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INTERTWINED || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: after a failed kidnapping attempt, your father assigns a group of bodyguards to watch you at all times. choi seunghyun is the youngest among them, and he seems to despise his job almost as much as he despises you. loving him is probably the stupidest thing you could do to yourself. but once it happens, there’s no going back.

wc: 58k+

warning/this story contains: 18+ (be mindful of the media you consume online) female reader, small age gap (reader is 23, seunghyun is 28. story ends when reader is in her late 20s and seunghyun’s in his early 30s) slowburn, forced proximity, kinda enemies (?idk) to lovers. smut (mentions of female masturbation, fingering, dry humping, p in v, oral sex (f. receiving), switch!seunghyun and switch!reader, passionate and intimate sex because they love each other so much yessir) angst (ghosting, misscommunication, constant bickering and arguing, class differences and stigma, class resentment, mentions of racism, mutual pining bc they’re idiots, parental loss, grief, lies, guilt, betrayal, power imbalance, moral conflict, institutional corruption, kidnapping attempt, underground/illegal fighting, attempted murder, gun violence, physical violence, chronic illness, medical themes throughout, mental illness and trauma, nightmares, reader has severe daddy issues. i think that’s all, sorry if i missed any) seunghyun is sassy af and emotionally constipated. he’s also mean sometimes. reader is spoiled and privileged and it is shown during various points of the fic, but there’s growth. both of them do and say questionable things throughout the fic, especially at the beginning. neither of them are perfect. there’s an unhealthy amount of yearning and a bit of fluff, too, i think (? lmao)

a/n: haiii! this fic took me forever to write, but it’s finally here! before you start reading: reader’s dialogue is in bold. the dynamic between seunghyun and the reader was inspired by jaemi and haejo from mr. plankton, as well as sieun and suho’s relationship in whc. this is a slowburn, as stated in the tags. don’t expect a smut heavy plot because that’s not what this fic is about. so if that’s what you’re mainly looking for, i recommend skipping this one since it probably won’t meet your expectations. please also keep in mind that this version of choi seunghyun is entirely fictional. his character was created solely for storytelling purposes. nothing about his actions, personality, or background in this fic is meant to reflect reality, it’s all fiction, so please read it as such. on that same note… this is fiction… and i’m european lmao. so if there are any inaccuracies (especially about politics), let’s all collectively pretend we don’t see them, thank you! same goes for the medical stuff or u.s. specific systems. i did some research, but i’m not in the field, and sometimes i just got lazy. if you are in the medical field please just smile and nod, lmfao helpp. i’m so sorry. anyway, geezzz i’m yapping again. enjoy the read!!💗

songs: latch — disclosure, sam smith || i know you — faye webster || die your daughter — susannah joffe || i wanna be yours — artic monkeys || power over me — dermot kennedy

security has a way of becoming punishment when you didn’t ask for it. especially when it doesn’t feel like protection at all, just another form of control. the bodyguards showed up in the wake of the kidnapping attempt, though no one in the house dares to call it that, not when the senator is within earshot. to him, it was a threatening message, an unfortunate escalation in a long list of grievances that come with holding office. but to you, it was strangers’ hands pulling at your limbs, pressing against your mouth and fumbling with the car door while your coffee spilled across the sidewalk on fairmont avenue in broad daylight. they didn’t succeed. but the damage was done in the breath between what could’ve happened and what almost did. now, you’re trapped in your own home—the house you grew up in and used to love, now turned unfamiliar and cold in a matter of days. a mansion in bethesda, maryland, with walls so thick you can’t hear the birds outside your window. your father (a respected senator, beloved champion of youth, education and universal healthcare) insisted it was temporary. insisted it was for your own good. insisted, even now, that none of this has anything to do with the long list of enemies he pretends not to know he's made. and you hated the idea from the moment it left his mouth. hated the way he said it like it was a casual afterthought, as if assigning armed men to follow you around day and night was no more invasive than installing a new alarm system. "bodyguards?" you'd echoed. "twenty-four hours a day? what am i, dad—five? i don't need babysitters." but you're his daughter... his only daughter. so of course, it wasn't a request. it never is with him.

they arrived the next morning. three of them. they were supposed to rotate shifts, two during the day and one for the night. you watched from the bottom of the stairs as they stepped inside. you didn’t say anything, just gripped the bannister a little tighter, eyes tracing the way they moved. the first one was tall, built like a linebacker, with a receding hairline and easy confidence. the second one was stockier. they both wore fitted jackets and pressed slacks. if it had just been them, maybe you could’ve found a way to tolerate it; turn it into a game, keep your headphones in and ignore how they’d linger outside your bedroom door. but then the third one walked in. he didn’t smile, didn’t look around nor introduced himself to you like the others had… he just crossed the threshold like none of it impressed him—unbothered by your presence, by the house and by the opulence of your father. he was younger, noticeably, but he didn’t seem inexperienced. if anything, he moved with a kind of rigidness that unsettled you immediately. something about him felt colder than the others.

you learn his name two days later, after breakfast. someone had left a folder on the counter, unsealed. it contained their schedules and a photocopy of your face attached to a report you weren’t supposed to see. and there it is. his schedule. seunghyun choi… twenty eight. what? he’s only five years older than you. not quite a peer, not quite old enough to make the situation feel palatable. the proximity makes you uncomfortable. the fact that in an alternate universe, maybe he would’ve bumped into you at a party, asked for a lighter and laughed at something you said. but instead, he is here... watching you and judging you with every goddamn breath. and he makes no effort to hide it. you thought someone so close to your age should understand you better, should maybe offer something—anything—that makes this whole nightmare feel less humiliating. and he never does.

you remember trying to talk to your father about it once. you waited until he came home late from a press briefing. his office light was on, casting a soft gold blur across the hallway carpet. you stood there, by the threshold, longer than you meant to before finally stepping inside. “can i talk to you?” he didn’t look up. just circled something in red ink on the page in front of him, then gestured lazily to the chair across from his without a word. you sat down, stiff. “the bodyguard,” you stared. “the younger one—” his eyes flicked to yours. “seunghyun choi.” “yeah… him. seunghyun.” you hesitated. the words felt ridiculous once they were out of your mouth. “he’s… i don’t know. it just seems a little unorthodox.” he raised an eyebrow, that look he always gave you when he was already building his rebuttal. “unorthodox how?” “he’s—he’s closer to my age. he’s twenty eight.” that made him pause. he set the red pen down, leaned back and studied you like he was trying to decide whether this conversation was worth his time. “and you’re twenty three. there’s five years between you,” he said. “you’re not in high school anymore.” you bristled at that. “it just makes me uncomfortable.” he tilted his head. his voice was still calm, but there was a steel edge to it now. “do you feel unsafe?” you blinked. “no, i—” “has he said something inappropriate? done anything out of line?” “no, but—” “then i don’t see the issue.” you felt your jaw lock. “he doesn’t even talk to me,” you muttered. “he acts like he hates being here.” your father almost laughed. “well, he’s not here to entertain you, sweetheart. he’s here to do a job. and he’s very, very good at it.” damn, okay… you dropped your gaze to your hands. started picking at a loose thread on your sleeve just to have something to do. he sighed and leaned forward, folding his hands together.“seunghyun has ten years of tactical experience and he’s trained in three disciplines of armed defense,” he continued. “he was in private security before this. he’s quiet, disciplined and reliable… exactly the kind of person i want watching over you.” you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. there was nothing left to say. “you’ll get used to him.” and just like that, you were dismissed.

making people like you has never been hard. you’ve never had to try all that much. you’re a senator’s daughter, sure, but that’s never been the thing that opened doors—what people remember, what they orbit around—is you. the way you talk, the way you listen, the way you know exactly how to make someone feel important without giving them too much of yourself. it’s a skill you were taught young, long before you understood what it meant to weaponize charm. and it helps, of course, that you’re beautiful. everyone knows that. you’ve grown up hearing it in every variation imaginable: from the political journalists who praised your poise at galas, to the distant cousins who only ever saw you during summer and called you regal like it was the highest compliment a girl could earn. you’ve heard it from hair stylists, from handlers, from your father’s aides murmuring “she’s striking, that one,” like you were an expensive statue he’d commissioned into existence.

and you’re not stupid, either. you’ve always been terrifyingly bright—the kind of child people praised for being precocious before they realized that meant they’d have to work harder to control you. you excelled at everything they told you to, and yet you learned how to be gracious. you made it part of the act. you smiled at the right moments, softened your voice when you needed something, let people believe they were the ones in control. just like they wished. because it wasn’t just about being smart. it was about being smart enough to know when to hide it.

so no, it doesn’t take long for the bodyguards to like you. it only takes about two days for them to loosen and smile more freely. you laugh when they say something that barely scrapes amusing, ask questions you already know the answers to just to let them feel clever, let them explain things you’ve heard a thousand times before while you nod along like you’re impressed. it’s easy to disarm them when you smile, tilt your head, look up and say, “wait, really?” like they’ve just taught you something life changing. you play dumb, just for sport. you cling to one of the bodyguards’ arm one morning while he’s pouring coffee and go, “oh my god, you’re so strong… how often do you work out?” your voice going up an octave. it’s all very subtle, the way you do it. never too much, never over the top, never enough to be called out, because that would ruin the fun of it. and besides, you’re not flirting for attention, you’re doing it for freedom. a soft compliment here… a gentle touch there… jokes that make you seem harmless, a little silly, a little spoiled maybe, but not enough to be suspicious. and it works. because they’re men. they’re probably not used to having a young, beautiful woman—because that’s what you are—say kind things to them so openly. they’re not used to being looked at that way. not by someone like you.

with seunghyun, though, none of it works. none of it even grazes him. and it’s not just the absence of flirtation, or attention, or even recognition—it’s the pointed, deliberate way he refuses to engage, like you couldn’t possibly be the crux of anything. and you’ve tried… but it’s humiliating, how every effort falls flat, the silence around him remaining untouched no matter what you do or say. and what really bothers you, is the way he manages to shut things down—how he interrupts another bodyguard mid story with a curt “that’s enough,” or with “why don’t we stay professional?” right as the conversation starts to slip into warmth and laughter. is he allergic to happiness? it’s always when someone’s teasing you or offering some piece of personal history that makes them feel human instead of hired robots. he shuts it down before it can grow roots, and you don’t know if it’s because he thinks you’re a distraction or because he resents the idea of comfort. he says almost nothing to you. not even condescension nor polite disinterest. and you hate that.

it worsens a month later, when the rotation shifts, and seunghyun is assigned to the night watch. by then, you’d carved out a routine—a small rebellion, something harmless on the surface but loaded with meaning beneath. every night, around ten, you’d slip out through the side door, and wander the length of the garden like it belonged to you again. technically, it did. the sprawling, curated maze of hedges, stone paths and flowerbeds was part of the estate, but it hadn’t felt like yours in years—not since your father turned it into a showcase for donors, a place where he could parade foreign officials and sell the illusion of gentility. still, at night, with the house quiet and the sky full of stars, it became something else. your sanctuary. and one of the bodyguards, riggs, had eventually stopped insisting on following you. it’d taken time… two weeks of polite requests, a few days of pleading, and a final stretch of what you’d call gentle manipulation. he’d started standing guard near the patio instead, out of sight but close enough to claim responsibility. and for an hour, you were free. free to sit by the marble fountain in the center of the maze, watch the moon slide across the water, feel the breeze on your skin… and most importantly: free to sneak in twenty or thirty minutes with the boy you were very much not supposed to be seeing.

he’s an idiot. you say so to his face, often. too full of himself in that overcompensating way that makes you cringe. you don’t even like him that much. he talks too much and touches too quickly, always reaching under your skirt like he’s earned the right. and you’re always swatting his hand away, tsking under your breath, saying, “slow down, romeo.” you never let it go too far. just a few kisses to keep him thinking he’s getting somewhere, that there’s more to be had if he waits long enough. and when he inevitably tries again, sliding fingers up your thigh with the subtlety of a teenager, you tell him you’re a virgin. it’s not true. hasn’t been true for years, but it always works. the word alone seems to tame him, because he wants to believe he’s the first, that he’ll be the one to change that… which you let him believe. the reason as to why is simple. ever since your mother passed, your father has been hellbent on turning your life into something perfectly arranged. it started with little things, like having your phone monitored or assigning drivers to take you to and from campus, and grew into bigger ones: statements you weren’t allowed to make, events you were forced to attend, decisions made in your name without your consent. at first, you tried to be good—tried to follow the rules, be the daughter he needed—but there’s only so many times you can bite your tongue before your mouth starts bleeding. so now you rebel however you can… sneaking out and kissing boys who don’t deserve your time. boys who represent everything your father despises and has tried to keep you away from your whole life. boys like aaron.

“just one more, c’mon,” he breathes against your mouth. you roll your eyes without meaning to, your expression tipping toward boredom even as you lean in and press your lips to his once more, if only to shut him up. it’s not even a kiss. just a brief indulgence, a pacifying gesture, like tossing a bone to a dog that won’t stop barking. “i really have to go,” you say, stepping back and checking the slim gold watch wrapped around your wrist. it’s so late. “you’re seriously leaving me here? after all that?” you arch a brow. “after what? sitting by the fountain and talking about your fantasy football league?” he grins, undeterred. “you’re mean. but like… hot mean.” “mhm.” “no, seriously, you’ve got me all kinds of messed up,” he says, following you as you start walking. “i think about you all day. when you text me, i literally smile at my phone like an idiot. you’ve got me out here acting like a little bitch.” you glance over your shoulder with a faint smirk. “you said it, not me.” “you like me, though,” he insists, a little too eagerly. “i can tell. even when you pretend you don’t.” “i think you’re fun,” you say carefully, offering just enough to keep him content. “but that’s all i’ve got time for tonight.” he pouts, hands in his pockets, still trailing after you. “when do i see you again?” “i’ll text you.” “promise?” you turn around, lean in, press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whisper, “sure.” he grins like an idiot, then starts down the gravel path toward the far side of the estate, ducking into the shadows like he always does—avoiding the main gate, skirting the edge of the rose trellises, heading for that loose panel in the back fence.

you wait until the garden settles back into its soft, damp silence—crickets humming, fountain murmuring in the distance, the sweet rot of summer hydrangeas clinging to the air like perfume. you smooth your skirt as you sigh, more out of habit than anything, and round the corner of the maze wall… just to crash straight into seunghyun. the air leaves your lungs with a soft oof, your hands instinctively pressing against his chest. you glance up, heart skipping. the light from the garden lamppost catches the darkness of his eyes, the tension wound tight under his skin like he’s holding something back… perhaps that cold disdain he always reserves just for you. for a second, the only thing you can hear is the wind through the hedges and the thud of your pulse in your throat. finally, he speaks. “out for a walk?” your voice is breezy, laced with the tail end of nerves. “couldn’t sleep.” “you’re not supposed to be out here alone.” you shift your weight, let a lazy smirk ghost your lips. “good thing i’m not alone anymore, then.” there’s a flicker in his expression, but it passes as quick as it came. “whatever this is… might work on them. but it won’t work on me.” you raise an eyebrow. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.” “you’re under my watch,” he continues, stepping closer enough that you can smell the trace of cigarettes on his collar. “which means after nine p.m., your feet don’t leave the house. understood?” you scoff, too proud to let him speak to you like that. as if your name isn’t stitched into every inch of the property you’re supposedly forbidden from. “jesus, you sound like my father—” “understood?” he repeats, cutting through your deflection. you clench your jaw, something mean coiling under your tongue. “riggs lets me out for an hour. i’ve been doing it all month.” “i’m not riggs.” “clearly,” you mutter, the word slipping out before you can bite it back. his gaze stays on you with that same cold, merciless composure. it’s infuriating, he doesn’t even rise to your provocations. every word you throw at him lands with the same dull thud of irrelevance.

the silence stretches, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves. “i just wanted a moment to myself—” you start, trying for civility, for anything that might soften the weight of his stare. but it’s useless. “you weren’t by yourself, though. were you?” your throat tightens with the burn of something that tastes suspiciously like shame. you look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “i’m not gonna explain myself to you.” “then you’ll explain it to the senator.” “what?” “you heard me.” you laugh, incredulous. “you’re bluffing.” “you left the house after hours. unaccompanied. and you brought someone onto the property without clearance.” you cross your arms, exasperated. “he’s not a threat.” his gaze narrows. “that’s not your call to make.” you step forward before you can think better of it. “okay. okay, you’re right… you’re right. but please… don’t tell my father. please, i—” seunghyun cuts you off. “go inside.” “please—” “now.” you stand there for a beat, teeth gritted, humiliated heat coming up your face. a huff slips from your lips as you brush past him, practically stomping across the grass on your way back.

you feel like you’re walking on eggshells the second you wake up. you move through the house bracing for the sound of your name barked from down the hall, for heavy footsteps approaching with purpose and for the moment when your father storms into whatever room you happen to be in and demands an explanation. demands to know how you could be so careless, so vulgar, so disgracefully human—sneaking out in the dead of night to meet a boy who, by his standards, is beneath you in every thinkable way. you keep expecting the reprimand to begin, the performance of paternal disappointment you’ve grown so accustomed to over the years. but none of it happens. not in the morning, not by lunch, not even after dinner, when you pass him in the hallway and he’s too busy flipping through tomorrow’s agenda to spare you more than a nod.

you wait until the house stills and the staff have trickled out one by one, except for the indispensable ones. except for seunghyun. when you finally crack open the wide white doors of your bedroom, he’s there. just like you knew he would be. stationed by the hallway wall, with his hands clasped behind his back, feet planted shoulder-width apart, posture straight as a line, and his head turning the moment you step into view. his eyes catch yours, narrowing slightly as you match the coolness of his stare with a bored defiance of your own, lifting your chin half an inch. you walk past him without a word. he follows, of course, it’s protocol. you can hear the muted press of his soles against the carpet as you descend the staircase, then through the parlor, past the gallery of portraits that adorn it, until you slip into the kitchen. seunghyun stops just inside the doorway, finding a spot by the far wall and positioning himself again, watching you.

you start moving with no real direction, feeling the way his eyes follow you as you walk aimlessly around the kitchen. your fingers skim the island’s marble countertop, making a slow circle like you’re searching for something, though you both know you’re not. what the hell is she doing, he wonders. aimless, and so fucking pleased with herself… he can tell. with how hips sway and your lips tug into the faintest, knowing smile. irritation begins to coil between his shoulder blades when he tries not to sigh, roll his eyes or let his face show what his brain is screaming: this is pointless. she’s testing me. again. you pause by the cabinets, tiptoe to reach the top shelf, even though you absolutely don’t need to. your stomach presses flush to the counter’s edge, arching your back a bit, the satin hem of your nightdress lifting higher up the backs of your thighs with every inch you stretch. it’s not subtle, and it’s not meant to be. seunghyun stares. longer than he should and longer than he allows himself to admit. it’s instinctive. his gaze drifts to your legs, the curve of your back, the skin peeking through... his fingers flex against his sides as he wonders how you’d sound with your face pressed to that counter. how wet you’d be if he pushed that nightdress up a little higher, dragged his fingers between your thighs and—stop. the word slices through the thoughts. he forces his gaze away, jaw clenched so tight it aches, throat bobbing around a swallow. what the fuck is wrong with me. he’s a professional, not one of those other guards you toy with. and you’re above him. you weren’t made for the kind of thoughts that percolate in his mind, they don’t belong anywhere near you. but oh… you drive seunghyun fucking insane.

“are you thirsty?” your voice slices through the silence, catching him off guard in that one fraction of a second where he’d let his mind wander somewhere it shouldn’t have gone, where that filthy flicker of want still lingers. he looks at you again, eyes narrowing, only to find you holding a glass in your hand—the one you’d been reaching for this whole time, which he hadn’t even noticed amidst the distraction. “i’m pouring one for myself,” you add lightly. “it’s summer, you know… and dreadfully warm tonight. i imagine that suit must feel like a furnace.” he doesn’t reply. right. “you must be sweating through it,” you continue, voice honeyed but flat. “there’s no need to be stoic on my account. dehydration’s a rather unglamorous way to die.” again, nothing. seunghyun’s shoulders are set with renewed resolve, trying to anchor himself to the professionalism he’s supposed to embody. you sigh softly at his silence, like it bores you. “alright,” you murmur, your tone shifting between resignation and dry amusement. “silence it is. nothing new.” you turn your back to him, crossing the kitchen with glass still in your hand. at the fridge, you press the cup to the dispenser, ice cubes tumbling in with hollow clinks. the hum of the water fills the space next, loud in the silence, soft blue light illuminating your wrist as the stream flows. you lean your hip against the counter when you’re done, eyes catching his across the room again. you take a long sip—deliberately so—then hold the glass in both hands, letting the condensation bead against your skin. “you didn’t tell him,” you say finally, as if the thought just occurred to you, even though it’s been circling your mind all day. “my father.” you let a pause settle, then add, “thank you.”

to your surprise, he nods. the smallest shift of his chin, which might’ve gone unnoticed if you hadn’t been watching him so intently. you take another sip from your glass, the water sliding cold down your throat, but it does nothing to ease the strange, simmering heat in your sternum—heat that has nothing to do with summer and everything to do with the unbearable tension between you. “i wonder why,” you murmur, almost to yourself, before lifting the glass and drinking the rest in one go, until there’s nothing left but melted ice and your own reflection in the curved bottom. you don’t look at him as you move toward the sink, not expecting anything, certainly not a response; he never gives you the satisfaction of conversation unless it’s curt and procedural, clipped in that military vernacular of his. but just as your back turns, right as your fingers brush the steel basin… his voice breaks the silence. “there’s no need to report something that is not going to happen again.” you pause. for a moment, you do nothing but stare at the sink, before setting the glass down with a soft clink and slowly turning to face him. “how do you know that?” “because i’ll make sure of it.” you fold your arms across your chest, letting a slow breath bleed out through your nose. “you hate it, don’t you? seeing me have fun,” you say, moving toward him. “you call that fun?” “i think it was none of your business—” “you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” you’re standing directly in front of him now, so close you can see the places where his collar’s gone damp due to the heat of his neck. “were you spying on me?” you ask, indignation giving you something to hold onto. his eyes don’t leave yours. “i was doing my job.” something close to a laugh threatens to escape your lips. “right. your job.”

why is he like this? your inner monologue pesters. why is he so adamant in making my life difficult? what did i ever do, besides exist near him? and why is he—fuck, why is he so fucking attractive? the thought punches through the others with irritating boldness, breaking the surface just as your gaze lifts, dragged helplessly into the darkness of his. you have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, the sheer height of him forcing the movement, and it only annoys you further. a man this masculine, this insufferably handsome… it makes something brittle stir in your chest. you’re seconds away from biting out something else, ready to reprimand him for listening in on your conversations like an overzealous warden… when you see a faint shadow along the left side of his jaw. it’s subtle, almost expertly covered, but not enough to hide from you. makeup, you realize, melting from the heat. your eyebrows pull together. “what is that?” you ask before you even register what you’re saying. seunghyun notices the shift in your gaze a second before your hand lifts, curiosity outweighing everything else as your fingers reach toward the darkened patch of skin. but as you’re about to touch him, his hand wraps tight around your wrist. you gasp, more from surprise than pain, fingertips suspended between the two of you.

“what do you think you’re doing?” you look at him. “i was just—” but the words die out, because what were you doing, really? reaching for him like that, unthinking, as if your fingers had a mind of their own. “sorry, i—” “don’t ever try to touch me again.” his hand is still around your wrist, strong like a shackle, though you can feel the hesitation there now—the flicker of restraint that belies how tightly he’d grabbed you just seconds ago. you scoff. “then keep your hands off me, too.” you tug against his hold but he doesn’t release you immediately. when he finally lets go, you cradle your wrist out of instinct, gaze snapping back to his face as you wipe your palm down the side of your nightdress like you’ve just rid yourself of something filthy. “what happened to your jaw?” you ask, with the authority you know you can wield when you choose to. “that is none of your concern.” “i am the senator’s daughter,” you remind him. “and i’m asking you a question… as your superior.” he lets out the faintest breath through his nose. “i respond only to your father’s directives. not yours.” “maybe. but you stand guard outside my door. which makes your bruises my concern if they compromise your job.” “it won’t interfere.” “that’s not what i asked.” you take a step closer, eyes trailing deliberately to the side of his face where the bruise peeks through. “if you don’t want people asking questions, i suggest you find a better way to hide it,” you say, voice unmistakably pointed. “your makeup’s melting off.” “i’ll be more thorough next time,” he replies, biting down on the urge to say something far less polite. you hum, head tilting as you pretend to consider that. “good.” “good,” he echoes, matching your tone with one of his own. “good,” you repeat, and this time, there’s no mistaking the subtle and ironic venom folded into the word. you watch him breathe through it, like he’s counting down in his head. “anything else you’d like to comment on, ma’am?” you almost laugh. almost. it sounds like what it is, a passive aggressive provocation, spat through clenched teeth. ma’am. the word might as well be a curse the way he says it. you smile just to spite him. “not at the moment, thank you.” and you don’t miss the way his fists clench at his sides as you turn around.

seunghyun has, inadvertently, spiked your curiosity. not with sweet words or hollow flattery, but with opposition: the rarest kind of match. he’s the only one you’ve met who pushes back with equal force, who doesn’t thaw under the weight of your gaze, nor shrinks in the face of your sharp tongue or cultivated charm. the only person you’ve ever encountered whose silence is as cutting as your sarcasm, whose coolness rivals your own. he is, infuriatingly, an opponent. a decent one. the bickering, quiet but ablaze, is its own language. a private dialect that needs no translation. and it excites you. scratches that itch you’ve had since you were a child, the one that made your father’s friends tsk and smirk and test your patience under the guise of banter, just to see if you were more than a pretty face. and they always learned. quickly. fully grown men humiliated by little eleven year old you… pathetic! you’ve always known how to win. but with seunghyun it’s different—it’s never quite a win. and you like that. you like that he doesn’t hand it to you.

then there’s the bruise. you can’t stop thinking about how his entire body locked up the second your hand reached for it. and how his voice dropped, bitten through with something far too sharp to be mere annoyance, when he told you not to touch him. you wouldn’t have given it a second thought—chalked it up to pride, to the typical fragile masculinity—if it hadn’t become a pattern. over the next few weeks, seunghyun kept showing up with remnants of the same story painted across his skin. and you, in all your boredom and privilege, have always been drawn to the things people don’t want you to see. how? you wondered each time. how does he return from a day off looking like he’s been through the depths of hell? it keeps you up some nights, when you’re staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead and trying to imagine what kind of life seunghyun lives when he isn’t wearing that black suit. and why, if it’s hurting him, he keeps going back to it. whatever it is.

riggs is back on night duty now, which, much to your own irritation, has turned the evenings insufferably boring. you’d gotten used to the nightly verbal fencing matches with seunghyun that always seemed to spark over the most infinitesimal things: the angle of a door left ajar (“close it all the way.” “why?” “because i could hear every sound you made last night. spare us both the performance and shut the door.”), or the way you’d blast your records at full volume—prince one night, then maria callas the next—just to see how long it would take him to knock on your door with that signature, disapproving frown. (“turn it down.” “you don’t like opera?” “it’s one a.m.” “so?” “so is there a reason the entire east wing needs to hear your music?”)

you’ve always craved mundanity. ordinariness. a persistent yearning for not being the echo of your father’s legacy or the pretty little puppet behind him. you want to be someone before being his daughter. you want to trip and fall without someone rushing to catch you before your knees even hit the ground. you want to fuck up and learn from it. you want something that hurts even, just to remind you that you’re not made of porcelain. but with the people who live in your world, you can’t be that girl. your ‘friends’—if you can even call them that—would never understand it. like, come on… their version of rebellion is snorting coke in the back of a chauffeur driven mercedes, or sneaking out to drink three-thousand-dollar champagne on some boy’s yacht like it’s some sort of daring escape from the gilded cage they were born into. they laugh about being ‘so bored of harvard,’ about flying to paris for a single fitting, about needing ‘a little break’ from their summer internships—paid, of course, and arranged by their fathers’ golf buddies. do they even hear themselves? you’ve tried to blend in. to sit with them in the most exclusive corners of washington d.c, letting their shallow grievances wash over you while you sip from your drink. you’ve nodded along as they debated the merits of boarding schools and which family names are ‘still relevant,’ all while your inner monologue screamed: what the fuck am i even doing here? should’ve stayed the fuck home. you’re so sick of it.

so, of course, when the opportunity to taste something different presents itself, you don’t waste it. with riggs back on rotation, you’re allowed your nightly hour in the garden. aaron is already waiting when you arrive, cigarette behind his ear, trying to look a lot older than he is. “long time no see,” he drawls the moment he spots you, not bothering to hide the way his gaze sweeps down your bare legs. you make a face, waving a hand, before circling around the edge of the fountain and sitting down beside him. he shifts, not-so-subtly angling his body toward yours, the gravel crunching under his shoes as he settles closer than necessary. “so… you finally missed me, huh?” you snort under your breath, eyes fixed on the water. “please. don’t flatter yourself.” he laughs, teeth flashing as he bumps your shoulder with his. “you know, you could just admit it. you’re bored. without me around, who else is gonna show you a good time?” you glance at him sidelong, unimpressed. “if this is your version of a good time,” you say, “i weep for the women who came before me.” aaron lets out a bark of laughter, tilting his head back. “see, that’s what i like about you. fast wit, pretty face.” you roll your eyes. that’s always how it goes, isn’t it? it always gets boiled down to that one fucking word—pretty. “do you ever stop talking?” “not when i’ve got an audience like this.” he gestures toward you lazily. “you know you like it.” you hum, noncommittal, brushing invisible dust from your linen shorts, the golden cartier bracelet at your wrist clinking softly against the face of your watch. then, with a tone dry enough to cut, you ask, “what do you even do for fun?” he looks taken aback for a second, eyebrows twitching upward. “huh?” “fun,” you repeat. “you must have some idea. i assume there’s more to your life than waiting around to be told you’re cute.” he blinks, then lets out another chuckle, a little more sheepish this time. “damn. alright, princess. curious about the peasant life, are we?” you smile faintly, chin tipping as you hold his gaze. “maybe. humor me.”

aaron watches you for a second, the playful tilt of his smile flickering with something more cautious as he tries to decipher if you’re joking or if you actually want to know. “i don’t think it’s really your thing,” he says finally, reaching up to fiddle with the cigarette still tucked behind his ear. “you’d probably get bored. or grossed out.” “try me.” he glances around, making sure no one else is listening even though the patio is empty, save for the two of you and the warm hush of the night over bethesda. “there’s this thing…” he starts, hesitant. your brows lift. “drugs?” he lets out a quiet scoff, one corner of his mouth twitching. “no. well, yeah. there’s always something going around. but that’s not what i meant.” “then what?” “underground fights.” interesting. your head tilts, lips parting just barely as you try to pin the word underground down with consequence. “so… illegal fights,” you say, not a question so much as a confirmation. he nods. “yeah. people place bets... some guys fight to let off steam, others ‘cause they need the cash, you know?” “and you?” he shrugs. “i just go watch.”

your gaze lingers on his face. a silent beat passes as you focus on the possibilities… as your mind, like always, begins to maneuver. there’s the usual route: talk riggs into extending your hour, maybe feign some newfound appreciation for nature. or the simpler path: pretend to sleep, then slip out while the estate slumbers behind you. “take me,” you say suddenly. “what?” you turn to look at him fully, tone as light and poised as if you were asking him to pass the salt. “i want to go.” “you want to go,” he repeats, slowly, with the dubious weight of someone who doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “to an illegal fight.” you nod, entirely unfazed. “i’m curious.” “what, you trying to get me in trouble? or do you just miss me that bad?” he grins. you don’t dignify that with a reply. “shit,” he drawls, grin spreading as he mistakes your silence for shyness, or intrigue, or whatever fantasy he’s cooked up in his head. “didn’t realize you were so eager to spend time with me.” “i’m not,” you snap. “i’d go with the devil himself if it meant getting out of here.”

the devil would’ve definitely loved that place. from the outside, it looks like every other upscale gym in bethesda. nothing about it demands attention, which is probably the point. but through the staff only door, everything chsnges. you’ve never been anywhere like this before—nowhere this alive. people are shouting over each other, drunk on whatever they’re holding or whatever they’ve taken, trading bills with slick fingers. bodies press in tight around the ring at the center. you’re sweating, a thin sheen forming at your temples and under your collar, dampness prickling beneath your arms. in the pit, two men are locked in a fight, their grunts barely audible over the roar of the crowd and the sound of music, the voice of travis scott blasting through the speakers in the insulated room. you tug your cap lower, a half-hearted disguise that feels laughable now, elbow grazing someone’s drink as you edge closer to the ring, your shoes sticking slightly with each step on the beer-slick floor. your heart’s racing, not from fear, but from curiosity and adrenaline.

aaron follows you with that crooked little smirk, the one that says he thinks you’re out of your element, but maybe not as much as he assumed. there’s something almost boyish about the way he watches you move through the crowd, amused at your wide eyed silence. you can almost hear the narrative he’s writing in his head: the overprotected heiress freshly released from her tower, dazzled by the grit and flash of a world no one ever expected her to step foot in… but you don’t play the part the way he expected. the glimmer in your gaze is not one of shock. you stand still amid the heat and the shouting, your eyes fixed on the ring where one man’s ribs cave under the crack of a knee, where spit and blood mix on the floor and nobody flinches. neither do you. maybe it’s because you’ve already known the sensation of being grabbed, hoisted and manhandled. just over a month ago, you felt the sear of fear from the inside out as you twisted out of someone’s arms. just over a month since they refused to call it what it was, using euphemisms, labeling it an ‘incident’. it still plays in the back of your mind. no therapy—just a rotating cast of bodyguards and the suffocating expectation that you should be grateful to be protected. but all it’s ever done is make you feel more trapped. and now, here, there’s something medicinal in the spectacle—men beating each other bloody in a place where pain is allowed to exist in the open, accepted and cheered for, not swept under layers of denial.

you feel aaron nudging your arm with his elbow, breath warm near your ear as he leans in, shouting over the music and the hollering around you, “wanna place a bet?” you turn to look at him, not fully amused. “why would i?” you glance back at the ring where one of the men stumbles, shoulder crashing into the ropes. the crowd erupts at the sight of it, fists in the air, passing out cash like flyers at a strip mall opening. “c’mon,” he says again, flashing a ten dollar bill between his fingers. “don’t hesitate, just pick one. blue shorts or black.” “fine,” you say, gaze flicking toward the ring. “blue shorts, then—” but before you can even finish the sentence, he’s on the ground. dropped by a hit you didn’t even see coming. the crowd loses its mind. bodies jostle into yours, and someone behind you yells something unintelligible as bills get passed over, exchanged midair. you blink at the scene, then glance at aaron. “that was fast.” he shrugs, smug. “told you not to hesitate.” “i wasn’t hesitating,” you mutter, annoyed at the timing. “i was thinking.” “same thing around here.”

you huff, irritated more by the smug look on his face than the fact you lost. your eyes follow him as he makes his way through the crowd, hand outstretched to collect his winnings. apparently he bet on black shorts. you turn back to the ring just in time to catch someone on a mic yelling the names of the next fighters—names so absurd they sound like bad nicknames from a frat group chat. by the time you look at him again, he’s counting cash, a dumb grin stretched across his face. “i’m fucking rich, baby,” he says, flashing you a wink, fanning himself with the wad. you give him a look. “you’ve got forty bucks.” “forty five,” he corrects, utterly undeterred, tucking the bills into his jacket. “that’s dinner. or at least gas.” “not both?” your sarcasm can’t be missed. “nah,” he replies. oh well, he missed it. “but i’ll save up for our date.” “what?” “you know, a real date. like, proper.” oh, god help me. the scoff you let out is immediate. and before he elaborates, you interject, cutting clean through his boyish fantasy. “anyway, what now?” “now?” his eyes drift toward the ring. “now you get to bet again.” you follow his gaze, ready to throw out a lazy guess. but then you see it. him. seunghyun. center of the ring.

your breath falters, lips parting without sound as your eyes widen in disbelief. the way your body reacts it’s almost ridiculous. how your pulse quickens and your skin prickles despite the suffocating heat of the crowd pressing in around you. because there he is, tan skin ablaze under the stark overhead lights, casting a golden glow across the chiseled architecture of his shoulders and his jaw. there’s no mistaking it. it’s him. with his hands wrapped in white gauze pulled close to his face. you don’t have to ask what he’s doing here. you know. the bruises. the ones he tried so carefully to smother with concealer. he’s been fighting. he’s been doing this. for how long? weeks? months? years? and more importantly… why?

your thoughts are derailed by movement. his opponent lunges forward, all force and fury, and seunghyun tilts back, barely a breath’s width between his skin and the incoming fist. seunghyun dodges again, and again, entirely unbothered by the other man’s mounting aggression, as if this entire thing bores him. by the fourth miss, the crowd’s beginning to jeer, and his opponent laughs bitterly, clearly humiliated by the fact that he can’t so much as graze him. “so?” your guy asks, leaning closer. “what do you think?” you don’t answer at first, still watching seunghyun, trying to reconcile the image of the man in your hallway with the one in the ring. “i—” “red shorts is fucking good,” he cuts in, misreading the pause. “bet on him. trust me. i’ve never seen him lose.” “seunghyun,” you murmur, not even realizing you’ve said his name aloud until you feel aaron move beside you. “what? is that his name?” he turns to you, eyebrows raised. “you know him?” you nod, finally dragging your gaze away. “yeah. he’s my—” but whatever explanation you’re reaching for dies on your tongue as the crowd explodes, rearing up like a wave about to crest. your head snaps back to the ring just in time to see seunghyun move: the first punch lands square against the other fighter’s jaw, followed by a second. then another, and another. his opponent staggers, knocked off balance, tripping backward until his back hits the ropes. seunghyun doesn’t even pause, he just keeps going. there’s not an ounce of hesitation in his gaze as he drives a final hit to the ribs that sends the man crumpling to the floor.

but he doesn’t celebrate. he turns and walks to the far end of the ring, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, measured intervals. his opponent groans behind him, a wet-breathed choke as he pushes himself onto his elbows, blood painting his mouth, his chin and the base of his neck. the ref doesn’t stop the fight, but seunghyun doesn’t rush. he rolls out his shoulders, gauze-wrapped hands lifting back into position as his opponent finally manages to stand, swaying where he looms by the ropes. it’s clear the next round won’t last long, but seunghyun resets his stance all the same. “let’s go, seunghyun!” aaron shouts, all puffed-up bravado and straight up idiocy, throwing his voice above the music. your body stiffens. you don’t know much about these kinds of places—about how they work or what rules they play by—but you’re not stupid. you didn’t hear them call seunghyun when he stepped into the ring, didn’t catch even a syllable that sounded remotely familiar. because anonymity is part of the whole thing… and you’re pretty sure that shouting someone’s government name in a place like this is the fastest way to get your teeth knocked in. your hand snaps out, smacking his arm hard enough to jolt the grin off his face. “are you stupid?” you hiss. he flinches, mostly at your tone. “what?” he asks, confused. “isn’t he your friend?”

your head turns slowly, and when your eyes lift toward the ring again, seunghyun’s no longer in position. he stands still, his gaze dragged away from his opponent. his name pulled him out of his body. his brow is furrowed, mouth slightly parted, confusion creeping across his face as he scans the crowd, not yet panicked but undeniably alert. until his eyes find yours. you watch the recognition settle on his face as he stares at you. his mind sbeen pulled wholly into yours, drawn into the gravity of this moment, into this collision of two worlds that were never meant to touch like this. there’s a language to it that says: you shouldn’t be here. neither of you voices it, but the thought hangs between you. he’s no longer thinking about the fight. he’s thinking about you. that you’re here, in this place. and that you’re seeing him—this version of him.

you barely have time to react, eyes widening as his opponent launches toward him. and just like that, seunghyun takes the first hit of the night. it lands hard, a clean strike to the jaw that snaps his head back, sending him stumbling toward the ropes. a sharp breath rushes through you as he reels from the impact, his footing lost, shoulders hunching as he steadies himself, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake you out of it. his opponent doesn’t press immediately. he lingers a few feet away, hands raised in expectation, waiting for seunghyun to come back swinging. but nothing happens. seunghyun just stands there, the taste of blood thick behind his teeth. then the second hit comes with enough force to whip his head to the side, the plastic of his mouthguard slipping free and skittering across the mat. you flinch at the sight. “what the fuck is he doing?” aaron mutters beside you, baffled, as if this isn’t the same man he’s seen dominate every match for weeks. “why isn’t he fighting back?”

you’re not sure either. his body’s locked in place, but his opponent wastes no such time. he lunges, grabs seunghyun by the shoulders with both hands and throws him hard into the center of the ring. the sound his back makes when it hits the mat is sickening. and before he can so much as lift his head, the other man is on him—knees digging into his sides, pinning him like prey under the weight of his body, arms pulled back only to be launched forward again, and again, and again. each punch lands with a crunch, seunghyun’s head snapping to the side on impact like a rag doll, blood blooming from his mouth, peppering the mat with red. the crowd roars in approval, drunk on the violence. “fucking fight back!” aaron bellows beside you, voice breaking from strain. but he doesn’t. and you can’t fucking take it. whatever’s happening, whatever might be going through seunghyun’s head, the reasoning behind this—you don’t care. not when he’s seconds away from blacking out. and from real, irreversible damage. you move before you think, pushing past the people around you with a force you didn’t know you had, elbowing your way to the edge of the ring, to the man who’s supposed to be calling the fight—the refree, who hasn’t moved a goddamn inch. “stop it!” you scream. “you have to stop this! now!”

the referee doesn’t even budge. doesn’t so much as twitch in your direction—eyes fixed on the bloodied bodies. “do something!” you shout, fury slicing through your usual poise. “are you fucking deaf?!” he flinches, turning to glance at you over his shoulder, face dull and unmoved. “he hasn’t tapped out.” “so you’re not just deaf, but you’re fucking blind too,” you spit, jabbing a finger at the ring. “he can’t tap out!” he shrugs, mumbles something about how if he’s conscious, it’s fair game. “it’s in our rules.” you nearly laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it, only this sick disbelief plastered all over your face. “i don’t care about your rules!” you hiss. “if you don’t call it—if you don’t get in there and pull that fucker off him, i will.” that does it. you’ve just become a liability. his whistle cuts through the air, and the man on top of seunghyun hesitates mid swing, knuckles suspended in the air before he finally drops back, panting hard.

seunghyun doesn’t get up. even after the whistle’s been blown, after the crowd starts to groan and grumble like the ending’s come too soon—seunghyun stays there, flat on his back, one arm flung out useless beside him. he coughs, blood splattering out across his chest. it paints the white tape on his knuckles and the corner of his mouth. something about it makes you move before you’ve even thought it through. you reach for the ropes, ducking down to slip under them, when a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back. “whoa—what the hell are you doing?” aaron asks. “you can’t get in there.” “i have to,” you answer, trying to wrangle your arm free from his grip. “they’ll take him upstairs,” he insists. “they’ve got people for that. he’ll be fine. they always check them after—make sure they’re conscious, not bleeding out or whatever.” you whip your head toward the ring just in time to see two men crouching beside seunghyun, hoisting him up by the arms. his head lolls slightly, legs dragging more than walking, and you can’t take your eyes off him. “alright, fine. go. i’ll wait for you—” “no.” you shake your head. “go home.” “what? wait, you can’t just—” “he’s one of my bodyguards.” the words slip out, and his expression splits clean in two. shock and something much harder to read. “just go, i’ll be fine. we’ll talk soon.” he starts to protest again, but you leave, shoulder first through the crowd. a familiar burn in your lungs returns as you follow the outline of seunghyun being led out of the ring.

the lights above flicker. and their humming grates on your nerves the longer you sit there. you check the wall clock again. 4:06 a.m. you’ve been waiting on that damn gym bench for over an hour and a half, stiff and itching with worry, not just for seunghyun but for yourself too—because in exactly two hours, your kitchen staff will start filing into the estate, and someone is bound to notice you never made it back to your room. there’s no excuse ready. just you, sitting there, biting at the skin of your thumb. they hadn’t let you inside the room. they shut the door in your face with a vague “he’s fine, don’t worry.” but that isn’t enough. you’ve been replaying the fight in your head like a looped film reel. no matter how many times you try to think of anything else, you keep circling back to the same image: seunghyun, still as stone, refusing to fight back and taking blow after blow. letting himself get torn apart in front of you.

just as you’re about to give in and go ask again if you can see him, the door opens. you shoot to your feet, smoothing your palms down your jeans. and there he is. seunghyun steps out slowly, dressed in a dark navy tshirt and jeans—clothes so ordinary it throws you. you’ve never seen him like this, stripped of his crisp suit. he looks… gentler. or at least he would, if not for the busted lip and the swelling on the right side of his face. his hands are wrapped in fresh gauze, white and clean. his gaze lands on you and your breath lodges in your throat. you don’t even realize you’ve stepped forward until he’s in front of you… and then past you. not a glance. not a word. nothing. he walks right by like you were never there at all. your brows pull together, confused. you twist in place, watching him cross the empty gym with measured steps. “seunghyun, wait—” you call, footsteps quick behind his as he reaches for the exit.

he doesn’t stop, stepping out into the humid, godforsaken quiet of a bethesda street. you stand there for a second, blinking against the sudden darkness and hearing dogs bark in the distance, before calling after him again. “seunghyun!” but he doesn’t look back, walking a few steps ahead now, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched, the only sound coming from his shoes against the pavement. you hurry to catch up, your own footsteps graceless by comparison. when you reach his side, you glance up. he’s not looking at you, not even acknowledging your presence. “we should go to the hospital,” you say. “you should get properly checked.” he scoffs at that, shaking his head as if the suggestion offended him. “i’m fine,” he mutters. he isn’t. and you both know it. “where are you going?” you ask, your voice calm despite the thrum of unease building in your chest. it’s clear he’s heading somewhere with purpose, even if it’s born of spite. “seunghyun.” “i’m going to my car,” he bites out, tone clipped. “you can’t drive like this.” “i’m fine,” he repeats. you stop walking. “you’re not.” you don’t raise your voice, but something about the evenness of your words makes him halt, his shoulders drawing up.

“what the fuck do you want me to do then?” he snaps as he spins around, eyes blazing. “i don’t have a chauffeur waiting for me around the corner like you usually do,” he spits, hands gesturing with bitterness. “so unless you’ve got a better fucking idea, i’m driving myself home.” your brows lift, stunned—not at the words themselves, but at the vitriol behind them. the knives he’s been itching to unsheathe. “what? what is that even supposed to mean?” “it means stop pretending like you care,” he bites back. your mouth parts, but it takes a second for your voice to come. “i’m not pretending. you can barely stand straight. for god’s sake, you could have a concussion… what if you black out behind the wheel?” “i’ll manage.” “you don’t have to,” you push. “i can—” “what, help?” he scoffs. “yes, i—” “well, forgive me if i’m not interested in your assessment,” he snaps. “i don’t need your sympathy. i didn’t ask for it.” your brows pull together. “why are you being like this? i might not be the greatest person ever, or whatever version of me you’ve conjured in your head, but i’m not a machine, you know? i have feelings. i feel things. and i… i don’t know what’s happened to you tonight, but this—this cruelty you’re giving me—” seunghyun closes the distance then, suddenly. you don’t step back. “you want to know?” he snaps. “i needed the fucking money, okay?! i needed to win that fight. and you—” he gestures lazily. your stomach drops. “are you saying this is my fault?” “you shouldn’t have been there.” “i didn’t know you’d be fighting,” you counter. “i came with a friend—” “yeah, i know. the guy you were making out with in the garden? that one?” you flinch. “what does that have to do with any of this?” “it has everything to do with it! you showing up, saying my fucking name—do you have any idea how incredibly stupid that was?!” “i didn’t say your name—” “your boyfriend did, that’s the fucking thing!” “he’s not my boyfriend! and i didn’t plan for any of this. i didn’t even know you fought.” “good,” he tskes. “now you do!”

he turns from you again without another word, heading down the street. and this time it feels definitive. you stay behind for a moment, staring at the back of his head, the words he just threw at you still rippling through the air. you let out this frustrated sigh before you move, if only to keep him in sight. you follow him while you wonder: why is he so angry? the question echoes, again and again, it’s all you can think. yes, he lost. yes, he got hurt. but you didn’t do that to him. it’s natural to feel upset and disappointed. but why this? why the venom in his tone, the coldness in every step he takes away from you? maybe it’s the weight of all the tension that’s been simmering for weeks, or the fact that you’ve both been pretending this thing between you—whatever it is—doesn’t exist. “seunghyun,” you call again. “please. can we talk?” “talk about what? you want to talk me out of reporting this? because if that’s the case, don’t even bother.” “what? no, that’s not what i—wait, you’re reporting it?” seunghyun stops in front of a grey car, shoulders heaving. the key is already in his hand, but he doesn’t move to unlock the door. doesn’t look at you yet, either. “i’m gonna make sure you don’t see that guy again. and riggs? he’s done.” he shakes his head. “i’ll get him fired. first thing tomorrow.” you frown, moving a little closer. “seunghyun, please—” “no,” he says, cutting in before you can finish. you continue, “i… i understand you needed to win tonight. i do. and if you lost money—if you need help, i can—” “i don’t want anything from you! not your help, not your money... and sure as hell not your fucking concern. we’re not friends.”

his words settle in slow before they begin to sting. there’s no room for pride in the hollow he’s left behind; only the ache of being told that whatever fragile thread you thought might’ve existed between you was nothing. and maybe you’d been foolish to believe otherwise. it’s not like you thought you were friends. no, that word never quite fit. but still, you thought… something. the smallest spark of mutual amusement, if not enjoyment—a shared rhythm in the bickering, the proximity and the stolen glances that lingered a second too long. now, standing here, you realize maybe you got it all wrong. maybe he never saw you like that… maybe it was contempt all along. he’s always hated you. and tonight, he finally stopped pretending otherwise. “why do you hate me?” you ask, barely more than a whisper. the second it leaves your mouth you want to swallow it back, pretend it never took shape on your tongue with that humiliating tremble and that weak-fucking-willed fracture of voice you couldn’t mask. but it’s already out there. seunghyun looks at you. whatever fire was fueling him moments ago seems to falter, confused and caught off guard. he wasn’t expecting that. wasn’t expecting the question, or the way you asked it. “why do you hate me so much?” he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you. and when the silence stays, your body takes over where words fail. the tears come, slipping down your cheeks and blurring your vision. “i’ll take you home,” he says eventually, gesturing to the car.

you shake your head. “i’m asking—i want you to be honest. just… why. tell me why.” your voice breaks again, but you push through it. “i might not be—i know i’m not perfect. i’m spoiled and… and stubborn, and selfish, and impatient and… i don’t know. i might be a lot of awful things, okay? things that you probably despise. but i’m not a bad person. and i’ve done nothing to you, seunghyun.” you pause, breath shaking, blinking rapidly against the tears still clouding your vision. he’s standing a few feet away, looking at you with that same expression he always has… the muscle in his jaw ticks, but he still doesn’t speak. if only you could read his eyes. “i haven’t done anything,” you push. “i haven’t done anything to deserve the way you treat me. you’ve been like this since the very first day. and i’ve tried… i’ve tried to make this bearable, but you’ve never once extended me the grace you give everyone else in that house.” you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “so i don’t know what i ever did to you, seunghyun, but i don’t deserve your hatred.” you wait. a second… two… three… each one heavier than the last. for the briefest moment, you think he might say something that gestures, even vaguely, toward tenderness. not an apology, no, you know better than to hope for that. but a word, maybe. you can tell he’s weighing every response against the fury he still feels. he licks his lips before saying, flatly: “get in the car.” your lower lip quivers, and you hate that he sees it. hate the heat rising again behind your eyes. “seunghyun—” “i’m not going to say it again.” his tone is clipped. “it’s my job to keep you safe, so i’m taking you home. now get in the car.” you stare at him in disbelief. how could someone be so heartless? your lips press together before you start walking. you move past him, close enough to graze his arm, but he doesn’t flinch nor follows with his eyes. your hand closes around the passenger door handle. you pull it open with more force than necessary—something petty in you needing to make a sound. you slide inside without looking back, hands in your lap and face turned resolutely toward the windshield.

seunghyun regrets a lot of things in his life. enough to keep him up most nights, lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. so many, in fact, that he never would’ve thought this—making you cry—would be the thing to make its way to the top of that ever-growing list. but there it is nonetheless. he regrets every word that left his mouth, every cruel and bitter inflection. but the tone… the tone he used is what really haunts him. especially when he remembers how you looked that night, when he caught a glimpse of your profile, barely lit by the passing streetlamps. he noticed you were still crying. he remembers pulling up to the estate in this horrible silence, then stopping the car. his hands were still gripping the wheel even after the engine died, knuckles sore from the way he’d clenched his fists the whole ride home. he barely got the words out, “see you tomorrow.” and you were reaching for the door with shaking fingers, unbuckling your seatbelt in one rushed movement. the door slammed behind you. and seunghyun just sat there, looking at you through the windshield as you walked across the circular driveway. he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about it either. not even for a goddamn minute. first of all: how the fuck did you let someone speak to you like that? and not just someone. a man. how the fuck did you let a man speak to you like that? who the fuck does he think he is? and more importantly—who did you become, in that moment, to let it happen? why did you just take it? the memory comes unwanted. you wince every time you hear yourself in your head. that trembling voice, the way you asked him if he hated you like a fucking child… you want to hurl something across the room when you remember it. or bang your head against the nearest wall until you forget how pathetic you must’ve looked, humiliated in the passenger seat of his stupid, silent car. you tell yourself it was the nerves, the heat of it all. the suffocating pressure of being somewhere you were never supposed to be, seeing things you weren’t meant to see, with a man who glowered at you like you’d ruined his life. you’re not used to being yelled at. or being the culprit to that kind of rage. and you’re definitely not used to feeling hated by someone. why did he need that money so badly? why did your presence cost him something he couldn’t afford to lose? you haven’t been able to shake those questions since that night. your battered, aching pride, tells you to let it go: he can go fuck himself because i did nothing wrong… but then the guilt creeps in, and it whispers things you hate to admit, like: maybe if i hadn’t gone, he wouldn’t have lost whatever deal that was. so no matter how cruel he was to you, no matter how much you wish you’d screamed right back at him… you still feel bad.

golf was never your thing. not that your father cares. it’s one of those performative rituals he insists on, every now and then—an occasional morning at the country club he calls quality time. you call it theatre, though. you wouldn’t mind it so much if it didn’t always end the same way: with him sighing audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose like your existence gives him migraines, and correcting your grip on the club for the fifth time with the same curt phrase, “it’s not that hard, sweetheart.” as if you’d ever wanted to be good at this. and then comes the inevitable comparison: “your mother had the perfect swing. god, she was graceful.” you always feel it like a punch to the stomach. he doesn’t mean to say you’re graceless, of course. he just implies it, glancing at your posture with disappointment thinly veiled as concern, or clucking his tongue and adjusting your stance. but no matter what you do, no matter how straight you keep your back or how hard you try to follow through—you’re not her. you never have been. and god knows he hasn’t let you forget it. so you nod. you grit your teeth, swing and miss, feeling the heat of his judgment radiating beside you like the sun. and you wonder what it must’ve felt to lose her, only to be left with you.

still, you try to make the most of it. you take what you can get whenever your father decides to momentarily shed the steely version of himself that runs half the goddamn country. out here, dressed down in bermuda shorts, he almost passes for a person. and it’s in those rare, fleeting moments of normalcy that you learn to time your questions—when he’s feeling competent, generous and vaguely paternal. it’s then, and only then, that you get answers. not many… but more than the usual dismissive grunt, the perfunctory “we’ll talk about it later” that always means never. this morning is no different. you watch him line up his shot with his usual focus. “so,” you say lightly, brushing imaginary dust from your polo shirt, letting your tone hover between disinterested and curious, “what’s the plan for the fourth?” he doesn’t look up. just exhales, swings, and watches the ball soar. “same as every year,” he replies. “gala at the westcott estate, fireworks after dinner. senator hayes is flying in from california. that sort of thing.” “and am i expected to go?” that gets you a glance. “of course.” yeah… of course. he adjusts his grip on the club, gaze drifting back to the fairway before remembering something and adding, “hayes’ daughter will be there too. she’s back from yale—what’s her name…” you blink when he finally pronounces her name, dredging up a vague memory. “you two used to be close.” you raise an eyebrow. “when we were twelve.” “well,” he says, tone almost encouraging. “she asked about you last year. said it was nice seeing you again.”

you bite back a response. it wasn’t. she spent most of the night peppering you with questions about your life while not-so-subtly mentioning hers—rubbing everything she had accomplished in your face. “and who else?” you ask, mostly to fill the space. “the langfords. the whitmores… including their son julian. senator ortiz and his wife—you liked her, didn’t you? just the usual circle.” you hum slowly. “should be good,” he adds, as if trying to convince you now. “last year was nice.” you let the silence settle, smiling to yourself as you tiptoe closer to the reason you started this conversation in the first place. “will the team be there too?” “what team?” “security.” you shrug. “your personal entourage.” he narrows his eyes, not liking the phrasing. “they’re not an entourage, sweetheart. they’re there for your protection.” “right... my mistake.” he starts walking toward where your balls landed, and you fall into step beside him, your feet sinking slightly into the grass with each step as the sun presses down harder than it did just minutes ago. behind you, the distant hum of the golf cart floats along the path—security keeping their careful distance. you adjust the visor cap on your head, wiping sweat from your temples with the back of your wrist, careful not to smear what little mascara you bothered with this morning and feeling the sting of sunblock and salt gathering right under your eyes. “just wondering who’s on rotation that day. who’ll be around.” you glance toward the cart, squinting against the sun. “i like knowing who i’m spending my holidays with.” “riggs, i believe. and seunghyun.” you keep your face neutral, but you’re laughing internally. riggs and seunghyun… what a fucking pair. the man who barely speaks to you and the man who speaks too much. you don’t know what seunghyun’s problem with riggs is either, only that it’s palpable. he’d even said that he was going to make sure your father fired him. but he never reported it. because if he had, riggs would be gone by now and you’d be sitting here under closer surveillance, probably ‘grounded’ into oblivion. and you think you know why he didn’t. i mean… what would he even say? that you went somewhere you weren’t supposed to? that he found you in the middle of something illegal—something he was actively participating in? he’d have to tell your father where you were. and to do that, he’d have to tell him where he was.

you reach your balls just as he stops to stretch his shoulder, rotating it with exaggerated stiffness. his ball is dead center, of course. yours landed a little off to the right, near a patch of stubborn weeds. you let your tone go light again, “do you think seunghyun could get that day off?” your father pauses mid practice swing, turning to look at you. “why?” “he just seems… tense lately.” “he’s ex-military. they’re all tense.” “sure. but i don’t know… this feels different.” he squints at you. “you two speak often?” “no. not really,” you say with a shrug. “he’s not much of a talker.” your father hums, noncommittal. “no. he isn’t.” he swings again and watches the ball disappear down the fairway. you wait a beat, letting the moment stretch long enough to feel natural. offhandedly, you ask again, “do they get paid well?” he pulls a towel from his back pocket, dabs at his forehead. “they’re compensated accordingly. why?” “just seems like a lot. long hours, always on call, dealing with my charming personality… i figured the pay must be decent.” he huffs a laugh. “you’re not that hard to manage.” you glance over at him, offering a smile. “you sure about that?” he gives a faint, wry smile in return but doesn’t take the bait. he moves toward his bag and switches clubs, fingers brushing over the polished metal as he narrows his eyes toward the flag in the distance. you step up to your spot in the grass and plant your feet. the weeds around your ball are stubborn, curling. you adjust your grip, set your jaw, and swing. it’s not terrible… but it’s not good either. the ball veers to the left, which is enough to irritate you. your father glances over. “you rushed it.” “i’m aware,” you mutter, tugging the cap lower on your head. you wipe your hands on your skirt, thinking of a way to loop the conversation back.

he starts walking again, and you follow, your grip loose on the club as it drags lightly through the grass behind you, the rhythmic thunk of the metal against the earth keeping time with your thoughts. they wander, unwilling, back to a few nights ago, to the argument with seunghyun. maybe it’s the quiet that pulls it out of you, the gentle choreography of father and daughter doing something mundane and almost resembling what you used to have when your mother was still alive. back when you could say what hurt and expect to be held by him instead of corrected. there’s something childlike in the way it slips from your mouth, “dad.” he doesn’t turn, but hums in acknowledgment, gaze fixed ahead. you hesitate, already regretting it and wishing you’d kept it to yourself. but your voice stays dressed up in nonchalance. “do you ever wonder what they think of us?” your gaze flicks toward the cart again, briefly. your father lets out a laugh, like the question itself is a kind of joke. “they don’t get paid to think, sweetheart.” you scoff, shaking your head. “that doesn’t mean they don’t.” he doesn’t reply, which only emboldens you. “i mean… they watch everything. they know how we live, how we talk, what we complain about, what we take for granted. they see us at our worst. or… or our most honest. and then they go home—to whatever life they’re trying to hold together… and we’re just—what? symbols of everything they can’t have?” that makes him stop. he turns to look at you. “where’s that coming from?” “i don’t know, i just—” you tap the club gently against your chin, eyes skimming the trees ahead. “i think about it sometimes.” your father’s still watching you with his brows faintly drawn, confusion all over his face. you want to backpedal. because you know that this isn’t something he’ll ever be able to grasp. he’s lived too long above it. he looks like he’s waiting for something—an explanation or a clean pivot back to something he understands. “forget it. i just think about what their lives might be like sometimes. compared to ours. that’s… that’s all.” you nudge the club into the grass. “there’s no point comparing. different lives, different rules.” you glance at him sidelong. “sure. but same world.” he doesn’t respond to that. just continues walking. “and what about seunghyun?” your father gives you a brief look. “what about him?” “i don’t know. i just keep thinking about how young he is for this job.”“he’s twenty eight. we’ve discussed this already.” you shake your head, more to yourself. “no, i mean—he’s already spent most of his twenties in the military, or doing whatever came after. you said he had ten years of tactical experience, right? and now he’s here. with a schedule that would suffocate most people. i just… i guess i don’t get it.” “what don’t you get?” you look up at him. “why someone that young would want to spend the rest of his twenties like this.” he exhales through his nose. “he requested a consistent schedule. it brings steady income.” you frown. “yeah, but that’s not life. not when you’re our age. he’s supposed to be… i don’t know—living. not standing in the corner, watching over some girl who does absolutely nothing profitable all day—” he raises a brow. “so now you’re worried he’s not fulfilled?” you want to slap yourself out of the pure embarrassment of your father catching up on your concerns. “i’m not—i’m not worried. it just… doesn’t make sense to me.”

he considers you for a long beat. “he has someone at the hospital.” and there it is. the missing piece of the puzzle. “here?” he nods. “in bethesda, as far as i know.” “what happened?” “i wasn’t told. he’s not exactly forthcoming, you know that.” you wait, hoping he’ll continue, hoping there’s more. but he says nothing. you press, “you don’t even know who it is? like… is it a family member or—” “he didn’t say.” “but is it serious?” “it’s ongoing. and expensive, as you can imagine. so he’s working as many shifts as we’ll allow.” you feel a dull, nauseating twist in your stomach. you glance down at your club, running your thumb over the smooth grip, before saying, with as much indifference as you can feign, “so why didn’t you tell me that before?” he turns to look at you, a flicker of suspicion passing across his face. “since when are you so interested in seunghyun?” well, shit. perhaps you’ve abused the sanctity of the golf bonding moment… this is what always happens. you think you’re easing into something and then, suddenly, you’ve said too much and asked too directly. you let out a breathy laugh, shake your head. “i’m not. i was just wondering.” your father hums. a sound too knowing for your comfort. he doesn’t even stop walking. “mmh. well, for someone who isn’t interested, you certainly have a lot of questions.” you can feel your face burn. you hate how juvenile you must look right now, following him around the green, prying into things that are none of your business. “it’s not like that,” you mutter, eyes on the grass. “i just meant—he’s always around. it made me curious.” he turns to you, adjusting the glove on his left hand and smoothing the leather against his wrist with deliberate care. “look, i understand the appeal. he spends most of his day watching over you, paying attention. he’s not bad to look at, either. and i know how easily these things can start to feel… exciting. especially when you’re bored.” you feel humiliated. it’s not even what he’s saying. it’s how easy it is for him to say it, how confident he is in the assumption that this is all some passing indulgence on your part, a silly little crush born of privilege and too much time. “that’s not what this is,” you say, but it sounds unconvincing, even to you. “i’m not judging you. i’m just asking you to be smart, sweetheart. not everyone gets to live the way you do… and not everyone should.” “what’s that supposed to mean?” “what i mean is that you don’t belong in his world, and he doesn’t belong in yours. people like seunghyun… they’re not built for it. they serve it. he isn’t a fixture of this life… and you shouldn’t start seeing him as one.” it lands heavier than you expect. you’ve heard versions of it your whole life—from teachers, from peers, from the faintly patronizing tone your aunts use when they talk about staff. but hearing it from him, now, with seunghyun’s name on his lips… it feels awfully different.

do your father’s words keep you from being curious? absolutely the fuck not. if anything, they do the opposite—stirring something stubborn inside you, a restless need to understand the things he wouldn’t say. and more than that, it starts making you rethink every time you were the slightest bit cruel to seunghyun, every time you snapped just to see if he’d snap back, every smug little argument you started because you liked the way he clenched his jaw. he must’ve really been going through it. all that time. and you didn’t know. but you do now… or at least, you’re beginning to. whatever it is, it has to be serious. serious enough that he’s working under your father (surveilling you, of all people) and stepping into fucking illegal fights on top of it. and who knows what else! it makes you feel like shit. your mind keeps circling back to that night. to the fact that you were there and something about that was enough to cost him everything—made him lose the money tied to an hospitalized person you’ve never met but now feel hauntingly responsible for.

you keep glancing at seunghyun for the entirety of the fourth of july night. it’s pathetic how your eyes keep finding him in the crowd. they skip right over the senators, friends of the family and every person you were raised to consider ‘worth knowing,’ only to land, uninvited, on him. he’s mostly by the perimeter, standing near the tree line, and he hasn’t spoken to anyone since the sun went down. hasn’t so much as looked in your direction. it’s after dinner, when half the guests are drunk and the other half are halfway there, when someone decides it’s time for music. bruce springsteen begins to hum through the hidden speakers across the lawn, the familiar beat of born in the u.s.a pulsing through the warm summer air. you stand beside the dessert table, the last bite of the lemon tart sweetness still lingers in your mouth and the linen napkin in your hand’s beginning to wrinkle from how tightly you’ve been twisting it. across from you, senator hayes’ daughter is mid sentence. has been, you suspect, for a while now—launching into another self indulgent monologue. “—yeah honestly, i just wasn’t expecting it to smell like that,” she says, with a little laugh. “i mean, i knew it would be different from here, obviously, but i didn’t think it would be so… i don’t know. overwhelming? the noise, the colors, the food stalls on every corner—raw meat, just hanging there in the sun.” you blink slowly, a practiced expression of polite neutrality settling across your face. “where was this again?” “jakarta. i went for this international business summit in my third quarter. we stayed in this gorgeous compound and it wasn’t that bad, but i still had to see it all, you know? the poverty, the stray animals everywhere... jesus. i’ve never seen anything like it.” you hum softly, keeping your eyes on your glass. “must’ve been eye-opening.” “totally. and it just made me realize how lucky we are here… people complain about the traffic in georgetown, but at least we don’t have, like, open sewage running down the sidewalks! and don’t get me wrong, i loved the textiles. and the jewelry was gorgeous. but god… by the third day i just needed a normal shower. and real food… not that spiced stuff.” you glance at her now, watching her sip from her glass like she’s recounting a slightly disappointing film. there’s no malice in her tone—just the vague discontent of someone who’s been coddled their entire life and still wants credit for exposure. “but it was worth it,” she adds. “i got this insane internship connection through one of the ambassadors’ wives. and it just makes you grateful, you know? to come home and realize how well we live.” you nod, let your gaze drift across the lawn, your ears ringing with disinterest as the last dregs of your patience disappear.

“anyway,” she says, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind one ear, “we’re going to aspen in august. my dad says it’s good for networking, you should come if—” “sorry, i should make a few calls before it gets too late,” you cut her off, angling your wrist and glancing at nothing on your watch. “i’ll be back.” “oh. sure.” she smiles, a bit disappointed. you waste no time slipping through the terrace archway, heels clicking against the stone until you reach the side garden. it was a lie, obviously. you just needed to get away from her for a little bit. you sink onto the edge of a cushioned bench, one leg under the other, and let yourself breathe for the first time in hours. bruce springsteen is still rasping in the distance—dancing in the dark this time, which feels ironic considering how bright the fairy lights glow overhead. you slip your phone out, screen lighting your face in blue. you’re not even thinking when you start typing seunghyun’s name into facebook’s search bar, thumb hovering for a second before you press go. and… it’s private. the only profile that pops up is just a gray silhouette and a banner photo of the korean flag, nothing else, which makes you snort softly through your nose. then you try instagram, on a whim, not expecting much… but there it is. only five posts and a few dozen followers. no profile picture, either. the first photo is from years ago. an abstract painting hanging on a museum wall. nothing else in the frame and no caption. the second is a video, probably taken on an old phone. dusk spills across an empty field, and a tall, wiry dog is sprinting toward the camera, kicking up little clouds of dust. you hear seunghyun’s voice in a light, playful tone, so unlike the man you know: “c’mon! come here! come here, boy!” he’s laughing, and there’s something in the sound that makes you freeze. the clip cuts out as the dog leaps up and the camera tilts, catching a flash of the sky before it ends. the caption is a single red heart. the third post is what makes you pause. a selfie, taken inside his car. it’s a little too close, the light from the passenger’s side window catching his cheekbone and the corner of his mouth. there’s a filter on it, something warm toned. his expression is flat, mouth in a straight line… but his beautiful brown eyes are gentle, smiling. you feel something small shift in your chest that makes you smile too, before you realize you’re doing it. the fourth post is a sunset, though the frame barely holds it. it’s taken from what looks like a parking lot—you can make out the haphazard row of cars in the bottom corner—and the sky above is thick with late color, orange spilling into blue. the caption reads: can’t sleep so i’m taking a walk around the block. and the last one, posted just a few months ago, is the one that makes your throat go tight. it’s a photo of a small ceramic mug, glazed in pale blue with a few darker swirls near the rim. it sits on a windowsill. you notice the shape is off, clearly handmade, one side sloping heavier than the other, and the handle looks like it was pinched into place by a small, careful hand. the caption says: junseo made this. the post could mean absolutely nothing… if it weren’t for the comments.

dyan.27

how’s your brother doing?

⤷ choi_seunghyun_

Same. Still at Suburban.

⤷ dyan.27

damn man…

dyan.27

i was hoping he’d be better now

⤷ choi_seunghyun_

Yeah, me too.

⤷ dyan.27

he’s strong though, like you.

dyan.27

you’re doing good, man💪

⤷ choi_seunghyun_

Thanks

⤷ dyan.27

lmk if there’s anything you need

⤷ choi_seunghyun_

Will do. Thank you!

you learn three things from this. first, that the person in that hospital—the reason behind everything—is seunghyun’s brother. second, that his name is junseo. and third, that he’s staying at suburban hospital in bethesda. it all clicks in your head as you glance back at the photo again, at the mug you hadn’t paid much attention to a minute ago but now you can’t stop staring at. noticing things you missed the first time—the tiny indentations along the side where someone’s fingers must’ve pressed too hard into the clay. and the more you look, the more certain you feel that those dips weren’t made by an adult… they’re too small. it makes you feel sick, your stomach twisting violently now, guilt threading hot up the back of your neck. you hadn’t even realized how shallow your breath had gotten, until you hear seunghyun’s voice saying: “you shouldn’t be out here alone.” you flinch, fumbling to lock your phone screen. you don’t have the energy to be flippant. for once, all the smartass retorts and sharp remarks evaporate. “i-i know... i know, it was just for a moment.” your hands feel clumsy all of a sudden, and the way you move doesn’t go unnoticed. you can feel his eyes on you as he takes another step forward, the gravel crunching under his shoes. “is everything okay?” “yeah,” you say, nodding. “all good.” he doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press either, letting the silence stretch for a moment before repeating “you shouldn’t be out here alone,” and his voice is firmer, more commanding. “it’s not secure. if you need a minute, someone has to be with you. otherwise, you go back.” “i’m fine.” his eyes narrow the smallest bit. you’re not being difficult and giving him hell for stating the obvious like you’ve done other times. “and i know,” you add. “i’m going.”

less than a week later, you’re standing in the over-air-conditioned quiet of suburban hospital, chilled to the bone despite the july heat that had blistered against your skin just moments ago. it’s early. you’d timed it on purpose—knew your father would be halfway to washington with a team of aides by now. you’d watched the car disappear from the driveway, waited exactly eight minutes, then slipped out in silence. and now here you are. alone, finally, albeit not quite. riggs is waiting in the car just outside, one hand likely drumming on the steering wheel, the other probably around his thermos. he’d said nothing when you told him where to drive, just raised an eyebrow in the rearview and nodded once. you hadn’t explained and didn’t need to. your kitten heels click across the tile, echoing in the clean lobby. the woman at the reception desk glances up as you approach. “visiting hours start at eight.” you stop in front of her counter, smoothing the edge of your silk shirt. your bag rests neatly against your side, and your lipstick is still fresh. you’d checked twice before walking in. you glance at the clock behind her, then back at her. “i know, i’m here to… ask about donations,” you say softly, trying not to sound nervous even though you are. she leans slightly forward, the creak of her chair the only sound for a moment. “donations?” “yes. for a patient.” her brows lift, curious, maybe even wary. there’s a pause as her eyes flick across your face, which makes you stand a little straighter. the scrutiny almost makes you adjust your earrings, but you resist, deciding instead to press your palms gently against the counter. “i mean… i don’t—i don’t know what the proper channels are, or if this is even something people… do,” you continue. “but i’d like to cover a few months of treatment… or at least contribute. under a specific name.” “what’s the name?” she asks. “junseo choi… he must be in pediatrics.” “hm. let me check…” her fingers begin their soft staccato over the keyboard, the plastic keys clicking through the silence as you stand there, shifting your weight and glancing around the lobby. “yes, he’s here under the pediatric unit,” she murmurs, eyes flicking toward you. “respiratory wing. long term observation for advanced cystic fibrosis… he’s been here a while.” your lashes flutter, barely, but it feels seismic. advanced cystic fibrosis. he’s just a kid… just a kid. and this is what seunghyun fights for. this is what he carries in his silence, every single day. you draw in a slow breath, aware now of how cold the air is against your throat, how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “and you said,” she prompts gently, “you’d like to make a contribution toward his care?” “yes.” you nod. “yes, i’d like to help.” “and your relation to the patient?”

you hesitate. it’s such a simple question… one that expects a simple answer. but your mouth doesn’t want to move. you’re not family, nor a guardian. you’ve never even met the kid. and seunghyun… he probably wouldn’t want you here. no, actually he’d hate it. he wouldn’t want you knowing this. still, you lift your chin, the gesture subtle. the only armor you have. “i’m… friends with his brother,” you say. the lie folds out so smoothly it almost sounds true. “okay. i’m going to need your full name.” you tell her and the woman nods, jotting something down on the form in front of her. “you can wait here,” she says once she’s done. “i’ll get someone from billing to come speak with you about the logistics. it’ll just take a moment.” you nod, and she gestures toward a row of chairs near the window. you take the farthest one. you stare out at the morning light bleeding through the big glass windows, imagining seunghyun in this same building, sitting beside his sick little brother. you press your lips together as you feel that stupid, helpless burn behind your eyes. the kind you know better than to indulge. a few minutes go by before you hear: “miss?” you turn at the sound, startled. a woman in pale blue scrubs stands a few feet away, holding a clipboard, her ponytail slipping loose at the base of her neck. “billing can see you now.”

the nurse—or assistant, or whoever she is—doesn’t make small talk as she leads you down the hushed corridor, her footsteps brisk against the floor. she stops before a narrow door, knocks once without waiting for a reply, and opens it. behind the desk inside the room sits a man in a collared shirt, glasses perched low on his nose. “this is the young woman asking about contributing to the choi file,” the nurse says, handing over the clipboard. “right,” the man murmurs, flipping a few pages, then finally looking up at you with a polite smile. “have a seat.” you lower yourself carefully into the chair opposite him. “i understand you’re interested in covering a portion of the patient’s treatment?” he asks, flipping to a new form. “yes, if that’s allowed.” “it is, in certain cases,” he replies. “typically, only immediate family members are permitted to pay into a patient’s direct balance. but for long term pediatric care, we have a few auxiliary funds you can contribute to… we can designate the donation toward his specific case, as long as the family consents.” “and if they don’t?” “then it goes into the general respiratory support fund. still helpful, of course. but not as personal.” you hesitate for only a moment before answering, “i’d prefer it be personal.” he studies you for a beat before asking, “how much were you thinking of contributing?” you tell him, the number slipping from your lips without flourish. it makes him pause because it’s… more than expected. a lot more. he clears his throat. “that would be… substantial. enough to cover a few months, possibly longer depending on his treatment schedule.” “good.” “are you sure about this, miss?” there’s no hesitation in your voice when you reply, “yes.” “then we’ll need the family’s consent,” he says. “let them know someone is interested in making a designated donation. if they agree, we’ll process it accordingly.” “and who… who would you contact?” his fingers tap the edge of the clipboard. “his legal guardian. looks like… his older brother, seunghyun, is listed as primary.” of course. of fucking course. he’s going to know. they’re going to call him. “you’ll… tell him someone wants to donate?” he nods. “we’ll let him know someone’s expressed interest in supporting the case. he can choose to accept or decline. should he accept, your contribution will be filed directly under the designated case. if not, we can still place it under general use. is that okay with you, miss?” “yes.” he smiles, satisfied. “very well. i’ll initiate the process and place the preliminary authorization on hold. our staff will contact mr. choi shortly to request formal consent for the allocation.” you offer a small, wordless nod, your hands folded neatly over your lap. he rises from his chair, and you mirror his action, rising as well. “you’re welcome to wait outside while we make the call. it shouldn’t take long.” “actually—” you begin, briefly glancing down at the thin gold watch wrapped around your wrist, its hands ticking just past eight o’clock. visiting hours have officially begun. “i realize it’s now within the appropriate timeframe for visitation. and i don’t wish to intrude, of course, but… would it be possible for me to see him? junseo?” you pause. “even if only through the glass.” you know that look, the click of thought behind his eyes… he’s thinking it through. you can tell he knows he shouldn’t, but the number you offered is still sitting at the back of his mind, and you can see the moment it tips the scale. he hesitates, but it doesn’t matter. you’ve already seen the answer in the resigned set of his mouth and the defeated exhale that follows. “i’ll see what i can do.”

seunghyun’s fresh out of the shower when his phone begins to ring. he has a towel slung low on his hips, another one pressed against the back of his head as he rubs it through his damp hair. his bare feet track water across the floor as he walks toward the nightstand, thinking about the errands he was supposed to run before heading in to see junseo. but the second he sees the number flash across the screen, his heart stumbles. suburban hospital. in an instant, the worst unfolds in his mind, and he braces for it as he picks up the phone. but his panic quickly shifts into confusion as they explain that someone has come forward offering to cover several months of junseo’s care. seunghyun sits down hard on the edge of the bed. “i’m sorry—what?” those are the only words he manages to form, stuck on a loop, blinking at the floor. the voice continues, outlining the conditions once more, underscoring the generosity of a young woman who insisted it be used exclusively for junseo. his stomach turns. he knows immediately. “who?” he asks anyway. “what’s her name?” when your name is spoken, he lets out a loud, frustrated exhale and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, dragging it down to his mouth. silence stretches on the other end of the line. “…sir? are you alright?” “yes. yeah. i’m okay,” he mutters, albeit unconvincingly. there’s a pause. “would you like to accept the donation then, mr. choi? if so, you’ll need to come in and sign the necessary paperwork.” the question barely registers. his brain is still reeling, emotions ricocheting violently through the space where his restraint usually sits. seunghyun shakes his head to no one. “is she still there? at the hospital?” he asks, cutting across the formal tone entirely. “yes, i believe so. she requested to see your brother, briefly… from outside the room only.” “don’t let her leave. please,” he says, getting to his feet. “i need to speak to her first.”

seunghyun spots you across the hallway, seated on the bench of chairs in front of his brother’s room, composed as ever, the same poised stillness he’s seen on you everywhere else. his jaw tightens as he approaches, footsteps loud against the floor, squeaking faintly with each step. yet you don’t turn your head until he exchanges a few words with a passing nurse, one who’s been taking care of junseo since the beginning. he watches your shoulders shift, back straightening instinctively as you stand, your expression softening at the sight of him. your hands find each other in front of your body, fingers laced tight to hide the way they’ve started to tremble as the knot in your stomach grows the closer he gets. as you feared, his expression isn’t kind. seunghyun doesn’t offer so much as a greeting before stopping in front of you, and the first words that slip through his lips are: “are you fucking crazy?” in that clipped tone of his. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. his presence swallows the air around you, and for a moment all you can do is stare at him—at the tension in his shoulders, the damp strands of hair still clinging to his forehead, and the look in his eyes that makes your chest hurt. “i—” you start, voice tentative. “i know this isn’t ideal, but i just—” “oh, no, don’t even” he snaps. “don’t even try to explain.” “seunghyun—” “i told you!” he continues, “i told you i didn’t want anything from you!” hearing those words again stings. he meant them that night, and he means them even more now. it feels like he’s not just rejecting the gesture, or the money, or your presence here—but you, entirely. like the very thought of you being involved in any part of his life is something he can’t stomach. “why are you even doing this?” your hands clench in front of you. “i’m sorry, i wanted—” “you think just because you have money, you can show up here and try to fix my fucking life?” he asks, and this time there’s something cruel in the way he says it. you shake your head. “that’s not—i didn’t do this to—” “no?” he cuts in again. “then what did you do it for?” his eyes flick over you. over your neat silk shirt, the pearls at your ears, the golden watch on your wrist… and the resentment there is unmistakable. “i just… i-i wanted to help.” “help,” he echoes, holding back a bitter laugh. “you think that’s what this is? well, let me make something clear—i don’t need your fucking help. i don’t need anything done for the sake of your conscience.“ “how the fuck do you expect me to feel, seunghyun?” you fire back, voice rising. “you made it abundantly clear this was my fault—that i’m the reason you lost the money from that fight. so tell me… what would you have me do with that?!” his expression falters, that rigid anger slipping into something close to regret. “and now you’re standing here, speaking to me as if i’ve come to soothe my ego—when all i’ve done has been torn myself up about this for weeks, trying to figure out how to make it right,” you go on. “i didn’t walk in expecting a thank you… or some sweeping gesture of forgiveness. i wasn’t—i wasn’t hoping for anything, really. not even this conversation. i didn’t even need to see you.” you draw in a breath, eyes locked on his. “i came because i feel responsible. not just for what happened… but for whatever it is you think when you look at me like that. so if you’re going to reject the donation, then fine. but do it because it’s the wrong decision for your brother. not because you can’t stand the idea of taking something from me.”

seunghyun swallows hard at your words, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. his eyes drop to the floor. avoiding your gaze is the only mercy he can offer himself because he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. he doesn’t know what it is about you that makes him say things he regrets with everything he has. he just knows it happens every damn time. he forces himself to meet your eyes again. and what he sees there, in the glimmer behind them as they flicker over his face… makes something in him twist. “it wasn’t your fault.” “what?” “that i lost.” “you said—” “i know what i said,” he cuts you off. “and i know i shouldn’t have said it. i know how i made you feel.” his mouth presses into a thin line as the memory surfaces—the image of you with tears in your eyes etched into him forever. “i’m sorry.” you let out a soft sigh. that’s not what you came here for. you hadn’t expected those words, hadn’t even imagined he was capable of saying them. but you can’t deny that hearing the apology loosens something in you. your shoulders drop as you offer a small nod before saying, “then don’t make this harder than it has to be. please, seunghyun… just accept the donation.” you barely finish the sentence when the door to junseo’s room opens with a gentle creak and a nurse steps out, making both of you turn your heads. she glances between the two of you, surprised at the sight of seunghyun. “mr. choi,” she says gently, as if she isn’t sure whether to interrupt. “i didn’t realize you’d arrived.” seunghyun nods. “i just got here.” “oh. well, your brother’s awake,” she continues. “he’s doing alright today, his numbers look good. a little more fatigued than usual, but… stable” she trails off with a small, hopeful shrug. “we’ve started the morning treatment. he’s been asking for you.” she glances down at her chart, then back up. seunghyun’s looking past her, eyes fixed on the door. “hyung?” the sound of his brother’s voice from inside the room pulls at something in seunghyun’s face, softening his features. the nurse offers a smile. “we’ll be starting his respiratory therapy later this morning,” she adds. “a few breathing rounds and some percussion. nothing too heavy today.” seunghyun nods again. “okay. thank you.” she excuses herself with a polite murmur and slips away down the hall, leaving the two of you alone again—still standing outside that pale blue door. you clear your throat gently while the air between you and him thickens again. “i should… i should just go,” you say. “i didn’t mean to stay this long.” but you haven’t even taken two steps when seunghyun turns toward you. “wait—uh… would you… would you like to meet him?” it sounds genuine, and you don’t take that for granted because he’s choosing, of his own volition, to let you into something he rarely shares. you understand, that this isn’t something he’s done before. “yes. yes, i would love that.”

junseo is eight. small for his age, but with the kind of presence that swells to fill whatever room he’s in. he’s eager, barely pausing for breath as he recounts, in painstaking detail, the birthday the nurses organized for him in may. “two cakes,” he tells you, beaming. “one vanilla, one chocolate.” the memory clearly delights him. junseo talks above his coughs, relentless in his enthusiasm. his sentences are often interrupted by wheezing or a scratchy intake of air, but he refuses to let his lungs slow him down. seunghyun doesn’t intervene at first, hand resting lightly at the edge of the bed. but when the coughing persists, he leans in, saying “slow down, buddy,” with a softness that surprises you. “i’m fine,” junseo says, stubborn but smiling, eyes darting back to you. you let the boy guide the conversation, nodding when he shows you the drawing taped above his bed, then a stuffed frog that’s apparently named after a pro-wrestler, then a lego set he’s been building ‘for like a thousand years.’ and all the while, you’re aware of seunghyun beside you—though not in the way you’re used to. there’s a gentler cadence to the way he speaks to junseo. you watch the curve of his mouth lift more times than you’ve ever seen before, too accustomed to the tight lip he usually offers. but a dozen times already, you’ve caught the sound of his laugh, stirred by something ridiculous his little brother said, or a face he made, or the exaggerated retelling of a story. and when, by sheer accident, both your laughs happen to overlap, your eyes meet. seunghyun’s gaze darts away fast, smile faltering as if he’s been caught off guard by his own ease and the fact that you’re part of it, too.

when the nurses return and begin their preparations, you take it as your cue. the soft exchanges of clinical vernacular become the backdrop to your departure. seunghyun doesn’t say anything as he falls into step beside you, and for a while, neither of you speaks at all. the hallway stretches ahead, and the two of you walk its length in silence until it gives way to the lobby, now bustling with the late-morning crowd. you slow instinctively, no longer sure how to end… this unexpected lull in the war. the last few hours were the closest thing to peace you’ve ever managed with seunghyun, and you feel the absurd ache of wanting to preserve it just a little longer. you both start to speak at once. “well, it was nice—” you begin. “have you—” he says at the same time. you let out a soft, startled laugh. “sorry, you go first.” but he shakes his head. “no, no. it’s fine. you go.” “really, go ahead.” he exhales, the smallest shift in his shoulders betraying his discomfort. “i just wanted to know if… you’ve eaten. you’ve been here all morning.” it’s such an innocuous question… a simple, human inquiry. but it catches you off guard. perhaps it’s the gentleness in his voice, or the way he can’t quite meet your eyes when he says it, as though embarrassed by the subtle offer. your gaze flickers toward him and lingers, surprised by how tenderness looks on him. he notices your expression change, too—the subtle widening of your eyes and the uncertainty behind them. the thought festers, unwelcome but persistent in his mind: why would someone like you want to share another second of your day with someone like him? he’s been thinking about it all morning: what you’ve done for him, why you’ve done it, and whether any of it would’ve happened if he hadn’t raised his voice at you that night. so… why would you want to? the question loops with increasing venom. look at her. and then: look at me. he’s been trying to silence that particular thought since the first time he saw you. everything about you (what you wear, how you carry yourself, the vocabulary you use when you speak honed by years of elite education, your composure and your bright mind) strikes him as foreign. they’re cruel reminders of the chasm between his world and yours. he doesn’t hate you. he tells himself often—perhaps too often—that it isn’t you he resents, but what you represent: privilege in human form. but even as these thoughts surface and settle, they do little to quell the pull he feels toward you, entirely beyond his control.

"i haven't," you say at last. seunghyun nods slowly, a breath pushing through his chest as though preparing for something far more significant than it is. "do you... want to grab something? there's a place not far from here—" "riggs is waiting for me outside," you interrupt. "i imagine he's bored out of his mind by now." "i told him to leave." your brows lift. "pardon?" "i told him to leave," he repeats, slower. "when i got here. i said i'd stay with you." "you're not even on duty," you say, tilting your head. "today is your scheduled day off." "and riggs is the least professional man i've ever met," he replies without missing a beat, the tone almost dismissive. you offer a faint, skeptical sound. "so you took it upon yourself?" "he let me. he's not exactly strict with protocol... didn't need much persuading." you suppress a smile. "he's perfectly kind to me." "and unprofessional," seunghyun reiterates. you hum faintly, a quiet note of concession, but there's a flicker of amusement in your eyes now, though you don't give it away fully. "then by that logic," you say, tone dry, "you're being unprofessional too—asking me to lunch." there she is, seunghyun thinks to himself. there she is with that incisive tone, so characteristically hers. he doesn't smile, but his mouth twitches. "i'm off the clock... and whatever you're thinking, this isn't quite that." "no? then what is it, exactly?" "off-duty courtesy." you let out a scoff, shaking your head once, amused despite yourself. "but don't worry," he continues. "i can take no for an answer" "who said anything about no?"

the hamburger is placed in front of you with an unceremonious thud, the fries sliding precariously to one side. you stare at it, brow drawn, before saying, “is it… supposed to look like that?” as you inspect the sesame bun. “i’ve never seen one quite so… flattened.” seunghyun doesn’t try to hide the incredulous laugh that leaves him. “what?” you blink, feigning innocence, though the lift of your brow suggests you know exactly what. “i’m just making an observation.” he leans back in the booth, gaze fixed on you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “an observation,” he repeats, dryly. “yes. about the… presentation,” you clarify, fingers lifting the top bun delicately, as if you expect something grotesque to be lurking under it. “i’m not accustomed to food arriving looking like it’s already been chewed.” seunghyun exhales a soft scoff through his nose, reaching for the ketchup with one hand before unscrewing the cap. “it’s a hamburger,” he says, squeezing a generous line across his fries without looking at you. you glance down and peer at the small slice of tomato, the plasticine sheen of the cheese, then glance back at him with unmasked skepticism. “i’m simply saying… it looks rather dejected.” “but still good,” he replies, matter-of-fact, setting the ketchup bottle down and lifting his burger with both hands. before you can reply, he takes a bite—chews, swallows, then gestures toward your untouched plate with a lazy flick of his fingers. “go on. it’s not going to poison you.” you sigh before lifting the burger reluctantly, fingers barely touching its surface as if the entire thing might disintegrate in your hands—or worse, stain them. the moment grease seeps onto the plate below, your nose wrinkles. seunghyun catches the expression before you can mask it and it earns an amused chuckle from him, head shaking slowly as he watches you with begrudging fondness. you offer him a withering look before turning your attention back to the offending meal. delicately, you take a bite. your brows lift the faintest degree at the taste, a quiet, involuntary sound humming in your throat. “yeah,” he says. “i told you it’s good.”

you both eat in peaceful silence for a while, though calling it peaceful feels misleading—there’s nothing serene about it. it’s a silence too aware of itself, making you hyperconscious of every bite you take. but what is there to say? the strangeness of the situation is laughable: you’re seated across from seunghyun, a man who, up until a few hours ago, couldn’t speak to you without remarks or disdain. and now you’re sharing lunch, knees brushing under the table, as if this were something you’ve done before. but it isn’t. and if that weren’t enough, you met his eight year old brother today, after making the decision to cover months of his treatment. you can tell seunghyun’s just as uncomfortable as you are, his gaze fixed exclusively on the window beside your booth, refusing to meet yours. somehow, that feels weirder than anything else, because you’re used to his gaze on you. and you realize, with a strange sort of embarrassment, that you miss it. you reach for your glass of water, taking a slow sip. then you clear your throat softly, dabbing at your fingers with a napkin as you glance up, finally catching his attention. “the man from billing mentioned you’re junseo’s legal guardian.” there’s an imperceptible stiffening in his shoulders before you continue, “i assumed your parents might be abroad… in korea, perhaps?” you pause, tilting your head. “i found it curious. usually—” “they’re not.” you blink, unbothered by the interruption. “oh. so they live here, then?” your tone is inflected with the naiveté that so often accompanies your curiosity. it’s genuine and unassuming… but it lands the wrong way. out of all the things you could’ve said or asked—of all the neutral nothings available to fill the silence—you, unknowingly, touched the place he guards most viciously. seunghyun chews at the inside of his cheek, buying himself a few more seconds before speaking. “my mother died three years ago. cystic fibrosis.” he pauses, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek now before he exhales a mirthless sound. there’s bitterness in it, sharpened by the grotesque irony of it. the same disease that drained the color from his mother’s face, that made her ribs visible and her breathing labored, is now working its way through junseo, too. as if fate had nothing better to do than rinse and repeat. “and my father… abandoned us long before that.” “i’m—” you start, the word catching awkwardly in your throat. “i’m sorry. i didn’t know.”

he doesn’t respond. you’ve never been particularly good at this sort of thing—at comforting people. not at sympathy, either. you’ve always been far more fluent in detachment and decorum. but what you do know is how to reach for connection, however clumsily. and when words fail, as they often do, you default to the only thing you trust to mean something: a piece of yourself. “i… i understand you. my mother died, too. when i was sixteen.” “i know.” of course he does. it shouldn’t surprise you—he likely knows every significant detail of your life. still, the acknowledgment catches you off guard. you’re only just beginning to realize how much more the two of you might have in common than you were ever willing to admit. “an aneurysm, right?” he asks after a moment. you nod, eyes lowered. “yes… an aneurysm.” you remember everything about that morning with unnerving clarity. how ordinary it had been and how fine she seemed. you’d been getting ready—your father had arranged some kind of showcase, and he’d wanted both of you there, dressed and presentable. she’d called up to you from downstairs—you remember, because you’d been taking too long on purpose, sulking in protest. dragging your feet, curling your lashes slower than ever, fixing your hair with theatrical languor. and when you finally descended the stairs, you found her surrounded by staff, collapsed on the marble floor like a broken figurine. motionless. the doctors said it was a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. that it had likely been there for years, lurking in silence. that she hadn’t suffered. that it was… merciful. but it didn’t feel merciful to you. you don’t realize how far you’ve drifted into memory until you hear seunghyun shift in his seat, a quiet hum of discomfort escaping him. you swallow against the tightness building in your throat. he speaks, with a hint of humor that doesn’t really land. “looks like we’ve got something in common.” the phrasing is absurd. the tone, even more so—delivered like you’d just admitted to sharing a favorite color. you scoff lightly, and turn your head to the side, toward the window he’s been fixated on for most of the meal. you finally understand the appeal of it now.

his gaze doesn’t follow yours. it stays on you as you rest your chin on your hand and press your lips together, trying to hold them still. “what?” seunghyun asks, the faintest smile on his lips, as if coaxing one from you in return. but you only shake your head, changing the topic. “you’re doing a good job with junseo. he’s… he’s a remarkable child. i wish… i wish my family cared for me like that.” he hadn’t expected you to say that. the smile on his face vanishes completely, his gaze drifting down to your hands—manicured nails tapping absently against the varnished wood of the table as your eyes stay trained on the window. “your father cares about you.” that draws your attention. your head turns toward him as you lean back into the booth and fold your arms neatly across your chest. “what exactly makes you believe that?” he hesitates. “i wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.” you raise a single brow. “you call this care? hiring armed men to shadow me from morning to night? to curtail every movement i make and strip me of privacy and autonomy?” he opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance to respond. your gaze drifts back to the window as your voice cuts in once more as if stating an objective truth, “he doesn’t care about me. not in the way a normal father should. he only cares about the image i uphold. as long as i remain politically useful… i have value to him. that’s all.” the conversation halts only because the waiter returns, offering a smile as he clears your plates and inquires, in a tone that feels almost absurdly out of place, if you’d like to see the dessert menu. once the waiter retreats, seunghyun asks pointedly: “is that why you do it?” you glance at him, unsure what he means until he adds, “sneak around with that guy. to get back at your father?” you hate how much that sounds like the truth. no, your inner monologue cuts in, it doesn’t sound like the truth. it is the truth. and you hate even more that seunghyun of all people is the one to see through you so effortlessly. your head tilts, studying him. “that’s none your concern.” “it is. since i’m the one tasked with watching you.” “and that grants you insight into my choices?” you scoff.

he leans in, arms resting on the edge of the table as he lowers his voice. “he’s not the safest company for someone like you, and you know that. he’s not worth the cost.” “and what would qualify as worth it in your eyes?” “well, definitely not someone who uses you to feel important.” “you don’t know him.” you shake your head. “you don’t know anything about him.” “i know enough. he took you to an illegal fight, putting you in danger. i think that’s more than enough to form an opinion.” slowly, you mirror his posture, folding your arms on the table, and leaning in until your face is less than a breath away from his. “and what does it say about you, then? hm?” you murmur. “you were there too. you were… the one fighting in that ring.” his eyes narrow. “i never claimed to be any better,” he whispers. you stare at him for a second before leaning back into your seat, letting out a loud huff. “right,” you mutter. “you’re a jerk.” you chew the inside of your cheek as you glance toward the window again. you know seunghyun isn’t a bad person. you see through him, the same way he’s able to see through you. you see how big his heart must be—so big it frightens him, so fragile he guards it fiercely. he builds his walls so diligently you almost feel guilty for wanting to dismantle them to see what’s behind. but you do. you want to see it all.

your dessert arrives moments later—two slices of chocolate cake, each resting on a dish that clearly doesn’t belong to the other. the plates are mismatched, one rimmed with faded florals, the other edged in gold, as if borrowed from two entirely separate homes and made to coexist. you don’t know why that strikes you as strangely fitting. you pick up your fork in silence, and so does he. the first few bites are eaten with detachment. to any outsider, you must look like a couple long past its prime—two people too exhausted to fight, worn down by time and miscommunication, halfway to a divorce lawyer. the thought makes you snort under your breath, earning the faintest glance from seunghyun. why did he even bring me here? you wonder, pushing the soft edge of the cake with the tip of your fork. was this supposed to be a peace offering? a reward? a punishment? you chew slowly, eyes fixed on your plate. part of you wants to speak and tell him, in a casual aside, that you’re no longer seeing aaron. that you’ve stopped answering his calls, that the late night texts have gone unanswered, and that you’re not in the mood for people who don’t mean anything. until the question comes to the surface… why do i want to tell him i’m not seeing aaron anymore? because what would be the point, unless it were to clarify that you are very much single now? that there is no one pulling your attention elsewhere? and if that’s the reason you want to say it, then perhaps it’s better left unsaid. but the thought of the unnecessary need to explain yourself to seunghyun makes a flush of heat creep into your cheeks. you take another bite and let the flavor settle on your tongue before you speak again. “when we were there,” you begin, watching the lines of his face as they tighten at the word there, “he told me you never lose. said i should bet on you.” you glance up just as seunghyun’s eyes lift to meet yours, interest stirring behind them. “but you lost that night,” you continue. “you weren’t fighting back. why?” the edge of command woven into your voice earns you a disbelieving laugh from seunghyun, who shakes his head as he scoops another bite of cake.

“what’s so funny?” you ask, brows lifting in irritation. he chews with infuriating slowness, then gestures vaguely in your direction. “that tone. you’re using it because you know i’m right.” “right about what?” “about everything i said about you and that guy,” he says simply, pointing his fork at you. “and now you feel cornered.” you narrow your eyes. “and now you’re deflecting. i asked you a question.” he hums in agreement. “i heard.” “and?” “and i’m not answering.” “why?” he shrugs. “because i don’t want to.” “that’s not a reason.” “sure it is. just not one you like.” he leans back against the booth, and you set your fork down, the clink of the metal against the ceramic louder than it needs to be. “that’s incredibly childish.” “you can’t always get what you want, princess.” you blink, stunned by the flippancy, by the word itself—princess—the nickname sliding off his tongue with laziness. you let out a dry laugh and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, nodding once as you glance away. “how original,” you tsk. “you didn’t fight back, and i know there’s a reason for that—” “so?” he cuts in, but you don’t let him reroute this time. “and you said it was my fault,” you continue, “that night, when you shouted at me. you said it was my fault you lost. but at the hospital you said it wasn’t. so which is it? which one’s the lie?” “what, you’re calling me a liar?” “yes. yes, i am. haven’t i made it clear enough?” “well, in that case, so are you.” “i never lied.” “no,” seunghyun concedes that much, tilting his head. “you didn’t. but you didn’t tell the truth either. which, give or take, amounts to the same thing.” you inhale sharply, your jaw tightening as you look away, pretending to be far more interested in your piece of cake than his eyes tracking every change in your expression. “why are we even having this conversation?” “you started it.” “please. how old are you? five?” you mutter, your voice laced with sarcasm. but he doesn’t rise to the bait. if anything, it makes him huff a laugh, irritating you further. “i’ll be honest when you are.”

seunghyun turns the ac on without a word the moment you’re both inside his car. it’s quiet, save for the hum of the air as you settle back into the passenger seat—a silence that could’ve suffocated you if not for the way you’d fiddled with the dial of the radio, ignoring his initial protest with a clipped, “anything’s better than sports talk.” you’d found a station that plays hits from the late eighties and nineties, and though he’d tried switching it back once, he’d eventually let it go. ‘purple rain’ by prince plays and you sing softly under your breath, your fingers tapping the rhythm of the song against your thigh. seunghyun doesn’t comment on it, but you can feel his awareness of you, even if he never once looks away from the road. a few minutes pass before you decide to speak. “we—we’ve stopped talking,” you say, eyes trained on line of houses passing outside your window. he glances at you. “hm?” “that guy and i,” you clarify. “we don’t talk anymore. i’ve been ignoring his texts. and his calls.” you expect some reaction, but he says nothing. his hands remain steady on the wheel. you can tell he’s trying to understand why you’re telling him this now, here, and you suppose he has every right to wonder. but you don’t give him the chance to ask. “you said you wanted honesty,” you murmur, folding your hands together in your lap, thumbs nervously tracing each other. “so i’m giving it to you.” you pause briefly before continuing, “i never really liked him. i let him entertain me because… because i needed to feel like i still had control over something. ever since my father started treating me like a prisoner, i’ve felt like i’ve been suffocating, so i let myself be distracted.” you don’t know why it’s so difficult to say this out loud, when you’ve known it in your bones for months. “and yes. you were right. i do things just to spite him. sometimes without even realizing it. it’s pathetic, i know. but it’s the only power i have left.” seunghyun knew you’d admit it eventually. he just didn’t expect you to lay it bare so plainly. but that’s the thing, isn’t it? you did. and now it’s his turn.

he doesn’t answer. in truth, he’s not sure what there is to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete fool. he keeps his eyes on the road, one hand firm on the wheel, the other resting idle on his thigh, but something wordless lingers between you. because you’ve given him honesty… and now you expect the same. he knows that. matter of fact, he can feel the pointed expectation. the road unfurles in front of him, and for a moment, he wonders if he could simply keep driving and outrun the part of him that wants to give in to you. because how is he supposed to say it? what language could possibly justify the truth? that the only reason he didn’t retaliate that night was because he saw you? that it was nothing but the split second glimpse of your face in the crowd that stilled his hand? how does one admit to that? how does he tell you that the only thing he cared about, in that moment, was what you might’ve thought if you’d seen him beat that man bloody? that what he really feared was the possibility of becoming someone you couldn’t look at the same way after? how is he supposed to explain that you have more power over him than anything or anyone ever has? it sounds ridiculous and idiotic no matter how he tries to rearrange it. so instead, he nods. the gesture is barely perceptible, and wholly insufficient. you, of course, are not about to offer him the luxury of silence.

“your turn,” you say. “that’s what you said, right? honesty for honesty.” he glances at you briefly. you’re watching the road, pretending you haven’t just offered him the perfect opportunity to lie. and maybe you know him better than he thinks, because when he doesn’t speak, you continue, “when did you start fighting? i mean… underground.” relief stirs in his chest. it’s not the question he was dreading. “twenty,” he replies. “i was twenty. i needed the money… my mom was pregnant,” he continues, “and my father… had decided he wasn’t interested in being around for any of it. i didn’t want her working herself sick, not with my brother on the way. we didn’t have much, and the military pay wasn’t enough to send back. so… i found other ways. told her i was working handyman jobs off base, fixing things for extra cash… she believed me. maybe because she wanted to.” a pause. “the fights started with the other guys on base. boredom, mostly. friendly stuff at first… then less so.” of course that’s what men do, you think, lips curving wryly at the thought—throw fists in lieu of learning how to say i need help. a ridiculous kind of camaraderie. but you don’t say any of that. you hold your tongue, because this might be the closest he’s ever come to being vulnerable with you, and you know better than to spook it. it’s better to let him keep going, as long as he will, before he remembers who he’s talking to and recoils from the impulse.

“i won every time,” he says, and despite the way he tries to keep his tone level, his voice is tinged with pride. the corner of his mouth curves as he recalls the disbelief in his opponents’ eyes, and the bitterness that always followed. most of them couldn’t stand him. they’d try to humiliate him in the ways they thought would sting most: mocking the shape of his eyes, the slant of his name, calling him things he hadn’t heard since he was a kid on the playground… which were usually followed by ‘you’re not a real american anyway, motherfucker!’, or their favorite, ‘go serve your fucking country instead! stop stealing our money!’ their words always bounced off seunghyun like sweat because he knew exactly what they were trying to do. he knew what it meant when grown men had to stoop to schoolyard slurs just to reclaim some semblance of dignity. it meant they were embarrassed that a twenty year old boy was quicker on his feet than them. “it was easy money, so i kept doing it for a while.” he pauses, and doesn’t look at you when he say the next part, “then i stopped for a year or two. picked it back up a few months ago, when junseo got worse.” “why?” “what do you mean why?” he frowns, as if the question itself is absurd. “i mean—why did you stop?” the silence that follows feels strange. “i don’t want to talk about it.” “what?” your head turns sharply. “what do you mean you don’t want to talk about it?” “it means exactly what you heard,” he snaps. and now you’re staring at him, incredulous, your gaze drifting from the grip of his hands on the steering wheel to his side profile. “you said honesty for honesty,” you remind him. “i gave you mine. now you give me yours.” “i did,” he retorts. “i told you why i started. that’s enough.” “that’s not how this works.” “it is, i’m sorry.” he clearly isn’t sorry. “the conversation is over.” “i didn’t even get to ask you why you didn’t fight back,” you mutter bitterly, a last ditch attempt to pry the truth out of him. he shrugs, a smirk ghosting over his mouth. “should’ve chosen your question more wisely.”

you let out a breath through your nose and sink a little lower into your seat, arms folding tightly across your chest as you angle your body back toward the window. you know there’s no use pushing further, seunghyun’s already pulled the shutters down and locked them from the inside. and you’ve learned by now that when he doesn’t want to talk, he simply won’t. no amount of coaxing or confrontation will pry him open. still, the defeat leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. you watch the world blur past you through the glass, leafy shadows flickering across your skin. you could leave it here, you suppose. you probably should… yeah… but you don’t. “can i ask you something else?” “i don’t know, can you?” you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “you have… what? ten years of tactical experience? at least, that’s what my father told me.” he glances at you, suspicious of where this is going. “and you know, i’ve been thinking… if someone like you taught me, i could probably learn a thing or two about how to defend myself.” the sigh that escapes from his lips is immediate. “no.” “you don’t even want to think about it? i’m not asking to involve myself in… whatever it is you do. i just want to know how to hold my own. is that so outrageous?” “yes.” “why?” “because it’s not your job to hold your own. it’s mine,” he says, then pauses, as if hearing the words himself for the first time. “i mean—” he rubs the back of his neck. “it shouldn’t have to be… when i’m here.” there’s a note of conviction in it, something protective to the point of irrationality. and even if he means well, it pisses you off, because it flattens you into the very thing you’ve been trying to get your way out of: someone else’s responsibility. “right,” you murmur, mouth pressed into a tight line. “of course. wouldn’t want to disrupt the ecosystem my father’s so carefully built. god forbid i wander too far from the cage.” your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as your leg starts bouncing from your barely contained anger. “you know, you talk like safety is this… luxury i’ve always had. like i should be grateful to have people around who can throw punches for me. but that’s not how it feels.”

you expect him to say something reassuring, because that’s what people tend to do when they realize they’ve crossed a line… but he doesn’t. “you asked why i wouldn’t teach you,” he says. “because you don’t need it, that’s why. you don’t need it nor have needed it—” “i haven’t needed it?” you cut in, incredulous, your voice rising in disbelief. “hello? someone tried to kidnap me. and i’m still recovering from it.” “yeah. and the only reason they tried is because your father’s a senator—” you turn to look at him fully, stunned, almost laughing at the sheer audacity of the sentence leaving his mouth. “so what? what exactly are you trying to imply? that since i’ve lived a certain kind of life—one i didn’t choose, by the way—my fear means less? that i somehow deserved it?” seunghyun, who had still been mid thought when you interrupted him, shuts his mouth slowly. “that’s not what i said, alright?” he mutters, glancing toward you for a second before returning his gaze to the road. “you’re twisting my words.” “am i? because it sounds an awful lot like you’re being cruel, seunghyun. cruel.” “i’m not—” “and for what? to make a point? to remind me of how fortunate i am to have been born into the life i have? believe me, i am aware. i am reminded every single day.” “you’re not listening to me.” “no, i am. i’ve listened everyday. i’ve endured your constant commentary and your glares and… whatever. all because you resent me for having the life i have. and now you have the audacity to tell me that i’ve never needed to learn things like that, belittling the fact that a group of men grabbed me and tried to force me into a car. how dare you?” you shake your head. “and let me also remind you—what happened to me is precisely what gave you a fucking job.” the swear word tears out of you before you can stop it, and you almost hear your father’s voice scolding you for being vulgar. “you wouldn’t be here otherwise. so maybe you should find a better outlet for your moral superiority.”

the words are meaner than you intended, but you don’t retract them. it grates against him. not because you’re wrong, but because of how easily you can wield it, how natural it seems for you to stand taller in an argument. and it offends him more than he wants to admit. “yeah, your father gave me this job. and i earn every fucking cent by putting up with your fucking attitude.” “oh, please—” “you think i should thank you for it or something?” “i think you should stop acting like you’re above me when you owe your paycheck to what happened—” “above you? you think i feel above you?” his laugh is humorless. “you’ve looked down on me since the first day!” “because you hate me!” you fire back. “you’ve hated me from the beginning!” “i don’t hate you! okay?” you shake your head, scoffing. “yes, you do! everything about you says you do. and i’m beyond tired of this constant derision. so, you know what?! just fucking say it! we’re back to bickering like always, so go on—say it! say you hate me.” “but i don’t!” he repeats, dragging a hand over his jaw, furious with himself, with you, with everything, before forcing the words out again, rougher. “i don’t hate you. i hate—” he cuts himself short, before he says it, “i hate the life you’ve had handed to you.” you let out a disbelieving laugh as your eyes bore into his profile. “and what exactly do you think that is, seunghyun? hm? that ‘life’ is the marrow of who i am. so you can claim not to hate me all you wish, but what you’ve just confessed is nothing more than a very subtle way of affirming it.”

silent is an adjective that falls pitifully short of capturing the rest of the drive. the air is weighted, saturated with all the words you should not have said and all the ones he refuses to take back. how is it possible, you wonder, that the two of us manage to circle back here every time? and unbeknownst to you, seunghyun is wondering the same thing, though his private litany is a lot more self critical, replaying every turn of phrase and every moment where he could have chosen to express himself differently. you do not look at him again until the car slows after driving under the familiar arch of the estate. he turns the music down just as you unfasten your belt. “thank you for driving me home,” you say at last, still a bit touched by pride. “and for lunch.” “of course.” his nod is spare, his voice even quieter when he adds, “thank you, too. for what you did for my brother.” your lips curve, the expression genuine. “you don’t need to thank me for that.” you push the door open, one foot finding the stone, the outside hot air rushing in. but before you can rise fully, seunghyun’s voice cuts through with urgency. “wait—” his hand closes around your wrist. you turn toward him, startled. he’s leaned in, shoulders squared toward you, bracing for the weight of his own words. “i meant it,” he says. “i don’t hate you. i’ve never hated you.” your eyes drop to where his fingers hold you. the warmth of his palm against your skin is disarming, so different from the first time he touched you—when his grip was tighter and his voice had warned you never to try again. now there is no warning. “i promise,” he adds. the sincerity in his tone and his touch bring heat to your cheeks, unbidden, and you blink slowly, struggling to form your reply. you offer the smallest nod, your voice nearly catching as you whisper, “okay. i’ll… i’ll see you tomorrow.” “i’ll see you tomorrow.” you step out, the door closing behind you. but the impression of his hand lingers long after he’s gone.

if anyone had told you a few months ago that seunghyun would become the closest thing you’d ever had to a true friend, you would’ve laughed outright. yet here you are, finding it less absurd by the day. perhaps ‘friend’ still feels too imprecise for what this really is, but it is the nearest word you can summon for what has slowly taken shape between you. after he accepted the donation, albeit reluctantly, he opened the smallest door. you started showing up at the hospital pretty often, under the pretense of checking that the funds were being put to use properly, that junseo’s care reflected every cent of your contribution. one visit followed another, and somehow, it always ended with you and seunghyun seated across from each other at some table, drinking coffee or eating lunch. sometimes, when schedules and circumstance left you with no other option, even the hospital cafeteria would do. you complained, predictably, about the state of the food. and each time, without fail, seunghyun laughed at you. you would roll your eyes, feigning disdain, but secretly you had grown to love the sound, no matter the reason, and no matter how fleeting.

but as much as you wish to live inside those moments with seunghyun, you cannot escape the world that waits beyond them. summer ends, and when october comes, you’re pulled back into orbit around your father’s expectations. it happens on a night like any other, except that it’s your father’s birthday this time. when the guests have gone and the staff has retreated, his tone changes from cordial to purposeful. “the youth policy summit is next month,” he says. “we’ll need to finalize your talking points by the end of the week. they’re particularly interested in your perspective. thwy think it’ll be relatable.” you snort softly. “i’m not sure that’s the word they’ll use.” “nonsense. you’ve grown into someone the public can trust. and you have a voice people listen to, whether you like it or not. you should learn to use it.” “for you,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “for yourself,” he corrects. “i’m not going to be here forever, you know? you need to start thinking about your future.” you breathe out through your nose, resisting the urge to argue. “i have been,” you murmur. “and honestly, i’m not sure i want that.” “not sure you don’t want what?” “this,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the air. “i don’t even know if politics is what i want.” he blinks, almost disbelieving. “politics is what you studied.” “i know. but i… i’d like to travel for a while. there are places i’ve read about for years, that i’d like to see for myself. i want… i want to learn how other people live, what they value, what they dream about...” you pause, smiling at the thought. “i could start somewhere close—south america, or eastern europe. or anywhere, really. somewhere where i have to figure things out on my own.” he leans back slightly, the movement heavy with disappointment. “so what then? you’d rather abandon all that education, all the connections you’ve been given, just to wander?” “no, not to ‘wander,’” you reply. “to travel. and learn.” he shakes his head. “you sound just like your mother when you say things like that.” though he doesn’t mean it unkindly, it hurts all the same. “do i?” “mmmh.” “i don’t think that’s such a terrible thing.” “no, it’s not terrible.” he studies you for a long moment before adding, “just naive.”

that conversation, unsurprisingly, led nowhere. you hadn’t expected it to. you’d seen the refusal coming long before the words even left your mouth. how could he possibly allow it? how could he allow his only daughter, the only person he has left, to go somewhere beyond his reach? no, you’d known how it would go. you always do. how would he explain it to his colleagues? the senator’s daughter abandoning her ‘promising trajectory,’ turning her back on the investment of a lifetime. all those years of education, the introductions, the future he crafted for you, your image—a thousand strings pulled to place you exactly where you are now. a spokesperson in your own right, representing one of his youth initiatives, praised for your composure, your eloquence, the way you’ve inherited his instinct for persuasion. the thought of you throwing it all away to wander, as he so mockingly put it, was never going to be tolerated. not in his world. and so here you are, exactly a month later, on your way to the youth policy summit in washington, d.c.

you sit in the backseat of the car, driven by your father’s chauffeur, with seunghyun in the passenger seat, the usual arrangement. it isn’t a long drive; the first ten minutes slip by without incident. you’ve resigned yourself to stillness, staring intermittently out the window before lowering your gaze to the stack of notes resting in your lap with every word your father expects you to say tonight, meant to sound sincere. the sun is sinking fast, painting the world in amber and making the trees look ethereal, the faint orange haze settling over the highway. your phone vibrates against your knee and you don’t need to check the screen to know it’s your father. he wants to know how much longer, reminds you that the press is waiting by the entrance, that there will be photos before you head inside. you answer evenly, the same tone you’ve learned to use when your thoughts threaten to show. “we’ll be there shortly,” you say. but just as he continues, you end the call mid sentence, distracted by the change in seunghyun’s body language. his shoulders stiffen, hovering closer to the dashboard before exchanging a few glances with the driver, a flicker of wordless understanding that sharpens the air around you. you watch him lean forward in his seat, his gaze fixed on the rear view mirror, eyes narrowing at something you can’t yet see. the orange light cuts across his face, accentuating the sudden severity in his expression. “is something wrong?” you ask. his reply is instant. “get down.” “what—” “down!” he barks, turning halfway in his seat. “that car—”

the first shot cuts him off. the sound is louder than anything you’ve ever heard: a split second crack that rips the air apart, glass bursting, making shards spray across the backseat, one of them slicing through your cheekbone. but you barely have time to gasp, ducking instinctively, the seatbelt biting into your shoulder as your hands clutch the scattered notes in your lap. the second shot follows before the first has even finished echoing. the front windshield fractures into a web of white cracks, the driver shouting something unintelligible as the car jerks forward. from the corner of your eye, you see seunghyun reach across his chest, slipping his hand under his jacket and drawing a gun from his holster. “stay down okay?” he tells you, before leaning halfway out the window. one arm braces against the doorframe, while the other aligns the weapon with the pursuing car.

you feel the sudden, reckless urge to pull him back inside, terrified they might hurt him. there’s a moment where you think he might actually listen if you call his name, but before you can reach for him and your voice can even find its way out of your throat, he fires. the sound is monstrous. it detonates inside the car, swallowing every other noise. you flinch violently, hands flying to your ears, your shoulders curling forward as if that could make you smaller. the air fills instantly with the stinging scent of smoke and gunpowder and your eyes squeeze shut. you can feel each echo shudder through the frame of the car, one gunshot after another, and all you can do is fold into yourself, praying for it to stop.

meanwhile, the driver’s trying to steady the wheel, hands trembling. “sir—i-i can’t—!” he stammers, voice filled with panic. “keep driving!” seunghyun commands. then another gunshot rings out, except not from seunghyun’s gun this time. before you can make sense of anything, there’s a muffled grunt from the front seat. he’s been hit. seunghyun’s shoulder jerks as he falls back into the car, his gun still gripped in his left hand while his right presses hard against the spreading crimson on his sleeve. you freeze, watching the color bloom and darken. his jaw locks in pain, yet he refuses to make a sound beyond that single, bitten-off exhale. “seunghyun—” you reach for him, but just as your fingers brush the fabric of his sleeve, his hand leaves the wound and finds your shoulder. he forces you down, his palm pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding your head beneath the window line just as another round of bullets tears through the air. the driver jerks the wheel again, swearing under his breath. the road curves sharply to the right, and the tires lose their grip. the shriek of rubber against the asphalt is the last thing you hear before gravity takes over and the car veers off the shoulder, plunging down the embankment and into a thicket of trees. the horizon flips on its head, making your body lift violently from the seat, then slam back down as the vehicle rolls. you can’t tell how many times, only that every sound mixes together: the thud of your head against the window before it breaks, the crack of the glass, and the air being forced from your lungs. when the motion finally stops, there’s only ringing. you try to lift your head, but darkness crowds your vision. you hear seunghyun’s voice calling your name… before everything goes silent.

he’s the first thing you see when your eyes open again. dusk has already fallen; the trees outside are silhouettes now, shrouded in the last gray light of the evening. for a moment, the world swims in and out of focus. you blink a few times and then seunghyun’s there, leaning over you, his expression filled with panic and relief in equal measure. “oh, thank god,” he breathes out. his hand trembles as it finds your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin before he taps again, coaxing your attention. “hey—hey, look at me. can you hear me?” you nod faintly, your voice a rasp. “i… i think so.” he exhales shakily, as if he’s been holding his breath for hours. “don’t move,” he murmurs before his fingers slip under your chin, tilting your face toward the fading light as he inspects you. his thumb grazes the line of blood on your cheekbone, the one cut by the glass, making you wince. “shit—sorry. does it hurt anywhere else? hm? your neck, your head?”

“my head,” you answer, your hand lifting gingerly to the spot where you feel pain. your fingers tremble as they comb through your hair, expecting to come away slick with blood. but when you pull them back into view, they’re clean. “it’s just a concussion,” you murmur. “i’m okay. just a bit dizzy.” you even try to smile to soften the crease between his brows, but the effort barely lands. his eyes don’t leave yours, the worry in them stubborn. “good,” he says, almost to himself. “that’s good.” he swallows, nodding. “fuck, you really scared the shit out of me.” his breath shakes with the remnants of panic as he bows his head, his shoulders slowly losing their rigid line while the adrenaline drains from him. without thinking, your hand reaches for him, the pad of your thumb brushing over a smear of dirt. “hey,” you say softly, “look at me.” you guide his face back toward you, gently, trying not to touch the cuts marring his skin, until he has no choice but to meet your gaze. your eyes drift from the cuts and scratches on his face to the red stain on his sleeve, the fabric clinging wetly to his arm. the memory of him getting hit by a bullet floods in then, which makes you draw in a sharp breath. “seunghyun… you… you’re…” the sight makes your stomach turn, but before you can form more words, he beats you to it after reading your gaze. “it’s just my arm. don’t worry about me.” he’s insane, you think, utterly insane if he believes that i won’t worry about him. and seunghyun must see it written all over your face: the furrow in your brow, the quick parting of your lips, and the inhale that precedes your protest. he knows you too well by now. so he cuts you off before you can speak. “he’s okay, too.” “what?” he gestures faintly with his chin toward the shattered window. you turn, following his gaze. through the fractured glass, you spot your father’s long-time employee, the chauffeur, standing a few paces from the wreck. he’s leaning heavily on one leg, his phone pressed to his ear. even from here, you can see the shake in his free hand. “he’s getting us help.”

you’re still trying to make sense of it all a few days later, piecing together fragments that refuse to be coherent. the same people who tried to kidnap you months ago had now tried to kill you, and somehow, that sentence feels absurd every time you think it. what could they possibly gain from that? the police have been to the house three times since the accident, and each visit feels like a performance you no longer have the strength for. they make you recount the story again and again, and each time, you feel a little less certain that it even happened to you. then, they have the audacity to tell you what you already knew they would: it wasn’t a murder attempt, but another warning meant for your father.

you don’t even bother arguing. at this point, you’re exhausted. you don’t care if it was a threat or a message… you care that you were inside that car. and that not only you, but two others could have died—that seunghyun could have died. you’ve barely left your room since. the staff move in and out, bringing trays you rarely touch, fluffing your pillows, and pretending not to notice when you turn away from the light. every few hours someone checks in to ask if you need anything. you don’t. not anything they can give anyway. and on top of that, as if the guards weren’t already enough, the government has sent someone new. a special agent, like your father called him while insisting his presence’s necessary after what happened.

you don’t hear much from seunghyun after the accident. you know he’s recovering, that his arm needed stitches and that your father insisted on covering the hospital bills. but beyond that, the updates are scarce. you’re told he’ll return once he’s cleared for duty, that he refused to take more leave than absolutely necessary. so, the house is full of people, yet the person you want by your side more than anyone else, is nowhere to be found. you try not to think about it, or about him, though the effort feels increasingly futile. sometimes you catch yourself glancing at the front gates from your window, or pausing when you hear footsteps in the hall, expecting to hear his familiar voice from the other side. you miss seunghyun. and it feels… weird. it’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. he’s your bodyguard, not… not whatever your mind insists on turning him into when you’re alone too long.

the evening light is thinning when there’s a knock at your bedroom door, interrupting your thoughts. “come in,” you call, setting the book you were reading aside. your father’s assistant steps in, as politely unobtrusive as ever, a faint smile on his face. “ma’am,” he begins, hesitating for a moment, unsure how to phrase it. “something’s just been delivered for you.” you look up, brow furrowing. “for me?” he nods and pushes the door open wider, revealing what he’s holding: a bouquet of flowers, full and alive in the waning light. “someone’s sent you these,” he says, setting them gently on the nightstand. you sit up slowly, propping yourself on your elbows. “what—really? who?” “there’s a note,” he replies, tone courteous but withholding. he doesn’t wish to spoil the surprise. you hum in acknowledgment, and he leaves after a polite nod, the door closing softly behind him. only then do you reach for the note, your fingers brushing the edge of the white envelope placed between the stems. it reads: ‘i hope you’re feeling better. see you tomorrow. — seunghyun.’ and you smile, while an involuntary warmth makes its way into your heart.

if you were ever uncertain about your future in politics, you aren’t anymore. after all, how could you still want that life? when it’s been endangered twice in less than a year and the people responsible for it still haven’t been caught? you let your father know one morning. you don’t wait for permission to enter his office; you simply open the door. he looks up immediately, startled for the briefest second before his expression hardens into his familiar mask of irritation. his hand moves reflexively to cover a set of papers spread across his desk, hastily moving some of them out of sight. you don’t even want to know what they are. “i need to talk to you,” you begin. “does it have to be now?” “yes.” you speak calmly, outlining your plan the way one might present a report: how you need to step away once things calm down, how you need distance, how you can no longer align yourself with the career he’s built for you.

he listens… or at least pretends to, because you can tell from his expression that his mind is elsewhere. when you finish speaking, the silence that follows is no surprise to you. he leans back in his chair, folds his hands together, and exhales through his nose. “i see,” he says finally. “so this is where we are.” “yes.” he hums. “and tell me—these ideas of yours,” he begins, tone deceptively mild, “this sudden desire for distance and freedom… would they, by any chance, have something to do with the man you’ve been spending an unusual amount of time with lately?” it takes you a second to process what he’s just said. “what?” “don’t insult me, sweetheart.” you frown. “sorry, i’m not sure i understand.” your father scoffs. “what, you think i wouldn’t find out? you’ve been spending an awful lot of time with one of my men.” he gestures vaguely with one hand. “with seunghyun.” “well, of course i have,” you counter, laughing bitterly. “he’s my bodyguard.” “mhm. i know. the one whose little brother you so kindly funded treatment for and have been visiting at the hospital.” your stomach drops. “dad—” “do you really take me for a fool? you’ve been seen. walking around bethesda, dining in georgetown, wandering the national mall…” you blink at him, trying to find words, but none come fast enough. “you had me followed?” “does it surprise you? of course i did,” he replies. “forgive me for wanting to make sure you were safe. and what do i find? this… indulgence. i thought i hired that man to protect you, not to keep you entertained.” you can feel your pulse in your temples, the disbelief now transforming into anger. “you think this is about him?” “isn’t it?” “of course not.” “you’ve changed since seunghyun arrived. you question everything, push back on everything, start talking about wanting to ‘see the world’ as if the life you have isn’t enough. as if i haven’t given you everything.”

you stare at him, unable to decide what’s worse—that he knows about seunghyun, or that he truly believes every ounce of your defiance must have been taught to you by someone else. “i trusted him,” he mutters, almost to himself now. “and he’s proven himself unprofessional. he’ll be dismissed.” your eyes widen. “what? you can’t—” “oh, i can,” he cuts in coldly. “and i will.” “no! no, you can’t,” you say more forcefully, stepping forward. “you can’t dismiss him! dad, he—he saved my life!” “and that was his job.” “so he’s the reason i’m still alive, and you want to punish him for it? that’s absurd! he hasn’t done anything wrong.” your father studies you with a bit of fascination. “you’re defending him,” he observes. “i’m stating facts,” you counter. “whatever you think is happening between us—it’s… it’s not. we’re not even…” you hesitate, “friends.” it sounds pathetic even to your own ears. “no? then why do you sound like someone about to lose one?” you’re caught off guard, and he knows it. he always knows when he’s found the softest point to press. “dad, please. he needs this job, he—” “enough.” he raises a hand, silencing you. “you want him to stay? then you’ll do as you’re told,” he says simply. “you’ll go to the summits without complain. and you’ll also attend the policy dinner in washington next month, with me, and you’ll remind everyone what a promising young woman you are. you’ll continue with the career i’ve built for you, and seunghyun’ll remain exactly where he is.” he pauses, watching the frustration flicker across your face. “but if you insist on throwing it all away, then he’s gone. simple as that.”

you spend most of your time at home now. it’s not as if you were particularly social before, but lately the house (your room, especially) has become less a place you live in and more a perimeter you’re unwilling to cross. the nightmares don’t help, either. you don’t feel safe beyond the gates of the estate. and since leaving the country would mean seunghyun losing his position—something you can’t bring yourself to allow—you’ve chosen confinement. after the attack, seunghyun finally conceded to teaching you how to defend yourself. perhaps out of pity or perhaps because he could no longer stand the sight of you flinching at every sudden sound. whatever the reason was, he relented. he started with the basics: how to hold a gun, how to steady your breathing before you pull the trigger, how to aim… and on days when you don’t train with the gun, you meet him in your gym, which once was a room for your father’s morning workouts, and now you’ve claimed three times a week. seunghyun shows you where to strike if someone grabs you, how to twist free, and how to use your weight to throw them off balance. “no one is invincible,” he says, instructional. “no matter how strong someone is, if you inflict enough pain, they’ll let you go.” his hand lifts to guide yours, pressing your fingers to the hinge of his jaw, then lower. “here, the throat.” his fingertips find your wrist again, drawing it until your palm hovers above the curve between his neck and his shoulder. “and here. one strike will stun them long enough for you to run.” you nod slowly, though your focus wavers. it’s hard to think when his voice has dropped like that. “use pressure points to your advantage,” he adds before sliding your hand again to rest in the crook of his elbow. “now, here. you feel this?” he flexes the joint slightly so you can feel the mechanism of it, the way it locks and yields. “mhm.” “the arm bends inward. if you pull against it, you’ll lose. twist instead. pain comes faster that way.”

the more he teaches you, the more capable you feel. but the longer you train with him, the more you begin to see it: the hesitation. seunghyun always stops short of force and pulls his arm before a hit could ever land. you can tell he’s holding back, which makes you furious. “you’re holding back,” you accuse one afternoon, sweat running down the back of your neck. he sighs. “i’m teaching you.” there’s only so far his patience will go. and even less when it comes to actually hurting you, no matter the reason. “yeah? well, if you’re going to teach me, then teach me—don’t patronize me, seunghyun. i can take it.” he tries to oblige to your petition, moving into position. you mirror him, your feet light on the mat, pulse thrumming in your throat. he’s the one who strikes first, as he always does, going for your arm, trying to pull you off balance and bring you down. you resist, dodging his attempts, breath catching when his forearm locks briefly around your neck. but you remember what he taught you. so you shift, elbow driving into his abdomen, hard enough to make him grunt and loosen his hold. you twist free, grabbing his wrist, pulling it down and away from you in one swift movement.

he recovers fast, moving quickly in an attempt to pull you back into his reach. his arm sweeps around you, you lift yours in defense, push back harder than you meant to… and then a groan escapes him. “shit!” he staggers back, clutching his arm to his side, and your stomach plummets. “oh my god—i’m sorry! i’m so sorry,” you blurt out, rushing toward him as he tries to steady his breathing. “seunghyun, i didn’t mean to—” “it’s fine,” he says through his teeth. “it’s not your fault.” but it is. you can see the tension running up his arm, the tremor he tries to hide when he lowers it, flexing his fingers before clenching them into a fist. the sleeve of his shirt is left pulled over his bicep, and you catch a glimpse of his scar. it’s the same arm that took the bullet. you stare, horrified. “it’s not fine. i should’ve known better, i was too rough—” “you’re doing good,” he interrupts. “you’re doing what i taught you.” you look at him, chest rising and falling, the shaking in your hands betraying the adrenaline still coursing through you. “how’s it healing?” you ask. he glances down at his arm before looking back at you. “slowly,” he admits after a beat. “it’s better than it was.” “does it still hurt?” he hesitates, as if debating whether to bother lying. “yeah. it does.” “i thought the doctors cleared you.” “they did. but they said the muscle would take time to rebuild, that the process would be slow... nothing i can’t handle, though.” you nod slowly, pressing your lips together, eyes dropping to the floor as guilt spreads through your body. it’s difficult not to think about the fact that his injury exists because of you. because he was doing his job, protecting you. “we’re done for today,” he says after a beat. your head lifts. “because of your arm?” the question makes him laugh. the sound breaks the heaviness between you, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth as he shakes his head. “no,” he says, amusement still warming his tone. “because i know you. and if we keep going, you’ll spend the rest of the day worrying about it instead of listening to a single thing i say.” you scoff, shaking your head, though the lift at the corner of your lips betrays you. he’s right.

come december, you and seunghyun have reached a different level of trust in each other. your training sessions aren’t just a way for you to learn how to fight anymore. you’ve both learned to let your guards down, to open up about the things you usually keep buried. and you realize that your lives, however different they seem, aren’t so different after all. and with that trust, as if it were inevitable, come the inconvenient thoughts that you try to push away but always come back. the ones that make your stomach twist and your pulse quicken when his hand finds your wrist to correct your form, or when he laughs at something you’ve said without meaning to be funny. little by little, you start to understand what your body’s known for months now: you’re falling in love with seunghyun. truly. and deeply. and it’s not the kind of feeling you can reason your way out of. but the weight of that truth doesn’t hit you until one morning, during what should have been an ordinary training session. he’s been short tempered from the start, more irritable than usual, and everything you do seems to set him off. “again,” he barks. “you’re dropping your shoulder! you’ll get hit like that! how many times have we gone over this?!” you straighten, heat flaring in your chest. “i’m not dropping my shoulder,” you reply, your voice clipped. “you are!” he fires back. “if this were real, you’d already be—” “oh my god, seunghyun,” you cut in, exasperated. “stop talking to me like that! this is not the military!” “i’m trying to keep you from getting hurt—” “by yelling? yeah, very effective method.” you scoff. “you said yourself i was improving a lot yesterday.” “yesterday you were focused. today you’re somewhere else.” “perhaps i’m somewhere else because you’ve been shouting since the moment we started,” you counter, your chin lifting. “i don’t respond well to hostility, in case you haven’t noticed.” he scoffs, incredulous, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “i’m not being hostile.” “you are. you’re angry about something else, and instead of dealing with it, you’re taking it out on me. which is incredibly unfair, if i’m being honest.”

you wait for him to say something back—whether to argue, defend himself, or agree with you—but he doesn’t. he only looks away, the muscle in his jaw twitching again, that telltale sign of restraint you’ve come to recognize. “let’s just take a break, alright?” he mutters finally. “yeah, alright,” you huff, rolling your eyes as you walk toward the bench where your water bottle sits. you grab it, twisting the cap open a little too harshly before taking a sip, trying to calm your pulse. behind you, you hear his heavy steps, then the metallic sound of his duffel zipper. he’s turned his back on you too, which, for some reason, only pisses you off more. you tell yourself not to look at him, not to give him the satisfaction of your curiosity… but old habits win. you’ve always been curious to a fault, trying to read people’s thoughts through their posture and their smallest gestures. so you glance over your shoulder… just as he turns to the side and lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his temple. the fabric drags upward, folding against his chest, revealing a stretch of skin slick with the sheen of sweat. his abdomen moves as he breathes, and you can’t help but stare… longer than you should, truthfully. blame it on exhaustion, or the irritation you feel from his earlier words, or the fact that you’ve spent too long pretending you’re immune to him. your eyes stay glued. which is precisely why you see the bruise darkening the right side of his rib cage, spreading across his skin in deep, mottled hues of blue and purple.

the irritation you’d felt moments ago vanishes. “what happened to you?” “hm?” he says, feigning confusion, as if he hadn’t heard you properly. “the bruise,” you clarify. he glances down, realizes too late what you’ve seen, and pulls his shirt back into place. “it’s nothing.” his tone is still clipped. you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re fighting again, aren’t you?” he wasn’t expecting you to ask, at least not so directly. maybe he’d hoped you wouldn’t. because then he wouldn’t have to lie, nor tell you the truth. “i said it’s nothing,” he answers, reaching for his water bottle as if dismissing the question. he takes a long sip, eyes fixed on the far wall. “and i asked you a question,” you insist. he exhales through his nose, sets the bottle back in his duffel, and walks past you, wordlessly heading back toward the mat. “seunghyun.” he stops at the edge of the mat, but doesn’t turn around. “you didn’t ask a question,” he says, “you made an assumption.” there he is. there he is reminding you once more how easily he can unnerve you. you cross your arms, trying to look unfazed. “fine. is it true, then? i’m asking now.” he turns this time. “do you mind?” “of course i do.” the tenderness in your words catches you by surprise and you try to hide it by clearing your throat and straightening your posture. “especially when you’re so… angry lately.”

seunghyun isn’t angry, he’s furious. at himself. he has been fighting again, he just hasn’t told you. because if he did, then he’d have to admit that he’s been losing. that every hit sends pain up his arm where the bullet tore through his muscle months ago. that he’s weaker. and how could he tell you why he started again? how could he explain that his brother’s condition has worsened? he’s running out of time, and this… this is all he knows how to do. so when you ask him again, he can only shake his head and say, “i’m not angry, okay? i’m fine.” his gaze flicks away from yours, a familiar sting rising behind his eyes. you’ve done too much for him already. more than he ever deserved. and the thought of you finding out that even your kindness wasn’t enough makes him sick. you take a cautious step forward and rest your hand on his shoulder, urging him to face you. he resists for a moment, the muscles in his arm stiff under your palm. but when he finally turns toward you, his head lowers, and a single tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it. “seunghyun?” you murmur, almost afraid of breaking him further. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have talked to you like that, i just—” his voice breaks, and the rest dies in his throat as a helpless sob slips through. “hey,” you whisper, stepping closer without thinking, arms finding their way around him. “hey, it’s okay.”

you don’t expect him to hold you back, but he does. his arms come around your waist, desperate, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. you feel him tremble, trying hard not to fall apart. your hands move instinctively, one to the back of his head, the other tracing light circles on his back. his hair is damp, his breath uneven against your neck. “it’s okay,” you whisper. “i’ve got you.” he sobs harder, without meaning to, without knowing how to stop. it’s loud, which makes him feel embarrassed even as it’s happening, since you’re witnessing it. and even though he hates how utterly vulnerable he’s being, he still doesn’t let go. it all comes pouring out, and he clings to you through it. his grip tightens, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as he cries. he doesn’t remember the last time he cried like this. maybe not since his mother died. it feels like something is breaking open inside him—a dam that’s been holding back everything he never said, never showed and never allowed himself to feel. he’s purging the poison he’s been carrying around, and even if it hurts, it doesn’t feel as awful with you there. “he’s very sick,” he says finally, the words muffled against your shoulder. “my brother, he—” he draws in a breath that shudders through him, lifting his head just enough for you to see his face. “he’s going to need a transplant,” he forces out. “his lungs are failing.” your stomach drops. “they said there’s too much scarring… and too many infections. the meds aren’t working anymore, and he’s on oxygen full time and—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “they said it’s the only option left. and even then… even then, there’s no guarantee he’ll make it.” you don’t even realize when your hand finds his, but it’s there now, your fingers weaving through his. “he’s only eight. i don’t know if he’s strong enough for this. and i don’t know if i am either.” you squeeze his hand. “you are,” you tell him, not as comfort, but as truth. “you both are, seunghyun.”

he sighs. when he steps back, you let him, though the sudden absence of his warmth leaves the room feeling colder. he wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, trying to regain composure as he sniffs, still refusing to meet your eyes. “to answer your question,” he says, “yes. i’ve been fighting again. there’s… there’s nothing else i can do. the surgery’s expensive. then the checkups, the bills, i can’t—” “i’ll cover it,” you interrupt, the words leaving you before you can even think them through. “whatever it costs, i’ll—” his head snaps up, the frown etched deep across his face. “what?” “you heard me. i’ll cover everything. the hospital, the transplant—” “no. no, absolutely not.” “seunghyun—” “you’re not doing that,” he says, taking another step back as if the distance could make his refusal stronger. “i didn’t tell you this so you’d—” his voice rises, the frustration bleeding through. “i didn’t tell you this to make you feel sorry for me. you’ve done enough. for me, for junseo… for what’s left of my family.” you shake your head, taking a step forward, closing the gap he keeps trying to create. “listen to me,” you insist. “i have the means, and if it can make things easier for you—for him—why shouldn’t i?” your tone softens, but the conviction in it doesn’t. “so please… let me do this.” you stare at him for a long second, waiting for his answer, your heart pounding with an ache you can’t quite describe. “you don’t get it. if i accept that again… if i let you take care of everything, then what am i? hm? i already owe you too much. i can’t… i-i can’t keep taking from you. i won’t do it. i’m not your responsibility.” “you’re right,” you agree. “you’re not. but junseo didn’t choose this either… and he’s the one you should be thinking about right now.”

you’ve struck a nerve. he knows you’re right. he knows that accepting your help would be the reasonable thing, that he should stop being so proud, and stop clinging to this useless idea that he can handle everything alone. but he’s always been that way. seunghyun’s spent his whole life depending on no one but himself, learning that self reliance is the only form of dignity left to him. he’s carried everything: grief, guilt, responsibility… without asking anyone to lighten the weight. and for the most part, he’s managed. he’s always managed. so why does it feel impossible now? and why does it feel so degrading, so damn humiliating, to admit that he needs help? “we should stop here for today,” he says, cutting the conversation short and walking toward his duffel bag once again. “really?” you watch him go, feeling completely powerless before your voice decides to break through the brief silence that has settled: “you take care of me,” you blurt out. “you protect me, you make sure i’m safe… you even took a bullet for me.” he stops mid step. he doesn’t turn, but you can tell by the stillness that your words have found their mark. “i want to do the same for you, seunghyun. and for junseo. you don’t want anyone to hurt me, and i don’t want anyone—or anything—to hurt you.” he turns enough to be able to glance your way. “that’s my job,” he says at last. but he knows his tone lacks conviction. “that’s what i’m here for. it’s not the same thing.” “isn’t it?” you shoot back, taking a step closer until he can feel the heat of your words. “okay. then look at me. go on.” he doesn’t. “look at me,” you repeat, your patience snapping as you raise your voice, even as the demand edges perilously close to a plea. “and tell me you don’t care about me. not even a little. that… that everything you’ve done—all of this—has been just for the money.”

your words, demanding proof of something he’s tried to bury for both your sakes, offend him. “of course i care about you,” he snaps. “and you know what? i wish i didn’t! i wish i could fucking turn it off!” his hand rakes through his hair before fully turning back toward you, agitation rolling off him. you stay still, watching him, heart thudding so hard you can almost hear it. “i lose sleep over you,” he goes on. “every time you leave this damn house, i’m thinking about what could go wrong. i can’t—when i do my job, all i can fucking think about is what happens if i fail, if someone tries to hurt you and i can’t do anything to stop it.” he swallows hard, shaking his head. “i wish i didn’t care this much! but i do! i care, and it makes everything harder. because every time i look at you, i’m reminded of what we are… and what we’re not. and i fucking hate it! i hate that, no matter how much i—” he stops himself, the word love right there on his tongue before he forces it back down. “no matter how much i care, you live in a world i’ll never belong to. our lives are so… different. i mean, look at us! we are so different. i hate how much it fucking kills me to know that.”

there’s a beat of silence where you could step back, where you probably should. but instead, you take a step forward, closing the distance until you’re standing directly in front of him, your eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest. your hand finds his, fingers brushing along the lines of his palm. slowly, he lifts it to your face, cradling your cheek in his calloused palm, his thumb grazing the soft, supple skin lf your cheek. your hand stays on his wrist, grounding you both. your eyes search his, and the crease between his brows tightens, drawned by something you can only read as pain. “are we really that different,” you whisper, looking up at him. “if we want the same thing?” his gaze softens as you lean subtly into his touch, your skin warming against his palm. your pretty eyes don’t leave his; they hold him there, and he finds himself drowning in the glimmer in them. for months he’s kept his distance, convincing himself that it was the right thing to do—that what he felt was something that could be contained forever in the deepest parts of himself. but now, looking at you, he realizes there’s no containing it. no distance in the world is strong enough to sever the invisible string that keeps drawing him to you.

his gaze drops to your lips just as they part the moment his hand slides to the back of your neck. he draws you closer, his breath mingling with yours until he finally kisses you. the kiss obliterates every single thought in your brain. his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer until your body meets his, making you gasp softly against his mouth. the sound makes him shudder, and he deepens the kiss, his lips moving with yours with rougher urgency. there’s no gentleness; the kiss is desperate, a reflection of months of restraint collapsing into a single moment. you stumble a step backward and seunghyun follows, his other hand finding your waist, steadying you for a moment before pressing you back against the cool wall of the gym. the impact is light and the contrast between the chill of the wall and the heat radiating from him makes you shiver.

you break the kiss only for air, your lips parting from his by a fraction of an inch. but the distance barely lasts a second before you find him again. your hands reach for his face, palms framing the line of his jaw, then his cheeks before sliding upward, into his hair, and making him groan—a low, involuntary sound that reverberates against your mouth. you pull him closer, greedy for the warmth that rolls off him as his tongue finds its way past your lips, hungry. your back presses harder into the wall as his body slots fully against yours, thumb dragging over the thin fabric of your shirt. it feels as if you want to consume each other.

your hands move of their own accord, fingers gliding down the length of his torso, then the hard plane of his abdomen under the damp fabric of his shirt. your fingertips slip beneath it—an unspoken plea he understands instantly. seunghyun breaks the kiss to pull the shirt over his head, and the fabric falls somewhere near your feet, forgotten the moment his mouth finds yours again. his kisses turn sloppy, trailing from your lips to your jaw, down the column of your throat, where his breath fans hot against your skin. your head tilts back, fingers digging into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to as the prettiest, softest sounds escape you. it only spurs him on, his lips grazing your collarbone before returning to your mouth. and just as you reconnect, the gym door creaks open before either of you have the chance to step apart.

you and seunghyun spring away from each other as though burned, the sound of your uneven breaths embarrassingly loud in the silence of the room. the man at the door isn’t one of your usual guards, it’s the special agent the government sent to look over you. “ma’am,” he says. “your father’s asked for you.” his gaze flickers to where seunghyun stands, shirtless. “he’s waiting upstairs. he’d like to discuss some matters concerning next week’s political schedule,” the agent continues, clearing his throat. you swallow, summoning every bit of composure you have left. “right,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “tell him i’ll be there in two minutes.” “of course,” he replies, with a curt nod. “mr. choi,” he adds, acknowledging seunghyun with a glance before stepping back and letting the door close behind him. the silence now is worse than before. seunghyun looks everywhere but at you. you clear your throat, smoothing your clothes with trembling hands, trying to sound nonchalant when you say: “well… that could’ve gone worse.” he huffs. “you think?” you press your lips together. “i should… i should go.” “yeah,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “you should.” he bends to retrieve his shirt from the floor just as you cross the room, collecting your things with clumsy hands. he pulls the shirt over his head, after shaking the dust from it, while you grab your water bottle, then your small bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “your shift’s almost over,” you say. “riggs will be here soon, so um… i guess… i’ll see you tomorrow?” he gives you a curt nod, eyes flicking briefly to yours. “yeah. see you tomorrow.”

but that never happens. the next morning, when you open the door, it isn’t seunghyun waiting in the hall… it’s riggs. the smile you’d unconsciously been saving for seunghyun dies on your lips the moment you see him. “riggs,” you say after a moment, trying to mask the confusion in your voice. “ma’am.” he dips his head respectfully. “good morning.” you barely register the greeting. your eyes sweep down the long corridor, as if seunghyun might appear any second. “i thought… i thought seunghyun was covering mornings this week?” riggs clears his throat softly. “it’s only me and paul today, ma’am. the federal agent will be covering the night shift.” “and seunghyun?” riggs hesitates, “i apologize… i’ve been instructed not to discuss that matter with you.” “what do you mean?” “the senator’s ordered—” that’s all you need to hear. “yeah, okay,” you cut him off. “thank you, riggs.”

not long after, you’re standing barefoot in the dining room, still in your pajamas, facing your father while he peacefully eats his breakfast. sunlight floods through the tall windows, and the staff moves silently around him, setting down plates, pretending not to notice the storm in your expression. “what’s with that face?” he asks without looking up, eyes fixed on his phone. “where’s seunghyun?” you demand. he hums, amused. “you ask me?” “who else?” you bite back. your arms cross tightly over your chest, trying to contain your frustration but it’s useless. he sets his phone down, finally looking at you, only to offer a faint, mocking smile. “maybe ask him,” he says. “he came by first thing this morning. handed in his resignation before i’d even gotten dressed. rather abrupt, i must say. i still had sleep in my eyes when he dropped the papers on my desk.” you stare at him, the words sinking in slow. “you fired him.” because we kissed, you add in your head. “you told me that you wouldn’t if i—” “he made that decision all on his own, sweetheart.” he lifts his cup, taking a sip before continuing. “though, frankly, it was the right one.” you don’t believe him. not a single word that’s come out of his mouth in the last hour. he keeps insisting that it was seunghyun’s decision, that no one forced him, that it was done of his own volition. but why? you wonder. seunghyun wouldn’t just leave me, right? he’s been protecting me and making sure i’m always safe… he’d never just leave. and he needs this job. i mean, c’mon, he said so himself! he broke down yesterday, right in front of me, speaking about junseo, about the transplant and how he couldn’t afford it. how could he just walk away now? your father sighs when he sees the disbelief in your eyes. “go talk to him, then,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “you’ll see i’m not lying. besides, what could i possibly gain from it? i don’t enjoy you sulking around the house.”

you leave before you can say something you’ll regret. and when you reach your room and the door shuts behind you, you grab your phone, scroll through your contacts until his name appears, and press call. you press the phone to your ear, pacing, teeth digging into your lip as the line rings and rings. “seunghyun?” your voice rushes out the instant he picks up. “hi.” his tone makes your heart sink. something isn’t right. “it was my father, wasn’t it?” you ask immediately, desperate. “i know it was him. seunghyun, i—god, i’m so sorry. i know what you’re thinking right now, but i swear, i’m going to fix this. i’ll talk to him, i’ll—” he interrupts you, your name falling softly from his lips. you pause, waiting for him to continue, the silence stretching between you before he does so. “listen… this has nothing to do with your father. i… i resigned myself.” “wait—what?” silence. just his uneven breathing on the other end. “seunghyun?” he doesn’t answer. and in that instant, you realize he meant it. that this is his choice. that for some reason you can’t comprehend, he’s decided to do this. so all that’s left for you to ask is, “why?” “i’m sorry,” he says finally. “i just can’t.” your knees weaken, and you sit on the edge of your bed before they give out. your throat tightens, your chest burning as your eyes well. “what do you mean you can’t? yesterday you said—” “it doesn’t matter what i said,” he interrupts, his tone strained. “i’ll be okay. you don’t need to worry about me anymore.” “but i do,” you whisper. “i do, seunghyun. please… please stay.”

you lean back, staring at the ceiling in an attempt to keep the tears from spilling and make this feel less pitiful than it is. you, the daughter of one of the most respected senators in the country, pleading for your bodyguard to stay. the irony isn’t lost on you. you feel foolish, juvenile, as if you’ve been thrust back into the throes of your first adolescent heartbreak. and still, against every effort to compose yourself, your thoughts betray you—the memory of his mouth on yours less than twenty four hours ago lingering with persistence in your mind. “is this because of—because we… because we kissed?” “no. no, it’s… it’s not about that.” “then what is it?” your voice breaks despite your best effort to hold it steady. “you can’t just disappear without an explanation, seunghyun. you owe me that much.” for the sound he makes, you know he’s rubbing a hand over his face on the other end. “no, i don’t.” “okay. okay, you don’t owe me anything,” you counter, desperate. “but i deserve to know why you’re doing this. please. please just tell me why.” “i can’t.” “you can’t, or you won’t?” silence. “seunghyun.” your tone sharpens. “say something, please. anything.” he doesn’t. he listens to you cry on the other end of the line, yet he can’t summon the courage to say what he really wants to say. “is that it then?” “i’m sorry.” “that’s not an answer.” “it’s the only one i have.” “no. we both know it’s not.” and you’re right. it isn’t. “we shouldn’t… keep talking. or seeing each other.” for a second you think you’ve misheard him. “i’m sorry—what?” “this… whatever it is, it needs to stop.” “why? tell me why, seunghyun. if this is truly what you want, then—” “you have your life,” he interjects. “and i have mine. and we’re—” “don’t do this. not through the phone.” you take a shaky breath. “what, all these months have meant nothing to you?” “that’s not what i said.” “then what are you saying?!” you push, raising your voice. “you care about me—you told me you did. you told me, seunghyun. and you kissed me. you fucking kissed me, for god’s sake, and i kissed you back! so why… why is this suddenly a problem now?” “take care of yourself, okay?” “seunghyun—” “you deserve a good life.” “seunghyun, no. no, please, wait—” “goodbye.” and the line cuts.

january

my therapist says i should start journaling. apparently, i have ‘too many suppressed emotions,’ which is what’s causing my lack of appetite, the insomnia, and the constant sense that someone’s watching me. i told her someone is always watching me, and she didn’t find it as funny as i did. but here i am, sitting at my desk at one in the morning, doing exactly what she said. although i’m doing this mostly for my father’s peace of mind, not mine. he keeps saying that i should be focusing on my future instead of dwelling on the past. and he thinks that if i can put my feelings into words, then maybe i’ll start acting normal again. he’s been pushing me back into the public eye, so it’s extremely important to him that i look like a functional human being.

i don’t feel safe anymore. and it isn’t that i’m unprotected. i know i’m not. his men follow me everywhere, but it’s not the same without seunghyun. it’s been a month now. i haven’t heard from him once. no messages, no calls… i tried for the first two weeks after his resignation, until i realized he’d blocked me. i guess that’s as clear a message as any. i’ve respected his boundaries and removed myself completely from his life. the problem is, i can’t seem to remove him from mine. i can’t stop thinking about him. about what must have gone through his head that morning. and i’ve tried to understand, but i can’t. he didn’t even give me the chance.

he told me he’d ‘see me tomorrow’. but tomorrow never actually comes, does it? it just keeps turning into today. and he never came back, either. i guess he thought he was lying when he said it. but i didn’t. i waited. i still do. maybe i was stupid to think it meant anything. that what happened between us (whatever that was) could exist outside the strange world we were both trapped in. i don’t even know what to call it. friendship? something more? i refuse to believe it meant nothing to him. i refuse to believe that i imagined it all.

i miss him. i wonder if he’s okay, if his brother’s getting better. i wonder if he’s sleeping at night, or if he lies awake like i do. and then i wonder if he ever thinks of me at all. i thought i’d finally found someone who understood me, who actually saw me. not the senator’s daughter or the girl in danger, just me. and i saw him, too. i saw the parts of him he doesn’t show anyone. he let me hold him when he cried.

i’m hurt, i’m angry, i’m tired… and i’m scared. but i’m trying to be okay. i keep telling myself this will pass, that i’ll wake up one day and not feel this constant ache in my chest. but tonight, i don’t believe it. i just want this to end. i want them to find whoever did this, whoever started all of it. i want my life back. and maybe, if i’m allowed to be selfish for a moment, i just want to see seunghyun again.

february

i’ve tried talking to my father about politics again tonight. i just don’t think this is for me at all. i used to be so passionate about it… what happened to me? we just came back from a dinner at the mayflower hotel for another fundraiser. one of his colleagues asked me what my goals were, and i almost said i didn’t have any. i wanted to say i just wanted to be somewhere far away from all of it, but i said i was excited to follow my father’s steps instead. what a liar.

and on the ride home, my father brought up the youth policy forum in baltimore next month, which of course, turned into an argument about everything except the forum. i told him i don’t want to go. that i’m tired of pretending this is what i want. he asked about my future, meaning the one he’s planned for me, and i told him (again) that i don’t see myself in politics anymore, that i’d like to travel. he was so angry... he brought up seunghyun again, saying i’ve been ‘influenced by the lower class.’ i hate it when he speaks like that. he doesn’t even realize how cruel he sounds. to him, it’s always us and them, power and weakness, deserving and undeserving. i guess in his mind, seunghyun falls on the wrong side of all of those.

i think what really upset him was realizing he doesn’t have any real leverage left to keep me here. i’ve made up my mind: once i start feeling better, i’m leaving. i thought he might try to argue, but instead, he brought up mom. he said i’m all he has left and cried. i haven’t seen him do that in years. it’s complicated. i get so angry at him, but then i see him like that and all the anger disappears. he’s all i have left, too. he’s not an easy man to love, and he’s definitely not the best dad, but he’s still my dad after all. and i’m still his daughter. his only daughter. i think part of me will always want to please him. so i guess we’ll see.

on another note, aaron started calling me again a few weeks ago. i wasn’t sure if i should answer, but my therapist said it might be good for me to spend time with someone who isn’t part of my father’s circle. so i did. we’ve met twice now. but i told him i’m not interested in anything more than friendship. it didn’t feel right to pretend otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair. i still think about seunghyun.

march

i have good news! the police said they might have a lead on one of the men involved in the attack. they’re not certain yet, but it’s the first real progress they’ve mentioned since everything happened. apparently, there’s some connection to a car seen near the estate that day, though they wouldn’t tell me much more. i told my therapist about it this morning. she said it’s normal to feel both relief and fear at the same time. she also said she can tell the journaling is helping, and i think she’s right. i don’t have nightmares that often anymore, at least not about the accident. but is it weird that i’ve started dreaming of seunghyun? i haven’t told her that. i know she’s my therapist and that she isn’t supposed to judge me, but she was hired by my father, and i can’t help but wonder how much of what i say stays between us.

why is it so hard to get seunghyun out of my head? i don’t understand why he’s so hard to forget. i mean, i do understand. i know what he came to mean to me, but this feeling in my chest, it’s new. and every time i think i’m moving forward, he finds a way back into my dreams. i read somewhere that when you dream of someone, it means they’re thinking about you too, that their thoughts somehow reach you while you sleep. i don’t know if i believe that, but it’s a comforting thought. maybe he is thinking of me.

the flowers he sent me are still here. they’ve long dried, but i couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. they hang on the wall beside my bed now. i keep telling myself that i’ll take them down soon. perhaps i will… perhaps.

these months without him have changed the way i feel. i’ve realized, through therapy, that what i feel now is anger. anger that he left so suddenly and never gave me an explanation. i reread the earlier pages of this diary today and felt embarrassed. every entry mentions him. every single one. i think i need to stop writing about seunghyun. maybe that’ll make him disappear from my head.

you’d been doing a fairly good job keeping seunghyun out of your mind. or at least, out of your written thoughts. your journal pages had gone silent on him, as if by not mentioning his name you could convince yourself he’d ceased to exist. you’d filled your days with obligations, tinkering with speeches and forcing laughter at your father’s political acquaintances. you even started meeting with your old friends again, who, to your mild disappointment, remain as arrogant and blissfully unaware as they were before. still, it was something to occupy your mind. anything that kept your thoughts away from seunghyun helped.

but now, in april, all that effort feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. with spring came the rain, and this year, it hasn’t stopped. the sky hasn’t cleared in days. rain hammers against the estate’s tall windows, spilling down the glass like tears, making your thoughts sluggish and your heart restless. you find yourself moodier than usual, and the sound of the rain has become a metronome to your melancholy. you’ve been procrastinating everything these past few days. you’ve spent most of your time lying in bed, staring at the ceiling or the window, watching the rain trace paths down the windowpane, your reflection barely visible in the dim light. you think of all the progress you’ve supposedly made, and how proud your therapist would be… if it weren’t for how you feel it slip away.

and tonight, just as you were starting to believe that you were fine, that it was nothing more than a momentary feeling brought on by stormy weather, he came back to you in your dreams. you wake up breathless, your skin slick with sweat and the sheets clinging to your legs as you sit up, dazed. the clock on your nightstand read 1:07 a.m. you prop yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes just as a low thunder growls outside, followed by a flash that fractures the darkness in your room for a split second. the sudden light makes you flinch, and you exhale a long, frustrated sigh, reaching for the lamp on your nightstand, which’s glow fills the room in gold. you blink a few times, your vision still adjusting, then swing your legs over the side of the bed. the floor is cold beneath your feet as you cross the room and pull the curtain aside. the garden below glimmers faintly under the downpour, trees bowing under the weight of the storm. you sink onto the window bench, drawing your knees close, the soft patter of rain peppering the silence around you. you trace the condensation on the glass with your fingertip, watching it disappear as quickly as it forms. your thoughts, as expected, refuse to stray away from seunghyun. would it be a mistake to write about him again? you wonder. he must be thinking of me, right? i haven’t dreamt of him in so long. why now?

you don’t even have time to ponder an answer, because, as if summoned by the very thought, your phone starts to ring from the nightstand. the sound makes you jump. no one calls you at this hour. you push yourself up, crossing the room, and when you reach it, your breath catches in your throat. it’s seunghyun. the name alone is enough to knock the air out of you, it’s been months since you’ve seen those letters together on your phone. you stare at the screen, expecting it to fade, to prove itself some cruel trick of exhaustion or wishful dreaming. but the phone keeps ringing. your thumb hesitates above the green icon, a tremor running through you, before you finally press it. you draw a deep, shaky breath before bringing the phone to your ear. “hello?” his voice comes through. since you remain silent, he says your name as if testing whether the line works. “are you there?” you swallow the lump in your throat. “yes,” you whisper. “i’m here.” “shit—thank god,” he mutters. “i thought you wouldn’t pick up.” he’s outside somewhere, pacing. he’s moving fast, and the noise fills the silence between you. but you don’t ask where he is, or why he sounds like that, or why, after all this time, he’s suddenly decided to call you now. “what do you want?” your words come clipped, the anger that’s been festering inside you finally finding its way out. “listen, this is important—” he starts, but his tone only fuels your resentment. “oh, it better be. it’s been months, seunghyun,” you interrupt. “months. you blocked me, and now you call me in the middle of the night? what do you want from me?”

“are you alone right now?” you blink, thrown off. “what?” “are you alone?” he repeats, forcing himself to stay calm. “why does that matter?” “just answer me,” he insists. “is anyone there with you?” you frown, glancing around your room as if confirming the obvious. “no, i’m alone. why?” “who’s on duty outside your door?” you pull the phone away from your ear for a second, staring at it with confusion before bringing it back to your ear. “sorry?” “outside your room—who’s on duty?” “what are you talking about? what are all these questions?” “just answer! who’s on shift tonight?” he presses. you hesitate, your confusion turning into irritation. “riggs,” you answer. “why—why does it matter who’s on duty?” he curses under his breath, the sound muffled but unmistakable. “listen to me carefully,” he says. “you need to get out of your room. right now. go to your father’s office, and make sure no one follows you.” you scoff, disbelieving, a bitter laugh leaving your lips. “excuse me? who do you think you are?” “don’t argue, just go!” “no!” “for fuck’s sake—” he exhales sharply, the frustration evident in the rasp of his voice. “do what i’m saying and don’t give me that attitude right now!” “hey! don’t you dare raise your voice at me, you jerk!” “i wouldn’t have to if you’d fucking listen!” “and why on earth would i listen to you, huh?!” you fire back, your hand trembling as you clutch the phone tighter. “because i’m trying to—” “after you went radio silent on me for four months now!” you cut him off, your voice rising with every word. “and now you have the audacity to call me and bark orders at me in the middle of the goddamn night? you have some fucking nerve, you know that?!” “this isn’t about you and me right now!” “everything is about you and me right now!” “just listen to me—” “you clearly didn’t want this job anymore, so you—” “this isn’t a game!” he shouts, and the sound of it stops you cold. there’s raw panic in his voice. “there’s no time for this!” “no time for what?!” “you’re not safe! do you hear me?!”

you pause. “what? what do you mean?” you ask, calmer, but still defensive. you hear him pull the door to his car open, then close. “seunghyun,” you press. “what’s going on?” “i think—” he breaks off, the sound of his breath uneven through the receiver. “i think your father’s involved.” the words stun you, and you’re rendered mute for an entire minute. you don’t have to ask what he means; you already know. but it sounds so absurd, so utterly grotesque when it leaves his mouth that you let out a short, scorned laugh. “what, exactly, is this? because if this is a joke,” you say, “it’s not fucking funny.” he snorts, impatient. “you really think i’d call you after all this time to prank you?” you know, absurd as it is, that tone means there is no joke. “then start explaining. now. because that’s a serious accusation you’re making, and it’s my father you’re talking about. so if you are to make a claim of this magnitude, you must—” “i will. i will explain,” he cuts in. “i promise. but not over the line. we don’t have time.” “i’m—i don’t understand what’s going on.” your patience thins; the rational part of you needs the argument. “seunghyun—” “please, just trust me! you need to go into your father’s office. use the desktop computer in his study, find the folder named ‘photos’ and print everything that’s in it. now.” “why would i print a bunch of photos—” you ask, incredulous, because the request makes no sense on its face, and your brain scrambles, allotting fragments of possible explanations to all of this. “because there are no photos! it’s a fake folder. it has documents—things you need to see. i can’t tell you over the phone, we’re running out of time. i’m sorry.” he sounds awestruck by his own audacity to ask this of you. “do as i say and i’ll explain everything when you’re safe, okay? please, be quick. your father’s on his way home.” “how do you know that?” “i just do.” he tskes under his breath, then adds, unabashedly, “listen i… i’m on my way there. i’ll be waiting for you outside.”

you don’t get the opportunity to say another word before the line clicks dead. confusion isn’t even the right word for what floods you; it’s fear and disbelief. five minutes, that’s all it’s been. and your body feels commandeered by a dozen conflicting impulses, each one insisting it’s the one you should trust. you have two paths. one: betray your father and do exactly what seunghyun told you, hoisting your trust in him despite the months he chose to disappear from your life. two: do nothing. keep your world intact and, in the process, lose seunghyun forever. but what if he’s right? one part of you whispers. what if my father is involved? but another part of you snaps back, offended: how could he be? he’s my father. the same man who hired an entire team to keep me safe. you stand trapped between those two voices, and whatever part of you holds the truth, you know that you won’t get anywhere until you see whatever is in that fake folder seunghyun mentioned. if there’s nothing, then your mind will rest. but if there is something—if those files confirm what seunghyun dared to suggest… you don’t even want to think about it.

you manage to slip past riggs with a little lie, telling him you’re only pouring yourself a glass of water and that you’ll return to your room in two minutes at most. his trusting nature has always been your greatest asset, so he simply nods, offering no complaint. you walk quickly the moment you’re out of sight, something akin to dread hastily threading through your veins, guiding you down the hall toward your father’s office. but when you reach the door, the handle rattles uselessly in your hand. determined, you pivot toward the only other possibility: your father’s bedroom. his room has a long balcony that sits close to the small balcony attached to his office. you can’t believe yourself as your fingers push open the balcony door in his room and you step outside, greeted instantly by the downpour. rain soaks through your thin pajamas, tracing cold lines down your back. you inhale sharply, then swing one leg over the railing, steadying yourself with both hands as you hoist your body outward onto the exterior ledge until you’re no longer on the balcony at all, just clinging to the wet metal. slowly, you start walking. your feet slip slightly on the slick stone, and you clutch the railing harder, your fingers trembling as you inch along the narrow ledge.

your heart pounds viciously in your ears and your mind keeps screaming do not look down, donot look down, so you comply, eyes fixed on the small balcony ahead, rain cascading across your vision. you stretch your arm toward the other railing—fingertips grazing the metal bar before they slip, and you scramble back to your father’s balcony with a shallow breath, kissing your teeth in frustration. you try again, this time leaning further with every ounce of courage you can muster. your fingers brush the railing once more, but the water works against you, thawing your grip. there’s only one conclusion: you need to jump. you’re still debating whether you’ve finally succumbed to madness, when a sudden glow sweeps across the estate. car lights. and thanks to the lamps peppering the garden, you recognize the vehicle instantly. your father. you’re out of time.

so you jump. your hands catch the railing of the office balcony just as your left foot skids off the ledge. a loud yelp escapes you, swallowed by the rain, before you haul yourself upward with every ounce of strength you have, hoisting your body over the railing and tumbling onto solid ground. you don’t allow yourself a single breath of triumph. you slip inside, closing the balcony door behind you with a soft click. the darkness greets you, but you know this room, so your hands move without hesitation, tinkering blindly until your fingers find the small lamp on his desk. after successfully getting into his computer, you open the folder exactly as seunghyun instructed and start printing everything inside. you wish that you had the luxury to scrutinize every file before sending them spilling out of the printer, but downstairs, you can hear your father’s muffled voice talking to the staff. you glance down at yourself: drenched, dripping onto the chair and the carpeted floor, clothes plastered to your body, shivering as the cold finally catches up to you. then your gaze lifts to the printer. sheets continue to slide out, a growing stack of documents detailing payments, transfers, movements of money you can’t parse from afar. but when the next page begins to emerge, your eyes widen. a photo of aaron.

the page slides out slowly, and you wish it were just another piece of meaningless bureaucracy. you wish it were anything but this. because it isn’t just aaron’s picture staring back at you. under the photo, neat rows of text begin to materialize: dates, signatures, sums of money you don’t need a closer look at to understand. you stand frozen, water dripping from your sleeves and your hair, splattering onto the page as you pick it up. AARON CALLAGHAN. CONTRACTED FOR PERSONAL ENGAGEMENT/OBSERVATIONAL DUTIES. ASSIGNMENT PERIOD: 01/23 — present (renewed monthly). PRIMARY OBJECTIVES: maintain consistent social proximity to subject; provide companionship aimed at stabilizing subject’s emotional state (noted appetite decline and repetitive thought patterns); deter opportunities for contact with seunghyun choi (direct or indirect: calls, letters, intermediaries); monitor and document behavioral fluctuations, including sleep disruptions, mood changes, or atypical activity; submit weekly behavioral assessments, immediate report required for significant deviation; ensure subject remains occupied, distracted, and socially engaged; reinforce perception of natural companionship to minimize suspicion. SECONDARY TASKS: record details of each interaction (time, location, subject’s demeanor); no mention of contractual arrangement; avoid physical escalation unless clearly prompted; remain available upon request; prioritize subject when necessary; report any unexpected contact attempts made by subject toward seunghyun choi. NOTES: subject demonstrates resistance but engages for appearance; cooperation adequate. further oversight recommended.

you read it completely horrified, growing dizzier with every word, feeling your heart beat in your throat instead of your chest. you sit down, the chair beneath you groaning quietly. you press your fingers to the edge of the page, and all you can think is: he orchestrated this too. if aaron was nothing but another piece on his board… what else has been a lie? but the answer is right there, sliding out of the printer. you catch sight of seunghyun’s name before the page is even fully formed, which is enough to jolt you upright, your hand darting out the moment the page slides completely free. you turn it toward the light. it isn’t a contract with seunghyun. it’s a contract about him. the document begins innocuously, outlining ‘external negotiation protocols’ tied to your father’s private security expenditures. but the longer you read, the narrower the room becomes: agreement established to ensure removal of security officer seunghyun choi from assignment and from subject’s personal sphere. pressure to be applied through threat against dependent (junseo choi; patient ID referenced), to ensure immediate resignation and discontinued contact with subject. compensation structured upon confirmed cessation of contact between target and subject.

your hand curls around the paper, the page crinkling under your tightening grip. the text blurs when tears start clouding your vision, and you feel your stomach drop as your mind begins to put all the pieces together. still, you’re confused, because you don’t understand the machinery behind it. threatening junseo simply to keep seunghyun away from you it’s something you would’ve never expected from your father. is being in love a crime? why would he do something like this? and who are the faceless people your father trusted with something so vile?

as if responding directly to the chaos in your mind, the printer begins again. the faces on the new printed documents mean nothing to you at first glance. they’re unfamiliar, generic even. but the markings on their skin… are not. nor are their eyes, because you’ve seen both before in a context you’ve tried so hard to shut out of your memory. the recognition feels like being plunged into cold water. you know them. they are the men who tried to drag you into the car; the men whose hands you still feel on your skin when you wake abruptly at night, whose voices sometimes creep back into your slumber weeks after you thought the nightmares had finally stopped. you flip through the pages, frantically, as rainwater drips from your hair onto the paper, creating small, unimportant stains that do nothing to soften the brutality of what’s written. with every new sheet your eyes widen a little more and your stomach drops a little further. because you learn, with dawning horror, that your father has been tied to these men from the very beginning. not as a victim, but as a participant. someone who shared a mutually beneficial arrangement with them.

your father has been laundering money through these men for years, using their underground fighting organization as an untraceable channel to move funds out of sight, directing payments through shell accounts they controlled, allowing them a portion of the profit in return for their silence and their services. what began as a mutually convenient arrangement curdled over time into something volatile, because the more money your father pushed through their hands, the more they demanded. and whenever he refused to meet their rising expectations, they retaliated in ways designed to remind him of his dependence, using you as leverage—turning your safety into a bargaining chip, a pressure point, a threat that only existed because he chose these men to keep his secrets, believing he could control criminals whose loyalty was never real.

he knew all this time. he knew exactly who they were. he knew it from the beginning and still he did nothing, choosing instead to hoist layer upon layer of security around you. as if protecting you from a danger he himself sustained could ever be considered protection. the selfishness of that choice blurs your vision until the words on the page are nothing more than shapes, tears slipping down your face. the person meant to safeguard you, to prioritize you, to nurture you… the person who should have told you the truth instead of locking you away and deciding the course of your life for you, has instead ruined it with his calculated decisions. you think of the months you spent terrified, shut inside this house like a bird inside a cage, moving through your days with that constant weight in your chest, worrying not only for yourself but for the people around you, including seunghyun. and through it all, your father felt nothing. or cared to feel nothing. but the cruelest part is understanding that when he realized you were finding comfort in someone he could not control, he chose to threaten the person that mattered to seunghyun most, weaponizing a child’s vulnerability to sever the only connection in your life that felt real, pushing him away from you. and now, as the tears fall and your hands tremble around the paper, you begin to understand that the person who claimed to love you, to protect you, to put you first… did none of those things. he only preserved the world he built for himself, even if it meant destroying yours.

the door opens at the exact moment you manage to gather the papers into a single folder, your hands shaking so violently the edges catch on one another. you press it against your chest, sobbing. your father steps inside, his footsteps halting the moment he sees you—your drenched hair, your soaked pajamas, and the tears streaming down your face. “sweetheart?” he asks, confusion knitted into his brow. “what are you doing in here?” you don’t answer, but he doesn’t give you the chance anyway. his gaze slips downward, landing on the folder you’re clutching, and everything in his expression changes. “what is that?” he asks, though his tone tells you he already knows. the walls he built around you have finally cracked open. there is no point pretending. no point trying to disguise the anger ablaze in your eyes. “you’re a liar,” you choke out, your lips trembling as your tears fall harder. “and a monster!” his jaw tightens before he closes the door behind him with a careful click that makes your stomach turn. you take a step back immediately, trying to create distance. “we can talk about this,” he says, nodding, “hm? there’s no need for everyone in the house to hear.” that’s what he cares about? you shake your head. “there’s nothing to talk about! you put me in danger. you knew. you knew all this time—you—” “listen to me,” he cuts you off, taking another step forward, accustomed to people backing away for him, “you’re upset, and i understand that. but you’re only reacting to what you think you’ve uncovered, not to what is actually happening.” he gestures toward the folder in your hands.

the way he speaks makes your blood boil. talking like the proof in that folder has somehow become distorted by your emotions rather than by his deceit. “those men—yes, they are dangerous, and yes, they overstepped, but you seem terribly unaware of the consequences involved in exposing them.” he moves closer still, hands open at his sides, as though he is the wounded party here. “if they go down,” he continues, his tone dipping into something pitying, “i go down with them. do you understand? that’s how these things work. you cannot simply cut one thread without unraveling the rest. and when that happens… when i lose my position, my influence and every resource that has kept this family afloat… tell me… what exactly do you imagine will be left for you?” you swallow hard. the cadence of his speech gains confidence when he senses your hurt. “your mother is dead. you have no one else. without me, you would be alone. is that truly what you want? ruin your life just to prove a point you do not even understand?” he clicks his tongue softly, tsking in disappointment and shaking his head, trying to make you believe that the problem lies in your lack of perspective rather than his actions. “you think this is simple, you think it’s a matter of right and wrong, but you have always been sheltered from the reality of how the world functions.” you step back when he reaches toward you, but he continues speaking as if you hadn’t moved at all. “i made impossible choices to give you the life you have, and you stand here condemning me without any understanding of what was at stake.” your teeth clench as a fresh wave of tears slips down your cheeks. there’s not even a hint of accountability or remorse in his justification. he’s only insisting he ruined your life for your own good.

“but i’m your daughter,” you whisper. his expression seems to soften for a second before he exhales indulgently, like you’ve just proven his point. “and because you’re my daughter, and i love you,” he begins, stepping forward again, “i did what i had to do. i did it to keep you safe—” “safe?! to keep me safe?!” you snap, your voice breaking on the word, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutching the folder, rainwater flinging off your sleeve. “you let them touch me, you let them hurt me, you let them—” “i did not let anything happen! things escalated, and i handled it—” “you handled it?!” you laugh bitterly, tears streaming faster. “are you fucking listening to yourself?!” “watch your tone!” he warns. “you’re upset—” “of course i’m upset! no, i’m not upset, i’m furious!” you shout, or try to. the sound is strangled, choked by the sobs you can’t contain. “you ruined everything! you destroyed—” “i didn’t destroy anything! you don’t understand the scale of what i’ve been dealing with—” “oh my god, stop! stop saying that!” you cry, wiping at your face angrily, “stop talking to me like i’m stupid, like i’m incapable of understanding what you did! i understand perfectly! i understand exactly what you did.” “you understand nothing,” he states, taking another step. “i have spent years—years!—maintaining a structure that keeps this family intact, okay? you have no idea the position i was in, nor what it takes to keep everything from falling apart.” “everything?” you spit back. “you mean your reputation? your money, your seat in the senate—” “our life!” he corrects sharply. “i did what was required to preserve our life!” “no.” you shake your head. “you did it for yourself. you always have.” he doesn’t deny it. he only looks at you, then beckoningly reaches out a hand, opening his palm. “give me the folder,” he says, with a tone that assumes obedience. “i’m not having this discussion with you. it’s done enough damage. and you’ve seen enough.” you stumble back, clutching it closer to your chest, until your lower back hits the desk. “don’t come near me.” “c’mon, sweetheart,” he coos. “don’t be difficult.” “no,” you whisper. you notice the way he bites his tongue, his eyes piercing yours as he takes another step forward. “give it to me. now.” “i said no!”

the word barely finishes leaving your mouth before he moves. there is no warning, just the sudden, violent motion of his hand lunging toward the folder, fingers snapping around your wrist with a force that sends pain shooting up your arm. you let out a strangled gasp as the folder slips halfway from your grip, a few pages fanning out like wounded wings. panic rushes through you in a single, ablaze surge, and you clutch it tighter, twisting your body away from him even as his other hand clamps down on your shoulder, shoving hard enough to knock you into the corner of the desk, the edge digging into your side. “stop it!” he hisses, though he’s the one hurting you and forcing your body backward as his fingers dig into your wrist, trying to peel you open like a stubborn lock. “give it to me. give it to me!” you shake your head desperately, tears and rainwater mixing on your cheeks as the folder threatens to slip again, the papers inside crumpling under both your grips. you try to pull back but his grip turns stronger, his thumb grinding cruelly against the bones of your wrist, sending another hot rush of pain up your arm. it’s in that moment that seunghyun’s voice returns to you with startling clarity: no one is invincible. no matter how strong someone is, if you inflict enough pain, they’ll let you go. use pressure points to your advantage.

that’s it. that’s what you have to do. no… no. that’s what you need to do. so, before you can regret it, you swing your free hand up toward the hinge of your father’s jaw, your fingers driving into the pressure point under the bone with far more force than you knew you had left. his grip falters as you strike again, the heel of your hand catching the tender spot near his throat. he chokes on the impact, stumbling back, his hold loosening enough for your wrist to slip from his fingers. you twist away, like seunghyun told you to, and your elbow connects sharply with the crook of his arm—the joint locking and yielding with your strike exactly as you felt it beneath seunghyun’s skin. your father drops to one knee with a gasp, clutching his arm, unprepared for the pain. you don’t wait to see if he’ll recover. the folder is still pressed to your chest, but several pages have fallen, strewn across the carpet. you drop to your knees, scrambling, grabbing them with shaking hands until you gather every loose sheet you can see. you sprint toward the door just as he tries to lunge toward you. you know if he gets hold of you again, you won’t get another chance. your hand hits the doorknob, and you bolt out into the hallway. behind you, his voice cuts through the air, calling your name and ordering the staff to stop you, but you don’t look back. you run down the stairs, through the foyer and toward the door. toward seunghyun.

you’re silent. and you remain that way for the entire ride, staring out the window. seunghyun doesn’t speak either. he glances at you occasionally, those sidelong looks full of questions. months have passed. he thinks it would be stupid to ask how you’re feeling when the answer is written across every inch of you. you walk into his apartment slowly. he walks a step ahead of you, and you follow without comment, your mind everywhere except the moment. you’re only aware of how cold you are and how much your feet hurt from running barefoot across the estate, each step a reminder of everything that just happened. neither of you speaks as he leads you through the narrow hallway into his living room. you stop in the middle of the room, taking in the small, warm space. seunghyun stays by the doorway. you can feel his stare on you, so when his voice finally comes, it doesn’t surprise you. “i know it’s…” he pauses, searching for a word that won’t sound presumptuous, “a lot to process. if you need anything, you—” “could i use your shower?” you cut in. you don’t mean to be dismissive, you simply have nothing left in you to offer, no space for conversation or the thousand unspoken things between you. “of course.” he’s been too focused on your face to even register the rest of you. now, seeing the drenched pajamas and the mud on your bare feet, something in his expression shifts painfully. “come here,” he murmurs, stepping aside and beckoning gently. you follow him down the hall. he brings you into his room, opens the door to the bathroom and flicks the light on. “this is my bathroom. use whatever you need,” he says, “there are clean towels under the sink.” you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates, then adds, “and…” he gestures toward his closet, clearing his throat softly, “just take something of mine to wear. anything from the closet. it’s fine.” you nod again. “okay.”

the walls are paper thin—something that had made the rent a little cheaper when seunghyun first signed the lease, for which he had been grateful for back then, considering he was raising his little brother and stretching every dollar until it nearly tore. but tonight… it means your sobs seep through every surface, carrying straight into the living room even though you think the shower water is masking them. it masks nothing. if anything, it only magnifies every inhale you take before another cry comes out of you, and with every sound, his heart aches. he debates knocking on the bathroom door more than once, hovering in front of it. but he never lifts his knuckles to the wood because he knows you need space, and he wants to let you have even a sliver of privacy after everything was taken from you. when you finally step out—after what must’ve been forty minutes though it feels longer—you’re wearing his old sport pants and one of his zip up hoodies, the sleeves swallowing your hands. you’ve never felt more like a burden in your life; you’re in his home for the first time ever, dressed entirely in his clothes and looking like you’ve been dragged through hell. an overwhelming sense of pathetic, misplaced guilt climbs up your spine. you’re so accustomed to luxury that standing here feels almost surreal. you feel out of place. like a fish out of water, almost literally. your eyes land on the couch, specifically the pillows and blankets he’s arranged on it, and you latch onto it, in an attempt at making seunghyun focus on something that isn’t the puffiness of your eyes. “what’s that?” you ask. “i’ll sleep here,” he says. “junseo’s room… i’ve been using it for storage these past few months. it’s a mess. you can take my bed.” you shake your head weakly. “you don’t have to do that, seunghyun. i can… i can sleep on the couch.” he tskes softly. “no. you need to rest properly.” “you opened your home to me, let me shower, gave me your things… even your clothes. i think you’ve done more than enough. i’m not taking your bed too.” he lets out a snort, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. “you take care of me,” he says, the memory of it warming his voice despite how cold the night has been to both of you, “so i take care of you. remember?” of course you remember. how could you not? when he’s all you’ve thought about for months. “i do,” you whisper.

there’s a long, awkward silence between you. and after a few seconds of simply standing there in your damp hair and borrowed clothes, you lower yourself onto the couch, choosing a careful distance from him. his eyes drift toward you, catching the restless bouncing of your leg, and how your fist keeps tightening around the fabric of his hoodie. he knows your mind is working at a punishing speed, peppering you with a dozen thoughts you’re not ready to confront, and he knows you well enough to recognize the moment you start fighting the urge to cry again. he exhales softly and stands, crossing the room before turning on the television. there’s nothing worth watching at four in the morning, but anything is better than letting you sit alone with your thoughts. “i’ll make some tea,” he says. “it… might help you sleep.” the comment catches you off guard, yet when you think about it, the idea of warm tea sounds blissful. “thank you.” he nods once and moves to his small kitchen. as he reaches for the kettle he realizes he’s only ever made tea for his family, never for anyone else. there’s no reason behind that, it’s simply how his life has been. but the thought lingers in his mind. he tries to make it as good, sweet, and comforting as he can, the way he imagines you might prefer it, tinkering with the ratio like it’s a task requiring his full concentration. he hears the tragically acted action movie that you’re watching on the tv, and he can’t help the small smile that breaks across his face as he pours the tea into (coincidentally once more) mismatched mugs. “i didn’t know if you’d want milk in yours,” he calls as he walks back toward the living room, his eyes on the mugs to avoid spilling, “so i didn’t add any, but if you do, just tell me and i’ll—” he lifts his gaze. and stops. you’re not sitting anymore, you’re curled into the nest of pillows he assembled for himself, fast asleep. the exhaustion must have overtaken you completely. i guess she didn’t need the tea after all, he thinks, placing the mugs gently onto the coffee table, careful not to disturb the quiet that has settled inside the room. he stands there for a long moment, simply looking at you, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. fondness unfurls inside seunghyun, smiling tenderly at the sight. without overthinking it, he reaches for one of the blankets and drapes it over you gingerly, letting the fabric fall across your shoulders, adjusting it so it covers you completely. then he leans down, pressing the faintest kiss to your temple, his lips barely grazing your skin so he won’t wake you. you need rest. the second day after a betrayal is always worse than the first.

seunghyun is nowhere to be found when you wake up. your first instinct is to panic, and you start scrambling for your phone, patting the couch, the coffee table, the floor, until you remember: you left it at home. you don’t have it. you don’t have a way to call him, or text him, or ask where he went, or when he’s coming back, or if he’s okay. you force yourself to breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, again and again, the way your therapist taught you. counting silently and reminding yourself that panic will not save you now. realistically, considering everything that happened last night, leaving the apartment was probably a terrible idea. but there’s nothing you can do now. you calm down only when you wander into the kitchen and spot the note on the counter, placed deliberately right next to the kettle. seunghyun wanted to make sure you wouldn’t miss it. ‘i’ll be back’ just those words and nothing more. to which you sigh loudly.

with nothing else to do, and no desire to sit wit your thoughts, you decide to clean. it’s an impulsive choice, and you feel extremely ridiculous crouching down to wipe the living room floor with a damp cloth, scrubbing at the streaks of dried mud your bare feet tracked in the night before. you’ve never cleaned floors in your life, and you’re aware of how awkward you look doing it and how inefficient your movements are. but you do it anyway, diligent despite your inexperience. when you’re done, your attention drifts to the bookshelf lining one wall of the living room. your eyes are immediately drawn to the framed pictures along one shelf. the first picture makes you smile. it’s junseo on his first day of primary school, grinning awkwardly at the camera. next to it is a photo of seunghyun himself in his military uniform, standing shoulder to shoulder with another man. their closeness is evident in how they lean toward each other, and in the unguarded smile he wears. another frame holds the dog you recognize from his instagram, standing in a river with his tongue out and completely drenched. you huff out a soft, fond breath, before your gaze lands on the last photograph. a young woman you don’t need to be told is his mother, has her arms wrapped tightly around a much smaller seunghyun, with their cheeks pressed together so hard they’re nearly squished.

right then, you hear the door open. and a few seconds later seunghyun steps into the living room with several plastic bags weighting his arms and cutting faint crescents into his fingers. they rustle softly as he walks. “good morning,” he says nonchalantly as he pointedly ignores the way you’ve crossed your arms over your chest. and only after a brief glance at his phone does he correct himself with a soft huff, “well. good evening, actually.” “where were you?” you ask, unable to disguise the edge in your voice, watching him veer toward the kitchen as if this were a perfectly ordinary moment. you follow, of course. “hospital,” he answers simply, setting the bags down on the counter. right. the fear that had been sitting dormant since you woke surges up, “do you have any idea how incredibly dangerous that is? to leave by yourself?” you blurt. “if something happened to you—” you stop yourself too late. oh. you really said that. “i mean—my dad will do anything to get that folder back,” you rush on, “anything to make sure no one finds out. and he knows i’m with you. it’s not exactly hard to put two and two together, so if he—” “i got a call this morning,” seunghyun interrupts, unpacking the groceries as he speaks, slotting items into the fridge and cabinets. “from the hospital. that’s why i had to leave.” you fall silent immediately. “your dad wants to cover the rest of junseo’s treatment,” he continues, “and pay for the transplant surgery. the recovery too.” your arms fall limply to your sides. “what? really?” “mhm.” even though it surprises you, it shouldn’t. because this is just another one of his tactics, another calculated move meant to corner you into silence, to bribe you into compliance with the same currency he’s always relied on. i did this for you because i know you care about seunghyun, the gesture seems to say, and this is the power my money holds. accept the exchange. let the truth stay buried. that is what it is. that is what the donation signifies. and both you and seunghyun understand it without needing to say it. you let out a huff, pressing your lips together as you lean back against the kitchen counter. “he’s unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath.

seunghyun turns to look at you. the first thing he notices is the way you’re shaking your head slowly. then, how your gaze is fixed on the tiled floor as you worry your lower lip between your teeth. he doesn’t comment on it. “i… i also got you a few things,” he says, casual on the surface, though his tone gives him away. that’s enough to pull your attention back to him. you lift your head just as he hands you two of the plastic bags, their weight unexpected in your hands. “what is it?” you ask, even though you’re already peering inside, curiosity getting the better of you. “you kind of left in a hurry. and i figured you’re going to be staying here for a while,” he explains, sheepishly as he scratches lightly at the back of his neck. “so… i, uhh... i bought you some essentials. i didn’t want you to have to ask. or worry about it.” you start rummaging through the bag, pulling things out one by one. toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, deodorant, shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, products you recognize that he clearly chose with care. even pads and tampons. “i got some food i know you like, too,” he adds, turning slightly toward the counter, suddenly busy with nothing in particular. “i’m not as good a cook as your staff, but…” he cuts himself off when you reach the bottom of the bag and pull out folded clothes, unmistakably aligned with the things you tend to wear. “oh. yeah, that’s—” “you got me clothes?” you ask, the breath of an incredulous laugh slipping out. he nods, flustered. “i thought you’d want your own. i mean… you can still wear mine. if you want to. obviously.” your heart feels dangerously close to skipping a few heartbeats. you dig into the second bag and find a box, which makes him wince preemptively. “those are shoes,” he says, bracing for criticism. “i guessed your size, which was probably a mistake, so if they don’t fit, i’ll go back and change them, you just—” you don’t let him finish. you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his shoulder. “seunghyun, you didn’t have to do all this... thank you.” he freezes for a second, clearly unsure where to put his hands. but then his arms come around you too. you don’t say anything else, because you don’t know how to translate the knot of gratitude and aching tenderness lodged in your chest into words. but you don’t need to. seunghyun understands.

it feels strange eating next to seunghyun while the television drones on in the background. it isn’t uncomfortable so much as it is too ordinary and mundane. you’ve spent time with him before, but there’s something oddly intimate about sitting beside someone in quiet companionship, chewing and watching the screen glow while neither of you speaks. the awkwardness doesn’t last long, though. the moment he finishes his plate and sets it aside, he starts talking. explaining and filling in the gaps of how everything went down. he tells you that he was supposed to fight the previous night, that everything would’ve gone according to routine if he hadn’t seen aaron, standing there talking to your father. that was enough to set off alarms: what was your father doing there, of all places? and since when did he know aaron at all? he says he knew then that something wasn’t right. seunghyun doesn’t explain exactly how he got the information out of your… ex situationship. he doesn’t need to, the redness and soreness around his knuckles speaks for itself. seunghyun knows you well enough to know you don’t need the details spelled out for you, that you can connect the dots on your own. seunghyun doesn’t ask you what you’re going to do about the situation next. he doesn’t push and doesn’t corner you with expectations. but the question still exists: what do you want to do? what are you going to do? you know you’ll have to decide eventually. there’s no avoiding that. and as much as you wish you could say that you’re going to expose your father, that you’re going to tear everything apart and choose the truth no matter the cost… you can’t. there’s too much at stake, and as much as you hate admitting it, your father was right about that. and no matter how deeply you dislike him now, you still can’t bring yourself to see that cruel, selfish man as anything other than your dad. the same person who used to scoop you up and spin you through the air until you squealed with laughter, the same man you’d sprint toward every time he returned from a work trip, arms outstretched. the same man who would beam and say, “ah, look at her! this beautiful, young lady! i’ve missed you, sweetheart.” he’s also the man who held you while you sobbed on the floor after finding your mother. who stayed with you through the long and sad years that followed, who raised you through the rest of your adolescence. who turned you into the person you are today, for better or worse.

a week and a half goes by, and living with seunghyun turns out to be easier than you expected. you fall into a routine without consciously deciding to, keeping your hands busy and your mind busier, because you haven’t dared to leave the apartment yet. you wake up late most mornings, and once seunghyun leaves for the hospital, you clean the apartment, inventing tasks simply to feel useful. later, when he’s back, you cook together in the small kitchen, bumping elbows. then you eat side by side before showering and settling in front of the television while he answers calls for handyman jobs in the neighboring area. you make dinner together, eat again, play whatever board game he owns, and then you sleep, only to repeat it all the next day. and through all of it, he gives you time. he doesn’t ask what you’re going to do, he doesn’t bring up your father unless you do, he doesn’t push, doesn’t suggest… and most importantly, he doesn’t try to guide you toward a decision. he understands that this choice cannot be rushed, and that this is something you need to arrive at on your own. he won’t pressure you, and he won’t decide for you. your father, on the other hand, doesn’t give you the same courtesy. packages start arriving at seunghyun’s apartment—boxes filled with your favorite clothes, your shoes, jewelry, your phone… and eventually even your diary, the sight of it making your airways constrict because you know he must have read every single page before sending it. each box comes with an apologetic note, asking you to come home and framing everything as concern for your wellbeing and comfort now that you’re supposedly deprived of his endless luxuries. that manipulative fucker. you spend more nights awake than you want to admit, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry every time the realization settles in again: there is no escaping this. this is your life now, and this is your reality. eventually, exhaustion always wins. you swallow hard, twist restlessly under the covers, press the pillow over your head, and lie there until the first traces of morning light creep through the window, your body finally surrendering to sleep because it has no strength left to stay awake.

you’re embarrassingly eager to watch your father speak on television around the two week mark. it’s the first major debate with other politicians he’s participated in since everything fell apart. seunghyun has insisted that it isn’t a good idea, that you don’t need to put yourself through that right now. but you’re stubborn. and you’ve assured him that you feel better, that you just want to hear what he says. so there you are, perched on the couch, gripping the remote so tightly your fingers ache and leaning forward as though you might lunge at the screen at any moment, your entire body keyed into every syllable he utters. from the kitchen, seunghyun can hear the little huffs you keep letting out under your breath as he cooks dinner, plus the occasional commentary, such as “oh, come on now!” and “what a liar!” he ignores it and lets you have your moment, focusing on the pan in front of him. but then he hears you laugh—a sudden burst that cuts through the apartment. that’s when he steps out of the kitchen. he leans against the doorframe, watching you with a mix of concern and curiosity as you laugh hysterically, pointing at the tv like you’ve just witnessed the delivery of the most absurd joke imaginable. “did you hear what he just said?!” you exclaim, turning halfway toward him and then back to the screen. “oh my god! oh my god—no wonder i didn’t see it. i mean, he’s a really fucking good liar! if i couldn’t tell, what chance does anyone else have? oh! wait—and he said—” you lift your hand, palm out, as another wave of laughter overtakes you. “wait, wait—” you gasp, wiping at the corner of your eyes with the heel of your hand while clutching your stomach with the other. “he said—oh my god! i can’t—shit! he said family is his top priority.” you burst into loud cackles, slapping your leg. you laugh so hard you have to pause just to catch your breath, only to start wheezing again seconds later. seunghyun narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t interrupt you. he lets you laugh as loudly and as long as you need to. “no, no, because listen,” you manage between fits, “he said it with such confidence. like—like he actually believes it himself.” you try to continue, but the laughter overtakes you again, another wave ripping through. you bend forward, one hand braced on your knee as the other continues to vaguely gesture at the television. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry—” you say, though you’re not apologizing for anything in particular. “oh my god, my stomach hurts! it’s just… it’s hilarious.”

seunghyun keeps looking at you while you try to catch your breath again, your laughter turning into small giggles that come and go unevenly. your name falls from his lips, cutting through the noise and making you glance at him. “mmh?” you’re still clinging to the last scraps of laughter. “you can just cry, you know?” he says. “what?” “you don’t need to force yourself to laugh in front of me,” he continues. “you can just cry.” oh. . . oh. you hate that he knows. you hate that he sees it so clearly. he always has. you can’t hide from seunghyun the way you hide from everyone else. you should’ve known better than to think you could. he’s always been able to see through you. your smile is gone entirely now, wiped clean from your face, and you just stare at him, perplexed. “no, i—” you start, shaking your head. “i’m not—i don’t want to… i-i don’t want to cry,” you say, each word weaker than the last, your lower lip humiliating you in its tremble. you look away from him the moment you feel the burn behind your eyes, trying desperately to regain control. but when your gaze lands back on the television and you catch a glimpse of your father’s face, the first sob rips out of you. you don’t think you’ve ever cried this ugly before, everything you’ve been bottling up for days finally forcing its way out of you. your throat burns from trying to keep the sobs in, until your body refuses to cooperate anymore and each cry tears out of you loudly enough to border on a scream. you cover your face with your hands, shaking so hard your shoulders jerk. you barely register seunghyun moving until he’s gently coaxing your hands away from your face and guiding you up from the couch. “come here,” he says softly, his hand finding your arm and drawing you toward him. “my dad—” you try, but a broken sob steals the rest of the sentence from you. “i know… i know.” his arms wrap around you, enclosing you without hesitation. one of his hands settles between your shoulders, while the other slides up and down your back. you cling to him, burying your face against his chest as you continue to ugly cry. “it’s okay,” he murmurs, close to your ear. “i’m here. let it all out.”

it feels as if those words trip a hidden wire inside you. suddenly you’re pushing him away, at first so subtly that seunghyun thinks it’s just your body shifting against his… until your fist bumps hard against his chest and you manage to force a small, ragged distance between the two of you. “no… no!” you gasp, shaking your head frantically, “it’s your fault!” his eyes widen, startled, but you don’t give him time to respond. “this is your fucking fault!” you cry, your voice breaking apart. “you abandoned me! i asked you to stay! i needed you and you… you abandoned me, you jerk!” your fists crash against his chest again and again, uncoordinated. and even as you do it you’re aware that you’re being irrational—you know why he left. you know he was trying to protect his little brother. and the decision wasn’t simple or selfish or cruel in the way your body insists it was. but it’s been so many months… months of silence and things left unsaid. months of swallowing emotions whole while feeling lonelier than you’ve ever felt in your entire life. “you said you cared about me!” you sob. “you said you cared—you’re a liar! you’re a fucking liar just like him!” seunghyun doesn’t stop you. he doesn’t grab your wrists or tell you to calm down or try to justify himself. he only steadies you when your balance wavers, hands briefly catching your arms so you don’t fall. but otherwise he lets every blow land, lets you push at him, lets you spend your fury against his chest. even when you try to shove him away, he remains planted firmly in front of you. if this is how you need to empty yourself of all the anger you carry, then so be it. he’ll take it. he just wants you to be okay. “i fucking—i believed you! i believed every stupid word you said! you told me you’d see me the next day and you didn’t! how could you… how could do that to me?! huh?! how could you?! you fucking liar! i hate you!” you choke. “i hate you, i hate you, i hate you!”

but you don’t. you know you don’t, even as the words leave your mouth. you don’t hate him at all. there isn’t an ounce of hatred in you where he’s concerned, and there never has been. what you feel toward seunghyun is everything but hate. but you’re so hurt it makes you cruel, projecting and unloading everything you wish you could’ve screamed at your father onto seunghyun instead, just because he’s here. he doesn’t deserve this. and it pains you knowing you’re hurting the only person who didn’t mean to hurt you, using him as an outlet for a rage that was never really meant for him in the first place. that’s why your strength ends up draining. the rage burns itself out as fast as it flared, until your arms feel heavy and your hands don’t have enough power left to hit him anymore. your forehead drops against his chest, and you keep crying there, the sobs racking your body. “i’m sorry,” you whisper brokenly, the words muffled against his clothes. “i don’t… i don’t hate you.” “i know.” “seunghyun, i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry, i—” “i promise,” he interrupts gently, his hands coming up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away your tears as he bends down until he’s at eye level with you. “i promise i will never do that to you again. okay? i’ll always be here. i shouldn’t have—” “seunghyun—” “i shouldn’t have left you,” he insists, the confession finally breaking free, heavy with regret. “i know that. and i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry, baby. please… forgive me.” you sniff, pressing your lips together as you fight another surge of tears. hearing him call you baby isn’t something you were prepared for at all. and definitely not paired with an apology and his puppy eyes looking far too close to tears for your comfort. so you nod slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his. “yeah?” he asks, needing it said out loud. “yeah,” you whisper in return.

having let yourself break like that earlier feels like the final permission your mind needed to turn on you once the lights go out, because the nightmares come back that same night. except now they have a familiar face to feed off to and torment you with: your father’s. in the dream, you’re running through the maze in the garden, with the folder clutched to your chest like a second heart. he’s behind you the entire time, chasing you, until his hand finally closes around your wrist and the folder is ripped from you. you wake with a gasp, heart hammering violently as you scramble out of bed with shaking hands to open the drawer you and seunghyun agreed to keep the folder in. it’s there. exactly where it should be. even though you knew you’d find it, the sight of it makes a relieved sigh escape you. you close the drawer carefully, and stand there for a moment, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. you crawl back into bed and try to sleep again, but it’s no use. your anxiety keeps growing teeth. for reasons you know are irrational and yet cannot silence, you become convinced your father might appear through the window at any moment, that he’ll find a way inside the apartment despite the fact that seunghyun lives on the eighth floor. your thoughts start looping and you feel a terrible pressure in your chest that gives you no other option but to slip out of the bedroom and into the living room, tiptoeing across the floor. you’re careful not to make a sound as you approach the couch where seunghyun is sleeping.

you hesitate for a second, watching him there, guilt creeping up on you for even considering waking him. but he’s the only person who can help you right now. you reach out and shake him gently, barely more than a brush of your fingers against his arm. but that is more than enough to jolt him awake. he’s alert instantly, body tensing as he sits up. confusion flickers across his face as his eyes sweep the room before they land on you, standing there in the dim light spilling through the living room window. “hey.” he rubs a hand over his face as he focuses. “are you okay? did something happen?” “sorry… i didn’t mean to wake you. i… i can’t sleep,” you reply. he’s still groggy when he answers a soft and raspy, “oh,” the blanket sliding off his shoulders as he moves forward, preparing to stand. “okay. i’ll make you some tea—” “no,” you interrupt. he pauses, looking up at you again. “no?” you hesitate. “no, i… i actually wanted to… i wanted to ask you something.” “okay.” you shift your weight, twisting the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers. “would it be… would it be okay if you, um—” you trail off, clear your throat. your heart’s thudding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. “if you could… sleep with me?” “sleep with you?” “yeah,” you nod, a little sheepish. “if you want to, of course. i mean… you don’t have to. i just…” you huff out a breath. “i had a nightmare and now my head won’t shut up and i thought maybe if you were there—” “hey,” he says softly, cutting in before you can talk yourself out of it. “it’s okay.” “if you don’t want to, it’s fine,” you continue. “but i really—i could use some company.” he studies you for a moment, before asking, “are you sure? you really want me there?” “mhm.” he sighs as he pushes himself fully to his feet. “okay. come on.”

you’re both finally settled in bed, if you can even call it that. you on the left side, pressed as far away from the window as possible without falling off the mattress, choosing the darkest, most shielded corner of the room, while seunghyun takes the right side without question. if anything were to come for you, it would have to get through him first. it feels awkward having him there, sharing the same bed. you’re too aware of the space between your bodies and at the same time of how little space there actually is. he used to guard your door every single night while you slept alone, and now he’s here, lying beside you. god. if someone had told you a year ago that this is how things would end up, you would’ve laughed right in their face. “do you want to talk about it?” seunghyun asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence between you. he hasn’t laid down all the way yet, his back resting against the bed frame. you keep your eyes on the ceiling. “it was just my dad,” you say. “he took the folder.” you hear the soft hum he makes in response, can tell he’s nodding even without looking at him. “i’ve been having nightmares for months,” you continue after a moment. “especially after the last… attack. but i was doing so much better...” a tired sigh slips out of you. “i really thought it was over.” seunghyun feels a pang of guilt at your words. he regrets not being there for you these past few months, regrets every night he wasn’t around to listen, to comfort you, to let you talk about your fears and concerns. “it will be,” he says, turning his head to look at you. “you won’t feel like this forever.” you finally glance sideways, catching the outline of his face in the moonlight coming from the window behind him. “i’ll make sure of that.” your lips curve into a tired smile. “you already do too much for me.” he scoffs under his breath. “really? i think i’m not doing enough.”

“what?” you ask, genuinely taken aback, and before you can think better of it you push yourself up until you’re sitting too, your back resting against the bed frame in an unconscious mirror of his posture. “don’t say that.” your voice firms as you go on, “you’ve done more for me than anyone has in years. i’d be willfully blind not to recognize it. i owe you my life, seunghyun—my life. if i’m still here, it’s because of you. and all i’ve done in return is ruin yours—” “ruin my life?” he cuts in, incredulous. “you have to be joking.” “you were injured because of me,” you insist. “your arm—” “it was nothing.” “and because of it you couldn’t fight properly.” you press on, refusing to let him minimize it. “so yes. i—” “you have to be out of your mind,” he interrupts again. “if you really believe for even a second that you ruined my life because i hurt my arm protecting you. i’d do it a thousand times over if it meant having you here with me right now.” that silences you. you swallow hard, trying to read his expression in the dimness, but the room gives you little to work with. the moonlight only skims one side of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. but you don’t need to see it clearly to know he isn’t exaggerating. seunghyun would take far more than a single bullet for you. “you helped my brother,” he continues. “you did it even when you were convinced i hated you. i’ve been… lonely for a long time. sad, too. for years. and then i met you, and your—” he gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “your attitude.” you let out a surprised laugh that makes him smile. “and your kindness,” he goes on, “your selflessness, your generosity, your intelligence, your resilience, your courage...” he shakes his head. “i’ve learned more from you than i ever expected to. you taught me things i didn’t know i needed to learn. and you helped me in ways i don’t think i’ll ever be able to repay.” his voice drops at the end, before he decides to add, “and in return, i, what? disappeared from your life for months? acted like… like what happened between us meant nothing?” “seunghyun, if you’re saying this because—” “it meant everything to me.” your breathing turns shallow. you feel his words settling deep in your chest, pressing the air out of your lungs. “please… don’t,” you say quietly when you finally find your voice again. “don’t feel guilty for doing what you had to do. i understand why you left. i do. i was angry earlier… and i ended up taking it out on you, and for that… i’m deeply sorry.” “you don’t have to—” “yes. i do. i want you to know i didn’t mean any of it. i don’t hate you. i never have.” an incredulous huff leaves you. “i mean… c’mon. how could i?” you gesture weakly between the two of you, as if the proof is obvious, and the space you share is evidence enough. “i’ve learned so much from you too. i’m not the same selfish, stuck up girl i was last year, and you know it. that’s because of you. my father would’ve taken the folder if it weren’t for everything you taught me—how to fight back and defend myself. you brought me into your home and gave me everything i needed and more without complaining once. you even offered me your bed,” you add pointedly, “which i insisted you keep, and you still did it. you’ve taken care of me. you don’t even get mad at me for waking you up in the middle of the night just because i had a bad dream.” you shake your head. “your first instinct was to get up and make me goddamn tea.” a soft laugh slips out of you, and he laughs too. it’s only then that you realize there are tears on your cheeks, because one slips into the corner of your mouth and you taste its saltiness. you swipe at your face before going on. “so i don’t care how much time has passed. or what’s happened between then and now… there’s no hate in me for you. none.”

seunghyun had been certain you would despise him after he went radio silent for months, and in the self flagellating corners of his mind he had decided that would be fair. he deserved it. because what kind of man kisses you like that and then vanishes from your life within the span of a single day? he felt despicable for it. especially when the kiss meant so much to him. especially when you mean so much to him. so much it’s difficult to articulate without sounding foolish. he thinks he could spend his entire life trying to find the right words for it and still fall short. every atom of your skin is as dear to seunghyun as his own. he could fill entire libraries with all the love he has for you, shelf after shelf, then sell his soul just to guard them for eternity. he wishes you could feel it. feel how deeply and relentlessly you are loved by him. he has never felt what he feels for you, not even close. there were moments when he was convinced he had lost his mind completely, like the day you smiled at him for the first time when you saw him, instead of giving him that familiar scrutinizing stare. he remembers the way his heart leapt straight into his throat, how it betrayed him by wanting and yearning for something so deeply it hurt. the ache followed him everywhere after that, every time he was near you, all while he truly believed you would never see him the way he sees you. that you would never feel this looming, all consuming thing that stalks him day and night. the thing that turns him into a fool and a coward… this thing people call love.

“see, this is what… this is what i meant,” he manages to reply. he sniffs, almost distracted by it, and you notice just as he does, the trail of tears he hadn’t felt leave his eyes. “even after everything, you don’t hold it against me. you just forgive. and that’s why it doesn’t matter what i do, or what i say... it’ll never feel like enough in my eyes.” “look at me,” you say softly, needing him to hear this as much as you need to say it, and when his gaze finally drifts to yours you don’t waver. “what you do is enough, seunghyun. i’ve never asked for anything in return. and neither have you. because we—you’ve always said we’re different, but i think we’re more alike than we want to admit. i’d do anything to see you happy. and i know… i know you’d do anything to see me happy too.” something changes in his expression at your words. “and you know why that is?” he asks, barely above a whisper. he’s closer than he was when the conversation began, and maybe you are too. you’re not sure who moved first—only that the space between you is smaller than it was. his question hangs between you, loaded, hoping you’ll catch the truth. hoping you’ll finally call the thing between you what it is. you don’t need time to think about it. you love him. and loving someone means wanting their happiness, no matter what. “yes, i do.” you pause, your pulse loud in your ears, skimming your throat. “do you?” the words leave you as a whisper, and the silence that follows stretches long enough for you to let your gaze drop to his lips and anticipation to coil in your chest. seunghyun leans in until you’re only careful inches apart, so close that every breath feels shared. “i do,” he whispers back. “and i’ll show you.”

before you can even gather a proper thought, his lips find yours. a delicate kiss that lasts only a few seconds before he pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face for doubt or anything that might tell him to stop. you meet his gaze for a fleeting moment, before you close the distance again with more urgency and need than you were prepared to admit to yourself. your lips part naturally, fitting against his with ease. his tongue brushes against yours as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb warm against your cheek as he draws you closer. everything feels heightened under seunghyun’s touch, every point of contact lighting you up, butterflies battering wildly in your lower stomach as you gather the courage to straddle him without breaking the kiss. he exhales softly against your mouth at the movement, a sound that sends a shiver through you. and when you feel the pressure of his body reacting to yours through the thin fabric of his pajama pants, you gasp. you’ve gotten him worked up so quickly it makes you feel a little sheepish.

seunghyun smiles before leaning in again, kissing you once more, his hands settling on your hips as he guides you, encouraging the slow grind of your body against his. the friction pulls a soft sound from you before you can stop it, a breathy little moan that surprises you enough to make you bite down on your lower lip immediately after. you try to keep quiet, even as his body presses back against yours and the hard outline of his cock presses insistently against you through your pajama pants, right where you’re aching. his thumb lifts to your mouth, easing your lip free from your teeth as if he knows exactly what you’re doing. “let me hear you, baby,” he murmurs. another slow roll of your hips against him steals the breath right out of you, and the sound he’s been waiting for leaves your mouth. his hands travel up your back, caressing you gingerly until they find your ass, where he keeps them as you lean in to kiss him, your bodies moving together. he’s trying not to react to every small movement you make, but the moment your kisses trail from his mouth to his jaw, then to his neck, teeth grazing his skin before you suck gently, the restraint evaporates. a low groan slips out of seunghyun, and his hands squeeze your ass hard in response, drawing a soft, approving hum from you against his throat.

it feels unreal. this whole thing. you’re on top of him, like this, after all this time. you’ve wanted him for so long… you’ve lost count of how many nights you’ve spent imagining this exact moment, even back when he stood right outside your door, refusing to cross lines you wished he’d burn to the ground. wishing he would just come in and forget every rule, every difference, every reason he gave himself to keep you at arm’s length. and you know he’s wanted this too. you feel it in the way his cock twitches whenever your body moves against his, or in the way his breath stutters when your tongue tangles with his. “seunghyun…” you pull back, your voice coming out very much needy. “i… i wanna—” the words get stuck in your throat, suddenly shy despite everything, but he knows. a fond smile curves his lips at the sound of you like this. “yeah? you do?” “mhm,” you nod. “okay,” he whispers. “then let me take care of you.”

gently, seunghyun guides you down onto the bed until you’re lying back against the soft pillows. his lips find yours again, and you part yours without hesitation, welcoming his tongue into your mouth as the kiss deepens. your hands come up to his face, tracing his features with reverence as you feel his right hand move over your chest. a quiet, surprised squeal slips out of you when he cups one of your breasts through your shirt, massaging it gently. “sorry,” he murmurs against your lips. “is this okay?” “yeah,” you nod quickly, smiling faintly before you pull him back into the kiss, needing him closer. he takes his time fondling both of your breasts, his hand sliding under your pajama shirt. every drag of his thumb over your nipples sends a filthy jolt straight to your cunt, which throbs with need. you try to roll your body against his, chasing friction, grinding yourself up toward him to ease the ache, only to fail miserably since he’s not even fully on top of you yet, which only adds to the frustration. your impatience starts to show, your kisses turning sloppier and breathing heavier with every passing second. you’re trying to show him without words just how badly you want more, until his hand finally slides down your stomach. he teases the sensitive skin there, dragging it out on purpose as his fingers hook into the elastic of your pajama pants and toy with it. you let out a needy moan in protest, nudging his hand insistently. “so impatient,” he snorts, clearly enjoying himself. under any other circumstances, that smug look would’ve driven you insane. and you would’ve made it your personal mission to wipe it off his face, that’s for sure. but right now all you can focus on is how unfairly good he looks, how badly you need him and how badly you want him. “shut up,” you whisper. “i want you.” his grin widens. “yes, ma’am.”

his hand finally slides down, past the waistband of your pajama pants and your panties. and the moment his fingers meet you, his breath hitches feeling how wet you are, your juices coating his digits completely. his other hand spreads your legs open without a word, giving himself room as his index and middle finger glide slowly along your slit. when you glance up, you catch how his pupils have blown wide, focused entirely on you. you bite down on your lip again, a reflex by now, trying to swallow the words clawing their way up your throat, but you’re unable to. “oh… oh, f-fuck,” you moan. his fingers keep moving, dragging up and down before circling back to your clit, where he tortures you with featherlight touches. small circles that make your whole body tense and tremble, the pleasure so intense you want to cry. your chest rises and falls rapidly, breathing completely out of rhythm. when you glance down you see seunghyun’s arm stretched along your body, his hand working you open and the veins along his forearm standing out every time his wrist flexes. “that feel good? hm?” you can’t even form words, only moan, nodding frantically until he tuts softly. “words, baby,” he coaxes, peppering sweet kisses along your cheek, your temple and your neck. “yes,” you gasp, swallowing hard. “so… so fucking good.” “hold onto me,” he says, and you obey. your arms slide around his neck, nails digging into his back through his shirt. “yeah,” he murmurs approvingly. “that’s it, baby.”

you feel him speed his ministrations only to slow them down again seconds later, cruel in his patience. you’re wet. so wet you’re certain it’s soaked through your panties and your pajama pants, staining the sheets beneath you as you grind helplessly against his palm. you want to disarm him somehow, to tip the balance back in your favor, or at the very least torture him the way he’s torturing you. “i want to… touch you too,” you say, sliding your hands down his chest, fingers splaying over his sternum before clutching the fabric of his shirt at his abdomen. he stills momentarily, registering what you’re asking, before pulling back enough to tug his pajama shirt over his head and discard it. his fingers return right where they were, resuming their slow, punishing rhythm as he replies, “you can. you can touch me.” when you said it, he’d assumed you meant his chest or his shoulders. or maybe his arms? he wasn’t prepared for the way your hands keep going, sliding lower, until your palm wraps around his clothed, hard and aching cock. a soft hiss leaves him as you move your hand up and down his length, squeezing harder at the tip. feeling that only spurs him on, his fingers picking up speed, which you welcome greedily. your body jolts when his hips buck against you with a groan. you look up at him innocently, lashes fluttering as you ask, “does that feel good?” he just hums, face contorting with pleasure as you keep stroking him through the fabric. “words, baby,” you whisper, echoing his earlier words with a smug edge to your tone. he snorts, shaking his head as he tries to contain another sound. “you really can’t stand not being in control, can you?” you giggle softly as you tighten your grip around him, leaning in until your lips are only millimeters apart and your noses are brushing, your voice dropping when you whisper, “i like feeling powerful.” he smiles fondly at that, but the smile falters immediately as another wave of pleasure hits him. seunghyun has to press his tongue hard to the inside of his cheek to keep himself from straight up whimpering. “oh… and you have so… s-so much power over me,” he admits. and it’s true. both physically and emotionally. “but tonight… i want you to let me take it.” his breath stutters. “you’ve been through so much, baby... so much stress. i just… want to make you feel… good.” and just as the last word leaves his mouth, you feel one of his fingers slowly push inside you, making you gasp loudly when he curls it, hitting your gspot. “o—o-oh my fucking—fuck!” you cry as he works you open, intent on proving every word he just said.

seunghyun pumps his middle finger in and out of you slowly, each thrust so deep it makes the base of his palm brush against your clit. the soft slap of it sends sparks through your body, your head going so light and dizzy with pleasure it nearly makes you lose your grip on him. your walls cling warm and slick around his finger, and the way you pulse makes him twitch in your hand. his mind drifts to thoughts he’s tried to bury for months, imagining how it would feel to be inside you, to feel that same heat and tightness wrapped around his cock. he’s thought about it more times than he’d ever admit, chastising himself for it, convincing himself he was crossing a line, that he was perverted for even letting his mind go there. for wanting you like this. but you’re both here now. and he wants to make sure you enjoy every second of it. “i wanna taste you,” he murmurs. he says it so quietly it slips right past you. your ears are buzzing, heat roaring up your neck and into your face until it feels like you’ve gone deaf from how turned on you are. “mmmh?” you ask, dazed. “i wanna—” he pauses only to press a soft, loving kiss to your lips. “taste—” another one. “you.” his head dips into the crook of your neck, lips trailing kisses. his breath’s warm against your skin as his hand keeps its rhythm inside your underwear, never letting you forget what he’s doing to you. “can i?” he whispers. “mhm. please.” oh, you don’t have to ask twice. seunghyun moves quickly, positioning himself between your legs without pressing his full weight down on you, hovering instead. his hand slips free to help you tug your shirt off and over your head, baring your breasts to him. he doesn’t hesitate after that, leaning in eagerly to latch onto one of your nipples, sucking slow while his other hand cups and plays with the other breast. your hands slide into his hair, fingers threading through it and encouraging him without words as your back arches off the mattress. the pleasure hits so hard it leaves you barely able to keep your eyes open. your mouth, on the other hand, refuses to stay closed and quiet. it feels too fucking good. you watch hazily as he unhurriedly switches from one breast to the other, lavishing the same attention on both, sucking and teasing you. you shiver when the damp heat of his mouth leaves your nipple exposed to the cooler air, your whole body humming with anticipation for what he’s clearly about to do next.

seunghyun’s mouth travels lower, kissing a slow path down your stomach until he reaches the waistband of your pants, clearly intent on getting rid of them too, his fingers hooking into the elastic of both your pajama pants and your panties. it’s only then that your voice breaks through the haze. “wait! wait, wait.” he stops immediately, like a switch has been flipped, lifting his head to look at you with concern. “what’s wrong?” you swallow hard. “i’ve never—” the words catch, your mouth going dry. “you’re a… virgin?” you shake your head quickly. “no. no, i’m not.” a quiet, frustrated huff leaves you. “but i’ve never—i mean, no one’s ever… you know…” you trail off. realization dawns on him, brows lifting slightly. “gone down on you?” “yeah,” you admit, embarrassed. “i want to. if you’ll let me.” you think back to the other men you’ve been with—how rushed they were, how little interest they had in anything that didn’t revolve around their dicks, how uncomfortable you’d felt whenever someone even hinted at wanting to put their mouth on you, pushing them away before they could see too much. someone’s face between your legs feels deeply intimate and invasive. and vulnerability has never been something you’ve handed out freely. you’ve never allowed yourself to be that open with anyone before. but this is seunghyun. and you know that you’re safe with him. you can let your guard down. “mhm,” you whisper. “i’m just… nervous.” he hasn’t even done anything yet and your legs are already trembling, anticipation and fear twisting together in your stomach. the thought of him between your thighs makes your pulse race. his hands slide gently along your thighs, soothing, trying to calm you and remind you that he’s not in a hurry. “do you trust me?” “i do. i trust you,” you answer without hesitation. “good. because i swear i’ll make you feel so fucking good,” he promises. “and if you want me to stop—at any point—you say the word and i will. okay?” seunghyun’s always been good at driving you a little crazy, at poking at you until you bristle. but you realize he’s even better at soothing you and making you feel safe. “okay.”

he grabs the waistband of your pants and panties again, thumbs slipping under the elastic as he eases them down your legs inch by inch. you lift your hips to help him, breath hitching with every centimeter of skin he exposes, until the fabric is gone and discarded somewhere behind him. he lifts one of your legs next, pressing a reverent kiss to the inside of your ankle before following the line of you upward—up your calf, your knee… until he settles between your legs. you swallow hard at how close his mouth is to your core. you draw in a shaky breath when his lips brush you before his tongue slides out, licking a single stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, gathering every bit of you onto his tongue. his tongue works through your folds, lapping at you with intent, savoring, before his lips close around your clit, sealing you in. the sound you make is torn straight from your chest as his tongue circles your most sensitive spot with tenderness, humming against you like it’s the best meal he’s ever had. you’ve never seen him eat with that much hunger and unabashed delight. truthfully, it’s a pleasure for seunghyun to have your thighs framing his head, brushing his ears, your taste on his tongue, your slick warmth coating his mouth, dripping down his chin, listening to the sounds you can’t stop making and watching your body glow with sweat as his hands knead the soft, supple flesh of your thighs. oh, he’s right where he wants to be. fuck, she’s beautiful, he thinks, lifting his gaze to look at your face. you catch his eyes and smile at him hazily, fingers threading into his hair and tugging lightly, which earns a soft moan from him. the sensation of his mouth on you is so overwhelming it feels like you might float right off the bed. you’re finally realizing just how much you’ve been missing all these years. if you’d known it could feel like this, maybe you would’ve let someone do it sooner. but then again, you’re pretty sure none of those assholes would’ve ever been half this good. “that’s s-so fucking good,” you whine, fingers tightening in his hair. “you—oh, fuck—” your hips twitch helplessly. “you’re so good, seunghyun.”

you can feel the way he smirks against your pussy and the warm puff of breath he lets out. he’s enjoying this far too much. hearing you like this is doing obscene things to him. the proof of it is right there, in his boxers, soaked through with precum that keeps spreading the longer he stays buried between your legs. he notices how your body starts moving without even realizing it, rolling your hips and grinding shamelessly against his mouth. your back arches off the bed as you chase more, more of him, and seunghyun doesn’t deny you. his index finger glides through your slick folds teasingly before he sinks it into you, stretching you open while his tongue never stops working your clit. his finger curls the way it did before, and when he finds your gspot, the sensation hits so hard you swear you see stars. seunghyun speeds up then, finger thrusting in and out of you and moving in a rolling wave that has you clutching the sheets and babbling incoherent praise. “y-yes! fuck, yes! yes, just like that, baby. just like—fuck! mmmh, yes!” you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, or if it makes any sense at all. everything blurs due to the pleasure flooding your head, made even more intense when you feel another finger press inside you, stretching you wider. you cry out, legs starting to shake uncontrollably. you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating him with your thighs from how hard you’re clamping them to the sides of his head. “you’re gonna make me—” you choke out. “seunghyun, i—fuck—i-i’m so close.” he answers by humming against your clit, encouraging. that’s all the permission you need. a few more flicks of his tongue, a few more precise thrusts of his fingers, and you cum hard on his mouth, your whole body shaking. he doesn’t stop until you’re fully spent. it takes you a moment to remember how to breathe, lungs stuttering as you come back down. when you open your eyes, he’s climbing back up your body, kissing you without hesitation. you kiss him back just as eagerly, tasting the remnants of your orgasm on his lips. “you okay?” he asks. you smile, nodding, pulling him back in for another kiss as your nails drag slowly down his bare back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “seunghyun,” you whisper when his mouth drifts to your cheek. “yeah?” “i need you.” your nails trail all the way up to the back of his neck, earning a soft groan. “i want to feel you… inside of me.” “mmmh?” “mhm.” you peck his lips. “let me make you feel as good as you just made me feel.” it’s a good thing his mouth is closed. otherwise he’d be drooling all over you just from the sultry tone you’ve just used.

you prop yourself up and he lets you, shifting to your left without a word so you can slip out from under him. your feet meet the cold floor and you suck in a breath before turning back. seunghyun’s eyes never leave you. the moment your hand pats the mattres, he sits at the edge of the bed like he’s been summoned, arms coming around your waist the second you step close, pulling you in until you’re standing between his knees. his hands travel your sides, before settling firmly on your hips, and he leans forward to press kiss after kiss to your stomach, worshipful. it feels as if every press of his lips is meant for more than flesh. especially when your fingers come up to caress his cheek and he swears he’s kissing straight into your soul. “take the rest of your clothes off for me,” you whisper, stepping back just enough to give him room. he obeys. there’s something almost laughable about it. he never once wanted to follow your orders when he worked for your father. he’d always been so stubborn... and yet there’s not a single ounce of resistance or defiance in him right now. the room is dark, but not dark enough to hide him completely; you see the shape of his cock, hard and flushed against his stomach, pulsing with every breath he takes. after a few nervous laughs while rummaging through one of his drawers in search of a condom—which, unsurprisingly, turns up empty—and a few muttered curses under seughyun’s breath, you end up resorting to the small box of condoms your father had sent along with your things. you remember the moment you first saw it. you’d scoffed and shaken your head, amused by how far fetched it felt, by the sheer audacity of him thinking there was anything like that between you and seunghyun, especially when you were so convinced it would never happen. even though you really wanted it to happen. now, standing here, you bite your lip to keep you from laughing at the irony of it all. seunghyun manages to roll the condom on with your help, the two of you fumbling in the dark, giggles spilling out between soft kisses, punctuated by an awkward, frustrated “shit, i can’t see anything,” followed by a sheepish, “wait—no, i think that’s the wrong side.” you feel like a teenager again, all nerves and clumsy hands, heart racing like this is the first time all over again. it’s been so long since you’ve slept with anyone… and you can tell it’s been just as long for him.

when you finally lower yourself onto seunghyun, legs bracketing his hips, knees dimpling the mattress as you take all of his inches… a relieved gasp tears out of both of you. it feels as if something that’s been missing has finally slotted into place. like the last piece of a puzzle snapping home after you’ve been staring at the empty space for far too long, an excited rush of ‘yes, this is it’ flooding your chest. your arms loop around his neck, clinging to him for balance as much as for closeness, and his come around you in return, pulling you in until your bodies meet like an embrace. when you finally seat yourself fully on his cock, you lift slowly before sinking back down again, dragging your pussy along his length, making the both of you whine under your breath. you keep moving like that, bouncing, feeling him slide all the way out before swallowing him again with your gummy walls. your eyes stay locked on his, mouths hovering so close your lips brush with every roll of your hips, breaths mingling. the room fills with lewd and filthy sounds—your sighs, his low groans, the wet slide every time you take him deep—and you revel in how your cunt clenches around him, the way he deliciously stretches you out and fills you completely, over and over. he lifts a hand to your face, sweeping a few damp strands of hair aside where they’ve stuck to your skin, fingers lingering against your cheek as he murmurs, “you’re so fucking beautiful.” his cock twitches inside you and you whimper as you clutch him tighter, resting your forehead against seunghyun’s. you start to grind your hips instead of lifting them, rolling yourself against him so his stomach drags right over your clit, sending sparks straight up your spine. seunghyun helps you find the rhythm, his hands sliding down to your ass, gripping you there to guide your movements, coaxing your body into grinding faster. the pleasure crests so sharply it makes tears gather at the corners of your eyes. not just from how unbearably good it feels, but from the simple fact that he’s right here, with you.

you understand that this moment is not the origin of what binds you, nor will it ever be its culmination. this is not the most beautiful proof of your love or the most important thing you’ve shared. not even the most intimate. bodies can meet and part, pleasure can crest and ebb, but what you and seunghyun have is a lot more than that. it’s more than desire and deeper than longing—two souls drawn together and refusing to let go, bound not by fate alone but by every choice and misstep in the journey. him looking at you like you were everything he despised, and you snapping back just as hard because it was easier to fight than to see each other clearly. you think of the long hours where animosity turned into trust, where arguments turned into understanding, where class, money and privilege stopped being weapons and became wounds you learned to tend together. you and seunghyun are intertwined. knotted and twisted together through everything that tried to keep you apart. and now you see each other fully. “don’t cry,” he says, thumb brushing under your eyes to catch your tears as they spill. “don’t cry, my baby.” “i can’t help it,” you reply, voice shaking as your body rolls against his. “you feel too—mmh—too fucking good inside me.” his thumb drags over your lips and you part them, sucking it into your mouth, tasting the saltiness of your tears and making seunghyun groan softly at the sight. “you fit s-so perfectly, i—” your words falter when pleasure crashes through you again. “i wanna—fuck. i wanna… stay like this forever.” seunghyun laughs softly, chest rising and falling just as fast as yours. “yeah? you do?” you nod, unable to speak around the feeling of him. he kisses and bites along your neck, and you tilt your head to give him room. the warmth of his tongue on your skin mixing with the relentless friction of your bodies draws louder moans from your throat. “this won’t be the last time,” he promises in a whisper as he trails his mouth up to your jaw, your chin, before capturing your lips again. “i’m not going anywhere. i’m yours. yours to do… whatever you want… whenever you want.” “i want you always,” you whisper back. “you have me, baby.”

your legs start to burn, the muscles trembling from the effort, so seunghyun flips you, guiding you onto your back until the mattress cradles you and he’s hovering above. he slips out of you for a brief second only to sink back in just as smoothly, the new angle stealing the air from your lungs. you feel him reach places he hadn’t before, stretching you out fully as your legs hook around his waist. you’d been close before. if it weren’t for the ache creeping into your thighs you know you would’ve already come, and seunghyun knows it too. so he doesn’t waste time now. his thrusts are deep and hard, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he fucks into you, hammering your pussy. your nails rack down his back as that familiar pressure builds low in your stomach again. he sucks in a breath when he feels your walls tighten around him once more, milking his cock so good it makes his head spin. “fuck, i-i’m so close,” he groans. “wait—wait for me, baby,” you plead. your hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit. you start rubbing circles in time with his thrusts, chasing the edge together. he looks down, the sight of you touching yourself while he pounds into you making his cock throb, his balls slapping against you with every snap of his hips. you’re taking him so well. and you look so pretty with your half open and pleading eyes, your brows drawn together… it nearly breaks what little control he has left. it’s your trembling voice that finally pulls him out of the haze. “seunghyun, i-i’m gonna cum.” “yeah,” he pants, nodding as his thrusts turn sloppy. “cum with me, baby.” the words tip you over, your cry spilling free. “i’m gonna fucking cum—oh my god! just like that, fuck me just like—oh my—fuck, seunghyun!” he swallows the rest of it with a hungry kiss, mouths sealing together as you both cum, your moans still audible through the kiss, whimpers filling the room as your bodies shudder and collapse together.

by the time you finally come back to yourselves, dawn has already begun its takeover. the night looses its grip as the sky outside changes from ink dark to a washed gray that slowly lets you see each other more clearly. you’re both exhausted, but you still find it in yourselves to spend whatever energy remains curling back together. you stay like that, tangled up in seunghyun’s bed, talking for another hour until the gray becomes yellow and spills fully through the window, bathing the room. “can i ask you something?” you say after a while, hesitant, your fingers absentmindedly tracing lazy lines across his chest. “you’re already—” he starts, but you pinch his skin before he can finish. “ow—hey!” he complains with a laugh, hand coming down to poke at your side in retaliation, making you snort. “stop,” you say, though there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “i’m being serious.” “okay, okay,” he concedes easily, the humor fading as he reaches down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “go on. you can ask.” you hesitate again, lifting your head to look at him. “you… you never told me why.” “why what?” “why you didn’t fight back that night. and why you stopped,” you answer. “for that while. until… until junseo…” he goes still beneath you, his only reply being, “hmmm.” “i wondered about it a lot.” “i didn’t know how to explain it. or if i even should.” “you can tell me now,” you reply gently. “i’m not asking to judge you.” he lets out a small, humorless huff. “yeah. i know.”

seunghyun has always known this moment would come. he’s never told anyone the real reason he stopped fighting. it’s tied to the same reason why he didn’t fight back that night. a secret he’s kept pressed so close to his chest it’s almost fused there. part of him hoped time would make you forget about it, let the months apart erode your memory. but he should know better by now. he knows how your mind works, you’re a curious person. and he wants to do this right with you. hiding behind his deflection, and the old instinct to wall himself off and survive, won’t build anything worth keeping. still, knowing that doesn’t make it easier. letting you see that part of him scares the living shit out of seunghyun. “there was a fight,” he says after a long stretch of silence. “one i shouldn’t have taken.” “what do you mean?” he swallows. “i lost control.” you frown, blinking, your gaze lifting to his face. but you don’t interrupt him. “my mom had just died,” he continues. “and i was angry at everything. at the world, at myself… so i went in angry, too. i wasn’t thinking straight. and i didn’t stop when i was supposed to. people were yelling, the ref stepped in... i heard it all. i just didn’t care.” “what… what happened to the other guy?” you ask, carefully. seunghyun’s jaw tightens. you hadn’t meant it with malice, but the implication is there. “i didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking. but i came close enough that i thought i had. for a few minutes there… i really thought i had. and i don’t think i’ve ever been more terrified of myself than i was then.” seunghyun doesn’t dare to look in your direction after what he’s just confessed. you’re unsure of what to say. but if he thinks his past is going to scare you off, he’s very, very wrong. “he was in the hospital for a week,” he adds. “i couldn’t sleep. i kept thinking—what if no one had pulled me off? i didn’t want to find out how far that part of me could go.” he finally turns his head, meeting your eyes. “and ever since, whenever i fight, it feels like there’s this thing inside me that—i don’t know. like… like—” he shakes his head. “you know…. when i saw that guy with your dad, i knew something was wrong. i didn’t want him anywhere near you. i didn’t want them to hurt you. i needed to know what was happening, and when he told me—when i made him tell me the truth… i… i fucking lost it. i just—i couldn’t stop. my hands fucking hurt and i kept going. his face was so—and his nose—” “hey,” you say, cutting straight through the guilt he’s drowning in, pulling him back from the memories that have been pressing in on him for weeks. “you were helping me.” right. she’s right, he thinks. your words remind him of the reason he did it in the first place. everything he did was for you. nothing else. “that’s why i didn’t want to teach you how to fight,” he admits. he’d never been doubting you. he’d been worrying about you. that fight in his car… it wasn’t about what you thought it was. it was him trying to protect you yet again. but from himself. or rather, from the version of himself he’s afraid of.

“but you did,” you say gently. “you taught me, right?” he prepares to counter that with a dozen reasons why it doesn’t count. “yeah, but—” “and nothing happened,” you cut in. “i didn’t get hurt.” you turn onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see him properly. his face is closed off, brows drawn together. “seunghyun… i think you need to stop punishing yourself for everything. not every bad thing that’s ever happened is proof that you’re… broken. you’re a good person. and you’ve shown me. over and over.” you can almost see the internal pushback. the grievance he nurses with himself, the reflexive need to contradict anything kind said about him… but you don’t let him. “if you think this is going to make me see you differently—or make me think you’re dangerous, or cruel, or whatever it is that you think of yourself—then i’m sorry to disappoint you. it won’t.” there’s a pause before you tilt your head, studying him. “and you know what else i think?” you ask. his mouth quirks faintly. “i’m a little scared to find out.” you huff a small laugh, shaking your head. “i think i know why you didn’t fight back that night. is it because you were scared of going too far?” “no.” you wait. you’ve learned by now that if you give him a second, the truth will follow. “it’s because i didn’t want you to see that. i didn’t want you to be afraid of me. i was—i’m meant to protect you. that’s the whole point. i’m meant to make you feel safe.” “seunghyun,” you whisper as you reach for him, brushing his cheek. “i’ve never been afraid of you.”

he sighs theatrically before pulling you into his arms, wrapping you up and squeezing you hard enough that you let out a very unconvincing complaint. “seunghyun!” you grumble weakly. seunghyun groans exaggeratedly in response, like this display of affection requires an obscene amount of strength and personal sacrifice, which makes you laugh as you shove at his chest, managing to wriggle free. “perhaps i should take it back,” you say lightly. “you’re a big scary man.” he chuckles, moving closer. before you can scoot away, you’re forced back onto the pillow as he braces himself on his arms so his upper body hovers over yours. “mmh?” he hums. “how big?” the smile he gives you is unapologetically cheeky, eyes glinting with that infuriating confidence. god. this man, you think. this silly, witty man is going to be the death of me. “get away from me, you pervert,” you say, rolling your eyes. “haven’t you had enough already?” that earns you a snort. he dips down before you can say another word, kissing you softly. “never,” he says when he pulls back. “it’s never enough of you.” your heart warms. smiling, you lift your hand to his hair, fingers sliding through the dark strands with a tenderness. you smooth it back gingerly, your gaze fixed on the way it falls against his forehead. “i have something important to tell you,” you say. his eyebrows lift, interest sparking as he watches you with attention from beneath his lashes. “what is it?” your fingers keep moving for a second longer before you sigh, gathering the courage to say what you’re about to say. it feels as though saying it to him will settle the decision, even if you’ve already made up your mind. seunghyun’s gaze grows concerned as you stall, realizing you’re not just joking like you both were seconds ago. when you finally answer, his eyes widen. “i’m going to expose my father.” you know, in that moment, that you’ve just crossed a line you will never be able to step back over. “i want the world to know what he did to me. and to you. it’s time everyone knows what’s in that folder.”

even though you were deadly serious when you told him, you also knew what the outcome would be. especially when it came to someone who held as much political power as your father. “there isn’t a single thing in this world that money can’t buy,” he used to tell you when you were growing up, usually after fixing something for you or solving one of your problems with a phone call, talking like it was a law of nature. back then, you never questioned it. why would you? you trusted him. you trusted that everything that came out of his mouth was the absolute truth, that he knew how the world worked better than anyone else. that was before your mother died. after that, you started to wonder. maybe there are things money can’t buy after all. for a while, you almost let yourself believe that this would be one of those things too. something even your father wouldn’t be able to control. but your father, however, never stopped trusting his statement. he’s a firm believer. and he proves it to you when you finally gather the courage to go to the police and file a report, hands trembling as you sign your name. to start with, the police don’t really want to help you anymore. it isn’t until seunghyun steps in, moving through his contacts and managing to get a few of his former military friends to cooperate with the both of you, that things begin to change. only then do you feel like you’re being listened to. it’s humiliating. the fact that when it comes to justice, a woman’s voice can be so easily silenced. and that it takes a man intervening for people to look at you differently, like perhaps you’re not so crazy. but just as expected, even when the story makes it to the news—your father arrested, talked about for days on end, his face plastered everywhere while you’re stormed by paparazzi and interviews—people stop caring soon after. public attention moves on. your father sells the men who tried to kidnap and kill you, and just like that, he’s cleared of all charges. you can’t fucking believe it. when the jury adjourns and it’s finally over, you storm out of the tribunal. your lip trembles with fury, your lawyer speaking useless words beside you while seunghyun does his best to keep you from having an anxiety attack. it’s right then when you catch a glimpse of your father, looking at you in a way you know you won’t be able to forget. ever. he looks sad. sad that he has failed you. sad that he has lost you. but he isn’t sorry for any of it. if he really were, you think bitterly, he would have owned up to the consequences of his actions and rotted in jail. but no, instead, he only ends up proving to you the very same statement he’s been repeating since you can remember. money can buy everything.

like seunghyun once told you, sadness doesn’t last forever. and even if the next few months pass with you stuck in a miserable rut, moving through your days on autopilot, you eventually learn how to get out of it. you have to keep going. your life can’t stay paused forever, you need to live it. and even if you don’t have everything you once did, all the luxuries you were accustomed to, you realize you’re happier like this. living with seunghyun is probably what keeps you afloat during those months. and through the ones that follow, when junseo finally gets approved for the transplant surgery—a process that’s been conveniently expedited by your father’s grace, his influence still reaching you even when you no longer speak to him. you refuse to engage with his attempts at making amends. the surgery itself goes well, thankfully… save for a few complications that have both you and seunghyun sitting stiffly in the hospital waiting room, knees bouncing in sync, fingers intertwined as you wait for updates. the recovery is slow and tedious, and you end up being the one who spends the most time with junseo, especially once seunghyun finds a stable job as a security guard at a luxury shopping mall. it pays well enough but takes up most of his time. you don’t really mind. you’re more than happy to help with his little brother—spending time with him has become the joy of your days. even when seunghyun’s wit starts rubbing off on him, and you find yourself rolling your eyes at jokes that are just a little too clever for a now nine year old, you can’t help but smile. he’s practically a mini version of his brother: same eyes, same smile, same stubborn streak, same tendency to talk back… and just like seunghyun, he looks at you like you hung the damn stars. when he finally gets better, the nurses clear him and he’s allowed to go back to a regular school program, seunghyun starts insisting that you follow your dream of traveling the world. you’d mentioned it to him before, casually—never really letting yourself think too hard about it after everything that happened and how busy the two of you had been just trying to keep things together. but one night he catches you staring at your laptop screen, scrolling through cities you could visit, and the volunteering programs you’ve been eyeing for months. even as you try to brush it off, this time he doesn’t let you, saying, “don’t use me and junseo as an excuse to hold yourself back, baby. this is what you’ve always wanted. and we’ll be right here when you come back home.”

saying goodbye to seunghyun and junseo for four months is, without question, one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. you know you need the rest and that this is good for you, but none of that makes the moment hurt any less. you stand there clutching your suitcase, boarding pass bent between your fingers from how many times you’ve folded and unfolded it, and right before you step into airport security, you turn back. you close the distance between you and seunghyun, and he wraps his arms around you. his chin rests briefly against your hair before he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. when you pull back, you lift a finger between you, wagging it at his chest. “be good,” you warn him. he smiles. “you too.” “and stop feeding junseo dino nuggets,” you add. “that’s all you two have eaten for days, i swear i’m getting sick just thinking about—” your rant is interrupted by a quick, gentle kiss. “i’m serious,” you insist, undeterred. “we have a whole diet plan from the nurses. he needs vegetables and—” another kiss, clearly meant to shut you up. you laugh, pushing at his chest with absolutely no intention of making him move. “seunghyun, i’m talking.” “mmh,” he says, unrepentant. “i hear you loud and clear.” you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern. but the stupid, love drunk smile refuses to leave your face. “you’re irritating. you know that?” “i picked it up from you,” he answers, matching your grin. you shake your head, but you pull him back in, fingers sliding up to curl around the back of his neck as you kiss him properly. when you part, he keeps his hands on your face, his thumbs grazing your cheeks. “i love you,” he says. your heart stutters as you meet his eyes. “i love you too.” “i’m going to miss you. a lot.” “i’ll call you every day.” he nods, then adds, teasing, “well… i hope so.” you scoff softly. “you know i will, dummy.” “i’ll hold you to that.”

and you keep your promise. you spend the next four months volunteering with different agencies across places you used to dream about. and none of it is glamorous in the way people imagine when they hear traveling the world. you wake up sore every day, eat whatever’s put in front of you, laugh with people you barely share a language with, and hide to cry in the bathroom stalls whenever the homesickness sneaks up on you. you call seunghyun every day. sometimes twice if the time zones line up kindly, whispering into your phone from a shared dorm bed while everyone else sleeps. “you’re still up?” “yeah, but i’m going to sleep soon. i think my legs might fall off tomorrow.” he hums, fond. “you say that every day.” “can’t a girl complain, sir?” you hear him chuckle, which makes you smile, rolling onto your side. “how was your day?” “long shift,” he admits. “and junseo refused to do his homework unless i sat next to him the whole time.” “as he should.” he scoffs. “you’re the reason he’s like this.” you laugh, because you know it’s true. “he asked if you’d be proud of him if he finished it,” seunghyun adds. “he adores you.” that almost makes you cry. you force yourself to take a deep breath, pressing your lips together before you speak again. “and i adore him too.” there’s a brief silence, filled only by the faint static of the call. “how was your day, princess?” you shrug even though he can’t see it. “well, my arms and legs hurt. and… i think i accidentally signed up for manual labor again. so you can guess how my day went.” he lets out a low chuckle on the other end of the line. “oh… i see.” “mhm.” “i wish i was there. i’d make you feel a lot better, baby. take care of all that stress for you.” “and how would you do that?” “i know a few ways,” he says, voice dropping. your stomach flips. “that sounds suspiciously vague.” “well, i could be more specific.” your pulse picks up. “okay,” you challenge. “how?” there’s a brief pause before he starts, his tone unmistakably intent. “i’d start by taking those clothes off… kissing your neck, then spreading your legs—” “hyung, what are you doing?” junseo’s voice cuts in. seunghyun clears his throat instantly, tone flipping back to neutral. “nothing. go back to bed.” “you were talking,” junseo insists. you bury your face in your pillow on your end, shoulders shaking as you try not to laugh while seunghyun mutters: “i’m sorry. we’ll… continue this another time. i love you.”

when you meet again, it feels as if you’d never even left in the first place. the only real difference being you. because like you had always wished, traveling, learning from other people, other cultures and other ways of living, has opened your heart and your mind in ways you didn’t know were possible before. you feel like a completely new person. you’ve found yourself feeling unexpectedly fulfilled helping other people, discovering a sense of purpose that doesn’t rely on the proximity to anyone else’s name. and it’s because of that, that when you finally come back home, you make the decision to continue your education to become a nurse—finally ridding yourself of the last remaining ties to your father, severing every lingering thread between you and the political future that he had prepared for you. this time, the choice is yours.

three years later. . .

“do you think she’ll like it?” seunghyun asks, glancing down at the small box in his hand as the jeweler’s door closes behind them, the bell chiming cheerfully. the twelve year old doesn’t even hesitate. “she’d love it even if it was plastic,” he says, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “if it’s you giving it to her.” seunghyun tskes, rolling his eyes. “junseo, i need an honest opinion.” “i am being honest,” his brother insists. “yes, she will. stop overthinking it, hyung.” seunghyun lifts an eyebrow at him, slowing his steps. “i’ve never done this before,” he says, defensively. junseo scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “it’s easy. you just get down on one knee—” “oh god,” seunghyun mutters. “—and then you say whatever it is you’re gonna say. i can help you if you want.” junseo continues, warming to the performance now, pitching his voice higher as he adds, “and she’ll go, ‘oh my god, yes!’” he throws in a dramatic gasp for good measure. “‘i love you, i love you!’ and then you’ll kiss and all that stuff.” seunghyun snorts before he can stop himself. “‘all that stuff,’” he repeats, incredulous. “you think you know everything, don’t you?” junseo shrugs, laughter bubbling out of him as a hint of sheepishness creeps in, his gaze flicking away to the pavement.

seunghyun exhales, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing down at his phone to check the time. “anyway, we should get going. she finishes her shift at the hospital in twenty minutes.” “can we—” “and,” seunghyun cuts in, fixing his brother with a look, “one more thing. you can’t tell her about any of this.” “tell her what?” “that i’m going to propose. it’s supposed to be a surprise.” “why would i tell her?” junseo asks, visibly offended by the mere implication. “because you and her are close,” seunghyun says flatly, “and you two love teaming up against me.” “we do not.” “you absolutely do.” “no?” “yes.” “no.” “yes.” “no, we—” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back. “junseo.” the younger one sighs dramatically, dragging it out just to be annoying. “what.” “don’t say anything. please.” “okay, okay,” he concedes. “i won’t say anything. promise.” “thank you.” “but,” junseo adds, glancing back up at his brother, narrowing his eyes with a sudden knowing look, “you should probably hurry.” “hurry with what?” junseo’s grin stretches wider. “with proposing.” “why?” “my history teacher looks at her weird when she picks me up from high school.” junseo is lying through his teeth, of course. but the way his brother reacts to the rage bait is easily the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. and besides… a little incentive never hurt anyone. if there’s one thing junseo’s sure of, it’s that the sooner you officially become part of their family, the better. “…what do you mean weird,” seunghyun asks, blinking. “weird how?” junseo shrugs, palms up, offering him the most innocent looking smile he can manage before it breaks into something cheeky and smug. “what does that—” before seunghyun can finish his question, junseo breaks into a sprint down the street, straight toward seunghyun’s car parked a few meters away. “junseo!” seunghyun shouts after him. “junseo, wait!” he takes off too. he still gets the same pang of fear every time he sees his brother running freely after years of watching him struggle to breathe. “you’re too slow!” junseo shouts back, not even turning around. seunghyun scoffs, shaking his head. “this little rascal,” he mutters. “‘it’ll get easier when he grows up,’ they said. yeah… easier my ass.”

tags: @pepsicolapussi @mielarossa @jenni-wilk @shcherbadoll @bambiifull @turtle-top @isssaaaa2111 @katylovescats @remedyswonderland @scream-queen-25 @nothing-is-real-inmy-world

thank you for reading, ily💗💗💗

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