pairing: nsfw manhwa artist ! beomgyu x fem student ! reader
warnings: sub beomgyu, virgin beomgyu, dom reader, loss of virginity, hand job, beomgyu has sensitive thighs, kinda thigh kink, ear licking, marking, cum eating, grinding, riding, use of pet name ‘puppy’, degrading, praise, hand holding, hating men lol
synopsis: your favourite femdom manhwa goes on hiatus, leaving you heartbroken. You join your uni’s manga club in hopes of finding something else fun to do. Unbeknownst to you, your favourite author is sitting amongst you.
word count: 6.3k
You’d recently joined your university’s severely underfunded manga club under the guise of picking up a new hobby. And whilst it was partially to pick up a new hobby, there was another underlying reason you probably wouldn’t tell anyone else about; You were grieving.
‘Rotten Peonies.’
The greatest piece of erotic femdom manhwa to ever grace the digital shelves, in your personal opinion. It was your favourite manhwa of all time and it was everything you could possibly ever want in a piece of media, as if it were a rare fruit hand picked specially just for you, that it was pretty uncanny how much it suited just to your own taste buds.
You waited eagerly every week to read the latest chapter and it was what kept you going when uni life and just every other aspect of life got too hectic, too stressful, too…much. It was your escape and you were so attached to all the characters by now, but mostly the male lead, Choi Taekbae. From his pretty character design with the shaggy wolfcut, brown doe eyes and rosy cheeks, to his funny, playful, golden retriever-esque personality, and the way he orbited around the female lead like a lovesick puppy, he was completely your type to the T. And the way he acted around and treated the female lead, submitting to them, letting them do whatever they wanted to him, never ceased to make you giggle and sigh out at your screen.
Taekbae was completely unlike how real men were and the manhwa was made totally catered towards the eyes of women: gorgeous art style and fashion, well thought out characters, real chemistry, and just the good amount of filthy. It understood what women actually wanted to see. Unlike all that other grotesque, borderline pedophilic slop men wrote. With the highly unrealistic female characters reduced to boobs ridiculously the size of hot air balloons, yet they always had a stick thin figure somehow, body proportions way off to be real. And of course, they always had to make them act child-like too, always in need of saving by their way too muscular toxic, alpha man. That’s why you liked ‘Rotten Peonies’ and taekbae so much, it was refreshing.
Real men will always end up disappointing you one day. You lived by that, you’d seen it happen many a times, had it happen to yourself a few times too. They’ll let you down, they’re all the same, some just take longer to show their true colours. It’s only a matter of when it will happen, not if.
You did not know who the writer was, appearing under a pen name ‘CBG’, but you’re so certain it’s a woman because there was no way in hell a man would ever have the capabilities to write such a masterpiece. A very cool, very feminist, very cultured, intellectual woman with impeccable taste. You admired her art and looked up to her so much.
But it wasn’t just how deliciously drawn the panels of Choi Taekbae were when he was getting fucked with pretty, teary eyes—which you meticulously saved to your camera roll—that you were drawn to by now, the plot was captivating and you were also incredibly emotionally invested and attached to the storyline as well. Surprisingly, the story was quite sweet and butterflies-in-your-stomach inducing, making you also read it for the cute, romantic moments between the main characters, while cursing the universe for not handing you your own Taekbae.
Which is why your stomach had completely dropped, utterly devastated after you had eagerly anticipated the latest chapter like you usually do, giggling into your pillow and kicking your feet at taekbae until the very end, then biting your nails at the very tense cliffhanger. It’s alright, you just have to wait one week, you’d told yourself. You’d absentmindedly scrolled down to read the author’s note, and thats when you saw the two words that shattered your entire world:
On hiatus !
‘Sorry I’m just not having much inspiration at the moment to continue anymore!’
No, no, no. This can’t be. What were you supposed to look forward to anymore?! Some series’ remain on hiatus for so long and never end up coming back. What if CBG never writes for it ever again? What if you never find out what happens next, what became of Taekbae and the female lead? What were you supposed to do without seeing new panels of taekbae anymore? Were you supposed to just keep on living? Without closure?
So, maybe you are being a little bit too dramatic, but it doesn’t matter, your beloved manhwa!
You were beyond distraught, completely devastated, which led you to joining your uni’s manga club in the mean time to cope. At least it would have you looking forward to something else every week. You also just wanted to learn about the actual process of making comics, since you always found it intriguing how your favourite author could even possibly make such art, could evoke so much emotions from you with a single panel. And who knows, maybe you could even create your own little stories and characters, your own world to escape to sometimes.
Being at the manga club had made you completely empathetic towards your favourite author. You could perfectly understand why they might have went on a hiatus now, it was hard work and there was a lot that actually went into it. And, despite there being not many members, it was very insightful. You were starting to enjoy it a lot, picking up a new hobby instead was actually really fun. Or, it would have been.
Choi Beomgyu.
“So do we get free snacks, or was that false advertising or something?”
“They’re not technically free.” Kai, your club president, had explained politely, still giving him a friendly smile. “Everyone takes turns each week to bring in snacks or bake them for all the members to eat.”
“Cool.” He’d leaned in, ripping open a packet of crisps with ill manners, not bothering to listen for the rest of the meeting.
That was your first impression of him, and you can’t say you’ve seen him in a better light, in fact, it only consolidated your thoughts about him. He’d joined around the same time as you and he was pretty insufferable. He was lazy, never took the lessons seriously like how you did, irritatingly, inexplicably handsome—not that it matters—and he made the most annoying, eye rolling commentary and jokes ever during the sessions.
While the rest of you actually tried to analyse storyboarding techniques, effects, and how to create and draw backgrounds, beomgyu spent most of the club meetings sprawled across the folded chairs, legs spread wide and munching on snacks obnoxiously loud, saying stupid things for attention like, “Do you reckon Shonen writers have a kink for dead parents or…? Like, why do they always have to add that?” You’d watched, eye twitching as his crumbs scattered over the stack of carefully arranged Shonen volumes on the table. Why he was here, at your nerdy little club, you didn’t know.
Actually, you were absolutely sure he was only here for the free snacks, which it wasn’t like that was just a mere speculation anyway, the dead giveaway being that he’d eat and shamelessly pocket away half the snacks on the table.
He was exactly the type of man you hated in this world, that made you pray, hopefully, somewhere out there in this world, there could be a choi taekbae.
Kai cheerfully clapped his hands today, earning everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone! We’re going to pair up and try to create a short one-shot manga based on the shoujo genre. Doesn’t need to be perfect, it’s just for fun and to show to everyone else next week!”
You sat straighter in your chair, excited at the sound of the project. It was totally up your alley, maybe you’d even make something inspired by Rotten Peonies, something worthy of CBG herself.
But, with you and beomgyu being the newbies, of course, everyone had made their own tight knit group of friends by now, already pairing up with their best mates, which unfortunately left just you and choi beomgyu on your own. You look around the room desperately crazed, frantically hoping there was someone else left on their own, but to no avail, there was no one else you could work with.
And so, you were forced to partner up with him. This was going to be utter hell.
“Guess we’re partners.” Beomgyu smirks, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry. I’m a creative genius. You’re in good hands.”
You scoff incredulously at him. “Yeah right.”
That’s how you ended up at beomgyu’s dorm, sitting cross legged on his bed, a notebook between you as you both tried to brainstorm ideas together.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” You ask, narrowing your eyes as beomgyu tapped his pen on the paper repeatedly with creased brows in exaggerated concentration.
“Yes,” Beomgyu says confidently. “Actually, I’m pretty experienced.” He looks up at you with infuriatingly self assured eyes, twirling the pen around his fingers, doing, admittedly, pretty impressive pen tricks. “It’s my passion.”
You don’t believe that, leaning back and crossing your arms at him. “Well, do you even know what shoujo is?”
“Yeah, Shoujo is catered towards girls-” He says, looking pleased with himself but then breaks off, frowning as if struck by a revelation, tossing the pen onto the bed and suddenly getting up. “Wait a sec.” Before you could ask what he’s doing, he hops off the mattress and disappears for a bit into the kitchen without another word. A few minutes later, he returns triumphantly with a pack of gummy sweets, chewing on them.
You raise a brow at him.
“What? I love gummies.” Beomgyu tilts his head, muffled with his mouth disgustingly full with them, cheeks all round and puffed.
“At this age?”
He shakes his head at you, tutting. “Wowww. You’re ageist. I’m going to twitter and I’m gonna cancel you.”
“They’re way too sweet for anyone who’s not nine.” You roll your eyes and retort.
He makes a deeply offended look your way and plops himself back down onto the bed, stuffing four more of the sweets into his mouth all at once, not even bothering to ask you if you’d like them too, or asking if you’d like to eat or drink anything for that matter. Some host he is.
“Right. Ideas?” You sigh, waiting for him to diligently chew the sweets he’d gobbled up at once before he can speak again, his mouth still full and frankly, looking like he was struggling.
Finally, beomgyu swallows with a cartoonish gulp and then brightens up instantly. “We should make a parody of shoujo tropes. It’s usually romance, set in high school, there’s holding umbrellas out for the heroine, someone gets sick and the other nurses them back, school trip to the beach, someone confessing during firework festivals, an annoying ex comes back from the dead, they’re locked in a storage room, there’s only one bed, blah, blah, you know all that stuff.”
He’s strangely pretty informed on this. You nod in approval, a parody could be a good idea. You’re a pretty competitive person, and whilst it’s not even being judged, you still have this need to be the best out of everyone else and to impress your club president. “Uh huh. Okay. We need character ideas.”
“Well, there has to be a hot guy. Girls love that.” Beomgyu draws a large, lopsided stick figure on the paper, labelling it ‘HOT GUY.’ He grins stupidly and shoves the notebook proudly towards you. “This is our male lead. This is Hot Guy.”
You stare at it, unimpressed. “I don’t think we can hand that in. I’m gonna be honest.”
Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “Obviously not. We just need to figure out who he is first.”
“A cliche bad boy?” You suggest.
Beomgyu dramatically scribbles ‘BAD BOY’ drawing out an arrow from the stick man.
You pinch your nose bridge. You don’t think you’ll get a lot done today. “Let’s give him a name then.”
“Timmy.”
“WE’RE NOT CALLING HOT GUY THAT.”
“What? Timmy is iconic. I’d swoon over him.” Beomgyu theatrically places a hand over his chest in mock sincerity.
Shaking your head, you grab the notebook and pen out of his grasp, ignoring the accidental brush of his warm, soft fingers against yours- Clearing your throat, you cross out Timmy and write Seojun instead.
“I still think it’s a good name. Timmy…” Beomgyu mutters mournfully.
You ignore him. “Okay we need to give Hot Guy Seojun a personality.”
Beomgyu pouts but perks back up and contemplates, tapping his chin and looking up to the ceiling in deep thought. “Maybe…everyone thinks he’s this bad boy but he’s actually not at all, what if he’s actually a scaredy cat? Shy? If it’s a parody, what if we reverse the stereotypical gender roles? Make the female protagonist the bolder one?
“Ooh. That’s kinda good.” You nod, eyes lighting up, slightly impressed that he could even form any ideas. “Write that down.”
The both of you get excited now, beomgyu clearly very happy that you liked his suggestion, smiling back at you with little crescent moon eyes. You draw out arrows, bouncing ideas back and forth, adding traits to your male protagonist, what he likes and dislikes, what he could look like, what he could wear. Once you were done, it was time to properly sketch Hot Guy Seojun out.
“I’ll do it,” Beomgyu volunteers, snatching the pen before you could argue. You watch him fully skeptical, ready to mock whatever doodle he comes up with, expecting another one of his lopsided stick figures. But once he’s done and pushes the notebook pridefully your way to see, you’re taken by complete surprise.
Because it was good, like, really good.
A very handsome man with messy hair, fox like eyes and a sharp jawline stares up at you from the page, a drawing exactly like how you’d expect a male lead in a comic to look like. His art style was surprisingly so pretty, it almost reminded you of CBG’s, but it’s probably a common style. Clean, expressive, precise. His line work and perfect inking had this polished look to it that you’d only ever seen in actual professional manhwas and mangas.
“…You can draw?!” You blurt out, astounded.
Beomgyu tilts his head innocently, feigning offence. “Of course I can. I said I was experienced. This is my passion.”
“Why did you join the manga club?” You query, still in awe at his drawing skills.
Beomgyu shrugs, spinning the pen in his hand. “I like making comics in my spare time but I’ve been struggling with it lately. Thought if I joined I could learn more and get my motivation back maybe. What about you?” Beomgyu asks curiously, “Why’d you join?”
“My favourite manhwa series went on hiatus.” You confess. “I didn’t have anything else fun to do anymore so I joined the club because I wanted to learn about the process and maybe make my own.” But you couldn’t refrain yourself, once you started talking about it, you couldn’t stop, couldn’t help but go on a long, impassioned rant. “—She left us on such a big cliffhanger! And the main guy, Taekbae, oh my god, he’s my favourite character ever, he’s literally perfect and so cute and funny and my type and-”
Suddenly beomgyu pauses mid pen spin, eyes slowly going wide. You were too busy, gesticulating animatedly to notice though. “You’re a big fan, huh?” Beomgyu asks carefully, slowly.
“I’m her biggest fan,” you declare. “I was so heartbroken when I saw the hiatus note.”
“Huh.” A grin slowly spreads across his face, “Yeah… i’ll get to it eventually.”
You blink at him. “Huh?” What was this dude even going on about?
He leans forward, looking insufferably smug. “You’re talking about Rotten Peonies. I’m CBG.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Then you snort, incredulous. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious!” Beomgyu says, still grinning. “CBG. Choi. Beom. Gyu. That’s me. I drew it, idiot.”
“No. No, you didn’t.” This was a very weird joke of his. But then again, you’ve never quite understood his type of humour. Although, you don’t know how he knew you were talking about Rotten Peonies, though saying taekbae’s name might have given it away. Still, why would he even know that?
“Yes I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Did.”
“No.”
“I literally did!”
“Prove it!”
Exasperatedly, beomgyu flips to a blank sheet and in a minute, sketches out an exact perfect replica of a Rotten Peonies panel of taekbae and the heroine. “Believe me now?”
You gape. “Okay…that’s…scarily accurate. But this still doesn’t actually prove anything. You just copied it out.”
Beomgyu sighs, getting up to rifle through a folder on his desk. Out came piles of drafts, storyboards, covers. He even pulls up his publishing account on his laptop, in which you can clearly see he was the author.
Your jaw hit the floor. “Holy shit—” You just blink at him, utterly dumbfounded, brain short circuiting.
He was CBG.
How was that possible?
CBG was a girl! Okay, it was never actually stated, but how can a man write so much emotional depth, actual good erotica? And most of all, Choi Beomgyu, the guy who manspreads and leaves crumbs all on the shonen mangas, who makes the dumbest commentary?!
Then, you grab his shirt in both fists, eyes wild, shaking him hysterically, “YOU MUST WRITE THE NEXT PART! I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THEIR ARGUMENT ABOUT BEING MORE THAN FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS AND THE WHOLE SHIT WITH BAEKHYUNG!”
“Wha-hey! Okay, okay.” Beomgyu flails and yelps, slightly freaked out by you. “You’re…very intense.”
“I’ve been going insane.” You snap, still clutching onto his shirt, just accepting the maddening information you found out, there were more pressing matters here, your beloved manhwa was on the line.
Beomgyu sheepishly sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’ve been struggling with the sex scenes. They feel… I dunno. Unrealistic? Like I’m not doing it right.”
You knit your brows, you’ve never thought that. Everything was perfect. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I don’t…” Beomgyu hesitates, cheeks blooming pink. “I…I don’t…”
“Don’t what?” You press him.
Beomgyu sighs again. “I don’t actually know what it’s like..” he winces, ears also going a very vivid, bright shade of red.
Your eyes go wide. “No way. You mean, you’re a virgin?”
“Shut up.” Beomgyu mumbles, completely embarrassed and averting your gaze.
You laugh so hard your sides hurt. “You’ve been drawing porn this whole time, and you’ve never even had sex?”
Beomgyu groans, burying his face in his hands which only makes you giggle even more at him. It’s quite cute.
And that’s when it hits you.
The wolfcut. The shy, embarrassed flush. The way his puppy eyes dart away like he’d die of shame. You gasp. “OH MY GOD. Taekbae’s literally just a self-insert because you can’t get laid! You mean I’ve been thirsting over your self-insert this whole time?!
Beomgyu’s head shoots up, furrowing his brows in denial. “What-NO! Self insert?? No, he’s nothing like me.”
“You literally gave him your hair!”
“That’s a coincidence!”
You arch a brow, unimpressed, giving him a stern, deadpan look as if to say ‘come on, it’s so obvious.’
He deflates under your gaze. “Well, okay, maybe a little-”
You cross your arms and huff, but you’re heavily amused right now, narrowing your eyes as you stare at him cryptically, slowly grinning. You just thought of an absolutely brilliant idea. “So…what you’re saying is that you’d write again, get inspiration, if…someone actually fucked you?”
Beomgyu opens his mouth then closes it, utterly speechless.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” You shrug.
“You’ll—what?!”
“I’ll pop your cherry. You better write that next part.”
You could tell he was nervous, practically hyperventilating, chewing on his bottom lip raw.
“Relax, beomgyu.”
“I am!”
“No…you’re not. I know I’m hot and all, but breathe.”
You sat behind him, your chest pressed against his back, your legs spread as he sat in between them, your breath tickling the side of his neck and making goosebumps arise on his skin and his whole body, visibly shuddering. Beomgyu squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
You sigh, placing your hand onto his thigh thinking it’d calm him but it only makes him jolt violently. You try again, voice softer, rubbing slow circles on his skin. “If it’s too much you’ll tell me, okay?”
Beomgyu’s throat bobs, his sharp adam’s apple moving up and down as he nods, a little more relaxed, but still only a little. “Mmh.”
You bring your hand to hold his bare cock, thumb pressed on his slit, very lightly, only slightly, swirling your thumb around on his fat, pink, leaky tip. The effect is immediate, beomgyu sucks in a shaky breath, gazing down at what you’re doing to him, so flustered at the sight. You try to calm him down some more, trying to loosen him up as he sat so stiffly, so on edge, only keeping those light, slow ministrations for him to be able to get used to it. Your other hand combs gently through his soft hair, massaging his scalp as he leans into your touch.
“M-more…” beomgyu speaks up after a while, faint but needy, feeling a lot more comfortable now.
You stilled. “You sure?”
He nods so quickly you almost laugh, and so you slowly start sliding your hand up and down, smearing the slickness on his length. Beomgyu’s thighs tremble, a little closed whimper escaping from his mouth. Your free hand grabs onto his thigh again, digging your nails into the pretty plushness, partly to stop them from shaking, but also because you heavily enjoyed his reactions when you touched his thigh.
“Jesus, are your thighs that sensitive?”
Beomgyu attempts to shake his head, but you can see the way his eyes already glaze over just from your slow movements on his dick and your hand gripping his thigh, “N-no-!” You rake your sharp nails down them, dragging and leaving a little trail of faint, reddened lines onto the skin that was once unblemished. A squeaky, startled noise leaves beomgyu’s mouth at that, bucking into your hand, hips jerking. You want to leave his thighs filled with all sorts of marks and scratches and bites and kisses, they’d look prettier like that.
You hold onto his thigh harder, squeezing the flesh, bringing your pace on his dick a little faster and your hand wrapping a little tighter around his girth. Beomgyu clasps a hand to his mouth, eyes squeezed shut in overwhelming pleasure and trying to quiet down the loud moan he just let out.
“Why are you slapping your hand to your mouth? We’re at your dorm?”
“O-oh right…” Beomgyu removes his hand from his mouth, placing his hand down and balling it into a tiny little fist on his lap instead, still trying to fruitlessly suppress all the noises he’s making, incredibly shy and bashful and you can’t help but giggle at him. The next noise that spills out of him is a strangled whimper, caught halfway between embarrassment and overwhelming pleasure.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s just you and me here. No one else can hear.” You coo at him, bringing your hand to play with the soft locks of his hair once more, “I want to hear your pretty moans. Don’t hide them.” You ghost your lips over his neck, gently placing kisses on the delicate column of his neck, but of course, his neck is sensitive too.
You lick a slow stripe up the side of his dainty neck, watching the way he shivers as you chuckle, now sucking hickeys onto it, seeing how they slowly appear on his skin like ink blotches seeping into paper, violet and maroon and magenta, an assortment of colours on his porcelain complexion.
His fairy-like ears are so cute too, so red, and small, you catch his ear lobe in between your teeth, pulling and tugging and then licking a stripe along them too as beomgyu’s squirms and whimpers at the feeling, sucking nastily on his ear, watching him writhe.
You pick up the pace of stroking his cock, pumping him up and down, thumbing at the slit, twisting your fist at the base, and it’s all too much for him, breath faltering with every stroke. He throws his head back, resting it on your neck, succumbing into you and slumping onto your own body, you’re basically holding onto him, definitely not stiff anymore. His deep chesty, restrained moans, becoming breathier and whinier as times goes on, losing himself completely, “H-hahhh…” beomgyu pants as you whisper a mix of filthy words and praises into his ear.
Another grab at his thigh and digging your sharp nails deeper into them, and you feel the spurts of his cum reach your hand with a ragged cry. He orgasms fast, but that’s what you expected anyway, he’s a virgin after all. Beomgyu turns his head, hiding his face and panting into your neck, “Woah…t-that was…”
You scoop up his pretty cum onto your index and middle finger, bringing it to his face, “Open your mouth, puppy.”
Beomgyu widens his eyes, but the pet name clearly fries his brain, because he accepts, opening his mouth for you obediently. Of course being called puppy gets to him, it’s obvious, if not for the light pet play that appeared pretty often in the manhwa he wrote. Beomgyu’s tongue peeks out, letting you stuff your fingers into his mouth, he looks at you as he wraps his lips around them, sucking and licking his own cum clean off your fingers, doing it so well, moaning around your fingers, his eagerness and the way his eyes were fixed on you filthy and obscene but so sexy.
The sight was too familiar. You’ve seen this in Rotten Peonies with taekbae, his puppy eyes looking up at the female lead as he diligently sucks on her fingers, swallowing his own cum, you’ve saved it to your camera roll, added it to your hidden file. This was so strange. You can’t say you didn’t like it though. Especially now that you’re seeing the resemblance with takebae and beomgyu, god this freak was really just writing his own fantasies.
“You’ve been dreaming of this haven’t you, virgin?” You tease but beomgyu just nods, unable to say anything. “Pathetic.” You spit out, as if the sight of him wasn’t making your pussy flutter and making you so incredibly soaked through your pants, as if this wasn’t everything you’ve pretty much wanted in real life.
You pull your fingers out of his mouth slowly, watching the connecting string of saliva from his mouth and your fingers stretch. Then you grab his shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed and you crawl on top of him, straddling him. He immediately tenses again, getting nervous all over.
You take your bottoms off, leaving you in your underwear and you seat yourself on his bare cock, sliding your clothed pussy on his sensitive dick. Beomgyu nearly chokes, breath catching in his throat.
You roll your hips lazily, moving and grinding against him over and over, your own lips parted as the friction bumps with your clit, your panties drenched by now and leaking onto his own wet dick. Beomgyu’s head falls back into the pillow, throwing his forearm over his face, other hand curling into the sheets tightly, clearly not being able to take it.
“Beomgyu,” you murmur, grinning at his fucked out expression. “Take my shirt off.”
Beomgyu freezes like a cute little deer in headlights. Slowly, awkwardly, he tugs at the hem until you help him yank it over your head. He freezes again when faced with your bra, staring dumbly, seemingly bewildered.
“And my bra.” You deadpan.
He reaches up, attempting to, nervously fiddling with the fabric.
“Are you serious right now?”
“I’m trying!” Beomgyu protests and whines. And after far too long, the clasp finally comes undone. At the sight of your tits, beomgyu’s mouth falls open, flustered beyond belief and eyes completely glued to them in awe, like he’d never seen boobs in his life-which, you guess he hadn’t.
“You’re so hot. So pretty…” He doesn’t even move, still staring and gawking at your breasts in disbelief.
Rolling your eyes, you grab his hand and press it firmly to one of your breasts to which he lets out a gasp. “You’re allowed to touch, you know.”
“O-okay…”
Beomgyu cups one of your tits in his hand, still in awe, squeezing inexperienced, too timid, too unsure, just little presses and squeezes, bringing his thumb to slowly brush over, feeling your nipple, and gaping. “It’s so soft…and squishy.”
You laugh, almost, fondly at him. He writes and draws all this filthy shit, and yet he acts like this. “You’ve drawn countless panels of porn, how are you so clueless?”
Beomgyu furrows his brows, his face on fire. “Drawing and doing are two very different things you know!!”
You giggle once more at his expression, voice dripping with mockery. “Come on, even taekbae knows this much.”
He just hides his face in his hands, those small, little breathy moans and gasps still escaping him as you continue to hump his dick, grinding down on him, sliding your clothed pussy along him.
“Aw, my dumb little virgin. You want me to fuck you? Do you wanna know what it feels like to be inside me, hm?” you purr, leaning down just enough so your breath ghosts against his ear.
Beomgyu just nods along to your words stupidly like a bobblehead, moving his hips mindlessly with yours, speechless and unable to speak up, eyes half lidded and his thick long lashes fluttering.
You grab his chin in your hand, grinding down harder on him for emphasis. “Use your words, dumb puppy.”
“Please,” he blurts out immediately, voice cracking so high, “please, wan’ you to fuck me…Want you to take me.”
“You wouldn’t be cumming inside me within seconds like a little virgin, would you?”
“No, nonono.” Beomgyu shakes his head wildly, “Promise I won’t. Want to be inside, please. Please?”
The desperation of his voice goes straight to your core so you lift yourself off him to rid yourself of your drenched underwear, discarding it carelessly. His big eyes follow every single one of your movements like a starved, waiting dog, gaze snapping back up to you when your hand wraps around his cock. You grab his dick, using the head to rub your clit, drawing little stuttered gasps from his lips, sliding him over your slicked entrance and folds, the feeling of your pussy actually on his dick, too much for him already, his hips twitching helplessly beneath you. Beomgyu mewls, head thrashing against his pillow. “O-oh—fuck—please—”
“Are you really sure, beomgyu?” You ask him again, gently, sincerely, scanning all over his face for any uncertainty.
“Yeah, yes-want it so bad.” Beomgyu pants needily, hips jerking up desperately just at the thought.
You inspect his face once more for any hesitation and then take a hold of his dick, hovering, just about to sink down on his fat tip, the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, and suddenly, he panics.
“Fuck, fuck, shit, okay. I’m kinda scared.” Beomgyu comically breathes in and out, his heart racing, bracing himself.
But you find it quite endearing and entertaining, laughing softly at his expression. “Scared of what?”
“I don’t know!”
“Do you want to be inside me or not?”
“Fuck, I do.” Beomgyu whines, seemingly in a dilemma.
You lean down, staring at him assuring and serious, cupping his face, pressing his hot cheek to your palm and you feel him melt and relax instantly at your touch. “It’s okay gyu, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. You have to tell me though.”
Beomgyu nods, looking into your eyes too. “Y-you can do it. I want you to.” he says finally, voice trembling but certain.
So, you ever so slowly, sink down all the way onto his dick, inch by inch until he’s buried inside to the hilt. It knocks the wind completely out of beomgyu, gasping for air, throwing his head back so theatrically, moaning out so long and loud, it doesn’t sound like it could be real, straight pornographic, his entire body arched. “Ohh. oh my g-Oh my god…”
“Is this okay?”
“Y-yeah…ffuck…”
Beomgyu reaches his hand out like a man drowning, grasping and taking a hold of one of your hands in his, and interlocking them as if grounding him, holding onto it so tightly as he tries to catch his breath, panting deeply. You don’t move, waiting for him to get used to the feeling of being inside your pussy first.
“Shit, ‘m okay. You can keep going.”
You swivel your hips around him, then leisurely, for his sake, start riding him. Beomgyu reacts to everything, every roll of your hips, every shift of angle, sending him spiralling further, literally so sensitive it’s unreal, every sensation so new to him, his appearance and the noises he makes are priceless, cute, deep, yet whiny little cries slipping past his lips.
As time goes on, and you quicken your pace, bouncing on his sticky dick, still holding his hand, beomgyu is long gone, not knowing how to endure being fucked. The most dumbest, debauched, dreamy expression taking over his entire face, genuinely drooling, dribbling down from the corner of his mouth and onto his chin. Apparently, you’d fucked him so dumb already.
“Puppy, does it feel good?” You taunt, even though his expression was already answer enough.
It takes beomgyu a while for him to even register you’d asked him a question, and an even longer while to actually formulate an actual thought and an answer to it.
Beomgyu’s eyelids droop heavily with pleasure, sweat beading his brow, slurring his words and his lisp fully coming out, “ughh is sso goood, ugh-ah, pussy sso perfect. It’s ssso…” he was meant to say more, but he doesn’t bother continuing, cutting himself off, his eyes flickering down, getting hypnotised, watching as your boobs jiggle with every bounce right in front of his face, wonderstruck by this. What a perv.
He looks just like how taekbae looks when he’s getting fucked right now, so delirious, he sounds so wrecked, definitely looks like it too. His messy, sweat ridden bangs of his brown wolfcut falling into his eyes. All you can see now are his glossy, glistening, plump, round lips parted and stustained in the perfect shape of an ‘o’.
This entire predicament is still so crazy to you, you’re basically fucking your favourite character in a way. You can’t believe he’s still CBG who you looked up to. The annoying idiot from your manga club who scoffs all the snacks. You also can’t believe you’re seeing Choi beomgyu like this, and you never thought he’d be a virgin.
“Will you kiss me?” That cuts your thoughts off.
“Huh?”
“Please. Kiss me?” Beomgyu looks up at you with devastatingly vulnerable, sparkly, round, big, eyes, his voice small. He looks like he’d cry if you say no to him, pleading at you, needing the intimacy.
You can’t say no to that, leaning down, you capture your lips with his, kissing him softly but messily, tongues tangling together. Beomgyu whimpers sweetly into your mouth, closing his eyes and so into kissing you, his hand that has been interlaced with yours this entire time, refusing to let go, squeezing even tighter as you ruthlessly ride him. Wet, filthy sounds of you fucking him take over the room, as well as a plethora of beomgyu’s pretty, euphonious moans he emits into your mouth that you gobble up, increasing in volume and reaching an octave higher, music to your ears.
You bite at his bottom lip, dragging your teeth and he pulls away for air, “y/n…I’m soo closee...” Incoherent words of begging and your name, falling past his lips, face contorted with overwhelming bliss and ecstasy. You clench around his cock so tightly on purpose, earning a mangled, raw scream from him and he cums immediately after, cumming so hard from being fucked for the first time and shooting a substantial amount of his load inside that it overflows, and when you pull yourself off, it all stickily oozes back onto and around his dick, his breath coming out in ragged sobs and gasps of disbelieved pleasure. “Fuckfuckfuck—” Beomgyu cries out, astonished and just totally overwhelmed with everything right now.
He doesn’t last long again, you not even being able to have your own orgasm, but you can’t even be annoyed at him. He’s so cute. His gorgeous reactions to everything and the way he was so sensitive was so much more worth it and rewarding than any orgasm, and even better than reading any of the manhwa panels, the images of beomgyu fully engrained in your head, it’s fine, you can get off to it later.
You let him ride it out, cooing soft praises for his first time, calling him a good boy and saying that he did so well as he clings to you. You pull him in for another kiss, thinking he’d appreciate it but he can barely kiss you back, his body literally limp and boneless. He still doesn’t let go of your hand, bringing his other hand up so he can hold your other one too, quietly whimpering into your mouth.
“Well,” you murmur when you pull back, still perched on top of his convulsing frame. “Was that inspiration enough?”
“Uh huh…” Beomgyu pants raggedly, a far away look in his eyes, barely conscious.
So, perhaps there are real men like taekbae out there. Well, only one.
Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)
A/n: yipeee. I hope you guys like this 😭 idk if it turned out the way people were expecting but ! I think this would be a good series where they fuck so beomgyu gets inspiration and ideas for his manhwa 😭 but I’m not gonna write it loll.
note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works
⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*
atsumu
neon lights (in a world gray)
triple trouble
drunk mind sober heart
green with envy
a commemoration of firsts
till one of us caves
long black
anyways, don't be a stranger
kageyama
fate
when one door closes
stolen kisses
miscommunication
him?!
haunt me
volleyball on the brain
you can hear it in the silence
sakusa
soft and wet
public transit
miscarry
it's still love
drawing our moments
bed
this victory is mine, and yours
touch starved
oikawa
babygirl
pinch
two stories
settle
always
perfect
pain split
here's to the sixth time
ushijima
request
trust fall
atlas
bitter / sweet
soft, but for you only
in time
page 304
bokuto
inferior
an accidental heroine
as loud as you like
lucid
swept up in the moment
heart attack
in which kenma kozume strategically falls, fakes partial paralysis, and accidentally signs the coach’s granddaughter up for a side quest neither of them expected to complete.
you hadn’t meant for volleyball to become the thing people associated with you, but it had a way of following wherever you went, clinging to your name like an afterthought that refused to be forgotten.
back in the uk, it had started innocently enough. a school trial you’d attended out of boredom, a coach who had raised his eyebrows at your first serve, teammates who had learned very quickly that you did not hesitate when it came to swinging hard.
you hadn’t been the loudest on the court, nor the most dramatic, but you’d been efficient in a way that unsettled people. your hits were explosive, your timing clean, and your serve had a sharpness to it that made receivers flinch half a second too late.
people liked to call it natural talent, which you never bothered correcting. the truth was less glamorous; you simply hated doing anything halfway, and if you were going to play, you were going to play properly.
it was fun for a while. tournaments, away games, the particular echo of rubber soles against polished floors, the way a gym always smelled faintly of dust and adrenaline. you liked the rhythm of it, the structure, the simple satisfaction of watching the ball hit exactly where you’d intended.
but you never loved it in the all-consuming way some of your teammates did. you didn’t go home replaying matches in your head. you didn’t tape inspirational quotes above your desk. volleyball fit into your life neatly, like an accessory you could remove when it no longer matched the outfit.
the injury happened in the most unremarkable way possible.
no dramatic collision, no heroic dive. just a bad landing, your ankle rolling at an angle it had no business attempting, and the sharp, immediate sting that told you something had gone wrong before you even hit the floor.
you remember staring at the ceiling of the gym while your teammates crowded around you, their voices overlapping, someone squeezing your hand too tightly as if pressure alone could undo it.
infact, you remember the inconvenience of it more than the pain, the way your mind leapt straight to the recovery timeline and the months of physio that would follow.
you had tried, at first. you showed up to appointments, did the exercises, nodded through the lectures about stability and strengthening. but somewhere between the third week of elastic bands and the fourth reminder that you’d have to sit out the remainder of the season, your motivation thinned.
it wasn’t devastation that made you stop.
it was indifference.
volleyball had been good to you, yes, but it had never been the center of your world. and if returning to it required months of meticulous effort for something you only moderately missed, you found you didn’t particularly feel like fighting.
so you let it go.
#1 captain:
sis u cant be fr rn
ur my best outside hitter
u gotta come back when ur fully recovered 😭😭
You:
i deaduzz cant be bothered
twas a good run 💔💔💔💔
your parents didn’t protest much when the conversation shifted from recovery to relocation. they had been discussing moving back to japan for years, always circling around the idea of giving you the chance to reconnect with your roots, of practical things like work and opportunity and timing.
the conversation about moving back to japan does not happen under dim lighting with tense silence and heavy sighs.
it happens in the middle of your parents arguing over whether coriander belongs in everything.
“it absolutely does,” your father insists, leaning across the kitchen counter like he’s presenting a thesis instead of a herb.
your mother rolls her eyes with theatrical disbelief, reaching up to flick flour from his cheek with unnecessary tenderness. “you only say that because you think it makes you sound cultured.”
“i am cultured.”
“you’re so dramatic, honey.”
you sit at the table watching them like you always do, somewhere between exasperated and deeply fond, because this is how they’ve always been: slightly unbearable, completely inseparable, incapable of finishing a disagreement without drifting back into shared laughter.
it’s in the middle of that nonsense that your father clears his throat in a way that signals a topic shift.
“speaking of cultured,” he begins, grinning at your mother as if this is all part of an elaborate performance, “we’ve been thinking.”
you immediately narrow your eyes.
“that’s never good.”
“that's rude,” your mother says lightly, sliding into the seat across from you and reaching for your hand. “it’s actually a very good thought.”
your father nods with exaggerated seriousness. “a brilliant one, really. groundbreaking.”
you wait.
“what would you think,” your mother says carefully, though her eyes are already bright with anticipation, “about transferring to nekoma in japan? just for the next chapter.”
“ew, mom, don't say chapter— this isn't some freaking wattpad fanfiction,” you cringe, trying to hold back your laugh.
“new country, new school,” your father elaborates, draping an arm around your mother’s shoulders as if they’re about to announce a vacation instead of a life change. “well— old country— but you get my point. plus, you'll be closer to family."
“and closer to proper rice,” your mother adds.
you stare at them both.
they stare back, clearly expecting some dramatic protest that never comes.
you lean back in your chair, considering it. the idea doesn’t feel threatening. it feels… interesting. a shift, yes, but not a loss. you’ve never been particularly attached to staying in one place simply for the sake of familiarity.
“nekoma’s good,” your father continues, softer now but still warm. “and your grandfather’s been pretending not to miss his dear, doting, princess granddaughter.”
your mother laughs. “he absolutely has not been pretending.”
you picture your grandfather squinting at a computer screen, muttering about volleyball and attendance and probably you, and you feel something that isn’t dread so much as curiosity.
“and you two are coming too,” you say, eyeing them suspiciously.
“of course we are,” your mother replies immediately. “did you think we were shipping you off like a parcel?”
“ooh, that's tempting though,” your father muses. "we could just send her off and we could finally have our alone time." he adds, wiggling his eyebrows up and down in an exaggerated rhythm, like he’s personally auditioning for the role of most annoying person alive.
"oh my god?? you guys are so nasty.. now i wanna go to japan alone." you physically recoil, dragging a hand down your face.
your mother elbows him without looking.
the kitchen falls into that familiar comfortable noise, cutlery clinking, your parents bickering about logistics with an ease that suggests they’ve already decided this will work because they’ll make it work together.
you watch them for a moment longer before shrugging lightly.
“okay,” you say.
they both pause.
“okay?” your mother repeats, almost suspicious.
“okay,” you confirm, reaching for your glass. “it’ll be good.”
and good it was, because— nekoma does not swallow you whole the way some new schools threaten to.
it opens instead, slowly and curiously, and you step into it with the kind of confidence that doesn’t demand attention but gathers it anyway. you don’t have to try particularly hard; you’ve always known how to hold eye contact just long enough, how to laugh without sounding rehearsed, how to ask someone about themselves in a way that makes them feel genuinely interesting.
the girls who approach you first are exactly the kind people would stereotype without thinking twice.
they're loud in the hallways, skirts slightly shorter than dresscode allows, lip gloss perpetually fresh. they know who’s dating who before homeroom ends and have opinions about everything from teachers to cafeteria food. they look, at first glance, like the type who would smile sweetly and slice you apart the moment you turn your back.
they do not.
they're warm in a way that surprises you.
they ask about your move without prying, about london without romanticizing it, about your old team without turning it into some dramatic loss. they shove their phones into your face to show you pictures, complain openly about tests and boys and life in general. when you laugh, they laugh harder, not because they’re performing but because they genuinely enjoy the sound of it.
within a week, you are walking to class together.
within two, they are saving you a seat at lunch without asking.
it isn’t calculated, and it isn’t fragile. there’s no tension humming beneath the surface, no secret resentment about your accent or the way people look twice when you pass. if anything, they seem faintly proud of it, as though your presence has elevated their collective aura.
they text you at night about trivial things and serious things in equal measure. they drag you to convenience stores after school and sit on the curb sharing drinks, talking about futures that feel both distant and uncomfortably close.
it was somewhere during those early weeks that you properly met kuroo.
you had noticed him before, of course. he was difficult not to notice, all sharp grins and lazy confidence. he watched people with an assessing look that suggested he enjoyed understanding the mechanics of social dynamics almost as much as he enjoyed poking at them.
your first real conversation happened by accident, if you could call it that.
you’d been leaning against the railing near the courtyard, half-listening to one of your friends recounting a story, when kuroo approached with the air of someone who had decided something and was now simply following through.
“so you’re the transfer everyone’s talking about,” he’d said, tone light but eyes curious.
“am i?” you replied, matching his ease without missing a beat. “should i be concerned?”
he laughed, and there was something approving in it.
you learned quickly that he enjoyed banter, that he sometimes pushed at people’s reactions to see how they held up. you also learned that he respected resistance, that he liked when someone didn’t fold immediately under his teasing.
you didn’t.
so a kind of understanding formed between you, not constant but steady. you weren’t inseparable, but you moved in overlapping circles, trading comments and glances across classrooms, occasionally finding yourselves side by side at school events without having consciously planned it.
he mentioned volleyball once, casually.
“you used to play, right?” he’d asked, leaning back in his chair.
you had tilted your head, considering how much you wanted to give away. “a little.”
“a little,” he repeated skeptically, as if he already knew that wasn’t the whole story.
you only smiled.
it never occurred to you that this small thread of connection, this shared understanding that you were more capable than you pretended to be, would eventually loop back around and tie you to the very gym you had so easily walked away from.
at the time, nekoma was simply a new setting, a fresh stage on which you could choose whatever role you pleased.
which, unfortunately, included the role of granddaughter.
your grandfather, yasufumi nekomata— or as students call him— coach nekomata, insists you visit his office at least once during your first week, claiming it is for “administrative purposes,” though you strongly suspect he simply wants to look at you in person and confirm you are real and not just a concept his son-in-law keeps mentioning on video calls.
his office is cluttered in a way that suggests he knows exactly where everything is despite appearances. papers stacked in uneven piles, old photos pinned to a corkboard, a half-finished cup of tea going cold near his elbow.
“hm,” he says, his signature smile on his face.
“that’s all i get, old man?” you ask, closing the door behind you. “no dramatic welcome? no tears?”
“you’re late,” he replies calmly.
“by three minutes?”
“unacceptable.”
you narrow your eyes at him before dropping into the chair across his desk without permission.
“my dear granddaughter, you’ve grown,” he continues.
you fight a smile and lose.
“that tends to happen over several years,” you reply, taking the seat across from him without waiting to be offered one.
he hums as if this is groundbreaking information, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone evaluating a long-term investment.
“you’re louder now,” he adds after a moment.
“i was like six back then..” you remind.
he just chuckles and reaches over to ruffle up your hair before he reaches for the cup of tea near his elbow, takes a slow sip, then grimaces faintly at the temperature before setting it back down without comment.
“so,” he says, steepling his fingers together in a way that immediately makes you suspicious, “how is nekoma treating you?”
“it’s fine.”
“fine,” he echoes, unimpressed.
“people are nice. classes are normal. no one’s tried to fight me yet.”
“that’s promising..?”
you tilt your head. “should i be concerned that you phrased it like that?”
he ignores the question entirely, instead pulling open a drawer with deliberate slowness. you watch his movements carefully, already anticipating some form of paperwork.
you are not disappointed.
he slides a single sheet of paper across the desk toward you.
you look down at it.
club registration.
you look back up at him.
no words are exchanged for a full three seconds.
“absolutely not,” you say finally.
he blinks once, calmly. “you didn’t read it.”
“i don’t need to.”
“students are required to join a club.”
“required is a strong word.”
“it is the correct word.”
you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs with exaggerated nonchalance. “i just transferred. i deserve a grace period.”
“you’ve had one.”
“it’s been only 19 days.”
“exactly.”
you stare at him in disbelief.
“what if i’m still adjusting,” you argue.
“you adjusted on day two,” he replies without hesitation. “your teachers already say you participate too much.”
“that’s because they ask easy questions.”
“hm.”
you eye the paper again but make no move to touch it.
“i don’t feel like committing to anything,” you admit, tone lighter than the statement sounds. “i like keeping my afternoons open.”
“for what.”
“existing.”
“you can exist in a club.”
“well— not peacefully.”
he studies you for a moment, and you recognize that look immediately— the one that means he’s two steps ahead of whatever excuse you’re preparing next.
“you’re avoiding effort,” he says, almost lazily.
“i’m conserving energy.”
“for what.”
“social obligations,” you reply promptly.
“you’re popular,” he says bluntly.
you blink at him.
“that was fast.”
“i hear things.”
“that’s mildly invasive.” you exhale through your nose, fighting the urge to smile again.
“just pick something,” he says, nudging the paper closer to you with one finger. “i don’t particularly care what it is. art. literature. chess. as long as you’re not wandering the halls after school pretending you’re above participation.”
you lift your chin slightly. “i am above participation.”
he raises one eyebrow.
you hold his gaze.
“…selectively above participation,” you amend.
his lips twitch.
“end of the week,” he says calmly. “you’ll submit that form.”
“or what.”
“or i will choose for you.”
the audacity.
you stand, snatching the paper from the desk with a dramatic sigh. “you wouldn’t dare, you old fart.”
he smiles— not warmly, not threateningly, but knowingly.
and that is somehow worse.
you pause at the door, glancing back at him once more.
“if you sign me up for something weird,” you warn, “i will hold a grudge.”
“don't say that like i don't know you— you're already holding one,” he smiles.
you narrow your eyes at him again before slipping out of the office, the form folded loosely in your hand. "whatever, see ya' later, love you."
you fully intend to ignore the form.
you do not yet realize that your grandfather has been coaching for decades, and patience is a skill he possesses in terrifying abundance.
but since you're you— you do, in fact, ignore the form.
for three full days, it lives folded in the front pocket of your bag, migrating between notebooks and loose worksheets as if trying to remind you of its existence. every time your hand brushes against it, you pretend you’re looking for something else. a pen. lip gloss. literally anything more urgent than commitment.
you tell yourself you’re weighing options.
in reality, you’re procrastinating with remarkable dedication.
by the fourth afternoon, the topic finally surfaces.
you’re walking out of the school gates with your friends, the late-day sun casting everything in that warm, forgiving glow that makes even concrete look cinematic. someone is complaining about a math quiz. someone else is scrolling through her phone, trying to decide where to stop for snacks.
“wait,” one of them says suddenly, turning to you. “what club are you joining?”
you groan softly.
“don’t.”
“what,” she laughs. “you have to pick one, right?”
“apparently,” you mutter.
“oh my god, join something fun,” another chimes in. “like dance. or drama with us. you’d be so good at drama.”
“i don’t want to rehearse things,” you reply. “that defeats the point of being naturally impressive.”
they laugh, shoving your shoulder lightly.
“what about sports?” someone suggests. “didn’t you used to play something?”
“a little,” you answer automatically, and the phrase feels suspiciously familiar.
“volleyball, right?” she presses.
you wave a hand dismissively. “that was abroad. and also inconvenient.”
“inconvenient,” she repeats, amused. “you make everything sound like it’s optional.”
“it is optional,” you insist. “that’s the beauty of it.”
“not clubs,” she sings.
you open your mouth to argue further when the friend walking slightly ahead of you stops abruptly.
“…no.”
the tone alone makes all of you freeze.
“what,” you ask.
she slowly turns around, eyes wide with dawning horror.
“i left my homework in my desk.”
there’s a collective pause.
“you’re joking.”
“i’m not.”
“it’s due tomorrow.”
“i know.”
you stare at her for a moment, calculating the distance you’ve already walked from the school gates, the effort required to turn around, the sheer injustice of it all.
she grabs your wrist before you can slip away.
“come back with me.”
“why me.”
“moral support.”
“you don’t need moral support to retrieve paper.”
“yes i do.”
you sigh dramatically but allow yourself to be tugged along as the group collectively pivots and begins heading back toward school.
the campus is quieter now, the end-of-day rush having thinned into scattered students and lingering club members. your friends peel off one by one, offering exaggerated condolences as they continue home, until it’s just you and her climbing the stairs toward your classroom.
“you owe me,” you inform her.
“i know,” she replies breathlessly. “i’ll buy you something tomorrow.”
“make it expensive.”
she laughs.
when she finally retrieves the forgotten homework, clutching it triumphantly like a recovered relic, she looks far too pleased with herself.
“see,” she says. “worth it.”
“let's agree to disagree..”
you both head back toward the entrance, but as you reach the gates, you pause.
“hey— your legs stop working or something?,” she says slowly. “are you coming?”
you glance toward the courtyard, then toward the administrative building where you know your grandfather’s office is.
you had overheard earlier that he was holding one of his practices today, something about extended drills and a stubborn team that refused to listen.
you hesitate for only a second.
“i’ll stay a bit,” you say casually. “my grandpa’s here.”
she nods, unsurprised. “text me when you get home.”
“i will.”
she waves once before disappearing down the path toward the gates, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of an almost-empty campus.
you don’t rush.
you never rush.
you wander instead, taking the longer route through the courtyard, listening to the distant thud of something rhythmic echoing faintly from the direction of the gym. the sound is familiar, though you haven’t let yourself dwell on it properly since arriving.
the gym doors are propped open slightly when you approach, warm air spilling out along with the muted squeak of shoes against polished floor. you don’t step inside immediately. instead, you lean lightly against the outer wall, peering in just enough to catch the motion of drills unfolding.
your grandfather’s voice carries clearly, sharp but not unkind, correcting posture, calling out adjustments.
you’re still deciding whether to make your presence known when someone exits through the side doors.
you glance over without thinking.
he doesn’t see you.
his head is tilted down, attention fixed on his phone, steps unhurried and slightly distracted in a way that suggests this is a routine rather than a rare lapse.
you recognize him distantly from passing glimpses in hallways, from the way kuroo occasionally refers to a “lazy setter who's actually the brain of all of their operations.” with too much fondness.
he looks entirely unremarkable in this moment.
until his foot catches.
it happens quickly.
too quickly.
one misstep against uneven pavement and suddenly he’s tipping forward, hands shooting out too late to prevent the inevitable. the impact is loud in the quiet courtyard, palms scraping harshly against concrete, knees following with a thud that makes your breath hitch before you can stop it.
for a fraction of a second, you simply stare.
then you’re moving.
“oh my god—” you drop to a crouch beside him without hesitation, reaching for his arm. “are you okay?”
he’s sitting upright, staring down at his hands like they’ve personally offended him.
there’s a shallow scrape along his palm already beginning to redden.
“did you hit your head?” you press, leaning closer. “can you stand? are you dizzy?”
he blinks up at you slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere else entirely.
“my legs feel weird,” he says after a pause, voice quiet but oddly steady.
your stomach drops.
“what do you mean weird.”
he shifts slightly, attempting to push himself up, and there’s just enough instability in the movement to make your concern spike. his hands press against the pavement, fingers flexing once as if testing sensation, and you don’t notice the way his expression flickers— not pain, not quite— but calculation.
practice had run longer than usual.
you hadn’t been there for it, but he had, and the evidence is written in the slight slump of his shoulders, in the way his breathing is heavier than the short walk outside should warrant. coach had made them run extra laps that evening, and kenma had endured it with the quiet resignation of someone who hates cardio but lacks the energy to protest.
he’d come outside under the perfectly reasonable excuse of refilling his water bottle.
fresh air, a brief pause, a moment to delay the inevitable return to drills.
he had not, however, anticipated gravity betraying him.
“okay,” you murmur, already sliding your arm under his before he can protest. “we’re going back inside.”
he considers correcting you.
he considers saying he can manage.
he does neither.
instead, he allows his weight to tip slightly toward you, just enough to make the support necessary rather than optional. his legs do work. they absolutely work. they are simply protesting the idea of further exertion, and if your concern grants him a few extra seconds of reprieve, he sees no reason to decline the offer.
you don’t notice the subtle adjustment, the way he times his steps to seem marginally unsteady without fully collapsing. you’re too busy scanning his face for signs of dizziness, too focused on keeping him upright as you guide him toward the open gym doors.
“did you hit your head?” you ask again, frowning.
“no,” he replies quietly.
“are you sure.”
“yeah.”
he leans a fraction more when you tighten your hold, not dramatically, not enough to alarm you further, but enough that walking suddenly requires less effort on his part.
it’s efficient.
the gym doors swing open with more force than you intend, the sound loud enough to draw a few glances from the court.
practice immediately pauses, everyone's eyes snapping to the entrance.
you’re not entirely unfamiliar with nekoma’s boys’ volleyball team, not really, mostly because kuroo has a habit of orbiting your conversations whenever it suits him and dragging pieces of his team along in passing. you’ve seen them in hallways, heard their names tossed around in jokes, picked up fragments of inside stories that never quite included you.
and kuroo is the first to fully clock the situation.
he’s halfway through saying something to yamamoto when his gaze lands on you— specifically, on the fact that you are half-carrying their setter like he’s just returned from battle.
there’s a beat.
then his eyebrows shoot up so high they practically leave his forehead.
“…what,” he says slowly, dropping the volleyball in his hands without looking.
“he fell,” you reply immediately, tightening your hold instinctively. “his legs feel weird.”
kuroo blinks once.
then twice.
then, to your mild confusion, his expression shifts into something dangerously amused.
he strides over with exaggerated urgency, stopping just in front of you before placing a dramatic hand over his chest.
“thank you,” he says solemnly, voice ringing with mock gravity, “for rescuing our delicate little setter.”
you narrow your eyes at him. “i’m so serious right now.”
“so am i,” he insists, reaching out to take kenma’s other arm. “we nearly lost him.”
kenma, traitor that he is, says nothing.
kuroo smoothly transfers kenma’s weight from you to himself with practiced ease, though he gives you one last grateful nod as if you’ve performed a heroic deed.
“you’re safe now,” he tells kenma in an exaggerated murmur. “she carried you through the battlefield.”
“i walked,” kenma mutters faintly.
“barely,” kuroo replies.
you cross your arms, unconvinced but still watching closely in case he actually collapses.
kuroo straightens, clearing his throat as he shifts into something more formal.
“since this is apparently a life-altering moment,” he says lightly, gesturing between you and kenma, “allow me to introduce you properly. (y/n), this is kenma, our tragically fragile setter.”
kenma glances at you, expression neutral but eyes sharper now that he’s upright.
“hi,” he says.
“yup, hi,” you reply without thinking.
his gaze lingers a second longer than expected.
kuroo’s eyebrows begin doing that shameless, up-and-down waggle like he’s discovered a national secret.
before he can speak again, another voice cuts in.
“what’s all this noise?”
your grandfather approaches at an unhurried pace, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene.
his gaze lands on you first.
then kenma.
then kuroo.
he exhales through his nose in something suspiciously close to laughter.
“you,” he says, pointing mildly at kenma, “couldn’t even make it to the water fountain without incident?”
kenma blinks.
“i tripped.”
“hm.”
your grandfather’s eyes shift to you.
“and you,” he continues, “were escorting him like he’d broken both legs.”
“he said his legs felt weird,” you defend immediately.
kuroo coughs into his fist.
your grandfather looks between the two of you again, amusement growing.
“how ironic,” he murmurs.
you don’t like that tone.
“what.”
he gestures vaguely toward the court.
“you still haven’t joined a club.”
you freeze.
“gulp.”
“manager,” he says simply.
“no.”
“yes.”
“absolutely not.”
“you’re here anyway.”
“that’s different.”
“how.”
“i’m visiting. please don't start, grandpa."
you glare at him.
he smiles faintly.
“we could use a manager,” he continues calmly. “someone attentive. someone who notices when a player is about to collapse.”
you open your mouth to argue, but yamamoto suddenly appears at your side with the energy of someone who has just received divine revelation.
“WAIT,” he blurts, eyes wide. “you’d be our manager?”
you stare at him.
“no.”
“that would be insane,” he continues, already spiraling. “we’d finally have a pretty manager. karasuno wouldn’t be able to flex kiyoko at us anymore.”
“i am standing right here,” you inform yamamoto dryly.
“exactly,” he says earnestly, as if that proves his point.
“we are not recruiting based on aesthetics,” your grandfather interjects, though he does not look particularly opposed to the enthusiasm.
“i don’t even want to be in a club,” you protest. “this is coercion.”
there’s a faint snort from somewhere behind yamamoto, and you catch a glimpse of a tall first-year, who you know as lev, squinting at you both with growing confusion.
“wait,” he says slowly, pointing between you and your grandfather. “why are you talking to coach like that.”
inuoka nods. “yeah. didn't you just transfer?.”
“and you called him grandpa,” yamamoto adds, suspicion finally catching up to his enthusiasm. “who calls the coach 'grandpa.'”
you blink.
your grandfather looks deeply unimpressed.
“students usually call me coach,” coach nekomata says dryly.
kuroo’s eyes light up with interest, clearly enjoying the unfolding mystery.
“oh,” he says slowly, like he’s assembling a puzzle in real time. “oh no.”
you glance at him.
“what.”
he looks between you and your grandfather again, eyebrows beginning to lift— not in the cartoonish waggle yet, but close.
“don’t tell me—”
“tell you what,” you reply flatly.
"(y/n), are you related to coach nekomata or something.." lev questions, earning himself a kick from yaku who questions how lev could be so impossibly clueless.
there’s a collective intake of breath.
you watch the realization spread across their faces in waves, starting with confusion, morphing into horror.
your grandfather exhales once, as if he’s been waiting for someone to catch up.
“yes. she’s my granddaughter,” he says calmly.
the silence that follows is immediate and deafening.
yamamoto’s jaw drops.
“WHAT.”
kuroo physically steps back like the information has force.
“you’re kidding.”
“i don't joke about family,” your grandfather replies.
you fold your arms, mildly amused by the chaos. “surprise.”
“since when,” yamamoto demands.
“since birth,” you answer.
“we’ve been—” he gestures vaguely around the gym. “—acting normal around you.”
“what were you planning on doing instead,” you ask dryly.
kuroo drags a hand down his face, then looks at kenma, who has gone suspiciously quiet.
“you,” he says slowly, “just fake-died in front of the coach’s granddaughter.”
“i did not fake-die,” kenma mutters.
“you said your legs stopped working,” you cut in, narrowing your eyes slightly.
kenma’s gaze flickers to yours for half a second before dropping.
“i said they felt weird,” he corrects.
kuroo makes a strangled noise that sounds very much like disbelief.
“this is insane,” yamamoto declares, running both hands through his hair. “we finally get a manager and she’s royalty.”
“i am not royalty.”
“you are coach royalty.”
“that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
your grandfather watches all of this unfold with poorly concealed amusement.
“if you’re done panicking,” he says mildly, “practice is not over.”
the team scrambles back into position, though the energy has shifted noticeably. there are still glances in your direction, still whispers that cut off when you look their way.
you feel none of the awkwardness they seem to expect.
you’ve been someone’s granddaughter your entire life.
it has never once intimidated you.
what does catch your attention, however, is the way kenma avoids looking directly at you now, shoulders slightly tense in a way that wasn’t there before.
you file it away without fully understanding why.
the decision becomes official the next day.
you sign the form with a pen borrowed from kuroo, who watches with open delight as if witnessing history in the making. your grandfather accepts it without ceremony, merely nodding once before announcing to the team that nekoma now has a new manager.
you feel, briefly, like you’ve just volunteered for something irreversible.
there is a moment— a small, dramatic one that exists only in your head— where you consider how easily you could have joined literature club instead.
and yet here you are.
official.
responsible.
required to show up.
you die a little inside at the thought of effort.
because effort means consistency, and consistency means expectation, and expectation means you can’t simply drift in and out when you feel like it. you now have a role. a title. duties.
you try to tell yourself it won’t be that bad.
it is worse.
managers, it turns out, actually do things.
you start with the obvious tasks first.
water bottles, towels, recording stats, collecting stray balls that roll too far during drills. you keep track of substitutions during practice matches and scribble down rotations with neat precision, telling yourself it’s purely administrative and not at all a sign that you’re invested.
nekoma doesn’t need help with strategy.
that becomes clear quickly.
their plays are deliberate, their formations calculated, and at the center of it all is kenma, who orchestrates everything with the quiet efficiency of someone who sees three steps ahead and finds no reason to explain himself.
you don’t interfere with that.
instead, your attention shifts elsewhere.
conditioning, fatigue, all that stuff.
you notice the way kenma’s shoulders start to slump long before anyone else does, the way he presses his lips together slightly when drills drag on too long. you see how he lingers a second too long near the water cooler, how he tilts his head back as if bracing himself before returning to the court.
he doesn’t complain loudly.
he doesn’t need to.
you begin timing his breaks more carefully, handing him his bottle without asking, refilling it before he can wander off again. you remind him— casually, always casually— to stretch properly instead of halfheartedly reaching for his toes and calling it a day.
“you’ll regret that later,” you tell him once, nudging his knee lightly with the toe of your shoe.
“…i won’t,” he replies, not looking up.
“you will.”
he sighs but stretches properly anyway.
it becomes a pattern.
you don’t hover, not exactly, but you pay attention. when your grandfather pushes them through extra laps, you’re already waiting at the sidelines with a towel in hand before kenma makes it back around. when he drifts toward the exit after practice under the pretense of refilling his bottle, you watch closely enough to ensure he doesn’t collapse again— strategically or otherwise.
“don’t trip,” you jokingly tell him one evening as he passes.
he pauses.
“…i won’t.”
there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
surprisingly, this is where the two of you fit.
not in loud exchanges or dramatic revelations, but in quiet, consistent proximity. you don’t try to fix his game, and he doesn’t try to impress you with it. instead, you exist in the in-between moments— during cooldown stretches, while the rest of the team argues about something trivial, while your grandfather lectures them about focus.
sometimes he’ll stand beside you while you update notes, glancing down at your handwriting.
“you’re writing a lot,” he murmurs once.
“it’s called doing my job.”
“you said you hated effort.”
“i do.”
“then why are you trying.”
you consider that for a second before shrugging.
“i don’t like doing things badly.”
he hums softly, as if that answers more than you intended.
it’s easy, unexpectedly so.
you’re louder with everyone else, sharper with kuroo, more animated with your friends when they visit the gym. with kenma, though, your voice lowers without conscious decision. you sit beside him on the bench without making a spectacle of it. you don’t ask invasive questions. you don’t force conversation.
and in return, he doesn’t retreat.
he lingers.
he hands you his empty bottle instead of refilling it himself.
he lets you fuss over minor scrapes without protest.
the irony is not lost on you.
you didn’t want responsibility.
now you’re monitoring the physical state of a setter who pretended his legs stopped working just to avoid running extra laps.
and, worse, you don’t entirely mind it.
it becomes noticeable before either of you intend for it to.
kenma has always been selective about what he listens to. when kuroo tells him to stretch properly, he grumbles. when yamamoto reminds him to hydrate, he ignores it entirely. when your grandfather pushes for extra conditioning, he complies with visible reluctance, as though every additional lap is a personal betrayal.
and yet.
“stretch.”
you don’t even look up from your clipboard when you say it one afternoon, watching him attempt to half-commit to a cooldown.
“…i am,” he replies.
“that doesn’t count.”
there’s a pause.
then, without further argument, he bends properly.
kuroo freezes mid-sip of water, lowering the bottle slowly.
“…interesting.”
you glance at him. “what.”
he walks closer, eyes narrowing slightly at kenma, who is very deliberately avoiding eye contact.
“i’ve been telling him to stretch correctly for years,” kuroo says thoughtfully. “years.”
kenma remains bent forward, fingertips actually touching his toes now, as if deeply invested in hamstring integrity.
“and yet,” kuroo continues, “one casual comment from you and suddenly he’s compliant.”
“i am not compliant,” kenma mutters.
“you just folded.”
“did not.”
“did too.”
you roll your eyes lightly. “maybe he just respects proper instruction.”
kuroo’s eyebrows begin their obnoxious up-and-down waggle, enthusiasm radiating from every inch of him.
“ohhh,” he says slowly. “is that what this is.”
kenma straightens, ears faintly pink.
“shut up.”
“no, no, i’m fascinated,” kuroo continues, circling slightly like he’s studying an anomaly. “i, the captain, say stretch and he acts like i’ve personally insulted his bloodline. you say stretch and he listens immediately.”
“that’s because you’re annoying,” kenma replies flatly.
“and she isn’t?”
you blink.
“excuse me.”
kuroo grins. “present company excluded.”
you shake your head, but there’s no real irritation behind it.
“maybe he just doesn’t want to like.. eat shit infront of someone again,” you say mildly.
kenma shoots you a look.
kuroo gasps. “trauma bonding?”
later that week, your friends finally visit during practice.
they’ve been curious, of course. the novelty of you voluntarily committing to something structured has not gone unnoticed.
they lean against the wall near the entrance, whispering commentary that you pretend not to hear while organizing equipment.
“you look busy,” one of them calls lightly.
“i am busy.”
“you look responsible.”
“please don't. this feels like employment. and you know how i desperately love living life unemployed.”
they giggle, watching as the team rotates through drills.
it doesn’t take long for them to pick up on the pattern.
“why do you keep looking at that one,” another asks quietly, nodding toward kenma as he wipes sweat from his forehead.
“i look at everyone.”
“no, you don’t.”
you pause.
you absolutely do.
but perhaps not equally.
“you handed him his bottle first,” she continues, eyes narrowing with amusement. “and you told him to stretch. and you keep hovering near him specifically.”
“i do not hover.”
“you’re hovering.”
“i am monitoring.”
“him.”
“the team.”
“him.”
you sigh.
“he forgets things.”
“like what.”
“hydration.”
“so does everyone else.”
“not like him.”
there’s a beat.
one of them smirks.
“you’re weirdly attentive.”
“i’m doing my job.”
“sure.”
you glance toward the court again without meaning to.
kenma happens to glance back at the same time.
it lasts only a second.
but your friends notice.
“oh,” one breathes dramatically. “oh, this is so embarrassing.”
“nothing is happening,” you insist immediately.
but nothing doesn’t mean much when you’re standing closer to him than you stand to anyone else.
nothing doesn’t mean much when your hand finds his sleeve before your brain catches up, when your eyes track him even during rallies you pretend to watch objectively.
and nothing definitely doesn’t mean much after a match.
the gym is louder than usual during the practice game against karasuno, the kind of loud that settles into your bones. sneakers squeak sharper, serves crack harder against palms, and every rally stretches just slightly longer than comfortable. you stay near the bench, clipboard tucked against your hip, attention split between the scoreboard and the court.
kenma moves differently in a match.
more precise.
more deliberate.
his sets are clean, almost effortless in appearance, but you can see the strain building in subtler places— the way he exhales through his nose a second too long, the way his shoulders round slightly between plays.
you don’t interrupt.
you wait.
when the final whistle blows and the teams separate, energy dissolving into post-match chatter and towel-snatching and exaggerated complaints, kenma drops onto the bench with quiet resignation, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. he looks fine to anyone glancing casually.
you step into his space without announcing yourself, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder before sliding down to his forearm.
“congratulations, pudding hair.” you tell him.
“pudding hair..?” he questions.
you raise an eyebrow.
“…has no one ever told you your hair looks like pudding?”
"no.. trust me, people tell me all the time."
you step closer, close enough that your knees almost brush his. you adjust his hair so it isn't all sticky against his forehead. your fingers steady and practiced. your touch is careful but unhesitating, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
you tilt kenma’s chin up slightly when he looks like he might brush you off, your thumb grazing just under his jaw for half a second before you let go.
“don't forget to breathe properly, idiot,” you instruct softly.
he does.
without complaint.
and that, more than anything, is what makes kuroo choke on his water across the court.
because nothing might be happening.
but nothing doesn’t usually look like this.
you glance to the side briefly and catch a cluster of orange and black standing a little too close to the net.
karasuno— they’re pretending to be engaged in conversation.
they are not subtle.
hinata is openly staring.
kageyama’s gaze flicks between you and kenma with sharp assessment.
tanaka nudges nishinoya so aggressively he nearly stumbles forward.
“…is that normal?” you hear hinata whisper.
“for nekoma?” nishinoya replies. “no idea.”
kuroo notices them noticing.
and immediately makes it worse.
he strolls over with the air of someone about to provide commentary, resting an elbow casually on kenma’s shoulder.
“don’t mind her,” he calls lightly toward karasuno. “she’s our very dedicated manager.”
“i can hear you?” you inform him.
“good.”
tanaka leans toward daichi, eyes wide.
“since when does nekoma have a manager like that.”
daichi looks faintly exhausted already.
“focus.”
meanwhile, hinata is craning his neck shamelessly.
“she’s really close,” he mutters.
kageyama doesn’t answer immediately.
he watches as you press a bottle into kenma’s hand without being asked, watches the way kenma takes it without complaint, watches the way you say something low and quiet that makes kenma nod once in acknowledgment.
kageyama’s brows knit together.
“…that’s why,” he mutters under his breath.
hinata leans closer. “why what?”
“that’s why he doesn’t drop off in the third set,” kageyama says, tone tightening slightly. “he’s pacing better.”
tanaka blinks. “dude. what are you even talking about.”
kageyama gestures vaguely toward the two of you, though he makes it look like he’s stretching his arm.
“he used to slow down faster,” he continues, half to himself now. “but today he adjusted.”
hinata squints. “he was still annoying to play against..”
“i know that, you dumbass!,” kageyama snaps quietly.
his eyes flick to you again, narrowing.
because to kageyama, that’s not romance.
that’s strategy.
noya slowly processes this.
“so you’re saying—”
“if that’s how he’s maintaining consistency,” kageyama interrupts, jaw tightening faintly, “then it’s an advantage.”
hinata’s eyes widen as he jumps to the absolutely wrong conclusion.
“are you jealous...?"
“i’m not jealous.”
“you’re jealous.”
“i’m analyzing.”
kuroo leans down toward kenma with a grin that spells trouble.
“congratulations,” he murmurs. “you’ve triggered kageyama’s.. setter rivalry mode.”
kenma follows his gaze lazily, remembering his first encounter with kageyama. hinata was really right. kageyama was exactly like a grumpy, scary sabertooth tiger.
“…why.”
“because,” kuroo says cheerfully, “apparently having a manager who monitors your hydration counts as a power-up.”
you catch only the tail end of that exchange.
“what counts as a power-up,” you ask.
“nothing,” kenma replies quickly.
kuroo snorts.
meanwhile, kageyama is still watching, eyes flicking between kenma’s posture and your proximity.
if this is how kenma maintains stamina—
if this is how he stays sharp—
then it’s something to account for.
and suddenly, what karasuno thought was just you being attentive looks suspiciously like a competitive edge.
you don’t realize you’ve just entered setter politics.
kenma does.
and for once, he doesn’t look particularly bothered by it.
because rivalry is familiar territory. competition makes sense. if kageyama sharpens up, if karasuno recalibrates, if someone across the net starts watching his tempo more closely, that’s predictable. that’s part of the system.
what does bother kenma, though, is when the attention shifts from the court to you.
this time, it was a training camp with other schools, the gym more crowded, air thick with the smell of sweat and polished floors. you’re near the bench again, taking notes, keeping score, doing your job with that quiet efficiency that makes everything around you run smoother.
earlier, though, you hadn’t been inside.
between games, you’d stepped out into the open-air corridor that wraps around the side of the gym, needing a moment where the noise didn’t press against your ears. a few other managers from different schools had gathered there too, clipboards tucked under arms, comparing schedules and complaining about how none of the boys refill their own bottles properly.
it’s easy, standing there.
easy in a way that feels different from inside the gym.
you’re laughing at something one of them says, leaning lightly against the railing, sunlight catching along the edge of your hair. no one’s watching you like you’re responsible for them. no one’s waiting for your signal. you’re just another student, just another girl talking about trivial things.
one of the managers nudges you lightly. “you’re coach nekomata's granddaughter, right?”
you groan softly. “unfortunately.”
they laugh.
it feels normal.
then someone calls them back inside, their team needing something, and one by one they peel away with hurried apologies, leaving you alone by the railing for a moment longer than intended.
you don’t rush back in.
you’re still smiling faintly when you turn toward the entrance.
and that’s when the guy from the opposing team wanders over during a break, water bottle dangling loosely from his hand. he doesn’t hesitate when he approaches you, doesn’t glance at the court to check if anyone’s watching.
“hey. you’re the manager, right?” he asks, leaning slightly against the wall beside you.
you nod, polite but distracted.
“yup, that's me.”
“you’re here every match?”
“well.. usually?”
his eyes flick over you in quick assessment before he smiles, pleased with whatever conclusion he reaches.
“i gotta say— you don’t look like a manager,” he says.
you tilt your head slightly. “what does that mean.”
he shrugs, grin widening. “just seems like you should be on the court instead.”
you let out a soft breath through your nose, amused but unimpressed. “retired early. tragic story.”
he laughs like you’re charming, like this is going somewhere. then, he smiles, easy and confident. “you joined recently? last time i checked, nekoma didn't have a manager.”
“mm.”
“figured. we wouldn't forget faces like yours.”
it’s bold, but not aggressive. practiced.
you offer a neutral smile, more amused than flustered.
“that’s convenient.”
the boy in front of you continues talking, unaware of the shift unfolding behind him.
“you should visit our school sometime,” he says. “we’ll give you a proper tour. might even convince you to switch sides.”
you almost laugh at that.
before you can respond, a familiar presence steps into your peripheral vision.
kenma.
he doesn’t wedge himself between you dramatically. he doesn’t glare. he doesn’t even raise his voice. he simply stops close enough that the space changes.
his gaze lands on you first.
“coach wants you to track the next game more carefully,” he says, tone neutral.
you blink.
“right now?”
he nods once.
there is absolutely no prior instruction from your grandfather about this.
the other boy shifts slightly, glancing between you and kenma.
“we were talking,” he says lightly, not confrontational, just pointed.
kenma finally looks at him then, expression unreadable.
“matches aren't over,” he replies, voice flat in a way that leaves little room for argument.
it isn’t hostile.
it isn’t loud.
it’s simply final.
there’s a brief pause where the air feels heavier than it should for something so small.
then a whistle blows, cutting through whatever tension had started to gather.
the opposing player backs away with a half-smirk, jogging toward the entrance of the gym.
“guess he needs you,” he calls casually over his shoulder.
you turn to kenma slowly once he’s gone, folding your arms.
“did that old geezer actually say that.”
his eyes glance around for a second then his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“…no.”
the admission is quiet.
you stare at him for a moment longer than necessary.
“kenma.”
he exhales faintly, like you’re the one making this complicated.
“you were distracted,” he says.
“i was being polite.”
kenma’s jaw shifts slightly, not in anger, not quite in frustration either, but in that subtle way he does when he’s trying to reorganize thoughts he didn’t expect to have.
“you don’t have to be,” he says finally.
you blink at him.
“i don’t have to be polite?”
“not to him.”
there’s something almost defensive in the way he says it, though he’s clearly trying to sound indifferent.
you study him more carefully now. the tips of his ears are faintly pink, his gaze refusing to settle directly on yours for more than a second at a time. he’s not good at disguising physical tells. not when it’s about something he doesn’t fully understand yet.
“why,” you ask, an eyebrow raising.
he hesitates.
this is the moment.
this is where it shifts.
kenma is good with systems, with rotations, with patterns he can predict. this, however, isn’t structured. there’s no clear input-output response to explain why the sight of someone else standing close to you tightened something unfamiliar in his chest.
“he was looking at you,” he says instead, like that’s explanation enough.
“people look at me, a lot, infact.” you reply lightly.
“not like that.”
the words come out before he can filter them.
and now he’s forced to commit.
you don’t say anything right away.
the gym noise feels distant for a second, like it’s happening behind glass. you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.
“and how was he looking at me,” you ask, softer now.
kenma finally meets your eyes.
it’s not confrontational.
it’s not dramatic.
it’s honest.
“like he thought he could take up your time.”
the phrasing makes your breath hitch faintly.
“and that bothered you?”
another pause.
he could deflect here. he could say something about efficiency again. about distractions. about focus.
he doesn’t.
“…yeah,” he admits.
it’s quiet.
but it’s real.
something in your chest loosens at the same time something else tightens.
you don’t tease him.
you don’t laugh.
instead, you step just slightly closer, closing the space he tried to control earlier.
“well, you’re already taking up my time,” you say, voice gentle but deliberate. “on purpose.”
he goes still.
completely still.
the gym could be empty for all he notices.
“i am,” he says slowly.
“yeah.”
you tilt your head a little, studying his expression the way he studies plays mid-match.
“so you don’t have to lie about coach next time.”
the faintest flicker of embarrassment crosses his face.
“…okay.”
“you could just say you don’t like it.”
he swallows.
“i don’t like it.”
there it is.
the words land between you, and instead of feeling heavy, they feel strangely obvious— like something that had already been sitting there for weeks, waiting for one of you to finally say it out loud.
you blink at him once.
then twice.
kenma looks mildly horrified at himself, as if the sentence escaped without permission and he’s now watching it float away beyond retrieval.
you can’t help but smile. it's not teasing. not smug. just soft amusement.
“you know,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “most people would’ve just said they were jealous.”
his ears turn pink immediately.
“i wasn’t—” he starts, then stops, clearly realizing that arguing will only make it worse. “…maybe a little.”
the honesty makes you laugh under your breath.
around you, the gym is still loud— someone arguing about serves, a ball rolling across the floor, yaku shouting at lev somewhere in the distance— and somehow that makes this feel less serious, less fragile. just two people talking a little too close during a break.
“for the record,” you add lightly, “i wasn’t interested.”
kenma looks up quickly.
“…you weren’t?”
“no. i was waiting for my setter to stop being weird.”
he exhales a quiet laugh— surprised, relieved— and some of the tension leaves his shoulders all at once.
“i wasn’t being weird,” he mutters.
“you lied about coach.”
“yeah but…strategically.”
you grin.
the moment settles into something lighter, easier, the tension dissolving into quiet amusement instead of awkwardness. kenma looks calmer now, shoulders no longer drawn tight, though the faint pink at his ears hasn’t faded.
you watch him for a second longer than necessary.
then another.
a thought crosses your mind— simple, obvious, impossible to ignore now that it’s there.
“…let me ask you something,” you say.
he nods immediately, cautious but attentive. “yeah.”
you hesitate only briefly, surprising even yourself with how calm you sound.
“do you like me?”
kenma freezes.
completely.
it’s not dramatic— just a full system pause, like his brain has suddenly encountered an unexpected variable.
“…oh,” he says quietly, buying time.
you almost laugh.
“that wasn’t a trick question.”
he looks at the floor, then back at you, clearly running through several possible responses and discarding all of them in real time. there’s no strategic answer here, no optimal play, just honesty waiting uncomfortably at the center.
“…uh— yeah,” he admits finally.
the word comes out soft but certain.
your chest warms instantly.
“yeah?” you repeat.
he nods once, more firmly now, as if committing to the statement makes it easier.
“i think i have for a while,” he adds, voice quieter. “i just didn’t realize it was obvious.”
you smile. “it wasn’t. you’re very subtle.”
“…i thought i was.”
there’s a beat where both of you just stand there, the air suddenly charged in a completely different way — not tense, not heavy, just aware.
you shift a little closer without thinking.
“good,” you murmur.
his brows lift slightly. “good?”
“because,” you say, unable to stop the small smile forming, “i like you too.”
that does it.
kenma’s composure slips in the smallest way— surprise softening his expression, relief following immediately after, like something he didn’t realize he’d been bracing for finally settles.
he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“…okay.”
the space between you feels smaller now, comfortable instead of uncertain.
you reach out without really thinking, brushing a stray damp strand of hair away from his eyes where it’s fallen loose from his last game. it’s an absentminded gesture, the same kind of adjustment you’ve made a dozen times before, but this time your hand lingers a second longer than necessary.
this time, when your hand lingers, neither of you pretends not to notice.
his gaze drops briefly to your lips, then lifts again, silently asking a question he doesn’t quite know how to voice.
you answer by leaning closer.
the kiss is soft, tentative at first, more curious than practiced— warm and quick and unmistakably mutual. he stiffens for half a second in surprise before relaxing, fingers lightly catching at your sleeve like he needs confirmation this is actually happening.
when you pull back, both of you blink at the same time.
kenma looks faintly stunned.
“…oh,” he says again.
you laugh quietly. “you already used that reaction.”
“…i don’t have another one.”
and somehow that makes it even better.
you’re both smiling— small, almost shy smiles— when, just around the corner, out of your sight, absolute chaos is unfolding in complete silence.
karasuno has not moved.
they had originally followed hinata insisting he'd come to look for kenma.
they had not expected to witness emotional development.
“we should not be listening,” daichi murmurs under his breath, voice firm but noticeably quieter than usual.
no one moves.
asahi nods solemnly in agreement while also leaning slightly closer to the wall.
“…we’re not listening,” tanaka whispers.
they are absolutely listening.
hinata is frozen mid-crouch, both hands clamped over his mouth, eyes so wide they look physically painful. he is shaking violently with the effort of not making a sound.
nishinoya grips tanaka’s shoulders like he needs structural support to remain upright.
tanaka, meanwhile, is mouthing something that looks suspiciously like NO WAY over and over again without producing audio.
just behind them, tsukishima has stopped walking entirely, one eyebrow raised as he peers around the corner with open, undisguised curiosity. his expression doesn’t change much, but the slight upward tilt at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
“…wow,” he murmurs under his breath, voice barely above a whisper. “kozume kenma. didn’t think he had it in him.”
yamaguchi, standing beside him, looks like he doesn’t know where to focus— the wall, the floor, the ceiling— anywhere except directly at the scene they are very much witnessing.
“tsukki,” he whispers urgently, tugging at his sleeve, “we shouldn’t be watching—”
tsukishima doesn’t move.
“and yet,” he replies quietly, eyes still fixed forward, “here we are.”
yamaguchi turns faintly red, clearly torn between moral responsibility and overwhelming curiosity, ultimately settling for covering the lower half of his face with his hand while still peeking through his fingers.
behind them, sugawara has both hands pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, while asahi looks like he has accidentally witnessed something deeply sacred and isn’t sure where to look out of respect.
daichi, meanwhile, slowly scans the entire group with the exhausted expression of a man realizing he has completely lost control of the situation.
“no one,” he whispers firmly, “makes a sound.”
everyone nods.
another soft murmur from you drifts down the hallway.
karasuno collectively leans forward at the exact same time.
the synchronized movement nearly causes hinata to lose balance, hinata nearly squeaks anyway despite the earlier instruction.
nishinoya slaps a hand over his mouth just in time.
everyone freezes.
luckily, you and kenma remain blissfully unaware.
behind the wall, daichi slowly turns toward the group with the exhausted expression of someone herding extremely emotional children.
“again.” he whispers, voice deadly calm, “be quiet.”
hinata nods aggressively.
too aggressively.
his water bottle slips from his hand.
and their hero, again, nishinoya catches it mid-air with reflexes worthy of nationals.
they stare at each other, silently celebrating.
tanaka wipes imaginary tears from his eyes.
“they kissed,” he mouths dramatically.
sugawara nods solemnly, like confirming a prophecy fulfilled.
kageyama crosses his arms, expression serious.
“…that explains his focus lately.”
daichi stares at him.
“that's your takeaway?”
meanwhile, just a few steps away, you laugh softly at something kenma says, the sound drifting toward them again.
hinata nearly ascends.
daichi physically pushes the entire group backward from the corner before anyone combusts.
they retreat in tiny, frantic steps, still refusing to break the sacred rule of silence until they’re far enough away—
and then—
silent screaming.
arms flailing.
pure chaos.
completely unaware, you and kenma remain standing in the hallway, the moment still warm and new, neither realizing that seven volleyball players have just collectively witnessed the beginning of your relationship.
LMAOOO I JS HAD TO ADD KARASUNO TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
I LOVE MY BABY KENMA SO BADD HES SO CUTE
i have another atsumu fic coming up for yall toooooooo
Pairing: Viscount! Seungcheol x Lady Whitlock! F. Reader
Themes: Smut | Angst | Regency AU | Enemies to Lovers | Marriage of Convenience | He Falls First | Protective Eldest | Found Family | Inspired by 'Bridgerton'
Wordcount: 52,8K
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Unprotected intercourse - PIV - Fingering (F. Receiving) - Implied virginity (Periodical context) - Semi-public intercourse - Use of petnames
First part of the series ‘The House of Carat’.
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The Ashbourne gates swallow your carriage whole.
Iron scrollwork rises like black lace against the lanternlight, and the world narrows to the rhythm of hooves on stone, the hush of well-trained horses, and the faint creak of leather harnesses that have carried a hundred families into a hundred nights like this—hope dressed as satin, panic sewn into hems, reputations balanced on the thin edge of a smile. Then the wheels slow. The footman drops down from his perch. The latch clicks, and the door opens, the cold slipping into the carriage.
Georgina shifts so quickly the cushion gives a little sigh beneath her. She’s been trying to sit still for the entire drive and failing with enthusiasm, her excitement too big for her bones. Her gloved hand grips the edge of the seat as if she might launch herself out and into the night. Cecily, beside her, is composed to the point of stillness—chin lifted, shoulders neat, hands folded in her lap as if she has trained herself to take up as little space as possible in case the world decides it does not have room for her. You go first, because you always go first.
The step down is small, but it feels like a threshold. Your boot meets stone, and the chill bites through the sole. You straighten without thinking—shoulders back, chin level—because you have learned that the body must hold the composure even when the mind is crowded.
Ashbourne Hall is not ostentatious the way new money shouts. It doesn’t need to. It is old enough to be certain. A wide, pale façade. Tall windows glittering with candlelight. The faint, warm pulse of music pressing through glass like a heartbeat behind a door. The entrance is alive with motion: servants in dark livery threading between arriving carriages, a doorman receiving invitations, ladies stepping down like swans pretending they are not balancing on thin ice. Each laugh, each murmured greeting, each rustle of fabric is a small performance. You can taste the powder in the air, the faint sweetness of perfume, the smoke of torches, the damp iron scent of spring edged by the last bite of cold. You turn and offer your hand to Georgina.
She takes it like she’s already halfway into the ballroom. She looks up at the hall with eyes that shine as if it might be a promise. “It’s bigger than I imagined,” she breathes. “Everything is bigger before you step into it,” you murmur, and help her down. Cecily follows carefully. Her fingers rest in your palm with one brief tremor—one heartbeat of betrayal from her body—before she steadies. She doesn’t look up at the hall as Georgina does. She looks at the steps, as if numbers are safer than wonder.
You hear your name before you are properly inside. It is not spoken to you directly, but rather threaded through the air like a ribbon someone is pulling. Your family is known. Not powerful enough to be untouchable, not obscure enough to be ignored. Your father’s barony gave you a title and a place at the edges of rooms like this. His death gave you—quietly, efficiently—everything else. The account books. The responsibility. The precariousness disguised as dignity.
A lady in pale lilac turns her head as you pass. Her smile is polished, her eyes sharper than her pearls. Her companion leans closer, fan half-raised like a shield. “That’s Lady Whitlock,” the companion murmurs—softly, but not softly enough. “Poor thing,” the first replies with a sweetness that could curdle cream. “Two sisters out at once. I heard the estate is… strained.”
“Strained,” the companion echoes, pleased with the word, as if it tastes better than simple truth. “And she chaperones alone. How brave.” A third voice slides in, amused. “Or desperate.” There is a small laugh, quickly hidden behind lace.
The phrases land in you like the familiar press of a bruise. Not new pain. Just pain you recognise. You keep walking. Georgina leans close, curls brushing your shoulder. “Are they talking about us?” she whispers—half offended, half thrilled by the drama of it. “They are always talking,” you reply evenly. “Let them waste their breath.” Cecily’s fingers tighten around yours. “I don’t want to be a topic,” she murmurs. You squeeze her hand once—an answer more than comfort. “Then we make them speak about what we choose,” you tell her. “Tonight they speak about your poise. Tomorrow they speak about your prospects.”
The doorman takes your invitation without looking at the name—because he already knows it. He stands aside. Warmth spills over you as you step in. The entry hall is wide enough to host a battle. Marble underfoot, rugs soft enough to swallow sound, paintings that watch you with inherited judgment. A servant appears as if summoned by your breath.“Lady Whitlock,” he says, voice trained to respect. “May I take your cloaks?” You hand them over. Your gloves stay on. You always keep your gloves. Then you step forward, and the ballroom opens like a jewel box snapped wide.
Light everywhere—chandeliers glittering like cut stars, mirrors multiplying the crowd into a soft infinity of movement. Silk moves like water. Fans flutter like nervous birds. Laughter rises and breaks and reforms. Music coils through the air—violins bright and quick, the deeper structure beneath keeping everyone in time whether they wish to be or not. It is beautiful, yes. And it is hungry.
The marriage mart dresses itself as celebration with startling skill. The rules are softened by music, the stakes disguised by champagne. Young ladies carry dance cards as if they are harmless paper, when in truth they are maps—who you allow close, who you refuse, who you are seen with, and therefore assumed to be aligned with. Mothers angle daughters like chess pieces. Men hover with smiles that mean different things depending on the weight of their title. And everywhere—everywhere—you see the theme of the house that built itself on stones pulled from the earth and turned into power.
Diamonds wink at throats. Sapphires hang from ears. Emeralds flash on fingers. Pearls gleam like soft temptations. It is not subtle, and yet it is not vulgar. It is a declaration, perfectly executed. Carat & Co. does not need to advertise here. The ballroom is its showroom. At the far end of the room, set on a side table, is a display—tasteful, almost restrained, but still arranged like an art exhibit. A velvet tray holds a necklace of pale diamonds, a brooch shaped like a spray of leaves, and a ruby pin so small it looks unpretentious until it catches the light. You steer Georgina and Cecily away from the display and toward the edge of the room where you can see everything: the doors, the exits, the corners where trouble likes to grow. You have learned that visibility is a kind of power, and vigilance a kind of protection. Before you can begin the careful work of introductions, a familiar, steady presence is suddenly beside you. Lady Halstead.
“My dear,” she says, and the affection in the words is real enough to press briefly at the back of your throat. “If you stand any straighter, I shall assume you are being fitted for a coffin.” A laugh threatens, small and treacherous. You keep your smile neat. “Lady Halstead.” She takes your gloved hands between hers anyway, as if she has never cared much for rules that do not serve her. She is draped in deep green velvet that makes her silver hair look like moonlight. Widowed, wealthy enough to be unbothered, sharp enough to be feared by those who pretend not to fear women. Your late mother’s friend.
Her gaze sweeps over your sisters with quick precision—measuring without viciousness—then returns to you. “They’re grown,” she murmurs. “And you’ve made them look like they belong.” It lands oddly—not praise, but acknowledgement of the work no one applauds. Georgina curtsies with enthusiasm. “Lady Halstead,” she says brightly, “I have heard you can reduce a lord to stammering in three sentences.” Lady Halstead’s eyes twinkle. “Only the foolish ones,” she replies. “The clever ones learn to keep their mouths shut.” Cecily curtsies more softly. “Good evening, Lady Halstead.”
Lady Halstead’s attention settles on her with a gentleness that does not condescend. “Miss Cecily,” she says. “You look very lovely. Don’t let anyone persuade you that quiet is the same as invisible.” Cecily’s cheeks colour. She nods, grateful, slightly overwhelmed. Lady Halstead turns to you again, voice lowering. “I’ll stay near,” she says, practical as always. “You cannot be in three places at once, no matter how determined you look.”
“I can try,” you murmur.
“Try less,” she returns, and her tone makes it a finality. You draw in a breath and let your shoulders loosen by a fraction. Lady Halstead tips her chin toward a nearby cluster—an impeccably dressed mama with two daughters, both in fresh, hopeful colours, both wearing the careful brightness of girls who have been told this night matters. “Come,” she announces briskly. “I’m going to introduce you to Lady Northcott and her girls. They’re new enough to the Season not to have learned all the cruelty yet.”
“Lady Halstead,” you murmur, half-admonishment. “Oh, hush,” she says, and steers you forward anyway.
Lady Northcott turns as you approach, her smile widening with relief at an introduction offered by someone of Lady Halstead’s standing. Her daughters—Amelia and Alice, as Lady Halstead names them—brighten like candles catching flame. They look at Georgina and Cecily with immediate curiosity, eager for friends, eager for any tether that feels safe. Polite phrases begin—the oil that keeps the machinery running. Compliments on gowns. Remarks on the music. A mild exclamation about the splendour of Ashbourne Hall as if splendour is not the entire point. Georgina is already halfway into charm—voice perfectly pitched—when a footman passes with a tray and she reaches for a second glass of champagne as though the night might be improved by bubbles alone. You stop her without making it a spectacle. Two fingers around her wrist, gentle and unyielding. “Lemonade,” you murmur, smiling as though you’re teasing. Georgina pouts. “It is a ball,” she whispers back, scandalised by your restraint. “It is also a battlefield,” you return softly. “Hydrate.”
Lady Halstead’s mouth twitches as if she approves. Georgina, defeated by your tone, releases the glass. You take one instead—only to set it aside untouched on the nearest table at the first chance. Lady Northcott prattles on, relieved by your attention. Her daughters ask Cecily questions—where she prefers to walk in the park, whether she enjoys music, whether she has been to Vauxhall. Cecily answers carefully, grateful for conversation that doesn’t demand too much of her at once. It is, for a moment, almost pleasant.
Then the room realigns. Not a hush. A ripple. A collective awareness turning toward the grand staircase. At the top of it, the Ashbourne brothers appear. Not one man, but a line of them—five—each cut from the same belonging, and yet utterly different in the way they wear it. They don’t descend like boys eager for attention. They descend like a family returning to its post. Hosts first, gentlemen second.
Jeonghan leads—too composed, too smooth at the edges. His expression is calculating in the way a ledger can be, and you have the sudden sense that he watches the room not for beauty but for leverage, for weakness, for the hidden seam in any conversation he might later pull apart. Beside him walks Joshua, whose quiet feels deliberate rather than shy. His gaze moves like a lantern—soft, searching, finding faces rather than exits. If Jeonghan looks like strategy, Joshua looks like conscience forced to operate in a world that rewards neither. Hoshi follows with a brightness that isn’t foolishness; it’s energy held on a short leash. He smiles at someone in the crowd, quick and dazzling, and you can practically hear the older matrons deciding what kind of trouble that smile might become if it ever stops being decorative. Wonwoo comes next, half in shadow even under chandeliers. He doesn’t scan the room so much as mark it—eyes narrowing, attention landing on corners, on doors, on the spaces where people think no one is watching. He has the air of a man who would rather be somewhere else, and the deeper air of a man who knows he must be here anyway. A pace behind, Mingyu’s absence is a shape all its own—noticed even if no one names it aloud. A missing piece in a set like this is always noticed. It becomes its own kind of story. Then, inevitably last, as though the staircase was built to deliver him: Viscount Ashbourne. Seungcheol. He is dressed like any gentleman—dark coat, immaculate linen, cravat tied with accuracy—yet the clothes look like they obey him rather than the other way around. He carries himself with a calm that reads as confidence from across a room. Up close, you suspect it is something more like control.
The brothers reach the bottom of the staircase, and a cluster immediately forms—mothers and titled men, a slow-moving knot of anticipation. You can see the choreography from across the room as they begin their rounds: greetings executed; nods precise; smiles rationed. Jeonghan speaks and people lean in, eager to be chosen for his attention. Joshua answers questions with quiet care, and somehow that makes him even more disarming. Hoshi is swallowed for a moment by young ladies with dazzling smiles, then rescued by a brother’s hand at his elbow. Wonwoo disappears with him into the shadows as if the shadows were waiting for them. The room barely notices his exit.
Seungcheol speaks to Lord this and Lady that, and receives compliments and condolences with the same guarded expression. He listens. He answers. He never lingers. His gaze lifts then, not to you, but beyond—toward the doors. Toward the exits. A man who keeps counting ways out is a man who never feels fully safe. Your chest tightens with an emotion you refuse to name. Because you know the story of the woman who is not here. Because you know what it means to lose a parent and immediately become something else—something useful.
Lady Halstead’s presence anchors you back into conversation—Lady Northcott still speaking, her daughters still eager—until Seungcheol’s circuit bends naturally toward you. Partly because you are a guest of standing, partly because Lady Halstead is not subtle when she decides someone should do their social obligations properly. “Lady Halstead,” he greets her evenly. Lady Halstead inclines her head. “Lord Ashbourne.” He acknowledges Lady Northcott with polite efficiency, his gaze flicking over her daughters the way a host checks the room is functioning as it should. Then his attention comes to you, attentive in the manner of a man trained to speak to whomever is placed before him. “Lady Whitlock,” he says. You curtsy. “Viscount Ashbourne.”
He offers a brief nod to your sisters. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” Georgina curtsies with too much energy. Cecily’s is more modest, but still impeccable. The Viscount’s attention lingers an instant too long to be meaningless—on Cecily’s soft, uncertain smile and Georgina’s eager brightness. Finally, his eyes return to you. “You look tired,” he observes. It is not a line. It is not said like a compliment disguised as concern. It is said like a truth no one else has dared to speak aloud. Heat pricks behind your ribs—annoyance, surprise, something more treacherous that feels like relief. Because he is not pretending you are fine. You hold his gaze because if you look away, you will feel like you’ve lost something you didn’t agree to gamble. “I am,” you say, and the honesty shocks even you. Then you correct, smooth it, so it sounds less like resignation: “But it is nothing, my Lord. Merely the ordinary wear of keeping a household afloat and two young ladies untrampled.”
“It must be… efficient,” he says, the pause almost invisible, “to bring them out together. To have it done.” Done. As if this is an errand. As if Georgina and Cecily are tasks to complete rather than girls with hearts. It lands wrong. You keep the smile. You let the correction slip out just as smoothly. “Not done,” you say, sweet enough for the room to accept it as pleasantry. “Settled. Happily, if we are fortunate.” Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours for the briefest moment—steady, unruffled. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t apologise. He simply acknowledges the rebuke by not reacting to it at all, which somehow makes it feel more like a challenge than a mistake. “Fortune is a fickle ally,” he replies.
“Then we must be more loyal to ourselves than to fortune,” you return instantly. The Viscount studies you, and you can’t tell if he’s surprised or simply recalculating. Before you can decide what to do with his statements, a gentleman approaches from behind him—murmuring his title, waiting to be acknowledged. Seungcheol inclines his head once—hostly, final. “Enjoy the evening,” he says to the group, and moves on without another glance, swallowed back into the circuit of duty.
Lady Northcott exhales as if she’s just spoken to royalty. Her daughters whisper behind their fans. Lady Halstead says nothing, because she doesn’t need to. You breathe in carefully. The music shifts. The next set is called. A new dance begins. And then Georgina is approached. A gentleman—young, confident, dressed well enough to have money and titled enough to have ambition comes her way. He bows. “Miss Georgina Whitlock.” Georgina curtsies, her eyes already daring him to entertain her. “Good evening.”
“May I have the honour of the first set?” he asks. Before you can even catalogue his face properly, a second suitor arrives from the other side—dark-haired, smiling, a little too pleased with himself. He bows, quick and eager. “Miss Georgina,” he says. “The second, perhaps?”
Georgina’s eyes flick to you—conspiratorial, asking permission in the only way she ever does: by already deciding she will take it. You give her a small nod. Two dances are a safe amount of visibility. Enough to be noticed without being overwhelmed. Enough to make her desirable without letting anyone assume she is easy to corner. Georgina beams. “You may both,” she says brightly, as if granting favours rather than accepting them. She offers her dance card, and their pencils scratch dutifully—two names inked like claims. Her excitement is contained, barely. She looks like she might float. Lady Halstead leans toward you, voice dry. “She’ll have half the room by midnight if you let her.”
“I won’t,” you murmur, even as you watch Georgina glide toward the forming lines with the first suitor. Her set begins, and the dancers take the floor. Music rises, crisp and bright. Bodies move in a practised rhythm. Skirts flare. Hands meet and separate. Cecily stays beside Lady Halstead. No one approaches her. It isn’t cruelty, not always. Often it’s simply the way rooms like this behave—chasing what is loud, what is radiant, what seems easy to want. Cecily’s beauty is quieter. It asks you to look twice. Most people, in a marketplace, refuse to spend time on second glances. Cecily’s fingers twist lightly in her gloves.
Lady Halstead notices—because Lady Halstead notices everything. “Stay with me,” she tells Cecily, as if it’s the most natural thing. “We’ll let them exhaust themselves chasing fireworks. Someone will eventually notice the stars.” Cecily’s lips part in a small, uncertain smile. “Yes, Lady Halstead.” You should feel relief. You do—some. Cecily has protection. Someone steady at her side. A woman who will not let her be swallowed by the room. You watch Georgina’s set end. She returns flushed and triumphant, accepting her second partner’s arm with delight as if she’s already learned to breathe in applause. Cecily remains beside Lady Halstead.
You stand between them in spirit even when you cannot in body—tracking Georgina’s brightness, guarding Cecily’s softness, holding the whole of it together with the kind of composure that costs you more than anyone will ever see. For the first time since stepping through the Ashbourne gates, you allow yourself to want air. Not a dramatic escape. Just a moment of quiet. “Go,” Lady Halstead says under her breath, not looking at you. “Five minutes. I’ll keep Cecily beside me, and I have eyes for Georgina as well. I may be old, but I still know how to stare down a man.”
“I cannot leave them,” you begin automatically. Her fan snaps open with an assertive flick. “You can,” she says. “And if you do not, you will crack in a way that will be far more inconvenient.” The permission feels strange. Like stepping off a ledge. You take it anyway. You slip from the ballroom—neither hurried nor lingering—through a side door left slightly ajar, into the cooler quiet beyond.
The corridor is dimmer, the sound muted. You pass a footman carrying a tray, a maid adjusting a sconce, a butler moving as if he belongs to the walls. No one stops you. A chaperone stepping out for air is not scandal. Outside, the garden air hits your lungs clean and cool. You welcome it. Your boots find the gravel path, lanterns casting soft pools of light across clipped hedges. Somewhere, water moves—a fountain or a stream—quiet enough to feel like a secret. The muffled music follows you through the walls, distant now, like a life you once might have wanted. You walk—only far enough to loosen the tightness in your ribs. Only far enough to remember what it feels like to be alone inside your own skin. You stop near a stone bench, one hand braced lightly against its cold edge. You draw in a breath. Let it out.
And then you hear voices. Two men, close by—emerge from the shadow of a clipped yew. One is tall, familiar, moving like controlled weather. Viscount Ashbourne. The other walks beside him with a different kind of presence—lighter, gentle. Joshua. They are close enough that their voices reach you easily, carried by air and the false privacy of gardens. They do not see you.
You should step back. You should announce yourself. You should not eavesdrop. But your body holds still. Joshua’s voice comes first, lightly teasing, as if attempting to coax a secret out into the open. “You’ve done three rounds. Are any of them suitable?” The Viscount’s reply is immediate and flat, as if the question itself is an inconvenience. “None.” Joshua exhales a faint laugh, half in disbelief. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
Joshua’s tone shifts, warming gently. “You cannot look at an entire ballroom and feel nothing.” Viscount Ashbourne’s voice remains controlled—too controlled. “I can look at an entire ballroom and see what it is,” he replies. “A parade of over-powdered, over-trained dolls. A market.”
Your hands tighten at your side. Joshua stops walking. You can hear it in the way his breath changes. “Seungcheol—”
The Viscount cuts him off. “All of them,” he says, and you can picture the sweep of his gaze, the same measured verdict you felt earlier. “Smiling like they’ve been instructed where to place their teeth. They speak in rehearsed compliments and wait to be applauded for breathing.”
Joshua’s voice tightens. “They are young women,” he says. “Raised to this. They are not the enemy.” The Viscount answers with a soft, humourless chuckle. “I know they aren’t,” he repeats. “But still, they arrive with expectations as tall as the chandeliers. They want devotion and poetry and a husband who looks at them as if the world ends at their waist.”
You feel heat rise behind your ribs, sudden and furious, because you have stood in that room all night holding your sisters upright, and he speaks as if every young woman there is nothing but a tedious decoration. Joshua tries again, quieter now—because he is trying not to make it a fight. “So what do you expect, then?”
Viscount Ashbourne answers like a man stating terms. “I expect competence,” he says. “I expect sense. I expect a woman who can keep a household from collapsing when the ton decides to tear at it for sport. I expect someone who does not weep at every inconvenience and mistake it for depth.” Your breath catches—not with admiration, but with the sting of recognition. Then he continues, and the sting becomes a cut. “I do not require sweetness,” he says. “I do not require innocence. I do not require a girl who thinks marriage is a fairytale.” His voice drops, colder. “I require someone suitable.”
Suitable. Your stomach turns, not because you do not understand strategy—God, you understand it more than most men in that ballroom—but because of the way he says it, as if women are simply collateral. Joshua’s voice sounds troubled. “And if she wants more than that?” Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate. “Then she will be disappointed.”
There is a silence so sharp you feel it in your toes. Finally, Joshua replies: “And what of your own heart?” Seungcheol’s reply is so calm, it is brutal. “Irrelevant.” Joshua exhales—a sound like defeat, like love, like fear for his sibling. “You are not made of stone, brother. Even if you insist on acting like one.”
Viscount Ashbourne’s response is final, leaving no room for rebuttal. “If I act like stone, it is because this house cannot afford softness, brother.” You don’t hear what Joshua says next, because your pulse is suddenly too loud, because your anger has climbed high enough to blur the edges of the world. Their footsteps shift, moving again down the path, and you remain pressed into shadow. So that is what he is.
A man who can look at a room full of young women and reduce them to dull. A man who thinks marriage is ledger work, wives are requirements, love is irrelevant. You think of Georgina—bright enough to be burned by a man who wants a pretty ornament beside him. You think of Cecily—soft enough to be crushed by a world that mistakes quiet for consent. Something in you hardens. A line draws itself through you, clean and absolute, like a blade dragged across silk. You slip back into the house like a ghost returning to its haunt.
The ballroom is still gleaming, still hungry, but now you can see it for what it truly is: a marketplace with better manners pretending to be celebration. You find your sisters easily. They stand half-turned toward a pair of girls you recognise from earlier: the Northcott sisters. Alice is in full bloom, face animated, fan fluttering like a conductor’s baton as she leads the conversation. Amelia is the softer echo—leaning in at just the right angle, smiling as though she is sharing secrets.
Cecily has her shoulders tucked in, but her eyes are brighter than they were at the start of the evening. She is listening. She is answering. She is present. It is a small thing, yet it nearly undoes you. Georgina, of course, is doing what Georgina does—tilting the air toward herself without appearing to try. She laughs at the right moments, offers little sparks of commentary that make Alice giggle and Amelia widen her eyes, and even from a distance, you can see the rhythm of attention gathering around her like moths around a flame. Lady Halstead stands a short distance behind them, her gaze drifting over the crowd like a hawk that has decided, for tonight, to lend its shadow. When you approach, her eyes meet yours—just once. Not a question. Not permission. Simply acknowledgement. For one brief moment, gratitude loosens something tight in your ribs. They’re with other debutantes. They’re supervised. They’re safe. You take two steps toward them.
Alice brightens the moment she sees you, as if your arrival is the next planned part of her little performance. “Lady Whitlock!” she chirps, her voice perfectly pitched. “We were just telling your sisters that the music tonight is divine—Viscount Ashbourne must have excellent taste.” Amelia nods earnestly. “It feels like something out of a novel,” she adds, eyes glancing toward the dancers. “As though the whole room might turn into a story if one simply stands still long enough.”
Georgina laughs, delighted. “If that is true, then I intend to be the heroine.” Alice claps her hands softly, thrilled by the idea. “You would be,” she declares. “You have the look of it. The confidence. The—oh, the way you move as if the world is obliged to make space.” Georgina preens without shame. Cecily, beside her, gives a small, careful smile. “The music is very fine,” she agrees shyly. Alice’s lashes flutter faster. “And the Viscount, did you see him?” she breathes. “Lord Ashbourne does not smile often, but when he does, it is—”
“Dreadfully handsome,” Amelia supplies, with the sort of sincerity that makes it impossible to mock. Georgina hums, amused. “He did smile. Once.” Cecily’s gaze dips, but you catch the flicker of interest anyway. “He spoke very kindly,” she says. “To everyone.”
Your stomach twists—small, sharp—like a ribbon pulled too tight. Because you can picture him. Picture the calm of his voice. The way he spoke of wives and debutantes as if they are tools meant to fit neatly into the machinery of his house. The Northcott sisters are still floating on their own delight, unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred in this room. You do not want to spoil it. Not here.
You let the moment breathe just long enough to keep it natural—just long enough that it does not feel like you have arrived merely to snatch your sisters away. Then you smile, light and polite, and slide neatly into the conversation as if you have been part of it all along. “Miss Northcott,” you say to Alice, “you must be careful praising a host too loudly. You will convince him he has done his duty perfectly, and then he will stop trying.” Alice giggles, delighted by the tease. “Oh, I should never wish that.”
“Nor should any of us,” you reply pleasantly. Your eyes move to your sisters—one, then the other—softening just enough for them to hear the truth beneath the tone. “But you have both made your entrance, and have made acquaintances, and I think we have stolen all the triumphs we may safely claim from one evening.”
Cecily blinks, surprised. “Already?” she murmurs, then quickly, as if the fault must be hers, “Did I—did we do something wrong?” You reach up and tuck a flyaway strand behind her ear. “Nothing wrong,” you tell her. “You were excellent. Both of you.” Georgina’s face collapses, as if you’ve stolen a breath from her lungs. “But I’ve only just begun,” she protests under her breath. “Alice says there is another set soon and—” You catch her wrist gently, the way you might catch a bird before it flings itself at a window. “Georgina,” you say, final. She meets your eyes and glares as if the room itself has turned against her personally. Then, with an exasperated sigh that is half theatre and half surrender, she nods. Alice and Amelia exchange looks, unbothered, already distracted by the next sweep of music and movement. “We will see you at the next ball,” Alice declares eagerly.
“And you must tell us if Lord Ashbourne—” Amelia begins, then stops herself with a bashful little laugh, as though she has caught her own romantic imagination in the act. You interrupt swiftly. “If Lord Ashbourne does anything at all, I suspect all of Mayfair will know before breakfast.” They giggle at that, satisfied, and the moment is done.
You shepherd your sisters through the crowd—through laughter, through swirling skirts, through men who step aside and men who don’t until they must, all while keeping your expression neutral enough to invite no further conversation. The entry hall feels cooler. Serener. The world narrows again into marble and candle smoke and the muted hum of the ballroom behind you. A servant brings your cloaks. Another fetches Cecily’s shawl. Georgina snatches hers with the impatience of a girl who doesn’t yet understand the mercy of leaving, who still believes the night might reward her if she stays long enough. A footman bows as your carriage is called.
As you turn toward the doors, your gaze cuts back once—instinct more than choice. And there, through the open archway, near the edge of the dancers, where the light is strongest and the faces are thickest, stands Lord Ashbourne. His head is angled as if he is listening to someone speak, but his attention is elsewhere—elsewhere being you, now, as his eyes lift at the exact moment yours do. As if he sensed your departure. Your eyes lock. The room collapses into a thin line between you and him—nothing else exists but the fact of his gaze, the weight of it, the way it found you, as if you are a point on a map he’s already marked. You feel your mouth tighten, not from fear, but from certainty. Whatever he is—brilliant, ruthless, burdened, beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—he is not a man you will allow near what you love. You turn away, because you refuse to be held by anyone’s attention, least of all his.
Outside, the air clears the last clinging sweetness of the evening from your lungs. Your carriage waits with its lanterns glowing, horses stamping impatiently against the stone. Cecily climbs in without hesitation, grateful for the cocoon of velvet and shadow. Georgina pauses on the step as if to mourn the loss of a night she is convinced could have changed everything. You touch her elbow—gentle, unyielding. “Another night,” you murmur. Georgina exhales a long, suffering sigh and ducks into the carriage with a sulk that is half performance. You follow, settling opposite them. The door shuts. The world becomes velvet-lined again.
For a few moments, only the sound of wheels and the soft shift of fabric fills the space. Cecily sits with her hands folded in her lap. Georgina stares out the window, jaw set, watching Ashbourne Hall retreat into glittering distance. “You cannot snatch me away every time the night becomes interesting,” Georgina finally mutters, still facing the frosted glass. You keep your voice light, because you refuse to turn your fear into her burden. “If you wish to stay until dawn, you may do so when you are married and your husband is obliged to suffer it with you.”
Georgina turns, eyes flashing. “I would not inflict that on any man.” Cecily’s mouth twitches, the smallest hint of amusement. “You would,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “You would enjoy it, too.” Georgina looks briefly startled—then delighted, as if Cecily has delivered a punchline. “See?” she says triumphantly. “Even Cecily is learning wickedness.” Cecily ducks her head, but the faint pink in her cheeks remains. You watch them both, and the familiar ache settles in—tender and heavy. You have brought them here to find happiness. You have brought them here to be seen. And you will not let the cost be paid in pieces of them.
The carriage rocks over the cobbles. Ashbourne Hall recedes behind the frosted glass, a bright mouth of light in the dark, glittering as if it can outshine consequence. Georgina watches it fade with restless resentment. Cecily watches the window. You let the motion lull you into stillness—the kind of calm you can only find when your sisters are contained, when the world cannot reach for them without reaching through you first.
Ashbourne’s chandeliers can glitter until dawn. Its name can shine until it blinds the ton. But Viscount Ashbourne has made one thing clear, whether he intended to or not. He wants something. And he will learn, if the Season insists on testing it, that the ladies of Whitlock are never to be taken.
The shopfront of Carat & Co. is a different world—glass cases gleaming, chandeliers softened into an intimate glow, Jeonghan’s voice smooth as poured honey as he tells a lady how light will behave on a throat if the stones are cut correctly. Out there, everything is seduction. Out there, everything sparkles. Back here, nothing sparkles until Seungcheol makes it.
He sits at the long table beneath the high window, sleeves rolled efficiently. Rough stones rest on a velvet pad in neat, ugly piles—unapologetic chunks of earth dragged into London under seal and stamp and bill of lading. Next to them: order sheets, an opened ledger, and a scale so precise it feels almost indecent to watch it decide truth. The shipper stands opposite, hat in hand, his coat still smelling faintly of river and horse. He is the sort of man who knows how to look respectable while lying. He has perfected it. It is how men like him survive.
Seungcheol lifts the first stone between his thumb and forefinger. The cut of it is nothing yet, just promise. He sets it on the scale. The needle settles. He writes the number down without looking away. Second stone. Third. Fourth. By the seventh, the silence has thickened. By the ninth, the shipper’s smile has started to sweat. Seungcheol turns one of the stones, eyes narrowing at the grain. He flips the order sheet once, then the ledger, then back to the order sheet. The numbers line up the way they always do when they are not being manipulated. He reaches for his pen and gently taps the scale, as if it might change. It doesn’t. His gaze lifts to the shipper. “Your weights are short.”
The shipper blinks. “Short?” He laughs softly, the sound meant to be friendly. “Surely not. I weighed them twice before—”
“An eighth,” Seungcheol says, and the room goes colder. The shipper’s throat works. His eyes flick to the stones, then back up—calculating. Deciding whether denial might still win. “My lord,” he tries, “with respect, the stones are rough. Naturally there’s—”
Seungcheol doesn’t raise his voice. He taps the order sheet once with his pen, then the ledger, then the scale. “There is my order.” Tap. “There is what I paid for.” Tap. “There is what you have brought.” Tap. “An eighth short.” The shipper goes still. The sheen of confidence slips. Defensiveness rises in its place. “It could be the scale,” he says quickly, as if Seungcheol is a fool who might be swayed by the suggestion that numbers are subjective. “I can fetch mine from the cart—”
“I have three.” Seungcheol’s eyes do not leave the man’s face. “Would you like to test your honesty against all of them?” Silence. The shipper swallows loudly. “No,” he mutters. Seungcheol returns to the stones as if the conversation is already finished. He places the third stone back on the velvet pad and writes a single line in the ledger—short, final. The shipper shifts, nervous now. “My lord, I—”
Seungcheol cuts him off with the gentlest thing in the room: certainty. “You will bring the remainder by noon,” he says. “Or you will return every piece and forfeit your fee. And you will not bring me another parcel until you learn that Carat & Co. is not a place you test.”
The shipper nods too many times, too eager, as though obedience might erase intent. “Yes, my lord. Yes, of course. By noon.” He backs out the door as if it might bite him. When the latch clicks shut again, Seungcheol remains where he is, eyes on the stones.
An eighth. It is a small theft, almost delicate. Not enough to trigger outrage from a man too busy to count properly. Not enough to be obvious without attention. A theft designed for a man who does not have time. Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. He has time. Not because he is fortunate. Because he makes it. Because he bleeds it out of his hours, trims it from sleep, carves it from anything that might feel like softness and calls it duty instead. He closes the ledger carefully and ties the string around it with a neatness that suggests ritual. Then he reaches for the next order sheet. There is always a next one.
A row of commissions, names written in hands that never shake because the people who write them have never had to fear being refused. A bracelet requested “for the Duchess’s dinner” as if a jewel is as necessary as air. A pair of earrings for a bride whose mother insists they must outshine the groom’s gift. A repair—urgent—on an heirloom brooch that has survived three generations but cannot survive one careless maid. On paper, all of it looks manageable. On paper, his life is tidy lines and sums. In reality, the weight sits on his shoulders in ways ledgers do not record. He hears it in the footfalls around him—Jeonghan’s easy drift in the shopfront, the bell over the door announcing another client, another demand. He hears it in the steady scratch of his own pen, in the steadying rhythm of numbers that do not care whether his mother or father is dead. He thinks, briefly, of the ball—of how the chandeliers at Ashbourne Hall glittered too brightly for a house in mourning, and how the ton’s condolences were followed by a pause long enough for speculation to slip in. He does not allow himself to linger there. He returns to the stones. The scale. The truth.
By noon, the remainder arrives. The shipper brings it himself, cheeks flushed, eyes too humble. He does not attempt another smile. Seungcheol checks the weight anyway. He does not say well done. He does not reward compliance with warmth. Warmth is how men begin to believe they can bargain with you again. He gives a single nod and turns back to his work. The shipper leaves like a man released from a sentence. Seungcheol continues as if nothing happened. But in his mind, the ledger entry sits like a splinter.
It is not the eighth that troubles him. It is the instinct behind it—someone thinking Carat & Co. is distracted enough now to be tested. Distracted. As though grief is not merely another weight he has learned to carry without dropping. As though the death of the Viscountess has loosened the seams of the house. If that is what the world believes, then the world will keep pulling.
On the second morning after the ball, Bond Street continues its elegant churn: carriage wheels over cobbles, the flash of parasols, the faint bark of a coachman, the slow glide of women past shopfronts as if the street belongs to them. Inside Carat & Co., the air is cool and expensive.
Jeonghan is in his position behind the counter, elbows resting on the glass with the lazy entitlement of a man who knows the room will orbit him. His hair is perfectly arranged. His smile is faintly bored. Seungcheol moves behind him without being seen. That, too, has become a skill—how to exist in the back while ensuring everything in the front remains flawless. He takes the stairs down to the office again, where the walls close in and the work becomes honest. A clerk is waiting with a stack of correspondence. “My lord,” the clerk says, bowing too deeply. “The customs office has sent notice.”
Seungcheol takes the paper. His eyes scan. A parcel held at the docks. A fee “reassessed.” A delay imposed “for verification of provenance.” The phrasing is polite. The intent is not. He feels the familiar tightening in his chest. Not panic. Not anger. Recognition. They are not satisfied with what he pays. They want to see whether he will pay more just to make the problem disappear. A bribe dressed as bureaucracy. He hands the notice back. “Send Hargreaves to the docks,” he says. “Have him bring the manifest and copies of our previous clearances. If they claim confusion, we will educate them.”
The clerk hesitates. “They—ah—mentioned the Viscountess’s name,” he admits quietly. “As though the approvals were… personal.” Seungcheol pauses. His mother’s signature used to open doors without question. The Viscountess Ashbourne. Patroness. The kind of woman who could make a man’s career live or die with a single invitation—or lack of one. She is gone, and London has noticed. Seungcheol sets the ledger down with care. “Her approvals were earned,” he says simply. “Ours will be, too.” The clerk nods quickly, relieved by direction. He leaves.
Seungcheol sits alone with the ledger, its pages filled with numbers that do not care about grief, do not care about bloodlines, do not care about whispers. Numbers are faithful that way. He inhales slowly, counting the breath the way he counts stones. Then he writes a letter to the customs office with the kind of politeness that cannot be argued with and the kind of precision that cannot be ignored. It is a language his mother taught him well. He seals it with wax. He does not press the signet too hard. A clean impression. A clean declaration. Ashbourne. Carat & Co. Still here.
That evening, Seungcheol returns home and finds the house waiting to be managed as faithfully as the business.
Ashbourne Hall is quieter than it ought to be. The staff moves softly; doors are closed with care; footsteps soften on rugs. Even the fire in the drawing room seems to burn lower, as if it understands restraint. The front door shuts behind him and he stands for a moment in the entry hall, the familiar scent of home filling his lungs. In the mirror above the console table, his reflection looks like a man who has not slept properly in weeks. The butler approaches, deferential, eyes steady in the way servants’ eyes are when they have learned not to be startled. “My lord,” he says, “Mr. Pelham is waiting in your office.”
Pelham. The steward. The man who can turn acres of Kent into columns of ink and speak of tenants’ lives as if they are sums. Seungcheol nods once and crosses the house without pausing in rooms that still feel wrong without his mother in them. He passes the music room and hears nothing. He passes the Viscountess’s sitting room and feels the absence like a stone in his stomach. In his office, Pelham rises quickly. He is a careful man—respectful, tidy, reliable. The kind of man his mother trusted, which is why Seungcheol trusts him too. But tonight Pelham’s face looks slightly strained, as if the paper in his hands is heavier than it should be. “My lord,” Pelham greets. Seungcheol gestures to the chair. “Sit.” Pelham sits, papers aligned on his knee. “Wrotham’s quarterly accounts,” he says. “And correspondence from Kent.”
Seungcheol takes the stack and flips through. Rent lists. Repairs. Notes on harvest stores. A request for funds to mend a section of fence that has begun to lean. A complaint from a neighbouring landowner about “boundaries”—always boundaries, always men who believe land can be shifted simply by insisting. There is also a letter from a magistrate, asking whether the Viscount intends to “confirm” certain arrangements with tenants in light of “recent changes.” Seungcheol’s eyes flick over the words, then lift. “Tell me.” Pelham clears his throat. “There have been… questions, my lord.”
There it is again. Questions. Whispers with manners. “From whom?” Pelham hesitates only a moment. “From the magistrate’s office. From Lord Caversham’s steward. And—” He swallows. “—from some of the tenants.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why would the tenants question anything?” Pelham’s gaze drops, uncomfortable. “They hear what they hear,” he says carefully. “The village hears London. London hears the ton. And the ton…”
The ton makes sport of people’s lives. Seungcheol rubs a hand once over the bridge of his nose. He is tired in a way that makes even anger feel like effort. He looks back down at the papers. A list catches his eye: arrears. Not many, but enough to notice. He recognises several names. Not because he has spent his life wandering fields—he hasn’t—but because his mother made a point of learning them. She would sit with Pelham and ask after families the way other women ask after dresses. She treated tenants as part of the house, not props beneath it. Seungcheol points with his pen. “This.”
Pelham nods. “The winter was harsher than expected,” he says. “Several families lost livestock. One lost a roof beam in the storm. They are struggling.” Seungcheol responds flatly, “And the magistrate thinks this is the time to question arrangements.” Pelham doesn’t deny it. “Some will see an opportunity, my lord.”
Seungcheol flips to the repairs request. The roof beam. The fence. A note about the mill requiring maintenance. All of it money. All of it necessary if he wants Wrotham Castle to remain not just a symbol but a functioning place that does not bleed its people dry. He looks up at Pelham. “We will cover the roof beam.”
Pelham’s eyes widen slightly. “My lord—”
“We will cover it,” Seungcheol repeats, and there is no room in his tone for argument. “We will also reduce rents for those families until harvest. Write it as an adjustment in light of losses. No charity.”
Pelham exhales. He nods quickly, already calculating. “Yes, my lord. Of course.” Seungcheol turns the page again. “And Caversham’s steward.” Pelham’s mouth tightens. “He has sent a ‘courteous inquiry’ about the southern boundary,” he admits. Seungcheol sets the papers down. “Send him our deeds. Send him the map. Invite him to bring a surveyor if he enjoys wasting his own time.”
Pelham nods again, lips pressing into a line. “Yes, my lord.”
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. For a moment, his eyes catch on the inkstand on his desk—a small thing, silver-edged, used by his mother once. Her hand used to rest right there, fingers ink-stained. He feels something in his chest tighten, not quite grief anymore. Grief has become a structure. A room he lives in. Pelham clears his throat gently. “There is another matter.”
Seungcheol’s gaze returns, steady. “Speak.”
Pelham shifts. “The household expenses. For your brothers.” Pelham produces a second list—tailor bills, club accounts, carriage repairs. One line stands out: damages paid to a host after “an incident” involving one of the younger brothers. Hoshi, likely. Or Jeonghan, if he felt bored enough to make a mess. Seungcheol reads the amount and feels the familiar surge of irritation, immediately pressed down by responsibility. He doesn’t have the luxury of being a brother first. He is Viscount first, always. “Who?” he asks. Pelham hesitates. “Lord Soonyoung,” he admits. Seungcheol closes his eyes. Hoshi’s grief has been loud since the funeral, disguised as laughter and movement. Seungcheol has watched him burn himself out on purpose and called it coping because there were too many other things demanding attention. “Pay it,” Seungcheol whispers. Pelham looks startled. “My lord?”
Seungcheol’s eyes open again. “Pay it,” he repeats. “And remind him that if he wants to break things, he may do so in a rehearsal room where the cost is sweat, not scandal.”
Pelham swallows. He does not push. He gathers his papers, bows, and retreats. When the door clicks shut, Seungcheol remains alone in the quiet. He rubs his thumb once over the edge of the desk where his mother’s wrist used to rest, then stops himself. Sentiment is a loop that drags you under if you let it. He opens Wrotham’s accounts again and forces his mind back into numbers. This is what he does. This is what he is. There is no room for collapse. Not when his brothers still have the luxury of falling apart. Not when the ton has begun to prowl. Not when the house is being tested at every seam.
He works until the candle stubs low and the ink begins to thicken. When he finally stands, his body protests—an ache in his shoulders, a heaviness behind his eyes. He realises, distantly, that he has not eaten since morning. He cannot remember tasting anything all day. He crosses the hallway toward his chambers and pauses when he hears a murmur from the drawing room. Joshua’s voice, low and calm. Another voice responding—one of the housemaids, perhaps. Comfort offered, quietly. The sound of gentleness in a house that has learned to survive without it. Seungcheol stands still for a moment, listening like a man outside a door to a life he cannot afford. Then he turns away and continues down the corridor. Duty is oxygen. He breathes it in.
He goes to bed. He sleeps for three hours. At dawn, he wakes, already counting.
Three days later, a bank manager calls. Not in the way a bank manager calls on a viscount—no rush of servants, no grand bows. Instead: a letter requesting his presence “to review the terms of ongoing arrangements in light of recent changes.” Seungcheol goes, because ignoring a request like that is impossible.
The bank smells of polished wood and old ink and men who believe their money makes them immortal. Seungcheol sits in a high-backed chair across from a desk too large for the man behind it. The bank manager smiles and smiles and smiles, the way men do when they plan to ask for something they have no right to. “Viscount Ashbourne,” he declares, voice thick with false warmth. “Our condolences, of course. Your mother was a woman of considerable—”
“What do you want?” Seungcheol interrupts. The manager’s smile falters, then reassembles a little tighter. “Directness,” he says, chuckling as if they are friends. “Very well. We must ensure stability. For the sake of all parties. You understand.”
Seungcheol does not respond. The manager shuffles papers, the sound too loud in the quiet office. “There have been inquiries,” he says. “Concerns regarding continuity. The title is, of course, secure—” Of course. “—but the business,” the manager continues, “is a different matter. Carat & Co. has expanded considerably under the late Viscountess’s influence. Some of our board members are merely mindful that a household with… unconventional circumstances may face heightened scrutiny this Season.”
Seungcheol watches the man’s fingers twitch on the paper, watches him avoid Seungcheol’s gaze. A man about to insult you always looks everywhere else first, as if the room might absolve him. “Say it,” Seungcheol murmurs. The manager laughs again, weaker. “There are whispers,” he admits, and finally, inevitably: “about lineage.” There it is. Blood. Seed. Womb. As if a family is only real if it is biological.
Seungcheol’s hands rest on his knees. He could crush the man with a title. He could ruin him with influence. He could speak a single name—one of his mother’s friends, one of the duchesses who wears Carat & Co. stones like a crown—and watch the manager beg for forgiveness. He does none of that. Because this is not one man. It is the ton. It is a city that has decided the death of the Viscountess means the sons she chose are unworthy. He leans forward slightly. “Carat & Co. has been stable through wars and recessions and the shifting favour of courts,” he says. “It was stable before my mother, and it will be stable after her. If your board is concerned, they may look at our ledgers. They will find no weakness there.”
The manager’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Naturally, naturally—”
“If their concern is not the ledgers,” Seungcheol continues, “but the story they wish to tell about me, then I suggest they consider whether it is wise to challenge a house that supplies half of London’s throats.” The manager’s eyes widen. There is the briefest, ugliest flicker of fear. Good.
Seungcheol stands. He does not offer his hand. “The terms remain,” he says. “If you wish to renegotiate, you may do so with my solicitor. You may also inform your board that I do not respond well to insinuation disguised as stewardship.” He leaves.
Outside, the air is colder than it was when he entered. The street is busy, oblivious. Seungcheol’s carriage waits. He sits inside it and lets his head fall back once, just once, against the upholstery.
His mother should be here. Not because he cannot do this without her. He can. He has been doing it for years already, even when she was alive—catching problems before they reached her, holding the house steady while she held Society. But he is tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Society has caught the scent. Rivals are sniffing. Men are testing weights, customs offices are holding parcels, and bank boards are whispering about blood. Carat & Co. is more than a shop. It is a fortress built of light. A fortress his brothers will inherit, whether they deserve it or not.
The decision forms without drama, without emotion, without flourish. A solution. A shield. A Viscountess. Not a romantic dream. Not a bride in white and poetry. Someone who can stand in a room and make people stop trying him. Someone who can handle the household, the invitations, the politics, the subtle war of cups of tea and seating arrangements. Someone competent enough that even the cruellest tongues hesitate before they speak. He will marry. Not because he wants to. Because he must.
The velvet pad is still warm from the last pair of hands that dared to touch it.
Jeonghan stands on the opposite side of the counter, his fingers hovering over the display. Across from him, a gentleman in a dove-grey coat clears his throat for the third time—each sound a plea, each plea an insult. The necklace between them is not merely diamonds. It is proof. It is leverage. It is Carat & Co.
Seungcheol watches the man’s gaze snag on the stones—how it lingers, how it calculates, how it tries to pretend it is not calculating. He watches the pulse at the man’s jaw. The slight dampness at his hairline despite the shop’s chill. A man with nothing to fear does not sweat over a clasp. “The Duchess believes the setting is… bold,” the gentleman says, with the smile of someone delivering bad news on behalf of a woman too powerful to be contradicted. “Perhaps a more delicate mounting would better suit her grace.”
Jeonghan’s mouth twitches. Not quite amusement. More like hunger. “A more delicate mounting,” Jeonghan repeats lightly, as if tasting the words. His eyes do not leave the necklace. “For stones that were cut to throw light across a room.” The gentleman’s smile strains. “Her grace adores subtlety.”
Seungcheol says nothing. He turns the necklace a fraction, letting the diamonds catch the pale spring sun that slants through the shop’s tall windowpanes. The stones flare—brief, undeniable—and the gentleman’s pupils widen like a confession. Subtlety. Yes. Subtlety is what people demand when they want to dull another person’s power into something manageable. “Her grace,” Seungcheol says finally, voice even, “requested the Ashbourne cut.”
The man’s gaze flicks up—sharp, then quickly respectful. “Of course, Viscount Ashbourne. Naturally.” Seungcheol watches the gentleman swallow, watches him choose his next words carefully, like a gambler sliding coins forward without showing his hand. “There is, however,” the man adds, “the matter of provenance.” Jeonghan lifts his gaze then, and something in his eyes turns from idle to bright. “Provenance,” Jeonghan echoes. “For a necklace.”
The gentleman laughs faintly, as if this is only a conversation. “For a name,” he corrects, still smiling. “Her grace is… mindful of appearances this Season.” Seungcheol feels it before he hears it—the shift in the air. This is not about diamonds. This is about them. Jeonghan leans one elbow on the glass case, casual as sin. “If her grace is mindful,” he says pleasantly, “she will be mindful that Carat & Co. has placed stones on the bodies of women who outrank her.”
The gentleman’s nostrils flare. He cannot deny it. He can only pivot. “No one disputes the work,” he says quickly. “It is beyond dispute. But Society is restless. There are whispers.”
Whispers. He heard them everywhere this week. Adopted. Not blood. Chosen child. A Viscount by permission rather than birthright. The gentleman clears his throat again, emboldened by his own insinuation. “Her grace would simply hate to be associated with controversy,” he says. “It is a sensitive time. The late Viscountess’s passing, the new Season—”
Seungcheol’s fingers close around the velvet pad. Not hard enough to crush it, but hard enough to remind himself that restraint is a choice, not a weakness. Jeonghan’s voice stays light, almost bored, and that is what makes it dangerous. “Controversy,” he murmurs. “Do you mean grief? Or do you mean gossip?”
The gentleman’s smile falters. “I mean the ton is watching,” he says, and the truth finally slips out. “Some are uncertain. The name—” Seungcheol sets the velvet pad down. “The name is Ashbourne,” he interrupts. “And the workmanship is Carat & Co.”
The gentleman quiets. Jeonghan’s eyes gleam, delighted in that private way of his—as if he can taste the moment where someone realises they have misjudged their opponent. Seungcheol continues, tone polished as marble. “If her grace wishes for a more ‘delicate’ mounting, she may commission another house. Our stones do not apologise for their presence.”
Pride wars with practicality on the gentleman’s face. He is a messenger, yes—but he is also a man who enjoys being the mouthpiece for power. Being dismissed feels like being unmade. “Viscount Ashbourne,” he begins, attempting a warning, “you will find that Society does not respond well to—”
Jeonghan tilts his head, smiling, the kind of smile that makes people instinctively check their pockets. “To being told no?” he supplies. “Tragic.” The gentleman’s eyes flick to Jeonghan with irritation, then back to Seungcheol, as if hoping the Viscount will be the reasonable one. Seungcheol is not. He watches the man make his choice.
Finally, the gentleman exhales through his nose, a thin surrender. “Very well,” he says, too quickly. “Her grace will consider. She values quality above all, of course.” Quality above all, except the kind that comes from a mother’s love rather than a father’s seed. Seungcheol inclines his head. Courtesy, not concession. “We remain at her service.”
The gentleman takes his hat and leaves with the stiff dignity of a man who has lost and wants the street to believe he has chosen to go. When the door shuts, the quiet rushes back in.
Jeonghan’s shoulders lift in a silent laugh. “That,” he says, voice warm with delight, “was entertaining.” Seungcheol watches the street through the glass—wheels turning, lives moving, people who will never know how close they stand to ruin because their names are old enough to be unquestioned. “That was predictable,” Seungcheol replies. Jeonghan tuts, the sound comical. “Predictable is when the curate faints at the sight of an ankle,” he says. “This was strategy.” Seungcheol reaches for the ledger behind the counter and flips it open. The only truth that doesn’t lie to his face. “This was a warning.”
“They’re circling,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Like they always do when they smell a change.” A Viscount newly seated. A household full of sons without bloodline—sons with wealth, yes, and influence, yes, but also a vulnerability the ton can taste. Jeonghan taps the glass case—three light taps, like a knock on a coffin. “They’ll try to make you prove you belong,” he says again, softer. Not repeating for emphasis—repeating because it needs to be held twice to fully accept. “Over and over.”
Seungcheol looks up, meets Jeonghan’s eyes, and lets the decision exist there—quiet, absolute—without giving it the softness of further words. Seungcheol’s gaze stays on the street, but his voice is certain. “I will choose.” Jeonghan grins wickedly. “God help them,” he murmurs. “And God help you.”
Seungcheol doesn’t believe in God’s help. He believes in action. And if marriage is the only armour the ton will respect, then he will forge it—cold, perfect, and unbreakable.
Rotten Row is a river of display. It flows in both directions at once—carriages gliding like lacquered boats along the gravel, riders sitting tall as if the sun has been hired to shine only on their shoulders, ladies strolling in clusters with their mamas and their parasols and their measured laughter. Everything is motion. Because standing still in Hyde Park is an invitation. An invitation to be approached. To be watched. To be weighed.
Georgina keeps half a step ahead, her body refusing to remember that she is not meant to run, not meant to dart, not meant to look too eager. Her bonnet ribbon flutters with every turn of her head. Cecily stays close on your other side, gloves immaculate, gaze soft. She walks like she is afraid of taking up too much of the path, even though the path is wide and the city would never dare tell a young lady she does not belong on it. Lady Halstead strolls with you—not pressed into your formation like an officer guarding a prisoner, but near enough that her shadow is a comfort and her presence a quiet threat to any gentleman tempted to become bold. Her cane taps lightly against the gravel, the sound a punctuation. “Look at them,” Lady Halstead murmurs, eyes sliding across the river of people. “All pretending they came for the air.”
“They did come for the air,” you reply, keeping your tone mild as you guide Cecily around a puddle with the smallest touch to her elbow. “They simply intend to breathe it while being admired.”
Georgina gives a delighted little hum. “That is the only proper way,” she declares. Lady Halstead’s mouth curves. “You’ll be devoured or crowned, Miss Georgina. Try not to do both in the same hour.” Georgina’s grin widens as if she’s been offered a challenge.
You keep walking because the rule is simple: if you meet someone and wish to speak, you do so while moving. Stopping makes a circle. Circles attract attention. Attention breeds interpretation. Interpretation breeds gossip. Gossip becomes a rope around a girl’s throat the moment she can no longer wriggle free.
The park is crowded with it—examinations disguised as glances, judgments hidden behind fans, conversations turning fractionally quieter when you pass. You do not turn. You learned a long time ago that the quickest way to give a whisper power is to acknowledge it. Georgina, however, is made of matches and curiosity. Her gaze flicks toward the source, her lips parting, ready to bite. You tilt your head toward her without looking. “No mercy,” you murmur. Georgina’s mouth snaps shut. She exhales through her nose like a dragon forced to behave. Lady Halstead’s cane taps once. “Good,” she approves. “Save your teeth for men who deserve them.”
Men who deserve them are everywhere. There—two young lords walking together, laughing too loudly, eyes skimming the crowd. There—a baronet with a belly and a smugness, arm hooked through his daughter’s as if she might run away if he releases her. There—a gentleman with a polished smile and a gaze that lingers too long on hems, as if the measure of a woman’s worth can be found in the cost of her stitching. And then, inevitably, there are the Ashbournes.
A cluster of girls tilt their faces toward them like flowers turning toward light. A small knot of people ahead subtly rearranges itself, not from command, but from habit.
Jeonghan’s presence is the first you register, his smile coaxing little blushes from passing girls. Joshua walks beside him, calm as a steady hand at the small of someone’s back. Hoshi is bright with energy, contained only by the fact that he is being watched. Wonwoo keeps to the edge, as if the crowd is too loud for his liking. And there—at the centre of it, because he always seems to become the centre whether he intends to or not—Lord Ashbourne. He does not smile. He does not perform as easily as other men do. He carries himself with a control that appears calm from afar. You feel your jaw tighten. Lady Halstead notices the shift in you the way she notices everything. Her gaze flicks up, follows yours, and her mouth twitches—fondness, tempered by instinct. “Ah,” she says softly. “There’s your favourite.”
“He is not my favourite,” you reply, too quickly. Georgina’s eyes brighten immediately, delighted. Cecily’s gaze flickers up and away again, shy as a bird. Lady Halstead’s voice remains airy. “Then try not to look at him like you intend to shoot him where he stands.”
You focus on the path. On your sisters. On the way Georgina’s posture straightens as the Ashbournes near—as if her body cannot resist the possibility of being seen by men from their standing. On Cecily’s instinct to shrink. You cannot shrink. Not when you are the hinge that holds them both.
The brothers’ pace slows as they pass close enough for courtesy to become inevitable. Jeonghan’s eyes dart to Lady Halstead, brightening with recognition. He tips his head. “Lady Halstead.” Lady Halstead inclines her chin, and the gesture holds a familiar warmth. “Lord Jeonghan.” Hoshi’s smile flashes. “Good morning.”
Wonwoo gives a small nod. His gaze glances past you, not unkind, simply distant. And then Seungcheol’s eyes land on you. It is not dramatic. It is not lingering. It is the precise way a man looks at something he intends to understand. You feel the irritation rise like heat under your collar. How dare he look at you like a problem he might solve? You do not slow. You do not stop. You do not allow the river to become a pond. Lady Halstead, however, is not governed by your desire to avoid him. She shifts her formation slightly, turning just enough that conversation becomes inevitable. Seungcheol bows his head. “Lady Halstead.”
“Lord Ashbourne.” The exchange is polite, but there is history beneath it—not favouritism, not bias. Simply familiarity earned. He acknowledges that history with the smallest softening—so brief you might think you imagined it—then his gaze slides to your sisters. Georgina curtsies with the sort of grace that still contains fire. Cecily’s curtsy is perfect and quiet. Then his eyes return to you. “You are out early,” he observes. It is a harmless sentence. It is also a test. You can feel it in the way he says it—like he is assessing how you respond to ordinary pressure. You offer the smallest, most neutral smile. “The park does not belong only to those with leisure, my lord.”
His mouth might have twitched. It is impossible to tell with him. “No,” he agrees. “It belongs to those who understand visibility.”
Lady Halstead’s cane taps lightly. “Now that is an honest thing for a man to say.”
Jeonghan laughs under his breath. Seungcheol doesn’t react to Jeonghan’s amusement at all, which is its own kind of control. His gaze flicks, briefly, to Georgina—as though acknowledging the obvious. “Hyde Park suits you, Miss Georgina,” he says to her. Georgina’s cheeks colour. “It suits everyone who knows how to use it, my Lord.” You could pinch her. Gently. Fiercely. You don’t.
Seungcheol’s gaze catches yours, and you swear—just for a breath—you see something like assessment sharpen into interest. “Enjoy your promenade,” he responds, and then he is past—his stride measured, the line of brothers continuing with him, the river swallowing them back into its glittering current as though it never noticed your stone dropped into it. Except you did drop a stone. You can feel the ripples in the glances from nearby debutantes, the quick tilt of a mama’s fan. You keep walking. Your sisters keep walking.
Lady Halstead’s voice slides into your ear. “If you want to keep him away, you must do it with elegance. Anger is a lantern.”
“I am being elegant,” you mutter. Lady Halstead’s eyes shimmer. “You are being obvious.” You inhale. You adjust your posture. You smooth your expression until it becomes again the mask you have worn through funerals and debt notices and nights of quiet panic where you lay awake counting what you owed to the world.
Cecily stumbles on a loose stone in the path. Not visibly. Only a small hitch in her step, a falter. You catch it instantly, your hand steadying her wrist. “Breathe,” you murmur. Cecily nods, cheeks pink. “I am,” she whispers back, as though she is not certain. You shift Cecily slightly closer to the centre—away from the outer edge. Georgina, meanwhile, becomes a beacon. A gentleman reaches her from across the path—young, pleasant, his coat expensive enough to show sense. You lift your chin. “Miss Georgina,” he says, bowing. “I hope I do not intrude.” Georgina’s eyes sparkle. “Only if you are boring.” The gentleman blinks, delighted rather than offended. “Then I shall endeavour to be remarkable.”
Cecily’s mouth twitches faintly, amused despite herself. You step half a pace to the side. You allow the conversation to form, but you remain the gatekeeper. The person who decides how close a man may come, how long he may linger, whether he may call.
“Lord Brampton,” Lady Halstead greets sharply. “Are you going to speak to the young lady, or are you going to flirt with her shadow?” Lord Brampton flushes. Georgina laughs, delighted. He begins, more carefully now, addressing Georgina properly. You watch his posture. His gaze. His eagerness. He is acceptable. For now. You let him walk with you for a few minutes, long enough for Georgina to sparkle, long enough for him to feel successful, long enough for Cecily to be included when Georgina turns and says, brightly, “My sister plays the pianoforte beautifully.”
Lord Brampton turns toward Cecily. “Do you, Miss Cecily?” Cecily’s mouth opens. Closes. Her fingers tighten around her reticule. “I—” she begins, then her voice falters as if it has tripped over its own shoes. “A little.”
Lord Brampton’s smile remains courteous, but his eyes drift away too quickly. He is drawn back to Georgina like a moth to flame. You feel the familiar pang—the quiet ache of watching Cecily be overlooked by men too impatient to see properly. You shift the conversation, gently redirecting. “Lord Brampton, will you be at Lady Dalrymple’s musicale next week? My sister enjoys music immensely.” It is a small push. A rope tossed gently in his direction. If he is worth anything, he will catch it. Lord Brampton hesitates—just a breath too long—before smiling. “If I am fortunate enough to receive an invitation, of course.”
It is not a yes. It is not a no. It is polite cowardice. Georgina’s laughter covers it. Cecily’s eyes dip. You catalogue it, file it away, and move on. Lord Brampton bows eventually, peels away toward another cluster of girls like he is shopping. Georgina watches him go with a grin that is half triumphant, half hungry for the next.
Lady Halstead’s gaze slides to Cecily. “Stars,” she murmurs, soft enough that only you and Cecily hear. “Remember what I told you.” Cecily nods once. She swallows, steadies. You admire her for it. Quiet bravery is still bravery. Then a shadow shifts into your peripheral vision, and a voice enters your river. “Good morning.”
A gentleman marches up to you with effortless ease, coat dove-grey, cravat tied with enough care to suggest he respects himself. His smile is open. Not oily. Not sharp. The sort of smile that makes mamas relax and daughters giggle because it is sincere. Lady Halstead’s eyes narrow immediately—not hostile, simply alert. Georgina brightens. Cecily looks up, startled by the attention of a man who does not look bored already. He bows first to Lady Halstead. “Lady Halstead.” Then to your sisters. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” His gaze flicks to you last—deliberate—and when it lands, it lingers a fraction longer than propriety demands. Just long enough to feel like choice. “Lady Whitlock,” he greets, and there is a careful respect in the title. “Edmund Hartwell. I hope you’ll forgive the liberty—I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance properly.”
You have heard the name in passing the way you hear most names in Mayfair—floating through drawing rooms, attached to whispers about old money and newer charm, about a gentleman who smiles too easily and somehow never seems to be refused. You have never, until now, been forced into the full weight of his attention. You offer a smile that invites no more. “Mr. Hartwell.”
His eyes brighten, as if hearing his name from you is a victory. “The day is too fine for a drawing room,” he says easily. “And too crowded for anyone to pretend they dislike being seen.”
Georgina’s brows lift, delighted by any whiff of romance. Cecily watches him as if he is a portrait come to life. Mr. Hartwell continues, unbothered by the attention. “May I walk with you?” he asks. “If it would not be unwelcome.” You glance at Lady Halstead, because she has more authority in this world than most men. Her expression is unreadable. She gives the smallest nod. You permit it. Mr. Hartwell steps into alignment with you, matching your pace perfectly. “Do you always choose the cleverest line to stand in,” he asks mischievously, “or is the park simply rearranging itself to make room for you?”
The question is so absurdly flattering you almost choke on your own composure. You feel a laugh threaten—small, traitorous—you press it down. “If the park rearranged itself for me, Mr. Hartwell, I assure you it would do so with far less mud.” He glances at the hem of your skirt, then looks back up. “So you do possess mercy,” he says. “You could have accused me of poor eyesight.”
“I am saving that for later,” you reply, and the laugh you tried to restrain slips out anyway. His gaze catches on your mouth like he’s surprised to have won something so easily. “There it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “I was hoping you could do that.” You lift a brow. “Do what?”
“Laugh,” he says simply, as if it is the most natural desire in the world. Georgina, still walking ahead, tilts her head slightly as if listening without turning. Cecily’s gaze flickers to you, and you see it—the faint relief in her eyes, the small happiness that you are not entirely made of iron. Mr. Hartwell continues, tone easy, as if he is not trying at all while clearly trying very hard. “Do you prefer the park to the ballroom?” he asks. “Ballrooms always feel like rooms where everyone is waiting to be judged.” You reply lightly. “The park judges too, it simply pretends it does so kindly.”
“Then perhaps you prefer honesty.”
“Perhaps I prefer air,” you answer. He gives a small, thoughtful hum. “And what do you do with it,” he asks, “when you have it? When you are not being surrounded by all this?”
The question is angled. You feel a flicker of wariness—quiet, instinctive. You offer him something true that still keeps your door locked. “I read,” you say. “And I drink tea that is never as good as people pretend it is.”
His grin widens. “A woman after my own heart. I despise tea.”
You blink. “Then why is every gentleman always offering it?”
“Because it is socially acceptable to offer,” he says, eyes dancing, “and socially unacceptable to admit one would rather offer brandy at ten in the morning.”
You laugh again, a little louder this time, and feel your cheeks warm with it—annoying, inevitable. Mr. Hartwell watches the colour rise as if it is the prettiest thing in the park. Cecily, beside you, seems to gather courage from the sound. Mr. Hartwell turns his attention to her, gentle in it. “Do you read as well, Miss Cecily?” Cecily’s cheeks flush. “Yes,” she murmurs.
“Then you are both in danger,” Mr. Hartwell says gravely. “London fears a woman with opinions and a library.”
Cecily’s mouth twitches. A small smile, real. Your chest tightens unexpectedly. Because you are not used to watching a man choose to make space for Cecily. Then Mr. Hartwell’s gaze returns to you, and you feel the river shift again. “Tell me one thing,” he says lightly, as though he is asking about the weather. “If you could go anywhere in London right now without being stared at, where would you go?”
The statement is impossible. And yet it makes something loosen in you—some part of yourself that remembers what it is to want something as simple as a walk without being gauged. “Nowhere,” you confess. “That place does not exist.” He doesn’t look disappointed. He looks delighted by the challenge. “Then I’ll amend it,” he says. “Where would you go if you did not care that you were being stared at?”
You glance at him, caught. Your guard tightens. Your honesty does not disappear. It simply becomes careful. “I would go to a bookshop,” you say, “and buy something scandalous.”
“A novel?”
“A pamphlet,” you reply. “One that suggests men are not as clever as they insist.” His laugh boisters with admiration. “Then I should like to see it,” he says. “So I can decide whether to be offended or corrected.”
You almost laugh too loudly. You stop it before it becomes obvious. Somewhere behind you, a carriage rolls past. Somewhere ahead, a game of pall-mall flares. The park continues its elegant performance. And then—like a pin to a balloon—you catch it. A gaze.
Lord Ashbourne has turned on the path further ahead, angled as if he intends to continue on, yet his eyes have landed on you with that same ledger-like focus. His face is unreadable. But his attention is unmistakable. It hits you like cold water. The faint ease Mr. Hartwell has coaxed out of you vanishes, replaced by sharp annoyance so swift it feels instant. You hold Seungcheol’s gaze—one clean, stubborn moment—then look away as if he does not exist.
Mr. Hartwell does not seem to notice the exchange. Or if he does, he is too polite to acknowledge it. Lady Halstead, however, does. “Come,” she announces. “We’ll turn back. The river’s grown crowded.”
You obey because it is sensible, because it is safe, because you cannot afford to let your sisters drift into a current you cannot control. But as you turn, you feel the presence behind your shoulder—the sense of being watched even when you refuse to look. It is infuriating. It is also, you tell yourself firmly, irrelevant.
The stands vibrate before the horses even appear. The announcer’s voice carries across a sea of spectators—calling names, and amounts, and bets. “Final call for wagers—final call!”
Coins clink. Tickets tear. A bookmaker rises from below the stands. The air smells of trampled grass and crushed petals and the faint, metallic tang of excitement—part champagne, part risk, part the simple human desire to win.
You sit with your sisters pressed safely to either side of you on the wooden benches, the crowd packed so tight behind and around that the whole structure feels like it breathes when people shift. Georgina leans forward as if she might will the race into beginning. Cecily keeps her hands folded in her lap, gaze flicking from the track to the crowd as if the crowd is the more dangerous animal. Without Lady Halstead here, the responsibility sits heavier. There is no older woman’s shadow to discourage boldness. There is only you—your posture, your expression, the quiet authority you have learned to manufacture on command. A gentleman in the row below turns around, smiling too widely. Another glances toward Georgina and lingers. You angle your body, not rude, not dramatic—just enough to remind them there is a chaperone with eyes.
The crowd roars as the horses parade into view—sleek bodies, restless heads, hooves biting at the turf like they resent being made to wait. The jockeys sit low and tense, bright silks flashing like exotic birds. The sound is enormous. The world here is louder than any street in Mayfair could ever be. Less polished. Less forgiving.
Mr. Hartwell appears at the edge of your row, somehow unruffled by the crush. “May I?” He inclines his head to the empty seat beside you. He doesn’t hover. He waits—patient, gentle—for the smallest opening. You give him a fraction of it, and he takes the seat swiftly, close enough to be companionable, not close enough to invite comment from the wrong mouths. He bows once he’s settled, the gesture neat even with knees crowded and skirts pressing close. “You see?” he murmurs, as if continuing a thought begun days ago. “The track is louder than a ballroom, but it’s kinder. Everyone’s too busy shouting to listen for whispers.” You keep your eyes on the line of horses, the way they stamp and toss their heads, but you feel his statement settle behind your ribs. “And here I thought you came only to gamble.”
His smile widens. “I came to be wrong about a few things,” he says softly, “and to see whether you would smile at me a second time.” The warmth rises, quick and ridiculous, along your cheeks. You blame the wind. You blame the sun. You do not blame the way he says it, as if it were harmless, when it is not. “It seems your odds are improving.”
“I’ve always been a persistent man,” he replies earnestly, “I simply try to do it without making anyone wish to push me into the tracks.”
Georgina, hearing the tail end, makes a quiet sound of delight that she tries to hide in a cough. Cecily’s mouth twitches—a small smile, like she is pleased for you.
The announcer’s voice swells. The horses move toward the starting line. The crowd rises as one organism, skirts rustling, coats brushing, gloves gripping the rails. You stand too—not because you wish to, but because standing is the only way to see over the heads in front.
A new weight settles behind you on the bench. The Ashbournes have arrived. They take the row behind you as if it has been waiting for them, their presence sliding into the space with the unhurried certainty of men who know they will be accommodated. Behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the warmth of breath when he speaks, Viscount Ashbourne takes his seat. You do not look back. You do not give him the satisfaction. But you can feel his gaze—first on your sisters, then on you, and finally—like a deliberate choice—on the space Mr. Hartwell occupies at your side.
The starting bell rings. The horses surge. The sound is thunder—hooves tearing at turf, the crowd roaring as if their voices can push the animals faster. Georgina clutches the rail, shouting something you don’t quite understand. Cecily stiffens, then relaxes when she realises she isn’t required to understand the sport to survive the noise. You watch the race with your face composed, your attention divided three ways—track, sisters, the awareness behind you that refuses to leave.
When the horses flash past the bend, the crowd erupts again. Men slap each other’s backs. A woman gasps as if she has witnessed a proposal. Someone below curses loud enough to make you wince. The winner crosses the line; hats are thrown; laughter breaks like waves. And in the breath of aftermath—before the next race, before the crowd settles—Georgina speaks. “Do you wager, Lord Ashbourne?” she calls up and back before you can stop her, bright with curiosity and a reckless kind of delight.
“No.”
Georgina twists, startled. “No?”
“I don’t enjoy losing money,” Seungcheol says simply, as if the entire world isn’t built on men enjoying risk. Cecily, quiet until now, turns her head slightly, courage slipping out on the tide of noise. “I thought gentlemen enjoyed the risk,” she murmurs. There is a moment—small, deliberate—before he answers, and when he does, his tone is not unkind. “Some do,” he replies, “Those who can afford to.”
Cecily blinks, surprised by the practicality of it. Georgina hums, half impressed, half offended on behalf of her own taste for bedlam. Seungcheol is not finished. His attention—still that ledger-like focus—settles on you, and he speaks again, lower, quiet enough that only you can hear over the shifting crowd. “You’re everywhere,” he observes.
You keep your posture immaculate and your voice light, as if he is nothing more than an inconvenience seated behind you. “It is remarkable how often one finds oneself in public places when one leaves the house.” You can feel the faint pause before his reply, as if he enjoys the shape of your defiance. “Remarkable,” he repeats, “Or strategic.”
You smile as if you are speaking to the air. “I have no interest in strategy, my Lord.” His answer comes too smoothly. “Of course, you simply have an interest in outcomes.” It is too straightforward. Too accurate. It irritates you in a way that feels like being seen.
Then Lord Ashbourne’s voice changes direction—just slightly—addressing the space beside you without raising volume, without making it a scene. “Mr. Hartwell,” he greets politely. “Final call was a moment ago. The book closes quickly if you intend to place a wager.” Mr. Hartwell turns his head. His smile stays intact—pleasant, almost amused—as though the Viscount has merely offered him weather advice. “How considerate,” he replies lightly. “I had nearly forgotten London runs on deadlines as much as it runs on horses.”
“It does,” Seungcheol agrees. “And it is unforgiving to men who hesitate.”
A harmless sentence. A perfectly reasonable one. And yet something in it lands like pressure placed on a bruise. Mr. Hartwell’s gaze flicks to you, as if checking whether you are enjoying the joke, then he inclines his head with a gentleman’s easy surrender. “Then I shall not keep it waiting,” he states, still charming, still unruffled. “Miss Whitlock. Miss Cecily. And you—” his eyes settle on you, longer, warm, private, “—enjoy the next one. I’ll return if the crowd allows it.”
He rises, neat as a man stepping out of a drawing room rather than squeezing past knees and skirts. It doesn’t take long before he is swallowed by the crowd below, disappearing into the sea of men and money. The space beside you feels colder for his absence. You refuse to acknowledge that. Behind you, Seungcheol shifts back slightly, the bench creaking under the redistribution of his weight. The next race is called; the announcer’s voice slices through the stands again. “They’re at the post—prepare yourselves!”
“Enjoy the race,” Seungcheol says, as if granting permission. As if you need it. “How generous,” you murmur, sweet as poison. He does not answer. The horses assemble again. The crowd rises. The world surges back into anticipation, loud and hungry. He turns away. Only then do you realise you have been holding your breath. Georgina exhales a huff. “He is odd,” she whispers.
“He is a Viscount,” you reply evenly. “That explains most oddities.”
Cecily’s mouth curves. “Does it?” she murmurs, and there is something in her tone that suggests she is not entirely convinced. You ignore it. You have too many things to manage.
At home, management does not stop simply because the curtains are drawn. Your house runs on quiet truths—laundry lists, bills, meals, repairs, letters that must be answered with the right words and the right seals. The servants move with the coherence of people who have learned to read your moods the way sailors read the sky. You review the week’s expenses at your desk with ink-stained fingers and an ache behind your eyes.
A request for extra coal that you approve because Cecily’s chest is still delicate in cold weather. A letter from a distant cousin, politely inquiring whether you might consider selling a small parcel of land. You set the letter aside and write a response that says, in careful language, no.
Then you fold Cecily’s ribbon properly because she’s too flustered to do it herself, and you scold Georgina gently because she’s laughing too loudly with the maid in the hallway and forgetting that walls carry noise.
In the late afternoon, when the house is momentarily peaceful, you stand at the window and watch the street outside and feel the exhaustion settle into your bones.
You miss your father in the way you miss a structure you lean on. Not because he would have enjoyed the marriage mart—he would have hated it—but because he would have stood behind you like a wall. You miss your mother in flashes, sharp and sudden: the scent of her gloves, the curve of her handwriting, the memory of her voice saying your name. You do not indulge the grief. It is not a luxury you allow yourself. The next invitation arrives before you can finish your tea.
Lady Dalrymple’s idea of restraint apparently involves only one orchestra instead of two.
You are not so much arriving as being immediately absorbed—drawn into a current of light and noise and movement the moment you pass through the hedged archway that marks the entrance. Lanterns hang in extravagant clusters from tree branches, layered so thickly that the leaves glow from within like stained glass. Silk ribbons—too many, in colours too bright to pretend they’re natural—trail from trellises, fluttering in the breeze. A parquet dance floor has been laid over the lawn, polished to a shine, framed by garlands that look as if they were ordered in bulk.
There are peacocks. Actual peacocks—strutting between guests, feathers dragging like embroidered trains. One pauses near a table of petits fours and looks down at the pastries with the same judgment the ton reserves for debutantes. A young lady squeals delightedly and lifts her skirt a fraction to avoid a trailing feather; her mama hisses something about propriety as if the peacock might be shamed into manners.
Somewhere to your left, a pair of circus performers move through the crowd with impossible balance—one girl in glittering tights on a tightrope strung between two trees; below her, a man juggles burning torches. People gasp and clap and laugh, delighted in the way the ton always is when danger is contained and decorative.
Music drifts from a pavilion dressed in florals. Violins bright, a harp chiming like spilt coins. Footmen glide between clusters with trays of champagne and iced lemonade. There are tables laden with arrangements so high you must crane your neck to see over them, and every few yards another spectacle has been staged—an ice sculpture already sweating into a silver basin, a fountain dyed faintly rose for no reason other than to be remarked upon, a trellis of roses positioned precisely where the light is kindest.
Guests move through it all in lazy circuits: pausing at the performers, drifting toward the dance floor, hovering near the refreshments, migrating toward whatever looks most impressive in the moment. Lady Dalrymple herself floats through her creation like a queen who has mistaken grandeur for taste, laughing too loudly, touching too many arms, showing off her peacocks as if she personally invented feathers.
You keep your sisters close as you navigate the spectacle, Lady Halstead at your side. People talk over the music. People talk through the music. Everyone is determined to be heard.
A peacock strolls past as if escorting you; Georgina whispers something wicked about its arrogance, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. But everything here is staged for collision.
You see Seungcheol before he reaches you—his path aiming toward you. Not rushed. Not eager. Just a gradual narrowing of distance, polite inevitability in the making.
You pivot smoothly, drawing your sisters into a conversation with Lady Something-Important and her bright, giggling daughters, allowing Georgina to charm and Cecily to be included, whether she wishes it or not. Lord Ashbourne passes behind a cluster of men, slowed by a bow demanded of him, and you slip away—toward the refreshments, where a footman offers lemonade and a peacock tries to steal a sugared violet.
A second attempt comes not much later. The same calm inevitability, the same measured approach. This time, you steer Georgina toward the dance floor, where partners are changing in neat patterns, where propriety is disguised as choreography. You allow her to be swept up by a gentleman who asks for her hand. You bring Cecily toward Lady Halstead and place yourself at the edge of a circle of conversation. You become, momentarily, simply another guest—another moving piece in Lady Dalrymple’s glittering board. It works. It also costs.
Because in all your wrangling, Cecily is spoken to by a gentleman. He asks about the music, about whether she plays. Cecily answers softly, and she is fine. Then the conversation dips into silence, and Cecily, nervous, stumbles on a word. The gentleman’s gaze drifts away, drawn toward louder laughter and brighter ribbons. Cecily’s shoulders tighten as if she is bracing for being forgotten.
You feel the rush of guilt and irritation—at the man, at the world, at yourself for having to choose where to place your attention like a shield that cannot cover everyone at once. You turn toward Cecily—
And you collide, abruptly, with another presence. Lord Ashbourne has stepped into your path. “You are avoiding me,” he says, low enough that only you hear. “I have no idea what you mean.”
His gaze does not waver. “You do.”
You let your smile sharpen. “I am busy, my lord. As you can see.”
His eyes flick, briefly, to where Georgina laughs too brightly. To where Cecily stands too quietly. Then back to you. “You are busy,” he agrees. “And yet you find time to steer.”
You feel your irritation flare. “Is that an accusation?”
“An observation,” he replies. Never raising his voice. “You steer everyone.”
“Someone must,” you return, sweetness layered over steel. His gaze shifts, as if he is considering something he has not decided whether to say aloud. “Do you enjoy it?” he asks.
The question hits you off balance, because it is not what men usually ask. Men ask whether you are enjoying the party. Whether you are enjoying the music. Whether you are enjoying the weather. They do not ask whether you enjoy carrying the weight. You refuse to show the impact. “Enjoyment is not the point,” you reply. “We are here to do what must be done.”
His eyes narrow. “Ah.”
The sound is soft. Almost recognising. It infuriates you. “If you’ll excuse me,” you say, turning slightly as if you intend to leave. He does not move out of your way. “I wished to speak with your sister,” he says calmly.
Your spine stiffens. “Which one?” His gaze flicks toward Georgina, then Cecily. His answer is too honest. “Either.”
Either. As if young women are interchangeable. “My sisters are not items on a display table, my lord,” you say lethally. “You cannot simply point and ask to be handed one.”
Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. He does not flinch. He does not apologise. He simply replies, even softer: “And you cannot simply decide what they are allowed to want.”
The words strike like a slap. You feel heat rise behind your ribs. You keep your face composed anyway. “My sisters are allowed to want happiness,” you say. “They are allowed to want love. They are allowed to want a man who does not treat marriage like a transaction.”
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. Something unreadable passes across his face—too quick to catch fully. “And you,” he asks. “What are you allowed to want?”
You almost laugh. Not because it is funny—because it is absurd. “I am allowed to want silence,” you declare sweetly. “Which you are currently denying me.”
“Then deny me,” he replies.
You stare at him, vexed enough to taste it. Then you step to the side, slipping around him. You leave him standing there as if he is merely another piece of spectacle. Your pulse does not agree with your composure.
You stop near Lady Dalrymple’s coloured fountain. The dusty pink makes space for an electric green. You inhale. You exhale. You tell your shoulders to unhook themselves from your ears. You let yourself be nothing but a woman looking at water.
“You have the look of a woman who is pretending she is not enjoying herself.” Mr. Hartwell arrives at your shoulder as if he has always belonged there. You blink, caught. Then, against your will, you smile. “That is an accusation.”
“A compliment,” he corrects gently. “It takes skill to look unimpressed by lanterns and violins.” You let out an involuntary chuckle. “I am not unimpressed,” you say. “I am simply… cautious.”
His eyes gentle, as if he admires the honesty. “About the lemonade?”
“About gentlemen,” you reply. He places a hand over his heart with theatrical solemnity. “Then I shall endeavour to be the least dangerous one in the garden.”
The fountain shifts colour again—green fading into pale blue. The light catches on the wet stone and throws it back at you, too bright. You keep your gaze on the water because looking at him too directly feels like giving him something. Mr. Hartwell’s voice stays easy, conversational, as if you are not alone in a garden full of watchers and rules. “May I bring you lemonade?” he offers. “Or would you prefer something stronger, if society were not listening?”
“If society were not listening, Mr. Hartwell, I suspect half of these guests would be drinking brandy out of teacups.”
“Then you and I would be the only honest ones.”
You feel your cheeks warm again, absurd and unmistakable. You hate that he can do that—make you blush as if you are a girl with nothing to manage. “Lemonade will do,” you agree lightly. Mr. Hartwell inclines his head—polite, satisfied—and turns away to fetch your drink, disappearing into the flow of guests and ribbons and trays. The moment he leaves, the air changes.
Not because he is gone—because you are aware again of everything around you. Of how the fountain’s coloured water draws eyes. Of how lanternlight makes every face visible. Of how a woman standing alone becomes a question. And then you feel it—sharp, immediate, undeniable.
Lord Ashbourne stands at the far edge of the dance floor’s perimeter, half in the spill of lanternlight, half in shadow, as if even Lady Dalrymple’s grandeur cannot fully claim him. He is not speaking. He is not laughing. He is watching. Your eyes meet his. The world around you fades away: the orchestra, the laughter, the peacock’s shriek, the ridiculous fountain trying to impress God Himself. There is only his gaze. Not warm. Not kind. Not cruel. Assessing. You look away, but the moment does not dissolve simply because you choose to ignore it. It lingers. It clings. As if his eyes have left an imprint.
Mr. Hartwell returns quickly—too quickly for it to be nonchalant—and offers you the glass. “There,” he says. “A small mercy.”
“You are generous with them,” you reply.
“Only with you,” he says, so softly it slips under the music.
Somewhere behind you, you sense movement—perhaps the shift of bodies, perhaps your own awareness sharpening—but you do not turn. You keep your gaze on the lemonade, on the condensation beading along the glass, on anything that is not the fact you can still feel Lord Ashbourne’s eyes in the space you just refused to give him.
Mr. Hartwell shifts closer, just enough to turn the space between you into something that belongs to him for a moment. “May I call on you?” he asks, almost cautiously. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. I should like to continue our conversation somewhere less crowded.”
There it is. Not a flirtation that can be laughed away. Not a harmless compliment. A request with shape. With weight.
You keep your response kind, because kindness is how you refuse without humiliation. You lift your glass slightly, as if considering. “You are very attentive,” you say. “But my household’s calendar belongs to two young ladies this Season. They are merciless tyrants.”
His brows lift, as though he enjoys the challenge. “Then I shall appeal to the tyrants,” he says lightly. “Or to their chaperone.”
You meet his gaze. “Appeal to the hostess,” you suggest gently. “If she continues to invite us, you will surely find us again in public. It would be a pity to deprive society of its favourite pastime.”
“And what pastime is that?”
“Watching,” you answer. You think he might push—might press the point harder, insist on a promise. Instead, he only nods his head, smile intact, as if he has accepted your answer while clearly not accepting defeat. “Very well,” he agrees softly. “Public, then. For now.”
The words are mild. The implication is not. You lift your glass in the smallest toast and take a sip to seal the moment. Lemon and sugar flood your tongue. Across the garden, the orchestra swells, the dancers turn, the torch-juggler’s flames flare once more for a cluster of delighted ladies. Lady Dalrymple’s spectacle continues.
And you stand there—between your sisters’ futures and your own exhaustion, between a man who speaks like he sees you and a man who watches as if he is measuring what you are worth—feeling, for the first time this Season, the uncomfortable realisation that the market has noticed you too.
Behind you, through velvet-draped doors and carved arches, Rossini’s notes of La Cenerentola spill like champagne.
The audience’s laughter rises and falls in waves, trained and delighted. Inside, they are all watching a man in a ridiculous dream of power, watching the greedy family preen and posture as if the world cannot possibly humiliate them. You can hear the humiliation coming. Everyone can. That is half the pleasure.
A footman had hovered at your elbow—breathless in that polite way servants have when something is wrong but must not sound wrong. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” he had murmured. “There is… an issue with your carriage.”
Your stomach had tightened with the familiar irritation of inconvenience. In a house, you can command a problem into submission with a glance. In public, everything must be handled without anyone noticing there was ever a problem to begin with. “What issue?” you had asked softly.
“The near wheel,” he had replied. “A loose bolt, it seems. The coachman says it is best tightened before we depart. He fears—”
“—a spectacle,” you had finished for him, because of course he did. The footman’s throat had worked. “Yes, my lady.”
You had drawn a careful breath, smoothing your expression into calm. “Very well,” you had said. “Tell him I will speak with him myself in the carriage passage.”
The bolt had taken longer than expected. The coachman, face apologetic beneath his hat, had insisted he would not risk London streets on a quick tightening. Better to take the carriage straight back to the mansion and set it right properly, no matter the hour, no matter the inconvenience. You had agreed, because responsibility is often nothing more than saying yes to disruption before it becomes a disaster.
Now, with the carriage passage’s air still lingering in your lungs, you walk back alone, your task done. Your sisters are still inside your private box—safe, contained, protected by velvet and gilt and rank. And Lady Halstead. She resides in the box beside yours, close enough that she could lean and speak through the shared partition if she must, close enough to notice if either of your sisters so much as breathed too fast. A reprieve, she called it when she insisted you attend. “Even taskmasters require entertainment,” she had sniggered, as if your responsibility were a vice.
Inside the theatre, Act II is continuing with gleeful cruelty. You had watched, earlier, the moment Dandini’s act dropped. The false prince’s charm disappeared. The audience leaned forward. A lie collapsed. Magnifico’s pride crumpled under the weight of being laughed at, and for a heartbeat, the whole theatre felt like a lesson: greed is always punished—onstage, at least. In the stalls, where real men barter daughters and reputations, greed is simply dressed better.
You press your palm lightly to the wall as you walk. The corridor bends, drawing you nearer again to your seat—past closed doors, sconces that burn low, and past gilded mouldings that look like frozen lace. The sound of the opera sounds muffled and distant, as if the music is taking place in a different life. You are halfway down the hall when you hear a soft step behind you. “Lady Whitlock.”
You stop and find Edmund Hartwell smiling at you as if he has been expecting you. His charm, tonight, is dressed in propriety. You curtsy. “Mr. Hartwell.”
“I hope I am not intruding,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like he is doing you the favour of asking permission instead of taking it. “You are,” you reply pleasantly. “But I am certain you will manage to survive it.” He grins, delighted. “You always do that,” he notes, as if you are private entertainment. “You cut without drawing blood.”
“It is a talent developed out of necessity,” you answer. “Why are you here, Mr. Hartwell?” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “For air,” he says easily, mirroring the excuse you have used a dozen times this Season. “The theatre is magnificent, of course, but it can be stifling.”
“I find the company far more stifling than the air,” you reply calmly. His smile does not waver. “Then perhaps we share a preference,” he says. “I find crowds exhausting. Everyone is always trying to be seen.”
“And you are not?” you ask.
“I prefer to see,” he admits. You reply with continued steadiness. “If you have followed me for a philosophical conversation, I fear you will be disappointed.” He laughs softly, as if charmed by your refusal to soften. “No,” he says. “I followed you because you disappeared.”
“I had an errand,” you state. “I will return to my sisters shortly.”
“Always the dutiful one,” he murmurs. “Always thinking of others.” You do not like the way he says it. As if he has been studying you. “As you should,” you tell him. He tilts his head. “Should I?”
“Yes,” you say. “Because I have no interest in lingering in empty corridors with gentlemen, Mr. Hartwell.”
The corridor is empty in a way you did not notice at first. The constant foot traffic near the boxes is absent here. The theatre’s servants move mostly behind doors, in passages you do not see. The patrons remain in velvet and laughter. Hartwell’s gaze flicks briefly past you, down the corridor behind, as if confirming what you have just confirmed. Then he looks back at you and smiles again. “You speak as though I am a danger,” he says mildly.
“You are a gentleman,” you reply. “That is reason enough for caution.”
“And yet you are alone,” he points out. “Without your sisters. Without Lady Halstead’s cane-tapping warnings.” Your mouth tightens. “Lady Halstead does not require a cane to frighten men.”
“Nor do you,” he says, and there is feeling in his voice that might have been flattering if it did not feel like a hand reaching for your throat. “But you should not have to.”
You hold his gaze. “I am accustomed to what I must do.”
“And what of what you want?” he asks. There it is again—the question he keeps circling like a hound around a rabbit hole. “I want to return to the opera,” you say. He takes a small step closer. “Then let me escort you.”
“No.” His brows lift. “Why not?”
“Because it will be noticed,” you answer. His smile remains, but something shifts behind it—an impatience, a flicker of annoyance quickly re-painted. “You are always speaking of what must be seen,” he says. “What must be avoided. What must be managed.”
“Because that is the world we live in,” you reply.
“And yet,” he says, voice lowering as if sharing a secret, “I have seen you in public. I have watched you steer conversations as if you were born to command a room. You cannot tell me you are frightened of a gentleman walking beside you.”
“I am not frightened,” you correct. “I am careful.”
He takes another step. The corridor seems to narrow, though it has not changed. The sconces throw his face into half-shadow, making his eyes look deeper, darker. Careful,” he repeats softly. “Always careful.” His gaze drops to your gloved hands. “Do you know what careful looks like from the outside?” he asks. You do not answer. “It looks like distance,” he continues, and the warmth in his voice is gone. “Like coldness. Like punishment.”
You feel your spine stiffen. “If you feel punished by my boundaries, Mr. Hartwell, then you are free to seek softer company.”
He laughs again, but there is no humour in it. “Softer company,” he echoes. “That is what you think I want?”
“I think you want what most men want,” you reply. “A girl who smiles and says yes and never has an opinion sharp enough to sting.”
His eyes darken. “And you believe you are not that girl.”
“I know I am not,” you answer.
“You are,” he insists, and his mask slips. “But you are always with your sisters. Always with Lady Halstead. Always in the middle of crowds. It is as though you are determined never to be alone.”
Your pulse picks up. The opera’s muffled laughter sounds too far away. Somewhere, around a corner, you hear voices—two men speaking low, a lady’s laugh—just close enough to remind you that you are not entirely hidden. Just far enough that they will not see you unless you turn the corner with someone’s hands on you. You lift your chin. “If you have followed me here merely to complain that I have chaperones, Mr. Hartwell, then you have wasted both our time.”
“I followed you here because I am tired of being treated like I am asking for something unreasonable.”
You blink once. “You are asking for something unreasonable.”
His jaw tightens. “I am asking for a moment.”
“A moment becomes a scandal,” you reply.
He takes another step closer. It cuts into your space, too forceful, compelling you to either retreat or make contact. You retreat—one measured step back. He follows. Your heart thuds, hard. “Mr. Hartwell,” you say, keeping your voice polite to mask that you are shaken. “Move aside.” He does not. Instead, he reaches out—not to take your hand in the proper way, not to offer his arm, but to touch your forearm. Glove. Fabric. Wrong. You go still. His fingers tighten slightly, as if testing what you will allow. “You have been smiling at me for weeks,” he says, voice low. “You have laughed. You have spoken with me. You have accepted my company. Do you think I do not understand what that means?”
“It means you are pleasant in public,” you reply. “It means nothing else.”
His grip tightens. “You cannot be so naïve.” The word lands like a slap. Heat flares in your chest—anger first, and then, beneath it, something colder. “Let go,” you say quietly. He does not let go. Instead, he steps even closer, and suddenly his body is a barrier between you and the corridor’s open length. He pins you against the wall. “Why are you doing this?” he asks accusingly. “Why are you making it difficult?”
Because difficult is what men call a woman who refuses to be easy. You swallow once, forcing your breath steady. “Because you are behaving improperly,” you say. His mouth twists. “Improperly,” he repeats. “We are in a corridor, not a bed.” Your stomach drops. The words are too close to indecent to be accidental. You feel your skin prickle beneath your gown. “You will step away,” you say, and there is steel now beneath the silk.
His smile is gone. “Or what?” he murmurs. “You will shout? You will call for help? And then the theatre will turn, and someone will look, and they will see you alone with a gentleman, and they will assume the worst.”
Your blood runs colder. He knows. Of course he does. Men like him know exactly where the trap lies. “You would not,” you say, and your voice is softer than you want it to be. He leans in, close enough that you can smell wine on his breath, faint beneath the perfume of the evening. “Wouldn’t I?” he asks. “Do you truly believe I have spent my life being refused by women like you? Do you think I do not know how to make a refusal… costly?”
Your pulse slams hard against your throat. You twist your arm, trying to pull free. His fingers clamp down. “Stop,” you whisper. He moves again, caging you in, and his free hand rises—toward your waist, toward your face, you cannot even register which because panic blurs the edges of the world. His fingers brush your cheek. Your whole body recoils. He catches you, hand at your waist, keeping you from stepping away. The touch is not tender. It is ownership. Your breath stutters.
Around the corner, the voices laugh again. A man says something about the prince’s foolishness. A lady’s fan snaps open. Life continues, bright and secure, while you are trapped in a dim hallway with a man whose smile has become teeth.
“You are frightened,” Hartwell murmurs, pleased, “Good.” and then his face dips, aiming for your mouth. Instinct takes over.
You shove at his chest with both hands. Your palms hit solid muscle beneath his coat. He barely moves. He grabs your wrists—quick, efficient—pinning them together in one hand like you are a child. A sound tries to rise, but is strangled by the terror of what the sound will cause. If you scream, someone will come. If someone comes, they will see. If they see, they will decide for you. And in this world, decisions about women are never made in women’s favour. Hartwell’s mouth is inches from yours. His eyes are dark, intent. “This would be easier,” he breathes, “if you stopped pretending you don’t want to be wanted.”
Rage flares through the fear like a match struck. You jerk your knee upward, aiming for his shin. Your skirt tangles, but the blow lands enough that he hisses, grip loosening for a fraction. You wrench your wrists free. You twist sideways, trying to slide past him into the open corridor. He catches you again, faster than you are, arm hooking around your waist, hauling you back. The sound you make is small and ugly—a gasp turned into something like a sob. His hand clamps over your mouth. The world tilts. Your eyes burn. Your chest heaves against his arm.
He leans in, voice harsh in your ear. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t make noise. Don’t ruin yourself.”
Ruin yourself. As if he himself is not your ruination. Your teeth sink into the palm covering your mouth. Hard. Hartwell jerks back, swearing under his breath. His hand pulls away, shaking, and you breathe in fast, greedy gulps of air that taste like dust and terror. “Bitch,” he spits, and the word is the truest thing he has said all evening. He reaches again—
But a hand clamps onto Hartwell’s collar from behind, yanking him back with a force so sudden that he stumbles. Your body lurches forward, freed. Air rushes into your lungs like salvation.
“Touch her again and you’ll leave this theatre in pieces.”
Hartwell turns in the grip, furious, breath sharp with pain and outrage. His face is flushed, his mouth twisted, dignity scrambling. “Oh—so this is how it is?” he spits, voice harsh in the hush. “The righteous Viscount prowling corridors to pull women off men’s hands—”
Seungcheol moves before the sentence can finish. A punch, clean and brutal. Hartwell’s head snaps sideways with it. There is a sickening crack—bone meeting knuckle, cartilage giving way—and Hartwell staggers, half-caught by Seungcheol’s grip before his back hits the wall. For a second, he looks stunned—then blood pours down from his nose, spilling over the line of his mouth. He laughs—hoarse, broken, smiling through the pain.
“There it is,” Hartwell murmurs, voice thick, as if delighted by the proof. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and smears the blood across his cheek. His eyes cut to you again. “Did you enjoy that?” he says, and the question is meant to shame you. “Watching him hit for you like you’re worth it?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes. He steps in, seizes Hartwell by the lapels, and slams him back into the wall hard enough that the sconce above them trembles. Hartwell’s grin widens. “Go on,” he breathes, taunting. “Everyone will believe whatever you want them to believe. You’re a Viscount—you can bruise anyone and call it justice.”
Seungcheol’s fist drives forward again. Hartwell makes a choking sound as his head jerks back. He spits—thick and red—onto the floor between Seungcheol’s boots. “She’ll still be what she is,” Hartwell rasps, eyes feral with humiliation and spite. “A woman alone in a corridor. A woman who—”
Seungcheol hits him again And again. And again. Hartwell’s knees buckle. Seungcheol’s fist pauses mid-air—because for a fraction of a second it looks like Hartwell might fall. Seungcheol doesn’t let him. He catches him by the collar and holds him upright only to make sure the lesson lands. You see it then—Seungcheol’s restraint isn’t soft. It’s contained. And the container is cracking.
“Stop.” The word tears out of you. You step forward without thinking, breath sharp. “Lord Ashbourne—stop. Please.”
Hartwell coughs, laughing and choking at once, blood dripping from his nose, from the corner of his mouth. His eyes lift toward you—glass-bright, triumphant in his own sickness. “Tell me,” he pants, “do you feel safe now? With him?” His smile splits wider. “You’ll always be safe with a man who can bury your story.”
Seungcheol’s fist twitches again. You can feel the corridor narrowing, the corner voices too near, the risk of witnesses like a blade at your throat. “Stop.” You command once more.
Seungcheol stills. His chest rises and falls like he has been running. His knuckles are bruised. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. Hartwell hangs there, dazed and upright only because Seungcheol’s fist is still in his collar. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to you for a brief, dangerous moment—fury there, yes, but something else too: a question, a check, a tether.
Then he turns back to Hartwell and drags him closer until Hartwell’s boots scrape, until their faces are inches apart. Seungcheol whispers something in his ear. It is too quiet for you to catch—swallowed by the theatre’s muffled roar, by the blood in your own pulse. But you see the effect. Hartwell’s grin falters. His eyes widen—just slightly, but enough. Something in his face tightens, and for the first time since he cornered you, something like fear crawls across his face and stays there. Seungcheol releases him with a small shove.
Hartwell stumbles two steps, catches himself on the wall, then straightens with shaking hands, wiping his mouth and nose as if he can smear the colour of humiliation away. “You’re both cursed,” he hisses, voice slurred, “Both of you.” His eyes flick to you, and the last of his charm curdles. “Enjoy your saviour.” Then he turns and staggers down the corridor, cursing under his breath, one hand clamped to his bleeding face. He does not look back.
You do not move. Your hands are trembling so badly your gloves whisper against each other. Your breath comes in ragged pulls you cannot smooth. Your heart is banging as if it is trying to escape your chest. Seungcheol turns to you. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and the question is clipped.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Your throat feels like it has been squeezed from the inside. Seungcheol’s gaze drops briefly to your wrists—where Hartwell’s fingers held you too tight—and something in his eyes hardens. His fists curl and unclench once. “Speak,” he says, less harsh than it sounds. “Tell me.”
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “No,” you manage. “I—no. I am—” You cannot say fine. The word feels like a lie too large to fit through your teeth.
Seungcheol exhales through his nose. He steps closer—not into your space like Hartwell, but near enough that you can feel the warmth of him, near enough that if someone came around the corner, they would see a man and a woman standing close and assume—God, they would assume.
You flinch, not away from him, but from the idea of being seen. Seungcheol notices instantly. His gaze flicks toward the corner, toward the distant voices. He lowers his head slightly, blocking you with his body in a way that is almost instinctive. A shield. “We cannot be found here,” he says, voice low. “Come.”
You do not move. Your legs feel like they have forgotten how to obey. Seungcheol’s expression tightens, impatience wrestling with something that looks dangerously like tenderness. He reaches out slowly, offering his hand. Not grabbing. Not taking. Offering. “Lady Whitlock,” he says, and the title steadies you. “Take my hand.”
You stare at it for too long, as though it belongs to someone else. Then you put your gloved fingers into his. His grip closes around yours—not gentle, not soft, but firm in a way that says you will not fall, not while he’s holding you. He guides you down the corridor, away from the corner, away from the risk. Your steps are small at first, then steadier as your body remembers motion.
Somewhere behind closed doors, the opera barrels toward its end. Somewhere, the audience cheers at Angelina’s triumph, delighted by forgiveness that costs them nothing.
You and Seungcheol slip into a small antechamber—empty, shadowed, a place meant for servants to wait or patrons to adjust gloves without being seen. Seungcheol releases your hand only once the door is shut. Silence rushes in.
You lean one palm against the wall, steadying your composure. Your other hand rises to your throat as if you can hold your voice there and keep it from breaking. Seungcheol stands a few feet away, rigid. Something is pulsing beneath his restraint, as though the punch he gave Hartwell was the smallest portion of what he wanted to do. “Why were you alone?” he asks.
“I had an errand,” you say, too quickly. “My carriage—”
“You don’t leave your sisters for air unless you have no choice,” he interrupts, and the accuracy of it makes you bristle even through the shock. “So what was it?”
You lift your chin. “A bolt,” you state. “Loose. It needed tightening.”
Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. “And he followed you.”
“Yes,” you say, voice sharp with the anger you can finally afford now that you are not trapped beneath Hartwell’s hand. “He followed me. Like a dog that thinks if it waits long enough, it will be rewarded.”
Seungcheol’s gaze stays fixed on you. He watches you the way he watches ledgers—seeking cracks, seeking truth, seeking exactly where the damage landed. “Did he—” he begins, then stops, jaw working as if the question tastes like poison. You refuse to let the implication become something bigger by naming it. “He tried,” you say, and that is enough.
Seungcheol’s hands curl at his sides again. He turns away sharply, one step, as if he must move the rage somewhere or it will burn through his skin. “He will not try again,” he says, voice like steel. You laugh bitterly. “You sound very confident.”
Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change. “I am.” The certainty in his tone does not comfort you. Because certainty is a man’s privilege in this world. Your ruin is always closer than his.
“How convenient,” you say, and the words come out with a tremor you hate.
“It was not convenience,” he replies. You stare at him. “Then what was it?” He holds your gaze. Then he answers, and the answer is not what you expect. “It was inevitable.”
The word makes your temper flare because it sounds like fate, and fate is just another excuse men use to do what they want. “I do not believe in inevitability,” you say.
“You believe in outcomes,” he counters smoothly. “And in preventing them before they happen.”
He continues, not allowing you to cut him down with your pride because he is doing something rare for a man like him: he is moving directly toward the problem rather than circling it. “Hartwell will not be the last, you know that.”
Your spine stiffens. “I can handle myself.”
“You bit him,” Seungcheol remarks, and the bluntness of the observation shocks a small, ugly laugh out of you. You hate that he saw it. Hate that it’s now part of the story between you. “I did,” you admit. “And if he had not let go, I would have done worse.”
Seungcheol’s mouth twitches—approval, dark and brief. “Good,” he says, and then his tone shifts again. “But it won’t stop them.” You narrow your eyes. “Opportunists,” he clarifies. “Men who sniff out a weakness and think they can take.”
“And you have decided I am weak,” you snap. Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours, unflinching. “No,” he says firmly. “I have decided you are visible.” You swallow hard.
“Lady Whitlock,” he says, and your title sounds different in his mouth now. “You are the gatekeeper of two debutantes. You are an heiress in your own right. You are alone without a father’s wall behind you, and you move through the ton like a woman who refuses to bend.” He steps closer.
“That draws attention. Good attention. Bad attention. Hungry attention.” You hate him for being right. “Tonight,” he continues, voice dropping, “it almost cost you everything.” Your throat burns. You lift your chin anyway. “I did not ask you to rescue me.”
“I didn’t do it because you asked,” he replies.
Seungcheol breathes in once, restrained, as if he is about to say something he is already regretting. “We need a solution. Not comfort. Not apologies. A solution.”
You let out a small, humourless laugh. He doesn’t react. “You can be furious with me later,” he states calmly. “Right now, listen.”
You fold your arms, hugging yourself without meaning to. “Speak, then.”
Seungcheol’s gaze flicks briefly toward the door, toward the distant swell of applause. The crowd will spill into the grand hall soon—champagne, conversation, judgment dressed as merriment. Time is short. “I will court you,” he says.
The room seems to tilt, as if the world cannot quite believe what it has heard. “You will—” you begin, and your voice cracks with disbelief. You clear your throat, forcing it steady. “You will not.”
“I will.”
You feel heat flare in your cheeks. “Absolutely not.”
“It will stop men like Hartwell,” he says, as if you have objected to a business proposal rather than an insult to your pride. “It will stop most of them, at least. Because the ton respects ownership more than it respects a woman’s refusal.”
Your stomach twists. “I am not property.”
“I know,” he says, and there is a strange sharpness in his tone, as if he is angry at the world for forcing you to speak this way. “But they do not.” You take a step back, needing space. “And why,” you demand, “would I agree to let you parade me around as—what? A shield?”
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. “Because your shield is currently a set of gloves and a sharp tongue, and it nearly wasn’t enough.”
Your hands curl. “You are presuming a great deal.”
“I am stating what happened,” he replies.
The applause in the distance swells—finale near. The audience is beginning to stir. Time is shrinking. You stare at him, trying to find the angle. “And what do you gain?” you ask, because nothing in this world is offered without cost. Seungcheol doesn’t pretend otherwise. “I gain jealousy,” he says evenly. “Speculation. Interest.” You blink.
“Debutantes want what another woman has,” he confesses bluntly. “If they see me paying attention to you, they will assume you are worth competing for.”
It’s so cold you almost laugh again. “So I am bait,” you say, voice sharpened to a point. Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours, and something flares there—annoyance, yes, but also a kind of reluctant respect for how quickly you understand the ugliness of the mechanism. “You are not bait,” he says. “You are armour. For yourself. For your sisters. And—” he pauses, jaw tightening, “for me.”
“For you,” you echo.
Seungcheol’s voice stays calm, but the words are edged. “My household is being tested,” he says. “My name is being weighed. People are waiting for weakness. A courtship—visible, respectable—reminds them I am anchored. It reminds them Ashbourne is stable.”
He’s not asking you to marry him. He’s asking you to stand beside him. To be seen. To be used. To be protected. To be trapped in his orbit in a way you have been trying to avoid since the first night you heard him speak of suitability. “No,” you say again, because your pride must say it even if your mind is beginning to see the bars of the alternative.
“Then Hartwell will try again,” Seungcheol says softly. “Not in a corridor, perhaps. He will wait. He will follow. He will find a moment where you are tired, where your sisters are distracted, where Lady Halstead is speaking to someone else. He will trap you again, and he will make sure there are witnesses next time.”
“And the ton will not ask whether you wanted it. They will ask why you were alone.”
You swallow, eyes burning. “You are cruel,” you whisper.
“I am honest.” You hate him for it. You hate that the honesty feels like a hand under your chin, forcing you to look at reality. “What about my sisters?” you demand. “What about their prospects? What if—what if people think—”
“They will think you are respectable,” Seungcheol interrupts. “They will think you are protected. And by extension, your sisters will be protected too.”
You shake your head, anger and fear tangled. “You speak like a contract.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Because that is what this is.”
You want to refuse. Your whole body wants to refuse. You can feel the stubbornness rising like a wall. And then, like a ghost with teeth, the memory of Hartwell’s hand over your mouth returns. The noose of scandal. The corner voices. The trap. Your hands tremble. Seungcheol sees it. His expression softens—barely. “I am not asking you to like me,” he says quietly. “I know you don’t.”
Your lips part, ready to deny it—
He cuts you off. “I’m asking you to survive the Season without being ruined by a man who thinks he can take what he wants.”
The theatre beyond the walls erupts in applause—curtain falls, the whole audience rising in delighted approval. Act II ends with the greedy being humiliated. Real life ends with women being punished.
You close your eyes, feeling the tremor in your hands, the aching strain in your ribs where panic still sits like a lodged stone. When you open them again, Seungcheol is watching you as if he has already decided what you will do. You hate him for that, too. “What are your terms?” you ask, because if you must step into the trap, you will at least choose the shape of the cage. Seungcheol is alert now, as if he respects you more when you negotiate than when you refuse.
“We appear together,” he says. “We speak politely. We allow people to speculate. We do not give them anything improper to feast on.”
“And my sisters?” you press.
“I will not interfere with their suitors,” he says. “Unless a suitor becomes a threat.”
“And you will not speak of them as if they are interchangeable.”
He nods once. “Fine.”
“And you will not—” You force the words out. “You will not touch me without permission.”
Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. The pause is only a mere second, but it feels heavy. Then, very quietly, he whispers, “I’m not Hartwell.”
You nod. “Then we are agreed.”
Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to the door. The applause has faded into the rumble of movement—people leaving, drifting toward the grand hall. Time is up. “We need to return,” he says. He steps closer again and offers his arm. The gesture is so ordinary that it is almost obscene after what happened. His forearm is solid beneath the fabric of his coat. A structure. A public signal. You stare at it too long.
Seungcheol’s voice drops, low enough to feel like a private thread between you. “If you hesitate,” he murmurs, “they will notice.”
You place your hand on his arm. The contact is immediate, startling—not because it is intimate, but because it is easy. Because your body knows the shape of propriety as instinctively as it knows panic. Seungcheol’s hand rises briefly to cover yours—a shielded gesture of possession that makes your stomach twist and your spine straighten in equal measure. Then he drops it again, guiding you toward the door.
The grand entrance hall is filled when you step back into it. Champagne trays glide past. Fans flutter. Men laugh too loudly, voices warmed by music and brandy. Ladies tilt their heads together like conspirators. Everywhere the ton swarms—hungry, alive, eager for new stories to chew.
You and Seungcheol move into it as if you have always belonged like this—your hand on his arm, his pace measured to yours, his posture calm and assured. Nobody turns at first. Then the attention shifts—like clouds rolling in. A mama’s fan pauses mid-flutter. A gentleman’s laugh stutters. A debutante’s eyes widen. You feel the ripple of recognition catch and spread. Lord Ashbourne. Lady Whitlock. Together. It is astonishing how quickly a room can rewrite a narrative the moment two people offer it a new shape.
Seungcheol guides you through clusters with the familiar confidence of a man who compels every room he enters. His gaze stays forward, but his awareness is everywhere. He is watching for danger, for gossip, for the sharpness in someone’s smile. You are watching too—because you have always watched. Ahead, near the edge of the hall where the light is softer, you spot Lady Halstead with Georgina and Cecily.
Georgina looks flushed with the opera’s energy, eyes bright, cheeks warm. Cecily looks calmer than she has in weeks—her shoulders less tense, her gaze softer, as if the music has soothed something raw inside her. Lady Halstead stands between them like a fortress, her cane resting lightly against the marble. Her eyes lift and catch on you. Her expression barely changes. Only the smallest lift of her brows. A question asked without words. You cannot answer it here.
Seungcheol’s mouth drops close to your ear. “Smile,” he murmurs. “If you look hunted, they’ll scent blood.” Your stomach twists, but you obey. You curve your mouth into something that could pass for ease. Seungcheol’s breath brushes your hair as he continues, lower still, a whisper only you are meant to hear. “Let them be confused,” he says. “Confusion buys us time.”
Us. The word lands strangely, unwanted yet undeniable. You keep walking. You reach Lady Halstead, and she steps forward with an immediate, perfectly pleasant smile. “Lord Ashbourne,” she greets. Seungcheol bows his head. “Lady Halstead.”
Georgina’s eyes flick from him to you to your hand on his arm, and her expression blooms with curiosity so bright it is almost dangerous. Cecily looks at you first—not at him. She watches your face, as if searching for a crack, a signal, a truth. You give her none. Georgina is the first to cut through the moment—innocent in its boldness. “Why were you gone so long?”
“The carriage took longer than expected,” you say lightly. “The coachman would not risk it—he’s taken it back to the mansion to have it set properly.”
Georgina’s brows jump. Cecily’s eyes widen slightly, already thinking ahead—how you will all return, what you will do without your own carriage waiting. Seungcheol steps in smoothly, the lie fitting his mouth like a well-worn glove. “I came upon Lady Whitlock in the passage,” he announces. “She mentioned the trouble. I offered my assistance—and my carriage, of course. It would be improper to leave the ladies inconvenienced.”
Lady Halstead’s gaze flicks between you, then softens just enough to signal she understands more than she will ever say aloud in a hall full of listeners. “How fortunate that you were nearby, my lord,” she expresses.
“Yes,” he agrees.
You feel Seungcheol’s arm shift slightly beneath your hand, a subtle adjustment that draws you closer by the smallest degree—protective, possessive, correct. Your fingers tighten slightly on his sleeve. Seungcheol’s voice brushes your ear again, almost gentle in its direction. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “And keep your hand where it is.”
The hall continues to watch. It is terrifying how easily the performance fits. It is even more terrifying how quickly the ton accepts it as truth. And you are suddenly, horribly aware that you are standing on a stage without having chosen to step onto it.
The housekeeper has been speaking for three corridors. Her voice is dutiful and so perfectly measured it begins to feel like another layer of stone—part of the castle itself, as fixed and unyielding as the cold plaster beneath your fingertips when you trail them along the wall. Mrs. Wilson walks as if she has been built for this place, not simply employed by it. Her keys jingle at her hip with every step she takes. “—and the third Viscount had the gallery extended after the French scare of 1793,” she announces, “He believed a longer corridor made intruders easier to spot.”
You hum politely, because you have learned the art of listening while your mind ticks elsewhere. Behind you, Cecily makes a sound in agreement. Her gaze keeps catching on the carved moulding, the tall windows, the tapestries that hang like frozen scenes of hunting and conquest. She looks as if she isn’t sure whether she is allowed to stare. You don’t tell her not to. This is not your house. You are, in every possible sense, a guest. It is the first thing you remind yourself every time your instinct tries to correct a servant’s angle or smooth a crease that is not yours to smooth.
The corridor opens into the portrait gallery. Mrs. Wilson slows, pleased—this is the part of the tour she enjoys. Here, history is framed and varnished. Oil-painted eyes follow you as you walk. long-dead men with proud chins and indifferent eyes; women in stiff gowns and softer expressions that still somehow look like they would judge you for breathing too loudly. There is a rhythm to them, to the lineage: the same restraint in different generations, the same ownership repeated like an inheritance.You stop before a portrait of a Viscountess with a gaze like polished ice. “Her Ladyship was not born an Ashbourne,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Married in. Kept this house in order during the old Viscount’s… difficulties.”
The word ‘difficulties’ can hide anything. You glance at the painted woman’s hands—folded, composed, rings glinting. You imagine those hands signing letters, balancing accounts, choosing who to bless and who to ruin with a single invitation. You wonder, briefly, what it must feel like to be the kind of woman who can afford to be revered.
Mrs. Wilson moves on to the next portrait without waiting for your thoughts. “And this was the seventh Viscount, and that was his first wife, and this is—” She doesn’t point at the absence. But you notice it anyway. Between two portraits—one a Viscount in a red sash, one a woman in a pale gown—there is a space in the line that has been made ready. Not empty. Prepared. The wall has been measured, the hooks are there, the panelling looks slightly newer, slightly cleaner, as if it has been maintained in anticipation. A place for someone who is not yet there.
As the tour continues, more rooms unfold: the morning room with its embroidered chairs and flawless symmetry; the blue drawing room, colder than it looks; the long dining room, where the table seems to stretch on. Mrs. Wilson points out wainscoting, hearths, renovations, the view from each window as if the landscape has been curated for inspection.
Your attention drifts, despite yourself, toward the living details—the way the servants move like they have perfected not being in the way, the way the house smells faintly of old wood and something mineral from the stone itself. You notice the small signs of modern life that no tour mentions: a pair of muddy boots placed neatly on a tray near a back entrance; a half-forgotten riding crop by the hall table; a shawl draped over a chair like someone abandoned it in haste. There are brothers here. Young men. Lives that do not sit still for portraiture.
Mrs. Wilson leads you up a gently spiralling staircase. “The guest rooms are on this floor,” she informs you. “We keep them aired, of course. No damp. No drafts. The Viscount insists.”
“Mrs. Wilson,” a voice announces behind you, “that will do. I’ll steal them from you now.” Jeonghan appears as if he has been conjured by boredom. London’s stiffness has slipped off him somewhere between the gates and the country. He is dressed for ease but still looks unreasonably polished, sunlight slanting through the leaded panes and catching in his hair like pale thread.
Mrs. Wilson stops in her tracks. “Lord Jeonghan,” she says, disapproving by habit rather than truth. “I am giving a tour.”
“Yes,” Jeonghan replies brightly, “I can tell. Lady Whitlock looks like she’s being marched into a sermon.” You lift a brow, amused despite yourself. “If this is a sermon, it is exceptionally long.”
Jeonghan’s eyes flick to you, satisfied. “She has that effect,” he confides, and then he steps closer to Mrs. Wilson with the easy affection of a man who has survived her discipline since childhood. “You’ve done your duty. You’ve spoken for—what—five corridors? Six? Give the poor women air.”
Mrs. Wilson makes a disapproving sound, but it lacks conviction. “The young ladies must learn the house.”
“They will,” Jeonghan promises. “But if you keep them trapped inside much longer, Miss Georgina will come in through a window out of spite.”
As if on cue, laughter cracks through the glass somewhere around you—bright, unruly, unmistakably Georgina. It drifts down the corridor, followed by a second sound: a man’s shout, delighted, unmistakably Soonyoung’s. Cecily’s mouth twitches. Mrs. Wilson’s lips press together as though fighting a smile. She loses. “Very well,” she relents. “But do not break anything.”
Jeonghan’s grin widens. “We never break anything.” Mrs. Wilson’s gaze is pointed. “That is a lie.” Jeonghan places a hand over his heart, offended only for performance. “Not a lie,” he says. “A belief.”
Mrs. Wilson gives you a curt nod. “The ladies’ rooms are at the end of the corridor. A maid will assist. Dinner at seven.” Then she is gone, keys chiming away with every step. Jeonghan turns back to you, sweeping into a bow that is too playful to be proper. “Come,” he says. “Before she changes her mind and locks you into the portrait gallery until you can recite every Viscount by name.”
“That would be a cruel fate,” you answer.
“We are a cruel family,” Jeonghan replies lightly. “But only to each other.”
He offers his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You hesitate—habit tugging your hand toward independence—then you remind yourself: you are here because of an arrangement that requires visibility. Warmth. Ease. You place your hand on his arm. Jeonghan immediately guides you down the staircase, his pace matching yours as though he has done this a thousand times. Cecily follows, a little less tightly wound now that Mrs. Wilson’s voice has been removed from her ears.
The moment you step outside, the world changes. The lawns stretch wide and impossibly green, sloping gently toward a line of trees that sway with the wind. A tent has been erected near the terrace—white canvas, poles lacquered, chairs arranged beneath like a little pocket of calm. Someone has dragged out a basket of mallets and wooden balls, and the grass near it is already scarred with play. And in the middle of it—spinning like a comet—Georgina. She is flushed with motion, her cheeks bright, her hair slightly loosened beneath her bonnet. Her skirts are lifted just enough to run without tripping, and her laughter is unrestrained. Soonyoung is chasing her in a half-serious, half-theatrical lunge, his sleeves rolled, his grin feral with delight. “You’re cheating!” Georgina shrieks, darting away.
“I am winning!” Soonyoung shouts back, as if those are synonyms. Jeonghan calls out, voice carrying over the field. “Miss Georgina, if you cripple my brother before dinner, Seungcheol will make you repair him.” Georgina skids to a stop and turns. “I would,” she declares shamelessly. Soonyoung throws a hand to his chest as though wounded. “See?” he complains. “She has no mercy.”
“We already knew that,” Jeonghan says. “It’s practically her hobby.”
Georgina finally spots you, and her grin softens into something like triumph. She runs toward you, then remembers herself at the last moment and slows into a walk, attempting composure. She fails. She bounces on her toes like she cannot keep the joy contained. “You were taking forever,” she complains immediately, as if you have been doing something frivolous rather than enduring corridors of history. “I was being educated,” you reply. Soonyoung reaches you and bows dramatically. “I attempted to rescue her,” he announces, gesturing grandly to Georgina. “But she is feral.” Georgina flicks her wrist. “You like it.”
Soonyoung beams. “I do.” There is no flirtation in it. Only the pure, childish thrill of having found someone who matches your speed. Georgina looks at him like she has found a brother made of fire instead of obligation. Jeonghan leans closer to you, murmuring as if sharing a secret. “He hasn’t laughed like that since the funeral.”
The words land softly, yet heavier than their tone suggests. You glance at Soonyoung again—at the bright motion, the gleeful chaos—and you suddenly see the edges beneath it: the way his laughter is slightly too loud, the way his hands never quite go still. You know that costume. You’ve worn a quieter version of it for years.
Jeonghan straightens, clapping his hands once. “Now,” he declares, “we are going to play. Because if Seungcheol finds out we have guests and we did not provide entertainment, he will create an itinerary.”
Georgina makes a dramatic choking sound. Cecily’s eyes widen, amused. “He does that?” she asks quietly. Jeonghan’s smile turns wicked. “He does worse.” Soonyoung grabs a mallet and holds it out to Georgina like a sword. “My lady, your weapon.” Georgina snatches it with a grin.
Cecily hangs back at the edge of the grass, uncertain. She watches the mallets, the hoops, the balls. She watches the brothers with a softness that is less fear and more curiosity now. You touch her elbow lightly. “You don’t have to play,” you murmur. Cecily shakes her head quickly. “No, I— I can,” she says, as if the fact that you offered her an out has made her want to refuse it. Before she can be swallowed by doubt, a quiet figure shifts beneath the shade of the tent. Wonwoo. He is seated in a chair angled away from the chaos, a book open in his hands. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert, watching without demanding to be included. When Cecily’s gaze flicks toward him, he lifts his head slightly, raising the book as if offering it. Cecily’s shoulders loosen. She drifts toward the tent like someone stepping toward safer air. Wonwoo doesn’t stand. He doesn’t bow. He simply makes space—shifts his chair slightly, and sets a second chair at an angle. Cecily sits.
Wonwoo turns a page, then tilts the book toward her so she can see the illustration. Cecily leans in, and the movement is so small, so natural, that your chest tightens unexpectedly. This is what she needs: not pursuit, not performance. A quiet place to exist without being evaluated. Jeonghan notices too. His grin softens. Then Soonyoung shouts something about rules that no one listens to, and Georgina smacks a ball so hard it shoots through a hoop by force. “That was not a proper stroke,” Jeonghan calls.
“It went through!” Georgina yells back. Jeonghan spreads his hands. “Force is not skill.”
“It’s my favourite kind of skill,” Georgina declares.
You pick up a mallet. It’s heavier than you expect. Solid. Jeonghan’s smile brightens when he sees you take it. “Oh,” he announces. “You’re going to be good.”
“I’m not going to be anything,” you reply, already measuring the distance, the angle, the grass. Soonyoung points at you dramatically. “If she wins, I will accuse her of witchcraft.”
“If I win,” you correct calmly, “you will accept it.”
Jeonghan laughs sharply. “She speaks like Seungcheol.”
As if summoned by the mention, a door opens on the terrace above. Seungcheol steps out. He appears the way he always seems to: suddenly, inevitably, like the house itself has decided to give him shape. He is dressed less formally than you have seen him in London—no severe black, no hard structure. His sleeves are not starched to perfection. His hair is slightly tousled, as if the wind has dared to go through it. He stands at the top of the steps, gaze sweeping the lawn: Soonyoung shouting, Jeonghan grinning, Georgina in her element, Cecily under the tent with Wonwoo, and you holding a mallet like you might use it as a weapon. His eyes meet yours. The contact is brief. But something shifts in your stomach anyway, irritating and unwanted. He descends the steps with his hands behind his back. Jeonghan calls up, “We’re corrupting our guests, brother.” Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to Jeonghan, then to you. “I can see that.”
Georgina curtsies quickly. “My lord!” Cecily rises under the tent and curtsies softly. Wonwoo doesn’t stand—he simply dips his chin. Seungcheol gives him a look that is not reprimand, just acknowledgement. Then Seungcheol’s gaze returns to you. He steps onto the grass, stopping at a respectful distance. He bows. “Lady Whitlock.”
The way he says it is different here. Less like a title being tested in a room full of predators. More like a name being placed carefully on the tongue. Your fingers tighten on the mallet. You force your voice steady. “My lord.”
Jeonghan’s grin turns feral again. “We were just beginning. Will you play?” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow faintly. “I wasn’t aware I was invited.” Soonyoung scoffs loudly. “You live here.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy being hit by wooden balls,” Seungcheol replies. Georgina lifts her mallet. “Then don’t stand in the way.”
Seungcheol’s gaze slides back to you. His mouth might—might—have curved. “Are you playing?” he asks you directly. It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t feel like a dare. It does anyway. “Yes,” you reply.
He studies you as if measuring whether this is performative or true. Then he reaches for a mallet. The movement is unexpected enough that Jeonghan’s brows lift in surprise. Soonyoung cheers. Georgina claps like a child. Your competitive instinct stirs, quick and sharp. And then the game begins.
Soonyoung swings too hard and sends his ball skittering into the flowerbed. Georgina hits hers clean through two hoops in a row. Joshua appears from nowhere—as if he’s been watching the madness like a fond spectator—and takes a mallet. You take your turn. You line up your stroke the way you line up your life: measured, careful, unromantic. The mallet connects with a satisfying thud. The ball rolls straight and true through the hoop. Jeonghan makes an appreciative sound. Soonyoung groans theatrically. Georgina looks offended that you are so competent. Seungcheol watches intently. Then it is his turn. He steps forward and adjusts the ball with his foot. He swings. The ball shoots forward with force, arcing through the hoop with aggression. He looks up at you and raises his eyebrow. Jeonghan claps slowly. “Oh, he’s decided to enjoy himself.”
“I’m not enjoying anything,” Seungcheol says.
“You are lying,” Jeonghan replies instantly.
The game turns, slowly, into a battle between you. Not declared. Not announced. Just inevitable. You hit clean, and he answers cleaner. You take a risky angle; he counters with one more precise. You steal a point by sliding your ball through a hoop that should have been impossible; he responds by knocking yours slightly off course. “That was improper,” you remark, voice mildly murderous. Seungcheol’s eyes flick to you. “It was strategic.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Then you would have avoided it.”
You stare at him, incredulous, and the absurdity of it—this Viscount arguing over a game like a boy—tugs a laugh out of you before you can stop it. The laugh is small. But it’s real. Seungcheol freezes, as if he isn’t sure he was allowed to hear it. His gaze returns to the game, but something has shifted. Something like pride, quickly extinguished.
Soonyoung declares you both tyrants. Jeonghan claims he is a victim. Joshua tries to keep score and fails because everyone argues over what counts. At one point, Seungcheol leans slightly toward you as you line up a difficult shot. His voice is low in your ear. “You’re angling too far left.” You don’t look at him. “Are you trying to help me, my lord?”
“No,” he says smoothly. “I’m trying to make sure you fail properly.”
You smirk without permission. “How generous.” You swing. The ball shoots forward and hits the hoop dead centre, rolling through with obedience. Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Damn.” The word is quiet. It shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is. You turn, lifting your chin. “Was that improper?”
The game continues until the sun dips low enough to make the grass glow gold. Georgina ends up with grass stains and doesn’t care. Soonyoung attempts a victory dance and nearly trips over a hoop. Wonwoo closes his book to watch the final shots, and Cecily leans forward in her chair.
When it ends—when someone declares a winner and someone else declares it invalid—it doesn’t matter who “won.” Not really. What matters is the strange, startling feeling that settles in your ribs when you look around and see your sisters… lighter. Georgina, laughing as if her lungs had been starved for it. Cecily, speaking more than she has in days, quietly answering Wonwoo’s gentle questions. Even you, with your hands aching from swinging a mallet, feel something like breath return to your chest.
Seungcheol steps away from the lawn as if suddenly remembering himself. As if he has allowed too much crack in the structure and now must rebuild. Jeonghan calls after him, “Don’t disappear into your office, brother.” Seungcheol doesn’t look back. “I have work.”
“You always have work,” Jeonghan sings. Seungcheol pauses at the bottom of the terrace steps. His gaze flicks to you again—quick, intense, as if checking something. Then he goes inside. The shift is immediate: the game disperses, the servants appear to gather equipment, and Mrs. Wilson re-emerges to shepherd everyone inside for tea with the authority of a woman who can outlast chaos.
Joshua finds you in the hour between daylight and candlelight.
It is the softest hour at Wrotham Castle—the sky turning lavender at the edges, the wind cooling, the house glowing from within like a beacon. The servants move faster now, preparing. Somewhere above, you hear footsteps, doors closing, water being poured into basins. You are near the small sitting room Mrs. Wilson designated for “lady’s use,” mostly because you needed somewhere to stand without being in anyone’s way. Cecily has gone to change, her cheeks still warm from the afternoon. Georgina has vanished with Soonyoung—likely to commit some final act of mischief before being forced into supper. You can already imagine her bursting into the dining room with a grin and hair undone.
“Lady Whitlock,” Joshua greets softly. “May I steal you for a moment?” You incline your head. “If it is not a trap.”
Joshua’s smile deepens. “We’re Ashbournes,” he says. “Everything is a trap. But this one isn’t. I promise.”
He gestures toward a door you hadn’t noticed—half-hidden behind a tapestry. You follow him through, down a short corridor, into a smaller room that smells faintly of cedar and lavender. Glass-fronted display cases line the walls, lamps turned low and angled so the light falls exactly where it is meant to fall. Velvet trays rest beneath the panes—deep jewel tones, carefully chosen. You step in slowly. Your footsteps soften on the rug. For a moment, you don’t speak. You simply take it in. Because you recognise some of it. Not from Bond Street, not from town gossip, but from oil paint and varnish—the pieces you glimpsed earlier in the portrait gallery, caught on pale throats and gloved hands. A pendant at a collarbone. A brooch pinning silk. Earrings like small moons. Seeing them here, close enough to cast a shadow, makes the portraits feel suddenly less like history and more like memory preserved. You drift along the cases, unhurried. Joshua stays near the door, letting you take your time, the way London never allows.
At the far end, set apart not for lack of splendour but for gravity, one display case is broader than the others. Its velvet is darker, its lamp angled lower. And inside it—arranged together, as if they are meant to be seen as a set rather than separate temptations—six pieces sit in quiet formation. A ruby cravat pin—too red, too alive. A sapphire watch-seal, colder, deeper than ink, meant for a palm or a pocket. A diamond pendant that seems modest until it tilts and turns bright enough to throw fractured light. An amber brooch holds warmth as if it stored the sun for years. An emerald locket, forest green, the sort of thing that could hide a portrait or a lock of hair. And beside them—darkest of all, simplest of all—an onyx ring. A smooth, heavy stone set into gold, the surface so polished it drinks the lamplight instead of throwing it back. It should be the least interesting thing in the case.
And yet, you find yourself—without meaning to—leaning closer. You cannot explain why your chest tightens. Then you can, and you dislike yourself for it. Because it isn’t merely a ring. It is responsibility made physical. A thing that doesn’t glitter because it doesn’t need to. A thing meant to be felt, not admired. A mark.
Behind you, Joshua takes a few steps into the room, stopping at your shoulder. His gaze moves over the velvet, over the spread of heirlooms, then he looks to the onyx. His voice reaches you gently, as if he’s careful not to snap the thread of your attention. “It’s his.” You don’t look back at him. You keep your attention on the ring as you hear your own voice come out quietly. “Why doesn’t he wear it?” Joshua’s breath leaves him slowly. “Because if he puts it on,” Joshua murmurs, “it becomes… a statement.”
You tilt your head. “Everything about him is a statement.” Joshua’s mouth curves faintly. “Yes.” The agreement is gentle. “That’s exactly the problem.”
“So he keeps it behind glass.”
Joshua’s voice lowers another fraction. “He keeps everything behind glass,” he admits, and then—seeing your expression tighten—he corrects himself. “Well, not everything. Not the house. Not the business. Not the rest of us.”
You can hear it in his tone: affection you only earn by being loved long enough to frustrate someone safely. Your fingers hover near the glass, stopping short. The case is closed. And still the onyx feels like it might absorb everything around it and give nothing back.
“He wears duty instead,” you say, sharper than you mean. Joshua’s eyes lift to yours. “He wears responsibility,” he corrects gently. “Every day. Where everyone can see it.”
“And these?” you ask, gesturing faintly toward the spread—ruby, sapphire, diamond, amber, emerald. “They’re meant to be seen.”
Joshua’s gaze slides over the pieces again, fondness flickering, then settling. “They’re meant to exist,” he says. “Whether we’re brave enough to claim them or not.”
There’s your answer without being an answer. You don’t say the obvious—that none of the pieces looks warmed by skin, none of them have the careless scuffs of daily wear. They sit too perfectly, too untouched, like relics awaiting hands that keep refusing.
You let the silence stretch, and in it you hear the castle beyond the door: distant movement, a muffled call, the soft rush of servants preparing the next scene of the evening. Joshua speaks again, carefully, as if he’s choosing how much truth to set down. “Our mother chose these,” he says, and the word mother changes the room, no matter how steady his voice remains. “Years ago. Not for mourning. Not as some lesson.” His gaze traces the line of velvet. “She liked certainty. She liked things that held their shape.”
You keep your eyes on the case. “Then why these?”
Joshua’s mouth quirks, almost reluctant. “Because she believed each of us should have one thing that was ours,” he says simply. “Not a toy. Not a reward. Something that could sit on a body and say who you are before you speak.” He nods toward the jewels—his attention passing over them the way someone passes over scripture. “A signature for each son.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “And now?” you ask, because the now is what presses. Joshua’s eyes lift. “Now she isn’t here to see them worn, so they stay where she left them.”
He doesn’t launch into a story. He gives you what you asked for, the truth—plain, direct—because it’s kinder that way. “Soonyoung keeps his feet busy,” he says, gaze flicking toward the door as if he can hear the movement outside. “If his legs aren’t moving, he ends up in here staring at the glass like it might open for him.” His eyes drift to the sapphire. “Wonwoo disappears into pages. If he’s reading, he doesn’t have to look at anything that’s missing.” The diamond catches as he speaks, flashing once as if it resents being ignored. Joshua’s gaze touches it—brief, betraying. “Jeonghan fills rooms,” he says drily. “Noise, charm, trouble. Anything but quiet. Quiet makes you hear the house.” You’ve seen enough of Jeonghan already to believe it without effort. Joshua exhales. “And I…” His fingers flex once at his side, a restrained tell. “I keep things in order. Because if I move them, if I put one on, it stops being a heirloom and becomes a conversation with someone who can’t answer.”
Joshua’s gaze shifts, as if acknowledging the brother-shaped absence. “Mingyu couldn’t stand being watched while it happened,” he says simply. “So he left. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s always done.”
Flight as survival. You understand that, too.
Then his eyes return—inevitably—to the onyx. His tone gentles, not lower, but heavier. Like the floor settling. “And Seungcheol...” Joshua exhales, “He didn’t have the luxury of any of it. He became what was needed. Structure. Schedule. Answers.”
You stare at the ring again, and suddenly you don’t see only cold strategy. You see a boy—once—being handed keys and ledgers and expectations heavy enough to cripple. You see a man who learned to swallow grief because someone had to keep the walls standing. Joshua watches your face the way kind people do—without prying, but without pretending not to notice the shift.
“Dinner will be… lively,” he says at last. “Jeonghan will make sport of everyone. Soonyoung will knock something over and pretend it was the furniture’s fault. Seungcheol will pretend he is not listening.”
You breathe in. “And you?”
Joshua’s smile warms. “I’ll make sure no one burns down the house,” he says, and the emotion in it makes your chest tighten in that unpleasantly human way again. He bows slightly. “Thank you for coming,” he adds. “Whatever the reasons.”
You don’t answer that. You can’t. So you nod once and follow him out, leaving the jewel room behind like a secret you weren’t meant to see.
Dinner at Wrotham is not the battle you expected.
It is warm. Not simply in temperature—though the candles burn steady and plentiful, and the hearth along the far wall keeps the edges of the room heated—but in the way the house holds its people. The long dining table is set with precision: silver cutlery, crystal glasses, linens pressed tightly. Food arrives in swells—soup steaming, bread warm enough to fog the air when it’s torn, different cuts of meat carved and cured and roasted, sauces rich and fragrant. It smells like comfort. The noise arrives too. It comes alive the moment everyone gathers. Chairs scrape, laughter bursts too loud then settles into something continuous, the kind of sound that fills a room and makes it harder for fear to find anchors.
Seungcheol stands at the head of the table as the others take their places, hands behind his back, gaze tracking the room the way he tracked the lawn earlier—counting bodies, counting comfort, counting what needs adjusting before it becomes a problem.
Soonyoung is already talking, too loud and animated, as if his voice exists to prove the day was real. Georgina matches him without effort, her laughter skipping between sentences like sparks. Jeonghan slips into his chair with an easy elegance, watching the entire room as if he’s been handed a match and is deciding where to set the first fire. Wonwoo is quiet, attention angled toward Cecily with the kind of gentleness that doesn’t demand anything. Cecily sits nearer to him, and she looks less small here. Not loud. Not suddenly bold. Like she understood the castle’s vastness gives her permission to take up an inch more space without apologising for it. Mrs. Wilson stands at the edge of the room, supervising the servants with eyes that dare anyone to spill.
You take your seat to Seungcheol’s right. He watches you pull your chair out. He doesn’t reach in front of you. Doesn’t perform. He simply steps closer as you begin to sit, one hand coming to the chair back—steadying it, guiding it in once you’re settled, as if the smallest discomfort would be unacceptable on his watch. The gesture is subtle enough to pass as ordinary courtesy. But you feel it anyway. He waits until your skirt is arranged and your hands have found your napkin. Only then does he take his own seat. Conversation surges again immediately, loud enough to drown out most things.
Soonyoung begins telling a story about a cricket match that devolves into an accusation that Jeonghan cheats at everything. Jeonghan agrees with a smile and claims cheating is simply “creative strategy.” Georgina adds fuel to the fire. “If cheating is creative, then Soonyoung is an artist,” she declares. Soonyoung clutches his chest. “Miss Georgina, you wound me.”
“Good,” she replies cheerfully. “Now you’ll remember it.”
Jeonghan lifts his glass. “To remembering wounds,” he says. “It’s the only way we learn.” Joshua makes a soft warning sound. “Jeonghan.” Jeonghan’s smile turns innocent. “What? It’s wisdom.”
Wonwoo murmurs something to Cecily that you don’t catch—quiet enough to be theirs alone. Cecily’s mouth curves, small and real, and she answers in a voice that doesn’t tremble. Joshua leans slightly, listening, offering a comment that makes Cecily’s eyes brighten again. The table has split itself into currents: loud and bright on one side, quiet and steady on the other. It leaves a pocket of space—strangely private—in the centre of all that noise, right where you sit.
Seungcheol fills your glass without asking. He pours a measured amount—enough to warm, not enough to loosen. Then, without drawing attention, he shifts a dish closer to you so you don’t have to reach. He sets your bread plate within an easier distance. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t make a show of care. He simply notices. You keep your gaze on your plate as you accept the small accommodations like they’re nothing. Like they don’t make your heartbeat falter.
It’s in the brief lull—between Hoshi’s next proclamation and Georgina’s next provocation—that Seungcheol leans the slightest bit toward you, voice low enough to be lost under your sibling’s theatrics. “Is your room comfortable?” The question is simple. Practical. It shouldn’t feel like anything. And yet it lands with a quiet intimacy you don’t want to name. “Yes,” you answer evenly, cutting into your dinner. “Very.”
Seungcheol’s gaze stays on you a moment longer, as if he doesn’t trust one-word answers. “No drafts?” You glance up, meeting his eyes. Candlelight makes them look darker than they do in daylight. “No drafts.” His jaw eases—barely. He takes a sip of his wine, and you can tell he’s filing it away like a checked box.
Soonyoung’s voice erupts again. “And then—listen—then she hit it so hard it flew into the roses. The roses!” Georgina slaps the table lightly with delight. “It was an excellent shot.”
“It was violence,” Jeonghan corrects, amused. “We should all be afraid.”
You try very hard to focus on the food and not the way Seungcheol keeps glancing at your glass to measure whether it needs refilling. Then his voice comes again. “Do you sleep well in new places?”
You pause, fork hovering in the air. “Not always,” you admit softly. “New beds are… loud.” His brow lifts faintly. “Loud?”
“Different,” you correct, the corner of your mouth tugging despite yourself. “The mattress feels unfamiliar. The sheets sit wrong. The air smells like someone else’s house.” Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. “And the silence.” You blink. He’s guessed too easily. You look down again, cutting a carrot with measured care. “The silence, too,” you concede.
A pause. Then, “If it’s too loud, ring.” You nod once, because refusing would be more noticeable than accepting.
On the far end of the table, Georgina and Soonyoung have begun whispering like conspirators. Their shoulders are too close. Their eyes gleam with that particular cleverness that means trouble has already been decided. You feel it before it happens. So does Seungcheol. Georgina has a roll in her hand. Soonyoung has a grape. Jeonghan is leaning back in his chair, watching them with the indulgent smirk of a man about to enjoy the consequences. Georgina whispers something, and Soonyoung snorts, laughter trapped behind his teeth. Then—because they are incapable of restraint—Soonyoung flicks the grape. It arcs through candlelight and bounces off Jeonghan’s shoulder.
“Georgina.”
“Soonyoung.”
Georgina freezes mid-grin, caught red-handed. Soonyoung sits up straighter as if posture could retroactively undo a launched grape. Their eyes go wide with the shock of being reprimanded by the same kind of voice at the same time. Jeonghan’s gaze flicks from Seungcheol to you, his smirk deepening into something wickedly pleased—as if he’s just witnessed a trick he intends to remember. Mrs. Wilson takes one step forward, expression stern. “Miss Georgina.” Georgina straightens instantly. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson?” Mrs. Wilson’s eyes cut to Soonyoung. “Lord Soonyoung.” Soonyoung attempts dignity. He fails. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson doesn’t raise her voice. “If anything else flies across this table, I will remove the tray myself and you may eat in the kitchens.” Soonyoung looks appalled. Georgina looks delighted by the concept. Jeonghan lifts his glass in silent applause for Mrs. Wilson’s restraint. The room settles back into food and laughter, but Jeonghan has shifted his attention—like a cat deciding it wants a different toy. He tilts his head towards you. “So,” he says, voice light as lace, “should we pretend we’re not all curious?”
Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t tense visibly. But you feel a quiet change beside you—the way he becomes a fraction more still, a fraction more prepared. Jeonghan’s smile stays sweet. “When did this begin?” he asks. “I mean, our brother doesn’t pursue. He strategises.” He looks at you openly now. “And you, you don’t strike me as a woman easily persuaded.”
Joshua makes the same warning sound as before. “Jeonghan.” Jeonghan ignores him. Georgina adds, far too cheerfully, “I didn’t expect it.” The words aren’t unkind. They’re simply honest—bright, blunt, Georgina’s nature. “I thought you had no interest in marriage.” Your throat tightens. You keep your expression composed, the way you always do when the world tries to corner you with truth. Seungcheol speaks before you can. “I didn’t pursue her because she wants marriage,” he says, and every head at the table turns to him. “I pursued her because she does not.”
Jeonghan’s brows lift, intrigued. Soonyoung looks confused. Joshua’s expression shifts—surprised, thoughtful. Cecily’s eyes widen. Georgina blinks, giddy. Your pulse stutters. Seungcheol turns his head toward you, gaze heavy. It pins you—not unkindly, but completely. Like he is forcing you to stay present for the story he is telling. “She doesn’t need saving,” he continues. “She doesn’t need to be dazzled. She doesn’t need a man to tell her what her life should be.” A pause. “She already holds her world together.”
Your cheeks warm so fast it is infuriating. Because that sentence—spoken in this room, in front of these people—sounds dangerously like affection. And the worst part is that it sounds sincere.
Jeonghan leans forward slightly, “That,” he murmurs, “is far more tender than I expected from you, brother.” Seungcheol doesn’t look away from you. “It’s honest.”
You can feel your control slipping—just a fraction—under the weight of being looked at like this. Seen like this. You force yourself to breathe. You recover fast. You have to. You lift your chin, letting a small smile curve your mouth. “Lord Ashbourne is correct,” you confirm, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze. “I don’t require dazzling.” You turn your gaze toward Seungcheol now, because you must. Because you cannot let him hold the narrative alone. “He didn’t try to convince me I should want something I don’t,” you confess, and the candlelight suddenly feels too close to your skin. “He simply… met me where I already was.”
The admission hangs in the air. You remind yourself—firmly—that this is performance. That he is saying what he must. That you are responding because the table is watching and Jeonghan is baiting and Georgina is too delighted to be careful. Still, Seungcheol’s expression holds something you can’t name, and it makes you feel oddly unbalanced.
Then he reaches and places his hand over yours on the table. The contact is simple. Proper. Barely anything. And yet it sends a strange heat up your arm. Seungcheol’s thumb passes once over the fabric of your glove. A grounding touch, subtle enough no one can accuse, but present enough that you feel it. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t trap. He simply holds.
Jeonghan lifts his glass again. “Well,” he says lightly, “if our brother is going to be honest, we may as well all try it.”
Dinner ends with laughter and a mild argument about whether Soonyoung should be allowed to host games unsupervised. Mrs. Wilson’s look implies the answer is no, and the table agrees with the solemnity of men who have been threatened with kitchens before. As chairs scrape back and servants move in, Seungcheol stands when you stand. He offers his arm. You don’t hesitate before placing your hand on it. The gesture is easy now. Too easy. Jeonghan watches with a satisfied grin, like he’s seen exactly what he wanted.
You guide your sisters toward the staircase, your hand still on Seungcheol’s arm. Georgina chatters, still energised, describing some ridiculous plan involving Soonyoung and a lantern. Cecily indulges her, surprisingly, her steps lighter than they ever were in London. At your door, Seungcheol pauses. He inclines his head. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you reply. His gaze lingers on you longer than propriety allows. Then he steps back—releasing you without fuss. You close the door behind you and exhale. Only then do you realise your shoulders have been tense all evening.
You cannot sleep. The storm makes sure of it.
Rain lashes the windows in heavy sheets, the sound relentless, like the sky is trying to scrub the earth clean. Wind pounds against the glass hard enough to make the panes tremble in their frames. Every so often, a gust shoves at the castle as if it is testing whether the walls will yield.
It is not your room. It is not your mattress. It is not cold. It is not a solvable problem. It is simply the weather. Loud. Wild. Uncontrollable. And it reminds you of nights when you were younger, when thunder made Georgina cry, and you held her until she stopped shaking, when Cecily clung to your sleeve, and you pretended you weren’t afraid, too. It reminds you of being awake in a house that was once full and is now missing the two people who should have made storms feel smaller. You stare at the candle until your eyes blur. It doesn’t work. Eventually, you rise.
Your robe is soft, tied at the waist. Beneath it, your chemise clings lightly to your skin, thin enough that you feel the chill the moment you step into the corridor. You take your candle, shielding the flame with your hand.
The hallway outside your room is dim, lit by occasional sconces that throw pools of light on the carpet. The castle is quieter now, the day’s warmth folded away. Somewhere far off, a door clicks. Somewhere else, a floorboard creaks in the old way houses do. The library is where your feet take you without debate. You don’t know why until you arrive. Perhaps because libraries feel like places where sound is punished. Where storms can rage outside, and still you are surrounded by paper and silence and order—things that do not shout. You push the door open and step inside.
The room is enormous. Shelves climb to the ceiling, packed with spines that look like they have been touched by generations. Ladders rest on rails, ready to slide. A fire burns low in the hearth, banked but not dead, throwing a faint orange glow that fights the storm’s cold. Your candle adds a smaller, trembling light, making the shadows of books stretch long and strange. You move toward the shelves, scanning titles. You don’t know what you’re looking for until you see it. Gulliver’s Travels. The spine is worn. Loved. The leather softened at the edges from hands that returned to it again and again, like a habit, like a comfort. You reach for it, fingers brushing the cracked gold lettering. The book slides free with a soft sigh. You hold the candle high, the storm’s wind making the flame twitch and bow, and find a quieter corner near a window. You open the book.
Your thumb falls naturally where the pages loosen most, where it has been opened the most. Then, as if you have been caught doing something intimate, you flip back to the first page. There is a note. A woman’s writing—neat, elegant, affectionate. Just a few lines, penned with care. A private blessing disguised as ink. Your breath catches.
“Who left a candle burning?” a voice murmurs behind you, edged with practical annoyance. “Wilson will—” The door opens with a soft click. Footsteps enter the library. Seungcheol stands in the doorway.
He is not dressed like he was at dinner. No coat. No stiff formality. His shirt is loosened at the throat, collar open as if he stopped caring the moment he closed his office door. His hair is slightly curled at the edges, as if he ran a hand through it too many times. His sleeves are rolled up towards his elbows, exposing his forearms. He looks like a man caught off duty—and briefly uncertain what to do with himself. His gaze lands on you. His eyes narrow—first in confusion, then in something like immediate calculation. “Lady Whitlock,” he greets, voice level, but not entirely masked. You swallow. “My lord.”
He steps closer slowly, carefully, as if he doesn’t want to startle you into bolting. “I saw light,” he explains. “I thought one of my brothers—”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you interrupt. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to the window, where rain smears the glass. The wind booms again, rattling the frame, and his expression softens. “Your room,” he says immediately. “Is it cold? Drafty?” There it is again. The instinctive solution. You almost smile. “It’s not my room,” you say gently. “It’s… the rain.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens faintly, as if irritated by problems he cannot fix. “I can move you,” he offers anyway, because he cannot help himself. “There are rooms farther from the west windows. Less wind. Less noise.”
You stare at him, and the candlelight makes his face look sharper, more carved. It also makes him look… younger. Less invincible. Less like the Viscount and more like the man beneath the title. “Why do you always do that?” you ask quietly. His gaze flicks up. “Do what?”
You take a step forward. “Offer solutions,” you say. “Even when there isn’t a problem to solve.”
“There is a problem. You cannot sleep.”
“Yes,” you agree softly. “And the rain will still exist even if you change my room.”
Seungcheol’s eyes hold yours, and you see something flicker there—something like being caught. Like being seen. He looks away, gaze sliding to the shelves as if books are safer than your face. “It’s habit,” he says finally.
“Habit,” you repeat, stepping forward until you’re close enough that the heat from the hearth brushes your shins. Seungcheol’s voice is almost reluctant. “If you solve things quickly,” he says, “they don’t become larger.”
The words land like the kind of confession that slips out when you are tired, and the room is dim, and the storm is loud enough to swallow pride. The candle flickers between you like a fragile boundary. “And if they become larger?” you whisper. Seungcheol’s gaze returns. He looks at you the way he looked at Hartwell in that corridor—like he can destroy something if he chooses. But the thing he wants to destroy now is not you. It is helplessness. “Then you build something strong enough to hold them,” he says.
Outside, the wind hammers the window again, unforgiving. A log shifts in the hearth, making the fire flare briefly. The light dances over Seungcheol’s hands. His knuckles are stained with ink. You don’t comment. Instead, your gaze drops to the book. Seungcheol’s eyes follow it. “Gulliver,” he murmurs, and the word is not said like a title. It’s said like a boyhood. You lift it slightly. “Is it yours?”
His mouth tightens. Then he gives a small nod. “It was my favourite.” The admission is so simple it nearly steals your breath. Not ours. Not the house’s. His.
“You don’t sound like a man who had favourites,” you say before you can stop yourself. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks up to yours, and something almost warm moves through his eyes. “I was a boy,” he answers, as if that is explanation enough. Then, more quietly, as if he’s surprised the truth still exists: “I liked… how it laughed at everything.”
Your eyes flick to the first page again, to the note in his mother’s handwriting. You don’t point at it, but you think he sees you see it. He steps closer. He reaches out, not for you, but for the book. His fingers hover, as if asking permission without asking. You hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for the briefest instant. Seungcheol stills, as if his body registers the feel of your bare skin before his mind does. Then he takes the book fully, thumb sliding over the worn leather with an almost unconscious tenderness. “Our mother read it to us,” he states. The confession loosens something in you that has been tight since the opera. Since Hartwell. Since the Season began. “All of you?” you ask softly.
Seungcheol nods. “Yes,” he says. “Even Jeonghan. Even Mingyu.” A flicker of amusement shadows his mouth. “Soonyoung never listened,” he admits. “He’d act it out instead. Climb furniture. Pretend to be giants. She’d scold him without scolding him.”
You can picture it too easily: a boy with too much energy, a stern housekeeper somewhere in the distance, and a woman laughing as if laughter is a kind of protection. Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the first page. His thumb brushes the note there, careful—reverent without making it a shrine. “She wrote little things like that,” he says quietly. “For each of us. As if ink could… stay.”
The storm rolls another gust into the window. The glass rattles, but inside the library, the air feels suddenly still, listening. Seungcheol’s voice softens further, and the hardness you’ve associated with him unspools at the edges. “She had a voice for every character,” he adds, the memory taking over. “And she’d pause at the worst parts—right before the cruelty landed—so we’d all groan and beg her to continue.”
Your mouth tugs. “Did you?” His eyes lift to you. In the firelight, he looks almost startled by his own honesty. “Yes,” he admits. “Every time.” You tilt your head. “Why did she pause?”
He hesitates, then exhales in surrender. “Because she wanted us to learn that the world can be ridiculous and cruel at the same time,” he says. “And that if you can still laugh, you haven’t been swallowed.”
The words hang between you. You realise, suddenly, that you have never heard him speak of his mother as if she were alive in the room. Not a title. Not a loss. A person—laughing, teasing, pausing on purpose. You step closer without meaning to. The candlelight catches the loosened strands of your hair—hair you didn’t pin properly because you were too tired to care. Seungcheol’s gaze lifts, quick and instinctive, and lands there. On the softness you forgot to hide. His expression changes. Not outright desire. Awareness. As if he has been seeing you in armour for weeks, and only now registers what it looks like when you are not strapped into it. “I like your hair loose,” he confesses, and the words are so unguarded they feel like they don’t belong to him. Your breath catches.
You should step back. You don’t. Seungcheol shifts closer, still holding the book. He looks at you like he’s about to say something practical to cover the intimacy of what slipped out. Instead, he does nothing practical at all. He lifts a hand and slowly tucks a strand behind your ear. The touch is gentle. An instinct that surprises you both. Your skin prickles where his fingers brushed. Your pulse stutters, then races as if it has decided to ruin you all on its own. Seungcheol’s hand lingers too long. Then his fingers slide—almost without thought—to your cheek. He cups it. Your breath stops. His thumb rests near the corner of your mouth as if he is holding the fact that you exist. The library shrinks. The storm becomes distant. The crackle of the hearth quiets.
Seungcheol’s gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. You don’t move. You can’t. You are suddenly too aware of your own breathing, of the thin fabric beneath your robe, of how close you’ve drifted. He leans in. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Like gravity. Your lips are millimetres apart. So close you can feel the warmth of his breath, the faintest tremor of it, as if even he is not entirely steady. As if he’s measuring something he wasn’t meant to want. Your hand—traitorous—lifts slightly, hovering near his wrist, not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Caught between impulse and fear. And then—
A violent gust slams the window. The glass rattles hard enough to make you flinch. The candle flame bows, sputters, and dims. The spell breaks. You jerk back, the sudden movement making your robe gape open—your chemise, your bare collarbone, the scandal of being undressed in the wrong kind of company. Heat floods your face so fast it makes you dizzy. You tighten your robe, fingers fumbling at the tie. Your hands shake, ridiculous and disobedient, as you knot it too tight.
Seungcheol stills, his hand falling away as if it never touched you. His jaw flexes once—shock, restraint, something he’s swallowing hard. The book is still in his other hand. He looks down at it as if it might save him. Then he extends it toward you, an offering, a correction, a way back to sanity. You take it quickly, clutching it to your chest like proof you came here for ink and paper and not—whatever that was. Your voice comes out too fast. “I should— I should go.”
Seungcheol’s mouth opens as if to say it’s fine or I’m sorry or something sensible that would make the moment less dangerous. You don’t let him. You step backwards toward the door, already turning, already escaping yourself. “Goodnight,” you blurt. You don’t wait for his reply. You leave the library with the candle trembling in your grip, the book pressed tight to your sternum, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise you from the inside.
When you reach your door, you slip inside and shut it behind you with shaking hands—too quietly at first, like you are trying to pretend you were never there at all—then, because you are human and furious and mortified, you slam it hard enough that the frame rattles. You lean your back against the wood, breath ragged, robe tied too tight, cheeks burning. In the storm beyond the glass, the wind howls again.
And you stand there in the dark, clutching a childhood book, trying to understand why your mouth still feels like it remembers the heat of a kiss that never happened.
Tea has been poured three times before the first name is even spoken. “Lord Brampton calling on Miss Georgina,” Mrs. Wilson announces, voice ringing with the crisp finality of a bell.
The Wrotham drawing room has been arranged to look effortless, which means it has been arranged with near-military precision. Chairs are angled so no one can corner a girl against the wall. Tables are placed so teacups remain within reach but never become an excuse to linger too close. The windows are thrown open just enough to let spring air soften the room—fresh grass and budding leaves slipping in beneath the perfume of bergamot and polished wood. Even the curtains look disciplined, gathered back as if they’ve been instructed not to flutter too theatrically.
Your sisters sit together on the settee, as they have been instructed, as they must—Georgina with her spine too straight and her eyes too alive, Cecily with her hands folded neatly and her lashes lowered. You sit a little apart, positioned to be a chaperone without being a warden, the way you’ve always been this Season: present, watchful, never interrupting unless the world gives you no other choice. You tell yourself, as Mrs. Wilson’s announcement echoes through the room, that this is only a tea. It is never only a tea.
Across the room, the Ashbourne brothers have arranged themselves. Not in a line, not in formation—nothing so obvious that it would look like guarding. Joshua is by the fireplace with his hands folded behind his back. Wonwoo sits near the shelves, a book open in his palm, eyes up more often than down. Jeonghan is perched on the arm of a chair as if a seat exists only as a suggestion. Soonyoung hovers near the windows, restless energy barely leashed by the knowledge that Mrs. Wilson is watching and that this is, in fact, a room meant for respectable courtship and not competitive shouting.
And Seungcheol—Viscount Ashbourne himself—is no longer merely a hinge at the doorway. Today, he is everywhere without being anywhere: a quiet presence that shifts, repositions, and becomes suddenly beside the tea table when a man leans too far forward, becomes suddenly behind Cecily’s chair when a suitor’s gaze lingers too long. He sits when it suits him. He stands when it suits him. His attention is the sort that doesn’t need to declare itself to be felt. You don’t look at him. You do. You don’t. If you look, you will remember last night. The library. The warmth of his breath. The way his thumb hovered at the corner of your mouth like it belonged there. The way your own body leaned in before your mind had time to veto it. You lift your teacup and pretend you care deeply about the temperature.
Mrs. Wilson steps aside as Lord Brampton is shown in. He is exactly what his name sounds like: respectable, well-fed, confident in the way that tells you he never had to wonder whether he would be welcomed in a room. His coat is a shade too loud for your taste—fashionable, yes, but eager. His hair is too perfectly arranged, as if a valet has combed through it at the door. He bows, and his gaze goes immediately to Georgina, drawn there like every suitor is, because Georgina is a lighthouse and men in the marriage mart are ships with questionable navigation. Georgina rises. Curtsies. Smiles. The smile is sweet. It is also a warning, if one knows how to read her.
“Miss Georgina Whitlock,” Lord Brampton greets. “You are even more—” he pauses, searching for the right flattering word as if selecting fruit, “—radiant in daylight.” Georgina tilts her head. “Radiant is what one calls a hearth. I prefer to be called dangerous.”
Silence falls, the sort that makes you feel every inch of carpet beneath your shoes. Then Soonyoung makes a delighted choking sound from the windows, and Jeonghan laughs openly into his hand like an unrepentant sinner in church. Lord Brampton blinks, as though he has been struck by a gust. “Dangerous,” he repeats, trying to make it flirtation, trying to turn it into praise rather than challenge. “A charming quality.”
“Is it?” Georgina asks brightly. “Or is it simply inconvenient?” Lord Brampton’s smile wobbles. He glances at you, as if expecting the eldest sister to rein her in like a horse. You lift your teacup and take a sip you don’t taste. Joshua drifts forward with a cup in hand, the perfect gentlemanly interruption. “Lord Brampton,” he says warmly, “we’re honoured. Tea?”
Brampton turns, grateful for a safer target. “Ah—yes. Thank you.” Joshua pours as if this is a sacrament. Then, as if making light conversation, he asks, “How is Kent treating you this spring? I heard your tenants had trouble with flooding.”
Lord Brampton’s face shifts, caught. The question is polite. The implication is not. Georgina watches with growing interest. Lord Brampton clears his throat. “Yes, well. A nuisance. But these things happen.”
“They do,” Joshua agrees pleasantly. “And what is your approach when they do?”
Brampton glances—inevitably—toward Seungcheol, as if searching for rescue. Seungcheol doesn’t move. He simply lifts his cup, takes one measured sip, and watches as if he’s listening to a man recite his own character under oath. Lord Brampton gives a vague answer about stewardship and responsibility that sounds well-rehearsed and means nothing. Georgina’s eyes narrow with boredom. He tries to pivot back to compliments—your sister’s hair, her gown, the way she “brightens the room”—and Jeonghan slides in with a grin as if summoned by the scent of dullness. “Do you hunt, Lord Brampton?” Jeonghan asks, as if curious. “I—yes,” Brampton answers, a little too eager. “Of course.” Jeonghan nods thoughtfully. “Then you must tell Miss Georgina about your favourite kill.” Georgina’s brows lift. “His favourite kill?” Jeonghan looks at her with sweet sincerity. “You said you prefer to be called dangerous. I assumed you’d want to compare notes.”
Soonyoung loses the war against his own laughter and makes a sound so undignified Mrs. Wilson’s eyebrow twitches in the corner. Lord Brampton flushes. Georgina smiles wickedly. You should step in. Smooth it. Rescue him. This is your sister’s future, after all. But you don’t. Because Georgina is not cruel. She is simply frank. And men who can’t survive frankness will never survive her. Brampton tries anyway. He straightens, clinging to dignity like a lifeboat. “I favour pheasant,” he states. “A noble bird.” Georgina’s words are almost tender. “How tragic.” “Tragic?”
“Yes,” Georgina replies. “Imagine being born noble only to be shot by a man who calls himself sporting.” Jeonghan presses a hand to his chest. “Miss Georgina,” he breathes, as if scandalised. “That’s nearly a thought.”
Soonyoung cackles. Cecily’s lips part in a faint, shocked smile. Brampton’s gaze darts to Seungcheol again, now clearly panicked. Seungcheol finally speaks. “Lord Brampton,” he asks, “do you prefer your wives noble birds as well?” Brampton’s mouth opens. Closes.
“Just curiosity,” Seungcheol adds, tone unchanged. He rotates his cup slightly in his hand, thumb gliding along the rim with absent-minded control. It’s such a small movement. It shouldn’t mean anything. Your mind betrays you anyway—his breath on your lips; his hand on your cheek; the pause before he leaned in. Your stomach tightens. Your breath stutters once, traitorous, and you stare at the floor as if it’s suddenly fascinating.
Brampton fumbles into a speech about “cherishing” and “protecting” and “providing,” and Georgina listens as if she’s watching a play she already knows the ending of. He stays ten minutes. Fifteen. Long enough to recover his dignity, to try again, to fail again. He leaves with a bow that is a fraction too stiff.
The moment the door closes, Georgina exhales. “I liked him,” she announces cheerfully. You blink. “You terrified him.” Georgina shrugs. “That’s how I decide if I like them.” Jeonghan claps softly. “Excellent system.” You lift your cup again, this time to hide your smile—and to hide the fact you are still watching Seungcheol’s hand on that teacup like it’s an indecent thing.
Mrs. Wilson returns with the next suitor before Georgina can fully bask in her first victory. “Mr. Pritchard calling on Miss Cecily,” she announces—same tone, same precision. Cecily’s fingers tighten around her teacup.
Mr. Pritchard arrives looking as though he has been dressed by his mother and frightened by the act of walking into a room at all. He is young—too young, almost. His ears are pink. His eyes keep flicking to the floor as if he fears stumbling. He bows so low he nearly loses his balance. “M-miss Whitlock,” he stammers, then corrects, panicking, “Miss Cecily Whitlock.” Cecily rises. Curtsies. Her voice is soft. “Good afternoon.” Mr. Pritchard looks as though he’s been granted mercy by an angel.
He sits on the edge of his chair. His hands grip his hat like it might fly away. He tries to speak about the opera from last and ends up praising the weather, then apologising for praising the weather. Cecily listens with gentle patience, which is the most dangerous kindness in the world because it makes timid men believe they are safe. Wonwoo, from his chair by the shelves, turns a page in his book and says without looking up, “It rained last night.” Mr. Pritchard startles. “Yes! It did! Terrible. I mean, beautiful for the crops. Not terrible. Not—”
Soonyoung bites his knuckles to keep from laughing. Jeonghan looks as if he’s about to burst. Cecily’s mouth twitches faintly. A smile, small and real, tries to happen. It does. Mr. Pritchard sees it and brightens as if he’s found the sun. “You—you smile,” he blurts, immediately horrified by what he’s said. “Forgive me. That sounded—”
“It’s all right,” Cecily says softly. “You said nothing wrong.”
Mr. Pritchard swallows, visibly relieved. Then, with the courage of a man who has decided to try again, he begins to speak about books—about how he was made to read sermons as a child and rebelled by reading poetry instead. “My mother says poetry is frivolous,” he confesses, voice lowering as if he’s admitting a crime. “But I—well, I think it’s… It’s useful.” Cecily tilts her head, interest flickering. “Useful?”
“Yes,” he says. “It gives you words for things you cannot say properly. Or things you shouldn’t say properly.” That line—unexpectedly clever—lands like a small spark. Cecily’s eyes brighten. “What do you read?” she asks, and the question is so natural, so steady, that your chest tightens with pride. Mr. Pritchard fumbles the name of a poet—stammers, shakes his head, embarrassed—
Wonwoo murmurs, still not looking up, “Cowper.” Mr. Pritchard latches onto it. “Yes! Cowper. Exactly. And—” he exhales, laughing at himself, “forgive me, I’m not usually this—”
“Human?” Jeonghan supplies. Mr. Pritchard turns toward him, eyes wide. Jeonghan smiles like a cat. “You look like you’re awaiting execution,” he says conversationally. “It’s making everyone nervous.” Mr. Pritchard’s face goes scarlet. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I—my apologies—”
Seungcheol lifts his gaze and speaks calmly. “Mr. Pritchard,” he says. Mr. Pritchard nearly levitates. “Continue,” Seungcheol adds evenly. “Miss Cecily asked you a question.” The order is not cruel. It’s simply firm. It gives Mr. Pritchard rails to hold on to. Mr. Pritchard inhales, steadies, and turns back to Cecily. “I—yes. I also read Swift.”
You feel the name land inside you with a ripple. Swift. Last night. The book. The note. His mother’s handwriting. Seungcheol’s voice: "Our mother read it to us." Your mind flashes an image of his thumb sliding along the page, careful as prayer. Your cheeks warm before you can stop them. You glance up without meaning to. Seungcheol is watching you. Not Cecily. Not Pritchard. You. His gaze drifts to your mouth, as if the curve of it has become a problem he can’t solve. You turn away so fast you nearly spill your tea.
Mr. Pritchard continues, talking about his favourite books with earnest passion, and Cecily—Cecily answers. Not stumbling. Not shrinking. She laughs softly when he confesses he cried over a poem and then apologised for it. “You needn’t apologise for feeling,” Cecily says.
Mr. Pritchard stays longer than Brampton did. He forgets to be afraid. He becomes, for a little while, simply a young man speaking to a young woman who doesn’t require him to perform. And then—inevitably—his gaze flicks again to Seungcheol. Seungcheol’s expression hasn’t changed. Mr. Pritchard’s spine goes rigid. He rises too quickly, knocks his teacup slightly, catches it before it spills. “I—I shall not keep you longer,” he stutters, bowing to Cecily. “Miss Whitlock. Thank you. Thank you for your time.” Cecily curtsies, still polite. “Of course.” He flees. The door shuts.
Cecily’s cheeks are pink with a mixture of embarrassment and the strange thrill of having been engaged with, truly, and then complimented for something other than her quietness. Wonwoo looks up and says softly, “He’ll recover.” Cecily glances toward him, and her smile grows by half an inch. You sit back, tea cooling in your hands, and realise—slowly—that you have not spoken in several minutes. Not once. No one has needed you. It is unsettling. It is also relief, sharp enough to make your ribs ache.
“Lord Ellison calling,” Mrs. Wilson announces next, and you feel the room tighten before the man even arrives. Even Georgina stills a fraction.
Lord Ellison enters like he has been born for a stage—handsome, sure, too comfortable with attention. He carries his charm like a weapon he enjoys polishing. His eyes sweep the room, take in both sisters, take in you, and pause with quick calculation. He bows. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” Then, because he knows precisely who holds the gate: “Lady Whitlock.” You incline your head. His gaze flicks toward Seungcheol, assessing. “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol nods once. Ellison smiles as if unfazed. “A fine house.”
“It is,” Seungcheol replies, and the simplicity of the words makes Ellison’s smile tighten. He takes the seat offered and begins with Georgina first—because it is easiest. He tells a story about a man at White’s who tried to charm a duchess by comparing her eyes to brandy. Georgina laughs, delighted, then says she would have poured the brandy into his lap for insolence. Ellison brightens, pleased by her fire. “You’d have ruined him.”
“Ruination is so fashionable,” Georgina replies. Ellison turns to Cecily. “And you, Miss Cecily—do you enjoy spectacle?” Cecily hesitates. You feel her reflex to disappear. Seungcheol’s voice cuts in smoothly. “She enjoys sincerity,” he says. Cecily blinks, startled—then her mouth curves. “Yes,” she says softly. “That.”
Ellison’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes sharpen. He pivots, sliding compliments like cards. “And you, Lady Whitlock,” he says, gaze landing on you like he’s decided you’re the true prize. “I’ve heard you are formidable.”
“How unfortunate,” you reply. Jeonghan makes a delighted sound. Soonyoung grins. Joshua’s gaze flicks to Seungcheol, as if checking whether Seungcheol is enjoying this. Seungcheol is not smiling. He is watching Ellison like a hawk watches a mouse from a bell tower.
Ellison’s gaze flicks between you and your sisters with a faint, careless hunger. He asks Georgina what she wants in a husband. Georgina says, “A man who doesn’t expect me to be quiet.” Ellison laughs. “Then you’ll die unmarried.” Georgina’s smile turns sour. “Then I shall die happier than many wives.”
Ellison’s eyes glitter. He likes the fight. He likes the heat. And that—somehow—makes you dislike him more. He shifts his gaze to Cecily again. “And you, Miss Cecily—would you be content with a quiet life?” Cecily opens her mouth, then closes it. Her fingers tighten in her lap. Seungcheol’s cup touches the saucer—soft, controlled, but the sound lands like finality. “Lord Ellison,” he asks, “what are you looking for in a wife?” Ellison leans back, amused. “A wife?”
“Yes,” Seungcheol replies. “A wife.”
Ellison smiles. “Beauty. Temperament. A pleasant household.” Seungcheol’s gaze remains steady. “And what do you offer?” Ellison blinks. A man like him is used to being asked what he wants, not what he provides. “My name,” Ellison says lightly. “My title. My—”
“Temperament,” Seungcheol repeats. “And your household. And your expectations.” Ellison’s smile falters. His eyes flick to you, as if hoping you’ll intervene. You don’t. You sip your tea, letting it glide down your throat while your pulse continues to misbehave for entirely different reasons. Seungcheol continues. “Miss Georgina is not a trinket for a bored man’s mantle. Miss Cecily is not a quiet thing to be ignored until convenient. If you’re here to collect either of them for sport, you’ve mistaken the house.”
Ellison’s jaw flexes. He forces a laugh. “My lord, you speak as though I’ve insulted them.” Seungcheol shakes his head. “You have not,” he says. “Yet. I’m preventing the opportunity.” Jeonghan, ecstatic, cannot resist. “Lord Ellison,” he says, “do you cheat at cards?” Ellison turns, startled by the abrupt shift. Jeonghan’s grin widens. “If you do, I’d like to know in advance. I prefer to lose only by skill.”
Ellison takes the escape. He rises with polished grace, bowing. “A pleasure,” he says, voice a fraction too tight, “to be… enlightened.” He leaves. When the door shuts, Georgina turns to Seungcheol with open admiration. “That was exquisite.” Seungcheol looks at her, expression softening. “It was necessary.” Georgina hums. “Necessary can be exquisite.”
Your cheeks warm unexpectedly, and you hate yourself for it. Because your mind, traitorous, repeats: Necessary. Outcome. Preventing. His language. Your language. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten beneath the glove. You are fighting for your life today and no one in the room knows it. Not because of the suitors. Because Seungcheol is a distraction made flesh.
By the fourth caller, you feel as if you can breathe.
Not because you trust this. Because the Ashbournes—strange, infuriating, chaotic—become a wall at your back, not because they owe you, but because they understand predators. They understand appetite. They understand the way people test what they think is weak. And you understand, with reluctant clarity, that you have been holding your household alone for so long you forgot what it feels like to have someone else lift a weight.
Mrs. Wilson announces the next name. “Lord Halbrook calling on Miss Georgina.” Georgina’s posture changes immediately—less fire-for-the-sake-of-fire, more interest. You notice.
Lord Halbrook enters with confidence that isn’t loud. Younger than Brampton, older than Pritchard. His coat is well cut but not eager. His smile is easy in a way that suggests he isn’t afraid of being refused.
He bows. “Miss Georgina.” He turns to Cecily. “Miss Cecily.” He acknowledges you properly. “My lady.” Then, with a respectful nod: “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol returns it, gaze already measuring. Halbrook doesn’t fidget under it. That alone makes you sit up.
He takes his seat and begins not with compliment, but with honesty. “I was told,” he says to Georgina, “that you are difficult.” Georgina’s grin flashes. “I was told you were brave.” Halbrook’s eyes brighten. “Then perhaps we’ve both been warned properly.”
Georgina leans forward. “Do you fear difficult women?” Halbrook lifts a brow. “I fear bored ones.” Georgina laughs, bright as a match struck. They speak of horses. Of travel. Of ridiculous incidents in the park. Halbrook tells a story about nearly being thrown into a lake as a boy; Georgina declares she’d have pushed him in just to see if he could swim. Halbrook says he’d have deserved it. Then, because Georgina cannot help herself, she tilts her head and asks sweetly, “And what do you do when a woman refuses you?”
The question is a trap. You hold your breath. Halbrook doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t laugh it off. He answers simply. “I leave,” he says. “Because refusal is a kind of honesty. And I prefer honest company.”
The room goes subtly quiet—not fully, not dramatically, but enough that you feel the shift. Cecily’s gaze lifts, surprised. Joshua’s eyes soften. Even Jeonghan’s grin stills, interested. Seungcheol’s voice enters quietly. “Lord Halbrook,” he asks, “what do you consider a partnership?”
Halbrook turns, surprised, but not defensive. He thinks. Actually thinks. “A person who doesn’t become smaller beside you,” he answers at last. “Someone who grows. Someone you’d rather be honest with than impressive for.” Georgina blinks, then smiles in a way that looks softer than you’ve seen on her in a long time. You swallow. Seungcheol holds Halbrook’s gaze, then nods once. Not approval, exactly. Permission to continue.
Halbrook speaks a little longer, asking Georgina questions that aren’t about her looks: what she reads, what she hates, what she’d do if she were born a man. Georgina answers with gleeful wickedness. “I’d duel,” she says. “Frequently.” Halbrook’s smile widens. “And win?”
“Obviously,” she replies. “I don’t do anything halfway.”
When Halbrook finally leaves, Georgina watches the closed door like she’s just been offered a life that might actually fit her shape. “That one,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Your chest loosens, relief flooding in so hard it nearly makes you dizzy. Because if Georgina chooses, she will be safe. And if Georgina is safe, maybe—maybe—you can stop bracing for catastrophe at every turn.
“Sir Lionel Hartmere calling on Miss Cecily,” Mrs. Wilson announces next, and you know immediately this will be unpleasant.
Not because Cecily cannot handle unpleasantness. Because men like Sir Lionel are the ones who don’t notice a woman’s discomfort until it inconveniences them. His smile is too wide. His eyes travel too quickly. He bows to Cecily, but his gaze keeps darting to Georgina as if checking whether the “brighter option” is available. Cecily sits with her hands folded and her chin lifted—quiet courage, held like a candle against the wind.
Sir Lionel begins by complimenting Cecily’s gown, then compliments Georgina’s laugh, then—without even noticing what he’s doing—compliments you. “And you, my lady,” he says, eyes lingering too long, “you look as though you could run a parliament.”
You smile thinly. “How kind.” Sir Lionel chuckles. “Yes, well, some women have that air.”
Cecily’s cheeks flush. She carefully answers a question about music. Sir Lionel nods once, not truly listening. Then he asks, cheerfully, “Which of you ladies prefers the countryside?”
Cecily blinks. Georgina cocks her head. You see it—how he doesn’t care which answer belongs to which girl. How he’s shopping. Jeonghan, who has been silent out of sheer boredom, perks up. “Sir Lionel,” he says, “a question.” Sir Lionel smiles, flattered to be addressed. “Of course.”
Jeonghan’s tone stays fair. “Are you here for Miss Cecily or Miss Georgina?” The room goes so still you can hear the soft tick of the mantel clock. Sir Lionel laughs, thinking it’s a joke. “Oh, now—does it matter?”
Cecily’s fingers tighten around her glove. Seungcheol moves for the first time in several minutes. He shifts forward—not looming, but inescapable. He doesn’t raise his voice. “It matters,” he says simply.
Sir Lionel’s words stutter out. “My lord—”
“Miss Cecily and Miss Georgina are not interchangeable,” Seungcheol continues. “If you don’t know which one you came to court, you may leave.” Sir Lionel flushes, offended. “This is high-handed.”
Jeonghan tuts softly. “And yet, here you are,” he murmurs. “Still standing.”
Cecily lifts her chin a fraction higher. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft, but it doesn’t tremble. “I think,” she says gently, “that if you cannot decide, Sir Lionel, you are not suited to either of us.”
Sir Lionel splutters. “I—well—”
Mrs. Wilson, from the edge of the room, clears her throat. Sir Lionel stands abruptly, bowing too stiffly. “My apologies,” he says, not apologising at all. “Good day.”
Cecily sits very still for a moment. Then she exhales slowly, as if she’s just stepped out of deep water. You want to go to her. Touch her shoulder. Praise her. But you don’t—because she’s done it. She’s found her own spine in front of an entire room. And it is extraordinary.
Wonwoo murmurs, delighted, “Butterfly,” as if he’s witnessed something rare hatch in real time. Cecily looks down, cheeks pink, but her mouth tugs into a smile. You look away too quickly, pulse skittering. You tell yourself you’re simply tired. You tell yourself you’re simply relieved. You tell yourself you’re not being ridiculous. You are.
By the time the final caller is shown out, the drawing room looks faintly ransacked.
Teacup rings bloom across polished wood like pale ghosts. Half-bitten cakes sit abandoned on plates. Lemon peels curl in silver dishes. The air is sweet with jam and warm pastry, but underneath it all lingers the sharper scent of male cologne and performance.
Mrs. Wilson claps her hands. At once, the maids appear like clockwork. Cups are collected. Plates lifted. Napkins are whisked away. One maid bends at your elbow for your saucer and cup; you surrender both with a distracted nod. The room exhales.
Georgina springs upright before Mrs. Wilson has fully turned her back, immediately talking over herself as she turns toward Soonyoung—who is already half out of the door, delighted by the mere fact that men came, spoke, stumbled, and survived. He launches into an exaggerated imitation of one suitor’s bow; Georgina nearly folds in half laughing before she swats his arm and attempts it herself, making it even worse on purpose.
Jeonghan, sprawled elegance a moment ago, straightens only enough to fall into conversation with Joshua near the hearth—something practical, by the sound of it, though Jeonghan keeps interrupting with lines that make Joshua close his eyes as if asking heaven for patience.
Wonwoo closes the book he has been pretending not to read and turns—quietly, as he always does—toward Cecily. “Miss Cecily,” he asks, “would you care to see the library?” Cecily stills, then blinks up at him. “The library?” Wonwoo nods once. “If you like. It is quieter than this room. And there are illustrations in one of the travel volumes I thought you might enjoy.” Cecily’s mouth parts slightly. It is not often one sees her want something quickly enough for it to show before she has time to school it away.
Your mind betrays you with images: leather worn soft at the edges, a low fire, rain on the windows, his hand reaching for the book, his thumb brushing the page. Without thinking, you look up. Seungcheol is watching you again.
He is standing upright, no cup in hand, no excuse left. There is no crowd to hide behind. No gentleman to interrogate. No sisters to shield. Just you, and the thing neither of you has named.
Something in his eyes shifts when he sees your expression—recognition, immediate and unnervingly exact. The library. Last night. The fact that you both went there in your heads the moment Cecily spoke. He starts toward you. “Lady Whitlock—” he begins lowly, private even in a crowded room. You are on your feet before the sentence is finished.
“I need some air,” you say, too quickly and yet perfectly smooth, because panic has made you excellent at sounding composed. You turn to no one and everyone at once. “Excuse me.”
Before he can step into your path—before he can say something sensible, or dangerous, or kind—you move past him, past the remnants of tea and conversation, past the drawing room threshold and into the corridor like a woman escaping a house fire with her dignity pinned in place. You do not run. Running would be noticed. You simply walk quickly enough that no one can call it fleeing unless they know you well. And he does.
Wortham Gardens takes you in at once.
You keep walking, down the terrace steps and along the path, not looking back, not allowing yourself to think about whether he follows. The late afternoon has softened into that golden hour the castle seems to wear too well. You should feel calmer. You do not.
Your hand rises to your cheek, fingertips pressing the heated skin, as if the memory of his thumb has left an imprint there. You drag your hand down to your throat, then lower, flattening your palm against your bodice where your heart is behaving like a frightened bird. Your other hand presses to your stomach, as though you might force your body back into order by sheer insistence. Breathe. You draw in air. It catches. You try again. You take the long way on purpose.
Past the rose walk, where the first blooms are unfurling pale and pearlescent. Past the yew hedge clipped into geometry. Past a stone bench warmed by the sun and half-shadowed by a willow. You pause once at a narrow path lined with lavender, close your eyes, and try to let the scent pull you into yourself. Instead, it drags up his voice.
In the drawing room: asking a suitor what he offered, not what he wanted. In the library: “It’s habit.” Just now, starting your name before you fled. You keep walking.
By the time the pavilion comes into view—white-painted, half-veiled in climbing ivy, tucked beyond a curve of hedges like a secret too pretty to trust—your pulse has steadied only enough to make room for anger. At him. At yourself. At the unbearable fact that both feel the same in your body.
You step inside the pavilion and stop in the centre, breathing through your nose. Sunlight slants through the lattice and lays patterned shadows across the floorboards. The bench along the side is smooth with years of use. A breeze stirs the ivy at the entrance, making the leaves whisper against painted wood. “Running to ground, Lady Whitlock?” His voice cuts through the quiet behind you.
You startle hard enough that your breath catches, spinning toward the entrance. Seungcheol stands there, one hand braced on the post, expression composed in that way that only makes the strain underneath more visible. He has followed you, then. You lift your chin on instinct. “If you came to mock me, my lord, your timing is poor.”
He steps inside, eyes not leaving your face. “I came because you left the room as though it were burning.”
“It was warm,” you retort. His mouth tightens. “You fled from me.”
“Do men of your station always flatter themselves so thoroughly?”
A flicker of his temper sparks in his gaze. Good. Let him feel what he keeps stirring in you. “I am not here to fight,” he says.
“No?” You fold your arms, because if you leave them at your sides, you may do something foolish with them. “Then you have chosen a curious expression.”
He exhales, short and heavy. “I came to apologise.”
“For which offence?” you ask coolly. “Today’s? Last night’s? The general burden of your existence?”
“Don’t,” he says sharply. You hold his gaze. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend it meant nothing.” The words come out hard, as if dragged up against his will. “Not after the way you have looked everywhere but at me since this morning.” Heat flares under your skin. “You mistake me for a woman who arranges her day around your notice.”
“Do I?” he returns, stepping closer. Not enough to trap you. Enough to make the air change. “You flinched every time I spoke. You answered everyone but me. And the moment I addressed you without spectators, you vanished.”
Your pulse jumps, furious at being seen so clearly. “I was occupied,” you say.
“So was I,” he replies, the edge in his voice cutting cleaner. “And yet I managed to do my duty in that room.” The implication lands exactly where he intends it to. You laugh once, brittle. “Yes. Duty. You do wear it beautifully. Forgive me for failing to meet your standards, my lord. I know how very high they are.”
His brows draw together. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.” You step to one side, needing movement. He tracks it instantly. “I have spent two days learning the rules of your house, your arrangement, your expectations. It seems I was remiss in learning the rules of your moods as well.” His jaw flexes. “Speak plainly.”
You stop moving. “I heard you,” you say. “At your first ball.” The quiet in the pavilion thickens. “In the gardens. Speaking to your brother,” you continue. Something ugly flickers across his face—anger first, quick and defensive, and beneath it something darker, something like shame. “You were listening,” he says.
“You were talking,” you reply.
“That conversation was not meant for—”
“For women to hear?” You cut across him, venomous and cutting. “How noble.” His eyes flash. “For anyone beyond my family.”
“And yet it was about women.” You snap. “Women like merchandise. Suitability. Convenience. As if we are all simply pieces to be selected and arranged.”
“I was speaking of the ton.”
“The ton includes my sisters.”
His voice darkens. “Your sisters are not what I was describing.”
“Not what?” you demand, stepping toward him. “Not trainable? Not decorative? Not interchangeable?” For the first time since you have known him, he hesitates. Then, very quietly: “Not interchangeable.”
You hate how your body reacts to the truth when you are trying so hard to hold onto anger. You take a breath and force the emotion back into your voice. “Then why did you make yourself sound exactly like every man I have spent years protecting them from?” His face hardens. “Because you wanted me to be that man.”
Rage blooms hot and immediate. “How dare you.”
“How dare you,” he fires back, control cracking, “hear one bitter conversation and build an entire man out of it.”
“I built him from your own words.”
“I spoke like a man drowning.”
The sentence stops you. You stare. “Drowning?”
His nostrils flare, as if he regrets the word yet refuses to take it back. “Grieving,” he enunciates. “Being watched from every side. Carrying a title I had no time to prepare for while society waited to see whether I fail.”
You scoff because if you do not, sympathy will ruin you. “Grief is not a license for contempt.” His breath leaves him unevenly—the mask slipping from the man who has built himself on control.
“Do you think I do not know that?” he asks. “Do you think I have not replayed that night? Do you think I have not despised myself for sounding like him?”
“Him” hangs between you without a name. Hartwell. Men who take. Men who smile and press and assume. You feel your anger falter. You seize the safer part. “So you admit it was cruel.”
“I admit I was angry.”
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And afraid?” you press, because he said it and you still do not know what to do with it. His eyes lock onto yours. “Afraid of failing,” he admits quietly. “Afraid of needing what I cannot afford to lose.”
You know that language. Not the words, perhaps—but the shape of it. The private exhaustion of being the structure everyone leans on. The panic of imagining one weak point and watching the whole house come down. Recognition flickers. You hate that he sees it happen. He takes another step closer. “That night, I was trying to convince myself I did not need anyone.” You force your chin up. “Then be comforted. You do not. Especially not me.”
His breath catches so faintly you might have missed it if the space between you were any larger.
“Is that what you believe?” he asks.
Not mocking. Not triumphant. It is far worse. Humiliated.
You mean to say yes. You mean to say, of course. You mean to say something sharp enough to end this. Nothing comes out.
His eyes change when he hears your silence. He comes closer. You take one step back and hit the pavilion wall with your shoulder blades. Cool painted wood. No more room. His voice drops, every word forced out against his restraint. “Say it, then. Say you hate me.”
You shake your head, breath shortening. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you an exit.” His gaze drops to your mouth and returns. “Tell me you feel nothing. Say it plainly, and I will leave you.”
Your heart beats so hard it hurts. “You are impossible.”
“Say it.”
You inhale. Exhale. Try again. “I cannot,” you whisper, and the truth sounds like surrender.
Seungcheol falters. Then something in him gives way. Not temper. Not violence. Need. Bare and immediate and devastating. “You say you hate me,” he murmurs, stepping into the last breath of distance. “And yet you cannot say you feel nothing.” Your throat tightens. “I do hate you.”
The lie is thin. You both hear it. His hand lifts, pauses near your face. His fingers settle along your jaw, thumb against your cheek. The gentleness of it nearly undoes you. It is so unlike being taken it feels more dangerous than force.
He studies your face with a kind of fierce disbelief. “What do you do to me,” he says, words fraying, “that I cannot think when you look at me like this?” Your pulse stumbles. “Then stop looking.”
His mouth curves, but there is no humour in it. Only heat. “You first.”
You should push him away. You should remind him of propriety and scandal and the fact that the house is not far, and voices travel, and this is how women ruin themselves. Instead, your hands fist in his coat. That is all the permission he needs.
Your lips crash together.
It is not tentative. It is not careful. It is two people who have been holding themselves like walls finally deciding to collapse. Your head tips back with the force of it. His hand slides behind your head, fingers into your hair, holding you steady. You kiss him back with equal fury, because anger and wanting have become impossible to separate.
He moans against your mouth—low, rough, half relief, half desperation—and deepens the kiss until your lungs forget their work. You grip him harder. He breaks from your lips only to drag his mouth along your jaw. Your breath stutters. “Seungcheol—” His name leaves your lips, and the sound seems to strike straight through him.
He kisses the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Slow. Then again. And then lower—to your throat, where your pulse is wild and betraying you. His lips press there, deliberate, learning. His tongue flicks once at the spot beneath your jaw, and a gasp tears out of you before your pride can catch it. The sound is indecent in the quiet pavilion. You know it. He knows it. Neither of you stops.
His free hand finds your waist and pulls you in until your bodies align, until the shape of him against you makes your mind go white at the edges. He is breathing hard against your skin, control hanging by a thread.
“Tell me again,” he murmurs against your throat, “how much you hate me.”
A broken laugh catches in your chest and turns into something softer, stranger. “I—” you start, but he kisses your skin again and the sentence dies unborn.
Your hands slide up, over his shoulders, the back of his neck, and into his hair. He shudders at the contact, and the reaction is so immediate, so unguarded, it sends another wave of heat through you. He lifts his head and looks at you. God. He looks ruined.
Not weak. Not insecure. Ruined in the way men look when they have finally allowed themselves to want something and realised precisely what they have been missing. It should frighten you. It does. And still you pull him back in. The second kiss is worse. Wilder. Hungrier.
Somewhere beyond the hedges, a voice rises. Footsteps scrape faintly across gravel. Reality returns like a dose of cold water.
You wrench back with a sharp breath, fingers flying to your mouth. Your lips feel swollen. Your chest is heaving. The world is suddenly too bright, too open, too close to witness. Seungcheol freezes where you left him, breathing hard, eyes fixed on you as if he cannot quite believe you were the one to stop.
“You—” you begin, but there are too many endings to the sentence and none of them safe. He steps toward you, something urgent rising in his face—as if he is about to say something that could change everything or make it worse. You do not let him. You run.
Skirts gathered in your fists, gravel spitting beneath your shoes. You do not care how it looks. You do not care who might see. You do not care that your steps are loud, uneven, unbeautiful.
The hedges blur at the edges of your vision. Your mouth burns, your tongue remembers him, your body feels the shape of his hands as if you have carried the whole pavilion away under your skin. You do not look back. You cannot.
At the edge of the path, you falter just enough to betray yourself. You turn your head. He is still in the pavilion, one hand braced against the post, head slightly bowed before he lifts it and finds you. His mouth is parted. His eyes are dark and far too full. The whole garden seems to hold its breath with you. And you know—cold and certain and far too late—that whatever was supposed to be between you has slipped beyond recall.
You wrench your gaze away and run on. But your mouth still burns. And the taste of him follows you back to the house like a secret you will not be able to pray out of your body.
Bond Street wakes in pewter.
Mist clings to lamps and windowpanes, turning every shopfront softened —gold behind glass, silks behind velvet, jewels behind the kind of locks that imply someone is always watching. Carat & Co. glows as always. Even before the shutters come down, the place holds its own light. Seungcheol is there before the first clerk.
He likes the quiet hour when the counters are bare and the cases are still empty of hands. When the only sounds are the building settling into itself, the faint tick of the clock, and the careful work of men who understand that beauty is made with patience and sharp tools. He hangs his coat, rolls his cuffs back, and opens the ledger. Ink, numbers, inventory—his holy trinity. The neatness of columns. The honesty of sums. The relief of problems that have solutions. He tells himself this, repeatedly.
Because the moment the pen touches paper, his mind slips—just a hairline crack—and ivy appears. A white pavilion. Sunlight in lattice shadows. Your mouth, hot and furious, colliding with his like the world had finally stopped pretending. He presses harder with the pen, as if pressure can pin a memory to the page until it behaves. It does not.
A jeweller’s loupe sits beside his inkstand. He picks it up without thinking, turns it between his fingers. The glass catches a stripe of morning light and fractures it into pale colour. It reminds him of you pulling away—breathless, eyes bright with shock—as if you’d startled yourself by wanting. And then you ran. He’d stood there like a man struck. His mouth still tasting you, his whole body demanding he follow—now, now, now—as if the world would end if he let you get too far away. He hadn’t moved. He thinks about that more than he thinks about the kiss.
He thinks about stillness. About restraint. About how he has built his entire life around control—and how easily you unmade it with the simple, impossible truth of your mouth against his. He sets the loupe down as if it has burned him.
A door opens. “Morning, my lord.” Mr. Everett, the senior clerk, enters with a bundle of post. “We’ve had three notes delivered at dawn. And Mrs. Dalloway’s man insists she’ll be in today for the sapphire reset.” Seungcheol nods his head. “Put the notes on my desk.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Everett hesitates—barely—but Seungcheol sees everything. “And… there’s a gentleman waiting. Says he requires a word. A Mr. Hartwell.”
The name falls flat in the silence of his office.
Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change. It cannot. His face is a kind of armour—built in the same way Carat & Co. is built: carefully, with intention, without flaws anyone can hook a finger into. “Send him in,” he says. Everett bows and leaves.
Seungcheol doesn’t rise. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t prepare a speech. He simply sits, his hands folded over the ledger, and waits. Hartwell enters with a new nose and an old smile. The bruising is gone, but the memory of blood is not. Hartwell’s eyes flick to Seungcheol’s hands, as if he’s checking whether the knuckles remember him. “Lord Ashbourne,” Hartwell greets, voice slick as oil. “How industrious. I always find it fascinating when men of title pretend to be men of trade.”
Seungcheol looks at him. Lets the silence do the work. Hartwell clears his throat. “Of course. Forgive me. Carat & Co. It must be gratifying. Playing at legacy.”
Seungcheol’s gaze drops—briefly—to Hartwell’s collar. He remembers hauling him back in that opera corridor like a misbehaving dog. He remembers the sound of your breath when Hartwell’s hand covered your mouth. His voice stays level. “Why are you here?” Hartwell spreads his hands, the picture of injured innocence. “A social call.”
“This is a jeweller.”
“It’s also Bond Street.” Hartwell’s eyes gleam with that bright, intrusive interest. “And you are quite… fascinating.”
Hartwell paces one step, just enough to show he believes himself untouchable in a room full of glass and gold. “You hit me,” he says lightly—too lightly, like he’s trying to pretend it was nothing. “In public. In a theatre. You broke my nose for a misunderstanding.”
Seungcheol doesn’t correct him. There was no misunderstanding.
Hartwell’s smile thins. “Then, very conveniently, you begin a courtship with the very woman I—” His eyes flicker, as if the memory of his hand on you still pleases him. “—admired. How swift you are, my lord. How… decisive.”
Seungcheol’s fingers tighten on the ledger. Hartwell leans in, voice dropping as though sharing a confidence between gentlemen. “I confess, I wondered.”
“Wondered what.”
Hartwell’s gaze slides toward the front windows, where the street beyond is misty and awake, where anyone might walk past and glance in and think of safety and luxury and permanence. “How the courtship was progressing,” he says. “If Lady Whitlock was enjoying being claimed.”
Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. Hartwell’s smile brightens, cruel with pleasure at having struck a nerve. “Or if she still enjoys empty corridors.”
Seungcheol’s gaze narrows. “Be very careful.”
Hartwell’s lips part in a soft laugh. “Oh, do forgive me. It’s only that Mayfair is… attentive. And Lady Whitlock—your lady with her resolve of steel—has been seen in curious circumstances.”
He lifts a finger, as if counting. “Once, alone in a theatre passage with me.” Another finger. “And again—so I hear—in a library corridor, late at night, with you.”
Seungcheol’s blood goes cold. The library. Wrotham. Who talked? Hartwell watches Seungcheol’s face like a man studying a lock for weakness. “It would be a shame,” Hartwell murmurs, “if anyone began to ask why the eldest Whitlock sister wanders empty halls and meets men when she believes herself unseen.”
Seungcheol does not move. His restraint becomes something vicious and calculated. Hartwell’s voice becomes venomous. “A woman’s reputation is such a fragile thing. And the Whitlocks’ position is already… delicate, is it not?” His eyes sparkle. “No father. No mother. Just an inheritance and three unmarried ladies.”
Seungcheol’s spine goes rigid. Hartwell continues, enjoying the way each word feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise. “If the ton thought Lady Whitlock’s virtue was—how shall I phrase it—careless…” He makes a vague gesture, like he’s wiping dust from a sleeve. “Suitors might vanish. Not only for her.” Seungcheol’s gaze turns razor-sharp. “For the sisters as well. Such a pity. An entire household punished for one woman’s little… strolls.”
Seungcheol finally speaks. “Say it plainly.”
“I want my pride restored.”
There it is. Not morality. Not justice. Not concern. Just ego bruised and hungry. “You embarrassed me,” Hartwell says, and now the civility disappears to show the snarling thing beneath. “You took what I wanted and turned it into your trophy. And now everyone is whispering about you, about her, about how quickly she folded. I want the whisper to change.”
Seungcheol’s fingers uncurl from the ledger. “You’re threatening a woman because a man struck you.”
“No, my lord. I’m reminding you how the world works.” Hartwell’s gaze sweeps the counters, the cases, the jewels. “You have so much to lose.”
Seungcheol pushes to his feet and steps into Hartwell’s space, bringing them face to face. He doesn’t lunge or posture—he simply stands, broad and solid and suddenly far too close, and Hartwell’s bravado flickers. “You will not speak of her.” Hartwell’s brows lift. “Or what?”
Seungcheol’s voice lowers. “Or you will learn the difference between a broken nose and a ruined life.” Hartwell falters—then recovers, brittle. “Ah.” He exhales. “There’s the animal beneath the Viscount.” Seungcheol doesn’t blink. “Get out.”
Hartwell’s face turns insolent because insolence is what men use when they sense danger but refuse to show fear. “Mayfair will talk,” he states softly. “And you can’t punch a whisper.”
Seungcheol doesn’t back down. Hartwell holds his stare for one last moment—two men measuring which one will break first. Then Hartwell bows, mockingly correct. “Enjoy your courtship, my lord.” He turns toward the doors. “Let’s see what survives when people remember where you came from.”
Hartwell walks out. The bell over the door gives a polite chime as it closes behind him, like the shop itself is unaware it has just hosted poison. Seungcheol stays standing until his breathing steadies. Then he turns to Everett—who has reappeared like a ghost, trying desperately to look as though he heard nothing. “Double the men at the door,” Seungcheol demands calmly. “And if anyone asks after me, they wait.” Everett swallows. “Yes, my lord.”
“And send for Jeonghan.” Everett blinks. “Lord Jeonghan?”
“Now.”
Everett goes. Seungcheol sits again, picks up his pen, and stares at the ledger until the columns blur. He thinks of Hartwell’s words like fingers around your throat. He thinks of your sisters—Cecily’s quiet bloom, Georgina’s fire—both of them vulnerable to the ton’s appetite for punishment. He thinks of you, always the wall, always the shield. And he feels something shift in him that he does not like. Because Hartwell came for you. And Seungcheol did not feel strategic. He felt protective. He felt possessive. He felt the raw, ruinous impulse to burn the whole world down for the crime of imagining you ruined.
The first tremor arrives in the form of a note with too much perfume. Everett brings it on a silver tray. “From Lady Dalloway, my lord.” Seungcheol breaks the seal. Lady Dalloway’s handwriting is elegant. Her words are polite. “Regretfully,” she writes, “I must postpone today’s appointment. There is conversation in my circle, and my husband insists we avoid anything that might appear imprudent until the Season settles.”
It is an excuse in the form of a compliment. The sapphire reset has been in commission for months. Lady Dalloway is not the sort of woman who postpones jewels unless her fear is sharper than her vanity. Seungcheol folds the letter once. Twice. Places it aside. “Send her my respects,” he says evenly. “And let her know her stone will be held safely until she chooses to be brave.” Everett flinches at the words but bows. “Yes, my lord.”
The second tremor arrives in the form of absence. The shop is not empty—never truly. Foot traffic remains. The curious remain. But there is a difference between a crowded street and a room full of buyers. Three ladies enter together late afternoon—veiled, gloved, expensive. They pause at the cases. Their eyes skim the pieces. One of them laughs softly behind her fan. They do not ask to see anything. They leave without buying a single stone. Everett looks ready to weep with frustration. Seungcheol stands behind the counter and feels something cold settle between his shoulder blades. This is the ton’s language. Not refusal. Not accusation. Just the slow withdrawal of comfort, like a hand pulling a blanket away inch by inch until you are shivering and pretending you are not.
Jeonghan arrives an hour later, looking as though he has been insulted by the concept of urgency. He takes one look at Seungcheol’s face and stops. “Someone died,” Jeonghan states. “Or you want them to.”
Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Jeonghan wanders behind the counter and picks up the note from Lady Dalloway with two fingers. “Mm.” Jeonghan scans it. “She’s afraid.”
“She’s vapid,” Seungcheol declares.
“Both can be true.” Jeonghan folds the letter and sets it back down. His gaze flicks toward the street, toward the people who drift past the windows without stopping. “Hartwell?” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “How do you know?” Jeonghan’s mouth curves. “Because his type never loses quietly. And because the air in Mayfair tastes different today.”
Jeonghan leans closer, voice dropping steadier beneath the flippancy. “What did he say?” Seungcheol’s fingers curl. “He threatened her.”
Jeonghan’s smile vanishes so quickly it’s almost frightening. “How.” Seungcheol stares at the ledger. The columns. The numbers. The neatness. The lie that any of this can be controlled with ink. “He suggested,” Seungcheol speaks slowly, “that Lady Whitlock’s refusal could be… corrected. Publicly.” Seungcheol’s words grow colder. “Hartwell’s pride is bruised. He wants to punish her for not accepting what he thought he was entitled to.”
Jeonghan’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He inhales, then exhales like a man forcing himself not to shatter something expensive. “He wants you to react,” Jeonghan says finally.
“He wants her ruined,” Seungcheol answers quietly.
“He wants you to blame her.” Jeonghan steps closer, blunt in that brotherly way that doesn’t soften.“Don’t let his poison make you treat her like she’s the problem.”
Seungcheol’s throat tightens. He thinks of you—stiff-backed at the Opera, perfect, controlled, still placing your hand on his arm like you are not trembling inside. You are not the problem. Hartwell is. Mayfair is. And Seungcheol—Seungcheol is becoming something he didn’t intend to become.
Jeonghan picks up a stack of invoices and flips through them like he’s looking for something to stab. “All right,” he says briskly. “We’ll play.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “We?” Jeonghan glances up, grin returning like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “You dragged me here. I assume you want my charming face to reassure the frightened little lambs.”
Seungcheol doesn’t have the patience for Jeonghan’s theatrics today. Jeonghan doesn’t care. He steps out from behind the counter and begins greeting the next patron with warmth bright enough to make the sun envious. He flatters. He smiles. He makes a countess laugh. He is good at this—better than Seungcheol—because Jeonghan looks like ease, and Mayfair always trusts ease more than it trusts competence. Seungcheol watches Jeonghan work and feels something else twist in him: gratitude he doesn’t know how to express without making it uncomfortable.
And beneath it—still, always—you. Because even while he talks of stones and settings and commissions, his mind keeps turning to the pavilion, to the way your hands fisted in his coat like you meant to ruin him. He had thought work would be refuge. Work is only another place your name follows him.
By the time he goes to White’s, the rumours have gained shape. He hears it in the way men greet him now—smiles a fraction too bright, bows a fraction too deep, as if they are trying to prove they are not thinking the thing they are thinking. He tastes it in the small hesitations—doorways held open too long, a whisper clipped short when he turns his head, a laugh that stutters and then recovers as if nothing happened. Hartwell said it: you can’t punch a whisper.
Seungcheol takes a seat with a glass he doesn’t want. He listens to a conversation he doesn’t respect. He waits for something useful.
Lord Haversham—loose around the mouth—leans forward with a grin like he’s about to share a joke. “Ashbourne,” Haversham says, “you sly devil.” Seungcheol regards him. “Pardon?” Haversham explains. “The Whitlock sister. I didn’t think anyone could catch her, and you’ve done it in a week.” Another man—Sir Dalrymple—chimes in, eyes filled with envy. “The ice queen,” he says appreciatively, as if describing a rare horse. “Steel composure, sharp tongue, makes grown men sweat and calls it sport.”
Haversham continues. “And the inheritance.” He lifts his glass slightly, toasting. “Well played.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “She’s not a card to be played.”
Haversham waves a hand. “Oh, don’t sulk. We’re admiring you.” His eyes gleam. “Truly—how did you do it?” Dalrymple leans forward. “Did you corner her? Was it a scandal? Did you frighten her into it?”
Haversham chortles. “I’d wager he simply promised security. A woman like that must be exhausted. Offer her relief and she’ll sign any contract.”
The words twist in Seungcheol’s gut because they’re not entirely wrong—and that truth makes him want to break something. Because yes: he offered you protection. Yes: he offered you a shield. Yes: he built a plan. And then you kissed him like you could not bear the lie anymore. And now these men sit here and call you a prize and ask him which method worked best, as if your mouth isn’t yours. Seungcheol sets his glass down carefully. Then he looks at Haversham. “You’re speaking of Lady Whitlock as if she doesn’t have ears.”
Haversham blinks. “What?” Seungcheol’s voice stays level, which is worse than shouting. “As if she isn’t human. As if you’re entitled to discuss her like she’s meat on a table.”
Dalrymple laughs uncertainly. “Come now—”
Seungcheol’s gaze cuts to him. “Stop.” Haversham’s grin falters, annoyance creeping in. “All right, all right. We meant no disrespect.”
“You meant envy.”
Haversham’s eyes flash. “Of course we envy you. Do you think men don’t notice a fortune?” Seungcheol leans forward slightly. “If fortune is all you see when you look at her, you are unfit to speak her name.” Haversham scoffs, trying to recover his humour. “Listen to him. The adopted Viscount lecturing us on virtue.”
The room changes. Not everyone laughs. Some of them go quiet, because even here—especially here—the rumour becomes truth. Seungcheol’s spine goes rigid. He feels, all at once, Hartwell’s smirk in a shop full of diamonds. Blood. Not legitimate. Puppy story. Title. Haversham thinks he’s won. “Strange, isn’t it?” he muses. “A man without Ashbourne blood guarding Ashbourne jewels. Makes one wonder how long the ton will tolerate it.”
Seungcheol watches him. He watches Haversham’s mouth move and thinks of his brothers—six men bound by different blood and the same name, the same house, the same grief, a bond stronger than most men ever earn. He thinks of his parents. He thinks of loss, of the shape it carved into him, of everything he had to become before he was ready. He thinks of the scrutiny now turning toward his lineage—cold, entitled, eager to question his right to stand where he stands. And then he thinks of you. Of what that scrutiny will cost you if it sharpens. Of how quickly Mayfair takes a man’s uncertainty and lays the punishment at a woman’s feet. He thinks of Hartwell’s threat: no suitor will go for either of her sisters. And he feels something in him tilt—dangerously, irrevocably—away from diplomacy.
“Say that again,” Seungcheol murmurs. “Say that I do not belong.” Dalrymple clears his throat. Someone else shifts in their seat. The air tightens, thick with the knowledge that Seungcheol does not bluff. Haversham swallows, tries to laugh it off. “Come now, Ashbourne, don’t be—”
Seungcheol rises. “You want to know how I did it?” Seungcheol asks. Haversham’s eyes flicker. Seungcheol steps closer, just enough to intimidate. “I didn’t.” Haversham blinks. “What—”
“She wasn’t caught,” Seungcheol says. “She wasn’t cornered. She wasn’t frightened into anything.” His throat tightens around the next truth because it tastes like surrender. “She chose.” Haversham’s mouth opens, then closes.
“And if any of you speak of her like property again, if any of you so much as imply she can be purchased with a dowry or a rumour, I will make it my personal pleasure to ensure you never enjoy another Season.”
Seungcheol turns and leaves. Not because he fears them—because he cannot stand breathing the same air as men who think you’re a ledger entry. Outside, the night hits his lungs like retribution. He walks. Away from their laughter, their entitlement, their smug certainty that women exist to be discussed and acquired, the ease with which they assume they are entitled to you. He hates that. He hates that he understands it.
Ashbourne Hall is lit when he returns. Seungcheol gives his coat to a footman and takes the stairs without slowing. He tells himself he wants silence. He reaches his study, shuts the door, and stands in the dark with one hand still on the latch, breathing like he has outrun something only to find it waiting inside him.
The door opens again. Joshua steps in with a bottle of brandy in one hand and two glasses in the other, which means he already knows enough. “Jeonghan talked.”
Seungcheol turns his head. “He always does.”
Joshua sets the bottle down on the desk and fills the glasses without asking. “White’s?”
“Yes.”
Joshua offers one. Seungcheol takes it and downs it in one swallow. Joshua watches him. Seungcheol reaches for the bottle, refills, and drinks the second just as fast. When he tips the bottle for a third, Joshua catches his wrist lightly and eases it from his hand. “No,” Joshua says, gentle but firm. “You don’t get to disappear into this.”
Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. For a moment, he looks like he might argue simply because he hates being managed. Then he drops into the chair behind the desk instead. Joshua sits opposite him with his own untouched glass. “What happened that has you looking like you’d cheerfully break your hand on brick?” Seungcheol stares at the desk. “They spoke about her.” Joshua’s brows lift. “You mean Lady Whitlock.”
Seungcheol answers too quickly. “I mean us.” Joshua leans back slightly, studying him. “They were needling you.”
“They were vile.”
“Yes.” Joshua nods. “But it got under your skin.”
Seungcheol’s gaze goes distant—Haversham grinning into his glass, the word inheritance tossed across the table like bait, men speaking about you as if you were a purchase with a pulse. “They congratulated me,” he says at last. “As if I’d cornered her.” Seungcheol gives a humourless exhale. “Then they wanted details. How I ‘managed it.’”
Joshua inhales slowly. “Cheol.” Seungcheol’s eyes cut to him. “What?” “I believed this arrangement was duty.” Seungcheol’s face hardens on instinct. “It is.”
“Then why is Hartwell’s rumour eating through you by the hour?” Seungcheol stills. The rumour is not only after his name. It is after the business. The house. The legitimacy of both. It wants Ashbourne to look borrowed. It wants Carat & Co. to look precarious. It wants your courtship to look like calculation made desperate. Seungcheol leans forward. “He threatened her.”
“That’s the game,” Joshua says quietly. “Make you furious. Make you rash. Make her panic.”
“I’ll ruin him.” Joshua does not flinch at Seungcheol’s vow. “You probably can.” He pauses. “But don’t confuse punishing him with protecting her.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A very large one.” Joshua supplies. “One soothes your temper. The other keeps her safe.”
The words hit harder than Seungcheol wants them to. Because the truth is uglier than his anger. He does not only want Hartwell chastened. He wants him erased. He wants the world taught not to put its hands on your name. He wants, somewhere dark and ungoverned in himself, to close his fist around every room you enter and decide who breathes. Joshua watches the silence work through him. He has known Seungcheol too long to mistake that silence for peace. “Look at me,” Joshua whispers. Seungcheol does. “Tell me this is still only a plan.”
“It is.” Clipped. Instant. Joshua’s gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hand on the armrest. “Then why are you shaking?” Seungcheol looks down. A tremor, slight but there, runs through his fingers. He tightens his hand until it stops by force. Joshua exhales through his nose. “Cheol.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
Seungcheol’s voice catches and comes out sharper because of it. “Looking at me like I’ve gone soft.” Joshua’s expression shifts—fond, tired, too perceptive. “I don’t think you’ve gone soft.” Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. “Then what is it?” Joshua holds his gaze. “I think you’re attached.”
Seungcheol looks away at the confession. He wants to scoff. Deny it. Turn it into annoyance and move on. But denial feels idiotic with the memory of your lips still living under his skin. Attachment. Not duty. Not optics. Not strategy. Attachment is how men get careless. He has built his life on never being careless.
Joshua lets the silence stretch before speaking again. “If this turns messy, it won’t be because you care. It’ll be because you lie to yourself about caring.” Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. “If I lose control, she pays.”
“Not if you choose where the control goes.”
That lands, too. God, he hates how cleanly Joshua says things. Seungcheol looks at the desk—the bottle, the glasses, the papers stacked in exact lines like order is a spell that still works if he arranges it neatly enough. Joshua studies him for a long while, then says it with infuriating kindness: “You’re falling, brother.” A beat. “And harder than you meant to.”
Recognition moves through Seungcheol. He does not deny it. How could he? It is everywhere—in how quickly his temper rises when men speak of you, in how his eyes find exits and doorways when you’re in a room, in how Hartwell’s threat narrowed his vision to a point.
Joshua stands, finally taking his own drink and finishing it. He sets the glass down with a soft clink. “All right,” he says, moving toward the door. “Call it a plan if that helps you stand upright.” Seungcheol stays seated, gaze fixed on the desk. Joshua pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back. “Just remember,” he says softly, “plans do not keep men awake.” Then he leaves.
Seungcheol sits in the dim study long after the door closes. The house settles around him. Pipes, boards, distant footsteps, then quiet. He listens to his own breathing and tries, for once, to picture you without the poise, without the gloves, without Mayfair looking on. He cannot. Every attempt drags him back to that kiss. He grips the desk edge until the wood bites into his palm. The truth is brutal in its simplicity: Seungcheol is becoming reckless in the one way that matters most—emotionally—because the lie of the courtship no longer feels like a lie inside him.
He reaches for his pen. Tries to return to figures, orders, stone weights, and delivery dates. But the first word his mind offers is not a number. Not duty. Not strategy. You. And the worst part—the part he cannot file, cannot master, cannot discipline away—is that he is no longer certain he wants to.
By the third quadrille, your smile has become a discipline. Lady Halstead’s ballroom is all light and scrutiny—mirrors multiplying every glance, chandeliers making everyone appear a fraction brighter and a fraction more false, the floor crowded with silk and moving in measured patterns while the room itself hums with that particular kind of excitement that means society has scented something and has not yet decided whether it is scandal or sport. The Whitlocks and the Ashbournes are placed on opposite sides of the room as if by accident. It is not an accident. You arranged it so in the first ten minutes.
Not with anything so crude as a command. A pause here, a turn there, a gracious acceptance of Lady Halstead’s suggestion that you stand nearer the second row of pillars where the widowed countesses like to collect, and a gentle redirection of Georgina toward Lord Halbrook before she could drift too near the Ashbourne side of the floor. Cecily was easier. Cecily goes where she is invited if the invitation is kind. You have become very good at architecture.
It’s been two weeks since Wrotham. Two weeks since the pavilion. Two weeks since the library before it, and the storm, and the almost-kiss that became a real one the following day in sunlight and ivy and ruin. Two weeks since you last saw Seungcheol. Not a call. Not a note. Not a chance encounter so much as a carriage glimpsed through rain.
Only whispers with no bones yet—his name in passing, Bond Street mentioned beside the phrase conversation in town, someone at tea remarking that Carat & Co. seemed busy and not busy at once in that irritating way people use when they know half of something and want credit for the whole. Nothing direct. Nothing you can take hold of. Nothing that lets you ask. So you do not ask.
Across the room, the Ashbournes stand in a loose, gleaming knot beneath one of the mirrored panels. Jeonghan is cornered by two mamas and appears to be enjoying himself far too much for a man being interrogated about siblings and prospects. Soonyoung is pretending to listen to a countess while making faces over her shoulder at Georgina whenever he thinks no one sees. Joshua is speaking to an older gentleman, and Wonwoo is at the edge of the group, seemingly trying to blend in with the wallpaper. And Seungcheol— You do not look at him. You do.
He is doing exactly what a viscount should do: standing where he can be seen, speaking when required, bowing to the right women, allowing himself to be surrounded by debutantes and ambitious mothers. His face gives little away. It always did less than yours. That used to comfort you. Now it only infuriates. Because he is speaking to other women with perfect courtesy, and every time one of them tips her head up at him and smiles as though she has been singled out by fate, something mean and hot twists under your ribs. Because he has barely spared you a glance all evening—if that. Because it has been two weeks.
A turn of the set takes you farther along the room. When the figure ends, you step back beside one of the gilt chairs and let your gloved fingers rest lightly on its carved edge. For the first time in longer than you know how to measure, your sisters do not need rescuing.
Georgina is across the room with Lord Halbrook and looks, infuriatingly, like herself and like a woman discovering she can be adored without being reduced. Their courtship has not become quieter since Wrotham; if anything, it has become more dangerous in the best possible way. He laughs when she startles a room. He asks follow-up questions when she says something outrageous. She says something to him now—chin tipped, eyes filled with wickedness—and Halbrook throws his head back laughing instead of attempting to tame her. She looks pleased. Not triumphant. Pleased. There is a difference. You notice because you have spent years watching for the opposite.
Cecily, miracle of miracles, is not fading into shadow. She stands half-turned beneath the long mirror near Lady Halstead’s fern stands, speaking with Lord Marlowe, grandson to the Duke of Marlowe, who began calling a week after Wrotham and has not once made her look as though he expects gratitude for being kind. He is not loud. He is not dazzling. He is, perhaps most importantly, attentive in the right direction. He listens when she answers. He does not interrupt to improve the shape of her thoughts. When she speaks, he leans in—not because he cannot hear, but because he wants to. Tonight, he has somehow coaxed her into discussing astronomy with a seriousness that makes her forget to be afraid. Cecily’s hands have come alive while she speaks. Her shoulders are lower. Her eyes lift and stay lifted. At one point, she even laughs—not into her glove, not apologetically, but openly, a soft, bright sound that carries farther than it should. Marlowe smiles like a man who knows better than to touch the moment with praise.
Your burden has not vanished. Burdens like yours do not vanish. They settle. They redistribute. For one suspended stretch of time, you are only the eldest sister standing alone at a ball while both your girls are occupied by men who appear, astonishingly, to deserve the time. The relief is so sharp it almost feels like salvation.
“Lady Whitlock.” Lord Haversham bows over your hand with polish. You know him by sight, of course. One always knows men like Haversham by sight before one knows their names: unearned confidence, expensive boredom. He smiles as if you are old allies in a private joke. “You are unclaimed for the set,” he says, glancing toward the floor, where couples are reforming in lines. “Will you allow me the honour?”
There is a pause in which you could refuse. You feel—without looking—where Seungcheol is in the room. You hate that you can. You have spent the better part of the evening proving distance. To everyone. To him. To yourself most of all. And here is a gentleman of acceptable standing, asking in full view of Lady Halstead’s chandeliers and half of Mayfair. You smile. “Of course, Lord Haversham.”
His satisfaction is almost imperceptible. Almost. He leads you into the set with impeccable manners and a grip just this side of presumptuous. You do not like him, but you have danced with worse men and smiled through worse reasons. Around you, the room rearranges. Silk turns. Gloves brush. Partners bow and cross. At the edge of the next figure, your gaze betrays you and finds Seungcheol.
Three young ladies have formed a crescent around him, with two mamas behind them like artillery. One of the girls says something earnest. Another laughs too quickly at nothing. Seungcheol inclines his head, answers, and then—because God is cruel—looks up at exactly the moment your hands join Haversham’s for the turn. His expression does not change. The change is in you.
Something defensive and defiant lifts in your chest, and before you can reason with it, you are dancing more brightly than the figure requires, answering Haversham with crisp wit, allowing your smile to appear as though you are enjoying yourself immensely instead of staging a demonstration no one asked for. Haversham leans slightly closer in the next pass. “You dance like a woman making a point.”
“Do I?” you reply smoothly.
“Most certainly.” His gaze slides, not subtly enough, toward the Ashbourne side of the room before returning to you. “I admire clarity.” You look at Haversham then and think, with sudden bitterness, that it is absurd. Seungcheol on the sidelines with women he does not want. You in the middle of the floor with a man you would never choose. The ton, no doubt, questioning your courtship. You continue on.
The set breaks and reforms. Lady Halstead, who treats choreography like warfare, has chosen a cotillion that delights her precisely because it trades partners every few turns and leaves everyone pretending not to care where they end up. The room shifts into fresh lines. Across the floor, a small ripple passes through the mamas near Seungcheol. One of them wins. You do not mean to watch. You watch him take the hand of a lady in pale blue. She is lovely in the way the ton rewards—fair, polished, delicate without looking fragile. She smiles up at him, and he gives her the kind of perfectly proper attention that makes older women nod approvingly into their fans. He bends his head to hear her over the music. His hand settles at her waist. He turns her through the figure. It hurts. You look away too late. Haversham notices it. Men like him always do when they think it will be useful. “Ah,” he says lightly as the figure moves you apart and back again, “now there is an instructive arrangement.”
You meet his eyes. “If you intend to spend this dance discussing other people, my lord, you may return me to the wall.” He laughs and lifts both hands in surrender. “Forgive me. I am chastened.” You do not believe him, which at least gives you something steady to stand on.
The music drives on. Partners trade. A gentleman bows, a lady curtsies; hands touch and release, and touch again, according to rules strict enough to survive the chaos. You move where the dance demands. Once to the left. Once forward. Once away. Haversham is replaced by a baronet’s son with damp palms. Then by a married colonel who smells of starch and certainty. Then by—
A hand you know before it closes around yours. You look up. Seungcheol bows as though this is an ordinary turn in an ordinary set and not the first time his body has been this close to yours since he kissed you in a pavilion. “Lady Whitlock.” Your curtsy is flawless. “Lord Ashbourne.”
He leads you into the next figure with devastating precision. Not too close. Never too close. Not in public. His fingers at yours are steady and impersonal and impossible. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You keep your smile for the watching room. “Have I? I thought we were both attending the same ball.”
“For the ton, perhaps.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not for me.” You turn under an arch of joined hands, another couple briefly passing between you. When you face him again, your heart is thudding so hard you can feel it in your ears. “Then you should not have spent two weeks proving absence suits you.”
Something flickers in his face. Regret, maybe. Anger, certainly—though not, you think, at you. The figure pulls you apart and returns you. When Seungcheol takes your hand again, his voice drops a fraction beneath the music. “I was handling what followed Wrotham.” That lands badly. You hear business. Damage. Consequences. A mess to be contained. You hear yourself, somehow, included in a ledger. You lift your chin. “How diligent.” His jaw tightens. “Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn every word into a weapon before I can finish it.” Your laugh is small and bright and entirely false. “You mistake me, my lord. I am merely trying to follow the plan.” The word hits him. You see it. For one raw moment, his composure slips enough to show the man underneath—the one in the library, collar open, voice tired; the one in the pavilion with your name breaking in his throat.
The next figure brings you closer. Too close for safety. Not close enough for honesty. Seungcheol’s hand closes around yours for the crossing turn. “That is exactly what I have been trying to do,” he says, each word forced through his locked jaw. “Put duty back where it belongs. What happened at Wrotham…” he continues, and his gaze flicks to your mouth, then away again. “…was not part of our arrangement.”
The ballroom does not change. The chandeliers still burn. The strings still play. Lady Halstead still smiles from her chair like a queen surveying crops. And yet, all you can hear is the echo of that line inside your own skull. Not part of our arrangement. He means to continue. You see it in the way his mouth parts, in the urgency that flashes too late through his eyes. Perhaps there is more. Perhaps there is some explanation buried beneath that brutal, tidy phrasing. You do not let him reach for it. Because shame is quicker than patience, and pride is a better shield than hope. “Of course,” you say.
The figure ends. You curtsy before he can stop you. A beautiful, correct curtsy that gives nothing away except, perhaps, the speed with which you rise. Then you turn and leave the set before the next exchange is called. You move through the room with your spine straight and your breath gone thin, past Lady Halstead’s circle of seated matrons, past a knot of gentlemen pretending not to stare, past the mirrored wall that throws your face back at you, too pale, the mask slipping. Behind you, the music stumbles on. You hear your name once—low, cut short by the crowd. Then, you hear what you knew you would. His footsteps, leaving the floor.
You do not stop walking until the corridor gives way to the rear of the house, then to the glass-lit hush of Lady Halstead’s orangerie. You slip inside and let the door fall shut behind you. Moonlight and house-light catch in the panes and iron ribs overhead, turning the rows of citrus trees into shadow. Marble urns stand pale at the edges. Leaves whisper faintly in the draught. The tiled floor gleams in broken strips of light. Your chest rises sharply under your stays. Not part of our arrangement. You press your hand flat to your sternum as though you might quiet the line where it lodged. It does not move.
The door opens again. You close your eyes before you turn. Seungcheol stands just inside, one hand still on the latch, the ballroom’s light framing him before the door settles and leaves him in the same dim silver you stand in. His expression is held together by effort. His eyes are not. Neither of you speaks.
Then, low and rough—more exhausted than angry, though the anger is there too—he asks, “Why do you always run from me?” You laugh, breathless. “Why do you always come after me?”
“Because you leave before I can finish a sentence.”
“You finished enough of one.” The words leave you too fast. “Quite clearly.” Something flickers across his face—frustration, then immediate regret for it. He takes one step closer, stopping well short of you. “I know what I said.”
“Do you?” You fold your arms because your hands are unsteady and you refuse to let him see that. “In there, you looked me in the face and called Wrotham a mistake in better tailoring.”
“I did not call it a mistake.”
“No,” you say, voice thinning at the edges despite your best efforts. “You called it outside the terms. How much kinder.” He inhales slowly, visibly, like a man trying not to break something fragile with the force of his own temper. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then perhaps you should stop speaking in duty when you mean to address me.”
His mouth hardens, but not at you. At himself. At the truth of it. “You think I do not know that?” he asks quietly. “I have spent two weeks knowing it.” You blink. The hurt in you does not lessen. It sharpens. “Two weeks,” you repeat. “And still you chose that.”
“I chose control,” he snaps, then checks himself instantly, lowering his voice. “Because I have been losing it everywhere else.” The words hang between you, abrupt and too honest for the room they are in. You lift your chin. “And I am what suffers when you decide to recover it?”
His gaze cuts to yours. “No.” Immediate. Certain. “That is exactly what I have been trying to prevent.”
You do not answer. The silence pushes him. Seungcheol steps closer, and when he speaks, the anger in him has gone silent—made raw by emotion. “What happened at Wrotham was not part of our arrangement,” he says, and for one blinding second the wound opens fresh—until he continues, voice frayed at the edges, “because what happened at Wrotham had nothing to do with the arrangement at all.”
You go still. He looks at you like the confession hurts. “I said it badly in there. God, I know I did. I was trying to say I cannot keep pretending that what is between us sits neatly inside anything I planned.” Seunghceol takes another step. Close enough that you can see how tightly he is holding his hands at his sides. “I have tried,” he says. “For two weeks. Duty. Work. Business. Every sensible thing I know how to bury myself in. And every time I think I have managed it, I remember your mouth and I stop being sensible.”
Your throat tightens so suddenly you hate him for it. “Do not say things like that when you have just spent an entire night making me feel like an embarrassment you must tidy away.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“What else should I think?” you fire back, finally losing the carefulness you have worn all Season. “You avoid me for two weeks, then speak of duty and arrangement and control as if I am some error in your schedule. You dance with another woman. You—” Your voice catches. You hate that too. “You looked at me as if you were forcing yourself to.”
He stares at you for too long. Then, very softly: “I looked at you like a man trying not to drag you out of the room.” The air leaves your lungs. Seungcheol closes his eyes, as if he did not intend to say that either. When he opens them, he does not look away. “I danced with her because if I stood still any longer while you let that fool put his hands on you, I would have caused a scene Lady Halstead would dine out on for years.”
Something hot and helpless turns in your chest. You hate the relief. You hate how quickly your body believes him. “You do not get to speak as if I belong to you,” you whisper.
“I know.” An exhale. “And still I cannot seem to watch another man touch you and feel anything I am proud of.”
You should leave. Right now. While the floor still feels steady beneath you, and your heart is merely loud instead of reckless. Instead, you ask, because you are as doomed by honesty as he is, “Then what is it you feel?” He comes closer. This time he does not stop until there is only breath between you. His hand lifts, hesitates near your cheek, and falls back to his side—not from disinterest, but because he is waiting. It is the waiting that nearly ruins you. “Everything I was not supposed to,” Seungcheol says. You shake your head as if you can physically shake sense back into the moment. “You are impossible.”
“You have said that before.”
“Because it remains true.” Your voice is thin, breath-frayed. “You anger me. You command rooms as if you own the air in them. You speak in rules and then break them yourself. You make me feel—”
He leans a fraction closer. “What?” You swallow. Hard. “Unsteady.” Something in him softens so visibly it is almost unbearable. “You make me unsteady, too.”
You stare at him. He looks tired. Beautiful. Undone in a way only you can see because everyone else gets the Viscount, the stonework, the precision. You get the man standing in an orangery asking for words he has no practice saying. Your anger is still there. So is the hurt. So is the bruised pride. But underneath all of it, something older and more honest rises and reaches for him. You grab his lapel. “I should hate you,” you whisper. His gaze drops to your mouth. “I know.” He murmurs. “And if you kiss me anyway, I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for your poor judgment.” A broken sound—half laugh, half sob—leaves you. Then you pull him down and kiss him.
He answers like he has been starving. Hunger held in careful hands until you open your mouth to him and he makes a low, wrecked sound into the kiss and gives up the pretence of restraint. His hand comes to your waist, firm and warm, drawing you in as though he is afraid you might disappear again if he does not keep hold of you. You kiss him harder.
He turns you gently, guiding rather than pressing, until the backs of your knees meet the edge of a low stone border near one of the planters. He breaks from your mouth only to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips again, as if he cannot quite decide where he wants to begin now that he is allowed. “You are shaking,” he murmurs against your skin. “So are you.” Seungcheol’s mouth curves against your throat. “Yes.”
The admission is so soft it feels intimate all on its own. You slide your hands up his chest, over the broad line of his shoulders, to his cravat. Your fingers work at the knot and he stills for you, eyes on your face while you tug the fabric loose. When it slackens, he exhales as if something in him unclenches with it. He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Then your wrist. Then the pulse there, slow and intentional, eyes never leaving yours. “Seungcheol…”
He answers by touching your face—finally—his palm warm along your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” You stare at him, heart pounding. Then you shake your head and kiss him again. Whatever remains of his restraint melts. He sinks with you to the floor, careful of your skirts, your limbs, the hard tile beneath. His coat comes off and he folds it under you without thought, the same maddening instinct to make comfort where he can. You should laugh at him for it. Instead, your heart aches.
Your gloves are worked free and set aside. Seungcheol kisses the inside of your palms when he bares them. You undo his waistcoat with impatient fingers while he nuzzles beneath your jaw, mouthing soft, open kisses that make your head fall back against the dark wool of his coat. His hands find the back of your gown. He pauses. You nod once, already breathless.
He opens your dress with reverence that borders on worship—hooks eased loose, ribbons drawn through, layers parted only as needed, every shift of fabric accompanied by a glance to your face as if he would rather burn alive than miss the moment you hesitate. The room seems to narrow to his hands and your breathing. When he loosens your stays enough for you to inhale fully, the relief steals a moan from you. He freezes, searching your face. “Too tight?”
You catch his wrist and guide his hand lower, beneath the loosened edge of your bodice, over the heat of your skin. “No.” Your voice comes out soft, unsteady, far more yielding than either of you expected. “Just… don’t stop.” His eyes darken with something that is not triumph but awe. He kisses you again—slow, deep, almost careful until you arch into him and the care roughens into need. Your hands move inside his shirt, pushing linen apart, palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest and the heat of him. He shudders when your nails drag lightly over his skin. “You undo me too easily,” he breathes against your mouth. “Good.” The word is barely more than a whisper, but it makes him kiss you even harder.
When his hand slips beneath your skirts, you part your legs for him instinctively. The first touch of his thumb against your clit pulls a helpless cry from your throat. He stills just long enough to look at you, a silent question in the pause. You answer by lifting your hips toward his hand. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the words are so soft, so devastatingly fond, that your whole body melts. He touches you again.
His fingers slide through the slick heat between your folds, circling your entrance in slow, precise strokes, before dipping in. He learns you in real time—what makes your breath catch, what makes your thighs tense around his wrist, what makes your mouth fall open on his name. “God, look at you,” he breathes, eyes fixed as much on your face as on his hand between your legs. Seungcheol curls his digits, drawing each upwards stroke out until you’re almost shaking with it; when your hips jerk up in protest, he huffs a soft, frayed laugh and does it again, watching you fall apart. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the back of his neck, losing track of where to hold because the pleasure keeps building, flooding, pulling you under in warm, rolling waves. “Seungcheol—” you gasp, the syllables breaking. “Please, I—”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your cheek, the top of your breasts—words brushing your skin as soft as his kisses. “Let go for me. I have you.” You do. Your body seizes and then releases for him almost instinctively, the fight draining out of your limbs as your orgasm crests hard and hot. It rushes through you in a sharp, blinding sensation; your thighs clamp around his arm, and a high, broken whine spills from you, impossible to swallow back. He keeps you there, his fingers working you gently through it, praising you under his breath, his hand never leaving your soaked core until your breathing turns ragged and your inner muscles spasm around him. You cling to him, dazed, pulse thundering against his mouth where he kisses the spot just below your ear.
When you finally manage to focus, you realise he’s shaking—subtle tremors running through his arms and shoulders with effort, with his own need held in check for your sake—and something in you melts completely. Your hands go to his face, thumbs brushing the flush along his cheekbones. “Come here,” you whisper, voice breathless, invitation threaded through every quiet word. He looks wrecked by the invitation alone, pupils blown wide, lips parted like the air has been punched from him. You undo more of his shirt with unsteady fingers, pushing it aside to bare the heat of his chest, and he helps you in silence, clumsy in his urgency. He kisses you between each hurried movement as if he cannot bear to let more than a heartbeat pass without touching you somewhere. When your hand slips lower, over the hard line of his stomach to the ridge of his cock straining beneath his trousers, he exhales your name like a prayer. The sound is rough, wrecked, dragged from somewhere deep, and it runs straight through you. His hips jerk once, instinctive, a helpless push into your palm before he catches himself. He grabs your wrist gently, brings your fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss against your digits, then guides your hand back to his chest. “Later,” he breathes. “If we start that now, I won’t be patient with you the way I should.” You feel the shiver that goes through him as he says it, the hard, undeniable proof of how much he wants you, and your whole body answers with a fresh, helpless ache. He settles between your legs, caging you against the floor. His weight is a comfort, his warmth a shield. “Look at me,” he whispers. You do. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb sweeping once along your skin. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Anything at all.” You nod, drawing him down by the nape of his neck. “I will,” you breathe. “I promise.”
There’s a brief, fumbling shift of his weight; you feel the subtle drag of fabric as he reaches between your bodies, the muted clink of buttons, the quick, unsteady exhale against your mouth as he frees himself from the last barrier between you. Then he’s there again, closer than before, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive centre with no more cloth in the way. The first careful thrust of him inside steals the air from both your lungs. He pushes forward slowly, his eyes searching your face even as his own composure frays. You are warm and open and aching for him, and he moves with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten.
When he finally sinks fully into you, filling you with a deep, slow thrust, your mouth opens on a sound you cannot soften. It’s half-gasp, half-moan, the kind of desperate little cry that sounds like you’ve been holding it in for years. His eyes slam shut. A strained, reverent groan leaves him at the same time, low in his chest, torn straight from somewhere under his ribs, and the sound of it—so unguarded, so full of feeling—makes your hands fly to the back of his neck to hold him there, as if you could keep him from slipping away. He kisses you through the first roll of his hips, all softness and heat and impossible patience. His free hand lands at your waist, braced just where you need it as he rocks into you, letting your body learn the girth of him. “There,” he murmurs when some deep, clenched part of you finally yields to the size of him, when the sharp edge of stretch gives way to something molten and unbearably good. “That’s it. Just like that.” You moan into his shoulder, fingers digging into his back, no longer caring how loud you might be, no longer caring about the walls or the glass or the woman who owns this house. The world narrows until there is only the glide of his cock within your walls, the weight of his body on top of yours, and the heat of his breath against your ear.
Your knees fall wider, skirts bunched around your midriff, and your hips rise to meet each slow thrust. The effect is instant—his breath shatters on a curse against your throat, his next thrust losing its perfect control as he follows your lead. “God,” Seungcheol whispers against your lips, already half-lost. “You feel…” The sentence breaks on a groan when you move with him just right, and he laughs softly, helplessly, kissing you again like he can’t help himself. “No. I cannot speak and survive this.” You smile against his mouth, drunk on him, and then the smile melts into a whimper when he slides the hand that was around your waist under your backside to haul you up, the new angle lighting up every nerve. Your thighs straddle his, and the position allows him to thrust deeper, faster, driving any coherent thought from your mind. His hand slides between your bodies, and his fingers find your aching clit again. The combination is devastating. It’s like being pulled in two directions at once—sharp and soft, pressure and release—until your whole body feels like a live wire, every nerve tuned to the rhythm he sets. A cry spills from you before you can stop it, high and unrestrained.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” Another deep thrust, another circling stroke of his thumb. “Don’t hide from me.” You don’t. You can’t. You can’t. Your moans turn softer, then higher, breaking apart around his name in a way that makes his jaw clench, and his rhythm falter.
The pleasure builds fast—too much and not enough, tight and trembling, a sharp, coiling pull low in your belly that will not let you go. Your thighs shake around his, your fingers slip in the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto something solid as the room seems to tilt. “Seungcheol, I—” The rest breaks off on a choked moan as his thumb circles more tightly, and the head of his cock brushes against the most sensitive part inside you. “I know, love.” The words slip out of him instinctively while his hips keep their rhythm. “Take it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Your orgasm breaks over you all at once. Your core locks around his cock and then releases in a shudder that tears a full, desperate cry from your throat. It rips through you in waves—sharp, dissolving, too much—and you feel yourself come, fingers clawing at his shoulders. He follows not long after—one, two, three thrusts—before his body stutters and then surges. Your name leaves him in a shattered whisper into the space between your lips as he comes and his seed fills you.
The orangerie settles around you again—leaf-rustle, distant music through walls, the thin hush of night at the glass. You look at his profile in the moonlight, hair disordered, mouth reddened from your kisses, shirt open, and the truth arrives with terrible clarity. You love him.
Wrotham is quieter in the morning than any church he has ever entered. Not because the house is empty—it never is, not truly. But this quiet is older than sound. It sits in the walls. It waits in the rails polished by generations of hands. It lingers in the portrait gallery, where men in oil and gilt look out as though blood alone could keep a house from breaking. Seungcheol moves through it alone. He has not come to inspect accounts. He has not come to review tenants’ letters. He has not come because a steward requires correction or a roofline needs repair. He has come because he is out of excuses.
The key to the jewel room turns with familiar resistance. He enters, closes the door behind him, and stands for a moment without moving while the lamps throw their careful light over velvet and glass. Ruby. Sapphire. Diamond. Amber. Emerald. And the onyx. The ring sits where it sat the last time he saw it, dark and patient, as though it knew he would eventually return once he had finished pretending not to understand himself. He unlocks the case. The click sounds indecently loud. When he lifts the ring, the weight of it lands in his palm. Cool gold. Smooth stone. No shimmer. No plea to be admired. It does not flash. His mother chose it for him for a reason, and he has spent years resenting how precisely she knew him. Beside the ring, tucked beneath the velvet lip, lies a sealed letter. His name is written on the front in her hand. Not Viscount Ashbourne. Not my eldest son. Just his name, as if she knew titles would be the first place he hid. He breaks the seal. The paper opens with that soft sound old letters make, like breath released after being held too long. He reads.
My dearest Seungcheol,
If you are opening this, then either you have chosen someone at last—or you are about to make a noble mess of a woman’s life in the name of duty. If it is the second, go wash your face in cold water and begin again. You have always mistaken endurance for virtue and restraint for wisdom. Sometimes you are right. Just as often, you are frightened and call it discipline. If you have found a woman worth standing beside, do not insult her by offering only the useful parts of yourself. A title is not tenderness. Protection is not devotion. Duty may build a house, but it does not warm one.
The onyx was chosen for you because it holds its depth in bright rooms. Let it remind you of this: if you place it on her hand, it is not a claim. It is a vow. That she will not become smaller beside you. That your strength will never be used to cage what you love. If you are afraid, good. Men who feel nothing are never afraid to lose. Tell the truth, my son. And for once, let devotion be the braver thing.
Your mother
He reads it twice. The first time like a son being scolded by a ghost. The second like a man being handed his own reflection and told, with motherly precision, to stop lying to himself. By the end, a short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. Grief is still grief, even when it comes dressed in affection. He folds the letter carefully and slips it inside his coat. The ring remains in his palm, heavy and unignorable. A vow. Not a shield. He closes his fingers around it and exhales. For the first time in weeks, the path ahead does not feel like strategy. It feels like terror and certainty walking side by side.
He leaves Wrotham before noon. By the time he reaches Whitlock House, he is dressed for a proper call and breathing like a man headed for execution. The footman opens the door, sees him, and goes instantly formal in the way servants do when they are about to lie. “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol inclines his head. “I am here to call upon Lady Whitlock.” The footman does not blink. “I am afraid Lady Whitlock is unwell, my lord. She is not receiving callers.” He studies the man’s face. Admirable composure. “What is the nature of her illness?” he asks. A fractional pause. “A headache, my lord.”
“When did it begin?” The footman holds his breath too long. “This morning, my lord.” Seungcheol’s mouth nearly twitches despite the war in his chest. “Of course.”
Before the footman can attempt another defence, Georgina appears. She is bright-eyed, unbothered, and assessing him with unnerving accuracy. She takes one look at his face and understands enough to become, for once, efficient instead of theatrical. “Thomas,” she says sweetly to the footman, “you are a dreadful liar. Kindly stop suffering for our household’s honour.” The footman bows and retreats with the expression of a man who has survived many Whitlock women and expects no reward for it. Georgina turns back to Seungcheol. “She is not ill. She is hiding.” He nods his head. “I gathered as much.”
Georgina steps closer, lowering her voice. There is no mockery in it—only sharp, sisterly warning. “Back garden. Near the old rose wall.” Her gaze flicks once to his coat pocket, then back to his face. “I am telling you because I am tired of watching two intelligent people behave like wounded aristocrats from a novel.” A pause. “If you upset her, I shall make Halbrook shoot very badly in your direction.”
Seungcheol almost smiles. “I will do my best to avoid being shot.” Georgina steps aside, something approving flashing in her expression. “Do better than that, my lord.”
He goes through the house, past a corridor lined with family miniatures, through a side door opened by a maid who pretends not to stare, and out into the back garden where late spring has begun. You are exactly where your sister said you would be. Near the old rose wall, armed with pruning shears you are not currently using, standing very still in front of a rosebush that does not need your attention. You hear the door before you hear him. Your shoulders tense. You do not turn. He stops several feet away. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you turn. And there, all at once, Seunghceol feels the thing that has been chasing him since Lady Halstead’s orangery: not simply wanting you, not simply missing you, not simply anger at himself for what he said—fear. Fear that he has made you believe the wrong story about him and about what passed between you. Fear that he is already too late.
You knew he would come eventually. That is the most humiliating part. Not that he is here. Not that Georgina betrayed you in all of five minutes. Not even that your stomach dropped so fast when you heard his voice in the hall that you had to grip the stone edge of the rose wall to remain upright. The humiliating part is that some vicious, hopeful piece of you has been listening for him since the orangery. You turn and find him standing in your garden as if he belongs there. Perfectly dressed, of course. Coat immaculate. Hair neat. Gloves in one hand. The other close to his coat pocket, like he has come holding on to something he does not trust himself to reveal too quickly. Your pulse gives one hard, traitorous beat. You refuse to let your voice do the same. “My lord. You were told I am very ill.”
Warmth flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, I was informed.”
“You should not approach me, then.” You tilt your chin. “Contagion.” He exhales through what might have been a laugh in a kinder universe. “If wit were contagious, all of London would be unsafe.”
You hate that the line sounds like him again—the man from Wrotham, from the library and the pavilion, not the one in Lady Halstead’s ballroom who cut you open with one sentence. You set the shears down because your fingers are too tight around them and because stabbing a viscount in your mother’s rose garden is probably poor form. “Why are you here?” you ask. His gaze does not leave your face. “To speak properly.”
You decide to strike first, because fear has always worn precision best in your body. “If you’ve come to propose because of what happened at Lady Halstead’s, do not.” He goes very still. You keep going before courage can fail. “I know what the world expects after that kind of intimacy. I know what men call ‘honour’ when they are trying to cover up guilt. I know what duty looks like. I have spent years arranging my life around other people’s versions of it.” Your throat tightens. “You do not owe me a rescue from my own choices.” His jaw flexes. “If this is guilt, I will not take it. If it is protection, I will not be purchased by it. If it is scandal management, choose a better strategy than me.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there is no anger there. No distance. Only a kind of fierce, exhausted resolve that makes your breath catch in your lungs. “Are you quite finished?” he asks quietly. The question should offend you. It does not. It sounds like a man asking whether he may stop bleeding through his teeth and finally tell the truth. “No,” you say, because pride is a sickness and you are apparently violently ill. “But continue.”
That earns a short, helpless laugh from him. He reaches into his coat. He draws out the onyx ring. You recognise it at once. Old gold. Dark stone. The ring you saw at Wrotham behind glass, untouched and waiting. Your mouth goes dry. He looks at the ring in his hand, then back at you. “I went to Wrotham this morning.” You swallow. “I opened my mother’s letter.”
Something in your face must change, because his expression softens—not in triumph, but in recognition. He knows exactly what that admission costs him. He comes closer. Another step. Then another. You do not move. “You were right to be angry,” he says. “At the first ball. At Wrotham. At Halstead’s. I have hidden behind duty so long I speak it even when it is the wrong language for the truth.” His fingers close around the ring, hard enough to whiten at the knuckles. “So I will not use that language now.”
Your pulse is loud enough that you are convinced he can hear it. He stops in front of you, close enough that the roses at your back brush your skirts when the wind moves. “I am not here because of guilt,” he declares. “I am not here because you need saving. I am not here because of gossip, or the ton, or what happened at Halstead’s, though I will answer for all of it if I must.” He inhales deeply. “I am here because I love you.”
You forget to breathe. The garden remains. The house remains. Somewhere inside, Georgina is almost certainly restraining herself from storming outdoors and demanding progress. The world around you does not stop turning.
He keeps going, because of course he does. Because once Seungcheol chooses honesty, he does not do it by halves. “I love your temper. I love the way you hold a room without begging it to notice. I love the way you steady your sisters and think no one sees what it costs you. I love that you challenge me when I deserve it and when I do not. I love that you make me a worse strategist and a better man in the same breath.”
Heat floods your face so quickly it hurts. Your eyes sting. You hate that too. He glances down at the ring, then back to you, and for the first time since you have known him, there is no armour left between you—only a man standing upright inside his hope. “Duty built the arrangement,” he says. “It may have brought me to your door. But duty means nothing to me now if you are not beside me.” His voice catches, then steadies. “I do not want a wife I can protect from a distance. I want you. In my house. In my days. In all the difficult years after society grows bored and turns its attention elsewhere.”
You hear your own voice come out thin, disbelieving, and far more wounded than you meant it to sound. “At Halstead’s, you said what happened at Wrotham was not part of the arrangement.” He nods immediately. “It was not.” He steps close enough now that if you lifted your hand, it would find him without effort. “I said it badly because I was trying to speak like a careful man in a crowded room when I was one breath from saying too much. What happened at Wrotham was not part of any plan I made.” His gaze drops to your mouth and returns, open and wrecked. “That is exactly why it mattered.”
He opens his hand and lifts the ring between thumb and forefinger. The onyx catches nothing. It drinks the daylight. “This is not a claim,” he whispers. “It is not a leash. It is not me asking you to become smaller so I can feel stronger. It is a vow, if you want it. If you choose me. That I will stand with you—and ask you to stand with me.”
There it is. Not belong to me. Not let me save you. Not be sensible. Stand with me. Your throat closes around a hundred answers. Most of them impossible. One of them true enough to terrify you. You look at the ring. You look at his hand, steady only because he is forcing it so. You look at his face and see him without title or plan standing between you: the man from the library, the pavilion, the orangery floor—the man who can be severe as a blade and gentle as prayer at the same time.
You think of Georgina laughing at Wrotham. Of Cecily unfolding, slowly, into herself. Of the weight in your spine easing for the first time in years because someone strong enough to carry the burden offered to share it—and then had the decency to ask instead of assume. You lift your hand. It trembles. “You are still impossible,” you whisper. His mouth curves, shaky and helpless. “I know.”
You take one more breath and give him the answer that feels like stepping off a cliff and landing on solid ground. “Yes.”
He goes utterly still. For one absurd moment, you think he has not heard. Then his eyes close, and the relief in his face is so naked it nearly undoes you on the spot. When he opens them again, they are bright in a way that has nothing to do with sunlight. “Yes?” he repeats, afraid to trust good news while it is still warm. You almost laugh through the tears you are refusing to let fall. “Yes, Seungcheol. Though if you make me repeat myself, I shall change my mind on principle.”
A real laugh breaks from him then—low, startled, alive. He takes your hand with such care your knees weaken. When the onyx ring slides onto your finger, it is cool and heavy and startlingly right. Not possession. Promise. His thumb brushes your knuckles. Then again, as if checking the ring and hand are both real. You stare at it. Then at him. “It’s very severe,” you murmur, because if you do not say something dry, you may cry, and Georgina will never let you live. His gaze follows yours to the ring. “It suits you.” You lift your brows slowly. “That sounds like an insult.”
“It’s a compliment.”
You do the only sensible thing left to do. You step into him. His exhale leaves him hard from the impact. Then his arms are around you—careful for one second, then not careful at all, pulling you in with an urgency that says he has imagined this and feared it and now cannot quite believe his hands are allowed the reality of it. You press your face to his shoulder and close your eyes. He feels like steadiness and surrender all at once. He feels like home. His mouth brushes your hair, then your temple. “I love you,” he says against your skin. This time, you do not hide behind silence. You pull back just enough to see him. Your hand lifts to his face. His eyes close briefly as your fingers touch his cheek. Your throat feels dry, but you force the words through it because this is something you refuse to keep. “I love you too.” The sentence shakes on the way out. It is still the truest thing you have ever said.
His eyes open. Then his forehead comes to yours, and he laughs under his breath—half relief, half disbelief. “Say it again,” he murmurs. You narrow your eyes through tears and a smile that betrays you completely. “Absolutely not. You heard me the first time.”
His mouth curves. “Cruel.”
“You chose me.”
“Gladly.”
He kisses you then. Not with the desperate, incendiary hunger of the pavilion. Not with the wrecking urgency of the orangery. This kiss is slower. Fuller. No less devastating for it. It feels like a vow learning your name. When he lifts his head, your lips are warm and your breath unsteady and the world looks altered around the edges. He rests his hand over yours, over the onyx on your finger. “Stand with me,” he repeats. You look at the ring. At his hand covering yours. “I will.”
He keeps your hand in his as you turn toward the house together, and for the first time in a very long time, the future does not feel like a burden braced across your shoulders. It feels like something you are walking toward—side by side.
“Sister!” Georgina’s voice barrels down the corridor with all the restraint of a thunderstorm. “If you are still in bed, I will personally drag you out by your ankles—We have been waiting ages—Mingyu is arriving!”
You make a strangled sound that is half laughter, half panic, and lift your head just enough for the world to tilt. Linen. Warmth. The dim gold of morning filtered through heavy curtains. And Seungcheol—decidedly, scandalously—under the blankets, as if the concept of interruption is something that happens to other people. You turn your face into your pillow to muffle a laugh, then call back, voice pitched deliberately bright. “I’m coming!”
You feel Seungcheol shift below you, slow as a cat stretching in the sun. Then his head appears from under the sheets—hair mussed, eyes dark with wicked, lazy satisfaction—and the sight of him like this still does something to your lungs that is profoundly unfair. He looks up at you as though you are the only thing in the world worth devoting time to. “So soon, Viscountess?” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “I’ve only just started.”
You swat his shoulder, light but scolding, and he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it that steals the edge right out of your outrage. “We have duties,” you warn him, trying—trying—to sound stern. He blinks up at you with feigned innocence that would fool no one who has ever lived under this roof. “We do,” he agrees.
You slide out from under the blankets on sheer determination and the knowledge that Georgina will, in fact, break down your door. Cool air skims your naked skin. You reach for your shift and your stays. Behind you, Seungcheol turns onto his back, utterly unbothered, and watches you dress as if it is a sacred painting and he is the only man alive who understands it. His ring—his pinky ring—catches the light when he lifts his hand, onyx gleaming darkly. Your own wedding ring, the matching half set into gold, sits heavy and familiar on your finger—proof and promise and the quietest kind of devotion. He makes an appreciative sound that you pretend not to hear. “If you keep looking at me like that,” you mutter, struggling with a ribbon that suddenly feels determined to ruin you, “we will never leave this room.”
“That,” he says calmly, “is not a tragedy.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder. He smiles like a man with no intention of behaving. “There are, however, other duties I’m much more concerned with,” he adds, voice softening into something more dangerous. You huff, tugging your gown into place. “Oh?” You try to walk around the bed.
He catches you by the wrist and pulls—gentle, unyielding—and you stumble back toward him with an undignified little gasp, landing on the mattress beside his hip. His hand slides to your waist as if it has always lived there. You glare at him, breathless with annoyance you do not feel in any useful way. “And what duties might those be, my lord?” you ask, daring. Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the place where your ribs rise and fall beneath fabric. His hand follows, settling flat against your stomach with an intimacy so simple it makes your throat tighten. He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin. “Making an heir,” he whispers.
Your mouth betrays you into a smile. Because the words should feel like pressure. Expectation. The world’s oldest demand dressed up as romance. But with him—here, like this—they feel like an exciting premise. A vow spoken in laughter and heat and the knowledge that you chose each other. You cup his jaw and pull him into a kiss that tastes like mischief and the life you built in the wreckage of what society expected. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his and let your breath mingle with his. “Well,” you murmur, voice gone soft and treacherous, “you know how particularly important duty is to me.”
His laugh is delighted. “I do,” he says. And then he tugs you down into the sheets again—utterly shameless—while outside your door, Georgina continues to shout about the scandal of lateness and the triumph of Mingyu’s return, and the whole castle carries on as if it hasn’t just been handed its favourite sort of truth: that this is what you always meant when you insisted duty mattered.
A/N: Hello mes chéries, with this, book 1 of my new series is finished! It took a bit longer than expected because I did feel some (positive) pressure, but I'm pleased with the results. As always, I hope you enjoyed it! 💟
the one where wonwoo is pretty down bad for you, a popular streamer. previous chapter. headcanons under the cut. ➤ see also: svt burner accounts series
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junhui 🐱
has anyone seen wonu today
i need my hoodie back
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it's a wednesday
junhui 🐱
ahhh ok ok
Vernon.
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S.COUPS 🍒
Wednesdays are stream days. Lol
Which means
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We will NOT be hearing from Wonwoo until much later. 🥴
Vernon.
lmaooo
DINO!!
Have you guys seen this reel hahahaha
https://www.instagram.com/p/C_UHSjfBSst/
Wonwoo
Just finished backreading. Goddamn 🙃
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welcome back to the land of the living, loverboy ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ
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Guys,, my reel
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@️Wonwoo my hoodie back pls pls pls
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Your new headset suits you.
it wasn’t that you were fragile. it was more than you have already withstood a lot in life. the last thing you needed was to be uncomfortable in your own relationship, or have to tolerate something that may hurt your feelings.
you wanted the soft kind of love. the type where he stared at you softly with dreamy eyes, the type where he would carry you if your feet hurt, the type where he would cry if he was ever accidentally mean to you— the type where he loved you devotedly and gently.
you always made it clear, you wanted gentle love.
which was why it left everyone flabbergasted when you and sukuna ended up together.
everyone didn’t understand. did you end up abandoning your own boundaries? after all, sukuna was known to be a loud, short-tempered asshole with little to no manners. he was mean, rude, cocky— everything you were not looking for.
if only they saw how the loud, scary sukuna was with you.
you had a full day of back-to-back lectures. the idea od having to stay awake in classes and take notes from 8:30 am to 5:30 pm was already ruining your morning, especially when you had fallen asleep too late the night before, and woke up too late to grab breakfast.
by the time it was 12, you were already exhausted. you were stuck in the part of the campus with no signal, your phone was dying, and you felt like you were going to cry at the thought of continuing the rest of the day like that.
you were hungry. and tired. and sleepy. and—
warm arms gently wrapped around you, pulling you gently to a firm body, the smell too familiar for you to be alarmed. your eyes softened in confusion as you glanced up, meeting concerned red eyes.
“you don’t have classes today.” you mumbled tiredly, leaning into his touch, eyes briefly fluttering shut. he practically held your weight up, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he let go of you and grabbed your bag with a huff.
“i don’t.” he grunted, holding out a thermal cup and a brown paper bag you hadn’t noticed he was holding. you blinked dumbly. his lips twitched. “for you, sweetheart.”
“oh.” you mumbled, accepting them. “oh. is this—“
“your usual order.” he confirmed, nonchalant. “what lecture do we have now?”
“we?” you furrowed your eyebrows, exhausted and confused. “we’re not even in the same major— kuna, go home.”
“we.” he repeated, insistent, unfazed. he looked intimidating, especially with a frown pulling on his lips when he noticed your dark eye bags, but his eyes were soft. “you slept late last night?”
you hummed, giving up too easily at convincing him to go home, already walking to your next lecture. he followed, gently taking the thermal cup before you could ask, leaving your hands free to quickly eat before you reach the room.
“you have that party tonight, right?” you mumbled once you were done eating, throwing the bag away. he hummed, handing you the cup back, eyes fully focused on you. his frown deepened, and you sighed. “don’t say you won’t go. you haven’t went out with your friends in ages.”
he scoffed, now scowling. “why the fuck would i go out with them when i can stay home with you, especially with you tired and exhausted?”
“go out.” you insisted. he opened his mouth to argue, and you met his eyes, a sad pout pulling on your lips. “please. i don’t want to take you from your boys, and i wouldn’t be saying this if i knew you wouldn’t have fun.”
his eyes softened. his frown was back, but his free arm gently wrapped around your waist once more. “you know you can get me to do absolutely anything with that look, right?” he muttered, sighing loudly. at your small smile, his trademark smirk was finally making an appearance, despite his attempt to hide it to continue pretending to be annoyed, tugging you closer. “pure magic.”
by the time sukuna had driven you home and walked you in, you felt like you were about to collapse. the day had affected your mood, especially with you being too tired to focus or even write (sukuna’s hand writing was now gracing your notebook) and feeling absolutely stupid for not being able to grasp basic concepts. it didn’t help that you were hungry, and too lazy to cook or even pick up your phone to order.
and your boyfriend was at a party you forced him to go to.
before you realized it, you were on the couch, face buried into the cushions, tears soaking the fabric. you weren’t even sobbing, too tired to reach that point, just sadly letting tears drop and waiting for the horrible feeling in your stomach to fade.
you hadn’t even realized you had dozed off.
not until you were gently woken up by warm fingers gently swiping the remained of your tears away. your eyes gently fluttered open, and met red eyes, worried and angry. sukuna was kneeling beside the couch, his eyebrows furrowed, body tense. you blinked once, twice, and leaned softly into his touch, eyes fluttering shut sleepily. “mhm… you’re back?”
“yeah,” he grunted, arms adjusting you so you’re sitting up, a blanket being thrown on you before you’re gently yet firmly tucked in. “too fucking late, apparently. stay awake.”
with that, he’s walking into the kitchen, leaving you alone again. you blinked sleepily, staring into space, too distracted by how badly you need to sleep to even think. the smell of delicious food begins to fill the room, and your stomach growled loudly just as sukuna walks in, carrying a bowl.
“oh.” you mumbled slowly. “food.”
“yeah, food.” he nodded, almost amused, but his eyes were still concerned. “open up.”
you opened your mouth sleepily. throughout the meal, sukuna kept having to wake you up to remind you to chew and swallow, before gently feeding you once more. by the time the bowl was done, you were snoring softly on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his body.
when you woke up, you were being tucked in bed, now in comfortable pajamas (his shirt and shorts). you shifted with an embarrassing whine at the idea of being awake, and his sharp laugh echoed, clear of mocking and embarrassment, just pure amusement as he leaned down to kiss your forehead.
“gives me fucking cuteness aggression.” he mumbled, cupping your cheek. you were out like a light, snores echoing softly again, already starting to drool. his grin widened. “gonna fucking marry you.”
“…mhm…?”
“nothing, baby. goodnight.”
(a/n ok i admit i botched his character this time u guys can call him ooc </3 disadvantages of never actually reading/watching jjk… ill get better soon trusttt)
summary: (27) with no money and no prospects, you decide to take a gamble on the one job opportunity that presents itself – verkwan's live-in maid
pairing: vernon x seungkwan x reader
genre: (dark?) romance, smut, thriller undertones
warnings: power imbalance, sexuality crisis, jealousy, past murder+jail backstory implied, swearing, dares, kissing, neck-biting, fingering, cheating (?), unprotected sex (pls do not!), blowjob, slapping, schizophrenic tendencies, threats, spanking (with a belt), crying, butt stuff, dubcon anal, hidden mics/cameras, lowkey toxic but consensual relationship
author's note: the title is inspired by paramore's the only exception and the plot is somewhat inspired by the movie the housemaid but my story is significantly less disturbing as i tried to delve more into the theme of exploring one's sexuality
word count: 5.6k
Long story short, you got evicted for being extremely behind on rent. So, basically, you are now homeless. Sure, you have some friends that would let you stay the night for a day or two. But you need a permanent solution to your troubles. You are sick and tired of barely getting by and not having enough to afford an apartment, let alone go on holiday every once in a while. Your first "genius" idea is to look into sugar daddy apps. After all, you've literally hit rock bottom. Might as well sell your body to make ends meet. As you scroll through your phone and receive your fair share of visually unpleasant images, you stumble upon a publication that just stands out in the sea of male loneliness.
QUEER COUPLE LOOKING FOR A LIVE-IN MAID! URGENT!
Okay? That sounds interesting. If you applied for the position, you wouldn't have to worry about having to do sexual favours for gross men you weren't even attracted to. And besides the payment seems ridiculously tempting. If you get accepted, you can save from rent money and get a regular salary. You let yourself daydream for a while when you finally decide you've got nothing to lose and hurry to send your job application.
Only after you've submitted your resumé do you realize it's a bit strange that someone would look for an employee in a sugar daddy app. But oh well. Maybe they have their reasons. Maybe people don't really accept live-in positions that easily nowadays. It could be risky, after all. But…you're truly desperate for a place to crash and a decent job. So, this seems like a shot worth taking.
You decide to apply to a couple fast food restaurants, not daring to hope you might land the dream position. Half an hour later, though, your phone rings. Unknown caller. You remember filling in your number when applying just now and pick up.
"Hello? Miss L/N?" a chirpy male voice greets you.
"Yes?"
"Oh, good. My name is Seungkwan. I'm calling in relation to your job application for a live-in maid. Assuming you are still interested…"
Still interested? Is he for real? You applied less than an hour ago!
"Yeah, I'm definitely interested," you reply, trying not to sound to excited. But you fail miserably.
"That's great. Would you be available to come for an interview? I shall send you the address of our house."
"When?"
"Would today work for you?" Seungkwan asks politely.
Yes! Absolutely! You scream on the inside but play it cool on the outside.
"That would be possible. What time?"
"As soon as you can."
Erm, alright? You suppose you're not the only one desperate here.
As soon as you receive the address notification, you call a taxi that you can't even afford. The house is on the outskirts of town so it'll take you some time getting there. But you need this job so badly you decided to use the last of your money on the stupidly overpriced ride.
You are greeted by the man you talked to on the phone - Seungkwan. He looks pretty young, probably around your age. You are stunned by the lavish house he's residing in. Then again, not everyone is as unfortunate in life as you have been.
"Oh, hello, it's so lovely to meet you!" he welcomes you warmly with a hug. Okay?!
He shows you around the house and explains what your responsibilities would be. Vacuum-cleaning, cooking, doing the dishes, regular maid stuff, you imagine. At one point, it feels less like an interview and more like you're already getting hired.
"My husband is at work right now, but he'd be fine with whatever decision I made," Seungkwan explains patiently. Honestly, I was starting to worry we wouldn't get any applications."
"Um, no offense, but why did you post the job offer on a sugar daddy app?"
"Trust me, we already tried regular sites," he laughs easily. "But our house is so out-of-the-way that no one was really interested in living that far away from all that hustle and bustle. I suppose a live-in maid is not a really popular job nowadays."
You nod in agreement, definitely seeing his point.
"Without further ado…will you please work for us?" Wait, what? That easy? "I just feel like we'll get along so well. And I'm sure my husband would totally agree. What do you think?"
It sounds too good to be true…But who are you to look a gift horse in the mouth?
"I'd be honoured to work for you, sir…Wait, how would you like to be addressed?"
Seungkwan waves you off.
"Just call me Boo, it's fine."
"Huh?"
"It's literally my surname. Funny, isn't it?"
"Oh. Alright, then, Mister Boo. Pleasure doing business with you," you chuckle, shaking his extended hand.
In the evening, you've already finished thouroughly cleaning all the rooms and cooking spaghetti bolognese, when Seungkwan's husband returns home.
"Honey, I'm home!" the handsome man enters the house. But when he runs into you, he's a little taken aback you're not…well, Seungkwan. "Who are you?"
"Erm, I'm Y/N, the maid. Your husband…hired me a couple of hours ago."
"Oh. Right," the man responds coolly not appearing interested. "Vernon."
"Nice to meet-" before you could finish your sentence, he's already disappeared into another room. "You."
You shake your head, trying not be perturbed by his lack of regard. Whereas Seungkwan was all sunshine and rainbows upon hiring you, Vernon's reaction exudes pure indifference. Oh, well. You're not here to make friends but to have a roof above your head and enough money for food.
As you continue dusting the chairs even though they're already spotless, you heard agitated voices from the other room. Are they fighting because Seungkwan hired you without getting Vernon's approval? What is going on?
Before you can strain your ears hard enough to hear what they're arguing about, Seungkwan storms into the kitchen you're still "cleaning".
"Apologies for all the noise," he says with a fake smile. "It appears as if my husband didn't think I was serious about hiring someone to help us around the house. He's…claiming we can get by ourselves."
"I wouldn't want to cause any trouble," you murmur apologetically. Even though you need this job more than anything, you would hate to cause disagreements in a happy marriage. "If you want me to take my leave…"
Seungkwan shakes his head.
"It's fine. I convinced him to let you have a trial period. If we are satisfied with the results after a month, we will extend your contract for a year."
That sounds like too good an opportunity to pass up.
"I won't let you down," you promise enthusiastically.
And so, you do your best to appease your new employers. You make sure to set an alarm so you can wake up before them and make sure breakfast is ready by the time they get up. You always double-check whether all the surfaces and carpets are spotless. You take extra care to make sure the dishes are sparkling clean. Basically, you try everything you imagine they expect from you and more in order to ensure your position stays intact.
Seungkwan seems very warm in his treatment of you. His husband Vernon, however, seems annoyed by your very existence. You can't determine what you did wrong. From what you gathered, both of them wanted to hire someone to help around their huge house. You try to rack your brain whether you have accidentally offended him but you rarely run into him so you don't think you could have managed to upset him during your limited interactions.
One evening, Seungkwan is out with his volleyball friends so you are granted with the honour (or rather misfortune?) of staying home alone with Vernon. You don't plan to annoy him, you're just minding your own business. But you've already cleaned the kitchen counter like three times and he's so lounging on the couch, watching a movie. So, you figure that the polite thing to do is to ask if he's had dinner. Seungkwan had previously told you'd he'd dine with his friends. You're not sure if you're imposing but after all, it is your job to cater to the couple's needs…
"I haven't," Vernon responds shortly. Okay? And does he want dinner? Is it so hard to respond fully without being additionally prompted to?
"I've made cheeseburgers," you explain.
You are rewarded with a brief, vaguely interested (you hope?) glance.
"Cool," he replies.
This is torture! You can tell that he's hungry by the way he's gulping on nothing.
You mean to ask if he wants a freaking cheeseburger, but instead the words that come out of your mouth are:
"Do you hate me?"
"Huh?"
Oh, shit.
"I mean…do you want a cheeseburger?"
"That's not what you said."
Fucking finally. Full sentences.
"I asked…if you hated me."
"Where is this coming from?" Vernon's paused the movie so you have somehow attracted his full attention.
"I don't know. It just seems like you aren't particularly happy about me being here. I mean, we barely even talk."
"I don't hate you," Vernon sighs. "But Seungkwan did hire you without consulting me."
"And you don't trust his decision?" you try to get to the bottom of it all.
"I trust him. But I don't understand why he kept insisting on hiring someone. We were doing just fine. No offense."
"None taken," you shrug. "So, why don't you convince him you don't need me?"
You know it's foolish, basically asking to get fired. When you need this job so badly. Need the rent-free room that comes with it.
"We agreed on a trial month," Vernon reminds you. "I'll keep my word."
Oh, that's reassuring, at least.
"Now, about that cheeseburger…"
You beam excitedly and serve him the food which is still wonderfully warm. When Vernon takes the first bite, he releases a sound that closely resembles a moan. You don't think your cheeseburgers are that amazing, but hey, you're grateful anyway. Maybe he'll warm up to you and you'll get to work here for longer than a month?
"That's amazing," he exclaims and it's the nicest thing you've heard him say to you. You try not to get your hopes up, but then, he suggests you watch the movie with him. And you foolishly agree.
"Did you stay up late last night?" Seungkwan asks you the following morning as you're handing him the French toast you made for breakfast. Vernon has left for work already so it's just you and Seungkwan in the kitchen.
"Uh, kinda," you respond. You aren't sure if you should tell Seungkwan that you had a Star Wars marathon with his husband. Even though you are just the maid, you don't think it sounds good that you watched Vernon's favourite movies while Seungkwan was out with friends. Despite the fact that it felt purely platonic…
"What did you do?" Seungkwan inquires, while sipping on his coffee.
What should you do? Should you lie to him? What if Vernon already told him what you've been doing late into the night?
You swallow nervously, carefully weighing in your next words.
"I watched movies with Vernon," you decide to be honest after all.
"Is that so?" Seungkwan quirks an eyebrow, looking suspiciously unsurprised.
"Yeah. Is that…okay?"
"Why wouldn't it be okay? Did you do something wrong?"
"I don't think so?"
"Then stop acting so fucking guilty," Seungkwan scoffs. "And keep your paws off my husband."
Ouch?! That came out of nowhere. And besides, you don't think Seungkwan has anything to worry about. You're pretty sure they're both perfectly gay and happy with each other. Right? Sure, you find your new employers incredibly attractive, because duh, you have eyes. But you are under no illusion that you have the power to steal anyone's spouse, let alone change their sexuality. You shake your head in amusement.
"What's so funny?" Seungkwan doesn't seem capable of dropping the subject.
"Nothing."
"No, tell me," he frowns. Great. Just as Mister Ice was starting to warm up to you, Mister Sunshine is angry with you. Maybe you were too greedy thinking this was THE dream job.
"I don't think there's anything to worry about," you cautiously whisper. "I'm not trying to hit on your husband. And even if I was…it would be pointless."
Seungkwan rolls his eyes.
"You don't know shit."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Vernon and I are each other's first love. He's all I know. We're everything to each other. Nothing will change that. Nobody."
"Like I said, I'm no threat to your marriage," you explain defensively. "Excuse me for being so direct but you're…both gay, right?"
Seungkwan smiles mysteriously, not answering rightaway, which confuses you even more.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?!"
"I'm not sure if Vernon is gay. But it feels like it's too late to ask, considering we're literally married. Hell, I don't even know if I'm gay."
"How do you not know that?" you blink in shock. "You're married!"
"I'm just saying…Try not to get too cozy around here."
"You hired me!" you remind him, beginning to grow exasperated.
"Would it have been better to hire a man? I would have exploded with jealousy."
"Vernon said you didn't even need to hire anyone. That you two were perfectly fine."
"Of course he would say that," Seungkwan grunts. "Because I had to cook and clean and do fucking everything around here."
You nod, trying to sympathize. What is now a well-paid job for you was more of a chore to Seungkwan. It is understandable that he had started feeling like he was being taken for granted.
"Well, I'm here now. You don't have to do those stuff," you place your hand on top of Seungkwan's, trying to comfort him. But the way he withdraws so quickly convinces you that you did something wrong. Again.
"I don't think I can do this. You should go."
Wait, what?!
"No, please, Boo," you plead. "Give me another chance. I swear I won't let you down. I won't spend any time around your husband, if it worries you."
"That's unavoidable. I can't stay inside all day just to make sure you're not tempting him with…with whatever womanly magic you possess. It would just be better to nip it in the bud."
You drop to your knees, eyes watering. You can't live on the street. You need this job more than life itself.
"I'll do anything," you cry out. "I…I'll be homeless if you fire me."
"Oh?" Seungkwan stares at you in interest.
"The truth is…I applied for this job because I needed the live-in agreement. I can crash at a friend's place for a day or two, but if it's nothing permanent, then…"
"You go back to jail?" he finishes your sentence.
"You knew?"
"Do you seriously think I didn't do my research before hiring you?"
"And you hired me anyway?" you gasp.
"Can't say I wouldn't have done the same if I were in your shoes," Seungkwan replies cryptically, alluding to the terrible situation you found yourself in when you were just a teen. "So, you were saying you'd do anything to keep this job?"
You nod hopelessly, still kneeling and gripping his hand, fully dependent on his mercy. You can't be homeless and you certainly can't go back to prison.
"I want you to seduce my husband."
"You…just minutes ago you told me to stay away from him?"
"I changed my mind. If you manage to seduce him by the end of the month, I'll extend your contract for a year."
What. The. Fuck?
"There are only two weeks till the end of the month," you realize.
"That's why it's a challenge. I'm curious about something. Indulge me and I'll make sure you don't have to go to jail again."
He's crazy. And you're crazy for even considering this. But your desperation is more powerful than how impossible this task sounds.
"Your husband is gay," you remind Seungkwan.
"We'll see about that."
You're not sure how you'll manage to succeed in only two weeks. Even though you've slowly started growing closer to Vernon through your shared interest in movies and similar taste in music, you have never seduced a man. Not just any man, but the married to another MAN kind…The idea itself is so ridiculous, but you're not one to back down without a fight.
However, luck (or rather Seungkwan's benevolence) seems to be on your side.
"I have tickets for a show tonight," Vernon blurts out. "Seungkwan said he can't come with me because he has plans with his friends but I apparently forgot."
"That does sound like you," you reply teasingly.
"I need to start using a calendar or something," Vernon laughs self-derisively. "Anyway, it would be a shame for the tickets to go to waste. Non-refundable and all that. I'm not saying I can't afford it. IT salary and all that."
Vernon pointedly looks around the excessively lavish house for two (well, three now).
"Shame indeed," you agree, not daring to hope he's asking you to come along.
"Would you be interested in keeping me company?"
Fucking yes! Whether Seungkwan's help is intentional or not, you can't tell, but everything is going so well.
"Are you sure? Wouldn't you rather go with a friend?" you try not to sound too eager.
"You are a friend," Vernon points out.
Aw, how sweet!
"Well, I'd love to tag along if it's not too much trouble," you murmur nervously. You are not used to flirting so it feels more like the opportunity falls right into your lap.
"Nonsense, I'd be more than happy to share the experience with you," Vernon responds.
Whoa. How did things go from him being indifferent to your existence to…this? Not that you are complaining.
And so, the evening arrives and you spend it enjoying the musical with Vernon by your side, laughing and exchanging glances the whole time. It feels almost surreal.
Afterwards, Vernon suggests driving you both back to the house, which puts an immediate end to your half-assed seduction plan. If this were a movie, you would go to a hotel room and then things would naturally unfold. But your reality is quite different.
"Huh," Vernon mutters out loud. "Seungkwan isn't back yet."
"You said he was out with his friends, right?" you want to make sure, wondering if achieving your employer's challenge right under his roof would be far too bold.
"Yeah. Gotta admit, it stings a little that he spends more time with them than with me lately."
"Is that so?" you ask, not having calculated exactly how often Seungkwan hangs out with this squad.
"Mhm. Maybe he thought that by hiring you he'd distract me from his frequent absences."
"W-what do you mean?" you act confused.
"Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you," Vernon lifts your chin up with his forefinger, catching you completely off guard. You were supposed to seduce him but…is he seducing you instead?!
"I really d-don't understand," you keep lying.
"He wants you to sleep with me, doesn't he?" Vernon lets the truth known without beating around the bush.
"Where the hell did you get that idea from? Did he tell you?"
"He didn't have to. I put hidden mics in most rooms."
"What did you do that for?"
"Initially it was just as a precaution. Safety concern. While Seungkwan is very trusting, I'm not the kind of person to let a stranger into our home that easily. Don't take it personal."
"I'll try not to," you chuckle bitterly. Because if Vernon knows that Seungkwan challenged you to seduce him, then he also knows…you've been in jail. You wonder what else he knows about your dark past.
"I know what you did back in high school. What you did to save your friend. And it doesn't change anything. You're not getting fired, if that's what you're worried about," Vernon caresses your cheek gently.
You let out a sigh of relief.
"What else did you hear?" you look into his beautiful brown eyes.
"I'm not gay, in case you're wondering. I mean…I am, for Seungkwan alone. But fuck. Look at yourself. You really came here to work for us thinking you'd be safe from men hitting on you and yet here we are."
You shake your head in disagreement, even though that was exactly what a part of you had been thinking.
He closes in on you until your back hits the wall. You can't find it in yourself to reject his advances.
"Here's what we'll do. I'll let you seduce me," Vernon whispers. "Hell, I'll seduce you myself if you're shy about it."
You nod in agreement, far too overwhelmed by the sheer power in his voice that should scare you, but actually comforts you.
"But you're gonna do something for me in return. Seungkwan promised he'll extend your contract for a year if I sleep with you, right? I'll extend it for two years if you seduce Seungkwan."
Holy shit. If you had some doubts about Vernon's sexuality, then Seungkwan's case seems far more transparent. That man is completely, a 100% head over heels in love with his husband. There is no way he'd be interested in you. You still can't wrap your head around Seungkwan's suggestion. Maybe it's some weird cuckolding fantasy he has. Maybe he just wants to spice things up in their relationship. Whatever the reason, you are certain that while Vernon seems interested in pursuing something with you, Seungkwan wouldn't be an easy man to conquer.
But two years…sound far more tempting than one year. A few days ago you were happy with just one month of security. But humans are greedy creatures. And you can't resist taking the bet.
"Is there a time limit?" you ask Vernon.
"Well, now that the quest Seungkwan gave you is on the verge of being completed, you have that one year in the bag. So I'll give you a year."
"That's generous," you chuckle. Even Vernon seems to be certain of your inevitable failure. But hey, you'll take it. A lot can happen in one year.
"Yeah, I'm a lot nicer than my husband," Vernon grins and kisses you roughly, in total contrast to his words.
The way he grips your hair and bites your neck is nothing like the initially chill, almost indifferent impression he left on you. He's devouring your mouth like he's hungry for you, like he's been starving for ages. Oh, fuck. You wonder if he kisses Seungkwan like that. It's a strange thought to have, because you are technically urging Vernon to cheat on his husband. But is it really cheating if Seungkwan is the one who encouraged it? It's all so confusing.
"You're thinking too loudly," Vernon complains.
"How do you know?" you muse if other than hidden mics he has some mind-reading abilities you should watch out for.
"You're not relaxing," he sighs, gripping your wrist and pulling you towards the living room. You follow him helplessly like a silly puppy as he pushes you onto the couch.
"It…feels wrong," you confess.
"He knows, though," Vernon reminds you. "He wants this for us."
"But…why?" you can't help but ask.
Vernon shrugs nonchalantly.
"Whatever the reason, can't you just let it happen?"
He makes it sound so easy. As if you're not intruding on a happily married couple. As if you're not playing along with their strange games. And for what? So that you could selfishly have a place to live and stay out of jail for as long as possible. Well, when you remember the stakes…it's not so bad.
"I think perhaps I could," you agree and let him kiss you until forget all your troubles. Until it feels right.
Vernon licks two of his fingers and slides them between your legs as you marvel at the sight of his beautiful face mere inches away from yours. You allow the pleasure to consume you further. You don't know if he is to be trusted and yet, you wish you could stay frozen in this moment forever.
"I don't think I can resist you any longer. Please, let me have you," he begs you so prettily you can't even remember the word "no".
"I'm all yours," you confess despite your better judgement.
Vernon smiles against your lips as he rushes to undo his pants and situate himself inside of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, getting lost in the feeling as you permit him to enter you slowly. Perhaps you're a sinner, but you swear this is what heaven feels like.
"Does this feel good for you?" he asks and sounds genuinely curious.
"You have no idea," you gasp for air.
"I'm glad," Vernon admits. "I haven't done it before. With a woman."
"Oh," you cringe at the unwelcome reminder that there has only ever been Seungkwan for Vernon. And yet here you are. Ruining it all. Like you ruin everything.
"Don't overthink it," he immediately senses the shift in your emotions. "It'll be okay."
"I hope so," you smile sheepishly and grant him with the power to distract you from the wrongness of the situation.
"You feel so warm," Vernon groans against your neck. "I'm close. Can I please, please come inside?"
"I'm scared," you shake your head, because of the lack of protection.
"Don't be. I'll take care of you. I promise."
"Okay," you acquiesce reluctantly, moaning in ecstasy as he spills his seed inside of you. You reach your high simultaneously, looping your legs around his in a desperate attempt to prolong your shared gratification.
Afterwards, Vernon kisses you languidly, taking his time. Once you regain enough energy to leave the comfort of the couch, he leads you to the bathroom and compels you to share a bath together. The way he helps you wash up is so tender and soothing you can't find the strength to deny his prolonged urges. You somehow end up on your knees taking him in your mouth as the mirror glass is fogging up. He's gripping your wet hair tightly but not hard enough to make it hurt. You look up at him in disbelief through teary eyes. His usually pale cheeks are flushed red. You know there will be consequences for your actions. But you are far beyond caring.
You are preparing breakfast and thinking. You are uncertain if you should just be honest with Seungkwan about what you did with Vernon. After all, it was Seungkwan who challenged you to do it. But you imagine no sane person would be happy to learn such news. You wonder if you should let Vernon inform Seungkwan himself. As you are plagued by indecision, Seungkwan makes his return known by storming into the living room. It's like he immediately realizes what went down only by smelling you.
"You slept with my husband, I take it?" he verbalizes his guess.
"You challenged me to, remember?" you remind Seungkwan.
"It was meant to be a test. I didn't expect he'd actually do it," Seungkwan cries out, pain evident in his voice.
Fuck. You really messed everything up, didn't you?
"You should pack your things and go," he orders you out of nowhere.
"What? No! You promised you'd extend my contract for a year if I seduced your husband!" you hiss, realizing how insane you sound.
"I never said such a ridiculous thing," Seungkwan denies.
Except he did! And Vernon's hidden mics can prove it. However…you are not sure if Vernon would stand up for you. Considering the indisputable fact that Seungkwan is his husband.
"There's evidence," you blurt out, throwing Vernon under the bus. "Just ask your husband when he comes back home from work."
That seems to anger Seungkwan even more and he slaps you. Hard. Across the face. It's not like you haven't been through worse shit in jail but you are still shocked.
You blink the tears away and take a step back. Silly of you to think you could ever trust a man…
"Don't talk to me or my husband ever again," Seungkwan threatens.
"Or what?" you want to scream. "You'll kick me out? Is that the worst thing you can do?"
"I'll fucking kill you," Seungkwan promises.
"You're crazy. You wanted me to do this."
"Why would I do that?" he tilts his head to the side, genuinely looking confused.
"How should I know?"
Seungkwan encroaches on your personal space until your back is pressed against the kitchen wall.
"You want to stay in this house so badly, don't you?" he asks sweetly.
You nod wretchedly, not sure if it makes you pathetic. And bewildered as to why he's so angry at you one second and kind to you the next.
"What do you want from me?" you whisper.
"Promise me you'll never take him away from me," Seungkwan pleads.
"I won't steal him away from you," you vow. "He's your husband. You're each other's first love. I could never compete."
"That's right," he suddenly sounds reassured. "You're just the maid."
"Yeah," you gasp, feeling a strange tingling sensation at his demeaning attitude.
"I have nothing to worry about."
"Absolutely," you keep agreeing with him dumbly.
"Now kneel on the ground for me."
"What?" you pant in disbelief.
"Don't make me repeat myself," Seungkwan commands coldly.
You hesitantly get down on your knees, not even knowing why. He slapped you and told you to get out of here mere minutes ago. Why the fuck are you so pliant?
"Not like this," he tsks in disapproval. "On your hands and knees."
You assume the position without thinking. Seungkwan moves behind you and you can hear him unbuckling his belt. You gasp in shock as you feel him striking your behind with the harsh metal through your thin leggings. It feels so wrong that he's doing this to you and even more wrong that you're letting him do it.
He hits you again and again until you lose count. You sob bitterly but you can't bring yourself to fight back. Because deep down, you feel like you deserve it. For playing along with his sick challenge and foolishly running into his husband's arms the very second the opportunity presented itself.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes," you admit.
"Good. Imagine how my heart feels," Seungkwan laughs sharply.
"I cannot," you sniffle.
Seungkwan tears your leggings and underwear apart roughly and you feel so helpless you can barely register what is happening. Before it's too late.
"N-no, w-wait," you mumble as you sense his finger pressing against your butthole. "It feels odd."
"You'll get used to it," he promises darkly. He plays with you for a while before deciding to finally take you out of (or maybe push you further into?) your misery.
Seungkwan enters you from behind without much preparation and you practically wail at the unexpected intrusion.
"Kwan, p-please, it's too m-much," you whimper defencelessly.
"Don't care," he responds viciously, nearly splitting you in half. By the time he is done with you, you feel too broken to move.
Surprisingly, Seungkwan takes good care of you, once again shocking you with the abrupt change in his emotions. He cleans you up so gently you feel like you could melt. Then, he wraps you up in a warm bathrobe. He even lights a scented candle and carefully places it on the counter. You are so confused by everything that has happened, but your brain is too exhausted to ask any questions. And your body just craves sleep. A lot of it.
When you wake up from the much needed nap, you are stunned to find Seungkwan calmly reading a book next to you. Wow. He looks so polite and so different from the man who fucked you so savagely. You clear your throat and he looks up from his book.
"Ah, you're awake. Good."
"How long was I out?" you murmur drowsily.
"A few hours. But it's okay. You earned it."
"Did I?" you chuckle humourlessly.
"Yeah. I might have gone a little…overboard."
"Might have?" you repeat sarcastically.
"Apologies if…if I scared you. I'm not used to thinking about how a woman would like to be treated."
You tremble without meaning to.
"I can't say I disliked the way you treated me."
"Oh?"
"I'm not entirely opposed to you treating me like that again," you confess shyly.
"I think I would like that very much," Seungkwan grins enthusiastically.
"Does that mean I can stay?"
"You're never getting rid of me."
"I see you've got those two years taken care of," Vernon grins over dinner.
"How did you figure it out so quickly?" you flush.
"Hidden cameras," Vernon shrugs nonchalantly.
"I thought you only had hidden mics," you gasp in horror upon realizing what you've gotten yourself into.
"I'm a man of many secrets."
You dread to learn what's next. A hidden attic? You shudder at the thought.
"Shouldn't we…talk to Seungkwan about all this?" you suggest. "It's not exactly a normal situation. You guys are married and I'm…the maid you're both fucking."
"That's one way of putting it."
"Does that mean you're bi or something?"
"I can't say for sure as I haven't been into other women. You are the only exception."
"Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel special," you roll your eyes.
"I try my best," he replies modestly.
"For what it's worth, you're the only queer couple I've fucked," you chuckle.
"I'm counting on it. 'Cause I intend to make sure we're your last," Vernon vows.
And you sincerely can't tell if it's a threat. Or a promise.
► 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 - tsundere!outcast!Yeosang x semi-stalker!reader◄
► 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎/𝙰𝚄 - enemies-to-lovers trope, college au, heavy angst, tooth-rotting fluff, Yeosang is kind of an !asshole (in the beginning), reader fell first but he fell harder, reader is down bad for Yeosang, reader has !stalker tendencies, abandonment in the rain, eventual make up, happy ending ◄
► 𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 - PG-14+, kissing scene, suggestive content, threats (both harmful and non-harmful), scene where Yeosang holds your arm to kick you out, mentions of a car accident (non-graphic), no smut this time, sorry folks ◄
► 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 - 27K words (I can explain) ◄
► 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 - Yeosang was the campus freak. An outcast, to say the least. He didn't particularly do anything, well, except cover his face with a black mask and avoid everybody. He never takes it off and nobody has ever seen his face before. But you couldn't help but fall for him, so you follow him every single time. You get caught, however, and he threatens you to stay away from him. To add salt to the injury, you were both partnered for a project that will exempt you from the subject next semester. ◄
► 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 - It wasn't my intention to make this as long as it is, and again, easygoing fluff without any drama and plot-twists aren't my thing, but I really wanted to start 2025 with something sweet! Stay tuned because the next one will be EXTREMELY TOXIC. Enjoy! Title from Amity Affliction. Also, I'm really sick right now, bear with me. ◄
► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - @0rangemilk @ginger-mingi @ruubyrubes @oddracha @jaytheatiny @roxannecos @juicy-red @cheolliehugs @sunnysidesins @jjongbearshoney @midnightrebel1028 ◄
It was him, yet again. It was very easy to spot him as he always took the same spot where he was now at the far corner of the classroom where everybody blatantly ignored him.
But not you though. You could have burned a hole in this guy's skull with how hard you stared at him every single time you saw him. How could you not? The way his rigid posture sat straight as he tuned the world out with his earphones and the way his uninterested eyes would scan all over the room definitely caught your eye.
And you knew that everybody in the classroom did, too. But that was the thing, you weren't aloof to all the sneers and snickers they sent towards his direction.
You tapped the person sitting to your left, who just also happened to be one of your best friends, without leaving your sights on the mysterious man that already made your heart beat unknowingly. "Hey, who's that again?"
You've been in this particular class, the only class you share, but for some reason, you never did bother to ask. Until now.
Yunho glances behind him with a small frown, following the direction of where your index finger was pointing. His brows tilt up ever so slightly as you watch his face slowly transform into that of recognition.
"Kang Yeosang," he said more as a surprise rather than a statement. He turns back to look at you inquisitively. "Very smart, like, really damn smart, but that's not what a lot of people notice at first."
He was right. You were guilty as charged, though, because it was also the reason why you were suddenly interested in him.
Yeosang wore a face mask that covered half of his face from his nose to his chin. Now, that part wasn't odd in itself since everybody wore them once in a while for whatever reason that may be, but Yeosang wore them literally everywhere. He never took them off, at least, from what you know.
But that was definitely the case. Again, you weren't privy to all the whispers that travelled in the air. Kang Yeosang literally never took the mask off of his face. Nobody has ever seen what the guy looked like.
"Don't be judgmental," you murmured, forcing your head to look forward. "Nobody does something different for absolutely no reason at all."
"I didn't say anything like that," Yunho counters. "I do admit that it is a bit odd, but hey, whatever works. I mean, look..."
He dug something out of his coat pocket. A small, compact mirror. You raised a brow at Yunho, but he shrugs it off. He angled the mirror and then you realized what he was doing.
"He's already good-looking with that thing on," Yunho muttered under his breath as you both looked at Yeosang. "Imagine if he actually took that mask off? There will be no pussy left for everyone in this building."
You rolled your eyes dramatically, ignoring his crass statement. What Yunho said, though, you couldn't refute.
Even with the face mask covering almost the majority of his face, there was no denying that Yeosang was simply gorgeous. There was an itch for you to do something about the mask, but you willed them to go away. It was none of your business.
A pang hits your chest. You suddenly felt bad for him, people were just mean for no definitive reason. It shouldn't have mattered that Yeosang wanted to wear a mask, hell, even if he wore a chicken mascot costume it was still none of everybody's business.
But alas. Such is human nature.
Your class had started, and as usual, it was a bore. Still, you had to endure it for your grades. You couldn't concentrate, however, as your mind kept drifting to the mysterious man who sat at the far corner of the classroom away from prying eyes.
Against your better judgment, you swiveled your head once more to take a good look at him, but your heart leapt to your throat when you made eye contact with him. That meant he was already looking in your direction before you turned.
Your jaw slackened, your heart beating faster and faster you were afraid it would jump out of your ribcage, as you stared into his eyes. They were captivating. It was the understatement of the century. His eyes were a home for a tempest that raged without end.
In short, they were dead. At some point, you were sure that his eyes were once alive because despite the horrors that hid them, you could tell he had a beautiful soul.
A soul that you didn't have anymore, for the moment that your eyes had met his, it was over. He stole it from you just as fast as the light from his eyes was stolen, as well.
Dryness covered your entire mouth when his brow raised in question, challenging you to say something to him since you were staring at him so intently.
You were rendered frozen in your seat. Not for nothing, but he must be doing something to hypnotize you. Yeah, that was probably it, why else would you stay unmoving for the favour of staring at him?
Yeosang tilted his head in curiosity, leaning back on his seat to get comfortable. He crossed his arms, eyes not breaking their contact with yours. You gulped, even his gestures were so fascinating.
There was a world within this classroom, and the only inhabitants in it were you and Yeosang. Forget your class, it was too late for that because you'd already lost yourself in this. Nobody paid attention to the both of you, and nobody had noticed what was going on.
Not even when everybody had started standing up since class was over had distracted you. The one that did, however, was Yunho's hand wrapping around your arm to catch your attention.
You jumped at the touch, your head snapping quickly in his direction, eyes widened, clearly startled. Yunho chuckled in amusement at your expression. "You okay? You seemed pretty lost there," he asked.
You robotically turned back to answer Yunho. "Yeah, I'm good," you cleared your throat. "Just a bit distracted, boring class, you know?"
"Right," Yunho drawled, eyes squinting in suspicion. He stood up, his sling bag on his shoulder already, and smoothly picked up your tote that contained all your notes. "Anyhow. Jongho's already ordered us some brunch, we have to go."
You nodded, hesitantly standing up, watching as Yunho went ahead to the exit and started talking to another friend of his.
When you looked back at that particular spot, you were disheartened to see that Yeosang was already gone.
Your eyes tried to find the masked brunette, but no such luck. He must have rushed out the moment you looked away.
What a shame, you thought with an internal pout. You followed Yunho with an aimless gait through the halls, you trusted him to get you to where you needed to go because you didn't even trust yourself right now.
You've always been a sucker for the eccentric. While you didn't think Yeosang was one per se, you were just so sick of normalcy. It wasn't entirely for you.
"Right on time, lazy bums," Jongho smirked, standing up as you and Yunho both approached him. "I already paid for everything---don't even fucking think about it."
Yunho paused, mouth agape, the hand that held his wallet frozen in the air. "C'mon, dude. You can't do this every time. We just want to hang out."
Jongho sat back down, gesturing for the both of you to sit down. "Yeah, well, I asked for it, so it's a no-brainer, yes?"
Yunho rolled his eyes, temporarily accepting defeat, because you all knew none of you would win. Choi Jongho was born into a family that had conglomerates everywhere. He had the money, which you and Yunho had made clear that you didn't need, but he did it, anyway.
You inched a bit closer to Jongho and gave him a small peck on his cheeks. "Thanks, baby bear. But Yunho's right. We can pay for our stuff."
Jongho jokingly pushed you away, making you giggle softly. He hastily rubbed the spot you pecked. "Don't ever do that again," he groaned. "And stop being an ungrateful brat. I swear I need new friends."
You smiled a bit, your lips pursed with the action. It didn't reach your eyes, Jongho noticed. He raised a brow to stare at Yunho, who only shrugged.
You realized that the three of you were in a cafe near the college grounds. The ambience was nice, but you couldn't remember the last time where you just sat like this, enjoying the moment with your friends, and simply just passing time.
Your appetite had long gone, but you couldn't tell Jongho that since he'd paid for the food. You had to at least pretend you were enjoying it. At least, they were. Yunho chuckled at something Jongho said, but you didn't even hear it.'
A certain brunette flashed in your mind again. You paused, suddenly wondering what he was doing. You knew it was ridiculous, Yeosang probably thought you were ridiculous.
You wanted to dig a hole and bury yourself in it, cringing at the fact that Yeosang probably thought that you were staring at him just to make fun of him, just like the rest. You weren't, though, but he possibly can't know that.
You were pulled out of your thoughts when the distinct clatter of utensils hit your ears. It was Jongho's doing, you frowned in confusion.
"Alright, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jongho demanded, leaning his elbow on the table, twisting his body so he'd face you. "You've been so distracted the entire time and it's getting on my nerves."
You glanced up at him and stared at him for a good couple of seconds. He wasn't going to yield, so you couldn't keep the eye contact you started. It suddenly got difficult to swallow with how dry your throat was getting.
"I'm just tired," you mumbled, sounding unconvincing even to yourself. "Don't worry about it."
"Oh, cut the crap," Yunho interjected, cluttering his utensils in a comical way that you couldn't help but let out a real smile. "I know why you're like this. It's Kang Yeosang, isn't it?"
You blushed beet red. You supposed to weren't discreet. The intensity in which your scalp tingles at the mention of his name was electrifying, the sensation akin to when you met eyes with each other prior to this.
Jongho's brows reached his hairline, his expression turning from curious to one of complete surprise. "Yeosang? Flower-looking dude, pale skin, about 'ye height?" Jongho gestured to his own height. "How do you know him?"
You and Yunho looked at each other before turning to Jongho in suspicion. "I have one class with him," you admitted.
"How do you know him?" Yunho questioned with scrutiny.
Jongho hesitated. He looked between you and Yunho repeatedly for what seemed like a while, before he sighed deeply, looking around him cautiously. When he saw that the coast was clear, he leaned closer. You and Yunho did the same.
"You didn't hear this from me," he said, eyes hard. "Yeosang is, was, my childhood friend. Remember my friend that I always spoke about that always had my back?"
It clicked, and you nodded. "That's him? But you said he's very funny and talkative," you blurted out without thinking. You were genuinely flabbergasted.
Jongho drummed his fingers on the table, a faraway look in his eyes present before he spoke again. "Something happened that made him the way he is now," he cryptically explained. "It's not my story to tell. All I ask is to not judge him."
You elbowed Yunho and sassed at him with your eyes, signaling with the 'I-told-you-so' look. He smirked, pushing your elbow away.
"Little Miss Y/N here," Yunho sarcastically gestured to you, then ruffled your hair messily. "Has a bit of a crush with your childhood friend---"
"Shut up, I definitely do not," you hissed, though it didn't have any bite to it. You didn't know it was possible for your face to be redder than it already was, but here you were.
Just then, Jongho started laughing, his voice bellowing loudly in the small confines of the cafe, earning your table stares, but you couldn't care less. His gummy smile had always been contagious, so it was no surprise when you started laughing along with him.
"It's such a shame, though," Jongho chuckled away the remnants of his laughter with a small shake of his head. "I know Yeosang even though we fell apart. You're definitely his type, down to a T."
Yunho started to laugh but nodded his head in agreement anyway. "I could see that, honestly. Mingi has a thing or two for you."
"No, he doesn't," you rolled your eyes. Song Mingi was the campus crush, and you did have a crush on him before, but that ship had long sailed and it was fleeting anyway. "What makes you say that, though, Jongie?"
"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" Jongho smirked, playfully teasing you, much to your chagrin.
You groaned. "Seriously!"
Of course, you weren't going to tell him that you were definitely curious now. You also weren't going to tell him that you were going to use this information to your advantage.
Jongho flicked your forehead lightheartedly. "He likes cute things, plain and simple," he shrugged, side-eyeing you. "That includes potential girlfriends, too."
The mischief in that Cheshire-like smile that was bigger than anything you've ever seen. You were glad he crossed his arms and leaned back on his seat, you didn’t want him in your face.
That didn't mean you weren't going to think about what he said for days, though.
Unfortunately, you hadn't really seen Yeosang anymore after that.
He didn't attend the once-a-week class the next week, and you couldn't attend the one the following week. You had an unlucky bout of allergy due to the pollen going around campus. All Yunho did that whole day he visited was roll his eyes at your antics.
You were hoping to cross paths with him again, even though you knew you weren't going to talk to him anyway. You just wanted to take one more peek at him before you continued on with your life.
Yeah, totally not creepy.
"Good morning, Y/N."
You were forced out of your thoughts when a voice from behind you sounded. You were currently in front of the professors' lounge early in the morning.
"Oh! Good morning, Mr. Park, I'm so sorry to disturb you so early in the morning," you bowed deeply in the presence of your professor.
"It's quite alright, dear," Park Seonghwa, your professor in that one class you missed, chuckled. You couldn't help but loosen up, he really was your favourite professor and you respected him a lot.
He opened his briefcase to get out a stack of papers. "I hope everything is fine on your end? Here, take them," he handed them to you.
You nodded, explaining that it was pollen and that it was fine now. "Wonderful," he said. "Regardless, I expect my star student in my class next week. Good day."
"Thank you, Professor," you bowed one more time before you completely walked away.
There were more notes than expected, you realized that as you riffled through them, skimming just to get a general gist from where you stopped and where you should begin to catch up.
You weren't one of those students that studied a lot, but you also weren't careless about your grades. You just wanted to get by, and you were just lucky that all your professors remember and like you well enough to give you some notes when you miss some classes.
You sighed, contemplating what to do. With all these notes, you had to concentrate on them for a day or two. Final was coming and you didn't have enough time to study the following days.
To the library it is, you decided. Your feet were already taking you to that sacred place that you love so much. And when you entered, your mood instantly lifted.
You loved how empty the space was, yet it was extensive in nature. It was the perfect labyrinth to get trapped in; once you get inside the minds of great authors or whatnot and relive the adventures, the sorrow, and the laughter imprinted and immortalized by the writings in the pages of their books, you can never leave.
It was perfect. You approached the front desk so you could greet your friend who was working part-time to sustain his scholarship. He didn't notice you at first, but when he did, he was all smiles.
"Well, look who we have here," he smirked, closing the book he, himself, held in his hand. "Good to see you, Y/N."
You chuckled softly so as to not break the peace. "Likewise, Kim Hongjoong," you nodded. "I need a couple of books about these for my finals..."
Hongjoong gently took the notes Professor Park gave you and scanned them quickly before doing whatever it was he needed to do on his computer. He wrote a series of numbers on the paper before handing them back to you.
"I put the aisles and shelf numbers on every book you need," he murmured, pointing them out. "Shouldn't be too difficult to find."
"Got it. I appreciate the help, Joong," you thanked him. He nodded and waved you off, dismissing you. You couldn't help but laugh under your breath.
Just like he said, the books weren't too difficult to find, and soon, you found yourself with a stack of them. You were pleased when you found that your favourite spot was free, and so, you studied away.
You lost yourself in the process, like you always did when you started, but along the way, there was an itch in your neck that was begging to be noticed.
Subconsciously, you looked up, and your world stopped along with your heart.
Yeosang, too, was busying himself with a stack of his own books. Of course, he still wore that mask on his face, but there was something different about him from the last time you had seen him.
His hair was styled up in a way that looked effortlessly good, his forehead was a bit exposed and you were able to see his eyes clearly this time even though his nose was deep in the book he held.
He was a couple of tables away from you, isolated from everybody at the very end of the library where you knew not a lot of people went. It reminded you of the way he sat down in your class.
His presence just engulfed you, and you didn't know why. The grip you had on your book would've been suffocating had it been alive, you couldn't stop staring at Yeosang.
His brown cashmere coat perfectly complemented his physique; it made him look very masculine. His cropped out hair fitted him well, and the way he carried himself interested you so much.
The way his fingers moved to turn the pages of his book mesmerized you, brought you into a world where you wondered what it would feel like if that hand was holding yours. He wasn't even doing anything but sit down like someone would in a library, yet he simply exuded grace and elegance.
You knew then and there, that this wasn't just a fleeting crush on a man that doesn't even know your name.
Ever since then, you made an effort to go the library every single day just to peek a glance on Yeosang. Whether it was hours or minutes to an end, you didn't mind. Of course, you didn't want to be borderline creepy, there were times where you actually needed to study and so many times where you didn't realize that he had left because you were so engrossed with your work.
His schedule was simple, you learned that he'd go to the library every other day either to just read or actually study. You took note of the books he read, they were way too advanced for you. Yunho wasn't lying - this man was intelligent.
Your little crush soon turned into genuine admiration. If one would look hard enough, it was easy to say that Yeosang was one of the most hardworking people you've had the pleasure to go to university with.
And just like you, he'd get lost in his world once he got too deep, and it was when you'd take the time to study him just a bit more.
You had memorized the notes that you were given from front to back, word per word, punctuation per punctuation, but you still went to the library anyway.
There were times where Yeosang would subconsciously look forward, he would take a break from reading and stretch his neck, and you'd panic and look down, but you were sure he didn't notice you. You sure hoped he didn't, the blush on your cheeks could be seen miles away.
Hongjoong raised his brow one day when you handed him the book that you wanted to check out for a week, and you couldn't look him straight in the eye.
"The Art Of War?" Hongjoong blurted out incredulously. He sheepishly looked down when a couple of people turned to our direction with a small glare. You bit your lip when he kept staring at the book.
He leaned forward, his voice hushed, his eyes glowing with mirth, but with suspicion nonetheless. "I didn't know you were interested in Machiavellian beliefs and principles."
You weren't. In fact, you didn't give a crap or two about it. Yunho snatched the book from Hongjoong and flipped a couple of pages. "Damn, I can't even understand this," he chortled, giving the book back. "You're really gonna read this?"
You rolled your eyes in half-annoyance to cover up how red the tips of your ears were. You saw Yeosang reading the book for days before he returned it, and you just wanted to see what kind of books he read.
You wanted to know what ran in Yeosang's head as he sat there and read it and maybe, just maybe, you were absolutely insane in the head because you liked him a bit too much.
"Is it so hard to believe that I'm interested in it? Geez," you murmured, grabbing the book and hastily chucking in your purse as if doing so would make Hongjoong and Yunho forget that it existed.
"Yes," they both answered in unison.
You scoffed, offended that they actually thought so, but you couldn't really get mad at them, because it was truly unbecoming of you. You weren't really interested in how the world worked, you were a hopeless romantic, and you wanted to stay that way for a while.
"Maybe it's in the air, someone just returned that book yesterday after a week," Hongjoong scoffed, grabbing a book that you just logged into to check out anything. "Yeah, that guy, Kang Yeosang. Cool guy, a bit withdrawn, kinda weird, but cool regardless."
Yunho's eyes almost popped out of its sockets and he turned to you with the most shit-eating grin on his face. He was about to open his mouth, but before he could, you quickly reached up and covered it. It was a challenge since Yunho was a giant, but you didn't want him tattling. You wouldn't hear the end of it.
"Ah, we have classes in a couple of minutes," you laughed nervously, stomping on Yunho's foot, making him groan in pain that was muffled by your hand. "Bye, Joong!"
You left, dragging the big Jeong Yunho comically while Hongjoong watched with his mouth opening and closing repeatedly like a wee little fish.
Yunho forcefully removed your hand from his face the moment you got outside, but it didn't stop him from giving you that mouth-splitting grin that you wanted to wipe off of his face. "I can expla---"
"Oh, no need," he playfully teased in a sing-songy voice. "You're already head over heels for the guy, it's remarkable---"
"Jeong Yunho, I swear to God---"
"I cannot wait to actually tell Jongho, man, I thought you'd give Mingi a chance---"
You turned around to run away from his relentless teasing, you could hear him laughing behind you. You giggled under your breath and usually you'd entertain his teasing, but you were so confused on what you felt for Yeosang lately.
The entire night was spent on you reading the book and as expected, you abhorred it. You crumpled your face in genuine skepticism, did Yeosang truly enjoy this?
The more you turned the pages, the more pissed you got, suddenly realizing that you were doing this for a man who doesn't even give two shits about you. It was deplorable.
After a day or two, you decided to return the book. There was no point in keeping it if you weren't interested in it anyway, but you decided to do it later. You'd sit down on your usual spot first.
To your surprise and dismay, Yeosang wasn't sitting in his usual spot. It wasn't really odd, sometimes his schedule did become sporadic, but still, your heart slowed its beating. You already felt a bit down.
But there would have been no need. Suddenly, you felt a presence behind you as you sat down at your usual spot. Before you could turn around and inspect, they leaned down, and you felt hands on your shoulders. They were firm and sure.
Shivers travelled down your spine when a deep, rich voice hit your ear as they whispered. "Machiavelli, huh?"
The voice was muffled with something, like a mask. Heat soaked up your entire face and the tips of your ears. You had forgotten to put the book away and thought it was a great idea to have it out in the open.
Or maybe, you did it on purpose hoping that Yeosang would see and pique his interest.
"Meet me at the blind spot to the left behind the staircase. If you're not there within three minutes, I will sabotage all of your projects until you graduate," he ordered gruffly, his tone gravelly and unpleasant, to be quite frank. "All of them."
A cold bucket of water could have been poured directly on your head without warning and it still wouldn't be able to bring you any type of dread like those words would ever do. It was insane.
You didn't hesitate, haphazardly throwing all your belongings hastily without any sort of order in your purse before sprinting out of the library. Today was not the day to test the validity of the whispered threat.
A record should've been awarded to you with how quick your feet had taken you were Yeosang told you to. At first, you didn't see him, but when you noticed a shadow fleeting in and out at the very corner of the staircase, you knew it was him. It was indeed a blind spot - no one would be able to see him unless they were looking for him.
The moment you stepped in that hidden area, you were roughly slammed against the adjacent wall. To say you were shocked would be an understatement.
Right away, you tried to cradle your head to halt the oncoming nausea from the sheer force, but your hands were also pinned above your head.
"What," you said rather than questioned. "W-What are you doing?"
When your eyes finally focused on what's in front of you, you couldn't help but let out a small gasp. His black mask covered his face well, but never his eyes. God, you hoped not.
You were right all along, his eyes were beautiful, especially this close. You could smell his cologne, too. Heat started to travel from your neck all the way to your cheeks as you tried not to focus on his scent.
"Cut the shit," Yeosang spat, venom coated in every syllable. His hold on your hands tightens to the point of pain. "Stop following me."
Time stopped at that very second. His voice was a lot deeper than you thought. You swallowed, Yeosang's eyes subconsciously trailing down your throat at the motion. "I-I'm not following you," you squeaked out.
"Oh?" Yeosang tilted his head. The movement would have been cute, if he didn't look angry and menacing right now. One of his hands let go to dig into your purse. He grabbed the book you were supposed to return, but couldn't.
"You don't look like the type to read Machiavellian beliefs, princess," he gritted out. "And I mean that with full offense."
You frowned, thoroughly confused as to why Yeosang was, frankly, acting like an ass towards you. "You're a judgmental one, aren't you? What if I was?"
"Then what's his name?"
You blanched, mouth getting dry from the sudden question. Yeosang's unimpressed glare catches you off guard. You felt your heart cracking a bit.
"I'm not sure," you admitted, voice small, embarrassed to be caught red-handed in a lie. You bit your lip, looking down towards the floor to avoid his indifferent eyes.
For a moment, you both stayed like that - Yeosang pinning you, and you just staying still just to see what he was going to do. And then, he lets go, and puts his hands on either side of you on the wall with a loud thud.
"It's Niccolo," he murmured, bitterness seeping towards his voice. It made your frown grow deeper.
"N-Niccolo?"
Yeosang scoffed, rolling his eyes sarcastically at you. "Yes. Your brain stutters, too?"
That definitely stung. You didn't know what to say but, "W-What?"
"W-What?" Yeosang repeated, voice higher in pitch in an effort to mimic and mock you as if you were a degenerate. It was honestly offensive, but you were too frozen to do anything.
"No wonder why you're so obvious, this here," he continued, his index finger tapping your temple once. "Doesn't work quite well, doesn't it?"
It was an eloquent way of saying that you were, indeed, stupid. Your manner completely transforms, it becomes rigid against him. You wanted to scoff, who knew that his angelic eyes held this much contempt in them?
Your mouth opens to defend your honour against his insults, but the same index finger touches your lips, effectively shushing you. Warmth automatically spreads through them.
"Ah, ah, ah, you have absolutely no right to talk right now," he interrupted rather rudely, his voice dropping an octave. You forced yourself not to shiver. "I mean it, Y/N. Stop fucking following me. I don't like my privacy invaded."
You couldn't stop the sigh that bubbled up your chest. "I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, but we could have talked this out."
He chuckled, the sound of it dark and devoid of anything that resembled emotions. "You forfeited that right since the first day. You're not as subtle as you think you are, princess."
"Don't call me that," you frowned, your hand sticking out to push his chest away, albeit weakly. "What is your damn problem?"
"What's my problem?" Yeosang reiterates, his tone taking an angrier and more aggravated tone to it. "My problem is that you are literally tailing me at the library like I'm some sort of circus zoo animal."
He sarcastically chuckled, more to himself than towards you. "But then again, that's what everyone thinks."
You felt your heart breaking a little when he adjusted the mask he was wearing as if doing so would protect him right now when in reality, you were the one in need of protection. Behind the malice in his voice was a hurt so deep, it was impossible to ignore.
His eyes met yours again, and this time, they were ablaze. "Who put you up to this?" Yeosang snarled. "Who fucking told you to watch me? And why? So you and your stupid little friends would have a laugh and go?"
"No, that's not it, I swear," you immediately denied, shaking your head repeatedly to make a point. "I didn't mean for it to look like that, I-I promise you---"
"So why the hell are you following me? Tell me," he demanded. You yelped when he roughly lifted your chin up. "At least give me the decency of looking at me straight in the eye while you tell me why you've been watching me."
"Ow, you're hurting me," you pried his hand off of your face successfully, slightly glaring at him in the process. "It's not like that," you hesitated, gulping once more before continuing. "Is it so hard to believe that someone actually admires you, or something?"
He raised a brow in irritation. "God, you're so full of shit."
He pulls away, jutting one arm out and shoves your shoulder hard - hard enough for it to collide with the wall behind you. You were stunned at his aggression.
"Stay the hell away from me," he growled, bending down to pick up the backpack he had that you didn't even notice. He started to emerge from the staircase towards the hallways where, surprisingly, no one was.
He gave you one last glare, a scathing one. "If I catch you again, I won't go easy on you next time. Save your judgment for somebody else."
You scoffed, emerging from the same spot. You inevitably ended up in front of him; the hallways were narrow, unfortunately. You looked up at him, not knowing exactly what to say. It wasn't like you didn't know where he came from, he was probably creeped out by your behaviour.
But you weren't going to tell him that it was because of your crush with him, especially not now that you know he clearly doesn't like you.
"I'm dead serious, Y/N. Stay away from me," he glared. "Now, if you'll kindly fuck off..."
He moves past you, his shoulders deliberately hitting yours, causing you to stagger back a little bit. The only thing you could do from then was to look behind you as you watched him walk away.
You couldn't help but notice how confident his gait was - how sure he was of himself. You shook your head in disbelief, utterly and thoroughly confused, not knowing what to believe at this point.
Tears started to form in the corner of your eyes. The resonating voice of realization in your head made you numb, the mortification slowly trickling down your chest slowly. It tightens as the shame presents itself at the discomfort written on your face.
It wasn’t like he was wrong, because definitely had a valid point. Still, you couldn’t help the cascade of tears that started to fall from your eyes from the direct confrontation.
A thought had suddenly struck your head as you watched him walk away and disappear when he rounded the corner of the hallway - how did he even know your name?
It wouldn’t be the last time you and Yeosang encountered each other. One way or another, you were especially hyper aware of his presence.
You stopped going to the library. You weren’t an idiot, you weren’t going to frequent a place where you know you weren’t wanted. Yeosang, however, made it a point to glare at you every single time your eyes would meet.
That in itself would have been fine, but when he started to purposely bump into your shoulders hard enough to send you reeling backwards, it became a little personal. You certainly didn’t miss his little smirk when he saw you riled up.
You actively avoided him for good. Curse you for being attracted to the eccentric.
Today was one of those - you sat in your usual seat along with Yunho while Yeosang was in that same isolated spot he liked taking since nobody wanted to be associated with him. It was fine, it wasn’t difficult to ignore him given his little attitude towards you.
”Hey,” Yunho called softly. You raised a brow in question. “You and Yeosang got beef, or something?”
“No, not that I know of,” you frowned. “Why?”
”Because he’s been staring, or rather, shooting daggers at you the moment you sat down. He figured out your weird little habit of watching him, huh?” Yunho smirked, crossing his arms.
You grumbled a little curse in his direction, making him chuckle at your antics. You didn’t doubt what he said, though. Yeosang definitely didn’t like you and you gave him the ammunition to do so.
The commotion died down gradually when the professor entered the classroom and hushed everybody. Soon enough, you were able to tune out the prickling sensation towards the back of your neck you knew came from Yeosang’s stares.
You bunched your brows up, though, when you noticed that your professor wasn’t carrying his usual lecture materials and, instead, had a small box in his hands. It didn’t happen often with college students, but he definitely had everybody’s attention hanging in a thread successfully.
”Good day, everybody,” Professor Choi San greeted with a soft smile, his dimples deepening at the gesture, along with his eyes that laid subdued behind a pair of glasses that made him look undeniably attractive. He shakes the box that he held in one hand while he gestured to the class with the other. “Before the year ends, I’d like everybody to do a project instead of the usual examinations. It’ll be a two-person team effort.”
You automatically turned to your side and bumped your elbows at Yunho, who was already looking at you with a gleeful smile. However, that bubble soon burst when Professor Choi cleared his throat, effectively silencing the room once again. “Your partners will be randomized,” he shook the box once more to prove his point. “I’ve already picked half of the class, random as well, to pick out names inside this box.”
What the hell kind of concept is this? You couldn’t help but grimace on the inside, you knew barely anybody in this class, let alone work with somebody for a project that would determine if you will pass this class or not.
”It’s better than a written exam, yes?” Professor Choi smirked.
It was a bore. You had no interest in doing the project, but you have no choice. Surely, you didn’t want to pick a random name either. When Yunho was called, the little hope you had in partnering with him got shattered when he picked a name that wasn’t yours.
He still technically won the lottery though, because he was partnered up with Mingi. When he got back to the seat, you couldn’t help but chuckle at his excitement and relief when he showed you the paper that held Mingi’s name.
He, too, was worried he’d pick a random name even though he was a bit more extroverted than you were. “You’ll get lucky, too, I’m sure of it,” he patted your shoulders in faux comfort. “My luck extends to friends, you know?”
You rolled your eyes at him. “I can already see this project being a disaster with the two of you being together like this.”
He laughed out loud at your statement, and as if he had jinxed it, your name was suddenly called. Somebody had already picked your name. When you looked towards the front, it was by this girl you recalled seeing in multiple of your classes.
You offered her a small smile, one she returned awkwardly. She seemed nice enough to you and that’s all that mattered to you. Yunho and Jongho had told you before that you had an uncanny way of making someone like you eventually.
“Kang Yeosang.”
Your breath hitched, deliberately straining your neck to not turn around and look at him as he walked towards the centre of the room with the Professor.
It wasn’t just you - everybody turned silent as they all stared at the man with that confident shadow behind him. He knew everybody stared and he didn’t care, and you genuinely admired that mentality. If only you could turn back time and actually tell him that instead of watching him like a creep.
But you were pretty sure that you were the only one who stared at him with admiration. Everyone else judged him for hiding his face, and you could have sworn you felt your break a little more at that.
Finally, he puts his head inside the box and quickly pulls it out, the piece of paper in his hand crumpling with how hard he gripped it. You suddenly wished you could see his entire face to know exactly what he’s feeling.
You could hear the snickers behind you, people relieved that they had already picked a partner, or people laughing at him. They were just plain nasty, and you couldn’t take hearing them anymore.
You held your fists tights, they were almost white with how tight you were holding them. You tried tuning them out, focusing on the sight of Yeosang with Professor Choi.
You frowned, something wasn’t right. The way Yeosang’s brows furrowed. Suddenly, he looked up, eyes meeting yours. You froze, not knowing exactly why he was looking at you.
He took one more look at the paper before pocketing it. “I got L/N Y/N,” he said, clear as day, his deep voice resonating all over the vast classroom.
Your brain definitely short-circuited that day and you can’t read the future, but you were sure that this was the exact moment where you were sure that your life would turn upside down and change.
”Are you sure?” Professor Choi asked, confused, amidst all the hushed whispers that resounded all over the room.
Redness spreads through your cheeks at all the unwanted attention. You turned to Yunho and tapped his arms cautiously “There goes my chance of being normal in school,” you murmured.
He patted your shoulders in comfort. “Professor Choi must’ve accidentally put your name twice without noticing.”
It was a legitimate cause, you’ve thought the very same thing. You couldn’t help but glance at Yeosang once more, and unbelievably, your cheeks became even hotter to the touch. You definitely wouldn’t mind partnering with him for this project.
And that’s exactly what happened. As it turns out, there was only one person left that didn’t have a partner yet. The girl who was partnered with you insisted that they be partnered, instead, and Professor Choi agreed, leaving you and Yeosang together.
You wanted to give him a piece of your mind for how he was treating you for the last few weeks, but that resolve faltered when you noticed Yeosang’s eyes from a distance. He looked hurt, and you knew why.
He could hide under that glare or pretend that he was indifferent, but it definitely hurt him to be tossed around as if he wasn’t even in the room in the first place.
To add salt to the wound, Professor Choi instructed all partners to be seated together for the rest of the class. Yunho gave you a small peck on the cheek - platonically - before getting up and making his way towards Mingi.
”Can you guys keep that PDA bullshit somewhere else? So disrespectful to the public,” Yeosang murmured, his voice muffled by the mask, plopping down the seat where Yunho once was. “Does your boyfriend know you were stalking me?”
You scoffed, appalled at what he was trying to insinuate. “First of all, Yunho is my best friend—-”
”Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he smirked dirtily, his head swiveling towards you in a mocking move. “Then you find out they’re screwing. Tell me, are you the type of bitch who’ll give it in some random back alleyway? ”
The ringing in your ears became louder and louder, and it took you everything in your soul to not lash out in the middle of class and just grab your purse so you could smack the living daylights out of this guy.
”And what if I am? You sound bitter to me,” you challenged him, keeping your voice to a minimum, just to rile him up. You’d like to think of yourself as kind, but you are definitely not a pushover.
His brow shots up in mild surprise at your statement, clearly not expecting for you to stand up for yourself. His eyes had this unmistakable fire that contained fiery rage, and instead of standing down, you rolled your eyes at him. His eyes squint in response.
He did start this, but you wouldn’t let him finish. He was about to open his mouth and say something but you beat him to it.
”I feel bad for you,” you chuckled without any humour in it. “Nobody has shown you enough love in your life, it seems, and you don’t look like anybody who has ever given any ounce of love towards somebody else.”
Even if you meant what you had said, you immediately regretted saying it to his face directly. You bit your lip to stop the yelp that wanted to escape your throat when he gripped your arm fast.
”You don’t know a thing or two about me, princess,” he hissed, his grip on your arm tightening to a point of constriction. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
He pulled you harshly towards him. “What the hell are you doing?” You hissed back at him.
You tried to pry your arms away, but all that did was make his grip tighter. You looked around you and was displeased when nobody had noticed what was going on. Even Yunho was busy discussing with Mingi from where he was.
”Watch your damn mouth around me,” he warned you, his face dangerously close to your own. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”
”Oh, sure. Says the guy who has a freaking face mask around his face like a little coward,” you sarcastically rebutted.
A deep chuckle hits your ears before he lets go. Nothing in particular happened after that, except for the contents of the project.
“Whoever does the best will be exempted for the rest of the year on exams and will automatically get an A,” Professor Choi bargained, much to everybody’s surprise. “You better do well.”
Damn it, you cursed internally. This project would be the challenge of a lifetime. Soon enough, class was dismissed, and you were determined to set things with Yeosang.
But apparently, he was, too. As usual, the moment class ended, Yeosang was nowhere to be seen. You were about to march off in annoyance when a hand from seemingly out of nowhere materialized and pulled you back in the now-empty classroom.
”I’ll cut this short,” he cleared his throat, as if that would do anything for you since he sounded muffled anyway. “I’ll do all the work, all you have to do is—-”
”And why would you do that?” You raised a brow in irritation, feeling what little left of your patience ebb away. “I’d have you know that I’m not half-bad in things like these.”
He grimaced, his fingers pinching his nose bridge like you were the one stuck-up one and not him. “That’s not what I’m trying to allude to here,” he sighed exasperatedly, eyes closed in deep thought.
“Really, Yeosang? You want me to believe that?”
He went rigid, one eye opening to stare at you. You were caught off-guard by how heavy and lidded they were as he stared straight at you, unblinking. Was it something you said?
”Fine,” he muttered after what felt like an eternity. “We could do a solo performance and stuff.”
”Are you kidding me? That’s not how this works, and you know it,” you sarcastically remarked, throwing your hands up in frustration. You never thought you’d meet anybody that could make you lose your mind like this after Jongho, it was incredible. “Do you live alone?”
He squinted his eyes immediately. “Yes,” he dragged out slowly. “Why?”
”Perfect,” you murmured. You quickly dug into your pocket for your phone and handed it to him. ”Here.”
He frowned, staring at your phone as if you were offering him some sort of alien symbiote and was planning to annihilate him. You jutted your phone towards him again even firmer when he didn’t move. “Well?”
“Hold on a minute,” he blurted out, breaking character for just a second. “Why my house? This is your idea, your house should be the available one, not mine.”
“You think I want to get inside the house of somebody that clearly has distaste for me? I think the hell not,” you counteracted. “I don’t live alone. I have two roommates, one of which you accused me of screwing. I would never live it down if they saw you with me.”
”So please,” you continued, pressing the phone on his chest this time. “Take the phone, put your number in, and your house address, please.”
Yeosang snatched your phone rather rudely, glaring at you scathingly before doing as he was told anyway. You internally rolled your eyes at how ridiculous this all was. But at the same time, you were trying not to explode. Despite the circumstance, you couldn’t believe you were getting your crush’s phone number.
“If you show up randomly at my house one day, I will end you,“ he snarled menacingly, tossing your phone callously for you to catch in the air. “I mean it, you better not.”
“You’re not all that,” you scoffed, annoyed that he would just throw your phone like that. “I might turn into an asshole like you if I absorb all the bad juju you seem to be getting from somewhere.”
You didn’t mean to say it like that, and truth be told, you weren’t one to fight fire with fire - stone with boulder. But the things he’s been saying has been setting you off on your rocker, a taste of it wouldn’t hurt him.
Right?
“I wouldn’t say that just yet,” he sneered. “Famous last words, princess. Nobody knows what the future holds, do they?”
You rolled your eyes dramatically at him, opting not to question him when he led you out of the classroom, opening the door for you to go through. “Anyway, we do this my way, or I’m dropping you,” he mustered up, adjusting his mask a bit as we walked.
“I don’t care, honestly, I just want to pass,” you truthfully said. You heard him sigh irritatingly under his breath.”How do you propose we do this, then?”
“Do you have more classes today?” Yeosang asked, brows furrowed from above that mask. You shook your head in denial. He nodded in acknowledgement. “Great. Let’s head to that cafe near here. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
He began walking faster. You could barely keep up with him, Yeosang was of average height, however, his legs were long, you noticed, while yours were a poor excuse for a pair.
“Wow,” you whistled. “I’m not even going to question why you hate me this much, but okay.”
He laughed, the baritone timbre of his voice enhancing the quality of that beautiful sound. “I don’t hate you. Hate is quite the word,” he scoffed. “It’s strong. You don’t matter enough to me for me to spend strong emotions on.”
Your steps faltered a bit. It felt like a physical blow to your chest and tendrils started to wrap around your heart, squeezing it bit by bit until it was fully constricting against your ribcage. What he said stung more than you’d like to admit.
You couldn’t concentrate when you got in the cafe and sat down. You realized that it was the same cafe you had brunch in with Jongho and Yunho. What he said was all you could think about was all you could think about, were you really that bad?
Yeosang sat in front of you, tinkering on his phone and not paying attention to you for the time being. Not that you wanted him to, anyway, because if he did, he’d see the tears that were starting to form in your eyes.
Yeosang stood up, pocketing his phone, and walked away without even telling you, even out of courtesy and respect, and without looking in your direction. Another blow hit your chest then and there.
You took that opportunity to wipe your tears away, lifting your arm so you could use your sleeves to do so. There was no finesse in it, but you didn’t care. You felt ridiculous, but you felt bad for yourself.
Your head sprung up when something was suddenly placed on the table within your line of vision. Your brows shot up ever so slightly when you registered that it was a cup of hot, steaming, delicious chocolate. Your head snapped towards Yeosang, who just tilted his head at you.
“No ‘thank you’? Damn,” he said sarcastically, pulling on his chair and taking his place back in front of you. He leans forward, his eyes piercing straight onto yours. “Drink. I don’t want people thinking I’m abusing you or something, I’m already stigmatized as is.”
”What in the hell are you talking about?” You blurted out, tentatively reaching out, wrapping your hands around the mug. Warmth immediately spreads through them, seeping deep inside you and reaching the deepest creases of your heart. “T-thank you.”
You went rigid, your muscles tightening against your body, when Yeosang’s finger wipes a lone tear on the side of your right eye. When he pulled away, you immediately started to sip on your chocolate, cursing internally when it started to burn on your tongue, but you didn’t relent. It was a sign that you were truly alive and not dreaming at all.
”Good?” Yeosang raised his brow tentatively.
You nodded a little more enthusiastically than you’d expect yourself to do so. “What about you? I-I can get you one, if you’d like.”
“If I really wanted one, I would’ve gotten one, myself,” he scoffed. This time, you ignored how rude he was, but only for today. He lazily pointed at his face. “Plus, I have this stupid mask.”
You bit your lip, pausing before continuing. “Just take it off.”
Your heart started to pound uncontrollably at that aspect You were already infatuated with this brute with that thing on, what more if he actually took it off?
”Don’t push it, princess,” he snorted, a hint of amusement tinged in his voice. You watched as he took out his laptop from his sling bag, setting it down the table before he looked at you once more. “Shall we start?”
You and Yeosang quickly learned a routine that worked for both of your schedules. You you had to up your meetings from once a week to four times a week just so everything was perfect. You both wanted that exception next semester.
Unfortunately for you, your crush with Yeosang worsened the more time you spent with him. He was everything you liked in somebody, and as rude as his attitude and insensitive his mouth was, you could tell that deep down, you knew that he wasn’t a bad person.
And of course, you still don’t know what he looked like; not entirely, anyway. He never slipped and took it off, not once. Whenever he’d drink something, all he had to do was slip the straw from underneath the mask and drink away, or when he ate, he would lift the mask a bit underneath as well.
It bummed you out, but you respected his choice. Besides, it’s just, well, a face. It wasn’t a deal breaker or anything. Call it an added bonus to the enigma that was Kang Yeosang.
You yelped when something hit the top of your head. Your hands immediately found their place on your scalp, frowning and giving Yeosang a small glare for having the audacity to hit you.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, setting down the book he used to bonk your head on his lap before he crossed his arms and glared at you. “Were you even paying attention to what I was saying?”
”O-Of course I was,” you said without thinking.
“Oh? What did I say, then?”
”That I’m the bestest partner ever and that you were going to treat me for some ice cream after this?” You peered at him, exaggerating your actions because you knew that would agitate him.
“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought,” he sneered, moving to grab the book again but stopping midway to take a breathe to prevent himself from potentially committing a crime.
You giggled, covering your mouth with your palms to stop the loud snorts that made you look unlady-like. “Did I hear that right? Goody two-shoes, Kang Yeosang, cursing like a sailor?”
“Yes, because you are the most irritating person I’ve had the displeasure of ever meeting,” he declared dryly. “What are you going to fucking do about it?”
This time, you didn’t even bother to cover your mouth at all and just let loose. Your laugh made your belly hurt, but it made your heart soar. You forgot the last time you just laughed and didn’t care.
”Keep it down, you’re attracting unwanted attention,” he hissed, but it didn’t have that usual intensity in it, as he looked around cautiously before he stared down the floor like he always did.
The both of you were in the campus cafeteria. You weren’t in the mood to go back to that cafe, and Yeosang wasn’t feeling it either, so the cafeteria was the only option left to go.
You weren’t privy to all the stares that were being sent in your direction, not entirely oblivious of what they’re all thinking. But mostly, they were wondering what was funny, especially because it was Yeosang with you.
”Hey,” you softly called out. He didn't meet your eye, but he nodded slightly to signify that he was listening to you.
You tapped on his hand with your finger once before pulling away. That got his attention and he finally looked at you. “Don’t mind them, they’re idiots,” you reassured. “I think you’re really cool.”
He smirked, tilting his head in curiosity. “You don’t know squat about me, that’s some high-praise for someone who’s practically a stranger to you, little princess.”
Little princess. You swallowed the blush that threatened to warm your cheeks. “I already know what I need the most,” you shrugged, sincerity coating your voice. “You’re literally the smartest person I know, seriously, how do you do it? And I like your mentality, fuck all these people, you know?”
He stayed silent. Usually, you’d hear an insult or two from him by now, but all he did was stare at you intently, his eyes getting shrouded by an emotion you couldn’t exactly pinpoint. It wasn’t malice, and it definitely wasn’t acknowledgement, but you found that you didn’t mind this look on Yeosang. He looked freer this way.
“You remind me of someone,” he suddenly spoke up. Your curiosity peaked with how far away he suddenly looked. “He was the only one who was more annoying than you, and that’s saying a lot, if you could believe it.”
He sounded so nostalgic, and you were savouring this. If he wasn’t being an asshole, he’d have a point most of the time, because he was right, you knew virtually nothing about him. It wasn’t always where Yeosang would divulge in his personal life with you or in general.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you remarked, making him roll his eyes so far back in his head, you were surprised they didn’t get stuck in there. “Anyway, is he your friend?”
“The bestest,” he immediately answered, sighing afterwads. You pursed your lips, you knew that he didn’t mean to do so.
You hesitated for a bit in fear of saying something you knew he wouldn’t like. Yeosang was what you would describe as a ticking time-bomb - you just never knew what would set him off. “Did something happen between you and him?”
He seemed to realize that he was oversharing. Much to your dismay, his eyes immediately hardened, his eyes brewing a storm that permanently seemed to cause his mind turbulence.
“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, changing the topic like a tidal wave that knew no consistency. It matched that of his personality so well. “I don’t have any classes for the next few days. I got exempted from all of them.”
You scoffed in awe and disbelief before you could stop yourself. It certainly earned you a nasty glare from him. Of course, you thought. This man was literally a genius. Something tells you that boredom is the biggest reason why he hasn’t gotten himself exempted from the rest of his classes.
“What are you trying to tell me? Are you perhaps,” you smirked as nasty as he was glaring at you. “Are you perhaps telling me that you’re going to miss me?”
You were kidding - well, mostly, anyway. As expected, he growled and pushed your shoulder roughly in an attempt to wake you up from your delusional thoughts.
”I’ll miss my peace of mind, that’s what,” he rolled his eyes. “Can you be for damn real for once in your miserable life? I really want to get this stupid project done.”
For some reason, that response brought you relief more than the usual sting you’d feel in your chest. You’ve spent enough time with Yeosang to know that he didn’t mean what he said eight out of ten times. The bar was that low. But the truth was, you knew you’d malfunction if he said that he would miss you.
“Do you still have the address that I gave you?” Yeosang questioned gruffly. He was in the process of putting away all his class notes in that stylish sling bag he always had on him.
You nodded. “I do. But wait, where are you going?”
He raised a brow. “You’re not my keeper,” he clicked his tongue, standing up and adjusting the bag on his shoulder across his chest. “I’m going home, if you must know. I need to meditate and ask the Lord for some patience for when you go to my house this week.”
You blinked, eyes widened owlishly, repeating the action over and over again just so you were sure you heard him right. Yeah, you were definitely malfunctioning as is.
”I’ll text you the details,” he turned around and began to walk away, leaving you to your seat alone - nobody wanted to sit with you and Yeosang - for your thoughts to wander and go haywire.
Sputtering, you stood up and called to him, ignoring the odd looks you received from the students around. “A-Are you sure?“
He paused from walking, not bothering to turn around. He raised his hand and waved from behind. “Bye, Y/N.”
You were dazed the entire day, not being able to concentrate on the rest of your class, your heart doing somersaults in your chest that felt too giddy for you to relax. Excitement rolled off of you in waves and all you could do was imagine what Yeosang would be like in the comfort of his own house.
But the first thing you thought of was his face. Would he remove the mask? Surely, it gets stuffy and musty wearing it the entire day, and plus, you knew how uncomfortable it could get the longer you wore it, not to mention how it could clog your skin.
Of course, the thought did cross your mind once or twice - was he wearing it because he has something to hide? You always mentally slapped yourself whenever this would cross your mind, everybody was judgmental to a certain extent, but you tried your damned hardest to not consciously do it and make an effort to always remind yourself that it isn’t good to judge people because they all have their own stories.
However, the longer you thought of this, you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t care what was under that mask. Over the month and a couple of weeks, you have come to truly enjoy Yeosang’s company a lot, regardless if he felt the same or not.
You received the awaited text the following night. A laugh bubbled up from your chest when you opened the message like a child opening up presents during Christmas. You found it adorable that his personality also seeped in through his texts.
‘Tomorrow. Three in the afternoon. Bring your laptop, but no food since I will provide it. Be on your best behaviour, I have a dog I will not hesitate to sic on you.’
“Wow,” Yunho whistled the next day, tossing the phone back at you after reading the text message with a small chuckle. “What a douchebag.”
You replied with a dry chuckle of your own, lifting a dress you snatched from your dresser, hanger still attached and all, and laid it across the bed, beside the area where Yunho was currently sitting down. He stared at the black dress with a scoff.
”Girl, this is a study session, not a funeral,” he chortled. “Then again, if he actually has a dog, it might as well be.”
A shiver passed through you, but you gave him a stern look, anyway. “Quiet, you,” you hissed. “I don’t fucking know what to wear, I don’t want to look like a bum, but I don’t want to try too hard, either!”
“Are you trying to do that project, stupid, by the way, or are you trying to get laid?” Jongho blurted out bluntly from across Yunho, lifting the dress and inspecting it. “If you’re going for the latter, this isn’t the way to go.”
You blushed furiously, slapping your cheeks to conceal the fact, but it was already too late. You loved these two to death, but sometimes, you were just ready to not be roommates with them anymore when they both made fun of you.
“Choi Jongho, I will end you,” you seethed.
He raised his hands defensively in surrender. “Relax, tiger. Just go for a white shirt and some jeans, it’s comfortable and effective. I can tell you right now, he literally wouldn’t give a shit.”
He made it a point to raid your closet himself. “In fact,” he continued, yelping a bit when he suddenly lifted your bra and tossed it like it was bacterial. “He definitely won’t notice, trust me.”
You were mortified, but so was Yunho when said bra landed on his lap. He shrugged it off like it, too, was infectious. “Goddamn it, Y/N, clean your fucking closet,” he groaned. “But I agree. He has that thing literally on his face 24/7, I highly doubt he’ll notice anything else.”
“Here. I got this for you on your birthday, it’s high time you wear it now,” Jongho haphazardly tossed some clothes directly on your face callously. “Hurry up, it’s almost three. He won’t let you in if you’re late.”
”That’s comforting,” you remarked sarcastically.
Luckily, in your apartment, there was a walk-in closet - perks of living with an affluent roommate like Jongho - and so, you walked in there to change in your own privacy, but you didn’t shut the door so you could still talk to the both of them as you changed.
You noticed that Jongho had, indeed, given you a simple white shirt and some jeans, but he also handed you the hoodie he had given you. With that, you began to undress and change.
”How’s your project coming along, Yun?” You asked to fill in the silence.
”Good, actually. Mingi is really good at these things,” Yunho answered cheerfully. “We’ve decided to just do a short dance number, he’ll do a remix and I’ll choreograph for us.”
“Mingi dances?” Jongho asked in surprise.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you guys? Mingi and I used to go to the same dance school before he moved away during high school,” he explained. “This isn’t the first time we’ve worked together, so it helps, you know?”
You were happy for Yunho, and if you were honest, even though Yeosang and you haven’t decided on what to do yet, you were pretty content in being his partner. You paused, however, a line of thought suddenly crossed your mind.
“Hey, Jjong?”
“Here,” the latter answered.
You bit your bottom lip, not really sure how to articulate the thoughts plaguing your mind into coherent words. “Do you have any idea if Yeosang is also inclined in the arts?”
The arts, meaning dancing and singing. There was a fat pause on the other side of the room. You heard Jongho sigh, the springs of your bed sinking down as he sat on it. “Yeah, he is,” he confirmed. “You’re going to find out the rest by yourself, I’m not willing to divulge the rest.”
“No, that’s all I wanted to know. He literally wouldn’t touch me with a ten-feet poll, let alone tell me the juicy details of his life,” you snorted. “Hell, I don’t even know what the guy looks like.”
Yunho made a sound, likely thinking the same thing as you were at the same time as you heard movement on the bed once more. And he asked the same question you had in your head, “Do you know what he looks like?”
“Of course, I do,” Jongho said incredulously as if he was offended that he was even asked in the first place, until he realized the reason. “Well—“
”Wait,” you interrupted abruptly. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, I will not disrespect his privacy unless he tells me himself.”
You were tempted, who wouldn’t be? Your big, beaming crush on the guy, alone, was enough for you to be curious to know what’s underneath, but it just felt wrong.
They both laughed out loud the moment you opened the door to go back in the room. “Damn, you’re down bad,” Yunho slapped his thighs in amusement as he laughed even more.
“Haha,” your voice dripped with sarcasm. You went past them to grab your things and headed towards the door. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Ew, I don’t want to know if you guys end up fucking or something,” Jongho gagged exaggeratingly, making Yunho laugh even harder, his entire body contorting with how hard he was laughing.
When you started driving, your brows shot up in mild surprise when you realized that Yeosang’s place was a lot closer than you thought it was. In fact, if you jacked on the gas, you could get there within ten minutes.
Your hands gripped on the wheel the more your mind worked on itself - there was a huge possibility that you and Yeosang crossed each other’s path at one point and you just never knew. Heat pools in your tummy, he could have been one of the people you encountered everyday and you would be none the wiser because of the mask.
You arrived in no time, and you parked in an even lesser time. An impressive whistle slipped past your lips, this meant that you were on the better side of the city with how easy the accommodation was. When you looked around, every single building looked more modern and sleeker, too.
And you were right. Your mouth hung open ever so slightly when you realized that you were in the affluent area of the city. By all means, you were fortunate to grow up comfortably, but you could still never afford to live in one of the units where Yeosang apparently resided. What’s more, is that he said he lived alone.
You quickly sent a text to him that you were here and put your phone back in your pockets after that quick text. Shame crept in your bones when you looked at your outfit. Had you known that this was where you’d end up going, you would have worn that black dress because as drab as it was, it was elegant enough to fit the opulent vibe of the place. Soon enough, your phone vibrated.
‘Walk in and go straight to the receptionist. Give them my name and press ‘50’ when she leads you to the elevators. It’ll take you directly inside my unit. Don’t forget to take your filthy shoes off.'
You ignored the last statement, your jaw slacking further when you read the message over and over again. Who the hell does that? Geez, you thought incredulously, who the hell has a unit literally connected to the elevators?
But you followed his instructions, anyway. And in no time, the receptionist was leading towards said elevators. She gave you a kind smile as the doors opened and you bowed back politely. The moment you pressed the number, you leaned your back against the walls of the metal box.
It was the last floor on the very top, it made sense that it led directly in his unit. That also meant he had the penthouse. You felt your body ascend slowly, and the best thing you could do was fix your clothes and your hair to make yourself a bit more presentable.
You started to imagine what Yeosang’s space would look like, but more so, you were just curious on what a penthouse would look like since you’ve never been to one before. You scoffed under your breath, Yeosang did seem the type to live in penthouses.
You weren’t expecting anything in general, but however, the last thing you expected was a small presence waiting for you the moment the elevator dinged and the doors parted.
There it was, with its head tilted, looking at you curiously as you cautiously stepped in Yeosang’s space. This must be the dog, but it wasn’t just a dog.
You gulped, knees threatening to buckle under your weight, when the dog started to walk forward and sniff your feet, your legs, back to your feet. It definitely intimidated you as you tried to stay absolutely still.
Yeosang conveniently forgot to tell you that he had a Great Dane. It was so big that if it stood on two paws, it would tower over you.
But all those worries faded away when it yelped a happy yelp and laid down on its back. Her, you found out soon enough, tail wagged back and forth in glee and excitement as her eyes looked up at you, pleading for you to lean down and give her the belly rubs she so wanted.
Who were you to say no to that?
“Who’s the good girl?! You are, yes, you are,” you giggled incessantly, your hand rubbing on her sweet tummy while your other hand found its way behind her ear. Her happy barks reached your ears and it prompted you to rub faster.
You completely sat down on the floor and patted your thighs. ”Aww, c’mere, you sweet pup, come…”
Your landlord has strict rules against pets, which was such a shame because Jongho wouldn’t have to leave his Persian to his parents and Yunho wouldn’t be going out every so often to spend time with his Golden Retriever at his brother’s place.
”I see you met Nabi.”
You jumped out, startled at the deep, muffled voice that intruded your well-needed little pup therapy. It also startled the dog, whose head rested on your lap, and you couldn't help but feel bad. You were about to give Yeosang a piece of your mind, but when you turned around, you wanted to whine just like her, maybe a bit worse.
He still wore that mask, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. Yeosang leaned casually against the wall behind you, his hair was completely unstyled, a stark contrast to the prim and proper hair he sported on campus.
But what really got you was his even more casual outfit, it was dangerous. He wore a body-fitting tank top, and you tried not to drool at his exposed arms and the way they absolutely flexed whenever he moved even a single inch. Your eyes traced the veins that were deliciously spread all throughout his hands all the way to his forearms.
And by God, the way his sweatpants hung alarmingly low against his hip bones. And then, his brow slowly lifted, his eyes shining in mischief. It was your cue to look away in shame, because you knew that he knew.
You didn’t say anything when he leaned down, lifting the mid-ends of his pants as he squatted down. He looked you in the eye as his hands slowly started to rub the back of Nabi’s other ear.
”That’s a good girl,” he whispered.
You didn’t even know what to say, you can’t just assume that he was doing what you thought he was actually doing. You stayed silent, not breaking eye contact with him until he stood back up and walked inside.
“Go sit on the couch so you can settle down. You can leave your things on the coffee table,” he murmured, Nabi hot on his tail as he walked away.
If it wasn’t even more possible, your jaw dropped when you finally took in the interior of the penthouse. It was the epitome of opulence and luxury. The theme was the classic marbled black-and-white overalls, the space was neat, and if it wasn’t for the crystal chandelier hanging from above you, you would have spent more time just looking around. Not to mention, the grand staircase towards the corner that leads to the second floor.
Yeosang stood by the kitchenette, tinkering at whatever. It was state-of-the-art, but what really made you fall in love was the huge glass window behind him that overlooked the entire city. You bet it would look stunning during nighttime.
Despite your awe, you couldn’t help but blurt out, ”Who are you?”
”Uh, Kang Yeosang,” he replied absentmindedly. Your lips quivered in an effort to not chuckle, “Anything to drink?”
“Just water,” you replied.
He scoffed, crossing his arms. “I should have specified for you to also bring your brain when you come. You didn’t come all the way here for just water.”
“Fine,” you rolled your eyes in offense. “Coffee, then?”
You expected him to say ‘no’ and tell you to, frankly, to fuck off and be serious, but your heart thumped in your chest when he immediately went to work without saying anything.
You watched him move as he grabbed a cup and set it down. It made sense now, he’s always had this elegance to him when he moved and talked, even though he was rude most of the time, and he had this air of grandeur to him that you couldn’t explain.
Your heart was close to flatlining when he wordlessly gave you the freshly made cup of coffee, and it tasted exactly like the one you always order at the cafe you and him always meet up for the project.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He hummed in response, setting himself down on the couch across you and relaxing into it. You took great effort to ignore his arms once more. “I think I have an idea on what to do for the project,” he said, directly to the point. “If you’re okay with it.”
You breath hitched, He’s never wanted your approval before. You stared at him expectantly and waited for him to continue. “Don’t make fun of me,” he blurted out. The way he wrung his hands together gave out his nervousness. “Maybe we could just sing a song together.”
You almost dropped the cup on the table that probably cost more than your life. You were expecting a lot of things, but you weren’t expecting that. But then again, Jongho did say Yeosang was inclined in the arts.
“Why would I make fun of that?” You asked truthfully with genuine confusion. “That sounds like a lovely idea. I was in choir until middle school, it’s good on my end.”
Yeosang didn’t say anything. He stared at you deeply, intently. His eyes held something you’ve never seen before - vulnerability. You gave him a soft, reassuring smile, one you knew he wouldn’t reciprocate, but you did it, anyway.
But he did. Even though you couldn’t see his lips, his eyes squinted at the gesture. Just about when your heart was about to give out, you just had to find out that Yeosang’s eyes smiled with him.
“Can I tell you something?” Yeosang asked, softness coating his voice, his body visibly relaxing even more from where he sat.
“You can tell me anything,” you chirped up. “What friends are for, right?”
His eyes drooped, hooding ever so slightly before he shook his head, a deep chuckle escaping from his lips. You bit your lip to stop yourself from screaming, you believed this was the first time that he actually produced such a sound without being sarcastic or pretentious.
“You are definitely something, Y/N,” he whispered, more to himself, but you heard it. “Anyway, I know how to sing. Uhm, I was training to be an idol. I did it for years before stopping entirely.”
Your eyes widened in surprise, heat coursing through your veins at the newfound information that you also realized that Yeosang divulged by his own accord. You cleared your throat to cover the blush that spread through your cheeks and ears. You would literally kill anyone and anything to be able to witness Yeosang as an idol.
”Was? Is there a reason why you stopped?” You asked softly, trying to be as respectful as you possibly can so you wouldn’t turn him off. The last thing you wanted was to make him feel like you were trying to intrude.
He paused, sighing deeply and exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes and leaned his back down the couch, almost slouching. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled.
“Okay,” you conceded, nodding towards him.
He opened one eye, staring at you from his peripheral vision. You tried to ignore how long his lashes were even from where you were. “Just like that? You’re not going to ask me why?”
You were taken aback, beyond confused at what he was insinuating. Your heart bled for this man, just what has he gone through?
”Uhm, no, why should I? It’s disrespectful,” you supplied truthfully. “You’re not obligated to tell me, or anyone in general, anything. You don’t owe me, but I’ll lend you an ear whenever you are ready.”
He stared at you with clouded eyes. The thing with Yeosang that you liked was that he wasn’t a liar - what you see with him is what you get - but this time, you couldn’t decipher what lay beneath those enthralling eyes. The closest would be soul-searching but you’d have to be a fool to actually believe that.
The longer he stared, the more it morphed, transforming into something you finally understood. They were full of hope, those bright eyes shining and reflecting your faltering gaze. Yeosang was the hope that whispered of the sun.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing vertically at the motion. “Would you like to start over with me?” Yeosang scoots closer and juts his hand out for you to take. “Hi, I’m Kang Yeosang.”
You tilted your head, smiling through your teeth as you took his hand, squeezing it lightly as you shook it. “L/N Y/N.”
Things were never truly the same after that. Yeosang’s mouth, as kissable as it looked, was still brutish and blunt, and you were still that blubbering mess around him whenever he’d get a bit too close for comfort, but everything has changed.
You’d keep coming back to his place and Yeosang would always invite you under the pretense of practicing for the performance, but the two of you always ended up doing something else, instead; something more fun.
There was nothing set in stone, the other day, he showed you his drone collection and even let you fly one of them since you mentioned offhandedly that you’ve never tried to before.
Needless to say, you had no talent for this. You had a heavy hand with no coordination.
”Hey, hey, if you break that, I’ll break you,” he hissed when you accidentally manoeuvered the flying robot by mistake and almost crashed it onto the nearby concrete wall.
”I-I’m sorry,” you blurted out, trying hard to set it down before you damaged it. You knew it cost a pretty penny. The both of you were currently on his balcony, fifty stories high. One wrong move could make it crash all the way down.
He sighed exasperatedly, gesturing for you to come closer. “Come here, I’ll help you.”
You were expecting him to just take the remote control away from you, but you were rendered speechless when he pulled your arm and guided you in front of him. He positioned himself comfortably behind you, his hand grabbing onto yours as he did, indeed, help you with the drone.
”The trick is to be gentle with this button,” he murmured, breath tickling the shell of your ear, his fingers guiding yours on said button.
You were surprised you didn’t disintegrate on the spot. What could have, however, was when you tried to teach Yeosang how to cook the next time.
You didn’t start out being a good cook, but living with Jongho and Yunho taught you over the years. Yunho could burn water and Jongho always spent an exorbitant amount of money on take-outs that didn’t even offer an ounce of health in them.
“You’re literally doing well,” you cheered him on as he tried to toss the ingredients for the pasta dish you were guiding him to make for lunch. “It’s easy, isn’t it?”
”Sure,” he sneered, startling himself when the oil in the pan began to crackle. “If you’re trying to get food poisoning, it is.”
”Stop setting yourself up for failure,” you rolled your eyes. You nudged a bottle towards him, sliding it against the counter for him to take. “Here, wine. Take it.”
You snorted at the wild and confused look on his face as he tried to sauté some shrimp. “I don’t drink,” he sputtered out.
It was moments like these that prevent you from regretting how bad you two started from before. If you knew you’d always end up here, you would do it all over again without any hesitation. You laughed, grabbing onto his shoulders for support. That was another thing, skinship wasn’t lost on the both of you now.
”No, dummy,” you laughed. “It’s for the pasta. Pour a little to deglaze the pan, it’s good for flavour.”
He still looked confused, but ,nonetheless, still grabbed the bottle. It shouldn’t be difficult, right?
“W-Wait, Yeosang, do it slowly, wait—-“
But it was too late. He had managed to pour half of its content straight onto the pan, causing blue fire to rise up and almost hit both of you in the face.
“The fuck was that? Was that normal?” Yeosang hissed, tentatively stepping back from the flames.
”Well, no, you were supposed to do it slowly—-”
”Then why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
”Because it was common sense!”
It became a routine, minus the drones - you were definitely going to break them one way or another. It was so easy to fall for this man, but it was also so easy to get your heart broken by the same man.
He even lets you take Nabi out for a walk when he’d get too tired to do so. You took that task proudly and quite seriously.
”Wouldn’t want your dad laying it out on me now,” you’d giggle while giving Nabi the ear rubs you knew she loved.
You get it, though. Nabi was one energetic pup, and on one particular day where she wore you out, you didn’t realize that you’d fallen asleep on the couch, not that Yeosang minded. You knew that he didn’t mind.
Your eyes started to flutter awake, still dazed from that afternoon nap that you took, but then you realized what actually woke you up.
Everything came to you bit by bit. They say that the first thing to come and leave both in life and death was the sense of touch. It was soft, you noticed. And warm. You were laying on soft, pillowy thighs. Dazed as you were, you weren’t an all-rounder idiot; you knew it was Yeosang’s. You smile to yourself, you knew you didn’t fall asleep on his lap earlier.
But you were completely done for when you felt a hand, fingers to be specific, run slowly through your hair over and over again. You wanted to groan in contentment, no wonder Nabi likes rubs.
What truly woke you up, however, was his voice. Shivers traveled your arms all the way to your neck, you didn’t even need to strain your ears; Yeosang was singing. It was the song you’d both decided to perform, but you’d actually never heard him try and sing it before.
It waa supposed to be a jolly tune, something awe-inspiring, but when it came from him, it sounded almost melancholic akin to a lullaby meant to reminisce rather than fill your heart with merry and joy.
He stopped, so did his fingers. “I know you’re awake,” he mumbled.
You pouted, wanting to hear more. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you rose up from his lap, your body protesting from the lack of his warmth, voice hoarse from the prolonged unuse. “How long have I been sleeping on your lap?”
He stared at you like he always did, and you wanted to know why because its intensity was strong, but it was impossible to know without asking, because in truth, you were scared to find out.
“You should just stay for the night,” he mumbled, sitting straight up, his form rigid. “I have a guest room upstairs, and frankly, I feel uncomfortable letting you drive out this late.”
Looking around, it wasn’t difficult to deduce that it was well late into the night even though your mind wasn’t all there yet. You gulped, the offer was too tempting to not consider, but you had to go. You just knew that you weren’t going to sleep properly if you stayed.
Yeosang sighed deeply, standing up straight to face you. “Let me walk you to your car, then.”
You blushed in embarrassment. He must’ve seen the hesitation on your face. “O-Oh, there’s really no need—-”
”Let me walk you to your car, at least,” he repeated, one brow arched, his voice firmer and more resolute. It left you no room for any arguments. “Here.”
A startled ‘oof’ leaves your lips when the hoodie that he threw at you hits you square in the face. He rolled his eyes dramatically when you stared at it as if it were an abomination. He snatched it back harshly.
”God, it’s like taking care of a fucking child with you. Raise your arms,” he clicked his tongue, putting his hoodie on for you, looping your arms carefully in.
If asking to stay the night wasn’t intimate enough for you, this definitely was. When he was done, he held your hand and started guiding you outside. It would have been funny, since it looked like a parent leading their unruly child, if you didn’t feel like you were going to combust on the spot.
It felt like you were on autopilot. Even when you sat in your car, your muscles felt so rigid and robotic. When he leaned down from the outside, his head peeking at you by the window, his toned arms hanging and leaning on the roof. “Drive safe, yeah?”
”W-what about this?”
You bunched up the hoodie in an attempt to take it off, but he stopped you. “Return it next time,” he mumbled.
You nodded, and he returned it with a curt one, patting the roof of your car before he turned around and jogged back inside. You felt slightly bad, he did give you his hoodie, after all, and he only had a tank top on.
You were completely out of it when you drove home, to the point that you reached your apartment without even realizing it. A silent scream threatens to escape your mouth as you bumped your forehead on the steering wheel, there was a faint blush on your cheeks at everything that happened.
You slept on your crush’s lap, and you even got to wear his hoodie.
You carefully closed your bedroom door so as not to disturb Jongho and Yunho, who you knew were both sleeping since it was late, and as if it was timed, your phone vibrated in your pockets. You didn’t need to look at the ID to know who it was.
“Did you get home safely?” Yeosang’s comforting voice floods your ears, effectively soothing you and making you smile.
“Mhhm,” you hummed exhaustedly, taking your pants off, but not the hoodie, and plopping down unceremoniously on your bed. “You’re worried about me, the world must be ending soon.”
He mumbled a curse so crass, it made you giggle under your breath. “If you die on the way back, who would be my source of entertainment?” Yeosang deadpanned. A shuffling sound on his end tells you that he’s also laying down on his bed. “I’ll be bored.”
“Wow. Good to know I’m nothing but your source of fun,” you scoffed.
“What can I say? Your misery feeds my fun,” he flatly said. There was a pause on the line before a small sigh sounded. “Princess?”
That nickname will always make your heart sing no matter how much time passes. You hummed in response. “Hmm?”
“Would you like to come over again tomorrow? Forget about the project for a while, I just want to watch a movie with you,” he murmured.
Your heart warmed, you’ve never heard him sound like this before. You’ve made up your mind before he even finished talking. “Only if you let me choose the movie,” you grinned.
”Deal,” he laughed. “I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, sounds good?”
“Sounds good,” you affirmed, kicking your feet up in the air repeatedly. You reckon you resembled a flopping fish out of water right now, but you could care less. You had to bite onto your fist to stop yourself from screaming at the top of your lungs.
He said goodnight and was about to hang up, when you stopped him. “Yeosang.”
He hummed, clearly off guard at the sound of his name. “You have a beautiful voice,” you whispered, referring to his singing when you woke up from your nap. “You would have been a fantastic idol.”
He chuckled. “Good night, princess.”
You hugged your phone close to your chest, a grin stretching out from your lips so wide, your mouth was starting to ache a bit, but the high and ecstasy wasn’t going to go down easily.
Tonight, sleep came easily to you. Yeosang’s hoodie comforted you, wrapped you in the solace you didn’t know you were missing. His scent gave you the calm that you didn’t mind getting off of.
And tomorrow couldn’t have come any faster. You didn’t tell Jongho and Yunho what you were going to do - the teasing would only get worse from then on - but they did give you odd looks here and there.
“Nice hoodie,” Jongho commented out of the blue while you were waiting for Yeosang. He squints his eyes. “It looks familiar, though. Where’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t buy it,” you replied cryptically, earning you a side-glance from Yunho this time.
He was about to say something when you heard a car engine pull up directly in front of your apartment. The three of you lived on the first floor, so that perk was there. You jumped up excitedly, hastily picking up your purse before dashing out.
”I’ll see you guys later—-” you tried to say before you got pulled back, a hand tugging your arm backwards.
”Hold the hell on, you have a date?” Yunho blurted out, a flabbergasted look on his face present. “Why am I finding this out just now?”
He gives Jongho a look, and the latter’s eyes narrow even further. Jongho’s brow raises before he stalks towards the door. “Let me size up this fucker,” he sneers, cracking his knuckles loudly.
You wiggled your arm free from Yunho to pull Jongho away from the door so you could get out. Your best friends were protective like that.
“Get back here,” Jongho called out, opening the door wide so he could chase you down. “You can’t just—-wait.”
You were confused, Jongho’s intimidating aura slowly slips out and gives way to confusion all the way to realization. He blanched, face slightly pale as he stared at the car parked just a couple of metres away from where we stood.
The car window was already open, and Yeosang was already staring at Jongho. He nods once before closing it once again.
“I should have known,” he mumbled, voice dejected before giving you a tight smile. “Call when you need anything.”
He quickly went inside, followed by Yunho who whispered to you the same thing. “Have fun,” he waved before he closed the door.
Yeosang didn't say anything as you both drove away. It wasn’t an awkward type of silence, but you didn’t have the need to fill it. You wanted to give him some space, the way he gripped the steering wheel repeatedly told you everything you needed to know.
Instead, you spent the entire time chastising yourself because your eyes kept traveling at his hands and his face from your peripheral vision. You chose to look out the window, his veiny arms were distracting you a little too much.
He still had the mask on his face but honestly, you didn’t care less anymore. You couldn’t help but also stare at the way he was dressed. He was in casual wear, nothing special, but the way it emphasized his toned chest yet tiny waist got you sweating even though it was quite cool inside the luxurious car he was driving.
“There’s a drive through nearby. I want to get coffee,” he finally spoke. The softness in his voice made your heart pound, it boosted the already intimate setting of being in a car with him.
”Are you going to let me pay for us?” You asked rhetorically.
”Of course,” he shrugged, and you were about to celebrate until he continued. “Of course not.”
You rolled your eyes, an exasperated groan of frustration leaving your lips. The sound makes Yeosang laugh out loud, and he was still laughing even when the drive through speaker crackled on. Cute.
This was dangerous. You stared at him as he spoke, his deep voice rumbling. It wasn’t fair that his side profile looked this ethereal, but it also wasn’t fair that your heart was slowly giving in to its demands little by little. He didn’t even need to ask what you wanted, he just knew what you needed.
“Thank you,” you murmured in gratitude when he handed you your iced latte. You grit your teeth when your hands brushed with his as you tried to grab the cup.
The same hand lands gently on your thigh. You thought it was just him being him and he was absentmindedly doing it, but when the searing heat from his palms didn’t relinquish any relief, you couldn’t help but smirk to hide the growing tingle in between your thighs.
”Getting comfortable there,” you said, trying very, very hard not to look at his veiny, masculine hands. It turned you on to no end.
”Does it bother you?” Yeosang asked, not bothering to look at you since he was actually driving. You gulped, the sight of him driving with one hand increased the tingling sensation down there.
“No,” you lied. “Not at all.”
He hummed, giving your thigh a soft squeeze before he resorted to just drawing random lines on it. He made a small sound of surprise. “You work out?”
You blinked repeatedly, not really understanding what he was saying at first. “What? O-Oh, I used to do gymnastics in high school,” you revealed. The activity has made your thighs and legs toned even though you haven’t done heavy routines in a while.
”Used to? How come?”
“Had a nasty concussion. Plus, college was keeping me busy, anyway.”
“Ah,” he acknowledged with a small smirk. “I knew you hit your head somewhere along the line—-”
You playfully pushed his hand away from your thigh. “You ass.”
He laughed, his deep voice rumbling through the small space of the car, and knocking into your heart, as he pulled in in the familiar section of his apartment that led to the parking lot.
The appreciation you had for this man knew no bounds. During the walk back to his penthouse, no words needed to be said. This was how it was with him, and you didn’t mind at all. The silence was already telling enough.
“Do you like the hoodie?” Yeosang asked the moment he closed the door behind him.
“I do,” you admitted, grinning as you rubbed Nabi’s beautiful fur, your fingers trailing to the spot behind her ears you knew brought her joy. “Hey, girl.”
”I see,” he murmured, passing you, but not before patting Nabi’s head, and walked towards the staircase. “Follow me,” he beckoned you over with a small wave of his hand.
”Where to?” You asked, following him anyway, albeit reluctantly.
As you climbed the stairs, something you’ve never done before, let alone go near since you didn’t want to just invade Yeosang’s privacy, especially since you knew that his personal bedroom was located on the second floor of the penthouse.
You will never get used to how simply gorgeous his space was. If you thought that the first floor where his living room was located was jaw-dropping, the second floor was something out-of-this-world. You were able to see the grand chandelier even closer in this section of the penthouse.
Multiple paintings you knew weren’t just ordinary art hung around the walls, which were made out of opulent marble, the swirls of black and white giving the space an elegance you knew cannot just be replicated and duplicated just because.
”Wow,” you whispered, not able to stop yourself in awe.
”Like what you see?” Yeosang asked, his hand absentmindedly trailing over the walls as you both still walked on, you just followed him wherever he took you.
It didn’t take long, and once again, you were in for a wild ride. Soon, the overall theme of the second floor had changed from something bright, to something just a bit darker. The swirled marble of the walls gave way to something pure black, and that included all the paintings, vase, and furniture that surrounded the area.
“Is this your room? Wow,” you remarked like a little kid in a candy store.
”No,” he shook his head, opening the door to one of the rooms. “This is just a spare bedroom, really. Nobody’s ever used it, so I just store all my old stuff in here.”
You frowned at him. “Nobody? Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
You weren’t lying when you said that. You truly found it hard to believe that he has never brought anybody in, whether it be just a couple of close friends, or even a past fling or some hookups. The last sting of thoughts brought on a horrible churning that started deep in your gut area.
”Well, considering that you were the first one I’ve ever willingly brought here, I’d say it’s not really difficult to comprehend,” he shrugged. “My, uhm, father used to own this before he bought another unit. He would use it for his business.”
You stayed silent, following him inside the bedroom, not anymore surprised to find a large theater setup occupying most of the space. This was another instance of him slowly giving you bits and pieces of his life willingly, and you wanted so badly to ask more about what his family business was, but you didn’t. You didn’t miss the way his eyes faltered when he mentioned it.
“You’re telling me you’ve never had, I don’t know,” you bit your lip. “Flings, perhaps?”
”Of course I did,” he raised an offended brow. “I’m not a eunuch, and not to brag, but I’m not that bad looking.”
You blushed. Yeosang’s part down there was the last thing you’d ever want to think about.
“But I’ve never brought them here,” he continued cryptically, his voice not leaving you any thoughts of questioning him, so you decided to let it slide. “Anyway, I’m going to get the snacks downstairs, why don’t you pick a movie?”
You nodded, getting to your feet and caught the remote that he had thrown your way with surprising reflexes. “What movies are you into?”
“I don’t give a shit, really,” he mumbled, walking away to your devices, and for once, you were glad he was walking away. The blush on your cheeks would just never leave.
You took this opportunity to try and calm yourself as much as you possibly could. Your corrupted brain was pushing this as a possible date between you and Yeosang, and luckily, the sentient part of it kept pushing that thought back, but it was getting more and more difficult to do so. How could you not? You were in the comfort of his home, in one of his rooms, and in a place where he’s never brought anyone before. Or so he says.
You weren't surprised to find a sizable selection for the movies. He had a state-of-the-art setup, you’d be pretty surprised if he didn’t. He told you to pick whatever you liked, but you weren’t the insensitive type, you wanted him to have a say in it, too.
You were about to sit down and just wait for him to come back when your foot had accidentally gotten caught on something when you tried to sit on the bed. You tried to see what it was and your brows lifted in surprise when you realized that you had tripped on a small box.
It was conspicuously tucked away underneath the bed, but the edge of it was slightly jutted out. You didn’t think much of it, you figured that Yeosang had stored other things in here. Maybe there were other movie selections that he’d kept in here.
So when you grabbed the box and opened it, you just simply weren’t expecting what you’d find. You were gravely mistaken, there were no movies in there. You wanted to hit yourself, of course there wouldn’t be, DVDs were a thing of the past!
There was a piece of paper on top of everything. You inspected it carefully, and you realized that there was a name in it. A girl’s name. You frowned, that was the name of the girl who was picked last for the project.
You gasped, dropping the piece of paper in realization. Professor Choi did not accidentally put your name twice in that box.
You rummaged more to see what was in the box. Instead, there were photos - multiple of them. Your eyes weren’t completely taking everything in, but there were a myriad of photographs that ranged from professionally printed ones all the way to the wallet-sized polaroid prints.
You bit your lip. You really shouldn’t be doing this, you were invading Yeosang’s privacy, and whether he said it or not, you knew that he appreciated that you didn’t pry on the things he wasn’t ready to tell you.
You wanted badly to know more about Yeosang, but you knew this wasn’t the way to go about it. The box needed to go, and it was about to, but then, you spotted a particular photo that got your attention. You glanced at the door, and with a shaky hand, you took that photo to stare at it closer.
The lump in your throat was making it difficult for you to breathe, you were nervous, but there was no going back from this. That wasn’t all, however, it was mostly the photo in your hand.
There were two people in the photo you were holding, one of which you’ve never seen before. He was quite handsome, you noted. He had the biggest grin on his face that made him look so young, you could barely see his face, that’s how wide he was smiling. Had the situation been different, you would have been fascinated by how much he resembled a fox.
And then, there was Yeosang. In an unfortunate coincidence, you picked up a photo where he was still covering half of his face, but this time, it wasn’t by a mask, it was his hands. This photo must have been taken mid-laughter by somebody else.
You’ve never seen him this happy before. His eyes were also smiling, but one thing that absolutely got you was that when you looked closer, you were pleasantly surprised to find a small birthmark on the side of his face. You realized that he must’ve been covering it lately with makeup.
When you turned the photo around, there was a name in there. Jung Wooyoung. And there was a note in there too, one that you knew to be Yeosang’s handwriting.
There were only four words written on it - I am so sorry.
You swallowed, clearly, you weren’t supposed to see this. You suddenly remembered Jongho’s words from before - something had happened that made him the way he was now.
Shame crept in from the bottom of your heart, you had to pretend that you didn’t see any of this, you had to put the box back the way you found it and forget that you ever saw that picture. But it was too late.
”What the fuck are you doing?”
You gasped, jumping up from where you were seated down, causing the box to fall from your lap, exposing what you were doing, which was basically snooping in on his privacy against his will and without his permission.
The snacks he was carrying was long forgotten on the floor, for he must’ve dropped it after seeing you look through the photos.
You were devastated, but he looked even more devastated as he stood from where he was standing, staring at you with the most disappointed eyes. That was the worst part - he didn’t seem angry, not at all. He looked absolutely broken, and it was your fault.
“Y-Yeosang,” you called out, voice wavering as you felt your tears slowly forming in your eyes. “I c-can explain, please—-”
He looked down at the floor, completely avoiding eye contact with you. Only his fists were moving, they were actively shaking. He had a lump in his throat that he gulped in, albeit with difficulty.
”How could you do this to me?” Yeosang questioned, his voice laced with an unmistakable hint of pain and hurt. He lifted his head, and heart felt like it was getting pulled out of your chest. “How could you?”
You tried walking towards, the photos on the floor long forgotten, but he raised a palm to stop you. “Yeosang,” you called out once more, your desperation seeping out from you.
”I thought you were different,” he chuckled bitterly. He pressed the heel of his palms on his eyes as if he was trying to soothe an oncoming migraine. “But it turns out, you were the worst of them all.”
Your lips quivered, of all the things he had said to you, the things he had insulted you with, this one statement stung the most, mainly because you knew it to be true. You shook your head desperately. “You know it’s not like that,” you cried, ashamed because you didn’t want to lose him, not like this. “I am so, so sorry, Yeosang, please forgive me, I know I was wrong, please.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, Y/N,” he commanded venomously, pointing a shaking finger on the direction away from the room. He exhaled a shaky breath. “I never want to see you again.”
That was when your tears started to fall from your eyes. “Don’t say that,” you sobbed. “P-Please don’t say that—“
”Y/N, you know what hurts the most right now?” Yeosang spat out, running a hand on his hair in frustration. “I could handle the daily insults I hear at campus every single day. That’s fine, I don’t owe anyone an explanation, they can say whatever they want.”
”But you,” he gritted his teeth. “I trusted you, more than I’ve ever come to trust myself,” he took a shaky breath in. “I let you in. The thing that hurts me the most is that I’ve come to care for you. I care about you, Y/N. Do you have any idea how much I want to slap myself right now?”
“You’re right, I am so sorry,” your entire body was shaking, your legs almost threatening to give out. “I’m so sorry, Yeosang, please—-”
“You made me look like an idiot,” he declared. “Get out. Please. I won’t tell you again.”
He turned around to walk away, but your impulses took action by suddenly running forward to give Yeosang a hug from behind. He freezes from the action, but all that did was make you hug him tighter.
”Please, don’t push me away, not like this,” your tears were free-falling, soaking his shirt. “I’m begging you, please.”
“Goddamn it, you have no right to do this right now,” he snapped, grabbing your hand to pry it away from himself before grabbing you by the arm and callously dragging you downstairs.
”Yeosang, stop it, stop—-”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he hissed, grabbing onto your arm tighter, so tight you were sure he’d leave marks on it hours from now, dragging you roughly, not caring if you stumbled and tripped along the way.
He pulls on his door, giving you one last look before completely pushing you out so harshly, you fell on the floor of the elevator that will lead you out. You looked up at him, fat tears still rolling down your eyes, and he looked straight at you without any emotion as he pressed down the button.
It still didn’t hit you, not until the elevator doors opened again and you realized that you were back in the parking lot. You walked out with your wobbly legs as far as it could take you before completely breaking down on the nearby wall, slumping down and hugging your legs together as you wailed your heart out.
You shouldn’t have done it. He had every right to be furious with you right now, and there was no repairing this, you had broken his trust and that’s not something that would ever be the same again even if you gained it back.
The rain from above had begun to mix with your tears and soon enough, you were completely soaked from head to toe. You were so deep in your despair that you didn’t even realize that it had begun raining.
Yeosang’s hoodie did nothing to shield you from the bitter cold. There was only so much your body could take until you had begun shivering, and stupidly, you waited a little thinking that maybe, just maybe, Yeosang would change his mind, especially since you didn’t drive here yourself.
But you knew it was never going to happen. Shaking, you got your phone out and dialed the first number that you saw first. You were sniffling hard, your teeth chattering, sobs broken with hiccups here and there.
“Hello?” Yunho’s sweet and comforting voice came through the line.
“Y-Yunho,” you uttered in broken sobs. “C-Can you please pick me up? I need help.”
“Y/N? Are you okay? Hang on,” his frantic voice asked. “Tell me the address, do not go anywhere. I’m on my way.”
You tried your best to describe the location to him before hanging up. You were glad it was Yunho, his name was eerily close to Yeosang’s in your contact list.
You didn’t notice that car that pulled up directly in front of you, startling yourself when an arm started to help you up, handling you with such care you wanted to cry all over again.
“I got you, I got you,” he reassured, not caring if he got wet by the rain, let alone get his car soaked when you sat inside.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Yunho tried to ask, driving out of the parking lot as soon as he possibly could.
You could only shake your head, the words you wanted to tell him caught in your throat. A hoarse and grating sound from your mouth escaped, instead, your lungs wheezing for air the moment your tears started to fall again. The only thing Yunho could do was be patient, even though the sight of you sobbing your heart out squeezed his own.
It had to be bad, he thought. You were never one to cry, you and Jongho were similar in that aspect while he was the odd one out since he was very easily touched. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his foot unconsciously stepping on the gas in an attempt to get back to the apartment faster.
He got out of the car in record speed to pound on the apartment door. An annoyed, but confused, Jongho answered. “Go to my car,” he panted. Jongho was about to ask when Yunho cut him off. “It’s Y/N, it’s really bad, Jjong.”
No words need to be said. Jongho moved past him, not even bothering to put on any shoes, as he ran to his car and practically flung the door open. You felt yourself getting carried, but you didn’t bother to look up, your tears blurring your vision, anyway.
“Bathroom,” Yunho said, sighing in concern as he watched Jongho carry you in his arms. “Do it quickly, she was shivering really bad when I picked her up…”
Jongho laid you down on the tub and began filling it with water so you wouldn’t get sick from the rain while Yunho did his best to tuck your hair out of your face as much as possible and helped you out of the hoodie that was weighing your body down. Deep in your heart, you knew that you owe these two forever.
“What the hell happened?” Jongho questioned, the anger in his voice straining his own throat. “I’m going to strangle him. Did he hurt you?”
You didn’t respond, Jongho had to hold you by the shoulders and shake you a bit. “Did he fucking hurt you?”
“Jongho, cut it out, you’re scaring her,” Yunho hissed, prying the latter’s hands off of you in a rare show of his own anger. He kneeled down, gently holding your eyes with his own. “Y/N? I need you to tell us what happened.”
And so you did. It was difficult on your part because you had to retell everything that happened. The longer you talked, the more pitiful you looked - your voice was almost gone, your cheeks sullen and pale, and your eyes rimmed with reddish and purplish hues due to crying. You could see it in their faces that they agreed with the one thing you told them after - that it was, indeed, your fault.
“You didn’t know, okay?” Jongho held your head firmly. “You didn’t know. I should’ve emphasized how fucked up he is before you approached him. ”
“Do you know what’s in the box?” Yunho asked curiously.
You hesitated before answering. “A name. Jung Wooyoung.”
Jongho froze, his hands on his head automatically pulling away as if you had burned him. It pretty much confirmed what you already had in mind - the name had something to do with why Yeosang was the way he was.
All the anger he had simmered down faster than you realized. “I see,” Jongho sighed. “That makes a lot of sense now. Wooyoung is very, very important to Yeosang.”
“Still,” Yunho murmured. “How important has this guy gotta be for him to kick her out like an asshole?”
“Very important,” Jongho deadpanned. He heaved a weighted sigh, completely slumping down on the floor beside the tub. “Wooyoung is Yeosang’s half-brother.“
That night, you already knew that you weren’t feeling the best. There was so much information in your head that you wanted to completely forget for now, but how would you do that when even your own body was reminding you about what had happened today?
If Yeosang forgave you one day, you knew you’d still live with the guilt as long as you’re alive.
You had to skip your classes the next day. As you suspected - more like expected - you had raging fever and there was no way you would be able to go anyway, Yunho guarded your door like a hound.
There was a lot of berating on his end, and admittedly, while it was fascinating to see, the sweet Jeong Yunho had disappeared for a bit when you heard an earful from him when you wouldn’t drink your medicine or eat the soup he bought.
But you had to go the day after that. There was only so much leeway Professor Park could give you without you having to take more extracurricular activities after. The project alone was daunting enough.
That was another thing. You had to tell him that this project with Yeosang might be over and that there was a huge possibility that you were opting out now before it even started.
Your phone kept vibrating in between your classes. You knew it was Yunho reminding you to take it easy. Or perhaps, it was Jongho looking for you. You were actively avoiding him because you knew you’d receive an earful too. Between the two, he was definitely more overprotective.
It was pointless, you couldn’t concentrate on anything. The pounding in your head just wasn’t going to go away in a day or two, even though you hoped it did, and your entire body just felt hot to the touch, sweat kept leaking out of your pores at an alarming rate.
You missed Yeosang already. You were so used to hanging out with him the moment you set foot on campus, and you could already hear the whispers of why you were alone while Yeosang was nowhere to be seen.
It certainly made you mad. The assumption was that you finally got sick of Yeosang and had finally opened your eyes to how weird he was. It wasn’t true at all, you wanted to scream at everyone to stop being judgmental, but you couldn’t even stand straight without toppling over.
It was getting difficult to not give in to your fever. You were walking through the hallways of the campus to get to your next class, not to actually go, but to tell your next professor that you couldn’t attend and needed to go home. You were at your limit, especially when you accidentally bumped into a girl in your class. Luckily, she wasn’t salty about it and asked you if you were okay, instead.
You wouldn’t get the opportunity to answer her. It all happened so fast, black spots were covering your vision and you felt your muscles going weak. Soon enough, your body just gave out on you, and you came tumbling over, passing out in this girl’s arms.
Yeosang saw everything. He hadn’t meant to, he usually took a different hallway to go to his classes since this one was very crowded, but something in his mind just kept telling him to pass through this one just once.
Nothing mattered to him at that moment. He dropped everything - his books, his coffee, his inhibitions, his anger - and ran towards you, not caring at all the stares he was getting. He didn’t care, not anymore, especially not when it came towards you.
He didn’t even realize that Jongho had gotten to you first. His childhood friend was kneeling on the floor, cradling your head to his chest, his hands tapping your cheeks in an attempt to wake you up. He didn’t care about that either.
”Wait, what in God’s name are you doing?” Jongho was thoroughly surprised when Yeosang pushed him away and grabbed your limp body towards himself. He didn’t even have time to register anything when Yeosang began to carry you in one go as if you didn’t weigh anything.
“What does it look like?” Yeosang snapped. “I’m taking her—-”
“Hell no, you are not,” Jongho gritted his teeth, grabbing onto his arm to try and stop him. His explosion had already caught on to the other students, it was embarrassing.
Yeosang tried to shrug off Jongho’s hand, but he didn’t budge and held tighter. “You are the reason she is sick, bastard,” he hissed under his breath. He was about to say more, but he was caught off guard at the way Yeosang glared at him.
There was an intense, burning rage of fire in those eyes. He’s known Yeosang all his life, yet he has never seen this much emotion in his friend’s eyes. He was a no-nonsense type of man, and the magnitude of his feelings written in those eyes, the possessiveness, he had no choice but to let go and let Yeosang carry you away.
White lights penetrated through your eyelids even when they weren’t open. It was odd, you woke up with your eyes completely closed, but that flashing light was completely blinding you. It was unbearable.
You sat up with a groan, your hands clutching your head to soothe the pounding headache that made you want to split your head in half. The last thing you remembered was falling completely into that void, blackness swallowing you into its chasm, and then, nothing.
There was a small moment of panic that set in when you looked around and realized that you had absolutely no idea where you were. The only reason why you knew that you were back in Yeosang’s apartment was that the bed you were lying on smelled exactly like him; that sweet, musky, earthy scent that invaded your olfactory senses always brought heaven down to you.
A sudden ache clustered behind your eyes, the worst kind. It rendered you weak all over again, like your body was suddenly remembering that it was supposed to be sick. And just like that, you fell back asleep.
But not for long. You felt something on your forehead, something wet and cold, and it was disrupting your well-needed rest. Your lips were getting parted a bit, an unconscious groan slipped past them.
“Yunho,” you mumbled, voice scratchy, throat itchy with how sore it was becoming.
Yeosang scoffed softly, his grip on the thermometre tightens ever so slightly, his other hand holding the cold towel on your forehead in place, hoping your fever would lessen, if not completely go away.
You kept mumbling your roommates’ names, specifically Yunho’s. He knew of Yunho, he didn’t mind him, but he’d rather not hear it right now. He’ll let it pass for now, you were quite delirious, after all. It wasn’t something he couldn’t fully blame you for, it was him who was to blame for what happened to you.
His brow raised when your hand suddenly held his, the one holding the towel on your forehead. “Yuyu, cold,” you mumbled.
”Think again, princess,” his left eye twitched in annoyance, but he kept his voice as gentle as possible.
You opened one eye so as to not overwhelm yourself with the light. Ah, how could you forget? You squeezed his hand slightly. “Yeo,” you smiled a little. “Are you still mad at me?”
“I don’t know, you tell me,” he muttered, trying hard not to squeeze your hand back with the small nickname you gave him this time. “You are in my house, in my bed, calling another man’s name. You tell me.”
You frowned when he leaned away. “Keep that thing on,” he pointed at the cloth on your forehead. “I’ll be back to get some soup.”
You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you weren’t in the mood for soup and that you just wanted to go to sleep, so just watched him walk out of the room. You had no right to complain, your heart was getting warmer in your chest at the thought of Yeosang still taking care of you even when he was mad at you.
People don’t know how pure-hearted this man was, but you knew. You knew.
When sleep was about to come knocking towards you once more, Yeosang had to tap your cheeks a bit to wake you up. He wouldn’t admit it, but it did make him feel bad, but you had to eat to replenish your energy.
“Open up,” he lifted the spoon to feed you, himself. “Don’t soil my bed.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle a little, the sound of it a bit grating in your ears. His rough-around-the-edges made you feel reassured, like he was never angry at you in the first place. You’d take this over anything any other day.
With his help, you were able to finish the soup very quickly. Here came the hard part, though - you needed to drink some medicine. Your stomach refused to take anything anymore, you didn’t want to throw up.
”Open your mouth,” Yeosang tried to push the pill in your mouth. “I don't want you dying on me.”
Your fever is taking over your senses now, delirium setting in, and your vision is doubling. “Can I take it later? I really can’t, it’s too bitter,” you whined.
He frowned. “No. I don’t give a damn, take it before I shove it down your throat.”
He sighed exasperatedly when you weren’t letting up. He wasn’t a complete ass, he would never force you to do something you didn’t want to.
An idea crosses his head. He bit his bottom lip apprehensively, there was one thing he could do, but was it going to be worth it?
He took a look at your pitiful state. Drops of sweat trickled down your forehead, yet you were still shivering terribly. Your eyes opened and shut themselves repeatedly, yet they remained unfocused on anything.
One thing was for sure - you were still beautiful. The answer wasn’t lost on him.
He takes his mask off, the one that covered the majority of his face, the one he detested yet swore would never take off. He puts the pill on his tongue, grabs your face, then puts his lips against yours.
You mewled, caught off-guard by the suddenness of it, but you were far too gone to notice and care. This was a dream, it had to be. It was the only way to not lose your mind over this. You were too delirious to see his face, and you didn’t realize that you had already swallowed the pill in the heat of the moment.
He pulled away, giving you a small peck on the nose. He walked towards the door to leave, putting his mask back on in the process, but not before looking back at you one more time. It wasn’t the way he would’ve normally done things, but it helped, didn’t it?
”Yeosang, wait,” you mumbled. It came out as a weak call, but at least he heard you when he turned around. You actually didn’t know if he did, but you just hoped he did.
”What?”
“Whatever it is that’s trapping you in your own mind,” you began. You had no idea what compelled you to say it, your delirium was getting to you, but you just had to say it. “Whatever has happened to you, just know that it wasn’t your fault.”
Yeosang froze, his entire body going rigid. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered, teeth gritted. It wasn’t out of anger, it was out of concern.
”Forgive yourself, please,” you coughed one last time before your head hit the pillow to rest. “And forgive me too…”
He wouldn’t go back to that room until the next day. He clearly had a lot to think about.
He was never truly mad at you, not entirely anyway. Rather, he was terrified. He was utterly scared of you finding out the skeletons in his closet before he told you, and he was close, he was so damn close, but when you found out first, he just couldn’t help the anger that filled his veins at that moment.
You slept for another day straight with Yeosang checking in on you once in a while. He didn’t wake you up, you definitely needed that rest to recuperate your energy
Your phone would ring once in a while but Yeosang was quick to assure Yunho, if he called, that you were fine. And if Jongho called, he wouldn’t even bother picking up. He wanted to be petty, what could he say?
By the third day, you were feeling completely fine. You were able to get up on your own and finally shower after staying on the same bed with the same clothes for a couple of days. You were able to deduce that Yeosang had taken you to his other guest room, the one that didn’t have the theater system.
When you got in the bathroom, you were pleasantly surprised to find clothes already provided in there for you. You couldn’t help the beating of your heart, both in adoration with this man and in the hurt you feel for him.
You hugged your knees, huddling in the corner of the shower as your tears mixed with the cascading water from above you. You hoped that it would wash away all the wrongs you’ve done, but you knew it never worked like that. If only things were that easy.
The shower definitely made you feel better, your body was so sore from laying down for days. You needed to stretch, and so when you looked at the time, you realized that it was only seven o’clock in the morning, so you could make breakfast for you and Yeosang.
Your body was on autopilot, years of making breakfast for Jongho and Yunho has trained you for this very moment. You just hoped Yeosang liked what you made, but you would understand if he didn’t.
“Smells good.”
You screeched, jumping a couple of feet away from where you were standing, throwing the spatula you were holding in the air. There he was, standing at the foot of the stairs just watching you.
He sighed, walking and picking up the spatual to hand it over to you. You avoided eye contact with him when he got so close, you could smell him. It makes your head grow weary with dizziness.
“I’m glad the clothes fit you,” he mumbled, clearing his throat. “Do you feel better?”
“I-I think so,” you replied, tucking a strand of your hair at the back of your ears, not knowing what to do now that he was directly in front of you like this.
When you closed your eyes, you envisioned his face. Not in its entirety, however. You could perfectly see his features one by one when he removed the mask that night, but it was difficult to imagine them all together. Redness coloured your cheeks at the very thought of it.
It wasn’t lost on him what you were thinking. The nervous ticks of your hands and the slightest shift of your body told him everything you needed to know, that you were nervous.
You were expecting him to reply with something snide, something sarcastic, like he has always done with you. But instead, he heaved a sigh so heavy, it sounded like he was completely giving up and surrendering. “What am I going to do with you?” Yeosang said.
You frowned, looking up at him in apprehension. “W-What do you mean?”
“First, you invade my privacy by snooping around,” he said bluntly. You winced. “And then, you have the audacity to get sick. And now you’re here, making me breakfast you know I wouldn’t eat in front of you.”
You bit your lip, chewing on it nervously. You let out a small gasp when his thumb gently presses on your chin, pulling it down a little to stop you from doing so. “And then do you shit like this,” he whispered.
”I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “I’m so sorry for everything, I didn’t mean to be sick, but I’m very grateful that you took care of me.”
He smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, did you really think I’d just leave you hanging like that? Did you honestly think that you weren’t important to me enough?”
You blinked at him owlishly, your mouth opened a little as you stared comically at him. “But, you weren’t wrong,” you gulped, your vulnerability overpowering how nervous you were actually feeling right now. ”I did snoop around but I promise you I didn’t do it on purpose, I promise you—-“
”Shh,” he hushes you, pressing his thumb on your lips this time. “I know, princess, I know,“ he swallowed before continuing. “None of it was your fault, i-it’s all mine. I am so, so sorry, Y/N.”
It hurt you to see him like this, the Yeosang you knew was headstrong, upfront, and outspoken. The Yeosang in front of you right now was vulnerable, just like you, nervous, and hesitant to say what was on his mind. His eyes bore into you, they shone with endearment towards you.
His hand makes way to your cheeks, his hand cupping your face tenderly. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered, a tone I’ve never heard from him before. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
You sniffled, forcing a smile on your face. “Nah, you can’t get rid of me that easily,“ you chuckled. “I’m strong, aren’t I? Cheer up, Yeo.”
His hand itched to pull your head closer. “I’ve always liked it when you call my name like that,” he confessed, testing the waters by taking one step closer towards you. “When all you hear everywhere is ‘freak’, it sounds like a treat, you know?”
“I’m the only one who should matter,” you blurted out without thinking. “Those people don’t deserve you, they don’t deserve the smart, kind, empathetic person that you are, they just don’t.”
You saw Yeosang close his eyes slowly, his entire body trembling as he held you. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he muttered, both of his hands holding your face this time. “I don’t deserve you.”
“What? Don’t say that—-”
“I told myself to not cross this line before,” he said, walking forward, his hand pushing you backwards until you hit the countertop with your behind. “So I pushed you down a million times, but the truth was, I’d love it if you knew that you were on my mind.”
Your heart was constricting, shrinking on itself, that it hurt to even breathe. The vulnerability in his eyes was making you tear up. You purse your lips to stop yourself from tearing up then and there. “Do you remember what you told me the other night?” Yeosang asked you, his hand going behind your neck.
You shook your head, not because you didn’t truly remember, but because you can’t even describe what you’re truly feeling right now. “You told me to forgive myself,” he murmured. “But how am I supposed to do that when I was this close to losing you because of some misunderstanding from my insecurities?”
You could feel the weight of what he was saying as something tangible. You gulped, opening your mouth those three little words you’ve always wanted to tell him, but he quickly shook his head.
“Don’t say it,” he pleaded. “Not yet, Y/N. Not yet.”
This was it for Yeosang, it was now or never. With what he’s going to tell you, it’s either you stay or you don’t. There is no in between. He ran his hand through his hair, something you noticed he did a lot when he was frustrated, as if doing so would lessen his unraveling thoughts and feelings.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. He can’t do it, where did he even want to start?
It was a constant push and pull between you and Yeosang - he was good at being there without suffocating, you were good at offering your support without asking for anything in return. It infuriated him, yet intoxicated him. All he wanted was to run away when all you wanted to do was lean on him.
But not anymore, he wasn’t going to run anymore.
“For the lack of a better word, I’m fucked up, Y/N,” he chuckled bitterly, breaking your heart into small pieces. “It wasn’t always like this, you know? I have my reasons, and I was fine being alone, but you.”
He held your hands and warmth spread all throughout your fingertips. It sent sparks down your spine. “The first time I looked at you, you didn’t even notice it. You were the only one who didn’t pay attention to me or said anything remotely stupid about this.”
He was referring to the mask. You stared at him in sadness, was the bar really that low? It wasn’t difficult to not talk about it, it wasn’t your place, and you believed everyone does what they do for a reason regardless or how unreasonable it could be.
His eyes started to search yours. He wanted to stop breathing. It was those eyes of yours. He swallowed a lump on his throat because you always looked at him like the only thing you saw was him. It was too much for him at times, yet it was never enough at the same time.
“There are a lot of things I want to tell you, but I don’t know where to start,” he admitted. He hated how small he sounded. “I want to tell you everything, I’m just stuck in my head lately, that’s all.”
You didn’t respond immediately, what were you supposed to say to something like that? You weren’t good with things like this, and your heart twisted with hurt as you took a good look at him, he looked hopeful yet sad. Yeosang thought you looked so understanding right now, and he wanted to scream.
“You saw it when you opened the box, didn’t you?”
You tilted your head, confused at first, but you knew exactly what he was talking about. You wanted to hear it from him. “What about it?”
“I’m so stupid,” he chuckled bitterly. “I guess I was embarrassed when you found out that you weren’t going to be my original partner for the project.”
Your heart thudded in your chest. I knew it, you thought. You did have an inkling, but you didn’t want to assume anything. “I don’t know why I did it, but I don’t regret it. Deep down, I think Professor Choi knew,” he continued.
You noticed that he was slowly pulling away, you can read it in his eyes that he’s said enough. You weren’t going to let him do that.
”Yeosang,” you uttered his name with gentle care; with such grace. “You can tell me anything, alright? No matter what it is, I’m here. You have no reason to carry your burdens by yourself anymore.”
You could tell that your words hit him like a hurricane. You stared at him, the conflict in his eyes, oh, how you want to take that all away from him. You definitely wanted to tell him how you felt about him, and you just might.
Yeosang stepped closer to you, your face almost brushing against his chest. His hand tightened their hold on your and the contact sent jolts of shivers against your scalp. He was having an internal conflict, his resolve slowly breaking down in front of you as his eyes met with yours once again. You almost couldn’t handle the softness in his eyes, it was too much, yet it was everything.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he choked out, eyes reddening. He was pulling away.
But you weren’t going to let him. “You can,” you encouraged, voice gentle yet firm. You brought his hands to your lips and gave them a small peck. “I’m not leaving, even if you push me away. I am not leaving you.”
"No, you don't understand," he counteracted. "I don't want you to lean on me, because I'm falling, and I don't want that for you."
His hands were trembling. "And don't even count on me, because I'm drowning," he gazed at you with despair. "Please don't drown with me."
That hurt more than you thought possible for your heart to take. The emotions behind it were so rough, and for the first time, you didn't know what to do. "What do you want, then?"
"To hold you in my arms," he admitted. "Because I'd let the ocean take me if I can't."
The pounding of Yeosang’s heart slowed down, and finally, he finally felt like he could breathe again. He’d always felt like he was standing on the edge of the cliff, but this time, he could see himself finally jumping towards that liberation he’d always dreamt of chasing.
”Do you trust me?” You suddenly asked him.
It didn’t even take him a second to answer. “With all my heart.”
You suddenly lifted your fingers, eyes never leaving his. The fabric of the mask he wore on his face felt smooth and heavy against your fingertips as you slowly pulled it down and pulled it away from his face. It was the symbolization of it - you were going to set him free.
To say you were starstruck was the least of your concerns. You’ve never seen someone so astoundingly beautiful that it took your breath away. It was like being hit by lightning - so sudden and intense that you felt like you were being blown away. You took all of his features one by one - his perfect nose, his kissable lips, that adorable birthmark that was now in full view.
It certainly brought tears to your eyes. You cupped Yeosang’s face as your tears fell. “You’re beautiful,” you sobbed, more tears filling your lips as you smiled at him. “So beautiful, Yeo. So, so beautiful.”
“I love you,” he whispered, his eyes filling up with his own tears. Finally saying them felt like something broke inside him yet healed at the same time. “I wanted to tell you in a better setting, in a more graceful way, but I don’t think I can keep it all in anymore.”
It was true. The words just slipped out before he could stop himself. It hung in the air, it felt unreal, and it was suffocating because his chest tightened with a mix of fear and anxiety as he waited for your response.
Your eyes widened and for a moment, you thought your knees were going to buckle underneath you. Before you even understood it, yourself, your hands left his face to snake behind his neck and then you were leaning towards him, your lips finally meeting with his.
It was everything and more. He was surprised at first, but then his lips started to move in sync with yours. It was months of pining with one another, feelings that were left unsaid for most of the time. And now you were here, breathing each other in as if today was going to be your last.
You felt so soft and warm against him. You were everything he ever wanted and now that he had you, there was no way he was letting you go. Not again.
”I love you too,” you pulled away slightly, your faces still inches away from each other.
He couldn’t help but chuckle, not in amusement, but in relief. For the first time, he just let himself fall. He felt a deep yearning for you, it was far more than the desire to have you for himself. It was the unadulterated love he had for you.
You bit your lips at the sound of his voice, deep and unfiltered without the mask covering it. Yeosang tentatively held your face, his head tilting, the ghost of his lips fleeting against yours. He hesitated. While he wanted nothing more than to capture your lips one more time, he wanted to ask you one last thing.
“If I kiss you again right now, that will mean you will be mine,” he whispered.
His impatient side was taking over, but no, it was up to you. If you want him, you’ll have him.
You blushed at the implication, but you already knew what you wanted. This was why you fell for him - it wasn’t for what he looked like or what he could and could have offered you, it was his warm and considerate attitude.
Your lips brushed against his. It was meant to be sweet, a confirmation of what your answer was without even needing to spell the words out to him.
Yeosang’s resolve broke when you parted your lips. You let out a breathy, startled cry when he plunged his tongue straight onto your mouth, and your hold on his shoulders did nothing to calm down the wild beating of your heart. He pulled you close to him as if he was scared that you were going to leave him and all you did was kiss him even deeper to prove that you wouldn’t.
He needed to hear that sweet sound again. It was supposed to be a chaste kiss, but when he sucked on your tongue after you had teasingly bitten his bottom lip, sweetness be damned. He swallowed your quiet, whiny moans as he held you closer against him, his hand just holding your cheeks as if you were the most precious of treasures.
The both of you were startled out of the kiss when the loud beeping of the fire alarm sounded from somewhere above you.
You paled, quickly pushing Yeosang away to put the fire away from the burning pan of breakfast that you had totally both forgotten in the heat of the moment. You pouted, disheartened at the blackened eggs, or what was left of it.
Yeosang started to laugh, not believing that an egg cockblocked him. It wasn’t the sarcastic laugh you were used to nor was it that passing laugh he’d make when he was restraining himself. No, this was the tummy-tickling type. His entire face was scrunched up, his lips spread throughout his face, his eyes squinting with that unmistakable happiness, and his demeanor light and free. You loved this look on him.
“Stop making fun of me,” you pouted, laughing in between. You never realized how contagious his laughter was, and that realization led you to another thought - you are loving the new things you were learning about him.
“Just leave them,” he said, taking the pan from you to put it down the sink and pulling you plush against his toned chest.
“Yeosang,” you whined, blushing profusely at his affectionate gestures. It was a total change from who he was just hours prior to this. “Stop, I’m embarrassed…”
When he planted a quick peck on your lips, he couldn’t help but laugh again at your even more reddened face. You were so cute in his eyes, and had he known that he would feel this happy just by being with you like this, he would’ve gotten his head out of his ass a while back.
”I’ll take you out for lunch, princess,” he bargained, holding on to your hand. It wasn’t the first time he said the pet name, but it felt entirely different this time on your ears. “There’s this place I have to take you after.”
You didn’t miss the melancholy in his eyes when he said it, but you tried your best to cheer him up. “Oh? Is this a date, Kang Yeosang?”
”What if it is?” Yeosang scoffed playfully, hugging you from the waist tighter. “Can’t I take my girl out?”
“Who said I was your girl?”
You slightly felt bad at his shocked, widened eyes. You laughed out loud, leaning towards him once more to give him a sweet peck on his cheeks. “Relax, hot stuff,” you smirked when pink tinted his cheeks. “Thank you for loving me.”
A genuine smile crossed his lips, the adoration in his eyes tripling from the words you just uttered. He leaned his forehead against yours, content and happy. “No, thank you for loving me.”
Lunch was better than you could have ever imagined. Yeosang took you to this place that was an hour away from his apartment. Unsurprisingly, it was a high-end place, somewhere you would never have imagined you’d ever dine in.
“Yeo, I feel underdressed,” you frowned in concern, tugging at your dress that you both shopped for on a whim to suit the ambience of the fine dining spot.
”You’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “The most beautiful princess.”
When you finally sat down, he kept looking around, fiddling with his suit uncomfortably. You took his hand in yours in reassurance, it was the first time he went out without his mask and you could tell that he wasn’t used to it.
If only he knew. You ate lunch slowly, not because you were trying to be posh, but because you kept stealing glances at your boyfriend. Your boyfriend. The thought almost made you choke on your food so many times.
He really was the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, heck, he was even prettier than you ever will be. His features were so refined, like God took his time with him. And now, he was yours.
However, the old Yeosang you knew was still there. He glared nastily at you when you tried to split the bill when you were done eating. You sheepishly smiled at him, putting your card back in your wallet to let him pay for everything. You would make it up to him by kissing him in front of everybody in the restaurant when you were leaving.
Public display of affection wasn’t your thing, but it was so worth it to see his flustered smirk.
”Do you know why I brought you here?” Yeosang questioned, buckling your seatbelt for you like a true gentleman, curiously.
You frowned, looking around from inside the car. You’ve never been here before and to be fair, when you told him to surprise you, he did deliver. “You’re not going to kill me and dump my body out here, aren’t you?” You teased him.
He rolled his eyes dramatically. “I should,” he murmured. He laid his arm at your headrest, looking behind as he reversed the car. You gulped, he looked hot. “Seriously, Y/N? God, you’re so fucking weird.”
You chortled, the snorting sound coming from you was so embarrassing but you didn’t care. “True, but you love me,” you smirked triumphantly.
He sniffled, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “I know,” he fake cried. “Is it too late for me to find the receipt so I can still return you to the store?”
You gasped, your mouth dropping in mock offense. “Yeosang!”
He wasn’t going to change from that apathetic friend that you had first before this, except that you had the benefit of having his love now.
The drive was smooth-sailing. You felt like you were in cloud nine the entire time, giggling when he would smirk at you knowingly, his hand on yours the entire time while the other was on the steering wheel. You couldn’t help but notice how smooth his hands were.
Soon enough, you were driving in an area where the houses had great views and were situated in prime locations. You didn’t notice it at first, but the more you drove, the bigger the houses got. You weren’t naive, you had an idea just how wealthy Yeosang’s family was, but you were about to find out just how wealthy they actually were.
”Let’s go,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt after parking directly in front of this gated house - mansion, rather. It was intimidating, the driveway, alone, was long and winding, surrounded by pretty lights and vast greenery.
He opened your door for you, holding your hand and gently ushering you out. You gulped, if you felt underdressed earlier when you went to a fine dining restaurant, you definitely felt out of place and you haven’t even gone inside yet.
“You could’ve told me we were going here,” you frowned, your mind already getting poisoned by your own insecurities. You gestured to yourself. “I would’ve dressed better.”
Outside the gates was a small hut-looking station, presumably where the security guards were whose jobs were to filter out who entered the property and kick out whoever isn't welcome. Yeosang knocked twice on the window with his knuckles. You were fascinated when the sliding window opened quickly, seemingly like whoever was there wasn’t expecting to be disturbed when they opened their mouth to speak.
But when they saw who was knocking, they immediately shut up. “Young Master,” the guard said in surprise rather than contempt.
Your boyfriend smiled. “Hello, Juyeon,” he waved slightly. He gestured to me. “I’m with my girl. Open the gates, do not announce my arrival. Wooyo?”
You didn’t pay attention to their conversation, your insecurities getting the best of you. You generally weren’t someone to get intimidated by opulence and the material luxury that this world could offer, but now that it was right in front of you staring you in the face, you didn’t know what to do.
You didn’t realize that the gates had opened and Yeosang was holding your hand again and leading you inside. You smiled politely at the guard, bowing slightly to each other before you turned your attention back to Yeosang.
“You’re beautiful, I told you,” he shook his head, walking forward and leading you in. “If anything, you look perfect.”
He chuckled at your confused face. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, someone important to me,” he explained, his voice taking on a sadder tone even though he tried to hide it from you. “This is my family home. I want everyone to see you for you and they will accept that because I’d hate for you to change just to fit in.”
You didn’t know squat about construction, but even to the inexperienced eye, it was easy to tell that the way the entire property was built was made up of high-quality and premium materials. You were still on the lawn and it was already boasting a large amount of space.
“It’s called common courtesy,” you reasoned out, trying hard not to gawk at your surroundings. “I don’t want to look like I didn’t make an effort or anything.”
You faced the front door with him, pausing when he hesitated to push it open. “You’re literally fine, though I understand where you’re coming from,” he reassured me. “My parents are very kind people, trust me.”
You blanched. “Your parents?”
Now you felt totally out of place, you were about to meet his parents! “Yeo, a-are you sure about this? We’ve only been together for a day, are you sure—-”
“Princess,” he stopped you, worry in his eyes at your panicked state. It significantly calmed you down, but it didn’t stop the wild beating of your heart. “You were my friend first,” he smiled tightly at you. “I think my parents would be pleased to meet the person that helped me and was there for me whenever I needed comfort.”
Your chest warmed, his words hitting you directly in your heart. To say you were touched would be an understatement. “I did that for you?”
“In more ways than one, yeah,” he chuckled, ruffling your hair affectionately before fixing it, tucking the stray ones behind your ears gently and tenderly. “Ready?”
If the driveway and the lawn weren’t enough to impress you and make your jaw hit the floor, the interior of the house definitely did. Everything from the living room down the smallest corners of the walls screamed luxury and money, the attention to detail was impressive, especially since you grew up in a humble home.
”Holy shit, Yeosang,” you blurted out as he gave you a tour. “I knew you had money, but this is crazy.”
“Old money,” he shrugged. “Didn’t Jongho tell you we were childhood friends? My little princess can think about that for a second, hmm?”
You rolled your eyes at him, but he was right. It also didn’t stop the blush from rising up your cheeks. You would just never get used to his affectionate nature being out in the open now.
Besides the few house workers that were delighted at the sight of Yeosang, you didn’t encounter anybody significant yet. You weren’t sure if that was a relief or not, but so far you were enjoying the tour. He showed the pool, the built-in sauna with the promise of using it with you next time, and the outdoor kitchen.
There was also a home theater, but he didn’t stay long. You figured it had something to do with how you two had a falling out a week prior. Instead, he took you to his favourite place - the wine cellar. Apparently, his father loved collecting wine from all over the world. You gulped at the mere thought of the price tag attached to them.
He smirked when he brought you to the main kitchen. Your eyes shone at the granite countertops, the marbled floors, and the custom cabinetry that held every spice and herb known to mankind. There, a kind looking woman approached you with a wide smile. Yeosang introduced her as the head chef.
”I see you got yourself a little girlfriend, Sangie,” she teased mischievously.
Yeosang cleared his throat, rolling his eyes affectionately as he gave the head a tight hug. “It’s been a while,” he whispered with an emotion you haven’t recognized before. “Uhm, this is Y/N,“ he gestures to you after he’s pulled away.
“Nice to meet you,” you smiled as the head chef gave you a tight hug of your own. It certainly touched you, it was such a warm gesture and you’ve never met them before, too.
”Hopefully, Yeosang has been treating you well,” she said with a knowing smile. “My, you are very pretty, dear.”
“Who’s very pretty?”
You turned to a new voice from the entrance of the grand kitchen. Judging from what you were seeing, you knew exactly who this woman was. She looked just like Yeosang, except she was much, much older. She had this elegance and grace that one couldn’t get from anywhere else except for age and the wisdom that came along with it.
You bowed in a ninety-degree angle as politely and as respectfully as you possibly can. “G-Good afternoon, Mrs. Kang, I am so sorry to intrude into your house like this!”
You heard her amused laughter, and when you rose back up, you held back in your own laughter when you saw her hold the shell of her son’s ear and pulled it towards her cheekily.
“You unfilial son of mine,” she started off, ignoring Yeosang’s groans of pain as she tightened her hold. “You haven’t set foot in here for a while and you dare just show up unannounced? Oh, your father will have a field day with you!”
“But it’s okay,” she giggled, your eyes widening when she held you by the arm. “Finally, you bring a beautiful girl home, oh, I thought my son was going to die a virgin forever!”
“Mum! What the hell?”
Yeosang’s mom was a chatterbox, and she was the sweetest. It made you breathe out a sigh of relief because you were slightly terrified that she’d reject your humble background compared to theirs and her son’s lifestyle growing up.
The only way Yeosang was able to drag you away was when you made a promise to her that you’d come back for tea time.
“Princess, I hope this doesn’t deter you from coming back,” he remarked sarcastically, leading you outside with his hand on your lower back. “I swear everybody here is sane.”
As if on cue, the house staff that would either pass the two of you or you would pass bowed and giggled to themselves in amusement and surprise when they saw Yeosang. You smiled awkwardly at everybody, breathing a sigh of relief when you reached the back part of the property once more, except Yeosang led you to an entirely different place.
“I think everybody is sweet and it’s quite endearing to see them like you,” you chuckled. “I get it though. It’s like they haven’t seen you in months.”
“That’s because they actually haven’t seen me in months,” he deadpanned.
You chuckled a bit, thinking that he was joking just to uplift the mood, but when you saw his facial expression remaining unchanged, your smile dropped. “W-Wait, you’re serious?”
“We’ve been technically together for a while now without the label, have you ever seen my family visit or heard a phone call?” Yeosang scoffed, pulling on your hand to stop you from walking. “We’re here.”
Your mouth parted in awe. Flowers littered your vision, they were a dancing rainbow of pretty blossoms. You’ve always dreamt of getting a house one day with a huge garden like this, you could almost detect the insatiable fragrance this garden offered, and the way the beautiful petals curled from the summer heat made you want to touch them. You could stay here and make this your sanctuary.
”But why? Was there any reason you cut contact with them? They love you, Yeo, I could see that,” you said softly, curiosity dancing in your eyes.
He lifted a finger to point at something. “That’s why,” he said. His eyes were swimming with a mixture of anxiety and longing, but when he blinked, it was gone. He offered you his hand once more. “Come along, princess. There’s someone I would like you to meet.”
You didn’t notice it at first, but there was a person on the far end of the garden. The closer you got, the more you realized that it was a man. He was obscured by all the pretty flowers, but he was there clear as day.
Your heart dropped to your feet, for the man was in a wheelchair, his entire right leg in a cast along with his right arm. Was this the reason why Yeosang chose to leave his family? You were nervous to know the answer.
He didn’t notice you at first, too busy basking underneath the sun that was beaming down on him. He had a soft, serene smile painted on his face that signified that he was truly at peace at the moment. Your brows shot up when you got closer, he was handsome.
Finally, he looked up, and then his eyes widened. Between Yeosang’s trembling hands and the man’s widened, unsure eyes, you didn’t know what to do, exactly. The three of you were frozen in time.
“Yeosang,” he whispered, eyes hooded with emotions you couldn’t stand looking at, not because you had something against this man, but because you might end up crying if you stare too long. He tried to get up hurriedly, struggling against his restrictions, and it was when Yeosang finally broke out of his trance and rushed forward.
“Damn it, Wooyoung, what the hell is wrong with you?” Yeosang hissed, his harsh voice a contrast to the gentle way he helped the latter sit back properly on his wheelchair. “Have you lost your mind?”
You purse your lips. Ah, you thought, so this was Wooyoung. The genes in this family continue to astound you. You didn’t recognize him at first - in the photo you saw, Wooyoung had shorter hair, and right now, his hair was long enough to reach his shoulders. And he has a thorny rose tattoo that he didn’t have in the photo.
Wooyoung stared at Yeosang when he lifted his pants a little before squatting down to his level, using his hands to lean on the wheelchair for support. The fox-looking man stared at his brother with no particular expression on his face except for his teary eyes. You felt like you were intruding.
Yeosang smirked lightly, without any malice or ill-intent. “How are you, Woo?”
You weren’t expecting much, in fact, you weren’t expecting anything at all, but you sure as hell weren’t expecting your boyfriend’s face to be, for the lack of a better word, bitch-slapped so hard, it sent his head reeling to the side. The loud, cracking sound of skin hitting skin surprised you, to say the least.
“That’s for disappearing on me for months,” Wooyoung hissed, his hand still in the air.
Yeosang’s mouth was parted in shock. He slowly turned his head back to Wooyoung, his eyes widened, but he didn’t say a word. His cheek was slowly growing red and if it wasn’t for the situation, you would’ve laughed at the handprint forming on the area.
After a while, Wooyoung burst out crying, leaning forward to grab Yeosang by his shirt so he could wrap his arms tightly around him. Yeosang relaxes into the hug, patting Wooyoung’s shaking body whilst rubbing onto his back soothingly like a father comforting a son. The only sound in the garden right now was Wooyoung’s silent wails and sniffles.
“How did you even know I was here?” Wooyoung wondered, sniffling, as he pulled away and took a good look at Yeosang by holding onto his face. “You look…happier.”
You blushed when he side-eyes you mischievously, winking at you subtly before turning his attention back at Yeosang. “You’re a jerk, you know that?” Wooyoung further chided, scoffing loudly at Yeosang, who rolled his eyes. “Dad is pretty pissed at you and mum was running around like a chicken without a head. You left me high and dry, bastard.”
“And you?” Yeosang raised a brow, rubbing his cheek, offended. “What about you?”
“You tell me,” Wooyoung pushed Yeosang’s shoulder. You wanted to giggle at how different the two brothers were. “You were having so much fun at dad’s penthouse.”
Yeosang was genuinely surprised. “How—”
“Anyway,” he grinned, turning his wheelchair manually to face you. He stretches his arm towards you and waves it to gesture to you to come closer to him. “Come, come,” he said. “I need to know the girl who removed my brother’s stick from his ass.”
“Bold of you to assume we’re together,” Yeosang scoffed, motioning for you to sit down on the nearby bench.
“Keep telling yourself that. Move along,” he turned his wheelchair once more, the wheels going over Yeosang’s foot like a bump on the road. He mumbled a small ‘oops,’ not really caring about the latter’s groan of pain as he clutched on his foot while glaring behind the former’s back intensely.
He grinned again, bringing his hand out for you to shake. “Jung Wooyoung, the better looking brother.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Yeosang rebutted. “She’s my girlfriend, dimwit.”
“L/N Y/N, the stick holder,” you smirked, bringing your own hand out to shake his. You tried hard not to stare at his cast and his injuries, though you were extra curious about them especially since Yeosang kept looking at them when he thought Wooyoung didn’t notice, and his eyes held pain.
Wooyoung laughed, surprising you with his high-pitched cackle. “Oh my God, I like her, I like her!” He repeatedly said, slapping his own thigh as he laughed. He batted his eyelashes at you. “So, what did you do to bring my brother out of his shell?”
It was when the atmosphere turned tense. Yeosang’s shoulders stiffened, his back muscles turning rigid. “I don’t think we should talk about that right now,” he murmured, sitting beside you and draping an arm across your shoulders. “There’s so much time, Woo–”
“What, so much time for you to leave again? I won’t see you for months, hell, I might not see you again, knowing you,” Wooyoung scoffed, sighing heavily. He looked up at the sky again for minutes before setting his eyes towards Yeosang once more. “You need to let go, Sangie,” he paused, tilting his chin at me. “Does she know?”
Your curiosity was definitely piqued this time. Yeosang shook his head. “That’s why I’m here,” he sighed. He looked at you, giving you a tight smile. “I figured if you’re going to be with me, you have to know soon, anyway.”
“Is this related to why you covered your face the entire time during this semester?” You wondered absentmindedly, not expecting that it would set off another set of questions.
“Wait, what the hell does that mean?” Wooyoung blurted out in surprise. “Cover your face, how? Yeosang?”
Both of you proceeded to tell in your own experiences on how Yeosang would wear a mask to cover the bottom half of his face on campus and even around you until recently. Wooyoung’s jaw dropped lower and lower down to the floor the more you recounted your experiences, especially how Yeosang was being treated by the other students.
Wooyoung had this forlorn look on his face that got sadder and sadder the more you talked to the point that you regretted talking in the first place. He rubbed his face with his hands frustratedly. “Damn it, Sangie, I told you, I’m fine.”
Yeosang raised a brow, giving his injuries a pointed look, making Wooyoung roll his eyes. “It will heal,” he tried to console, but it wasn’t working. He turned to you, eyes laced with pain, before he sighed and spoke. “There was a car accident a couple of months ago. I was in the passenger’s seat, and Yeosang was driving.”
Hearing that felt like a dream, the sudden shock of it not fully sinking into you until Yeosang tightened his hold on your shoulder. “I like you, and you seem like a nice girl,” Wooyoung continued. “But I have to ask you this - what do you think about Yeosang?”
It definitely sparked something in you, it was an easy answer. “Everything,” you grabbed Yeosang’s hands in yours. “He’s very sweet, a bit of a jackass sometimes, but it’s a part of his personality I’m willing to work around because I’m in love with him. Anybody who doesn’t like him is lost on them, and I feel bad for them.”
Wooyoung seemed satisfied with this answer. His hand patted your free hand before he looked down. “There was this girl,” he began, voice hardening. “Long story short, she was obsessed with him. She followed him everywhere, she even broke into our house one night, I mean, this girl was crazy.”
You gasped, turning your head abruptly at Yeosang, who was avoiding eye contact. You had an idea where this was going, you didn’t want to hear the repeated heartbreak for both of them, but you had to because it will help Yeosang move on. You tightened your hold on his hand.
It made sense. It all made sense. The attitude, the melancholy, and the mask. It just made sense. His face was his downfall.
“One day, we were coming home from the arcade,” Wooyoung continued. “Next thing we know, she was trailing us from behind and trying to line herself to the car,” he shook his head bitterly. “She was drunk. One thing led to another, my side of the car hit a pole head on.”
You gasped loudly, covering your mouth with your hands. Anger coursed through your veins, its hot trail going up your brain at the pain that must’ve brought upon everybody. “As you can see, I’m still recovering. Couple of broken bones,” he pointed to his casts. “But I’m fine. I’m alive, aren’t I?”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” Yeosang gritted his teeth. “I should have been careful, I should’ve just driven faster, I should’ve,” he paused, sniffling, rubbing his eyes to stop the tears from falling. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt, Wooyoung. You lost your baseball scholarship because of me.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Wooyoung shook his head. “It’s her fault, Yeosang. It was never yours, it’s high time you stopped blaming yourself.”
Yeosang buried his head on the crook of your shoulder and neck, his other arm wrapping completely around your shoulders until he was fully hugging you for his own comfort. You and Wooyoung looked at each other and you couldn’t help but admire the man. The accident should have deterred him, but no, he still looked like a bright and cheerful person. Jung Wooyoung was stronger than anyone you know.
Wooyoung lifted his hand, trembling, wanting to reach out to his brother, but he put them back down. “You already gave up your dreams of being an idol because of this, because of that bitch,” he whispered bitterly. You were taken aback at the animosity, but you couldn’t blame him. “How much more of yourself are you going to take?”
Wetness hit your neck, but Yeosang made no sound. You respected it even though you wanted him to just let it out completely. You smoothed his hair out, whispering sweet nothings in his ear and letting him know that you were here for him. You wanted to cry with him, he has been through so much and you never knew.
“A little birdie did tell me to forgive myself,” he chuckled, sniffling a bit before chuckling lightheartedly.
You blushed again when Wooyoung wiggled his eyebrows playfully at you. Yeosang pulls apart from you to lean down to hug his brother. It was then that you all knew that that weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, that the ghost of his past was finally leaving him to be the person he once was slowly, but surely.
“Mum and dad had never blamed you, and neither did I,” Wooyoung closed his eyes, rubbing Yeosang’s back. “We’ll heal together, okay?”
Campus was fascinating, to say the least. You had stayed over Yeosang’s penthouse the entire weekend. You couldn’t bear to leave him after that, but right now, you kept adjusting your sweater because makeup wasn’t enough to cover the hickeys that littered your collarbone and your chest.
After much deliberation, Yeosang had decided to ditch the mask. You assured him that whether or not he wore it would not change anything about your relationship, but all he gave you was a small smile and a reassuring peck on the lips.
“I have you now, I have no reason to wear it anymore,” he said. “Plus, it was getting difficult to wear it, anyway. I don’t know why I even started.”
One thing you were excited about, however, was being in the car with him to spend more time with him since you only had one class together. Luckily, both of your classes started in the afternoon, so you had time in the morning to go on a small date.
“Nervous?” You asked him, holding his hand as he stared out at the parking lot of the campus. “We should have taken my car, it’s a little more laidback.”
“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve been hiding who I am for a while and to be quite frank, there’s only a lot of smack talking I can take, and plus,” he smirked, opening the car door and swinging his legs out. “You’re with me. . I refuse to let you get dragged in this shit.”
You were proud of Yeosang, even though he was slightly nervous, you could tell that he was at least trying. Everyone started to stare, you two were definitely eye-catching. You weren’t the most well-known student, but everybody did recognize you for being a friend of not only Jongho and Yunho, but also Hongjoong.
Yeosang, however, nobody has ever seen him before. You were slightly peeved, it wasn’t that much of a secret that Yeosang was definitely attractive, subjectively and objectively. His jawline was defined, his eyes brighter and more expressive now, and overall, he just looked free.
The closer you got to the crowded places, the more heads turned. Eyes after eyes following your every move, wondering who the handsome man with you was and whether he was a student or just someone you’re with. Yes, people did stare. It was hypocritical and you couldn’t help but get mad, now that Yeosang was more pleasing to their eyes, they chatter with excitement?
“Relax, princess,” Yeosang chuckled, pushing your head towards his so he could plant a small kiss on your forehead. You smirked at all the ‘aww’ and ‘damn’ in the background. “You’re like a little cat with its fur standing up.”
He opened the door to the library for you with a small chuckle and suddenly, his eyes shone with nostalgia. He smirked at you, this was where everything had started, and right now, he was silently making fun of you when you were still technically stalking him back then when you had a crush on him.
Hongjoong smiled brightly at you when you and Yeosang approached the table. “Hey, Y/N. What’s going on?”
You sheepishly gave him the book that you had borrowed from before and avoided eye contact with him when he raised his brows so high, it almost reached his hairline. Even Yeosang was trying not to laugh beside you.
“Y/N, this is the same book from months ago when you were trying to butter up to Kang Yeosang,” Hongjoong muttered, scoffing in disbelief and amusement. “Holy crap, I have to see what your penalty fee would be.”
You didn’t care. You were embarrassed to the high heavens, especially when Yeosang started to put his knuckles in his mouth to stop himself from bursting out laughing. “Yeah? I wonder how that went,” he asked, adding salt to your wounds.
“Oh, you should’ve seen her,” Hongjoong grinned. “She had such a massive crush on the guy, it was hilarious,” he shook his head before clearing his throat. “Sorry about that. Would you like to return a book or borrow one, yourself?”
“I’ll borrow the same book, if you don’t mind,” Yeosang pointed at the Machiavellian book absentmindedly. “I promise to return it on time.”
You hissed at him, actually sounding like a cat, in annoyance. Hongjoong laughed and nodded. “Of course,” he gave Yeosang the logbook and a pen like he did to you before when you borrowed the book, yourself. “I just need you to write your name here.”
“Oh, no need,” Yeosang brushed off. “My name should be in the book. Kang Yeosang.”
“Ah, I see—what?” Hongjoong said before doing a comical double-take with his eyes bulged out from its sockets. It was your turn to smirk and look at him in amusement. He looked at Yeosang up and down with a huge smile. “Holy shit, man, you look amazing! I love the coat on you.”
Yeosang was genuinely surprised. At first, he didn’t know how to react and it made you smile. He was still getting used to genuine compliments and you found it adorable. “Hongjoong was one of the people who didn’t judge you,” you supplied.
“Thank you,” your boyfriend’s cheeks were tinted pink.
Class wasn’t any better either. Instead of sitting by the corner like he usually did, Yeosang sat beside you proudly. Those who had been there before you came had either looks of curiosity or awe. The two of you couldn’t help but giggle. Soon enough, the class started to fill up, and then Yunho came to sit beside you like he usually did.
“You,” he seethed, giving you a pointed look. You sheepishly looked back. “You went MIA on both Jongho and I, you owe us for making you worry the whole week!”
He notices who was beside me and does a double look before bowing a little. “Ah, hello, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” Yunho juts his hand out respectfully. “Jeong Yunho.”
Yeosang gives me an amused look before he smirks. “But you have seen me before, do you not remember?”
“W-well, no, I don’t think so,” Yunho frowned, his face contorting into confusion before his eyes widened like Hongjoong’s and his mouth dropped open. “Wait, hold on—”
You giggled into your hands, it was so amusing to see your friends’ reactions to Yeosang so far. Yunho’s rant got cut off when Professor Choi entered the room along with Professor Park behind him in tow. You will admit, your two professors were both attractive and you have confessed once or twice to Yeosang that you had a crush on Professor Choi at one point.
There was a third person who trailed behind them and it made you and Yunho snort in amusement. It was Jongho. He didn’t make a point to look at anybody except the professors so he didn’t notice you and Yunho.
“I have Professor Park Seonghwa with me to judge everybody’s performance with me,” Professor Choi gestures to the latter, his dimpled smile swooning everybody present. “I’m hoping for something wonderful today,” he then gestured to Jongho next. “We also have our winner from last semester judging you all.”
You had totally forgotten about that part. Jongho did a solo the other semester. It was the reason why only you and Yunho had been in this class since Jongho was exempted.
Yunho elbowed you amidst all the chatters, droning the Professors’ explanation. “Fucking hell, Y/N, that’s Yeosang?” Yunho whistled in awe. You nodded and he snorted. “I knew it, I damn well knew he’d be attractive, but holy hell, are you sure that’s him?”
“I’m pretty sure I know who my boyfriend is,” you giggled.
You almost felt bad for Yunho, who seems to be going through an internal mental crisis. “Boyfriend? Since when?”
Coincidentally and unluckily for him, Yunho was cut off when his name and Mingi’s were called. He seemed to forget what he was inquiring about and stood up to go. Mingi passed the both of you and smirked before greeting you.
“Wish us luck,” he chuckled. He waved slightly. “What’s up, Yeosang?”
And then he went with Yunho towards the front. Your boyfriend frowned, taken aback by Mingi’s sudden greeting. “How the heck does he know?” Yeosang murmured in surprise. He had always assumed that the campus jock was a massive asshole.
“Hell, if I knew,” you shrugged. “We barely practiced for this thing, ugh. I’m saying goodbye to those benefits now.”
After the camera had been set up by Professor Park, Yunho and Mingi began to introduce themselves towards it. You had totally forgotten that this will be a recorded performance for submission and future referrence. You clutched Yeosang’s hand nervously and he squeezed back.
You weren’t surprised at Yunho’s skills. He occasionally went to a dance studio and had even dragged you and Jongho with him at one point. However, you were definitely taken aback at Mingi’s deep and raspy voice when he started rapping. What’s more is that the guy could dance too. You groaned, you and Yeosang were definitely done for.
When Yunho went back, he looked genuinely happy, and you couldn’t help but beam at him and be happy for him, too. Even Yeosang gave him a friendly pat in the back as a congratulatory gesture.
By then, it was pretty obvious that Yunho and Mingi would win and be exempted for the next semester. Not that the others weren’t good, in fact, there were a couple of close calls. Dancing and acting seemed to be the norm and since nobody except Mingi had rapped, theirs was remarkable.
“L/N Y/N? Kang Yeosang?”
When your names were called, you suddenly felt like your legs had become like lead. Jongho looked up so fast, you were surprised his neck didn’t crack from the whiplash of looking up at your direction as if he knew you were there the entire time. His hold on the pen loosened as he stared at Yeosang in bewilderment as he started to walk down with you.
“What the fuck?” Jongho mouthed at you, perplexed at what he was seeing. You shrugged and gave him a small wink.
At first, it didn’t hit everyone - especially since a handsome man was walking towards the front of the class with you and they were expecting a masked freak. You had to control your oncoming anger, it was easy to get it misplaced since you were in a position where you could give everyone a piece of your mind, but you didn’t want to embarrass Yeosang further.
“Uhm,” Professor Park cleared his throat to mask his own surprise. “You are Yeosang, correct?”
Your boyfriend nodded, showing his campus identification card. “I think so, yeah,” he joked lightheartedly.
All hell broke loose after a small pause. Gasps of surprise, whispers and murmurs of your fellow students all talking about Yeosang, the boy who wore a mask and who everybody called weird or eccentric, but that was long gone by now. There was a small tinge of pink on his cheeks at all the attention but when he looked at you, he knew that everything was alright.
“What will you present to us?” Professor Choi tentatively asked as he started to tinker at the recording camera. He set his wise eyes on Yeosang before lowering his voice, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “We would have given you a fair grading even if you chose to wear your self-expression.”
Yeosang gave the professor a genuine smile, going forward to grab two microphones from a still puzzled Jongho. “Thank you,” he uttered. He gave you one mic before turning again. “Uhm, we're performing a song.”
Professor Choi lifts a surprised brow while Professor Park nods, glee evident on his face. “Ah, we haven’t had anybody sing for us yet,” the former supplied.
“Are you going to be okay? I’m worried for you,” you whispered to him truthfully amidst all the murmurs that were going around the room.
“I’m still used to this,” he reassured. “Former idol, remember?”
The moment the music started, Yeosang lost his soul into the rhythm. You guys had decided long ago that he’d sing all the main parts while you remained as harmonies. You were proud of him and you can see that it felt good for him, his voice elevated your soul like it was your catharsis.
You were still annoyed at all the swoons he was receiving, but you decided to ignore it for now and tamped down your jealousy, not when Yeosang was releasing the emotions he’s held within himself for a while now.
But what surprised you was not only was everyone, including Yunho and Mingi, swaying to the rhythm of Yeosang voice, but someone else’s voice had joined to harmonize with you. You looked at Jongho in surprise and it was his turn to wink at you. Yeosang patted Jongho’s shoulder as the three of you filled the room with your voices.
You weren’t sure if that was okay, but everyone went along with it. Soon enough, everybody was singing along with the two of you. Yeosang’s voice faltered and your quick thinking decided to take over for a few seconds so he could contain himself. He held your hand for comfort, this meant a lot to him, but Jongho comically pulled your hands apart, his eyes widening in a ‘no’ stance.
And soon enough, it was over. Just like when Professor Park picked who your partners would be, your performance was also the last for the day. Cheers along with loud claps surrounded the entire room and Professor Choi had to calm everybody down to not disrupt the neighbouring classes, but even he was pleased with the outcome.
“I think it’s safe to say who gets the prize, isn’t it?” Professor Park cleared his throat to hide the smirk that was threatening to spread all over his face.
It was all surreal. Another good thing happened next and Professor Park also announced that Yunho and Mingi were to be exempted as well since their performance was unique on its own. The four of you shared a wide grin with one another, and before you knew it, your classes for the whole day were also exempted, courtesy of Jongho’s smooth-talking so the four of you could hang out.
“Fuck, man, I didn’t know you could sing like that!” Mingi exclaimed as the five of you started to walk to the parking lot. Since classes were still ongoing, you were free to do and say anything you wanted. “You should be an idol, or something.”
Yeosang put his arm across your shoulder and pulled you closer. “I should’ve, shouldn’t I?” He grinned. Then, he cleared his throat. “You guys, uh, don’t care to be associated with me, or something?”
“What do you mean?” Mingi frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Do you not like us?”
“N-No! I mean, it’s not that,” Yeosang blanched, making you snort and laugh after. Before he could explain himself, Mingi, ever the people person, slaps Yeosang’s back playfully.
But Yeosang wasn’t the one surprised, it was Mingi. “Woah.” he blurted out. “Your back muscles, you work out too?! Say, mind if I call another friend of mine? I think he’d like to hang out, too.”
You blushed at the imagery that suddenly popped in your head. Yunho gags jokingly while waving his hands in front of him. “Oh, God, I did not want to know about that in your eyes, Y/N,” he barfs. “Also, you have a number one fan now, Yeosang—”
“Sure,” you glared at Yunho before turning to Mingi. “Depends on who's the friend though—”
“Ya! Song Mingi, what the hell did you want?!”
You all turned to the loud source of the voice and you couldn’t help but laugh out loud at Hongjoong who was marching towards your group with a menacing look, until his eyes went to Yeosang again and he snorted in amusement.
“I will never get over what your face looks like. Are you sure you’re not a model?” Hongjoong waved. “Anyway, Mingi texted me to come here.”
Everyone looked at the gentle giant, who was rubbing the back of his neck. “I may or may not have texted him already to come here…”
Yeosang was surprised again when Hongjoong slapped his back like an old friend does when they see them. “So where to? I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been so burnt out by this university thing,” he rolled his eyes. He sees Yeosang’s hold on you and raises a brow. “Woah, are we interrupting something?”
“Maybe,” you replied cryptically.
“Are you guys together or something?” Jongho blurted out, twirling his car keys on his finger. Leave it to Jongho to be blunt as always.
Yeosang possessively wraps an arm all over your waist from behind and plants his chin on your shoulder. You laughed sheepishly at everybody’s bulged out eyes while Yunho started cackling loudly. “It kinda just happened,” you chuckled.
Yeosang looks at Jongho, who had his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You gonna do something about it, dad?” He joked, making everyone laugh.
Jongho rolled his eyes dramatically, pinching his nose bridge. “Not only do we have to deal with all the crazy energy this group will have in the future,” he stared pointedly at an excited Mingi, who was shaking Yunho’s collar. “But we also have to deal with you two eye-fucking each other constantly. Spare me the drama, please.”
Suddenly, Jongho and Yeosang stared at each other, a million emotions written in their eyes. You nudge your boyfriend closer to Jongho, giving him a reassuring nod. He shyly rubs the back of his neck before turning to everybody.
“Uhm, I’d love to have company in my place,” he began, causing Jongho to raise a brow. “I’ll send everybody the address, it’s only a fifteen minute drive from here.”
You were proud of Yeosang since he was trying to branch out of his comfort space and trying to let people in now so he could move forward and not get stuck in the past where he was all alone.
“You’re you again,” Jongho mumbled softly, sighing. “Can’t say I miss when you were stuck up and walked around like everybody was going to jump on you. You were a major dickhead, Sangie.”
Before Yeosang could reply, he turned to the rest of the group, who were already planning what to do and who should bring the snacks and stuff. “Uh, go ahead and drive on without us,” he gestured to himself and Jongho.
He turned to you with a small, serene smile. You could have cried, he didn’t even need to say anything, he looked so much happier from when you first met him when he threatened you at the library. “You go ahead without me, princess—”
“Princess,” Hongjoong blabbered out, his delight evident in his tone while the other started to jokingly and openly mock you both for being too sweet.
“I have a score to settle with this brute—” he tried to continue.
“I’m literally right here,” Jongho counteracted, holding his hand to his chest as if he was offended.
You hopped and kissed Yeosang in front of everybody, which resulted in a hilarious ruckus before pulling away and dragging Yunho away so you could get in the car with him. You looked back at your boyfriend, subtly giving him a thumbs, mouthing ‘I’m proud at you’ before completely turning around.
Both Yeosang and Jongho watched as everyone’s car started to peel out of the parking lot one by one underneath the red setting sun of the sky. It painted such a beautiful picture and it set the mood for what was about to come.
Yeosang had a small sense of dread woven into his nervousness. To be fair, it would have been odd if he wasn’t nervous, this was the first time he was talking to Jongho after he had pretty much ghosted him for months, disappearing on him like he did with Wooyoung.
“Listen,” he started, his anxiety through the roof. “I know you’re mad and you have the right to be, but I want you to know that I’m very sorry.”
It was now or never, his relationship with Jongho was on the line. He loved you, but he can’t just turn his back completely to the other person he grew up with. Jongho sighed, the sound of it harsh and unwelcoming.
“I am, I still am,” the latter huffed out. Yeosang hated it, but he understood why. “At least you know how to grasp the situation and you’re not in denial anymore. You piss me off so damn much, you know?”
“I understand,” he breathed out, kicking a nearby pebble off of the ground onto nowhere in particular. This was it, he thought, he had lost Jongho forever.
However, he wasn’t expecting a nudge on the shoulder and a friendly ruffle of his hair. He groaned, as self-deprecating as he was with his appearance, he hated his hair being messed up, and Jongho knew that.
“You’re a goddamn fool,” Jongho shook his head after. He choked out a laugh from his chest. “I’m mad at you for doing this to yourself. I’m mad at you for blaming yourself even though it wasn’t your fault. I’m mad at you for letting those assholes bully you and bring you down.”
“But mostly of all,” Jongho spoke in finality. “I’m mad at you for not letting me help and be there for you when you needed it the most.”
And with that, Jongho finally smiled, his teeth and gums all baring out like the sunshine for him to see. Finally, the last burden off of his shoulders and chest was finally being lifted away. They both laughed out loud as they both got into their cars, which were coincidentally parked next to each other.
“So, you and Y/, huh?” Jongho smirked, the playfulness that Yeosang knew him to have back on his face. How he missed it so.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, hopping into the driver’s seat and rolling the window down so he could still talk to Jongho. “She’s changed me, you know? I mean, I could tell you all the details—”
“Spare me,” Jongho groaned, honking to stop him from talking. “I get it, but I don’t wanna know all the juicy details of your relationship. Just don’t hurt her, or you’ll get a taste of this.”
He lifted his fists up in the air, waving them around comically and causing Yeosang to laugh out loud so much, his tummy and his sides started to ache and cramp up. This was it, this was all he needed. How had he been such a fool to let all of this go? Suddenly, your face popped up in his mind, and he smiled. He vowed to make you happy, for you had given him so much without knowing and asking for anything in return.
“Where to?” Jongho asked after he turned his car on, the sound of the engine being the background noise of it all. It was so fitting.
“You know my dad’s penthouse? The one near yours?”
Jongho’s eyes bulged out. “That’s where you’ve been staying? Fuck, I should’ve known,” he shook his head. Suddenly, he turned to Yeosang with an impish smirk, the delinquency in his face palpable and hard to miss. “Like the old times?”
Yeosang didn’t get it at first, until Jongho revved his engine, smoke coming out of the exhaust at a faster rate, and he laughed, revving his own engine competitively with a grin. When they were younger, they would race each other anywhere - the streets, a dirt road, anywhere. It wasn’t legal, by all means, because they really were young at one point.
“Loser buys dinner for the entire crew?” Jongho chided, his laughter filling the air.
It was contagious and Yeosang went ahead and pressed on the gas. “Deal.”
12 boys who saw you as one of them, and the 1 who didn’t (in the best way possible)
-- ᯓ★ˎˊ˗
1. The Blanket
“Hurry up!” Dino called out, already bouncing on the couch in his sweats, gesturing for you to join in the game. You dropped down between him and Mingyu without a second thought, baggy hoodie swallowing your frame, legs sprawled out just like the others.
Nobody blinked - because that’s how it always was. You laughed with them, shoved shoulders, yelled at the screen, and half the time the members forgot you weren’t just another one of the guys.
But one of them didn’t/never did.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Wonwoo rise from the floor, a soft gray blanket in his hands. Without saying anything, he draped it over your lap. It startled you enough that you blinked up at him, your game character getting killed off on screen.
“Your shorts,” he said simply, eyes flicking towards your legs where the hem had ridden up.
“Oh…thanks,”
His only response was a soft, “Mm,” before sitting back down with his controller. But the warmth lingered more than the blanket did.
.
2. The Heels
Your stylist clapped her hands in excitement. “Oh, you look great in these heels! We should start putting you in them more.”
You smiled, grateful.
You didn’t protest - never did. But once you slipped them on, the wobble was immediate.
The members teased lightly, laughing at your misery. “Come on, you look fine!” Seungkwan grinned.
You only rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to punch him in the gut. With brows furrowed as you spread your arms wide, you tried pretending your ankles weren’t screaming in pain; that you weren’t terrified of tripping on stage.
And then a steady figure found its way before you.
Wonwoo - legs spread apart to get down to your level - only leaned close with arms crossed across his chest.
His voice was small enough that only you could hear.
“Don’t force it. Go slow.”
His gaze was firm, grounding, when he gently pulled one of your arms in - your hand finding a spot on his shoulder. “If it’s too much, say it.”
Your throat tightened.
.
5. The Convenience Store
Tip-toeing out your room, you were careful not to wake the sleeping members in the living room.
Your stomach had been bothering you for the most part of the night, begging for your cravings of convenience store hotdogs and and warm cup of ramyeon.
So, as any normal person would, you slipped on the first hoodie you could find and made your way out. But just as your hand reached the doorknob, a voice spooked you from behind,
“Where are you going?”
You turned.
Wonwoo stood at the end of the hallway - hair messy, voice low, eyes only half-open from sleep.
“Emart? I’m craving ramyeon...”
“It’s nearly midnight,” he said evenly, yet the edge in his tone made it clear he had more to say.
You rolled your eyes, half-laughing. “Yeah, it’s just down the street. I’ll be five minutes. You guys always go.”
“Yeah, us,” he corrected. “Not you.”
You tilted your head, a bit thrown off. “What’s that supposed to mean? I can handle myself.”
Wonwoo’s gaze softened then, muttering a soft “Wait for me,” before disappearing into his room for a few seconds - emerging again with a cap in hand. “I know you can. But you’re still a girl. And I don’t care how baggy your clothes are or how long you’ve been living with us - you’re not walking around alone this late.”
“Then where are you going?” Your brows quirked up, watching as he moved past you to slide on his shoes.
“Emart. You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”
.
4. The Yoghurt
“Please, it’s just a stupid cup of yoghurt. What’s the big deal?”
“What– Hoshi, I’ve been looking forward to that ‘stupid cup of yoghurt’ since yesterday! You can’t just eat it without asking!” you huffed, arms crossed as you stood across from him in the living room.
He only pressed his lips together, gaze shifting away like the whole situation was more of an inconvenience to him than anything else.
Jeonghan, sensing the tension, tried stepping in. “Guys, let’s not—”
“Forget it. I’ll just buy you another one tomorrow, alright?” Hoshi cut in carelessly, brushing it off. His tone was casual, dismissive - like it was nothing.
But what stung was the line that came next:
“Seriously…since when did you get this sensitive?”
That snapped all the patience you had left in you.
Without another word, you turned and walked out, brushing past a very confused Jun and Minghao who’d just returned from the convenience store.
It was Wonwoo who found you twenty minutes later, hunched on the playground swings; tear stains streaking your face, nose red and raw.
He didn’t ask questions - didn’t scold or tease.
He simply crouched in front of you, steady and warm as his eyes found yours.
You turned away, muttering, almost to yourself, “Maybe I should’ve just toughenes up. Be less…sensitive. You guys always handle this better.”
“Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes with that unshakable calm of his. “You’re not them. You don’t have to harden yourself just because we did. You’re allowed to feel however you feel. It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t make you less strong.”
For a moment, the air stilled, quiet except for the faint creak of the swings. Your lips parted, but no words came out - his words had lodged somewhere deeper, pressing against the ache in your chest.
Because while the world only saw you as the girl in a boy’s group, and the boys often treated you like just another one of them—
pairing... freaky?bestfriend!jeonghan x innocent!reader
genre... fake text, smau, crack, brainrot
content warning... suggestive/nsfw jokes - minors dni
note... this is obvi all a joke! this does not accurately depict the members at all and is not how i view them as people!
an: this is my first post ever so i apologize if it looks messy and amature! hopefully i will be writing and posting aus more! thank you for reading <3
a little teaser by Luna in the meantime while i finish writing her appearance in Jeongwaja! i also sprinkled a few little spoilers and lore in the comments! 🤭🫶
╰౨ৎ Luna in Jeongwaja ╰౨ৎ JeongNa reaction one-shot
╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰౨ৎ luna's instagram
Liked by jeonghaniyoo_n, sound_of_coups, pledis_boos and 10,763,777 others
lunabae this is what happens when someone stubborn dares someone just as stubborn🫡
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caratcarrot17 no way she enlisted before the guys 💀 Bae Jiyeon you’re crazy for this
svt_lov3club they rlly sent Luna of all people to the military 😭
↳ boo_boo_carat the same Luna who cried when a bee stung her… not because it hurt but because the bee would die because of her 🥹
jeongnatruthers the caption?! there’s no way this isn’t a JeongNa bet… only they would turn military training into couple banter 💀
seoksoonboo luna enlisting before hoshi is SENDING me 😀
caratmemelord I AM SO EXCITED! The teaser was hilarious! Kai and Luna, a duo I didn’t know I needed 😂
jeonghaniyoo_n prettiest in the unit but i still won the bet🫡
liked by creator
↳ minghaosartclass they’re so unserious… like normal couples: “let’s bet on dinner” JeongNa: “bet you won’t survive the military”😭
↳ shualover95 prettiest in the unit >>> jeonghan’s entire argument tbh
↳ hoshihugdealer their whole relationship lore is hilarious to me 😂 you can’t make this shit up
min9yu_k why are you funnier than the rest of us combined 😂
liked by creator
jxjforever translation for the text: “what happened to my excited little soldier 😂” “Shut up. I still didn’t complain once.” “Proud of you, pretty girl.”
↳ thelunanova Jeonghan really said “LMFAO what happened?” 🤣🤣🤣
↳ caratgenz i know he’s gonna bring this up for the next 50 years like “remember when you said you could handle the military”
shadowenjoyer11 i can already hear Hannie saying “told you so” every day for the next decade
moonlightlover this is comedy. episode not even out yet and i can TELL it’s gonna be hilarious
unit17line theory: Jeonghan smirked, Jiyeon blacked out, next thing we know she’s in bootcamp
ho5hi_kwon you just beat the rest of us to it 😂
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↳ vocalunitlover don’t remind us…
lunawuvr “Military Luna” wasn’t on my 2025 bingo card but here we are
gyuslover_ they are insane… he really said: “you’ll hate it. i’ll bet on it.”
yoonhanbias That menace Yoon Jeonghan is watching her suffer rn with the SMUGGEST smile i just know it
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evie1chancepls stop because I LOVE this photoshoot!
cheolxevie_svt not the YSL condoms LMAO and not her posting them 😭😭
svtandevelynk can scoups fight because i'd want a chance to bang evelyn with ysl condoms even though im a girl
vernondicaprio for the fangirls out there, Evelyn said she's an ally, so at least y'all have a 1% chance minus the 99% chance that she's literally dating THE Choi Seungcheol
gyusleftfoot so... did ysl send the condoms for evelyn and cheol or what... cause i swear on god they're not official ysl products for sale... right?
evelynkimsupdates fact: YSL condoms are not official YSL products for sale easily to the public, meaning that they are either custom made gifts for evelyn or simply PR gifts; as a bonus, they're made in Japan aka good quality
scoupsfanpage so... are we going to try and figure out what size they are...
bae_b4e the layout... the pictures... MOMMY???
evieswife scoups i hope you can fight because i want her!!!
Summary: You never had a problem with any of the cast members of the umbrella academy, except Aidan. You two couldn't stand each other since the first time you met. You were always good at ignoring him but the directors crashed the plan, by making you the love interest of the character Five Hargreeves. But as the day came you needed to train with him everything changed.
Here a sexy poster from Five I fell in love with! With every purchase you automatically support me :) https://amzn.to/3yGK6Fm
"This.. this wasn't wrote in the script"
Chicago, 9:20 am, you were walking outside the set with a coffee in your hands. It was cold, so the warmth of the cup made your heart flutter with happiness. It was always the smallest things that made you feel pride. You looked down at your chamber red nails while walking through the security guards. You didn't need to show them your ID; they knew you. After two years of being in the show, everyone knew everyone.
You loved attending the set, being surrounded by the most varied people, but today was different. Your stomach hurt, and your hands were slightly shaking. Knowing why your body reacted like that was easy. But your determination and the wish to earn money had driven you to attend the set today. You needed to remind yourself that this was a big part of your job... doing things you didn't want to do. You needed to swallow the pill, and you should be good to go.
Your thoughts went crazy as you said hello to the makeup artist. She was tugging at you here and there, putting little needles in the top you wore. You had been an actor for a few years now, so kissing in front of a camera was not that big of a deal for you, but kissing someone you didn't like was a little bit challenging.
The story of your character was pretty simple—not being that much in the limelight, operating in the shadows of the show. She was the daughter of the Handler, stalking Number Five and looking out for him as the Handler instructed her. The depth of the character was very interesting, so playing her was really an honor, especially because it was the biggest show you had ever been allowed to be on.
"You are ready, you like it?" she asked me. I nodded and smiled. "Thank you, this is very good work, as always," I told her. This was one of your rules: to appreciate the work people do for you, always trying to be nice to everyone. As you stepped out of the container, you saw Aidan walking by. He saw you too and headed in your direction. "Hi, you ready for the rehearsal?" he asked you. To be honest, this was the only thing you liked about him—he was always professional.
"Course, where you want to rehearse?" you asked him. He told you to follow him to Set 36. You knew the set from previous film scenes. Watching the others play was also a pretty big part of your job. You didn't need to, but you liked watching them, learning from their abilities. Robert Sheehan was one of the actors you looked up to; how he acted out his character was astonishing.
As you both walked to the empty set, neither of you even tried to make small talk. Your steps were loud as you walked with him, you read the script again and tried to memorize every little word. The set was very detailed; it was Five's room. You sat down on his bed and continued to read. "You ready?" he asked me. You nodded, laid the script aside, and positioned yourself better on the bed. The scene you needed to play was simple. You get into an argument, and then you kiss him. His part was to reject you and then walk out of the room. That's it—very simple. "Alright," you said while shaking your arms to prepare.
"Go on," you said, and Aidan got into his role. "STOP IT! Stop stalking me, you crazy little shit!" he screamed and walked around the room until he came to a halt at his desk. "I... I am not stalking you!" you yelled. He leaned himself onto the desk behind him. "I saw you following me several times!" he said angrily. Just now, you noticed how his jawline was nearly perfectly shaped—he could cut papers with that thing. You didn't answer him and just stared him down. Suddenly, he jumped away from the table and walked right in front of you.
He looked down at you. This was the moment. "I just... I can't explain," you said your last line. You could feel your heart pounding, like it demanded to get out of your torso. Your hands were shaking as if you had just drunk five espressos and two Red Bulls. "Explain, or I don't want to see you ever again," he whispered. You got up from the bed and stood before him. You felt like it was the first time you ever auditioned. You were as scared of this day as you were then. Without thinking and pushing your anxiety away, you grabbed his face and smashed your lips onto his.
Although you hated him with every muscle in your body, your whole stomach filled with butterflies as your lips landed on his. He tasted bittersweet, like he had just drunk coffee, and a little bit of woodsy cologne made him taste like that too. You waited for him to push you away, like it was written in the script. He was supposed to push you back onto the bed and leave, so you prepared for the fall. But he didn't.
He began to let his puffy lips roam over yours. It felt like you were flying straight to heaven. As you began to stroke his cheek with your thumb, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You let your hand travel around his neck, pushing your fingers into his dark hair. As your fingernails scratched his scalp, he opened his mouth wider, and you let your tongue sneak into his mouth. His lips felt like cushions pressing against yours.
You gasped as he let his hand fall, landing on your butt. But as soon as his lips connected with yours again, you couldn't think anymore. His other hand continued to travel up and down your waist, exploring every inch. He pushed your abdomen further into his, causing your head to tilt back slightly. He noticed and grabbed your neck harshly, pushing your head forward as he continued to let his tongue dance in your mouth, tasting you like ice cream.
You felt every last bit of oxygen leave your body, so you pushed your head away. The sudden feeling of leaving his lips made your whole body shudder with coldness. "This... this wasn't written in the script," you said, stuttering. "Then, unfortunately, we have to do this again," he said with a wide grin on his face. "Asshole."
Thank you for reading my love :)
Here leading you to part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/merthosus/759274024052375552/dont-kiss-the-cast-members-summary-you-never?source=share
Can we have more Sena and Scoups please? Like maybe an article saying they've broken up and Carats are heartbroken and they kinda go Insta official to prove the rumours wrong? Or if not that then just any Sena and Scoups content 🙈😂
⋆ INSTAGRAM UPDATE ࣪ ─── 250806: Clapback
Just days after breakup rumors flooded the internet, Sena shuts down the noise with a single Instagram post that says everything without saying a word. Set to Flo Milli’s “Never Lose Me,”It’s clear: he’s still hers.
As fans spiral between relief and obsession, Scoups adds fuel to the fire by posting her on his own account minutes later. No caption needed. No breakup here. Just two people madly in love, proving the rumors all the way wrong.
Their relationship isn’t just surviving — it’s thriving.
The post skyrocketed to 35 million likes in under 24 hours, instantly becoming one of the most-liked posts by a Korean idol ever With no caption.
╰ ౨ৎ Articles
Insta post ⠀ ─── 08/06/25 . . .
♫ Never Lose Me • Flo Milli
Liked by sound_of_coups dualipa bellahadid alexademie saythename_17 and 35,989,377 others
View all comments
theestallion He locked in, and you ate this UP 💅💅💅
bellahadid Miss you angel 💌 give me your lipstick rec NOW. Also… the RING?? 👀💍🫢
dualipa The soft power… the intimacy… the silence? Obsessed. 🖤🖤🖤
alexademie YES GIRL 😍💋
unit17diary “Never Lose Me” playing while her man is covered in lipstick and wearing a ring??? she’s so dangerous 😭💍
caratreacts17 OH MY GOD IS THAT A COMMITMENT RING ON THEIR FINGERS????
↳ scoupsofhearts i zoomed in so fast i almost dropped my phone 😭😭😭
↳ soulmatecarat so we just waking up to soft launch engagement now?? ok 😭😭😭
↳ scoupsistheblueprint what if they’ve BEEN engaged and we’re just now catching up 😭😭😭
↳ soulmatecoded matching rings = matching souls. i don’t make the rules.
↳ minhosleftsock if those rings are custom engraved i’m actually gonna throw my phone in the river 😭😭😭
↳ araharchive the fact that the rings are subtle. elegant. quiet luxury. UGH THEY’RE SO COORDINATED 😩✨
↳ scoups_caratwife not just rings. not just matching. but worn on THAT FINGER. girl… girl…
↳ senasource I’ve never envied a finger more in my life.
↳ sena’sfuturewife this should be me holding her phone, taking mirror pics in HER hoodie 😩
scoupswho? this should be ME with Sena. not him. ME. 😭😭😭
unitmin_17 i fear them… respectfully and in awe
caratdazed SHE POSTED SIX PICTURES, NO WORDS, AND SHUT DOWN A WHOLE NEWS CYCLE. I’m shaking
hoshihoneybun even Dispatch had to look at the post like “ok my bad 😭”
caratstormz THIS IS THE MOST SILENT, SOFT-SPOKEN, NO-CAPTION ANNIHILATION OF A RUMOR I’VE EVER SEEN
minggyusmirror All I have to say is
kpoptruthfairy Haters right now
↳ unit17cult haters said “this aged well” sarcastically last week. now it actually did and they’re in hiding.
↳ gyucaratslut they logged off. they left the chat. they’re googling “how to recover from public embarrassment.”
↳ scoupssnatchedme you could hear a pin drop in the antis group chat rn 😭😭
↳ mingsmisfits they tried to come for her and got met with 35 million likes and a man covered in lipstick
vernonvintage she clapped back with no hands, no words, just a camera and confidence 📸💅
carats4life one post and the noise went from surround sound to ✨crickets✨
pinkglossedpain the way she marked him like territory and posted it… i’d let her ruin my life too 😭💔
ringbyringbyring and then he posted her right after… no caption. just devotion. i’m sobbing.
♫ Dandelions • Ruth B
Liked by senaleerose woozi_universefactory and 5,123,765 others
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seungkwanismydad I bet this was he’s reaction to the news
sscoupsimpact HE SAID “MY GIRL” IN THREE PHOTOS 😩 no caption needed!
caratcentral17 5 million likes and counting… THEY ARE THE K-POP IT COUPLE OF THE DECADE 🫢🔥
wooziwrotethis woozi liked it too?? yeah he said “i ship it.” it’s canon now.
lioncarats THE SONG. THE PICS. THE VIBE. THIS MAN IS IN LOVE AND HE’S NOT HIDING IT ANYMORE 😭😭😭
↳ unit17official “I see forever in your eyes” and then he posts HER??? i’m sobbing uncontrollably.
scoopswifeirl not the lipstick mark… SIR WE GET IT. SHE LOVES YOU. YOU WIN. 💋😭
scoupsmyluv she said never lose me… and he said NEVER WOULD 😩💋
sentimentalsoobin between the song and those pictures… she’s not just his girl. she’s his person. 💍🖤
lipsticktruther17 no bc he posted a lipstick stain and 5 million people said “relationship goals” 😭😭
ʚིᵋ ⋆ NANA TOUR WITH SVT FAN REACTIONS ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── episode one.
NANA Tour with SEVENTEEN fan reactions
synopsis: Fan tweets reacting to Luna and the rest of the members in Episode One (1-1, 1-2, 1-3, 1-4) of Nana Tour with SEVENTEEN
d-3 before our 1st year Anniversary! another little something for, my lovelies! this has been long overdue 🫢 and since this is already out… Nana Tour 2-1 will follow this after my anniversary week special!! and now all the social media posts are already out the way— our full one-shots will continue tomorrow!! if you have a particular one-shot request for Aug 7, send them to me so that it will be included on my poll for that!! 💞
╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST
╰ ౨ৎ fan reactions ╰ ౨ৎ nana tour masterlist
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