed by the sheer euphoria he was making you feel. He filled you so fully you could practically feel him in your throat.
He groaned as soon as his hips were flush with yours, his cock fully sheathed inside you. “You feel so fucking good, sweetie,” he rasped, trying to get ahold of himself to allow you however much time you needed to adjust to his size, but that was easier said than done. The walls of your pussy were clamping down on him and he hadn't even started moving yet. At this rate, he would cum before he got the chance to feel your sweet cunt spasm around him as he brought you to another orgasm.
He mouthed at your neck and collarbones as he waited for any indication from you that you were ready for more. The very second that your plea hit his ears, he was pulling out almost completely just to thrust back into you all at once. You gasped, raking your nails down his back.
He set a brutal pace and you were certain he’d have scratch marks down his muscled back, not that he cared. As far as Sylus was concerned, those scratches marked him as yours. The way you said his name like a mantra spurred him on further, and he found himself reaching down to thumb your clit.
“Wait, Sy—ah—it’s too much—!” You wailed, tears beginning to well up in the corners of your eyes from the intense pleasure.
“You can take it. I know you can, so be a good girl and cum on my cock.” His voice was strained, arousal making it hard to even think straight, much less speak.
Your back was arching off the bed, your peak so close you felt like you might shatter at any moment. “You're so pretty,” Sylus panted from above you. “Even prettier when you're underneath me like this.” If his face and stuttering hips were any indication, he was just as close as you were. And you were just as enamoured with him as he was with you. His silky silver hair was unkempt, lips parted and gasping for air with each thrust into your sopping cunt.
When it finally hit you, all you could manage to do was cry out his name, your poor abused cunny spasming around his hard length. Your own pleasure was all it took for Sylus’ to overtake him. He buried himself to the hilt, hands gripping your hips with a bruising strength, holding you in place as he filled you with hot spurts of cum.
Spent, he collapsed on top of you, head nestled on your breasts and the both of you still breathing heavily. From over his shoulder, you could see the emperor seething from where he was still restrained in the chair. You noticed with wicked amusement that, as angry as he was, he was still aroused, the tent in his robes giving him away.
“What’s so funny?” Asked Sylus, tilting his head to look up at you.
“Nothing,” you answered lightly.
“I don't believe that for one second,” he mumbled into your skin. “Just as long as it’s not me you're laughing at.” He pushed himself up to pull out of you slowly, his cum dripping from your slit. He stared for a beat too long, captivated at the sight of himself leaking out of you. Giving no mind to the mess, he pulled you into his arms, your back flush to his chest, safe against him like it should have always been. As he situated himself, he briefly glanced at the emperor, noticing exactly what had probably amused you so much. He laughed. A real, true laugh. “That’s pathetic,” he scoffed.
Your lover settled behind you, stroking your skin gently. As much as he wanted to fall asleep with you, there were many things to be handled before he could relax. The highest priority of which was right there in the room with the two of you.
------------
When you woke, you were still warm and snug in your husband’s arms. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest from behind you. Still asleep. You knew firsthand how seriously he took his responsibilities as emperor, staying up well into the night pouring over documents and ensuring his people were taken care of. Not wanting to disturb his much-needed rest, you intended to go back to sleep, but a certain little one had other plans. You rested a hand on top of your rounded belly, the kicks more persistent than usual. Sylus, the light sleeper that he was, must have noticed your stirring.
“Good morning,” he mumbled, voice groggy with sleep and more gravelly than usual.
You turned slightly to look at him and raised a hand to his cheek. You didn’t think you'd ever get used to the sight of his handsome face first thing in the morning. “Morning,” you responded with a broad grin. You took his hand in yours, placing it where yours had been just moments prior. “Little one is active this morning,” you said. Sylus chuckled when he felt it under his palms, his eyes softer than even the finest of silks.
In true sibling fashion, you couldn’t give just one your attention. You heard the little patter of bare feet seconds before the bedroom door was pushed open, your 3 year old daughter rushing into the room. Mama! Papa!” She giggled, pulling herself up the foot of the bed.
“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” said Sylus, sitting up to pull her onto his lap. You sat up as well, leaning over as best you could to kiss her chubby little cheek.
It was a peaceful morning, spent mostly sitting in bed and entertaining your daughter. But duty will always call, and Sylus eventually had to leave to meet with his advisors. They were a tedious affair, especially since Caleb no longer attended. He had chosen to remain in the military and had since been given another assignment. Most of the time, the advisors didn’t dare question Sylus’ choices, but it seemed that today one of them had a death wish.
“There is still the matter of heirs. Have you considered reinstating the imperial harem, Your Majesty?” One of them asked timidly.
The glare Sylus fixed upon him was almost enough to convince him to resign his position right then and there just to escape the red eyes that promised unimaginable pain if he failed to tread lightly.
“And why would I do such a thing?” Sylus asked coldly. “Is Her Majesty the Empress not good enough for you?”
“No! No, of course that’s not what I meant! I just—” he faltered under the stare of not just Sylus but the two intimidating masked men that stood on either side of his chair.
“You just what?” Pressed Sylus, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“Well, Her Majesty has only provided you with a daughter, so there is concern for the security of the lineage.”
Sylus snarled at the careless comment. “I have no intention of ever bedding a woman that isn’t my wife. Who, since you’re clearly so concerned about it, is carrying our second child. And if you ever speak about my wife or daughter like that ever again, I’ll have your head, do you understand?”
The color drained from the advisor’s face. He nodded, but didn’t dare risk speaking again.
“Good. Then we’re done here.”
With that, Sylus rose from his seat to leave the room, eager to return to the beautiful family he had worked so hard to finally have.
a young man returns to a small town he hasn't seen in years, and a house he hasn't lived in since before the last president was born, only to find that a stray cat has given birth to kittens in his closet.
pairing: vampire!jk x nerdy f veterinarian!reader (with a special interest in the science and biology aspect of the supernatural lol)
genre: sorta scifi-ish, fluff, minor angst, some smut later on
“Ground beef…” you mumble to yourself, lowering the wrinkled shopping list.
Despite possibly claiming otherwise, Yoongi really enjoys taco nights, and considering how he covered a shift of yours last week, tomorrow’s get-together menu was an easy choice. Namjoon will survive; he can fix steak next time.
Walking through the aisles, you drop a pack of canned corn into your basket as you pass them on your way to the meat section. Should you get both hard taco shells and tortilla bread? Although satisfyingly crunchy, you always manage to shatter the shells and dump out the contents. If you’re lucky, they’re saved by the plate, if not… Yeah, you’ll get both kinds.
Seeing as this particular store is only your third pick when it comes to grocery shopping, and you’re not here all that often, you try to recall where exactly the beef is. As you think back to the last time you visited, your eyes land on something in the aisle opposite you.
Two seconds later, you realize that you recognize the tall, dark-haired man you’re watching.
Jeongguk.
He’s wearing all black: a regular but rather thin-looking black jacket, unzipped over a black t-shirt, and paired with black jeans on the looser side. The sign above him reads Pet Food, and while you don’t make it a habit to engage in conversation with clients you meet in the wild unless they initiate it, you’re already moving.
You bite your lip, a little hesitant whether you really should or not, but considering how he’s holding two different cans of cat food, seemingly comparing their contents, you might be of help.
“Hey,” you greet, smiling.
His eyes widen slightly when he turns his head and sees you.
“Oh. Hey,” he repeats, smiling too. “This is an okay food to give a nursing cat, right?”
You look at the can he’s holding up for you, nodding encouragingly. “Yeah, that’s good. The shelter and fosters we work with use that for nursing cats. Wet, calorie-dense, and usually well-liked.”
“Great, those are the ones she’s been liking,” he nods, and then he starts putting the cans into his basket on the floor, one by one until he has at least ten in there. “Can I ask why the food has to be wet? Cause dogs can thrive on… kibble, right?”
“Do you want the short or long answer?” you smile, almost apologetically.
He straightens up, considering. “You know what, give me the long answer.”
You grin, trying to not be too nerdy and still keep it relatively short. “Okay, so, there are biological differences. Dogs, like us, are omnivores, so they can eat all kinds of food groups like meat, vegetables, grains… all that. However, cats are obligate carnivores. It means that they need to eat meat and only meat, really. Theoretically, a dog could do well on a vegetarian diet as long as it’s balanced, but a vegetarian cat would die since they can’t create certain amino acids from things other than meat.”
He listens intently as you explain what you think all cat owners in an ideal world should know.
“Cats also can’t metabolize carbs very well, and their natural diet is very low in carbs anyway—something like a mouse contains roughly one percent of it. But carbs are what make it possible to even create the small, dry balls of kibble to begin with. Look at this,” you point to the closest bag on the shelf, the white cat on it fluffy and licking its mouth.
“Thirty-one percent carbs.”
Jeongguk looks deep in thought. “But then… How come there are so many types of kibble? And shouldn’t cats just… drop dead everywhere? Cause I’m assuming a lot are fed kibble.”
“They usually end up with a subsequent illness rather than just dying directly. Seeing as they have very low levels of liver enzymes that metabolize carbs, and their blood glucose regulation isn’t advanced enough to deal with the ups and downs that higher percentages of carbs bring, feeding dry food is one of the top risk factors for things like feline diabetes. As for why there’s still kibble being sold… Human convenience.”
He looks at the seemingly infinite options of kibble, taking in what you just explained. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. But there’s only so much one can do besides try to educate,” you shrug with a sad smile before nodding toward the canned food in his basket. “But you’ve got a good pick there.”
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice suddenly says, gently squeezing past you to reach for a can on the shelf in front of you.
“Oh,” you say, moving out of her way, “Sorry.”
She’s middle-aged and focused on the item she’s grabbing, but when she straightens up with it in hand, her eyes land on Jeongguk. Seeing him casually watching her, she takes a startled step back.
You look on as she hurries off, and when you lift your head to meet Jeongguk's eyes, he appears unfazed.
“Uh…” you start, trying to recall what you were going to ask. “So, how are they doing?”
Reminded of the kittens, Jeongguk smiles widely. It’s been a little more than a week, and considering he didn’t reach out again, you assumed they were alright.
“Pretty good, I think,” he says, picking up his basket. When he starts to walk, you follow along, not thinking too much about it. “I think I’m doing alright since she’s gaining weight.”
“That’s good to hear. Have you thought about after?”
“After?”
“Yeah, when they’re big enough to leave. Or are you keeping them all?”
You won’t deny that you find the image of Jeongguk as a permanent cat dad of four siblings and their mother absolutely endearing.
“Oh. No, I travel a lot, better they have other homes.”
“Mother cat, too?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking almost apologetic.
“That’s fine,” you reassure. It really is; no shame in realizing your limitations, whether you don’t want to or simply can’t provide the life a pet deserves. “I can let the shelter know if you want. They’ll interview people and have homes lined up when the kittens are ready to leave their mother.”
“That would be perfect. Thank you. What should I do with her then?”
“The mother? We’ll take her too. Have her spayed and in a home of her own.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“You’re the one hand-raising stray kittens,” you shrug, trying to keep yourself from beaming at him. It’s just so nice, what he’s doing.
“It’s honestly been kind of fun,” he smiles, almost reminiscently. “Definitely a new experience.”
“I can imagine.”
Going from not having any experience with animals in general to suddenly being a dad to four fresh kittens must’ve been quite an adjustment.
“Yeah. Anyway, I need to get going,” he says, stopping and turning toward you. “Thanks for the help. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
Although you’ve been in love, you never really understood the phrase ‘get lost in someone’s eyes’ until now. You’re not in love—maybe a bit endeared and… attracted—but you get it. Jeongguk’s eyes are so dark and so mesmerizing when he looks down at you in the middle of the grocery store, like it’s just him and you. You’ve never really seen anything like him before.
“Sure, no problem,” you say, warmth blooming in your chest.
Doing what you do is purely for the animals’ sake—appreciation is not the point nor a priority, but it’s a nice feeling regardless. Though you hope Jeongguk won’t have another reason to see you professionally, you may admit that you wouldn’t mind running into him in the wild again.
He leaves with a last greeting, and you stay behind, basket still mostly empty in your hand. Confounded, you look on for as long as you can before he’ll eventually disappear out of view. A woman walks past him, doing an obvious double take from over her shoulder. And it’s not just her or the middle-aged woman from before, either. There’s something… subtle yet odd about how people move around him.
Jengguk is tall, visibly fit, and has a soft aura of confidence surrounding him besides being handsome. It’s not weird that he’d gather attention, looking like Adonis himself, but to this extent? People carefully glance his way, making sure to clear his path even though he doesn’t look like someone who would demand it.
Even the Gen X man—who you recognize just because he’s always in a rush and never looks where he’s going, resulting in him elbowing you on two different occasions—lifts his head from his phone to briefly inspect Jeongguk. It doesn’t even look like they know why they’re doing it. Despite appearing normal enough, It’s like he doesn’t belong in this little town of yours.
You’re still turning it over in your mind as you pay for your taco ingredients, thanking the cashier and telling her to toss the receipt.
Everything fits into one bag and, though it’s heavy, you manage to carry it out into the parking lot. But as you lift your head to look for your car, you spot someone else in the distance, and this time, it’s (unfortunately) not Jeongguk.
One of your old classmates is locking his expensive-looking car, parked farther away from the other cars most likely to prevent scratches. He’s alone, grinning wide when he spots you.
Not wanting to be rude—even though you know his grin isn’t friendly—you give him the smallest, most emotionless smile you can muster. It’s been ages since you saw him, but from what you can recall, he has family in the area. You pray he won’t stay long; hopefully returning to his overpaid veterinary surgeon position at one of the country’s flashier clinics instead.
Are you bitter? A little bit. You love your job at the small clinic, and you definitely have everything you need and more, but bad people shouldn’t be successful, and that’s a hill your karma-enthusiastic heart is willing to die on.
After closing the clinic one Friday evening, you hurry home to get ready for a night out with some of your colleagues. There’s always staff at the clinic when you have overnight patients, which isn’t always but most of the time, so to have a night when you and your closest coworkers are all free can’t be wasted.
Still, you’re on call, just in case anyone needs an emergency vet. There's a bigger clinic on the other side of town, but they don’t do home visits, so if someone’s cow breaks a leg, or a horse comes down with colic, you’ll drive out there and help. It’s only for real emergencies, and while some colics can be treated on-site with a tube, fluids, and meds, most of your late-night calls unfortunately end in emergency euthanasias. Sometimes, an ending is the kindest thing you can offer.
Being on call also means staying sober.
“They’re assholes,” Nayeon comments, rolling her eyes as Mingyu and Jeonghan pass behind her in the distance, having shot your table an amused nod.
“I know. I saw Joshua last week,” you mutter, following the tall man with your unimpressed eyes.
“Remember when he hit on Nayeon, though,” Yoongi says, smiling lazily before taking a sip of his beer.
His words have Namjoon grinning widely. “Yeah. Public humiliation really is the best punishment sometimes.”
“I didn’t even mean to humiliate him,” Nayeon shrugs. “He deserved it, though.”
“I just hope they’re not staying long,” you say, grimacing. “And why are so many of them here? Seeing one of them is enough of a bummer; I don’t need them all here at once.”
“Wait,” Yoongi says, looking your way with narrowed eyes, “What year did you graduate?”
You follow his line of thought.
“...You think they could be celebrating the five-year anniversary? Now? Like… months and months after the actual graduation date?”
Momo shrugs. “I guess it could take some time and planning to gather all successful surgeons and return to a shit hole like this.”
“A belated congratulations,” Namjoon raises his beer. “Your drinks are on me tonight.”
“She’s on call,” Nayeon chuckles, nodding toward your Pepsi Max on the rocks.
Namjoon gives a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Next time.”
Thinking of your former classmates holding a reunion leaves another bitter taste in your mouth. It’s not like you’d hoped to be invited when you don’t even like them, but… you don’t know. Maybe it’s a reminder of everything that went down and how you’re clearly not welcome in certain circles. But to be honest, a five-year reunion seems almost egotistical. At least wait for the ten-year, right?
Your sober eyes travel over your friends, all from the small, slightly run-down clinic.
Namjoon, a general veterinarian, is despite his impressive stature, a sweetheart. He’s black-haired, kind, funny, and a certified academic genius while being almost endearingly dumb street-wise.
He’s either so used to people looking at him with heart eyes—or he just doesn’t pick up on that kinda thing—because you will often have to point out that someone was very clearly flirting with him.
Nayeon is your ortho specialist. She’s a gorgeous woman with long, light auburn hair who, in contrast, always knows when someone is hitting on her. In addition, she’s sweet and incredibly smart, but sometimes a little clumsy when rejecting people, even though she definitely should be used to it by now. Luckily, Joshua deserved her very honest, surprised, and disappointed “Oh…” and the following “No, thank you.”
Just like you, Yoongi is a surgical specialist. He’s calm in most situations—in fact you don’t think you’ve ever even heard him raise his voice. Not much fazes him, which is a blessing when it comes to dealing with anxious pets and their often more anxious owners. To be quite honest, you even developed a bit of a crush on the dark-haired, cat-like man when you first started working at the clinic.
Next to Yoongi sits Momo, your vet tech who currently mostly works the reception. It hasn’t evaded you that all of your friends are suspiciously beautiful, and Momo is no exception. She’s got some of the most iconic black, wispy bangs that are always perfectly in place despite the fact that you’ve never seen her put in any effort to keep them there. Besides her effortless beauty, Momo’s also kind and hilarious and has a superhuman memory that rarely fails her. She can recall almost every single client, no matter if they walked through the doors or just called the clinic’s phone for advice.
They’re happy, each of them wearing that flushed, alcohol-pink glow as they laugh at something you missed. And even if some of your classmates landed higher salaries at fancier clinics, you wouldn’t trade your job or your friends for anything. At the end of the day, it’s not about who gets the opportunity to perform the most advanced, out-of-this-world surgery, but who can really make a difference for regular people and their animal companions.
“You can pay next time you’re on call,” you grin. “I promise I’ll get absolutely wasted.”
“Terms and conditions apply,” Namjoon replies in quick, monotone words. “The receiver can utilize the coupon for a maximum of three drinks, each an hour apart and with at least ten… no, fifteen centiliters of water ingested between them.”
Nayeon laughs, and you roll your eyes at his thorough disclaimer.
“Fine, I’ll abide by your rules,” you agree. “But there’s nothing in them that says I can’t order my own drinks in between.”
He goes to say something but stops himself. Narrowing his eyes, he finally says, “You’re highly educated; you should know better.”
You shrug and take a big gulp of your Pepsi. Namjoon turns to Momo, asking something about her uni classmates. Letting the music and happy voices drown the sound of your coworkers out, you look around the bar, eyes drifting to where you think Mingyu and Jeonghan were headed.
The bar is packed, more so than usual, even for a Friday night. Thinking about it, you realize that the University semester probably just started, and there are people—maybe even future colleagues—getting to know each other. Your gaze moves slowly over the people, inconspicuously scanning for those familiar faces. If they really are celebrating the five-year anniversary, you hope they do it quickly. Watching them one by one leave town after graduation was a relief, and you’d rather not have them linger.
But your eyes land on another familiar face; one you definitely didn’t expect to see.
Jeongguk.
He’s sitting at a table with a few others, seemingly having a good time. The smile he wears is wide but relaxed, just like his posture—leaned back, his legs spread comfortably. As you look him up and down, you note how your heartbeat increases ever so slightly. What can you say? Sitting there, comfortably confident and dressed in light blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt, he’s just so handsome. His hair looks slightly tousled, even from a distance, and it makes your fingers itch. And the way he grips the glass in front of him, his large, veiny hand bringing it to his mouth… You glance at your own glass, for a brief moment wondering if the bartender interpreted your order as a Rum and Pepsi.
Your eyes start to drift again, this time taking the time to analyze his company. There are four of them in total, one woman and two other men besides Jeongguk. And they’re all… incredibly attractive. They’re obviously having a good time, and judging by the sheer number of bottles and glasses crowding their table, you figure they must be part of a bigger group. Maybe some are downstairs, dancing?
One of the men says something that has the four of them laughing. He’s black-haired and dressed similarly to Jeongguk. In fact, the only one without black hair is the woman. She’s a light brunette whose hair looks like straight silk, her red, long-sleeved shirt complimenting her skin tone. You can’t see much of what else she’s wearing, as her lower half is obscured from view.
You wonder if maybe they're—
“Shit,” you curse, the glass you accidentally nudged wobbling around on the wooden tabletop. At the last second, you manage to steady it, narrowly preventing your Pepsi from coating the table and everyone’s lap.
“Easy,” Yoongi comments, to which you drop a big sigh.
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
While the conversations around you continue, you make sure to move your glass a few inches toward the center of the table, just to be safe. When Yoongi isn’t looking at you anymore, you can’t help it—you glance Jeongguk’s way again.
Apparently, he happens to look your way the exact same second, and your eyes meet. Judging by his slight surprise, you don’t think he witnessed you almost spill your drink everywhere, something you silently thank the gods for. With a warm smile, he gives you a casual nod. You smile back.
He then looks away, joining his friends’ conversation again.
You do the same, tuning in as Nayeon excitedly talks about a new surgical approach she’s seen her vet med mentor perform.
“So not just a total hip replacement?” Yoongi asks.
Nayeon shakes her head enthusiastically. “No, see, we all know that a THR can be the only or last option for a big dog, and that it’s a huge risk—not just because it’s such an extensive procedure, but because of how fragile they are post-op and during the extremely strict rest period. But if you instead go in and…”
With how unusually crowded it is—especially downstairs by the dance floor where you’re sure you can practically see the body heat fumes climbing upstairs—you fan your face with your hand.
Momo and Nayeon went to the bathroom downstairs a few minutes ago, but you don’t expect them to be finished within the next fifteen with how long the lines usually are.
“I’m gonna grab some air real quick.”
Namjoon looks up from his phone, currently waging a google battle against Yoongi regarding some sport statistics you have no idea about.
“Want me to come with?” he offers, though you know he’d rather stay.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He nods, accepting the re-filled glass of Pepsi you scoot his way for safekeeping, just in case.
While finding your way outside, you glance over to Jeongguk’s table, only to find it nearly empty. Only the woman and one of the men are still there, a bartender quietly collecting a portion of the empty glasses cluttering the table. You don’t see Jeongguk anywhere, but you don’t search for him either.
The night air feels refreshing against your skin. You’re wearing a long-sleeved but thin black shirt and some jeans, your fall jacket left inside.
A thin metal fence lines the sidewalk—probably to keep drunks from staggering into the very light traffic—and so you move past the smokers gathered by the entrance to find your spot alone, hands reaching out toward the cold, twisted top bar of black metal.
You don’t mind being sober, even if no one calls for your assistance. Frankly, you really hope no one does, not so much because it would bother you but because ideally, you don’t want anyone to need your help enough to call.
“We meet again.”
You lift your head, seeing Jeongguk coming to stand beside you. He’s not looking at you, but casually at the metal railing as he grips it in his hands.
“Small town, I guess,” you say with a smile that grows wider when he chuckles and looks at you.
Like most people here, his dark eyes are hazy. Yours would be the rare exception.
“How’s it going?” you ask, unable to tear your eyes from his face. He’s just so handsome. You're particularly stuck on his glabella; the area between his eyebrows that leads down to his nose. His bone structure alone would make anyone jealous.
“Do you mean with the kittens or just in general?” he grins.
“Both.”
“Well, the cats are all doing well. I’ve tried not naming them, but it’s not going that well. The smallest is called Mina, and she’s growing very fast now.”
“That’s good! They should be around… three weeks now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But you still don’t know their sex, do you? For the names?”
“No, that’s why I’ve tried naming them somewhat neutral names.”
“Let’s hear them then,” you encourage.
“I think there are three girls and one boy.”
“How come?”
“...Vibes.”
“Vibes?” you laugh. Despite being so big and (probably) strong, he’s oddly endearing.
“Yes. So there are Mina, Nyx, Angel, and Ruby.”
“Those aren’t gender neutral, though?”
“I said I tried.”
Another laugh escapes you. “Fair enough.”
“Yeah. And I’m doing good as well. How are you? You don’t drink?”
It’s the way he’s looking at you, head tilted curiously, that has you lowering your gaze momentarily. It’s much easier to not feel shy when you’re being at least partly professional and talking about the cats.
“I do, but I’m on call tonight. If there’s an emergency—mostly with horses or cattle—I have to drive out there and help.”
“Otherwise you’d be drunk like me?”
You look up, taking in his lazy grin. “Maybe?” you chuckle. “But now I’m just sober and boring.”
“I don’t find you boring,” he says, and although it’s casual, it’s also… sweet. A warmth spreads through your chest, and you try not to blush.
“So I didn't bore you to death with my fascination with the supernatural?”
“No. I find it fascinating too.”
“Really? What's your favorite mythical creature then? And why?”
He leans further against the railing, thinking for a second. “Can I say unicorn?”
You smile so wide your cheeks almost hurt. “You can, but that’s a cop-out.”
“Hmm, okay, well, vampires are cool and all, but… fairies?”
“Fairies?” You ask in disbelief, eyebrows raised at his peculiar answer.
“Yeah. The Tinkerbell type. Tiny creatures with wings and glitter. Cool but also kinda suspicious.”
Just then, you hear another familiar voice somewhere behind you, calling out to someone. You keep your head forward, hoping he won’t notice you among the others loitering nearby. They have to be celebrating, why else would they all be here?
He greets someone behind you, and when you hear them continue toward the entrance, you glance over your shoulder just to confirm. Yep. DK, yet another of your old classmates.
“If you plan on staying more than a few days, you should know that being seen with me is social suicide,” you warn Jeongguk once DK is out of earshot.
He looks around, but they’re already entering the bar, talking and laughing.
“Him?” he nods toward the back of their heads. “They’re idiots, you know that right?”
“Yeah…”
You do know that, but it doesn’t change the shame from creeping in whenever they’re near. Or when someone brings up your paper.
“If they bother you, tell me, okay?”
You raise your eyebrows. Sure, Jeongguk is built like a boxer, but you’re not sure what he thinks he could do? He’s one man—who you don’t know that well and who’s never around—vs a group of men. They’re not always present either, but evidently more so than him.
“No offence, ‘cause I appreciate it, but what could you do?” you ask, a little discouraged.
It’s not like anyone could clear your name in hindsight like this. If anything, the drama has subsided slowly over the last few years, and the best course of action is to just lie low and ignore them; they’ll hopefully leave soon enough anyway.
“I can do more than you think.”
It’s the way his voice drops lower that has you glancing up at him beside you. He’s already looking down at you, his black eyes searching for something.
Then, he seemingly settles on a decision. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”
“What?”
Though his gaze is still hazy and casual, he’s definitely determined. You follow him a few steps behind—puzzled as to what he wants to show you—as he heads back toward the bar’s entrance.
Most people you pass are wrapped up in their own conversations, so you re-enter the bar unnoticed. But it’s hard to keep up, and Jeongguk ends up waiting for you, watching with something unknown—but positive?—in his eyes.
“Here,” he says, gesturing for you to keep following him.
Without a chance to really question him, you keep following him, still confused. Even more so when he sets sights on the funky little cigarette vending machine, turning right around a corner you didn’t know existed and thought was just a wall in a dimly lit spot. When you catch up to him, a woman is just exiting through one of two doors in front of you, and Jeongguk catches it before it falls shut. You peek inside. A bathroom? You had no idea these existed; just like the majority of people, considering the long, long lines to the bathrooms downstairs.
“What is it? That you want to show me?”
It’s not that you don’t trust him—because, considering how short of a time you’ve “known” him, you do trust him a surprising amount. You’ve been to his house twice. Alone. Not once have you felt uncomfortable in that way around him, but what on earth could he want to show you that requires the two of you, alone in a bathroom? You know he’s not about to show you his dick.
Right?
“It’s something that’ll really interest you, I promise.”
Does that answer actually tell you anything? You look at him where he’s standing, holding the door to the tiny bathroom open and waiting for you to step inside.
“You won’t regret it,” he continues when he sees how he hasn’t won you over quite yet.
Well, you’re in a crowded place, and you think you know this man well enough to trust him. You nod. Surprisingly often, people will hear that you’re a veterinarian and use the free opportunity to show you their own rashes or lumps or ask a vague question about a relative’s medical conundrum. That seems more likely to be it, and you’ll just have to offer your opinion—even though you’re not a doctor—and recommend he visit a medical professional dealing with his kind—humans.
The bathroom really is tiny when you enter it a second behind Jeongguk. When the door shuts behind you, and he turns to face you, you're not even an arm’s length apart.
Whether or not you were nervous about following him in before, your heart starts to race when he reaches past you to lock the door. The music is still loud but slightly muffled inside the little room, and the ceiling light seems to be on its last leg, flickering fittingly and very worryingly above you. Does it make it better or worse to see Jeongguk smiling down at you?
“Give me your hand.”
You look at his outstretched hand. It’s big, angular, and veiny. Masculine. But you can still picture the way he holds the tiny kittens so gently.
Obeying his request, you lift your hand slowly. Taking you by surprise, he grasps your arm instead, just below your elbow, and then he makes sure to pull your sleeve up, exposing a few inches of your wrist. What is he doing?
Your eyes widen when he raises your arm, simultaneously lowering his face to your wrist. Keeping his nose a mere inch above your skin, he draws it along the length of your wrist, inhaling deeply.
You’re almost about to ask him if and why he’s smelling you, but there’s no time. Because right then, he straightens up—dropping your arm softly—and you watch his black eyes nearly roll back and his mouth open, canines growing like a viper about to strike. There’s a whole new intensity in his eyes when he looks at you again, exhaling that same deep breath like a starved animal having just sensed the smell of its prey.
You gotta get out.
Seeing your shaky hand reach for the lock behind you, he catches you just as you turn, pulling you back against his chest.
“Hold on, hold on,” he urges as you struggle against his grip, his voice rushed, but just hushed enough that any drunk people outside won’t notice. “I thought you wanted to see a vampire?”
“Let me go,” you say, your words desperate and more air than voice.
What terrifies you most is that despite using all your power to fight his grip, he’s not budging. Not even a fraction of an inch. You don’t know what else you’re going to say—or scream—but he’s got his hand over your mouth before you can even try anything. Of course, it only has you panicking harder.
“You can’t tell anyone, okay?” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just… calm down.”
Never has your heart pounded this hard in your chest, but since it’s evident that fighting him won’t get you anywhere, you try to take a deep breath through your nose.
You only have time for one more breath before there’s an insistent knock on the door. Maybe it catches him off guard, or he just changes his mind, because he eases up for a second.
Instinctively, you twist free from his now looser grip, quickly unlocking the door and swinging it open. A woman stands there, startled to see you rush out, teary-eyed.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks, her words slurred but her concern genuine. You nod and keep walking, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. As you leave—the loud music muffling your rushed steps—you hear a “What the fuck, man?” behind you.
Without looking back, you head straight for your table, desperately looking for Namjoon. He’s alone at the table, typing something into his phone while still safeguarding your drink.
“Here’s your—hey, what’s wrong?”
You don’t look him in the eyes, casually wiping away a tear that escaped as you reach for your Pepsi. The ice has melted.
“Nothing, but… uh, can we leave?”
You sense more than see how he takes in your appearance, clearly noticing that something’s off.
“Did someone do something to you?” he asks, already rising from his seat.
Namjoon’s not much of a fighter—even with his impressive build as a result from hours spent in the gym—but you don’t doubt he’d beat someone’s ass for you. Especially in his slightly drunken state, flushed cheeks and all.
You look at him. “No. Can we please just go?”
Surrendering, while still looking around as if hoping to catch sight of whoever offended you, he exhales softly. “Okay.”
Despite being drunk, Namjoon almost convinces you to tell him what happened the moment you've dropped the others off at their places. Almost. You admit, watching Nayeon head up the stairs to her building, that a guy bothered you, but nothing more. When asked if he touched you, you say no, and when Namjoon tries to make you describe him, you just say that he had dark hair and was of average height. You can’t pinpoint the reason why, but you know you don’t want to tell him that you know the man. And, of course, what actually happened.
What would you even say?
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author's note: i really hope you liked it!! and that maybe you'll tell me if you did cause i LIVE off validation 🤩❤️
Levi is used to being the one who looks out for others, so it always catches him off guard when you’re the protective one. He pretends he doesn’t need it, but the truth is he quietly appreciates the way you step in when people try to push him around or underestimate him. If someone makes a comment about his height or tries to undermine his authority, Levi will usually just glare and move on, but you never let it slide. You’ll shut it down immediately, standing your ground without hesitation, and though he acts indifferent, he can’t hide the faint twitch of pride in his expression.
When it comes to his health, you refuse to let him overwork himself. Levi is the type to push through exhaustion and injuries, brushing them off with a flat “I’ve had worse,” but you never buy it. If he tries to pick up more than he should, you’ll take things right out of his hands, firmly telling him he’s done for the day. He’ll grumble about you being overbearing, but deep down, he’s thankful someone cares enough to stop him when he won’t stop himself.
Even in small ways, your protectiveness shows. You have a habit of subtly stepping ahead of him when entering unfamiliar places, ready to shield him if needed. Levi notices, though he never says anything. Instead, his pinky will brush against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it gives him. He might not put it into words, but he leans into the feeling of safety you give him, just as much as you lean into his.
Levi doesn’t like unnecessary attention, but you’ve made it clear you’ll take on the spotlight if it keeps him from being cornered. In social settings, when people crowd him with too many questions or push past his boundaries, you’re the one who smoothly cuts in, redirecting the conversation or giving him the excuse he needs to slip away. He pretends you’re being dramatic, but the truth is that it eases the tightness in his chest knowing you’ll step in before things get overwhelming.
When he’s injured, your protectiveness shines the most. Levi tries to brush off cuts and bruises, muttering that he’s fine, but you hover until every wound is cleaned and every bandage is set right. He complains about you fussing over him, but the way he goes still and lets you work gives him away. More than once, you’ve caught him watching you in quiet relief, like he can finally let his guard down because you’ve picked up the pieces he won’t admit are too heavy.
And though he’s quick to scoff at the idea of being “protected,” Levi trusts you to do it in ways that don’t bruise his pride. You never make a scene about it, you just slip yourself between him and whatever threatens to wear him down, whether that’s a battlefield, a heated argument, or a relentless workload. He won’t admit it out loud, but it makes him feel something he hasn’t felt in a long time: safe, not because of his own strength, but because someone else cares enough to fight for him.
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