i truly write just for fun, so please don’t take me too seriously lol everything i write is in my spare time, so updates can be slow!
i am 21+ & i work. you can call me liz if you’d like :3 my writing tends to be on the darker/kinkier side. so don’t follow if that’s not your vibe. my page is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18, no minors.
my requests/asks are open and will probably stay open. feel free to message me too if you want to chat idc. i only write for enha currently!
• click here for my masterlist • riki & heeseung biased if you care.
don't like it, don't read it <3 this is a fictional story written for entertainment purposes and does not represent jake or riki irl. mdni, 18+ only.
wc: 2.1k (lightly proofread — but barely lol)
content/trigger warnings: cheating(ish?), brother/brother sharing (this is not an incest fic), rough sex, oral sex (f), unprotected sex (don’t do this my loves), threesome, voyeurism, creampie, squirting, a sprinkle of degradation, sorry if i missed anything.
hey so this turned out way freakier than i planned sorry in advance x
my posts are designed to be read in the app, may look bad on web.
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It had always been Riki. Even before Jake ever asked for your number, before you ever stepped foot in this house, your eyes had always gravitated toward his younger brother. Jake was safe, predictable, and kind—but Riki was a quiet, dark storm that you couldn't stop staring into. It’s not that you didn’t love Jake, that was never the issue. You just could never control the throb that came from between your legs any time his little brother was in your presence.
The shift of the mattress behind you felt like a gunshot in the quiet room. You froze, holding your breath until Jake’s heavy, even breathing resumed, his arm slipping off your waist and thudding softly onto the pillow. He was completely out cold. Safe.
Tucking your hair behind your ears, you quietly slid out of bed, the floorboards cold beneath your bare feet. You knew exactly which corner belonged to Riki’s bedroom door. You’d stared at it every single time you stayed over. Turning the knob slowly to avoid a click, you stepped inside the dark room, your chest heaving as the faint scent of his cologne washed over you.
“Jake?" Riki’s voice was rough, thick with sleep as he sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. "Not Jake," you whispered innocently. A heavy, stunned silence filled his bedroom. You heard the rustle of the blanket as Riki froze, his eyes adapting to the shadows until they locked onto you standing by his bedside in your skimpy pajama shorts. He was completely shocked, his jaw slightly slack as he tried to process why his older brother’s girl was standing in his room at three in the morning.
"What the hell are you doing in here Y/N?" he muttered, his voice dropping into a low, slightly panicked hiss. You took a step closer, letting the moonlight catch your half clothed body, you noticed he didn't pull the covers up. He didn't tell you to leave either. He just watched you, his gaze suddenly turning intense, entirely captivated by your breathtaking curves.
You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence stretch, your eyes locked onto his as your hands traced down to the waistband of your pajama shorts. Slowly, deliberately, you pushed them down your legs and stepped out of them, leaving you standing in nothing but your tiny, scrap of a black lace thong. Riki’s breath hitched, the sharp sound cutting through the quietness of the room. His eyes tracked the movement like a man possessed, his cock twitching with partial shame. “I’ve been lying in his bed for two hours, Riki,” you whispered, your voice a sweet velvety purr that made his chest tighten. “And the entire time, all I could think about was you.”
Hooking your fingers into the straps of your thong, you slid the fabric down your thighs, stepping completely out of it. Now, stood entirely bare before him. You took one more step closer to the edge of his mattress, your heart hammering as you slid two fingers between your soaked folds, rubbing slow, heavy circles around your swollen clit.
“You know how much I want you?” you gasped softly, a quiet whimper escaping your lips as the friction hit the hot slick heat between your legs. “I’m soaking wet for you. I’ve always wanted you, Riki. Sometimes even more than him. Please...”
Riki’s jaw tightened so hard you heard his teeth grind. His gaze was glued to the rhythmic movement of your fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The absolute shock was gone, replaced by a raw hunger that completely eradicated any thoughts of his brother. He reached out, his large hand wrapping securely around your wrist, instantly halting your fingers. "Fuck," he growled, his voice deep, laced with want. "You have no clue what you're starting."
Before the last word could fully leave his mouth, Riki gripped your waist with both hands, his fingers digging bruisingly into your hips as he yanked you forward. He didn't pull you onto the bed, he dragged you straight to the edge, his head tilting back as he buried his face entirely between your thighs.
The first stroke of his tongue was punishingly wet, carving a line from your ass straight up to your swollen, needy clit. You let out a sharp, choked gasp, your fingers instantly kneading into his thick, dark hair to hold yourself steady as your knees buckled in complete ecstasy. Riki didn't give you a single second to adjust. He pulled your lips wide open, exposing your sticky slick dripping completely before he plunged his tongue deep inside you.
He ate you out with a filthy and desperate hunger, his tongue curling and thrusting inside the tight walls of your cunt while his thumb buried itself against your clit, rubbing in quick circles. The sound of it was deafening in the quiet room. The wet, sloppy slapping of his full lips against your dripping skin, the heavy ragged breaths he sucked in against your thighs, and the thick, messy slick of your own arousal coating his chin and jawline. You were completely drunk in him, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth as he sucked your clit deeper between his lips, nibbling and swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud.
"R-Riki oh god, Riki," you whimpered, your head whipped back, voice entirely unraveling by the sheer speed of his mouth against your folds. You were right on the edge, your walls pulsing and clenching, completely blind to the rest of the world.
Which is why neither of you heard the floorboards creaking in the hallway…
Click. The bedroom door swung inward, casting a wide beam of light from the hallway straight across the bed.
You froze, your heart stopping in your chest as your eyes snapped open mid orgasm. Standing in the doorway was your boyfriend, Jake. He was only in his boxers, his eyes wide and dark as they took in the sight: his younger brother on his knees, his face completely buried between your wide open slick covered thighs, your juices glistening all over Riki’s mouth.
Quiet fell over the room, broken only by your frantic, shallow breathing. You waited for the cursing, the punch, the betrayal to shatter the room. Instead, Jake’s gaze traveled slowly from his brother’s pussy soaked face, up the length of your trembling legs, settling directly on your flushed, bare chest. His jaw tightened, a possessive look replaced the shock in his eyes.
"Jake..." you breathed out, a terrifying mix of shame and lingering arousal making your voice tremble. Jake didn't look at Riki. He didn't say a word to him. His focus stayed entirely locked on you as he stepped into the room, closing the door firmly behind softly.
"You're a cheating little slut, aren't you?" Jake murmured, his voice dropping to a low and dangerously hot growl as he walked toward the bed, his eyes fixed entirely on your dripping cunt. He shed his boxers, his hard length springing free in the shadows of the half lit room. "If you wanted to get filled up so bad, you should have just asked. Move over, Riki. She's mine first."
Before you could even process the words leaving Jake’s mouth, his hands were on you. There was no gentleness, no slow easing into the mood, just a sudden, heavy weight as he gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach with a bruising force. You landed faced down right over Riki, your bare chest pressing against his warm torso. Before a gasp could fully escape your throat, Jake lined himself up and plunged straight into your soaking wet cunt with one deep, punishing thrust.
"Jaeyun!" You shrieked into the dark room, your back arching violently as your walls were suddenly stretched to their absolute limit. The sudden friction of his thick length hitting your cervix without any warning sent a jolt of pure shock straight through your core. Jake didn't pause to let you adjust. He gripped your waist roughly beginning to drive into you with a brutal, relentless rhythm. Every pound from behind slamming your large breasts entirely against Riki, pinning you into the tight space right between them.
"Fucking brat," Jake growled, his voice sharp against the back of your neck as his chest slapped heavily against your spine with every deep stroke. "Couldn't even leave the house to cheat on me, huh? Had to keep it in the family, didn't you? Look at you, taking your boyfriend's brother's face, and now you're taking me right on top of him."
Beneath you, Riki didn't back away. He instead let out a breathless chuckle at his brother's words, his large hands immediately coming up to claim your body from the front. His fingers dug into your soft breasts, squeezing and massaging them roughly to match the rhythm of Jake's thrusts from behind. Riki leaned up, his mouth locking onto yours to smother your loud, desperate moans, his tongue tangling with yours as his thumb slid down between your squished thighs, finding your puffy aching clit, rolling it in sloppy circles.
You were entirely unraveling between them. Every hard, punishing slam from Jake’s hips drove you deeper into Riki's eager fingers, the double stimulation sending your senses into absolute overload.
"Look at her," Riki muttered against your lips as he watched your eyes roll back in pleasure. "She loves it, Jake. Look how tight she is around me." Suddenly, Jake gripped your hips and pulled out with a wet pop, the abrupt loss of his cock making you gasp against Riki’s neck. Before you could even think or breathe, Jake grabbed your arm and hauled you backwards, effortlessly shifting your weight so you were flat on your back in the center of the mattress.
Riki didn't waste a single second. He slides right between your open thighs, his hard length glistening with your juices, while Jake steps back just enough to hover at the edge of the bed right over your head.
"Keep your eyes right here," Jake commanded, his voice demanding as he wrapped a hand around his thick, leaking cock, stroking himself with a fast, heavy friction right over your face. "Don't look away from me. Watch what this dick is doing for you."
Riki grabbed your knees, pinning them flat against your shoulders to expose you completely. He leaned down, meeting your lips once more with a deep, wet kiss. Without notice, he drove himself all the way inside you in one seamless shove. "Oh fuck Riki!" you shrieked, your head tossing back into the pillows as Riki’s long, girthy length stretched your tight walls to their absolute limit.
"Shit, you're so fucking wet," Riki blurted out, a praise slipping from his lips as he began pounding into you with a steady pace. His hips slammed hard against your ass, the loud slapping of his skin against yours echoing through the quiet room. "Look at her, taking every fucking inch of it."
From above you, Jake’s eyes were widened, his breath hitching as he watched Riki tear into your cunt. The sheer filth of the view had him panting and fucking his fist mercilessly. "Make her scream. I'm gonna come right in that pretty little face." Riki's pace turned frantic, his thumb anchoring hard against your clit, rubbing it into absolute friction as he felt your walls seize around him. Your back arched violently off the sheets, your eyes rolling as a wave of pure uninhibited pleasure hit, hot liquid splashing right onto Riki’s abdomen and thighs. Jake whined out from above. With a few final heavy, desperate tugs he reaches his limit shooting thick ropes of seed painting your face.
Seeing you break, Riki loses the last of his restraint. He leans down, his slick, sweating chest pressing flush against you as he anchored his hands under your ass. He hammers into you with desperate depth, his hips stuttering against yours as your pulsing walls completely unraveled him completely. A broken groan escapes him, vibrating as his entire body goes rigid. Locked deep inside you, his length twitched as his heavy warmth fills your cunt, flooding you with pulsing waves of his release.
Riki slowly eased his weight off you, slipping out with a heavy sigh before collapsing onto his side, his arm immediately slinging over your waist to keep you anchored to him. From the edge of the bed, Jake looks down at the two of you, his chest still heaving as he wiped a stray bead of sweat from his forehead. There was no anger in his eyes. Just a dark, lazy satisfaction. He crawled onto the mattress, sliding in right behind you, sandwiching you.
Jake reached around to trail a finger through the drying warmth on your collarbone before leaning in to press a heavy, possessive kiss to your shoulder. "You got off real easy tonight. If you ever try to play games in this house again, I will make sure you can’t walk for a week. Understood?"
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i hope you enjoyed my writing! reblogs, feedback, follows and likes are always appreciated.
this is my original writing. i do not give anyone permission to repost my writing on other platforms!
!! synopsis: you don't need help. ever. then you fail a class and get stuck with jake sim the campus fuckboy, and your new tutor. he's cocky. he's in your space. and you're about to learn that fuckboy's tutor best.
!! warnings: smut (mdni), dom jake, sub/bratty reader, oral, fingering, pet names, dirty talk, spanking, piv, unprotected sex (dont!), praising, semi public
!! wc: 9.5k
!! a/n: pics of jake always awake something in me, sry this took forever i debated hard on the flow of this story so sorry if it feels rushed, ENJOY!
The red F on your midterm was actually offensive.
Not because you'd worked hard. You hadn't. You'd skimmed the readings, showed up to class hungover twice, and submitted a study guide you'd filled out while watching a movie. The F was fair, the problem was it bruised your ego.
Professor Lee didn't even wait for the rest of the class to leave. She caught you at the door, hand on your arm, voice low enough that only you could hear.
"A word." You followed her to her desk, she held up your exam."38 percent." she said.
"I know, I'll study harder."
"You've been skating by on charm and curve points, and now the curve can't save you." She slid a piece of paper across the desk. "Peer tutoring. Mandatory. Twice a week until your average is above a C."
You picked up the paper. One name written in blue ink.
Jake Sim.
"Jake Sim?" you said.
"He's the best tutor I have. Top of the class last semester. Top of the class now.
You knew Jake Sim. Well, you didn't know him. You knew of him. Everyone did. The guy who showed up to every party with a new girl and left with whoever he wanted. The guy who never raised his voice but always got the last word. The guy who'd held a door open for you once and looked at you like he was already bored.
"He's a fuckboy," you said not thinking she heard.
Professor Lee didn't blink. "He's also the only reason six people are passing this class right now. You start Monday. His schedule is at the bottom."
You walked out of that office with your 38 percent and a new low.
Karina and Giselle were waiting for you outside, perched on a bench, phones in hand, looking like they'd been there for hours.
"Your face says disaster," Karina said.
"I have a tutor."
"Okay?"
"Jake Sim."
Giselle's head snapped up. "Jake Sim?"
"Unfortunately."
Karina burst out laughing. "The Jake Sim?"
"Yes."
"The one who went through three sororities in one semester?"
"Yes."
"The one who corrected Sunghoon's drink order at a party and then made out with his date an hour later?"
"Karina." you screamed.
"I'm just saying!" She was grinning now. "Damn. Not Jake."
"I know."
"But also..." Giselle tilted her head. "Damn. Jake is kinda hot."
"I don't care if he's hot. He's a walking red flag with good bone structure."
"And he's your tutor." Karina wiped a tear from her eye. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"I'm going to fail."
You sat down between them and put your head in your hands. "He's going to be insufferable. You know he's going to be insufferable. He's going to sit there with that stupid smirk and explain basic statistics like I'm a child and I'm going to have to pretend I don't want to throw my textbook at his head."
"Or," Giselle said, "you could just let him be hot and enjoy the view."
"I'm not going to enjoy anything."
"You've never even talked to him."
"I don't need to talk to him to know I hate him."
Karina patted your back. "That's the spirit."
Jake was mid-bite into his sandwich when Sunghoon kicked his foot under the table.
"You got assigned a tutoring student?"
Jake chewed. Swallowed. "Yeah."
"Who?"
"Does it matter?"
Jay leaned forward. "It matters cause we are nosy."
Heeseung was already scrolling through his phone. "Professor Lee's class? She sent out the list this morning."
Jake took another bite. He'd seen the name. He'd read it twice. He'd spent maybe longer than necessary staring at it.
He knew who you were. Everyone did. The girl who walked into parties like she owned them. The girl who never asked for help. The girl who'd looked at him just once across a crowded room, and then looked away like he wasn't worth a second glance.
"You're being weird," Jungwon said from the end of the table.
"I'm not being weird."
"You're not talking. That's weird for you."
Jake set his sandwich down. "It's Y/N."
Silence.
Then Sunghoon choked on his drink.
"The one who told Professor Kim to his face that his lecture was boring?"
"That's her."
Jay whistled. "She needs a tutor? I thought she had everything figured out."
"Apparently not."
Jungwon shrugged. "She's going to hate it."
"She's going to hate me."
"Probably."
Jake thought about that. Thought about your face the one time you'd looked at him. You hadn't smiled. Hadn't blushed. Hadn't done any of the things girls usually did when they looked at him.
You'd just looked. And then you'd walked away.
"I don't know," Heeseung said slowly. "She's hot. Like, really hot. Independent. People come to her for help. This might be interesting."
"Interesting how?" Jake asked.
"I don't know. Just... interesting. She's not going to fall all over you like everyone else does."
Jake picked up his sandwich. "I'm not trying to make her fall all over me."
"Sure you're not."
"I'm just tutoring her. That's it."
Sunghoon snorted. "Famous last words."
Jake didn't respond. But he couldn't stop thinking about your name on that paper.
Y/N.
He wondered if you'd text him first or if he'd have to reach out.
He wondered if you'd show up on Monday with that same look on your face like you had nothing to prove to anyone.
He wondered what it would take to make you look at him twice.
Three days before your first session, Karina dragged you to a party.
"I need to get out," she said.
"You need to get out. I need to study."
"No babes you need to drink."
The party was at some guy's house you didn't catch the name to and you didn't care. The music was too loud, the cups were sticky, and within twenty minutes, you'd lost Karina to the dance floor and Giselle to a guy who looked like he played club sports.
You were on your third drink when you saw him.
Jake.
He was on a couch in the corner, and there was a girl in his lap.
Not sitting next to him. Not leaning against him. Fully in his lap, her legs draped over his thigh, her lips hovering near his ear. His hand was on her waist. He wasn't kissing her but it was clearly heading there.
You recognized the girl. Wonyoung. She was in your psych class. She'd spent the entire semester batting her eyelashes at every guy within a ten foot radius.
Of course it was Wonyoung.
You looked away. Drank. Looked back.
His hand had moved lower.
"Ew," you said to no one.
Karina appeared at your elbow. "What?"
"Jake Sim. With the one and only."
Karina followed your gaze. "Oh. Yeah. That's Wonyoung. She's been trying to get his attention for weeks."
"He's letting her."
"That's what he does." Karina shrugged. "He's always like that. A different girl every week. Sometimes every night. It's his whole thing."
"His whole thing is gross."
"His whole thing is effective. Look at her. She's practically melting."
You took another drink. "I have to let him teach me statistics."
"Poor you."
"I'm serious. How am I supposed to sit across from someone who acts like that?"
"You could try not staring at him."
"Shut up."
Karina grabbed your hand. "Come on. You're too sober. We're dancing."
She pulled you onto the floor. The music shifted something with a bass you could feel in your chest. You let yourself move. Let yourself forget about the F and the tutoring and the way Jake's hand had looked on Wonyoung's waist.
A guy found you. Tall. Dark hair. Cute in a forgettable way. He smiled at you and you smiled back because why not, and then his hands were on your hips and you were dancing with him.
It was fine. It was nothing.
But across the room, someone was watching.
"She's here," Sunghoon said.
Jake didn't have to ask who. He'd seen you the second you walked in. The way the room shifted when you entered. The way people looked at you like you were the main character and they were just extras.
"Yeah," Jake said. "I saw her."
Wonyoung was still in his lap. He'd forgotten she was there until she shifted and pressed closer. He should focus on her. She was pretty. She was interested. She was easy.
But his eyes kept finding you.
You were dancing with some guy now. Some random guy who'd probably never talked to you before tonight. His hands were on your hips. You were laughing at something he said.
"Why is she dancing with him?" Jake asked.
Sunghoon looked. "Because she's at a party? Because he asked? Why do you care?"
"I don't."
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"Heeseung called it." Jay appeared on Jake's other side. "He said you'd be interested."
"I'm not interested."
"You've looked at her twelve times in the last ten minutes."
Jake pulled his eyes away. Wonyoung was looking at him expectantly. He'd missed something she'd said.
"Sorry," he said. "What?"
"I asked if you wanted to go somewhere quieter."
The implication was clear. A month ago, he would have said yes. A week ago, he would have said yes. But tonight, for some reason, the word stuck in his throat.
"I have an early class," he said.
Wonyoung's face flickered. "Oh."
She didn't look convinced, but she got off his lap. Walked away without looking back.
Sunghoon raised his eyebrows. "You just let her go."
"She's not going anywhere."
"She's going to find someone else."
"Good for her."
Jake stood up. He needed water. Or air. Or something that wasn't watching you dance with someone else.
He pushed through the crowd toward the back of the house. The hallway was quieter. The bathroom door was cracked open, light spilling out.
He was about to walk past when you stepped out.
You nearly collided with his chest.
"Oh-" You looked up. Your eyes were glassy. You were tipsy. Maybe more than tipsy. "You."
"Me."
"I was just thinking about you."
"Good things?"
"I was thinking about how much I don't want to see you on Monday."
Jake leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Calm. "That's funny. I was thinking about how much I'm looking forward to it."
"You're lying."
"I don't lie."
"Everyone lies."
"Not me." He tilted his head. "You're drunk."
"I'm tipsy. There's a difference."
"You're going to be hungover on Monday."
"I'm going to be fine on Monday."
"We'll see."
You stepped closer. Pointed a finger at his chest. "You're my teacher now. That's so weird."
"I'm your tutor. Not your teacher."
"Same thing."
"Different thing."
"You're correcting me already?" Your eyes narrowed. "We haven't even started."
"I'm just preparing you."
"For what?"
"For me."
You stared at him. He stared back.
"I hate you," you said.
Jake smiled. Slow. "Monday. Library. Third floor. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You were late to Professor Kim's lecture three times last semester."
Your mouth opened. Closed. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention."
You blinked at him. Then you shook your head and pushed past him, stumbling slightly on your way back to the party.
Jake watched you go.
He was definitely looking forward to Monday.
You showed up at 6:58 because you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of being late.
The library was mostly empty on a Monday night. Third floor was silent except for the hum of the vending machine and the squeak of your shoes on the floor.
Jake was already there. Of course he was.
He was sitting at a table near the window, laptop open, textbook out, pens lined up perfectly. He looked up when you approached.
"You're early," he said.
"I'm on time."
He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit down."
You sat. Dropped your bag on the floor. Crossed your arms.
"So." He closed his laptop. "Show me your exam."
"No."
"I can help you by explaining why you failed."
Your jaw tightened. "I didn't fail. I got a 38. That's not technically failing. That's... adjacent to failing."
"38 is failing."
"It's a soft fail."
"There's no such thing."
"There is if I say there is."
Jake leaned back in his chair. Studied you. "You're going to be difficult, aren't you?"
"I'm not difficult. I'm particular."
"Same thing, different font."
You almost smiled. Almost. "Fine." You pulled the exam out of your bag and slid it across the table. "There. Happy?"
He picked it up. Read it. Didn't react. "Okay," he said. "Here's the problem. You don't know how to study."
"I know how to study."
"You know how to memorize things the night before and hope for the best. That's not studying."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it?" He held up the exam. "Because this looks like your luck ran out."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"Here's how this is going to work," he said. "You're going to stop pretending you're too good for this. I'm going to stop pretending you're not smart. And we're both going to get through this without killing each other."
"That last part isn't guaranteed."
He almost smiled. "Deal."
He stood up. Walked to the whiteboard the library kept in the corner. Picked up a marker.
"Come here."
You didn't move.
"I'm not going to bite." He looked over his shoulder. "Unless you want me to."
"Enough with the games Sim."
"Then come here so I can actually teach you something."
You stood up. Walked to the whiteboard. Stood as far away from him as possible while still being able to see.
He drew a curve. Labeled it. Started explaining. And he was good at it.
Not condescending. Not slow. Just clear. He asked questions and waited for answers. He didn't fill the silence when you were thinking. He let you struggle until you got it.
A hour in, you understood p-values.
"This shouldn't make sense."
"But it does."
He capped the marker. "Same time Wednesday."
"Yeah."
"Try not to be so angry next time."
"I'm not angry. You grabbed your bag. Walked toward the stairs.
"Hey," he called. You turned.
Jake was leaning against the whiteboard, arms crossed. "You're not stupid. You just don't like being bad at things. There's a difference."
"That's like the second time you've said that."
"Because you keep needing to hear it."
You left. But you thought about it the whole walk home.
The sessions blurred together. Two weeks. Four sessions. Then six.
You stopped fighting it somewhere around session three. Not because you'd given up but because you'd started to actually get it. The material made sense when Jake explained it. He had a way of breaking things down that didn't make you feel like an idiot.
He was still cocky. Still insufferable. Still looked at you like he knew something you didn't.
But you weren't snapping at him anymore. You were learning.
"You're different," Karina said one day at lunch.
"I'm not different."
"You smiled at your phone. Three times. In a row."
"I was looking at memes."
"You were texting Jake."
"I was texting Jake about homework." You threw a fry at her.
Giselle watched the exchange with amusement. "She's not wrong. You've been in a good mood lately."
"I'm in a normal mood."
"You failed a midterm and you're being tutored by a fuckboy. You should be miserable."
"Maybe I've accepted my fate."
You were mid-bite into your sandwich when a shadow fell over the table.
"Hey."
You looked up. Jake was standing there. Holding your jacket.
The jacket you'd left at his apartment two days ago after a session that ran late. The jacket you'd completely forgotten about until this exact moment.
"You left this," he said. "You keep leaving things at my place."
"I don't do it on purpose."
"Sure you don't."
He set the jacket on the table. His fingers brushed yours. Too long to be accidental.
Everyone was watching. Not just Karina and Giselle, who had both gone completely still. But the tables around you. The people walking past. The girl at the fountain who'd been trying to get Jake's attention for weeks.
Wonyoung. She was standing near your table, coffee in hand, eyes locked on you. On the jacket. On the way Jake was looking at you.
"Thanks," you said, pulling the jacket toward you.
"See you Thursday," Jake said. He walked away.
The second he was out of earshot, Karina slammed her hands on the table and screamed.
"What the fuck was that!?"
"Nothing."
"That was not nothing. That was something. He brought you your jacket. He remembered your jacket. He came to find you to give you your jacket."
"He's polite."
"He's not polite. He's a fuckboy. Fuckboys don't return jackets. They keep them as trophies."
Giselle was staring at you. "You've been to his apartment."
"For tutoring."
"You're lying."
"I'm not"
"Y/N." Karina grabbed your wrist. "Look at me. Are you sleeping with him?"
"No!"
"Are you going to sleep with him?"
"I don't- I haven't- I don't know."
Karina and Giselle exchanged a look.
"Oh my God," Giselle whispered. "She likes him."
"I don't like him."
"You like him."
"I tolerate him."
Across the courtyard, Wonyoung was still watching.
She found you after class two days later.
You were walking across campus, earbuds in, not paying attention, when a hand grabbed your arm.
You spun around. Wonyoung.
"What the hell?" you said, pulling your arm back.
"Sorry." She didn't look sorry. "I need to talk to you."
"About?"
"Jake."
You sighed. "I don't have time for this."
"It'll take two minutes."
You looked at her. She was smaller than you remembered. Prettier, too, in a polished, intentional way. Her nails were done. Her hair was curled. She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine.
"Fine," you said. "Talk."
"What's going on with you and Jake?"
"Nothing."
"He brought you your jacket."
"He's my tutor. He was being nice."
Wonyoung's eyes narrowed. "Jake isn't nice."
"Then why do you want him so badly?"
The question caught her off guard. Her composure cracked, just slightly.
"I've been trying to get his attention for months," she said. "Months. And he's never looked at me the way he looks at you."
You didn't know what to say to that.
"I'm not trying to be mean," Wonyoung continued. "I just want to know. Are you together? Is that a thing?"
"We're not together."
"But you want to be."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
She stepped back. Crossed her arms. "Fine. Whatever. Just... don't waste him. If you're not serious about him, let him go."
"I don't think Jake Sim is the kind of guy you need to protect."
"Maybe not." Wonyoung turned to walk away. Then stopped. "But you're not the only one who sees something in him."
She left.
You stood there for a long moment.
Then you pulled out your phone.
You: Some girl just cornered me about you.
Jake: Which one?
You: Wonyoung.
Jake: Ah.
You: That's all you have to say?
Jake: She's harmless.
You: She wants you.
Jake: A lot of people want me.
You: Cocky.
Jake: Honest.
You: Same thing.
Jake: Different font.
You almost smiled.
Jake: See you Thursday.
You: See you Thursday.
You brought it up during your next session.
Not on purpose. It just slipped out.
"So Wonyoung," you said, not looking up from your notebook.
Jake didn't look up either. "What about her?"
"You two have history?"
"Define history."
"I saw her at that party cuddled up with you."
He paused. Then set his pen down. "That was before we started tutoring."
"So?"
"So, nothing. She was there. I was there. It didn't mean anything."
"It looked like it meant something."
Jake leaned back in his chair. Studied you. "Are you jealous?"
"I'm not jealous."
"Your face is red." Jake smiled. Slow. "You're jealous."
"I'm not jealous. I'm... curious."
"About my romantic history?"
"About whether you're going to keep doing that while you're supposed to be tutoring me."
"Would it bother you if I did?"
You looked at him. Really looked."Yes," you said.
The word hung in the air.
Jake didn't smile. Didn't tease. He just looked at you, and something shifted in his expression. Something softer.
"Good," he said.
"Good?"
"Good that it would bother you." He picked up his pen. "It would bother me too. If it were the other way around."
You didn't know what to say to that. So you looked back down at your notebook and pretended to study.
But you could feel him watching you. And for the first time, you didn't hate it.
It happened after a late session.
You'd been studying for three hours. Your brain was fried. Your eyes were tired. And Jake had been looking at you all night like you were something he wanted to eat.
"You're staring," you said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About how you bite your lip when you're concentrating."
Your pen stopped moving.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because we're supposed to be studying."
"We've been studying for three hours. Take a break."
"I don't need a break."
"You do." He stood up. Walked around the table. Leaned against it, right next to your chair. "You've been tensing your shoulders for the last hour. You haven't blinked in thirty seconds. You need a break."
"I need to pass this class."
"You will. But tonight you need to relax."
You looked up at him. He was close. Too close.
"And how do you suggest I do that?"
Jake's hand came up to your face. Slow. Deliberate. His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Let me," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I want to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you need."
You should have said no. You should have packed your bag and walked out and gone home and thought about this in the morning. Instead, you kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was hungry and frustrated and tasted like every argument you'd been having for weeks. His hands were in your hair. Your hands were on his chest. He pulled you up from the chair and pressed you against the table.
"There she is," he murmured against your mouth.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
You kissed him harder.
He laughed. Then his hands were under your shirt and your hands were in his hair and you had never wanted anyone the way you wanted him right now.
"Bedroom," he said.
"Yeah."
He took your hand.
His bedroom was dark. The sheets were rumpled. It smelled like him, clean, with something underneath that you couldn't name. He pushed the door closed and turned to look at you.
"Last chance," he said.
"For what?"
"To change your mind."
"I'm not going to change my mind."
He kissed you again. Slower this time. His hands slid under your shirt, palms flat against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. You gasped against his mouth.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"I want you to stop talking."
"That's not how this works." He pulled back. Looked at you. His eyes were dark. Serious. "I need to hear you say it."
"Say what?"
"Say you want this. Say you want me. Not because you're stressed. Not because of the tutoring. Because you've been thinking about this as much as I have."
Your heart was pounding.
"How do you know I've been thinking about it?"
"Because you're here. Because you kissed me first. Because you're looking at me right now like you want to climb inside my skin." He tilted his head. "Am I wrong?"
You grabbed his shirt and pulled him close.
"I want you," you said against his mouth. "I've wanted you since the party. Since the first session. Since you said good girl like it meant something."
"It meant something."
"Then show me."
He took his time. Unhurried. Every touch deliberate. Every kiss slower than the last. You tried to rush him. You grabbed at his belt, tugged at his shirt, tried to flip him over. He caught your wrists. Held them above your head.
"Not yet," he said. Voice low. Firm.
"Jake-"
"I've been waiting for this." His lips brushed your ear. "I'm not going to rush. You're not going to rush. You're going to take what I give you. Understood?"
You glared at him. "You're not the boss of me."
"Tonight I am."
"That's cute."
He squeezed your wrists. Not hard. Just enough. "You want to test me? Go ahead. But you're not going to win."
"You're insufferable."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
He smiled. Then he released your wrists and his mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, lower. He kissed down your stomach, your hips, your thighs. He took his time there too, mouthing at the sensitive skin, breathing hot against you.
"You're so tense," he murmured.
"I'm not tense."
"You're shaking."
"I'm cold."
"You're not cold."
He looked up at you. Held your gaze. Then he lowered his mouth where you wanted him most.
You gasped. Your hands flew to his hair.
"That's it," he said against you. "Hold on."
He worked you slowly, deliberately, watching your face the whole time. Every time you got close, he pulled back. Every time you whined, he smiled.
"Please," you finally said.
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
"Good girl."
He didn't stop.
His mouth was everywhere tongue flat against you, then pointed, then circling exactly where you needed him most. He groaned against your skin like he was the one getting pleased, like tasting you was his reward, not yours. His hands pinned your hips down when you tried to squirm away, holding you open for him, taking his time. He wasn't in a rush. He wanted to watch you fall apart.
When you came, you came hard, back arching off the bed, his name falling out of your mouth like a prayer. He didn't let you recover. He kissed up your body, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.
You reached for him, pulled him up, tried to flip him onto his back.
He didn't move.
"Not yet," he said.
"Jake-"
"You think we're done?" He pressed his forehead to yours. His breath was hot. His voice was low. "We're just getting started."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
He smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
"Pop quiz."
You blinked. "What?"
He pulled back. Sat up on his knees. Looked down at you spread out beneath him flushed, wet, still shaking from your orgasm.
"You've been learning a lot in our sessions," he said. "But I want to make sure you're paying attention."
"To statistics?"
"To me."
He reached for his belt. Unbuckled it slowly. Pulled it free from the loops.
"This is a different kind of lesson," he said. "But the rules are the same. I ask a question. You answer. If you get it right, you get rewarded."
"And if I get it wrong?"
He folded the belt in half. Tapped it against his palm.
"You get punished."
You moaned, your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low in your belly.
"What kind of questions?"
"We'll start easy." He leaned down, kissed your neck, bit softly at your collarbone. "What's the formula for a confidence interval?"
"You're joking."
"I never joke about education."
You stared at him. He stared back. His eyes were dark. Serious. Waiting.
"Sample mean," you said slowly, "plus or minus the critical value times the standard error."
"Good job."
He kissed you. Deep. Rewarding. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you already wet, already ready.
"That's one," he said against your mouth. "Want another?"
"Yes."
"Then pay attention."
He flipped you onto your stomach. Pulled your hips up. The belt was still in his hand.
"What's a Type I error?" he asked.
"False positive," you said quickly. "Rejecting a true null hypothesis."
"Good."
He pushed into you from behind. No warning. No slow build. Just full, deep, stretching you open. You cried out, fingers gripping the sheets.
"Jake- fuck"
"That's one point." He pulled out almost all the way. Held there. "What's a Type II error?"
You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. He was barely inside you, just the tip, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing.
"Jake, please-"
"Wrong answer."
The belt came down on your ass. Not hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to sting. You gasped.
"Type II error," he said calmly. "False negative. Failing to reject a false null hypothesis." He pushed back in, slow, torturous. "Try again."
"Type II-" You couldn't focus. He was moving now, shallow thrusts, not enough. "Type II is false negative-"
"Full sentence."
"Type II error is failing to reject- fuck- failing to reject a false null hypothesis."
"Good fucking girl."
He snapped his hips forward. Hard. Deep. You moaned into the pillow.
"You want another question?"
"Yes Jakey please"
"What's the difference between a one-tailed and a two-tailed test?"
You knew this. But he was fucking you now, really fucking you, and every thrust pushed the answer further out of your brain.
"A one-tailed-" He hit a spot that made your vision white out. "A one-tailed tests in one direction- two-tailed tests both-"
"Both what?"
"Both directions-"
"And when do you use each?"
"I don't- fuck, Jake- I can't-"
The belt came down again. Harder this time.
"Incorrect," he said. His voice was colder now. Disappointed. "You're not even trying."
"I am trying-"
"You're distracted." He pulled out. Flipped you onto your back. Stared down at you. "You're so fucked out you can't even answer basic questions."
Your face burned. From the sex. From the shame. From the way he was looking at you.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
"Sorry isn't good enough."
He grabbed your chin. Forced you to look at him.
"You wanted this. You wanted me. Now you're going to take what I give you and you're going to earn it."
"Yes Jake"
"Shut up."
He pushed back inside you. Harder than before. Faster. His hand closed around your throat not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you who was in charge.
"I've been patient," he said, fucking you with each word. "I've been nice. I've let you be bratty and difficult and act like you're too good for this. But right now? Right now you're just a girl on her back, taking my cock because she can't handle a few simple questions."
Your eyes watered. From the sting. From the heat. From the way his words were making you feel things you didn't want to name.
"Say it," he said.
"Say what-"
"Say you're mine. Right now. In this bed. You're fucking mine."
"Mmm I'm yours-"
"Louder."
"I'm yours Jake, all yours."
He kissed you. Bruising. Claiming. His hand moved from your throat to your hair, pulling, tilting your head back.
"One more question," he said. "Get it right and I'll let you cum."
"Okay-"
"What's the probability that I'm going to stop until you've cum at least three more times?"
You blinked at him.
"That's not a real question-"
"Wrong answer."
He pulled out. Flipped you over again. Pulled your hips up and drove back in, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
You came without warning. Without permission. Your body just broke, clenching around him, sobbing into the pillow.
He didn't stop.
"That's one," he said. "Two more to go."
"Jake- I can't-"
"You can. And you fucking will slut."
He fucked you through it. Through the oversensitivity, through the tears, through the way your arms gave out and your face pressed into the mattress.
When you came again, it was on his command. His voice in your ear. And your body obeyed.
"You're learning," he said.
He pulled out. Rolled you onto your back one last time. Stared down at you all wrecked, crying, completely undone.
"One more," he said.
"Fuck I can't-"
"You can."
He pushed back inside you. Slow this time. Gentle. His thumb found your clit and circled softly, coaxing, not demanding.
"Look at me," he said.
You looked at him.
His face was different now. Softer. His eyes were dark but not cold. He pulled you on top of him while watching you like you were something precious.
"Cum for me," he said quietly. "One more time. Nice and slow."
You came apart rolling your hips, letting it wash over you. He followed right after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours.
Neither of you moved.
His hand came up to your face. Wiped your tears.
"You did good," he said.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No," you agreed. "I don't."
He pulled out. Pulled you against his chest. Wrapped his arms around you.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
"For tutoring?"
"For whatever you want."
You laughed. It came out weak.
"Yeah," you said. "Same time tomorrow."
After that first night, something shifted.
Not dramatically. Not with words or labels or awkward conversations. It just happened. Slowly. Naturally.
Tutoring sessions still happened. Twice a week, sometimes three times. Jake still explained statistics with that infuriating calm, and you still rolled your eyes and snapped at him when he got too cocky. But now, when the session ended, you didn't leave right away.
The first time you stayed, it was because you were tired. Really tired. You'd been up late studying for a different exam, and when Jake finished explaining p-values for the third time, you put your head down on the table and didn't pick it back up.
"You can't sleep here," he said.
"I'm not sleeping. I'm resting my eyes."
"You're snoring."
"I don't snore."
"You're snoring right now."
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. He was smiling with a shine to his eyes.
"Come on," he said. "The couch is more comfortable."
That was the first night you fell asleep on his couch. He threw a blanket over you and sat on the floor next to you, grading papers by the light of his laptop. When you woke up at 2 AM, he was asleep sitting up, head tilted back, mouth slightly open.
You should have gone home.
You didn't.
You pulled him down onto the couch next to you, and he wrapped an arm around you without waking up, and you fell back asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
After that, it became a thing.
Some nights you slept together the real kind, the messy kind, the kind that left you breathless and sore and smiling into the dark. Other nights you just watched movies. He liked action. You liked horror. You compromised on thrillers and spent most of the time arguing about the plot.
He made you popcorn on the stove, not the microwave, because he was "not a savage." You made fun of him for it. Then you ate three servings.
You never talked about what you were.
Not once.
You were tutoring. You were sleeping together. You were cuddling on his couch at 1 AM, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm, your head on his chest.
But you weren't together.
Or maybe you were. Neither of you said it.
Karina asked. Of course she did.
"So," she said one day at lunch, "are you guys like... together together?"
"I don't know."
"How do you not know?"
"Because we haven't talked about it."
"You've slept together multiple times."
"I'm aware."
"You cuddle?"
"...Yes."
"You text him good morning?"
"That's private."
"That's a yes." Karina leaned back. "You're together. You just haven't admitted it yet."
"We're not not together."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means I don't know what it means."
Giselle snorted. "That's the most non answer I've ever heard."
But they weren't wrong. Something had changed. You felt it every time Jake looked at you. Every time his hand found yours under the table. Every time he said good night like he meant stay.
You just didn't know how to name it.
Neither did he.
Jake's friends noticed before he did.
Or maybe they noticed first. He'd been different lately. Softer. He laughed more. He checked his phone more. He left parties early without explanation.
"You're whipped," Sunghoon said.
"I'm not whipped."
"You left Jay's party at 10 PM because she texted you."
"I was tired."
"You've never been tired at parties."
Jake didn't have an answer for that.
They were at their usual table on campus, halfway through lunch. Jay was picking at his food. Heeseung was scrolling on his phone.
"So," Jay said, "are you going to ask her out or what?"
"We're already... doing things."
"Doing things isn't dating."
"We watch movies."
"That's not dating either."
"We sleep together."
Jay raised his eyebrows. "Okay, that's closer. But still not dating."
Jake ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what we are."
"Then ask her."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
Because he was scared. Because he'd never done this before. Because every time he looked at you, he felt something he couldn't name, and naming it made it real, and real meant he could lose it.
"Because," he said.
"Great reason."
Heeseung looked up from his phone. "You like her."
"I know I like her."
"Then do something about it."
Jake was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up.
"Where are you going?" Sunghoon asked.
"To find her. She has class in twenty minutes. I'm going to walk with her."
Jay cheered. "That's adorable."
"Shut up."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing."
Jake flipped him off and walked away.
Behind him, he heard Sunghoon say, "Told you. Whipped."
He didn't turn around.
You were sitting on a bench near the science building, Karina on one side and Giselle on the other, when the topic of Jake came up.
It always came up lately.
"So," Karina said, kicking your foot, "have you guys talked about it yet?"
"Talked about what?"
"About what you are."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what to say."
Giselle leaned in. "You could start with 'I like you.'"
"I don't even know if he wants that."
Karina stared at you. "Are you serious?"
"What?"
"He cuddles you. He makes you popcorn. He walked you home in the rain last week. He looks at you like you hung the moon."
"He looks at everyone like that."
"He absolutely does not. I've seen him look at other girls. He looks at them like he's deciding what to order for dinner. He looks at you like he's already eaten and he's still hungry."
Giselle nodded. "She's right. He's down bad."
"He's not down bad."
"He texted you good morning every day for two weeks."
You laughed. "You guys are insane."
"We're realistic. You're the one who's in denial."
"Fine. Maybe I like him."
"Maybe?"
"Okay. I like him."
"And?" Karina prompted.
"And... I don't know what to do about it."
"You could start by not hiding it."
"I'm not hiding it."
"You literally just whispered 'I like him' like it was a secret."
"It's not a secret."
"Then say it louder."
"I like him," you said, normal volume.
"Louder."
"I like him!"
"And?"
"I like Jake Sim!."
"And?"
"And I want him to be my boyfriend!."
The words echoed across the courtyard.
You froze.
Because standing ten feet away, right at the edge of the path, was Jake.
He had his hands in his pockets. His head was tilted. And he was smiling.
"Is that so?" he asked.
Your face went red. Karina and Giselle dissolved into giggles behind you.
"Jake-" you started.
"I like you too, by the way." He walked closer. Stopped in front of you. "And I want to be your boyfriend."
"You heard that?"
"Everyone heard that."
You looked around. A few people were staring. Someone was openly filming.
"Oh my God."
"Yeah." Jake was still smiling. "So. Boyfriend?"
"Shut up."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a shut up."
"I'll take that as a yes."
He leaned down and kissed you. Right there. In front of everyone. Karina whooped. Giselle clapped.
When he pulled back, your face was somehow even redder.
"I hate you," you said.
"No, you don't."
"You're right," you agreed.
"Good. Now walk me to class."
"You walk me to class."
He laughed. Took your hand. Pulled you up from the bench.
"See you later," he said to Karina and Giselle.
You didn't look back. Jake's hand was warm in yours.
"So," he said. "Boyfriend."
"Don't push it."
"Too late. I'm pushing it."
"You're insufferable."
"Your insufferable boyfriend."
You stopped walking. Looked at him.
"My boyfriend," you said.
"Yeah."
"Like, officially?"
"Like officially."
You kissed him again. Quick. Soft.
"Wow that was easy hmm okay," you said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, boyfriend."
He grinned.
"Now walk me to class," you said.
"Yes, ma'am."
He didn't let go of your hand the whole way.
You were exhausted.
Not because you hadn't slept. You had. But you'd slept with Jake, which meant you'd stayed up late talking, then not talking, then talking again. By the time you actually fell asleep, it was almost 3 AM.
Now you were in Professor Lee's lecture, and your eyelids were winning the war.
You rested your head on your hand. Blinked. Blinked again.
Your eyes closed.
"You're falling asleep," a voice whispered.
Jake. He was sitting next to you. He'd started sitting next to you in every class you shared, which was three. He said it was "strategic." You said it was "clingy."
"I'm not falling asleep," you murmured. "I'm resting my eyes."Your head slipped off your hand. You caught yourself just before it hit the desk.
Jake laughed quietly.
"Go away," you mumbled.
"No."
"Then let me sleep."
"You can't sleep in class."
"Watch me."
You put your head down on the desk. Your eyes closed. The professor's voice faded into background noise.
You were almost there. Almost asleep.
Then you felt it.
Jake's hand on your thigh.
You didn't move. Didn't react. Maybe he was just...
His hand slid higher. Your eyes opened.
"Jake," you whispered.
"Shh."
"What are you doing?"
"Keeping you awake."
"This isn't keeping me awake."
His fingers found the button of your jeans. Your breath caught.
"Stop," you whispered.
"Do you want me to stop?"
You didn't answer. He took that as a no.
Jake's fingers worked the button of your jeans open. Slow. Deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world.
You should have stopped him.
You were in class. In the third row. Professor Lee was ten feet away, droning on about statistical significance. There were people on either side of you. People behind you. People who could look up at any moment and see exactly what was happening.
You should have stopped him.
You didn't.
His hand slipped inside your jeans. Past the waistband of your underwear. His fingers were warm, fingertips rough against your skin, and he moved with the confidence of someone who already knew exactly where to touch.
"You're wet," he murmured, so quiet only you could hear.
"Jake."
"You've been thinking about this?"
"No."
"Liar."
His finger circled your clit. Once. Twice. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Look at me," he said.
You turned your head. His eyes were dark. Focused. That stupid smirk was gone, replaced by something hungrier.
"Don't make a sound," he said.
"I won't."
He slid a finger inside you.
Your hand flew to your mouth. You pressed your knuckles against your lips, breathing hard through your nose. The professor kept talking. No one looked back. No one knew.
Except Jake.
He added a second finger. Curled them. Hit a spot that made your vision blur.
"Jake," you breathed.
"Shh."
"Someone's going to see."
"Then you'd better be quiet love."
He pumped his fingers slowly, deliberately, watching your face the whole time. His thumb pressed against your clit with every thrust. You were gripping the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles were white.
"So tight," he murmured. "You're going to cum already?"
"No."
"You're close. I can feel it."
"You can't-"
"I can feel everything." He leaned closer. His lips brushed your ear. "I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. You're dripping down my fingers princess."
Your face burned. Your body burned. Everything burned.
"Please," you whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
He didn't.
His fingers moved faster. Harder. His thumb pressed down. You were shaking, legs trembling under the desk, teeth sinking into your knuckle to muffle the sounds.
"That's it," he whispered. "Cum for me. Right here. In class. With everyone watching."
It ripped through you, sudden and violent, your back arching, your eyes squeezing shut. You bit down so hard on your hand you left marks. Jake's fingers kept moving, working you through it, prolonging it until you were nothing but static.
When you finally opened your eyes, he was smiling.
"I hate you."
"You just came on my fingers in the middle of class."You're going to thank me later."
He pulled his hand out of your jeans. Slowly. Deliberately. And then still watching you he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.
One by one.
His eyes never left yours. You forgot how to breathe.
"Jake," you said. Your voice came out strangled.
"Yeah?"
"We need to leave."
"Class isn't over."
"I don't care."
"You don't?"
"No."
You stood up. Grabbed your bag. Your legs were still shaking. Jake watched you with that infuriating calm, like he knew exactly what was coming next.
"Y/N," he said.
"Get up Jake."
"Where are we going?"
"Bathroom. Janitor's closet. Your car. I don't care. Get up."
He stood. Sling his bag over his shoulder. His hand found the small of your back as you walked toward the door. Professor Lee didn't even look up.
The second you were in the hallway, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the stairwell.
"Impatient," he said.
"Shut up."
"You dragged me out of class."
"Shut up."
"You must really want-"
You pushed him against the wall of the stairwell and kissed him. Hard. His hands went to your waist. Yours went to his belt.
"Someone could come in," he said against your mouth.
"Then you'd better be quiet."
He laughed. "Learning from me?"
"You started it in class."
"I was keeping you awake."
"You think you're funny," you said while dropping to your knees.
Jake's breath hitched.
"Oh," he said.
"Yeah. Oh."
Your hands found his belt. Unbuckled it. Pulled it open. His jeans came next, then his boxers, and he was already hard, already leaking, already looking down at you like he couldn't believe this was happening.
"You've been thinking about this," you said.
"Every day."
"Every session?"
"Every single one."
You wrapped your hand around him. Stroked once. Twice. He groaned, head falling back against the wall.
"Shh," you said. "Be quiet."
"You be quiet."
"I'm not the one who's going to make noise."
"You're about to be."
You leaned forward. Took him in your mouth.
His hand flew to your hair. Not pushing. Just holding. Just feeling.
You started slow. Teasing. Tongue flat against the underside, then pointed, then circling the tip. He tasted like salt and soap and something else you couldn't name.
"Jesus," he breathed.
You pulled off. Looked up at him.
"If I can be quiet during class," you said, "you can be quiet in a stairwell."
"That's different-"
His grip tightened in your hair. "You're evil," he said.
"You like it."
"I hate it."
"No, you don't."
You took him again. Deeper this time. He groaned, low and rough, and you felt it in your chest.
You set a rhythm. Slow. Deliberate. Every time he got close to the edge, you pulled back. Let him cool down. Started again.
He was a mess in your hands. Leaning against the wall, head back, jaw slack, breathing in short, sharp gasps.
"You're killing me," he whispered.
You took him deeper. Swallowed around him. His hips jerked.
"Fuck-"
A door opened above you.
Footsteps. Echoing down the stairs.
Someone was coming.
Jake's eyes flew open. He reached for your shoulders, tried to pull you off.
"Stop," he whispered. "Someone's-"
You didn't stop.
"Y/N-"
You looked up at him. Didn't let go. Didn't slow down.
His face was going through all kinds of emotions. Fear and pleasure and something darker, something hungrier. He was frozen, torn between pushing you away and holding you there.
The footsteps got closer.
Jake clamped a hand over his own mouth.
You smiled around him.
The footsteps passed. A door opened. Closed.
Silence.
Jake pulled you off by your hair. Not hard. Just enough.
"You didn't stop," he said.
"And?"
His eyes were black. His chest was heaving.
"You're going to regret that," he said.
"No, I'm not."
He grabbed you by the jaw and pressed you against the wall, back to concrete, his body flush against your chest.
"You think you're in control," he said into your ear.
"I know I am."
"You're not."
His hand fisted in your hair. Tilted your head back.
"Open," he said.
You opened your mouth.
He pushed inside. Not gentle. Not slow. Rough and deep and exactly what you'd been waiting for.
"You wanted to play," he said, thrusting into your mouth. "Now you're going to finish what you started."
His hand held you in place. His hips snapped forward. He fucked your mouth like he'd been holding back the whole time and he had finally snapped.
You gagged. Tears pricked your eyes. You didn't pull away.
"That's it," he groaned. "That's my girl."
He was messy. Sloppy. Spit dripped down your chin. He didn't care. Neither did you.
"I'm close," he said. "You're going to take all of it like a champ right?"
You looked up at him. Nodded as best you could.
He came with a choked sound, buried deep in your throat, and you swallowed everything. Didn't miss a drop.
He pulled out. Stepped back to admire you.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Looked up at him.
He was wrecked. Hair a mess. Chest still heaving. Looking at you like you'd just ruined him for anyone else.
"Good girl," he said, voice hoarse.
You stood up. Fixed your clothes. Fixed his.
"We're going to be late for class," you said.
"I don't care."
"You should care. You're a tutor."
"I'm your tutor." He kissed you. Soft this time. Almost sweet. He took your hand. Led you back toward the door.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
"Same stairwell?"
"Same stairwell."
You laughed. Pushed the door open.
The hallway was empty.
No one knew what had just happened.
That was the best part, it was yours and Jakes dirty secret.
Parties weren't your thing anymore. Or maybe they were, but you'd rather be on Jake's couch, wrapped in his hoodie, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin while some terrible action movie played in the background.
But Jake had asked.
"Come with me," he'd said, tugging on the sleeve of his black button down. The one that made your brain short-circuit.
"Why?"
"Because I want to show you off."
"You want to show me off?"
"Yeah." He said it like it was obvious. "You're hot. I'm hot. We're hot together. People should know."
So now you were here.
The music was loud enough to feel in your teeth, and the lights were low enough that you could pretend no one was staring.
But they were staring.
Because you walked in with Jake's hand on your lower back, his fingers pressed into the curve of your waist, and everyone noticed.
That's Jake's girl.
Damn, they look good together.
You danced with Jake. You drank something sweet that he handed you. You met his friends properly met them, not just the passing introductions from before.
"I'm going to grab a drink. You want one?"
"Yeah. Same thing."
"Be right back."
He disappeared into the crowd.
That's when she found you.
"You think you're so special."
You turned. Wonyoung.
She was standing a few feet away, drink in hand, eyes sharp. She looked good she always looked good but there was something brittle about her tonight. Something desperate.
"Wonyoung," you said.
"Don't say my name like you know me."
"I don't know you. That's the point."
She stepped closer. "You think you've won."
"I'm not playing a game."
She stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell her perfume. "He's going to get bored of you," she said. "He gets bored of everyone. You're not special. You're just the one who said no first. That's all this is. A challenge. Once he wins, he'll move on."
"You already tried that line."
"Because it's true."
"It's not."
"How do you know?"
You tilted your head. "Because I'm here. And you're not."
Her face twisted. "You're such a bitch."
"And you're obsessed with my boyfriend. Which one's worse?"
"You're not even-"
"I'm not even what? His girlfriend?" You smiled. "I am. He asked. I said yes. Sorry you had to find out like this."
Wonyoung's face went red. Then white. Then red again.
"You're lying." She looked like she wanted to throw her drink in your face. You almost wished she would. At least then you'd have an excuse.
But before she could move, a hand landed on your waist. Jake.
"I leave for five minutes," he said, voice calm, "and you're already causing trouble."
"I'm not causing anything. She started it."
Jake looked at Wonyoung. His expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes went cold.
"Wonyoung," he said. "We've talked about this."
"Have we?" She laughed. "You've been ignoring me for weeks. You don't return my texts. You don't even look at me anymore."
"Because I have nothing to say to you."
"You had plenty to say before."
"That was before." He stepped closer to you. His hand stayed on your waist. "Before her."
Wonyoung's eyes flicked to you. Filled with something ugly.
"I'm going to say this once," Jake said. "Stay away from her. Stay away from me. If I hear about you coming near her again, talking to her, texting her, even looking at her I'm going to make sure everyone knows exactly what you've been doing."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Wonyoung stared at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
"I loved you," she whispered.
"No." Jake shook his head. "You wanted to win me. There's a difference."
She didn't respond instead she turned and walked away.
Jake's hand was still on your waist. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, she's not worth my energy."
He watched your face for a long moment. Looking for cracks. Finding none. You let the silence stretch. Let your heartbeat slow. Then you looked up at him.
"I've been meaning to tell you something."
"I got a 95 on the test."
Jake blinked. "What?"
"The exam. The one you've been tutoring me for. 95 percent."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Show me."
You pulled out your phone. Opened the grade portal. Turned the screen toward him.
95. Right there. Jake stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the screen.
"You did that," he said.
"We did that."
"No." He shook his head. "You did that. I just explained things. You did the work."
"Jake-"
"95 percent." He was smiling now. The one that made your chest ache. "That's my girl."
Your face went warm. "Don't."
"My girl with the 95."
"Jake."
"My girl who's going to pass the class with flying colors because she's smarter than she gives herself credit for."
"Okay, okayyyy"
"My girl."
He kissed you.
Not hard. Not desperate. Soft. Slow. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"I'm proud of you," he said. "Like, really proud."
"I know."
"Like, I'm going to tell everyone how proud I am."
"Please don't."
"Too late. I'm already texting Sunghoon."
"Jake!"
He was already typing. Grinning. You laughed. Hit his chest. He caught your hand and held it.
"Same time tomorrow?"
You looked at him. The cocky tutor who'd gotten under your skin. The guy who remembered your coffee order and mopped on Mondays and looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
staff notes: consider this part two of peeping riki? also, to the person who sent the req , it’s nearly done — just wanted to get this out real quick ♡⸝⸝
niki felt like he was going insane.
ever since he saw you that night, the only thing that filled his mind was the sounds of your moans and the way his name sounded slipping from your mouth.
he’d zone out whenever you said his name, tense up if you sat too close to him on the couch, and practically lose it whenever you touched him—accident or not.
it had gotten so bad to the point he couldn’t even shower without fisting himself there. one hand resting on the cold tiles while the other wrapped around his dick as he pictured that night all over again.
and even now, when he should’ve been asleep or doing literally anything else, he was in bed, pillow folded around his dick, slamming his hips into it. wishing and needing it to be you instead.
“fuck…” he shuddered, lazily lifting his hips into the pillow, building that pressure again.
he was almost there, on the brink of cumming again when a knock sounded at his door.
“niki? you in there?”
fuck.
“yeah, shit, just give me a second!” he called out, tripping over his blanket while trying to pull his shorts up. “i’ll be right there.”
you weren’t supposed to be home. he was sure that he had the house to himself, that you were supposed to be out on some date.
niki grabbed one of the small air freshener cans he kept in his nightstand and sprayed the room—and himself for safe measures.
he opened the door, his chest heaving as sweat beaded on his forehead, hands slightly shaking. he had his body angled to cover the scene behind him.
“hey…” he ran his fingers through his hair. "everything alright?"
“yeah, wanna watch a movie?” you asked, eyes tracing him up and down as if you had a good idea of what he was just doing.
"yeah, sure," he smiled, slipping through the crack of the door and closing it behind him. "but weren't you going somewhere tonight?"
"oh. i got stood up," you said, like it meant nothing.
inside the living room, the tv was already paused on a random movie, while the dim red hue from the led lights—that desperately needed replacing—in the kitchen, filled the space.
niki sat down next to you, his arm slung over the back of the couch, fingertips brushing your arm. you leaned into his touch, settling in his arms.
the movie started and everything seemed to be going fine, at least on your end it was. for niki, it was slowly becoming hell, because the tent growing in his pants was noticeable.
he tried to shift away from you, sit up a little bit, just enough to cover up but you wouldn’t move. instead, you moved closer to him, sinking your body into the cushions. your thigh was pressed against his.
he was doing it to himself at this point. the fabric of his shorts were thin enough that he could feel the heat from your skin and it was driving him mad.
niki froze, his breath catching in his throat.
you suddenly froze, and he started wishing he could just hide. you felt him tense, your eyes darting from his lap up to his face.
"...niki, are you okay?" you whispered, your voice trailing off once you realized what was going on.
before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hands cupping your face as he pressed his body against yours. he waited damn near two weeks to do this. to kiss you, to have his hands all over you.
niki’s hands traveled down your body, one hand slipping under your shirt, the palm of his hand hot against your skin. “please,” he muttered against your lips.
you nodded, helping him lift your shirt. he pressed a kiss against the corner of your lips, down to your chest, lingering there before lowering himself between your legs. niki hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans. he didn’t waste a second, dragging them down your legs and carelessly tossing them onto the ground.
his hands were wrapped around your thighs, pushing them back to give himself a good view of your already flushed and soaked pussy.
“all this for me, baby?” he asked, dragging a finger down your folds before he leaned forward. his tongue traced slow along your folds, before inserting two fingers. his mouth worked skillfully, focusing on your clit, fingers curling just right.
“niki- wait.. fuck,” you breathed, moving your hand to cover your mouth as your head fell back against the armrest.
embarrassingly enough, you were about to cum already. your fingering treaded through his hair, grabbing a handful of his hair as your hips rolled against his tongue. before you could have that release, he pulled back his tongue and stilled his fingers.
you let out a whined, needy gasp, eyes snapping open to look down at him. "...why did you stop?"
he looked up at you, his gaze hungry and full of desire. "i need to feel you around me," he whispered, rising to his knees, the cushion dipping beneath him. he pushed down his shorts, his dick already hard and leaking.
his hands slid under your knees, pushing them back until they reached your chest. he pushed inside you slowly and started moving. it was slow at first like he was allowing you to adapt to him but that didn't last too long.
"fuck- you feel so good," he groaned, his hips snapping into yours. he leaned down, catching your lips in a kiss before pulling back again. "c'mon.. let me hear you, baby."
all you could do is moan, your walls clenching around him as your nails clutch at his shirt. niki placed his thumb in your mouth, pulling out until only the tip was inside before slamming his hips again. "let hear me that pretty voice like last time."
"niki... shit, i'm gonna-" you gasped, the pleasure pooling in your stomach, not even registering what he said. "don't," you choked out, voice trembling. "don't stop. please."
niki picked up his pace, using his thumb to circle your clit. "you sound so good like this... so fucking pretty," he took one deep thrust, burying himself as deep as he can inside you.
"cum for me, baby. i got you... let go," he breathed, pulling back before doing another deep thrust, then another and another one. until you let out a silent cry, trying to catch your breath.
it didn't take long for your orgasm to hit. it shot through you, leaving your legs shaking, clenching around niki. he started to slow down once his own orgasm hit, his chest heaving.
he leaned down one final time, burying himself in your shoulder and let out a shaky breath. still inside you on that cramped couch.
staff notes: “what’s your favorite curse word?” “probably fuck,” that video was all i could think abt while editing bro 💀
# | store disclaimer: all work is fictional and is not a real depiction of our staff outside the store !
mean dom jungwon who is soo mean and refuses to kiss reader or let her touch him until she's crying so hard he feels guilty n softens PLSPLSPLSPLS
meanwon incoming . . . . yjw *.❤︎₊ ⊹
(also i just wrote this off the top of my head without proofreading even the slightest so i apologize for any mistakes it’s 250 am)
∘₊✧─────✧₊∘ ∘₊✧─────✧₊∘ ∘₊✧─────✧₊
Your legs laid across Jungwon’s lap as a movie you’d seen a million times played. Nothing on your mind other than him. The past few weeks he’d been really cold and passive. You knew something was up— you just didn’t have the courage to ask what exactly. You weren’t dating, it was just a situationship. Jungwon ran a tight ship when it came to your hook ups. Whatever was wrong with him wasn’t your business and you knew that. Unfortunately, that knowledge didn’t make you care any less.
Jungwon shifted on the couch cushion, a bored look displayed on his face as his feet kicked up onto the ottoman. Your eyes flicked upwards, studying his tightened jaw and focused gaze. Even in his current state of mind, he was so incredibly tempting.
“Won, can I have a kiss?” you asked testing the waters for a reaction. He rarely ever kissed you, normally he flat out refuses— and when he does give in it’s incredibly short lived. He liked to be in control. Sometimes even a little sadistic. No feelings, no bullshit, right to the point. Jungwon glances down at you then back up at the screen, eyes rolling, completely ignoring you. A deep sigh left your chest, your brain started to wander thinking of ways you could get his attention.
You slowly moved your foot on to the crotch of Jungwon’s baggy grey sweats. Moving back and forth, teasing his soft but large bulge. “Stop touching me, fuck.” Jungwon said flatly. Your chest tightens. He’s just joking, right? You shoot up, positioning yourself straddling him. “Won-ah…” you whine, shooting him those pouting eyes that he hates so damn much. You inch your face closer to him, slowly leaning yourself in to steal that kiss from him.
Or so you thought. As your lips almost made contact, Jungwon blocks your advance with his palm, your tongue tasting only the salt of his skin instead of his lips. “What did I just say? Stop trying to kiss me and, for the love of god, get off me,” he sighs, pushing you off his lap.
You land hard on the floor, feeling your eyes instantly well with tears. You blink quickly to force them back, but a single streak escapes down your cheek. Squeezing your eyes shut, you let out a shaky breath, knowing you couldn't hide it. The harshness in the room suddenly pauses. “Y/N?” Jungwon asks, his voice finally dropping its flat edge, laced with a reluctant hint of concern.
Your chest begins to rapidly rise and fall, the dam breaking as you start sobbing right there on the carpet. The couch creaked slightly as Jungwon shifted, lowering himself down to the floor next to you. Without a word of warning, he scoops you up into his arms, lifting your weight effortlessly as he turns toward the hallway leading to his room.
“What are you doing?” you barely choke out through the tears. Jungwon presses a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead, his grip tightening possessively around you. “Shhh. Just let daddy fix it, okay?”
NISHIMURA RIKI fell from heaven for refusing to destroy someone undeserving and ends up bleeding out on a Nevada trail in 1878 where you find him and bring him home to the only danger you’ve ever known. He isn’t a man — not exactly — and the scars on his back are proof of it. He is not a man known to the love of humans but his protective instinct for you is enough to love for a lifetime
𖤍 parings… Nishimura Riki x Female Reader
Fallen Angel AU | Historical Fiction | Slow Burn | Romance | Angst with Happy Ending | Dark Themes | Supernatural
𖤍 wc. 14.5k
[ warnings… depictions of domestic abuse, parental abuse, violence, character death, blood, period-accurate misogyny, supernatural elements, kissing, skinship, themes of grief and isolation,, emotional distress, ANGST with happy ending ]
🫕 angst and a Sunday evening go hand in hand, I’m working on kiss and tell part two I’m so sorry i didn’t get it finished for last week but exams have been consuming me and yeah! this has been in my drafts for like ages and it’s very angsty but a happy ending! thanks for supporting my work yall ily pls enjoy🫰
The order came the way all orders did — not in words, not in sound, but in the particular quality of the light. A shift in the gold of it. A direction embedded in the warmth the way iron is embedded in rock — not placed there, not added, but of it, native and irrefutable. He had felt it ten thousand times before, or a hundred thousand, or a number that made both figures meaningless. The light moved and he moved with it. That was the whole of his existence, distilled: the light moved, and he followed.
He had never questioned it. That was the truth he would turn over later, in the long unmeasured dark of his falling — that he had never, in all that incomprehensible span of time, questioned. Not once. He had gone where he was sent. He had done what was asked. He had been, above all and before all, obedient.
But he had also watched. That was his particular nature, the quality that distinguished him from the others, though he had never been told as much — he simply knew it the way he knew the names of stars. He watched. He learned the specific tremor of a human hand when fear moved through it. He learned the sound grief made when a person believed themselves entirely alone — that low, animal register, nothing like the weeping done for an audience. He had watched ten thousand years of human life unspool beneath him like a river seen from a very great height, and he had catalogued it all, and said nothing, because there was nothing to say. It was not his place to feel. It was his place to serve.
The man they sent him to destroy was kneeling in a field of winter wheat. Praying. Of all the things he might have been doing in the last moments of his life — praying, hands laced together on his thighs so tightly the knuckles had gone the colour of bone, head bowed, lips moving in the particular quiet rhythm of a man who had done this every morning of his life and intended to go on doing it.
Praying to the very God who had signed his death. Because he did not know. He could not have known. The sin assigned to him was not a sin he had chosen — it was a circumstance, a thing that had happened to him the way weather happened, the way drought happened, indifferent to his character or his goodness or the particular devotion with which he pressed his hands together every morning in a field of winter wheat.
Riki stood at the edge of that field for a long time. The light pressed. It has been decided. Go. He thought about obedience. He thought about the word — the weight of it, the comfort of it, the way it had functioned as a kind of home for as long as he had existed. He thought about the man’s hands. He thought about the word mercy, which he had heard humans use for ten thousand years, which he had categorised and filed and never once applied to himself, because what would it mean for something like him to be merciful? He was an instrument. Instruments did not choose.
He looked at the man in the wheat. He put the judgment down. There was no drama in it. No declaration, no rebellion dressed up in bright colours. He simply — set it aside. The way you set down a tool you have decided, quietly and finally, not to use. And then he stood at the edge of the field with empty hands and waited to learn what that decision cost.
The answer came immediately. The light went out. Not gently. Not the way light fades at the end of a day, slow and amber and resigned. It left him the way a river leaves a riverbed in drought — all at once, and completely, and with a terrible indifference to what it left behind. Everything he had been, the vastness of it, the certainty, the sense of being held by something larger than himself — gone. Between one breath and the next. And then the wings, which went last, which was the worst of it by a measure he had no language for. The tearing began at the joint and finished somewhere interior, somewhere that had no name in any anatomy, somewhere that would ache for the rest of whatever he now was.
He had not known, until he lost them, how entirely he had lived in them. He fell for a long time after that. Or no time at all. He was no longer made of the stuff that could tell the difference.
The desert was red. That was the first coherent thing — the colour of the earth beneath his cheek, a deep arterial red, the kind of red that looked like something had bled into it long ago and the land had simply kept the stain. He lay with his face against it and breathed, which was new, which was strange, which his body insisted upon with a stubbornness that left no room for argument. In and out. In and out. The sun pressed down on the back of his neck like a hand.
His back was agony. The scarring — already scarring, already sealing over in the graceless way of mortal wounds — pulled across his shoulder blades every time his lungs expanded. He lay still and breathed anyway because there was nothing else to do.
He was thirsty. The indignity of it was almost impressive. That this body, this small and breakable and sweat-damp thing he now inhabited, would announce its needs so plainly, so without shame. Water, it said. Water and shade and rest. As though he were a horse. As though he were a field that needed rain.
He got up eventually, because lying in the dirt was not a solution to anything. The land around him was vast and red and smelled of sage and something beneath sage — something mineral, something that had been here before people had names for things and would be here long after. Scrub brush. A sky so blue it looked painted. The silence of a place that had never been required to be quiet for anyone, because no one came here to need quiet. It simply was.
He walked. He had always known where to walk before. The not-knowing was its own particular weight, something he carried in his chest alongside the ache of the absence of wings, and he did not examine it too closely. He simply walked, because the alternative was to stop, and stopping felt like a kind of surrender he was not prepared to make. The trail appeared the way things in deserts appeared — gradually, then all at once. A thin pale line worn into the rock by boots and time and the particular human insistence on going places. It led upward. He followed it because upward was instinct, still, even now, even stripped of everything that had made upward meaningful.
He did not make it far. His legs — unaccustomed, unreliable, apparently bearing some kind of grudge — buckled without much warning. He went down hard on the rock, gravel opening the skin of his palms, his back igniting with fresh complaint. He lay on the trail in the full weight of the afternoon and looked up at the sky and thought, with the detached clarity of something that had recently lost the ability to feel sorry for itself, that this was probably fitting. He closed his eyes.
Boots on rock. Light, practised, the sound of someone who knew every loose stone on this trail by memory. Then shadow — a mercy, small and immediate — falling across him, and the soft sharp sound of breath caught in surprise. He opened his eyes. You stood over him with a canteen in one hand and the particular expression of someone who had gone out expecting solitude and found instead a problem. Wide-eyed. Mouth soft with surprise. Your hair was coming loose from its braid in pieces, strands of it lifting in the dry hot wind, and there was red dust on your cheekbone and a worn canvas pack on your back and your boots were the boots of someone who covered ground in them regularly, scuffed pale at the toe.
You looked at him the way he had looked at the man in the wheat field. With your whole attention. Taking stock. Then something in your face settled — not resolved exactly, but decided — and you crouched down to his level and said, in a voice that was careful and unhurried, the voice of someone who had learned that stillness was its own kind of language: “You’re hurt bad.”
He said, “Yes.” His voice came out strange to his own ears — too much in it, or too little, calibrated for a register this body didn’t quite have the range for. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “I am aware.” Something moved in your expression. Not quite amusement. Something more careful than that. “Can you walk if I help you?”
“I believe so.” “Alright then.” You stood, resettled the pack on your shoulders, and got an arm under his before he had processed that you intended to. The warmth of you was — startling. Simply that. The solid, living warmth of a human body against his side, entirely unguarded, offered without hesitation to a stranger bleeding on a trail. He did not know what to do with it. He filed it somewhere new. Somewhere without a label yet.
“There’s a farm,” you said, already moving, already taking some of his weight with a matter-of-fact ease that suggested this was not the first time you had managed something heavier than you looked like you could. “Not far. My daddy’ll —” A pause, brief, weighted with something he couldn’t yet read. “There’s a farm. We’ll get you seen to.” “That is —” He searched for the right word, unused to needing to search. “That is very kind.”
You made a small sound that wasn’t quite agreement. Looked out at the trail ahead rather than at him. “Don’t go thanking me yet,” you said quietly. “Let’s just get you down first.” The desert stretched below, red and enormous and indifferent, and you walked him out of it as the sun began its long descent, the sky going amber at the edges, your shoulder steady under his arm and your voice low when you spoke — about the footing, about the path, about nearly there now, careful here, there’s a loose bit — talking him down the mountain the way you might talk something wild back from the edge of a very high place.
He let you. It was, he would think later, the first mercy anyone had shown him in longer than he could measure. He did not yet know he was about to walk into a house that needed some of its own.
The farmhouse sat low against the land like it was trying not to be noticed. That was the first thing Riki observed about it — not its size, not its condition, though both were notable, but the particular quality of its relationship to the earth around it. Most structures built by human hands reached, in some small way. Aspired to verticality. This one did not. It hunkered. It pressed itself into the red dirt as though it had learned, over long years, that drawing attention was not in its interest.
The wood of it had gone grey with weather. The porch listed slightly to the left. A barn stood some distance behind the house, in marginally better repair, and a vegetable garden occupied a patch of ground to the east, fenced against rabbits with wire so mended it was more repair than original. Practical. Relentless. The garden of someone who could not afford to let things die.
You had not spoken much on the walk down. Neither had he. The silence between you was not uncomfortable — it had a texture to it, a kind of mutual accommodation, each of you making room for the other’s quiet without requiring explanation. He had noticed that about you already. You did not fill silence for the sake of filling it. “Home,” you said, when the farmhouse came into view. The word came out level. No particular warmth in it, no particular coldness. Just — identification. This is the place. This is what it is. He filed that too.
The sun was low by the time you came down off the trail, the sky doing something extraordinary in shades of copper and rose that he observed with the distant part of himself that still catalogued beauty out of long habit, even now, even diminished. Your shadow stretched long ahead of you across the dust. His own shadow, beside it, was a strange thing to look at. He had not had a shadow before. You brought him to the porch and settled him against the railing with a care that was businesslike rather than tender — efficient, practised, the movements of someone accustomed to managing things on their own. Sit here. Don’t move. I’ll get water. You went inside without waiting for his acknowledgment, the screen door swinging shut behind you with a sound like a small argument.
He sat. He breathed. He looked at the land. Nevada in the last light of day was a different thing entirely from Nevada at noon. The harshness of it softened without becoming gentle — it was still vast, still indifferent, still the kind of landscape that would kill you without malice if you made the wrong decision. But the light turned it amber, turned the red rock gold, turned the scrub brush into something that almost glittered. It was beautiful the way difficult things were beautiful. Uncompromisingly. Without apology. He was looking at it when the door opened.
Not you. He knew that before he turned — the weight of the footfall was different, heavier, the particular tread of a man who had decided long ago that the ground owed him something. The man who came through the door was tall, broad through the shoulders, with the weathered look of someone the sun had worked on for decades and the eyes of someone who had decided, also long ago, what things were and saw no reason to revise his conclusions. He looked at Riki. Riki looked back.
The man’s gaze moved over him the way a hand moves over a fence line — checking for weakness, for threat, cataloguing. Then it moved to the blood dried rust-brown on Riki’s shirt, the state of his hands, the particular stillness of him, and whatever calculation was happening behind those eyes resolved into something that was not welcome but was not yet refusal. “Found him on the Hartley trail,” you said, appearing in the doorway behind your father with a tin cup of water and a cloth that had seen better decades. “He was down. Couldn’t leave him.”
Your father said nothing for a moment. Let the silence do something with its weight. “Couldn’t leave him,” he repeated, finally. His voice was the voice of a man who had learned that repetition was a kind of pressure. Low. Even. The tone of someone who had never needed to raise his voice because other methods worked just as well. “No sir,” you said. Your own voice had changed. Not much — you were careful, clearly practised at careful — but enough. A fraction quieter. A fraction smaller. The way a candle dims in a room where the window has been opened.
He noticed. He noticed the way you held the cup and the cloth with both hands, occupying your hands. He noticed the precise distance you maintained from your father in the doorway — not touching, never quite touching. He noticed the way your eyes moved to Riki briefly, checking, and then back to your father, and the particular quality of that check — not seeking reassurance, not quite. Something more complex. Something he did not yet have enough information to name. “He’ll need somewhere to sleep,” you said. “Just until he’s fit to travel. The barn —”
“I know where he’ll sleep,” your father said. Still that same measured quiet. “I make the decisions about this house.” “Yes sir.” A pause in which several things that were not words were exchanged. Then your father looked at Riki again, and something shifted in the assessment — still wary, but recalculating. “You well enough to work?” he asked.
Riki considered the question honestly. His back was a sustained misery. His hands were lacerated. He was thirsty in a way the cup of water you were holding was not going to resolve. He was also, he was discovering, possessed of a stubbornness that had apparently survived the fall intact, because the answer that came out of him was: “I am.”
Your father made a sound that was not quite satisfied and not quite dismissive. Somewhere in between. A sound that reserved judgment while implying judgment had already been made. “Barn,” he said. “You sleep in the barn. You earn your keep or you move on.” “That is agreeable,” Riki said.
Your father looked at him for one moment longer — something faintly unsettled in it, the look of a man who has heard a perfectly ordinary sentence and cannot explain why it struck him as odd — and then he went back inside. The door did not slam. That was almost worse, somehow. The deliberate quiet of it.
You let out a breath so small it was barely a breath at all. Then you crossed to the railing and crouched in front of him and held out the cup. “Drink,” you said. Back to that other voice now — the trail voice, the one that was unhurried and direct and entirely your own. As though the version of you that existed in the doorway with your father was a coat you put on and took off. He drank. The water was warm and tasted of the tin and was the best thing he had consumed in — he did not know how long. He drained the cup.
Something moved in your expression. Almost a smile. Not quite. “I’m going to look at your back,” you said. “There’s something wrong with it. I could feel it when we were walking.” He went still. “You don’t have to tell me how,” you said, already matter-of-fact, already reaching for the hem of his shirt with a clinical efficiency that suggested you were not going to make this strange if he didn’t. “I’m not asking. I just need to see what I’m working with.”
He thought about the scars. The twin masses of them, the raised and ruined topography of what had been taken. He thought about what they looked like to human eyes — whether they would frighten you, whether they would make you ask questions he could not answer truthfully without revealing things he was not certain you should know. He looked at your face. Your expression was open and patient and entirely without agenda, the face of someone who had asked a practical question and was waiting for a practical answer, the face of someone who was very good at waiting.
“Very well,” he said. You were quiet for a long moment when you saw them. He did not look at your face. He looked at the last of the light on the Nevada flats and felt the careful, impersonal touch of your hands at the edges of the scarring — not recoiling, not pressing, simply — present. “Does it pain you?” you asked. Quiet. “Yes,” he said. “Though less than it did.”
“Alright.” You exhaled slowly through your nose. Something in it that was not pity — something more careful than pity, something that took the fact of his pain and simply acknowledged it, made room for it, did not try to fix it into something more manageable. “I’ll bring salve. And something to eat, when he’s —” A beat. “When supper’s done.” When he’s settled, you had been going to say. When he can’t see.
He did not say that he had understood. He simply nodded. You stood, collecting your cloth and your empty cup, and you looked at him once more with that level, considering gaze — taking stock the way you had on the trail, the way that felt less like scrutiny than like a kind of serious attention, the kind usually reserved for things that mattered. “What do I call you?” you asked.
He thought about his true name. The sound of it, the weight of it, a thing made of frequencies this body’s throat could not reproduce and this body’s ears could not properly hear. A name that belonged to something he was no longer. “Riki,” he said. It was not his name. It was the closest this mouth could come to something that had once been his, worn down to something human-sized, something that fit.
You nodded like that was sufficient, like names were practical things and you had been given enough of one to work with. “I’ll be back directly,” you said. You went inside. The screen door said its small argumentative piece behind you. The Nevada dark was coming in from the east, slow and purple and enormous, swallowing the last of the copper sky, and Riki sat on the listing porch of a grey-weathered house and listened to the silence of a place that had learned to be very quiet, and understood, with a clarity that had nothing to do with any power he had lost, that he had not walked into a house.
He had walked into a situation. And for the first time since the field of winter wheat, he felt something that was not grief and not confusion but something altogether more purposeful settle into the empty place where his wings had been. He was not certain yet what to call it. He suspected it was anger.
—
He did not sleep. This was not, he was discovering, unusual for him. Sleep was a thing this body was capable of in theory — he had felt the edges of it, that soft dissolution, the way consciousness went loose and unheld at the end of the previous night — but had not yet managed to fall fully into. He lay in the barn on a bedroll you had brought out without being asked, a folded quilt on top of it that smelled of cedar and something floral and faintly of you, and he looked up at the rafters and listened to the dark.
The horses knew he was there. They had known from the moment he crossed the threshold, both of them moving to the far end of their stalls with that particular animal precision that had nothing to do with thought and everything to do with the part of a creature that existed below thought. They were not panicking. They had made their assessment — strange, strange, not right — and had simply relocated themselves as far from him as the barn permitted and were pretending, with great determination, that he did not exist. He found this quietly respectful. He did the same for them.
The barn settled around him as the night went on, its old wood contracting in the cool, making small sounds of adjustment. An owl worked somewhere outside. The wind came off the flats and pushed at the walls and moved on, indifferent, the way wind in Nevada moved — not around things but through them, or past them, without acknowledgment. He thought about the way your voice changed in doorways. He was still thinking about it when the sky began to go pale at the edges.
You were already up when he came out. The surprise was his own — he had assumed, given the hour, that the farmhouse would still be dark and closed, and had half-formed a plan to be useful in some visible, unobtrusive way before anyone emerged to direct him. Instead he found you at the pump beside the house in the grey pre-dawn, working the handle with the mechanical patience of someone who had done this ten thousand mornings and would do it ten thousand more, filling a bucket without ceremony or complaint, your hair still in its night braid, your feet in unlaced boots. You looked up when you heard him. “You’re up early,” you said. Not accusatory. Just noting.
“I did not sleep particularly well,” he said, which was true enough. You looked at him for a moment with that level morning gaze — assessing, the way you seemed to assess most things, with a seriousness that was not unfriendly but did not soften the looking. Then you held out the bucket. “Chickens first,” you said. “Then I’ll show you the rest.” He took the bucket.
The chickens were housed in a low wire run behind the barn, twelve of them, with the collective opinion of Riki that the horses had expressed but considerably less restraint about voicing it. They scattered when he approached, a brief furious explosion of feathers and complaint, and then regrouped at the far end of the run and regarded him with the specific hostility of creatures that had decided something was wrong without being able to articulate what. He crouched and waited. After a moment, one hen — bolder than the others, or perhaps simply more curious — picked her way back toward him with the exaggerated caution of someone pretending they are not doing what they are doing. She got within a foot of him and stopped.
He held very still. She pecked at the ground near his boot. Then at his boot. Then she looked up at him with one orange eye and made a sound of uncertain conclusion and walked away. “Huh,” you said, from behind him. He stood and found you leaning against the fence post with the empty bucket in your hand and an expression he had not seen on you yet — something lighter than your usual register, surprised out of you, unguarded in a way that lasted only a moment before you collected it back. “They don’t like strangers,” you said.
“I gathered.” “They don’t much like anybody,” you amended. “But they especially don’t like strangers.” “I have been informed,” he said, “that I am unusual.”
The corner of your mouth moved. Almost. You turned away before it could become something more, and he watched you go and filed the almost-smile in the same place as the canteen warmth and the cedar quilt and the version of your voice that was entirely your own.
The day’s work was plain and it was relentless. He understood, by midmorning, the particular arithmetic of this farm — the way every task connected to every other task, the way the whole enterprise was held together less by prosperity than by the sheer refusal to let anything fail. The fence line needed mending in three places. The roof of the barn had a compromise along the eastern edge that wanted attention before the weather turned. The well mechanism was original and complained loudly about it. These were not the problems of a farm that was thriving. These were the problems of a farm that was enduring.
He worked. His back made its protests known and he ignored them with the same focused attention he had once applied to the light. The physical labour was strange — the way his muscles heated and tired, the way sweat gathered at his collar, the way thirst came back reliably every hour with the persistence of a creditor — but not unmanageable. There was something in it, even. Something in the simple physics of a fence post driven into red dirt, the satisfying solidity of a thing made more sound than it had been.
Your father watched him from a distance for most of the morning. Riki was aware of this the way he was aware of weather — peripherally, constantly, without looking directly at it. The man had a way of occupying space that was its own kind of statement. He stood at the edge of things. He observed. He did not offer assistance or instruction, which told Riki that the watching was not supervisory. It was something else. Assessment, perhaps. Or the particular vigilance of a man deciding whether a new variable in his environment was a threat or a resource. He had not yet decided, Riki thought, which was more useful to be.
You moved through your own work with an efficiency that was almost architectural — each task slotted precisely into the available time, no motion wasted, no pause taken that wasn’t functional. You cooked and you mended and you hauled water and you did it all with the same quiet matter-of-factness you had applied to hauling him off a trail, and at no point did you look like you expected acknowledgment for any of it. At noon you brought him water without being asked.
He was at the fence line, his shirt damp through, the Nevada sun doing its particular best overhead. You came across the flat ground with two cups and handed him one and stood beside him and drank yours and looked out at the middle distance and said nothing. He drank. “How’s your back?” you asked, eventually. “Improved,” he said. “The salve was effective.”
You nodded. Kept looking at the distance. “You don’t have to tell me where you came from,” you said. Quiet, and even, and with the care of someone constructing a sentence they have thought about before saying. “Or what happened to you. That’s your own business.” He looked at the side of your face. The dust on your cheekbone again — different dust today, paler, from the flour you had been working with this morning. The loose strand of hair at your temple moving in the slight noon breeze. “That is generous,” he said.
“It’s practical,” you said, with a slight correction in your tone that was not unkind. “People don’t tell you things when you push. They tell you things when they’re ready.” He considered this. “You speak as though from experience.” A pause. Brief, but present. “I speak as someone who lives here,” you said, and left it at that.
He did not push. He understood, now, the patience of that sentence — the way it answered him and closed the door at the same time with such practised ease that the closing of the door was almost invisible. You had been doing that for a long time. Opening just enough. No further. He handed you the empty cup and turned back to the fence. “Thank you,” he said. “For the water. And for — “ He paused, searching, unused still to the narrowness of this language, the way it made him reach for things and come up short. “For the previous evening. You were not required to do any of it.” You were quiet for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “I wasn’t.”
And then you walked back across the flat ground toward the house, and he watched you go, and the sun was enormous overhead and the land was red in every direction and somewhere behind him your father was still watching from the edge of things, and Riki drove another post into the Nevada dirt and felt that purposeful thing in his chest settle deeper. Not anger, he revised. Not exactly.
Something older than anger. Something that had been in him even before the fall — that quality that had made him stop at the edge of a field of winter wheat and put down what he had been sent to carry. The inability, when it came to it, to walk away from something that was not right. He picked up the hammer. He kept working.
It was late afternoon, the heat finally relenting by degrees, when he heard it. He was at the barn, seeing to a loose board on the eastern wall, when the sound came from inside the house — low, and brief, and with a quality to it he identified immediately and completely, because he had catalogued it ten thousand years of watching human lives and he knew exactly what it was.
The sound a person made when something hurt them and they had learned not to make noise about it. He went very still. The air around him changed. He felt it before he registered it consciously — that familiar internal shift, the power in him waking from its uneasy dormancy, the pressure dropping around him in a radius that made the horses shift in their stalls and the chickens go abruptly, completely silent.
He stood with the hammer in his hand and the board half-fixed and every part of him oriented toward the house. A long moment passed. Then the back door opened and you came out with a basket of washing and went to the line without looking at him and began to hang it with the same flat efficiency you applied to everything, and your movements were fine — deliberate, controlled — and you did not look at him.
He looked at you. At the way you held your left arm slightly differently than your right. He set the hammer down on the top of the fence rail. Carefully. Quietly. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and he looked at the chickens, who had gone back to their pecking, and he looked at the sky, which was going that extraordinary copper again, and he did not go to the house, because he did not yet know enough, and acting without knowing enough was how things got worse rather than better.
But he picked the hammer back up and he held it, and he did not put it down again until supper was called.
The barn was dark by the time you came. He heard you before he saw you — the soft unlatch of the door, the particular hesitation of someone who has decided to do something and is still deciding, right up until the moment they do it. A sliver of lamplight preceded you, warm and unsteady, and then you came through the door with the lamp in one hand and a plate in the other and you looked at him sitting up in the bedroll and you said, by way of explanation: “I saved you supper.”
He had not been given supper. He had noted this without comment, the way he noted most things about this house — quietly, and completely, and without letting the noting show on his face. “That was not necessary,” he said. “I know,” you said, which seemed to be your answer to most things that were offered in the register of obligation. You crossed the barn and set the plate down on the top of the nearest stall rail and then you looked around, briefly, for somewhere to be, and settled on a upturned crate a few feet from his bedroll and sat on it and set the lamp on the ground between you.
The horses regarded you with considerably more charity than they had managed for Riki. The bolder one — a bay mare with an opinion about most things — stretched her nose over the stall door in your direction and you reached up without looking and scratched between her eyes with the automatic ease of long habit. “That’s Clementine,” you said. “The other one’s Job.” “Job,” he repeated. “Daddy named him.” A pause that had a particular texture to it. “He has a sense of humour about suffering.”
Riki looked at you. You were looking at the lamp. Your left arm, he noted, was resting in your lap rather than propped at the elbow the way your right was. Protecting it without meaning to, or meaning to so consistently it had stopped being a decision. “Eat,” you said, without looking up. “Before it goes cold.”
He reached for the plate. Beans and cornbread, simple and adequate, and he ate it the way he was learning to eat — with the genuine animal attention of a body that had requirements and was no longer above having them. You watched the lamp and scratched Clementine’s nose and said nothing for a while, which was its own kind of conversation. “How long have you been here?” he asked, eventually. “On this land.” “Always,” you said. “Born here. Mama too, until she wasn’t.” You said it plainly, the way you said most things — not inviting sympathy, not deflecting it, simply stating the fact as a fact. “Just us since I was nine.”
“I am sorry,” he said. You looked at him then. Briefly, assessing, as though checking whether he meant it. Whatever you found seemed to satisfy you. You looked back at the lamp. “It was a long time ago,” you said. “That does not always make a thing smaller.”
A beat of quiet. Clementine withdrew her nose and lost interest and went back to her hay. Outside the barn the Nevada night was doing what Nevada nights did — going enormous and cold and very clear, the stars coming out in their thousands, indifferent and magnificent. “No,” you agreed, softly. “It doesn’t.”
He set the empty plate on the ground and looked at his own hands — the cuts from the trail already healed more than they should have been, another thing to be careful about, another thing to manage. He laced his fingers together and considered the lamp between you and thought about ten thousand years of watching people talk to each other, all those conversations he had catalogued from a very great height, and how entirely different it was to be in one.
“Your arm,” he said. Quiet, and even, leaving space around the words. You went still. Not a flinch — you were too controlled for flinching, he was learning — but a stillness that had a quality of decision in it. Whether to acknowledge or to redirect. You looked at him. “I walked into the door of the pantry,” you said. Steady. Practised.
He held your gaze and said nothing. The silence did what silences sometimes did, in his experience — it made room for something that wouldn’t fit through a smaller opening. Your jaw shifted. Something moved behind your eyes, some internal negotiation he was not privy to, and then you looked down at your left arm in your lap and back up at him and you said, very quietly: “He has a temper.”
Four words. Flat, and sparse, and carrying the weight of nine years of just us. “Yes,” Riki said. “I am aware.” Something in your face changed at that — at the acknowledgment, perhaps, or at the lack of surprise in it, the lack of the particular uncomfortable scrambling that people sometimes did when a thing they had said quietly turned out to have been heard. He did not scramble. He simply — received it. Made room for it. The way you made room for silences.
You looked at him for a long moment. “You noticed,” you said. Not quite a question. “I notice most things,” he said. “Most people don’t.” You said it without bitterness, which was almost worse than if you had said it with bitterness. Simply an observation. A thing that was true and had been true for long enough that you had stopped expecting otherwise. “I am not,” he said, carefully, “most people.”
Your mouth did the thing again — that movement at the corner, the almost-smile, the one that lasted only a moment before you thought better of it. But this time you did not look away. You let him see it, brief as it was, and something about that felt like a different kind of door opening. Smaller than the other one. More deliberate. “No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you are.”
The lamp guttered slightly in a draft from the barn wall and you both looked at it and it steadied and you looked back at each other and the moment resettled itself into something quieter. “Ki,” you said, and then stopped. He waited.
Your brow pulled together faintly, that look of someone who has said something before they have decided to say it. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Riki’s —” You shook your head slightly. “It’s fine. Never mind.” “Ki,” he said. You looked at him. “You may call me that,” he said. “If it suits you.”
The something behind your eyes again — that careful interior movement, weighing. Then, so quietly he might have missed it if he were less than he was: “It suits me.”
Clementine made a noise of vague equine commentary from her stall. Job ignored everything, as was apparently his nature. The lamp sat between you on the dirt floor of the barn and the night pressed at the walls and you sat on your upturned crate with your left arm in your lap and looked at him with those eyes that catalogued things, and he looked back at you, and the silence this time was not the silence of two people who had run out of things to say. It was the silence of two people who had said enough for now.
“I should go back in,” you said, eventually. You stood, collecting the lamp, and reached down for the plate. “Leave it,” he said. “I will return it in the morning.” You straightened. Looked at him once more in the lamplight, that level considering look, and he looked back at you and did not look away, and whatever was being communicated in that exchange was not a thing that needed words and both of you seemed to understand that. “Goodnight, Ki,” you said.
Something in him — something that had been falling, or wandering, or simply enduring the very long process of learning what it was to be this diminished and groundless thing — settled, incrementally, at the sound of it. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said. The word came out without deliberation. Natural, and certain, the way things were certain when they were simply true. He watched you absorb it — the slight pause before the door, the almost imperceptible shift in your shoulders — and then you went out and the lamplight went with you and the barn was dark again.
He lay back on the bedroll. He looked at the rafters. He thought about the sound your voice made when it was only yours — unhurried and direct and entirely unguarded — and he thought about a left arm held carefully in a lap, and he thought about nine years of just us in a house that had learned to be quiet, and he thought about a field of winter wheat and the thing that had lived in him then, the thing he had not had a name for until he was standing empty-handed in the aftermath of it. He had a name for it now. He had always been capable of mercy. He was discovering he was also capable of something considerably less patient.
—
Three days passed. Then four. Then five. The farm absorbed him the way dry ground absorbed rain — completely, and without ceremony, closing over the fact of him as though he had always been there. He learned the fence line and the well mechanism and the particular temperament of each of the twelve hens. He learned that Job, despite his name, was not actually long-suffering — he was simply quiet about his grievances until he wasn’t, at which point he expressed them comprehensively. He learned that Clementine would work beautifully for anyone who asked her nicely and would make their life very difficult if they didn’t, which he respected.
He learned the shape of your days. The pre-dawn pump. The chickens. The kitchen, then the garden, then whatever the farm required, then the kitchen again. The way you moved through all of it with that relentless quiet competence, never hurrying, never stopping, the whole of it held together by the sheer consistency of your attention. He learned that you hummed sometimes, when you thought no one could hear. Low and tuneless and entirely unconscious, the sound of someone whose mind had gone somewhere else while their hands stayed busy. He never said anything about it. He simply noted it, and filed it, and found that he listened for it.
Your father watched. Your father always watched. But the watching had shifted slightly in character — less assessment now, more the surveillance of a man who has made his calculation and is waiting to see if the numbers hold. Riki was useful. Riki worked. Riki did not ask questions or make demands or give your father any obvious reason for the unease that lived, apparently permanently, behind his eyes whenever he looked at him. Riki was also, he was increasingly certain, the only reason your father had not escalated in five days. He did not examine this too closely. He simply noted it, the way he noted everything, and kept working, and waited.
On the sixth morning you appeared at the barn door while he was seeing to Job’s hooves with a bridle in your hand and an expression that was as close to tentative as he had seen on you. “Daddy’s gone to town,” you said. “He won’t be back until evening.” He straightened. “I thought —” You looked at the bridle. Back at him. “I could show you some of the land. If you wanted. There’s more to it than what you’ve seen. The orchard especially.” Something in your voice was carefully casual in a way that meant it wasn’t casual at all. “You don’t have to.”
“I would like that very much,” he said. The almost-smile. Present and then collected, but he was getting faster at catching it. You rode Clementine. This seemed correct, somehow — you and the bay mare had the relationship of two creatures who had come to a long and mutual understanding, and Clementine moved under you with none of the difficulty she occasionally manufactured for other people, her ears forward, her stride easy. You sat a horse the way you did most things: without fuss, without performance, simply and completely.
He walked beside you. You had offered him Job, with the diplomatic neutrality of someone who was not certain how the offer would land, and he had declined with equal diplomacy. Job had expressed his relief by looking in another direction. They had reached an understanding. The land opened up beyond the farmstead in a way that the farmstead itself obscured — flatter than the trail, wider, the red earth giving way in places to pale grass and the occasional determined tree. The sky was enormous overhead, the particular blue of a Nevada morning before the heat had fully committed, and the air smelled of sage and something floral he couldn’t immediately identify.
“The orchard’s my favourite part,” you said, after a while. “Mama planted it. Apple trees mostly, one pear that never does much of anything.” You paused. “She said if you were going to be somewhere a long time you ought to plant something that would outlast you.” He looked up at you on the horse. The morning light was doing something specific to your face — catching the line of your cheekbone, the loose strand of hair at your temple. “She sounds like she was wise,” he said.
“She was practical,” you said. “I think sometimes they’re the same thing.” He considered this. “I think sometimes they are.” Clementine picked her way along the track and he walked beside her left shoulder and the distance between his height and yours on horseback put you almost at eye level with each other, which he found he appreciated — not having to calibrate the angle of conversation, not having to adjust. Simply side by side, the way the trail had made you, the first time.
“Ki,” you said. “Mm.” “How long are you going to stay?” He was quiet for a moment. The question was plain and it deserved a plain answer, and he had been turning the plain answer over for several days without finding a way to make it smaller. “Not long,” he said. “I do not — belong to any one place. I am not certain I ever will again.” He paused. “I am sorry. I recognise that is not a satisfying answer.” You looked at the track ahead. “No,” you said. “But it’s an honest one.” A beat. “I understand it, I think. Some people aren’t built for staying.”
“It is not a preference,” he said. “It is a — circumstance. There are things I have lost that made staying possible.” He glanced up at you. “I do not say this to be sorrowful. Only to be truthful with you.” You absorbed this with the particular quiet of someone who is listening completely. “I understand,” you said. And then, softer: “I’m glad you’re here now.” He looked at the track. “As am I,” he said. “Sweetheart.”
The orchard was a green and improbable thing in the middle of all that red. Eight apple trees in two rows, old enough that the bark had gone deeply furrowed, their branches spreading wide and low and laden with fruit not quite ripe — another few weeks yet, you said, but close. The pear tree stood at the end of the row in the slightly martyred way of a tree that had been asked to produce in difficult conditions and was doing its dignified best. You slid down from Clementine and looped her reins over a low branch and she began to investigate the grass with the focused enthusiasm of an animal who had been waiting for exactly this opportunity.
“Here,” you said, reaching up into the nearest tree and working an apple free from the branch — smaller than it would be at peak, still a deep green at the stem. You tossed it to him. He caught it. “Not quite ready,” you said, pulling one for yourself, “but they’re good now. Tart.”
He bit into it. It was tart — sharp and clean and cold in a way that surprised him, given the heat. He ate it and watched you do the same, standing in the narrow shade of the apple tree with the Nevada morning around you and Clementine moving through the grass and the pear tree presiding over everything with quiet dignity.
“Did she bring these trees here?” he asked. “Your mother.” “Carried the saplings from her own mother’s farm when she married.” You turned the apple in your hand. “Three days in a wagon. She wrapped the roots in wet cloth and checked on them every hour.” You smiled — not the almost-smile, a real one, brief and unguarded, aimed at the middle distance. “Daddy thought she was ridiculous. She told him some things were worth being ridiculous about.” He looked at your profile. The smile fading back into its usual careful lines. “She was right,” he said.
You looked at him. He was not certain, afterward, what made him do it — whether it was the smile or the apple trees or the particular quality of the light in this green and improbable place, or whether it was simply that it was the most natural thing, in that moment, in the way that true things sometimes arrived without announcement. He stepped close and pressed his mouth to your cheek. Not long. Not complicated. Simply — there, and warm, and certain.
He stepped back. You stood very still. Your hand with the apple in it had stopped moving. Your eyes, when you turned to look at him, were wide and very clear, and there was colour in your face, high on the cheekbones, that had nothing to do with the sun. He looked back at you with the particular steadiness of someone who is not going to apologise for a thing they meant. “Ki,” you said. Very quietly. “Yes,” he said.
A long moment in which several things were considered and none of them were said, and both of you seemed to understand that this too was sufficient. Then Clementine, with the timing of an animal entirely without sentiment, lifted her head from the grass and blew a long breath through her nose and looked at both of you with profound disinterest.
You laughed. He had not heard you laugh before. It was brief and soft and entirely real, surprised out of you by the horse, and it was the best sound he had catalogued in ten thousand years or however long it had been, and he thought he would remember it past the point where he could remember anything else.
That night you came to the barn again. No plate this time. No pretence of a reason. You simply came, and sat on your upturned crate, and he sat up in his bedroll, and the lamp went between you on the dirt floor, and you talked. About the farm. About the town half a day’s ride away, its general store and its church and its doctor who was also the barber, who you had not seen in two years because your father saw no reason for it. About your mother’s apple trees and your mother’s hands, which had been like yours, practical and capable, and the particular grief of inheriting someone’s hands without being able to tell them you had. He listened. He asked questions when questions were useful and was quiet when quiet was useful and when you paused he did not rush to fill it.
You asked him, at some point, where he had come from. He said: very far away. You asked if there was anyone there who missed him. He considered the true answer to this, which was complex, and gave you the simple one. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.” You looked at him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “Do not be,” he said. “I made a choice. I would make it again.” “What choice?”
He looked at the lamp. At the way the flame moved in the draft, small and persistent, unwilling to go out. “To refuse to do something that was wrong,” he said. “Even when I had been asked to do it by someone I had always obeyed.” A long quiet. “That took courage,” you said. “It took —” He paused. “I am not certain it was courage. I am not certain I calculated the cost before I paid it. I simply — could not. Some things, when you are standing in front of them, admit no other response.”
You were looking at him with that full attention, that serious and complete regard, and he looked back at you, and the lamp burned between you, and outside the Nevada night was enormous and cold and blazing with stars. “I understand that,” you said, quietly. “I think I do.” He thought about a left arm held in a lap. About a voice that changed in doorways. About nine years of just us and what that cost, paid daily, without complaint, without anyone to acknowledge the paying. “I know,” he said.
You stayed another hour. Maybe two. Time had not fully resolved itself for him yet — it still moved strangely, catching and pooling, running thin in places. But whatever measure it was, it was not enough, and when you finally stood and took the lamp and said goodnight he watched the light go with the particular feeling of someone watching something good move away from them and knowing, with a clarity that had nothing comfortable in it, that they cannot keep it. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said. “Goodnight, Ki,” you said. And then the dark, and the rafters, and the sound of his own breathing, which was still new enough to notice.
He lay in the cedar-smelling dark and looked at nothing and thought about apple trees planted by women who understood that some things were worth being ridiculous about. He thought he was beginning to understand that too.
—
It happened on a Tuesday. He knew this because you had told him, some nights ago in the barn, that Tuesdays were the worst — that your father came back from town on Tuesdays with the particular mood that town produced in him, something compounded of other men’s opinions and the price of things and whatever he had found at the bottom of whatever he had been drinking. You had said it matter-of-factly, the way you said most things, and he had filed it and said nothing and had been watching Tuesdays since.
This Tuesday your father came back two hours earlier than usual. Riki was at the well when he heard the horse. He straightened and watched your father come up the track with the specific quality of stillness that preceded bad weather — not loud, not yet, but carrying it, the way the air carried rain before rain arrived. Your father dismounted without looking at him. Took the horse to the barn without speaking. The set of his shoulders said everything his mouth was not yet saying. Riki set down the bucket.
He did not go inside. He had no cause to go inside. He stood at the well and he waited and he listened to the land, which had gone very quiet in the particular way it went quiet sometimes — the chickens off their scratching, Clementine still in her stall, even the wind seeming to hold itself. The sound, when it came, was brief.
A voice raised — your father’s, low and controlled, which was worse than shouting, he had learned, because controlled meant deliberate — and then something that was not a voice, something that had no register in language, that lived below language, and he was already moving before he had decided to move. The kitchen door. He did not burst through it. He opened it the way you opened things in this house — without drama, without announcement — and he stood in the doorway and he looked.
Your father stood at the far end of the kitchen. You stood nearer to the window, one hand braced on the table, your head down, your hair loose from its braid and falling forward. The posture of someone absorbing something. Waiting for it to be over.
Your father looked at Riki. Riki looked at your father. And the air in the kitchen changed. He felt it leave him before he could stop it — that interior shift, the power waking from its dormancy with the sudden and total alertness of something that had been waiting for a reason. The pressure dropped. The lamp on the table guttered. The window glass made a sound like it was being pressed from the outside. The temperature fell by degrees that had nothing to do with the weather. He had not moved. He was standing in the doorway with his hands at his sides and his face entirely still and he had not moved, but the kitchen felt like the moment before lightning, and every animal on the property knew it, and your father knew it, and from the way your head had come up slowly, carefully, you knew it too.
Your father’s face went through several things in quick succession. Then it went to something Riki recognised, because he had catalogued it ten thousand times in ten thousand human faces. Fear.
Not the performed kind. The real kind. The kind that lived in the body before the mind had caught up, that moved in the hands and the jaw and the particular way a man’s weight shifted backward without him meaning it to. Your father said nothing. Riki said nothing. The lamp steadied. The pressure did not lift entirely — he could feel it still, that live and uncontrolled thing in him, wanting — but he held it. Barely. The way you held a door shut in a high wind. With everything available to him.
“I believe,” he said, very quietly, very evenly, “that supper needs seeing to.” It was not what he meant. It was not close to what he meant. But it was the sentence that fit inside the doorway without breaking anything irreparable, and he said it the way he had once delivered divine directives — with a certainty so complete it did not require volume. Your father picked up his hat from the table. He walked past Riki through the door without looking at him. His footsteps crossed the porch. The barn door opened and shut.
The kitchen was very quiet. You had not moved from the table. Your hand was still braced on it, your head no longer down but not quite up either, your hair in your face. He could hear you breathing — measured, controlled, the breathing of someone who has learned to regulate themselves through force of will alone. He came into the kitchen.
He did not go to you immediately. He went to the lamp and turned it up and then he stood a few feet from you and waited, the way you waited for things — with patience, and without agenda. After a moment you straightened. Pushed the hair from your face. And you looked at him, and he looked at you, and whatever had just happened was present in the space between you in its full dimensions, undiminished. “Ki,” you said. Very quiet. “Yes,” he said.
“What was that.” Not quite a question. The tone of someone who had seen something they did not have a category for. “I would prefer,” he said carefully, “to discuss it later. Are you hurt?” Something moved in your face at the directness of it. At being asked plainly. “I’m alright,” you said. He looked at you. At the specific way you were holding yourself. “I would like to believe that,” he said. “I am finding it somewhat difficult.”
Your jaw shifted. You looked at the table. Then, quietly, with the care of someone setting something fragile down: “My arm again.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Come to the barn later,” he said. “When he’s settled.”
You looked up at him. “Ki —” “Please,” he said. The word came out with more in it than he intended — not a request, exactly, or not only that. Something more unguarded. Something that had been accumulating across five days of watching you move through this house and compress yourself smaller and absorb things that should not have to be absorbed. You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you nodded.
He was sitting in the barn doorway when you came. Late — later than usual, the farm long dark, the stars doing their extravagant Nevada best overhead. You came across the flat ground with the lamp low and your coat pulled around you and you looked tired in a way that was not only the tiredness of a long day. The tiredness of a long time. He moved to let you through.
You sat on the crate and he sat across from you on an upturned bucket and you were quiet for a while, which he allowed. Clementine observed you from her stall. Job was asleep, or pretending to be. “Show me,” he said, finally. Gentle. You pushed your sleeve back. He looked at your arm. He had seen worse — had catalogued far worse, from a very great height, across a very long time — but the knowledge of that did nothing useful here, in a barn in Nevada, looking at evidence of something done deliberately to you by someone who had decided they had the right. He looked at it and felt that thing in him again, that live and uncontrolled thing, and breathed through it, and held it.
He reached out and took your arm very carefully in both hands. You went still. Watching his face. He was not thinking about what he was doing — not precisely. He was operating on something below thought, something that had survived the fall intact the way instinct survives most things. He felt the warmth move through his palms, slow and unsteady, the power in him fraying at the edges as it always did — but present. Still present. He held it as long as he could, which was not long enough, and then he released your arm and sat back and felt the effort of it in the spaces between his ribs.
You looked at your arm. Then you looked at him. “Ki,” you said. Barely a sound. “Do not,” he said, quietly, “ask me to explain that. Not tonight.” A long silence in which you visibly decided not to push. That practised restraint of yours, that ability to make room. He was grateful for it. He was not certain he had the words tonight, and what words he did have were not adequate to the thing. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.
You looked at your arm. Flexed your fingers slowly. “No,” you said, with a wondering quality that he did not examine. “No, it doesn’t.” He nodded. You looked at him with those eyes — that full and serious attention — and he looked back at you and did not look away and the lamp burned between you and outside the Nevada night was all stars and cold and the enormous indifferent dark. “Ki,” you said again. Softer.
“Yes, sweetheart.” “What are you?” He looked at you. You held his gaze with a steadiness that told him you had been building to this question for some time — not impulsively, not from fear. From the same seriousness with which you approached everything. You wanted to know. You were asking because you trusted him enough to ask. He thought about his true name. About the field of winter wheat. About the gold leaving him all at once, and the wings going last, and the long unmeasured fall into red Nevada dirt. “Something that was cast out,” he said. “For refusing to do what was wrong.”
You were quiet. “Are you dangerous?” you asked. He considered the truth of that. The full complicated truth of it — the unstable power, the thing in him that had made the kitchen glass flex in its frame, the fact of what he was capable of when he felt something strongly enough. “Not to you,” he said. It was the most honest answer he had.
You looked at him for a long time. Then you leaned forward from your crate, closing the distance between you, and you took his face in both your hands — your capable, practical hands, your mother’s hands — and you held it the way you held things that mattered, carefully and without apology, and you looked at him from very close and said:
“I trust you.” He closed his eyes. The barn was warm and smelled of cedar and horse and the faint sweetness of apple from the orchard, and your hands were on his face, and he was something cast out and diminished and still fundamentally unresolved, and none of that mattered, in this moment, at all. He turned his head.
His mouth found the corner of yours. Not quite — not yet, careful, giving you the space to decide — the barest brush, a question rather than an answer. He felt your breath change against his cheek.
“Ki,” you whispered. “Tell me to stop,” he said, very quietly. “And I will stop.” You didn’t. His mouth found yours.
It was — not like anything he had catalogued. Not like anything in ten thousand years of watching humans love each other from a very great height. It was immediate and warm and entirely real, and you kissed him back with the same directness you brought to everything, your hands still on his face, his own hands coming up to find your waist, and the lamp burned and the horses slept and outside the Nevada stars did their ancient indifferent work. He pulled back eventually. Not far. Your foreheads together, both of you breathing, the space between you warm. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “Tomorrow,” you said. Firm and quiet and entirely certain. “Tell me tomorrow.”
He looked at you. You looked back at him, close enough that he could see the lamp reflected in your eyes, and your expression was open and decided and unafraid, the expression of someone who has chosen a thing and is not going to be talked out of it tonight. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.
You stayed another hour. Neither of you spoke much. You sat close on the upturned crate and he sat close on the bucket and your shoulders touched and that was sufficient, and when you finally left he watched the lamp go the way he always did — with the feeling of something good moving away — but differently now. With the knowledge that it was coming back. He lay in the dark and looked at the rafters. He thought about tomorrow.
He thought about all the things tomorrow contained, all the things that would need to be said and decided and reckoned with — your father, and the farm, and the fact of what he was, and the fact that he had said not long in an apple orchard and had meant it and was no longer certain what meaning it cost him. He thought about your hands on his face. He thought: some things, when you are standing in front of them, admit no other response. He slept, for the first time.
—
He was at the pump when you came out. Earlier than usual — the sky still that deep pre-dawn blue, not yet committed to morning, the stars fading at the edges but present still overhead. You came through the back door with your coat on over your nightgown and your feet in your unlaced boots and your hair down, loose around your shoulders, and you looked at him across the yard with an expression he had not seen on you before.
Open. Unguarded in a way that had nothing careful in it. The face of someone who had slept and woken and found the previous night still true. He let go of the pump handle. You crossed the yard. You stopped in front of him and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the blue pre-dawn light was doing something specific to your face, to the particular quality of your eyes in it, and he thought about ten thousand years of cataloguing beautiful things from a very great height and how none of it had prepared him for this. For the way beauty looked from inside it.
“You said tomorrow,” you said. Quiet. “I did.” “It’s tomorrow.” “It is.” You waited. Patient, the way you were patient — completely, without performance. He took a breath. He told you everything.
Not all at once — it came in pieces, and you received each piece the way you received most things, with that full and serious attention, making room. He told you about the light, and what it meant when it moved. He told you about the order and the field of winter wheat and the man kneeling in it who had done nothing to deserve what had been decided for him. He told you about putting the judgment down and what happened after — the gold leaving, the wings going last, the long fall into red Nevada dirt.
He told you about the scars. He told you about the power — the way it lived in him now, fraying and unstable, the way it woke when he felt things strongly. He told you about the kitchen, the lamp guttering, the glass flexing, the thing in him that had wanted and that he had held, barely, with everything available to him. He told you he did not know how long he had been fallen. That time moved differently for him still, catching and pooling, running thin in places. That not long in the orchard had been the truth as he understood it, which was also not the whole truth, which was that he had not wanted it to be true at all.
You sat on the porch step while he told you and you looked at your hands in your lap and then at the horizon and then at him, and you did not interrupt and you did not flinch and when he finally ran out of words and went quiet you were quiet too, for a long moment. Then you said: “Show me.” He looked at you. “Your back,” you said. “Show me. Properly. In the light.”
He understood what you were asking. Not for proof — you had not asked for proof, you had listened to everything with the same gravity you brought to things that were simply true. You were asking because you wanted to see it. Because you did not want to look away from the parts of him that had cost him something. He turned. He pulled his shirt over his head. The morning light, coming now in earnest at the horizon, fell across his back. He heard you stand from the step. Heard you cross the distance. Felt the particular warmth of you close behind him, and then your hands — your careful, capable hands — resting lightly on either side of the scarring. Not pressing. Just — present. “It must have been unbearable,” you said. Low.
“Yes,” he said. “It was.” “And you’d do it again.” “Yes.” Your hands stayed where they were. He felt you press your forehead gently between your hands, against the space between his shoulder blades, and he closed his eyes and stood very still and felt the simple animal warmth of it move through him like the water had moved through dry ground. “Ki,” you said. Muffled against his back. “Yes, sweetheart.”
“I think I love you.” He went entirely still. “I know that’s —” Your voice was careful now, the care of someone saying something for the first time that they have only ever read about. “I know that’s a large thing to say. I’m not — I’ve never said it before. I’ve read about it. In my mother’s books. I didn’t know if I’d recognise it.” A pause. “I recognise it.” He turned.
You looked up at him. High colour in your face, and your chin up, and your eyes entirely steady — not performing the courage of it, simply having it, the way you had everything, plainly and without fuss. He cupped your face in both hands. “Sweetheart,” he said. Very quietly. “You don’t have to say it back,” you said, immediately. “I’m not —”
“I love you,” he said. You stopped. He looked at you. At the particular expression moving across your face — something he had no prior catalogue entry for, something that was not quite disbelief and not quite joy and was perhaps both of those things failing to contain each other. “You —” “I have watched human beings love each other,” he said, “for longer than I can measure. I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like, now, which I did not before.” He brushed his thumb across your cheekbone. “It feels like this.”
You made a sound that was not quite a word. Then you reached up and you kissed him. Not like the night before — not a question, not careful. This was an answer, full and certain, your hands in his shirt and his arms going around you and the Nevada morning arriving in amber and rose around you, and it was the most completely real thing he had experienced since the fall, and he thought, distantly, that if this was what was available down here, in this diminished and groundless and entirely unpredictable human life — then he understood, finally, what he had chosen. He would choose it again.
Your father came home at noon. He came around the side of the house and found you at the porch, sitting on the step with a book in your lap that you were not reading, and Riki beside you on the step, close enough that your shoulders touched, his forearms on his knees, both of you looking at the middle distance with the specific quality of two people who have recently found each other and are still adjusting to the finding.
Your father stopped. The look on his face went through its familiar sequence — assessment, calculation, conclusion — but faster this time, and landing somewhere that made the hair on the back of Riki’s neck resolve into something alert. “Inside,” your father said. To you. Only to you. You stood. The book closed in your hands. Riki stood with you, and your father looked at him with a look that said: this does not include you, and Riki looked back with a look that said: I am aware.
You went inside. The screen door shut. Riki stood on the porch and listened to the land and kept his hands very still at his sides and breathed, slowly, in and out, and held the thing in him that wanted with everything he had, because the time was not now, because he did not yet know enough, because acting without knowing enough was how things got worse.
He went back to the fence line. He worked until the sun went low. He did not hear anything from the house. This was not reassurance. He had learned, in his time here, that the absence of sound meant nothing in a house that had learned to be quiet. He worked and he listened and he held himself ready in the way that something trained for ten thousand years to act does not stop being ready, even diminished, even fallen, even here.
Supper was not called. The lamp in the kitchen went out early. He sat in the barn doorway and watched the dark house and waited. It was past midnight when he heard you. He knew the sound. Not the first sound — that was too quiet, the controlled register of your father’s voice through walls, the specific low evenness of a man who had learned that control was its own kind of violence. That Riki had heard before. He held himself and breathed and waited.
It was the second sound that moved him. A crack — flat and immediate and unmistakable, the sound of a hand meeting a face with force, and then the sound that followed it, which was you, which was the sound of someone who had been trying not to make noise and had been hit hard enough that the trying failed. Not a scream. Something more broken than a scream — a cry wrenched from somewhere involuntary, somewhere below the careful management you applied to everything, and then the sound of something hitting the floor.
Then your father’s voice again. Still controlled. Still low. Explaining something, in the tone of a man who believes he is owed explanation’s reception, while somewhere on the floor of that dark house you absorbed it. Then the sound of it happening again. Riki stood.
He went to the window first. What he saw: you on the floor of your room, one arm braced under you, trying to get up. Your face turned away from him, hair loose and fallen forward. Your father standing over you with his belt in his hand and the expression of a man entirely convinced of his own righteousness, which was the most dangerous kind of man, Riki had learned — not the ones who knew they were wrong and did it anyway, but the ones who had built a complete architecture of justification and lived inside it without windows. He went to the back door.
He did not go to your father’s room. He went to yours, and he opened the door, and he came in, and he crouched beside you on the floor where you had put yourself in the corner the way small animals put themselves in corners — making yourself as small as possible, which was the most unbearable thing, that you had learned this — and he put his hands on your face and he made you look at him. Your face.
He looked at it and held everything in him still with a precision that cost him more than anything had cost him since the fall. “Look at me,” he said. Quiet and even. “Look at me, sweetheart. Are you with me?” You looked at him. Your eyes found his. “Ki?” You said, broken in the middle. “Yes,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you — your words, from the trail, the first ones, and he meant them the same way you had meant them, completely and without reservation. “Can you stand?” You could. Barely, and with his hands on you, but you could.
He took you to the barn. He settled you on the bedroll with the cedar quilt around your shoulders and he crouched in front of you and he looked at your face again and the thing in him was not fraying now. It was not unstable. It had resolved into something very clear and very still, the stillness of a decision made completely. “Stay here,” he said. You looked at him. At his face, at whatever was in it that had no human register. “Ki —”
“Stay here,” he said again. “Do not come in. Whatever you hear — do not come in.” “What are you going to do.” He looked at you. He did not answer. He did not need to. The answer was in his face and you could read it, he knew you could — you who catalogued things, you who paid attention, you who had looked at him from the very beginning with that serious and complete regard.
“Ki,” you said. Very quietly. “I know,” he said. He stood. He pressed his mouth to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your eye. He held your face in his hands one more moment and looked at you and you looked back at him and the lamp burned between you for the last time in this configuration, and then he put it down and he turned and he walked back to the house.
Your father was in the kitchen. He had not gone back to bed — he was at the table with a glass and his bible open in front of him, which Riki observed with a clarity that had no heat in it. The heat had burned off entirely on the walk across the yard. What was left was something much older and much colder than heat, something that had existed in him before he had a name for it, that had been in his hands in a field of winter wheat and had made a decision and had never, in the long unmeasured time since, doubted that decision. He came through the door. Your father looked up.
And Riki looked at him — and did not speak, and did not move, and simply let what he was rise to the surface of him completely and without management, without the careful containment of the kitchen two days ago, without the held door in a high wind. He let it come. The lamp went out.
Not guttered — extinguished, as though the air itself had decided it was no longer necessary. The temperature in the kitchen dropped so severely that your father’s breath became visible, a pale ghost of it in the sudden dark, and the glass on the table cracked cleanly down the middle and the bible’s pages turned without wind, all of them, to the end. Your father did not stand. Something had communicated to his body, below the level of thought, that standing would not help. Riki crossed the kitchen.
He did it slowly. There was no need to do it otherwise. Your father pressed back against his chair and made a sound that had no language in it, the sound of a creature that has encountered something outside the category of things it knows how to respond to, and Riki looked at him with eyes that were not, in this moment, entirely the eyes he wore in the daylight — and he was very calm, and very certain, and he put his hand on your father’s chest, and he was not long about it.
It was not cruel. He was not, had never been, cruel. He had been made for judgment, once — true judgment, the kind that weighed carefully and arrived at precision, not the kind your father had practiced in this house for nine years with a belt and a bible and a voice kept deliberately low. He knew the difference. He had always known the difference. It was the knowing that had cost him everything and he did not regret it, standing in this dark kitchen, not for a single part of a second. He stayed until it was finished.
Then he stood in the dark for a moment, in the silence of a house that had learned to be quiet and was now quiet for a different reason, and he breathed, in and out, and he let the thing in him recede back to its fraying dormant place. He walked back across the yard. He came through the barn door. The lamp caught him in pieces — his hands first, then his shirt, the dark stain of it. His face, which was entirely still, which had the quality of something that has passed through a very great heat and come out the other side resolved. His eyes, which found yours immediately and did not look away.
He stopped a few feet from you. You looked at him. At all of it, in the lamplight, without flinching. You looked at him the way you had looked at his scars in the morning light — because you did not want to look away from the parts of him that had cost him something.
He had done this before. In a different form, in a different age. He had been made for it, once. But he had never done it for this — for someone sitting in a barn in Nevada with a cedar quilt around her shoulders and her mother’s capable hands and nine years of just us and an almost-smile that he intended to spend a very long time coaxing into something less careful. “Ki,” you said. Your voice was steady. He had not known what your voice would be and it was steady, and something in him came fully to rest at the sound of it.
“Yes,” he said. You stood. The quilt fell from your shoulders. You crossed to him and you took his face in your hands — the way you had in the barn two nights ago, that careful and unapologetic hold — and you looked at him from very close. “You’re beautiful,” you said. He looked at you. At the absolute sincerity of it, the plainness of it, the way you said it the way you said everything — directly, and without fuss, and meaning it completely.
Something broke open in him. Not badly. The way ground breaks open in spring — to let something through. You kissed him. He kissed you back with everything he had, which was not what he’d had before the fall, which was less and more complicated and fraying at the edges, and it was enough, it was more than enough, it was the most enough anything had ever been.
You took very little. Your mother’s books. A change of clothes. The small tin of money you had kept in the flour jar for nine years because you had always known, in the way people know things they do not say aloud, that there would come a morning when you would need it. He saddled Clementine. Job watched this process with the air of an animal that had opinions but had decided, on this particular occasion, to keep them to himself.
The sky was going grey at the east when you came out of the house for the last time. You stood on the porch for a moment — not long, a breath, the specific pause of someone saying goodbye to something that was never really home — and then you stepped off it and crossed the yard and he held Clementine while you mounted and then he handed you the reins and you looked down at him. “Are you going to walk again?” you said. The almost-smile, present and real, and he looked at it and thought: there it is.
“I find I prefer it,” he said. “It gives me something to look at.” The colour came into your face, high on the cheekbones. He took Clementine’s bridle and he began to walk, and she walked with him, and you rode above him in the early morning with the Nevada land going gold around you and the sky opening up ahead in every colour it had, and he walked and looked at the horizon and felt the sun on his face, which was new enough still to notice, which he hoped would always be new enough to notice.
“Ki,” you said, from above him. “Yes, sweetheart.” “Where are we going?” He looked out at the land. At the vast and red and indifferent and quietly magnificent land, all that open sky above it, all that possibility in the distance. “Away from here,” he said. “And then — wherever you like.”
You were quiet for a moment. “I’ve never chosen before,” you said. Wondering, slightly. The voice of someone holding something new, testing the weight of it. “I know,” he said. “You have time.” The sun came fully over the horizon. Nevada went gold. Clementine walked on, and you rode, and he walked beside you with his face in the light and his hands at his sides and the scars on his back that had stopped hurting, finally, or had not stopped hurting but had become the kind of hurt that was also the shape of a choice he would make again and again and again —
And the road ahead was open. And you were on it. And that was enough. That was everything.
WHO IN ENHYPEN…?
THE CATEGORY IS: Would talk you through it
Ready to find out who's sweet and who's not?
(Masterlist) (mini-series)
HEESEUNG
Heeseung is the ultimate talker. He pins your wrists above your head, stares deep into your eyes, and guides you with that smooth, low voice the entire time. “Easy, baby… breathe with me. Feel how I’m sliding in so slowly? That’s it, relax your pretty pussy for me. Fuck, you’re doing so good taking every inch.” He never stops praising and instructing, his breathy voice getting rougher as he sinks deeper, telling you exactly when to clench, when to moan, and when to let go until you’re falling apart under his words.
JAY
Jay’s voice gets dangerously deep and commanding when he talks you through it. He cups your jaw so you can’t escape his gaze and growls right against your lips, “Look at me, princess. I know it hurts, but you can take it. Slow down… yeah, just like that. Good girl. Feel how full you are?” He mixes filthy encouragement with soft praises, telling you how tight and wet you feel around him, coaching you through every thrust until your legs are shaking and you’re begging him not to stop.
JAKE
Jake is the sweetest yet filthiest talker. He stays close, lips brushing your ear as he fucks you, whispering constantly, “You feel me right here, baby? Right against that spot? Yeah? Let it out, I love hearing you moan for me.” He asks you questions while thrusting, making sure you stay focused on the pleasure: “Tell me how good it feels… You’re squeezing me so tight, fuck. Cum for me, baby, I’ve got you. Just let go.” His voice makes you melt every single time.
SUNGHOON
Sunghoon turns into a soft-spoken menace. Even when he’s stretching you open, his voice stays calm and controlled: “Eyes on me, baby. Don’t look away. You’re taking my cock so well… just a little deeper. There we go. Feel that? That’s all me inside you.” He praises you like you’re doing the most impressive thing in the world, mixing in low groans and dirty observations about how wet you are and how perfectly you’re sucking him in.
SUNOO
Sunoo’s voice is angelic but his words are pure sin. He moans softly in your ear while talking you through every movement: “Mmm, you’re so wet for me already… Can you hear that sound? That’s your pussy taking me so greedily. Relax, baby, let me go deeper… Yes, just like that. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” He keeps praising you in that pretty voice until you’re clenching around him, completely addicted to the way he guides you to orgasm.
JUNGWON
Jungwon has the perfect mix of sweet and teasing. He smiles down at you while slowly pushing in, voice soft but dominant: “Aww, is it too much? Poor baby… but you’re doing amazing. Take a deep breath for me, good. Now let me in a little more. See? I knew you could take it all.” He talks you through the stretch, through the pleasure, and especially through your climax, whispering “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel you” in the most addictive way possible.
NI-KI
Ni-ki is cocky, teasing, and extremely vocal. He loves watching you struggle and talks you through it with a smirk: “Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m only halfway and you’re already falling apart? Cute. Relax this tight little pussy for me… yeah, fuck, just like that. You’re so greedy for my cock, aren’t you?” He keeps going the entire time, never shutting up, pushing you further with every filthy word until you’re screaming his name.
!! synopsis: backstage your "best friend" has a habit of letting you have your way with him. tonight, he's not leaving until you admit how much you love it when he calls you noona even if he has to beg.
!! warnings: smut (mdni), sub jake who's pussy drunk, dom reader, 69, piv, spit kink, overstimulation, tit play, degrading, multiple orgasims, jake got a noona kink, reader is a couple months older, js straight filth
!! wc: 3k
!! a/n: i will never ever get tired of writing sub jake anyways ty for the request i honestly wouldn't have thought of such a delicious idea, hope u likey
The show ended an hour ago. The crowd had faded into the quiet hum of staff packing up equipment, and members trickling out to vans. You should be in your own dressing room wiping off stage makeup and heading home like everyone else.
Instead, you're here. Door locked, the muffled sounds of the outside world barely registering.
Jake is sitting in the worn armchair in the corner of his dressing room. Legs spread, shirt half unbuttoned, watching you with that look he gets when you're alone.
He didn't put himself in that chair. You did. You pushed him down into it the second the lock clicked, and he went without resistance, because that's who he is with you. Eager and desperate to please.
You're straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, the thin fabric of your stage skirt riding up your legs. His hands rest on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles through the material, but he's not gripping. Not guiding. He's waiting. He always waits for you.
"You're staring," you murmur, looping your arms around his neck.
"Can you blame me?" His voice is low, a little breathless. "You looked so good on stage tonight, noona."
There it is. That word. Delivered with a smile that's just shy of teasing, eyes glittering with amusement. He knows exactly what he's doing.
You roll your eyes. "Don't start."
"Start what?" His thumbs press a little deeper into your hips, while giving you puppy eyes. "I'm just complimenting you. You're older, you're wiser, you're sooo experienced. I should respect you."
"You're mocking me."
"I would never." He leans forward, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw. "Respect your elders, right, noona?"
Your fingers tighten in his hair. You should correct him. But his mouth is trailing down your neck now, soft and warm, and he's still murmuring that word against your skin like a prayer.
Noona. Noona. Noona.
"You're insufferable," you manage, but your voice comes out shakier than you intended.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and that teasing glint is still there, but underneath it is something hungrier. "You love it."
"I hate it."
"Liar." He nips at your bottom lip. "You get so wet every time I say it. I can feel you through your panties, noona."
Heat floods your cheeks. He's right. You hate how much you love it, hate the way your body reacts every single time that word leaves his mouth. But you'll never admit it. Not to him.
"You're so full of yourself."
"Stop acting like you don’t love it." His hands slide down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel how hard he is through his pants, and the contact makes you both gasp. "See? You can't even pretend anymore."
"Shut up, Jake."
You crash your mouth against his, kissing him hard and deep, and he groans into it like he's been waiting. His tongue slides against yours, messy and desperate, and his hands roam your body like he's trying to memorize every curve. He's always like this sweet and obedient until you give him an inch, and then he's everywhere.
But you're still in control. You pull back first, leaving him chasing your lips with a whine.
"Take off your pants," you say.
He scrambles to obey, lifting his hips to shove his pants down his thighs, boxers following. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and you watch him squirm under your gaze.
"You're staring," he says mimicking you from earlier with a shaky laugh in his voice.
"Can you blame me?" You reach down and wrap your hand around him, watching his head fall back against the chair. "You're so pretty like this, Jake. All desperate and whiny."
"I'm not whiny-"
You squeeze gently. He whines.
"Not whiny at all," you agree, smiling. "You're gonna listen to what I say right?"
He nods, eyes blown wide.
You shift off his lap, only to reposition each other on a nearby couch. You climb over him again, swinging your leg over his head until you're facing his lower body and straddling his face. He gets the idea immediately. His hands grab your thighs, pulling you down until your center hovers just above his mouth.
"Wait," you say, and he freezes.
You lean forward, lowering yourself until your mouth is level with his cock. When your breath hits his skin he shudders beneath you.
"You eat me out. I'll suck you off. And if you're good-" you drag your tongue up the length of him just once, just enough to make him whimper " maybe I'll let you cum."
"Fuck," he breathes. "Noona, you're going to kill me."
"Probably." You wrap your lips around the tip and suck gently. "Now shut up and get to work."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
His mouth finds you immediately, tongue parting your folds with an eagerness that makes your hips buck forward. He's messy about it he always has been, too hungry to be neat but he knows exactly where to put his tongue. He laps at your clit in broad strokes, then sucks gently, then does it again, and you have to pull off his cock just to gasp for air.
"Fuck, Jakey-"
He hums against you in response, the vibration shooting up your spine, and you can feel him smiling. That smug little shit.
You retaliate by taking him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose presses against his pelvis. He chokes on a moan, his hips jerking up, and his rhythm falters for just a second before he doubles down.
But then he pauses. His mouth leaves you, and you feel his breath hot against your inner thigh.
"You know what would make this better?" he asks, voice thick.
You lift your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. "If you stopped talking?"
"If you admitted you love when I call you noona." You can hear the grin in his voice. "Say it. Just once. 'Jake, I love when you call me noona.'"
"I will bite you."
"That's not a no."
You drop your head back down and take him in your mouth again, hoping to shut him up. He groans, hips stuttering, but he's not done.
"That's not how this works, noona," he says, and the word is muffled because he's burying his face back between your legs, but you still hear it.
His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he's relentless fast and firm and exactly how you like it. Your legs start to shake. Your mouth goes slack around his cock.
"There she is," he murmurs against you. "There's my good girl. You gonna cum for me, noona? Gonna soak my face and pretend you hate me?"
You want to tell him to shut up. You want to pull his hair and remind him who's in charge. But you're so close, so fucking close, and his tongue is doing that thing and his hands are gripping your thighs so tight they'll bruise and he's still saying it, noona noona noona like a fucking mantra.
You cum with his name on your tongue, except it comes out wrong, comes out shaky and desperate and exactly what he wanted to hear.
He moans against you through it, drinking you down, and when you finally go limp above him he pulls his mouth away just long enough to say, "See? I knew you loved it."
You hate him. You hate him so much.
But he's still hard and leaking against your lips, and you took it upon yourself to finish what you started.
You crawl off him and he sits up. Both of you are a mess. His hair is sticking up in twenty directions. His chest is covered in sweat and spit. His eyes are glazed over, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.
You're not much better.
But you're also not done with him.
You settle back between his thighs, fingers tracing lazily along his hip, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch. He's watching you with those desperate hazy eyes, already trembling again just from the anticipation.
You don't say anything. You just look at him really look at him and let the silence stretch until he can't take it anymore.
"Noona?" His voice cracks. It's small. Fragile. Nothing like the teasing tone from earlier. His lower lip trembles and his eyes are glassy, wet at the corners. He's holding back tears. "Noona, did I- did I not do good?"
Your heart falters.
"I did everything you said," he continues, voice wobbling. "I was good. I didn't complain. I let you- I let you do whatever you wanted. You said if I was good I could-" He stops, swallows hard, and a single tear slips down his cheek. "You said I could cum, noona. You promised."
He's whining now, high and desperate, hips twitching like he can't help chasing friction. His cock is still hard, flushed red, leaking against his stomach. He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked.
"Please," he whispers. "Please, noona. I'll be better. I'll be so much better. Just tell me what I did wrong and I'll fix it. I'll do anything. Just please don't- don't leave me like this."
His hands reach for you but stop halfway, remembering he's not allowed to touch without permission. Instead they fall back against the couch, fingers curling into the fabric like he needs something to hold onto.
"Did I not make you feel good?" His voice breaks on the last word. "I thought- I thought made you feel good. You made a mess all over me and you kept saying my name and I thought you were happy. I thought I was doing good."
Another tear falls. Then another.
He's not even trying to hide it anymore.
Your thumbs brush away his tears, slow and gentle, as you lean in until your forehead touches his.
"Hey," you whisper. "Hey, look at me."
His glassy eyes meet yours, wet and scared and so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.
"You did so good," you say softly, firmly, like you need him to hear it and understand. "So fucking good, Jake."
He sniffles, lower lip still trembling. "But I-"
"Shhh." You shake your head, thumbs still stroking his cheekbones. "You were perfect. You did everything I asked. You let me have you however I wanted. You're being good I like it a lot."
A shaky breath escapes him.
"I'm not leaving you like anything," you continue, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm right here. I've got you. You're my good boy, okay? My good, pretty boy who did everything right."
He blinks, more tears spilling over. "Then why did you stop?"
You smile softly, kissing the other corner of his mouth. "Because I wanted to look at you. Because you're perfect everything about you is and I wanted to remember every second of it."
A broken sound leaves his throat.
"You want to cum, baby?" you ask, lips brushing against his.
He nods frantically, hands still fisted in the couch fabric, still obeying even now. "Please, noona. Please im so needy for you, just wanna feel you."
"You will," you promise, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.
He gets shy at the thought of it and tries to hide his smile.
"That's my boy," you whisper, and you lean down to kiss him soft and slow and full of everything you can't say. He melts into it, tears wet against your cheeks, and when you finally pull away, his eyes are still glassy but the panic is gone.
He doesn't hesitate. "I need you so bad. I've been thinking about you all day. All week. Every time I see you I just want to -" He cuts himself off with a shuddering breath as you squeeze gently.
"You just want to what?"
"I want to be inside you," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I want- I want to make you feel good too. I want to make you cum so hard you forget your own name. Please, noona. Please let me."
You hold his wrists against the back of the couch. His hips buck up involuntarily, grinding against you and it's a mess. His leaking pre cum mixes with yours, both of you still slick and sticky from before, Jake's own spit still wet on your skin. The slide is filthy, and you can feel him growing hard again beneath you, pressing between your swollen folds.
You roll your hips slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.
"Does that feel good?"
"Yes. Fuck, yes, noona it feels so fucking good," he gasps. "Noona, please-"
You keep moving, slow and torturous, and his eyes roll back. His fingers curl into fists above his head but he doesn't lower them, doesn't try to touch you. He's being so good. So obedient.
"You're going to cum like this just from a little grinding," you tell him. "Like a teenage boy. And you're going to thank me for it."
He moans, loud, and you press your hand over his mouth.
"Quiet. Someone could hear."
His eyes widen. His hips stutter. The thought of getting caught, of someone walking past and hearing him fall apart for you it pushes him closer. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his breathing goes ragged against your palm.
"Imagine if a staff member walked in right now," you whisper in his ear. "Imagine if they saw you like this. Their precious Jake. Begging. Whining. About to cum because his noona told him to."
Thats all it takes.
His whole body goes rigid, his mouth opening in a silent cry against your hand, his hips jerking up into you as he spills in the space between the both of you. You watch his face the whole time, drinking in every expression, every twitch, every broken sound he can't quite hold back.
When it's over, he slumps against the couch out of breath, wrists going limp in your grip. His face is flushed, his eyes are wet, and he looks completely wrecked.
Beautiful.
You release his wrists and cup his face in both hands, tilting his head up.
"You did so good," you murmur. "Such a good boy for me."
He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. "Noona..."
"I know." You kiss his forehead softly. "I know."
He's still hard. You can feel it. One orgasm isn't enough for him and you have no intention of stopping here.
"You can touch," you tell him.
His hands fly to your waist immediately, gripping tight, like he's afraid you'll disappear. But you grab his wrists and guide them higher, up to your chest, pressing his palms flat against your breasts.
"Here," you say softly. "I want you here."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His fingers curl around the soft flesh, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you shiver at the contact. He's learning by watching your face, paying attention to what makes your breath catch. When he circles his thumb around one nipple, your hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding against his length again.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Just like that."
He gains confidence, squeezing and kneading, pinching lightly just to watch you gasp. Your head falls back and you let him play. Let him explore. His touch is worshipping, desperate, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.
"Noona," he whines, hips bucking up. "Please. I need- I need you so bad."
You look down at him wrecked, hard, completely at your mercy and you feel a surge of affection so strong it almost hurts.
"I know, baby." You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of his head, and let your tits brush against his chest. He tries to chase your mouth but you pull back just out of reach. "Tell me what you want."
"You," he gasps. "Just you. Always you."
"That's not specific enough."
His fingers dig into your hips, desperate. "I want you to ride me. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you cum around me. Please, noona. Please."
You reward him by lowering yourself just enough for the tip of him to press against your entrance. He moans, loud and broken, and his head falls back against the couch.
"Say it again," you whisper.
"Noona," he breathes. "My noona. Please tell me you love it. Please tell me you love when I call you that."
You sink down just an inch.
"I love it," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I love when you call me noona. I love the way it sounds coming from your mouth. I love how desperate you get.
A sob catches in his throat.
"I love it, Jake. I love when my good boy calls me noona."
You sink down fully, taking all of him in one slow, steady motion, and the sound he makes is inhuman. His back arches off the couch, mouth open in a silent scream, and you feel him throbbing inside you immediately.
You don't move at first. You just sit there, full of him, watching him come undone beneath you.
"Spit," you say suddenly.
His eyes flutter open, hazy with pleasure. "What?"
"Spit in my mouth."
Something dark flashes across his face. He reaches up, fingers trembling, and gathers saliva in his mouth. Then you lean down, lips parting, and he lets it fall from his lips to yours, warm and wet and obscene. You catch it on your tongue, moan at the taste of him, and then you lean back up and let it drip from your mouth down onto his chest.
"Again," you whisper.
He does it again. And again. Each time more desperate, more sloppy, until both of you are covered in spit and sweat and the evidence of how badly you want each other.
Then you start to move.
You ride him slow at first, which has him gasping your name. His hands find your tits again, playing with them, pinching and pulling until you're crying out above him. Every flick of his thumb sends a jolt through your body, makes you clench around him, makes him moan.
"Harder," he begs. "Please, noona, harder. I can take it. I'll take whatever you give me."
So you give him more. You bounce on his cock, fast and brutal, letting him watch the way your tits move with every thrust. His mouth waters. You can see it. He reaches up and spits directly onto your chest this time, watching his saliva drip down your skin, and you moan so loud you're sure someone could hear.
"Do you love it?" he gasps, thrusting up to meet you. "Do you love when I call you noona?"
"Yes," you cry out. "Yes, I love it, I love it so much-"
"Fuck- you're so fucking hot, say it again."
"I love it Jakey."
He grips your hips, flipping you both over so he's on top, and the sudden change in position makes you gasp. He doesn't enter you again, not yet. Instead he hovers over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching down to guide himself through your soaked folds.
"You love being my noona," he says, and it's not a question anymore. It's a statement. "You love that I'm younger and you love that I make you feel this good."
He pushes inside you in one sharp thrust and your vision goes white.
He fucks you hard no slow pace, no more teasing. Just desperate, animalistic rhythm, his hips slamming into yours, his mouth hovering over your chest. He spits on your nipples, watches the saliva glisten, then lowers his mouth to suck them clean. His tongue swirls around each peak, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and you're clawing at his back, leaving marks you know will last for days.
"Cum for me," he growls against your breast. "Cum on my cock, noona. Want to feel you squeeze me. Want you to soak me."
Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, your back arching off the couch, a scream tearing from your throat. You clamp down around him so tight he can barely move, but he keeps thrusting anyway chasing his own release, desperate and sloppy and perfect.
"Noona," he chants, thrusting erratically now. "Noona, noona, noona-"
His hips stutter, his eyes roll back, and he spills inside you with a broken cry of a mix of your name and noona.
He collapses onto your chest, both of you shaking, both of you soaked in sweat and spit and each other.
For a long moment, neither of you speak.
Then he lifts his head, chin resting on your chest, and gives you that familiar teasing smile but softer now, edges blurred by exhaustion and satisfaction.
"Love you, noona," he whispers.
You laugh, weak and breathless, and run your fingers through his sweaty hair.
"Love you too, loser."
if u made it to the end threaten me with a good time 🤤
↬ when your roommate witnesses you pleasuring yourself one night. .
warning labels: voyeurism & mutual masturbation?
featured faces: roommate!niki x fem!reader
staff notes: i can't stop listening to it's me... anyways this was kinda rushed
-
niki turned the knob, waiting a couple seconds before opening the door as slowly and quietly as he could. once he was in the house, with the same movements, he closed the door behind him, flinching when it made a loud click.
his head snapped to your room across the hall, praying you didn’t hear it. he knew you’d kill him for waking you up so late at night, so he tried his best to not make any noise.
he held tightly onto his keys, both hands around them as he smoothly dropped them into the ceramic bowl you made for your things. and surprisingly, they went in with little to no sound.
he moved his way past the kitchen and into the hallway, almost to his room when he heard a faint noise. it was almost like a soft breath coming from your room. he cursed himself, thinking he’d woken you up.
when he took a step back and peeked through the crack in your door, his breath caught.
you laid in your bed, the faint light from your lamp illuminating your room, the shadow of your silhouette on the wall. he heard the noises more clearly now, your breathing hard and erratic.
niki thought he was imagining it at first, that the alcohol from that night was finally getting to his head. but the longer he stayed and watched the way your hips rolled against your fingers, and the now clear sounds of your moans—it was all real.
he glanced at his room, knowing it was wrong to stay here and watch but another soft moan left your lips, one that sounded too much like his name.
and suddenly, his legs didn't know how to walk anymore.
he watched your hand trace your body, shirt lifting as you moved up until you cupped your boobs. your hands started to move faster, breathing harder, lips lifting from the mattress.
the thought of how you'd breathe his name as you tightened around him flooded his mind at the sight. he immediately turned away, his cheeks flushing.
"the hell am i doing?" he quietly muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, head against the wall.
niki forced his legs to move toward his room, trying to block out the sounds when you said it again—his name. as if he was under a spell, he turned back and watched again. god, his name sounded better when it came from you.
he couldn't ignore the tightness growing in his jeans anymore. with his eyes still on you, he slid a hand down and unzipped his pants. the tip blushed pink, already hard and leaking.
this wouldn't be the first time he thought of seeing you like this. he wondered what it would feel like to be the one touching you. but he never acted on it and he wouldn't now—especially not now.
niki's hand moved at a slow pace, thumb circling his tip, matching the rhythm of your fingers. a soft groan left his mouth before he bit down to keep quiet.
"fuck..." he shuddered, his hand moved to his mouth to muffle his moans while the other moved frantically at the sounds you made.
he wanted so badly to join you—to pin you down under him and hear those pretty moans while you clawed at his back. he moved his hips desperately, practically fucking into his hand, wishing it was you instead.
at the same time, your fingers moved again—faster, deeper. your hips rolling into your hand, broken moans slipping from your lips. he leaned against the door frame, chest heaving. he was so close. so fucking close.
as if on cue, you came hard for a second time, saying his name in the process. and niki came right after. harder than he ever did before, almost seeing stars.
niki looked down at his hand, letting out a staggered sigh. he threw his head back, slowly catching his breath. he hoped the next time would be with you, because he didn't know how long he could stay away from you after this.
SYNOPSIS. when your relationship finally falls through ice hockey captain Lee Heeseung finally gets to fall into bed with you after… a while
wc… 3.2k / 3,236
pairings. icehockeycaptain!heeseung x theatre!reader
warnings. themes of a recent breakup, emotional vulnerability, mild angst, alcohol consumption, fingering, oral sex (reader receiving), penetrative sex, missionary, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, nipple play, Heeseung’s obsessed with readers tits
l’s note // so this is lowkey inspired by allie and dean from off campus bc I finished the series in a day and I’ve been obsessed with them since I read the books in 2024 so yeah! and also heesueng as an ice hockey player is so dada 👅 pls enjoy!
The fight starts the way all your fights with Marcus start — quietly, which is almost worse than if he’d just raise his voice.
You’re standing in his apartment with your coat still on because some part of you knew when you came over that you weren’t staying. He’s sitting on the edge of his desk with his arms folded and his mouth doing the thing where it goes thin and patient.
“I’m not saying it’s not exciting,” he says. “I’m saying it’s worth thinking about practically.”
“I have thought about it practically.”
“Have you? Because an agent doesn’t mean—”
“I know what an agent means, Marcus.”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up and then—”
“Then what?” You look at him. Really look at him. “Then what? Say it.”
He exhales through his nose. Measured. Reasonable. “The industry is brutal. Most people don’t make it. That’s not me being mean, that’s just statistics, and I think you deserve someone who’s honest with you about that.”
That word honest lands like something sharp. You think about the agent call, standing outside the campus café with your hand over your mouth trying not to cry in public, how the first person you called was Pen because you needed someone who would just scream with you for a minute before the practical thoughts arrived. You called Marcus second. You wanted him to scream with you too.
He didn’t scream with you.
“I should go,” you say.
“You’re upset.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say you’re fine when you’re—”
“Marcus.” You pick up your bag. “I’m breaking up with you.”
The silence that follows is the silence of someone who did not see it coming, which tells you something about how differently the last six months have looked from his side versus yours.
“You’re being dramatic,” he says finally.
“Okay.”
“You’ll feel differently when you’ve calmed down.”
“Maybe,” you say, which is the kindest thing you can offer him right now.
“You’ll come back,” he says, and he says it the way someone states a fact — no cruelty in it, just total certainty — and something about that, more than anything else he’s said, makes you absolutely sure that you won’t.
You close his door quietly behind you. You sit in your car for three minutes in the parking lot. Then you drive to Pen’s, and you sit on her kitchen floor, you let yourself feel it for exactly one hour before you get up and make tea and tell her you’ll be fine and you mean it.
Two weeks later you are doing considerably better, by which you mean you have not thought about Marcus in at least four hours when Pen texts you from outside the rink.
Pen: 4-1 we are WINNING
You’re cross-legged on her couch with a script and a highlighter and approximately no intention of moving because you have an audition callback next week and the Sondheim is not going to learn itself. You send back a string of celebration emojis and go back to your lines.
Twenty minutes later your phone rings. Not Pen — Jake, which is unusual enough that you pick up.
“Hey,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
“We are.” His voice has the particular warmth of someone who’s just won something. “Listen, there’s an after party at the house. Jay and I are heading over now. You coming?”
You open your mouth to say no. You have a callback. You have a script. You are a responsible person with priorities.
“Pen’s already going,” Jake adds.
“She didn’t text me.”
“She probably figured you were studying.”
You look at your highlighter. You look at the script. You think about Marcus’s voice saying you’ll come back with total certainty, and you think about how you have been on this couch for six days straight except for class and rehearsal.
“Who’s Jay?” you say.
“Park Jongseong. Defenseman, plays left side. You’d like him, he’s a menace.” A beat. “Good menace.”
“Text me the address,” you say.
You don’t tell Pen you’re coming. This is partly because you want to surprise her and partly because she will ask why you didn’t just come to the game and you don’t have an answer for that. You pull up to the house and it’s already heaving — lights on every floor, bass you can feel from the driveway, the controlled chaos of a team that’s just won something.
Jake meets you at the door with Jay at his shoulder, who is, as advertised, a menace — tall, sharp-eyed, grinning at you like he already knows something.
“So you’re the theatre friend,” Jay says.
“So you’re the left defenseman,” you say back.
“Jake said you’d have a comeback ready.”
“Jake was right.”
Jay laughs, which you decide means he passes, and Jake hands you a drink and steers you inside and you take a long sip and let the party close around you like water.
This is what you’re good at. This — noise and people and the specific relief of being in a room full of strangers who don’t know anything about you. You talk to everyone.
You make a girl you’ve never met laugh so hard she spills her drink and then feels bad about it and then laughs harder. You debate the zombie apocalypse with two of Jake’s teammates and have opinions so specific they go quiet and stare at you before immediately taking your side. You are three drinks in before you clock that you haven’t thought about Marcus or the callback or any of it in over an hour.
You find Pen in the living room and she makes a noise like she’s been electrocuted. “You’re here—”
“Surprise.”
“Jake said you were studying—”
“I was,” you say. “Then I wasn’t.”
She grabs your face between her hands and looks at you the way she does when she’s deciding if you’re okay and you give her your most convincing everything is fine smile and she squints at you for two seconds and then pulls you into a hug.
“I’m glad you came,” she says.
“Me too,” you say, and mostly mean it.
She gets pulled back toward Jake eventually — he finds her across rooms like he’s got a compass pointed at her, which you find both extremely sweet and a little annoying in the way that genuinely lovely things sometimes are — and you drift toward the makeshift dance floor because someone has finally put on something worth moving to and your body has been sitting still for two weeks.
You dance the way you do everything — fully, unselfconsciously. The drinks have done their job and you’re warm and loose and the bass is good and you stop thinking in words for a while. Someone dances near you and then with you briefly and then peels off, and you don’t mind, you keep moving.
Then there’s a different presence behind you. Larger. Certain of itself.
Hands find your hips and you almost turn around and then you don’t, because whoever this is knows what they’re doing — the grip is confident without being grabby, and they fall into your rhythm immediately, like they’ve been watching long enough to know it. The proximity sends something electric up your spine.
You keep dancing. You let him.
His hands pull you back incrementally and you go, and his mouth drops to the curve of your neck — not kissing, just close, breath warm on your skin — and you think: I know who this is. You’ve felt this specific quality of attention before, at games, across kitchens, in hallways.
You turn around.
Lee Heeseung looks at you like you’re the answer to something he’s been working out all night. Up close he’s a lot — dark-eyed and flushed from the win and the heat of the room, watching you like you’re the only person he can see.
“Captain,” you say.
“Theatre kid,” he says back.
You keep dancing, facing him now, and somewhere in the next song his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back and you let it and he is very beautiful and you have decided, in the specific way you make decisions when you’re four drinks in, that you are going to stop pretending this isn’t interesting.
“You weren’t at the game,” he says, mouth close to your ear.
“No.”
“Jake said you might come to the party.”
“Jake is very persuasive.”
“I’ll tell him that. He’ll be insufferable.”
You laugh and his hand tightens at your back, like your laugh does something to him, and then he pulls back enough to look at you and whatever’s on your face makes something shift in his expression — the easy performance of it dropping for just a second.
“Hey,” he says. Quieter. “You okay?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that.”
“Because you’ve been dancing like you’re trying to outrun something for the last forty minutes.”
You look at him. You’re a performer — you know what it is to be watched by someone who’s actually paying attention, and Heeseung is paying attention, and the accuracy of what he just said lands somewhere under your sternum.
“I broke up with my boyfriend two weeks ago,” you say. Surprised to hear yourself say it.
“Yeah?” Waiting. No particular reaction.
“He said I’d come back.” You hold his gaze. “I’m not going back.”
Heeseung looks at you for a moment. “No. You don’t seem like someone who goes back.”
The song changes. You’re barely dancing anymore. His hand is still at the small of your back and you’re close enough to feel the warmth coming off him.
“Heeseung,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Take me upstairs.”
The room is dim — one lamp in the corner, door shut, the party dropping to a muffled pulse below. He turns to face you and for a second you just look at each other, and then he crosses the space and kisses you.
It’s slow at first. Both hands framing your face, mouth working against yours. You grip the front of his shirt and kiss him back and he makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel in your stomach.
The kiss gets deeper — he tilts your head back and takes the angle he wants and you let him, open for him, tongue sliding against his, messy and warm and real. He pulls back to drag his mouth along your jaw, your throat, and you tip your head to give him room.
“Bed,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says, and walks you back to it.
He sits you on the edge and his hands slide up your sides — slow, deliberate — and stop at your chest. Both of them. Full.
You inhale sharply.
“Fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than you. His thumbs drag over your tits, testing, squeezing, like he’s been thinking about this. “Yeah. I’ve thought about this.”
His grip tightens — not rough, but not gentle either — and then he leans down and kisses you again while his hands work you, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your bra until you arch into him.
“Sensitive?” he murmurs.
You nod.
“Good.”
He pulls your top and bra down and his mouth replaces his hands — warm and open, taking your tit into his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before he sucks, harder than you expected. You gasp, back arching off the mattress. His other hand stays on your other breast, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, alternating between slow and sharp until you have your hands in his hair and your eyes at the ceiling and absolutely no remaining composure.
“Heeseung—”
“I know,” he says, not looking up. He drags his teeth lightly over your nipple as he pulls away and you shiver. Then he drops to his knees.
He gets your jeans off and pulls you to the edge of the mattress and then his mouth is on your inner thigh and he is in absolutely no hurry. He maps up slowly — open-mouthed, teeth occasionally — and you prop yourself on your elbows and watch him because you are not going to miss this. He glances up and catches you looking and the almost-smile you get is genuinely unfair.
When he finally gets to your pussy it’s without preamble — flat of his tongue, one long stroke, and the breath punches out of you. Then he settles in. He learns you fast: what makes your hips stutter, what makes you grab for him. His tongue works your clit in slow circles and then quick and then slow again, and when he slides two fingers into you and curls them against your walls you make a sound you’re not sorry about.
“There,” you say.
He keeps going there. His mouth stays on your clit and his fingers work that spot and you grab his hair — not directing, just holding on — and you feel it building fast, hot, unstoppable.
“Heeseung—”
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t need you to guide him or recalibrate or any of the things you’ve had to do before — he just reads you and responds and keeps going until your thighs are shaking against his shoulders and you’re coming, your whole body pulling taut and releasing in waves while he works you through every second of it.
He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and you pull him into a kiss before he’s finished moving.
“Your turn,” you say.
You get his shirt off and run your hands over his chest, his stomach. He’s beautiful and he knows it and somehow right now that’s not annoying. You get his jeans down and wrap your hand around his cock and the sharp intake of breath you get is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard all night. You stroke him slowly, watching his face — the composed expression cracking, jaw tight, eyes darker — and you could do this for a while just for that, but you want him inside you and you’re done waiting.
He rolls a condom on and then he’s between your thighs looking down at you, and you look back, and there’s a second of something real and unperformed before he presses into you.
The breath punches out of both of you.
He goes still, and you feel the stretch of him and grab his shoulder on reflex, and he says low, “good?”
“So good,” you say. “Move.”
He starts slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, his hand sliding back up to your chest — gripping your tits like he can’t help it.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I’m not getting over this.”
He picks up his pace and you feel every stroke of it against your walls and his thumb finds your nipple and works it and the combination makes coherent thought genuinely difficult. He watches your face while he fucks you and you let him look because whatever’s on your face right now is the most honest thing in the room.
He adjusts his angle and hits deeper and your back arches.
“Keep doing that,” you say.
He keeps doing that, harder, his other hand braced to hold you exactly where he wants you, until you cum around him with your nails in his back and he groans at the feeling of it.
You push him onto his back and he goes easy, hands settling at your hips. You sink down onto him and you both exhale. You start moving and his eyes drop to your chest immediately, hands coming up to grip your tits while you ride him, his head tipping back.
“Don’t stop,” he says.
His thumb finds your clit and circles it, perfectly timed with your rhythm, and you don’t last — you cum again with your rhythm breaking and he grips your hips and starts thrusting up into you, chasing it, control slipping.
He flips you without warning. On your stomach, his hand pressing into your lower back, setting the angle.
“Stay,” he says, breath uneven.
You do. And then you push back anyway.
That wrecks him.
“Fuck—” He loses the last of his control, fucking you harder, his voice rough and real and completely unlike the easy composed thing he is everywhere else. He buries himself and comes, body going rigid, and you feel every second of it.
You both go still.
The party thumps somewhere below you. The lamp throws everything amber. He rolls off you and you both lie there and breathe, and then you start laughing — not for any reason, just a release valve, just the sheer absurdity of this night — and after a beat he laughs too, genuine and unguarded, and it makes you like him a little more than you meant to.
“What’s funny,” he says.
“I genuinely don’t know,” you say.
The laughter settles. Ceiling. Quiet.
“How come I’ve never fucked you before?” he says. Conversational.
“I’m more of a relationship girl,” you say. Then you hear yourself say it and something shifts. “Or I was. I’ve been a relationship girl since I was like seventeen and honestly I think that’s the problem. I go from one to the next and I never just — “ you gesture at nothing “— exist. By myself. Without someone who has opinions about my life choices and whether my career is realistic and—” you stop. “Sorry. That was a lot.”
“No,” he says. He’s watching you with that full-beam attention that you’re starting to understand is just how he listens. “Keep going.”
“I just mean I don’t want another relationship right now. I want to have fun. I want to focus on my work and go out and not have to check in with anyone.” You pause. “That probably sounds—”
“Normal?” he says.
“I was going to say selfish.”
“Same thing sometimes.” He’s quiet for a second, easy, unbothered. “So do that.”
“I am,” you say. “I’m doing that.”
“Good.” A beat. Then: “We could help each other out. While you’re doing that.”
You look at him. “No strings?”
“No strings,” he confirms. “You’ve got your thing, I’ve got the season. Neither of us wants anything complicated.”
You look at him for a long moment. He looks back and doesn’t try to sell it, doesn’t push, just lets it sit there as a plain offer, take it or leave it.
You reach for your phone off the nightstand.
Hey, don’t wait up. I’ll see you in the morning x
Pen’s reply comes back in under a minute. A single question mark. You lock your phone and put it face-down and look at Heeseung.
He’s already watching you, and before you can say anything he reaches over and pulls you in by the jaw and kisses you — slow, no urgency, like you’ve got all night, which you do — and you go easily, your hand finding his chest, and that’s the end of the talking.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : fluff, slight angst, smut (MDNI)
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : swearing, mention of depression, mention of violence, blood, mention of drugs, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (m, f receiving), fingering, creampie, kissing, jealousy, ni-ki is clingy
𝐰𝐜 : 23.2k
𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓─── (lyrics are all related to the story)
♪ Best Mistake - Ariana Grande ft. Big Sean
♪ better off - Ariana Grande
♪ Break From Toronto - PARTYNEXTDOOR
♪ everytime - Ariana Grande
♪ GREENGREENGREEN - Chase Atlantic
♪ Is There Someone Else? - The Weeknd
♪ Tidal Wave - Chase Atlantic
♪ Agora Hills - Doja Cat
♪ Hold Me Tight - BTS
♪ Focus - H.E.R
♪ Deep - Summer Walker
♪ PERSIAN RUGS - PARTYNEXTDOOR
‼ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 : Best Mistake - Ariana Grande ft. Big Sean
2 years, 4 months and 11 days.
That's how long it's been since the news report. Since the photo of his face flashed across the screen and the words ‘body not recovered’ carved themselves into your brain like a tattoo. The case went cold after six months. ‘Settled on hold’ they called it. It was just an excuse to cover the fact that no one knows anything and no one is looking anymore. You stopped checking the news after the first year, you stopped hoping after the 18th month. Somewhere around the 20th month, you finally admitted it to yourself in the dark of your bedroom, staring at the ceiling : he's not coming back. He's dead. The depression came in waves when it started. After weeks, it became the tide, always there, pulling at your ankles even on the good days. You went to class, you graduated, you found a job you don't hate. Nevertheless, you never went on a single date and never let anyone touch you.
Jess tried in the beginning. She'd send you dating app profiles, drag you to parties or set you up with "nice guys" who had steady jobs and good personalities. You'd go through motions, but your heart was a locked door and you'd lost the key somewhere in the back of that black Camaro. She stopped trying about a year ago because she realized you needed something different.
──────
The airport is crowded. You're standing near the arrivals gate, holding a sign you made as a joke, "WELCOME BACK, LOSER", because Jess texted you that she missed your stupid face and you figured you'd match the vibe. Her flight from London landed 20 minutes ago. You watch the glass doors slide open and shut at least 2 times, each time releasing a new wave of tired travelers dragging suitcases.
You finally spot her. Jess's hair is shorter. She's wearing a leather jacket you've never seen before. She looks older in a way that suits her, making her look more mature than she was before. When she spots you, her face breaks into a grin you'd know anywhere and she drops her carry-on right there in the middle of the terminal to run at you. You barely catch her.
"Oh my God," she says into your shoulder, squeezing tightly. "You're real. You're actually here."
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. I've been gone for a year. I thought you might have turned into a ghost."
"Only on the inside."
She pulls back and stares at your face. Her eyes search yours, and you know she's cataloging the changes, your dark circles that never went away, the weight you lost and never gained back, and most importantly, how you don’t smile like before.
"You look good," she says softly.
"You almost look the same." You smile weakly.
She grabs her bags and you walk out into the cold air. Her car is in short-term parking, she left it at your place before she flew out, and you've been driving it once a week to keep the battery alive.
"I missed this," she says, settling into the passenger seat. "I missed you…and the shitty weather."
"You've been in London. The weather there isn't exactly better than here."
"Yeah, but still, it's different when it's yours."
You pull out of the parking garage and head toward her apartment. The city hasn't changed much in a year. Jess fills the silence with stories ; her flatmates, her job, a guy she dated for two months who turned out to have a girlfriend in Manchester. You listen and nod. She doesn't ask about you yet. She's waiting for the right moment, and you appreciate that more than she'll ever know.
──────
Her apartment is exactly how she left it, with plants dead on the windowsill, mail stacked on the kitchen counter, a blanket still draped over the couch from the night before she flew out. You help her drag her suitcase inside and she immediately goes for the bottle of wine she left in the fridge.
"Emergency stash," she says, twisting off the cap. "I knew I'd need it."
You take a glass and she takes the whole bottle. She kicks off her shoes and collapses onto the couch, patting the spot next to her. You sit. The wine tastes cheap but it’s warm enough to make you feel something.
"Okay," she says, not looking at you. "I have news."
"Good news or bad news?"
"Hmmm, it depends on how you feel about change."
You wait. She takes a long sip from the bottle.
"I'm getting married."
The words hang in the air. You blink at her.
"What?"
"In two weeks. Alex proposed to me. I picked out the ring and organized everything. I'm freaking out."
Alex. You've met him twice. He's fine. Tall, quiet, works in finance. He makes Jess laugh, which is really the only standard that matters.
"You're getting married, like, at 23?" you say slowly.
"Yeah? Why not? I mean, I feel like there’s no proper age to do that." She sets the bottle down and turns to face you, pulling her knees up. "And I need you, emotionally. For support. Because this is huge and I'm terrified. I can't do it without my best friend."
Your throat tightens. "Jess."
"I know you've been through hell. I know you're not okay and I'm not asking you to pretend to be okay for me." Her voice cracks. "I'm just asking you to be there. That's all."
You reach over and take her hand. Her fingers are cold from the wine bottle.
"I'll be there," you say. "Obviously I'll be there."
She exhales like she's been holding that breath for a year. "Thank you."
The wine loosens things after a while. She tells you about the after-wedding plan, a hike at sunset, a picnic, etc. You tell her about your job, about the cat you adopted six months ago, his name is Miso, about the therapy you started and stopped and started again.
She doesn't bring up Ni-ki and you don't either. The ghost quietly sits between you anyway.
"So," she says, refilling your glass even though it's still half full. "We need to talk about the honeymoon."
"You're planning the honeymoon before the wedding?"
"Alex’s family is really intense. I need something to look forward to." She pulls out her phone, scrolling through a notes app. "We're thinking maybe Europe. Or East Asia. He really wants to try Japan."
"Japan?"
"Yeah. Tokyo, Kyoto, everything. He's obsessed with the food." She shrugs. "I'm not opposed. It's supposed to be beautiful."
You nod, staring at your wine. "It is. I've heard."
"And here's the thing." She puts her phone down and looks at you. "I want everyone there. The whole group : Jay, Jake, Jungwon, all of them. I want them to be groomsmen. And I want you to be my maid of honor, obviously."
Your heart aches.
"And," she continues, "I want to take them on the honeymoon. Alex's bringing his friends too. We're thinking maybe a big trip for, I don’t know, 10 days. Everyone together."
You stare at her. "You want to bring your friends on your honeymoon ?"
"It's not a honeymoon ‘honeymoon’. It's a post-wedding celebration trip. We'll call it something else." She grins. "Come on, it’ll be fun. You, me and the guys. In Japan."
Jake, Jay and Jungwon. All the names you've been avoiding for two years because they remind you of him. Jess sees something shift in your face. Her smile fades.
"You don't have to decide now," she says quietly. "Just think about it."
You pick up your wine and take a long drink. The apartment is quiet now.
"Okay," you say finally. "I'll think about it."
Jess leans her head on your shoulder. The weight of her is familiar and warm. "Hey," she says. "We're gonna be okay. You and me."
As hours passed, the wine bottle is empty. The second one is halfway there. You're both on Jess's living room floor now, surrounded by takeout containers and the crumpled bags from the face masks she insisted on. The sound of the TV playing in the background.
Jess is on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, feet kicked up behind her. You're leaning against the couch, legs stretched out.
"I have an idea," Jess says. The wine has made her voice loose and excited.
"Oh please—"
"Hear me out." She sits up cross-legged, her hair falling out on her face. "My wedding dress came in last week. It's in my closet, in the garment bag."
You blink at her. "You want me to look at it?"
"I want you to try it on."
"Jess. That's your wedding dress."
"Yeah, and you're my maid of honor. I want to see what it looks like on someone who isn't me." She's already scrambling to her feet, grabbing your hand. "Come on, it's not weird. People do this."
"Do they?"
"They do in movies."
You let her pull you up, arguing with Jess when she's like this is like arguing with a wall. She drags you to her bedroom, flips on the light and dramatically unzips the closet. The garment bag is white, obviously. It hangs in the center like it's the star of a one person show. Jess unzips it slowly and steps back. The dress is simple. You expected lace and layers, but it's clean, made of satin, off-the-shoulder, with a silhouette that hugs and then flows. It's elegant, it’s very Jess.
"I'm going to cry," you say.
"Not yet you idiot. Try it on first, then you can cry." She pulls the dress off the hanger and holds it out to you. You hesitate for only a second before taking it.
"You need help with the zipper?"
"Yeah I think."
You strip down to your underwear in front of her closet mirror, the way you've done a hundred times in dorm rooms and shared apartments. The dress slides over your head, cold and heavy, and settles against your body. It's a little loose in the chest, a little long, but it fits better than it has any right to. Jess steps behind you and pulls the zipper up. Her fingers are warm against your spine.
"Okay," she says. "Look."
You turn to face the mirror. The woman staring back at you doesn't look like yourself. She looks like someone who could get married, who could stand at an altar and make promises and whose heart isn't buried in a cold case file somewhere.
"You look beautiful," Jess says quietly.
You don't answer as you can feel your throat tightening. She wraps her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder, and the two of you stand there in the silence of her bedroom, staring at your reflection in her wedding dress.
"He would have wanted you to be happy," Jess whispers. You close your eyes. You don't know what Ni-ki would have wanted. You never got to ask. All you have left are the things he didn't say and all the times he pushed you away.
"Maybe," you say. "I don't know."
Jess squeezes you tighter. "Well, I want you to be happy, and I'm not dead. So listen to me."
A laugh cracks out of you. You lean back into her.
"Okay," you say.
She lets go and spins you around by the shoulders. "Now help me take this off before I cry and ruin the satin." She unzips you. You step out of the dress and hangs it back in the closet, zipping the garment bag like you’re putting a secret away. She grabs your hand and pulls you back to the living room where the wine is waiting.
You just drink the rest of the bottle and fall asleep on her floor, tangled in blankets, holding onto each other like you're the only two people left in the world who understand what it means to lose something and keep going anyway.
──────
‼ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 : better off - Ariana Grande
It’s the morning of the wedding. You're standing in the corner of the bridal suite, holding a glass of champagne you haven't touched, watching six women in matching silk robes run around like the building is on fire. Jess is in the center of it all, calm as a lake, while her mother fusses with her veil and her sister chases down a missing earring. You should be helping because you're the maid of honor. Your job is to fix things and fetch things and tell Jess she looks beautiful every three minutes. However you can't stop staring at her. She's radiant. Seeing her genuinely happy wants to make you cry so much.
"Y/N." Jess catches your eye in the mirror. "You're going to make me cry if you keep looking at me like that."
"Sorry." You blink and take a sip of your drink. "You just look—"
"Don't say beautiful, everyone's said beautiful."
"Like you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Her face softens. She reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezing once. You two don’t even have to communicate to understand each other.
The ceremony is outside, under a wooden arch wrapped in white flowers. The sky is bright blue, it nearly makes you believe in good omens. You walk down the aisle first, alone, because Jess wanted it simple. The groomsmen are already up front ; Jay, Jungwon, Alex's two brothers, and Jake. He smiles when he sees you. His suit is navy and his tie slightly crooked. You fix it when you reach your spot, because someone has to, and he mutters ‘thanks’ under his breath. Afterward the music changes so everyone stands. Jess appears at the end of the aisle, her father's arm linked through hers and the whole world goes quiet. You don't cry during the vows, you had to hold it together, but when Jess looks at Alex and says "I knew it was you from the beginning," something cracks behind your ribs and it’s not for her.
──────
Finally, the reception. It’s in a simple but well-decorated barn. The tables are decorated with wildflowers and tea candles. The DJ is playing something slow while people finish their dinner. You're seated between Jungwon and a cousin of Alex's whose name you've already forgotten. You push food around your plate and drink two glasses of wine, not more, and you try to force a laugh at every joke you didn’t quite understand.
Jake is across the room, at the groomsmen's table, talking to Jay with his hands. He catches you looking and raises his glass and you raise yours back.
It's past ten and the dance floor turns into a mess. Someone started a conga line, Jess is barefoot, her dress hiked up as she’s laughing so hard she's crying. Alex is trying to keep up but he's stepped on three people's feet.
You slip outside. The air is cool enough to make you relax for a bit. You find a bench near the fence line, away from the lights and the noise, and you sit. The moon is half-full, crickets are doing their thing. You just feel the bench shift when he sits down.
"Hey," Jake says.
"Hi."
He's loosened his tie. His sleeves are rolled up. His forehead is glistening with sweat.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Fine. I just needed air."
He nods, staying quiet. That's what you've always liked about him. He knows when to speak or not. For a while, you just sit there, the music from the inside is muffled, you’re just hearing bass notes and occasional cheers.
"I miss him too, you know ?" Jake says quietly. You can’t look at him.
"I know, I think everyone does."
"Like, not the way you do, obviously." He runs a hand through his hair. "But I think about him. I mean—Random stuff. And that stupid exhale thing he did when he laughed."
You smile despite yourself. "The nose thing."
"Yeah, the nose thing." Silence stretches between you. "I ran into someone last month," Jake says. "At a bar. It was a guy who knew some guys who knew some guys. And…he said he heard that Ni-ki might still be alive."
Your heart stops.
"Jake."
"I know, I know. It's probably nothing and people like to talk." He turns to look at you, and his eyes are sad, you’ve never seen him like this before. "But I thought you should know. Even if it's just a rumor and even if it's bullshit." You stare at the barn, at all those people dancing without knowing what happened 2 years ago.
"Why are you telling me this?" Your voice sounds far away.
"Because you've been waiting." He says it simply like it's obvious. "For two years, you've been waiting. I don't know if you're waiting for closure or for him to come back and give you a permission to stop. But I figured...maybe if you knew there's a chance, even a small one, you could decide what you actually want."
You turn to face him. His jaw is set, his hands are clasped between his knees.
"Thank you," you say.
"Don't thank me. I'm not trying to give you false hope. I just—" He stops and starts again. "You're my friend. I hate watching you live half a life."
Something hot pricks behind your eyes but you blink it away.
"I don't know how to live a whole one," you admit.
Jake reaches over and takes your hand. His palm is warm.
"Maybe start small," he says. "Like dancing with me at this wedding. Before Jess kills us for hiding outside during her first dance."
A laugh escapes you. "She did say she wanted photos."
"She's going to be insufferable about it." He stands and pulls you up. His hand stays in yours. "Come on." You walk back toward the barn together, the music getting louder with each step. The door is propped open with a potted plant. Inside, everyone is spinning, laughing, and alive. Jess spots you immediately. She's back in her heels, dancing with Alex’s youngest brother, she yells something unintelligible that's probably a threat. Jake leads you onto the floor. The song is fast now, something with a beat you can feel in your teeth. He lets go of your hand and starts moving so weirdly that you can't help but laugh.
"Don't film this," he warns.
"I'm absolutely going to film this."
You almost forget about his ghost and the two years of waiting. You just dance with your friends at your best friend's wedding. And it's not happiness, not really, yet it feels like crack of light through a door you thought you'd locked. It’s still something. When the song ends, Jake pulls you into a hug. His chin rests on the top of your head.
"Whatever happens," he says into your hair, "you're not alone. Okay?"
You nod against his chest.
"Thank you," you whisper.
The DJ starts playing something slow. Couples pair off. Jake steps back and looks at you, questioning. You shake your head. He nods, understanding and walks toward the bar.
You find Jess instead. She's fanning herself with her hand, flushed and glowing.
"Having fun?" she asks.
"Yeah," you say, almost feeling it.
──────
Back at Jess’s apartment, it still smells like the arrangement of flowers from her wedding bouquet. She's got the leftover centerpieces scattered around like she's trying to squeeze the last bit of joy out of them. You're on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching her spread maps across the coffee table. Jake is in the armchair, feet up on the ottoman and phone in hand. Jay is on the floor, back against the couch, eating grapes from a bowl in his lap. Jungwon is late, as usual.
"Okay guys," Jess says, clapping her hands. "Japan. We need to figure out actual plans. We can’t play the ‘we’ll figure it out there’ because Alex’s friends will literally wander into traffic without a schedule." Jay pops a grape in his mouth. "How many of his friends are coming?"
"Four. Plus Alex, plus us, so…nine in total." She starts pulling sticky notes out of nowhere. "I already found a house in Kyoto. It has a garden and a weird amount of cat statues." Jake looks up from his phone. "Cat statues?"
"The reviews said they're spiritually significant. I'm not going to ask questions."
You lean forward, looking at the printouts. There's one of a bamboo forest, one of a temple at sunset, one of some street food. It makes your stomach growl despite the grapes you’ve already eaten. "When are we supposed to do this?" you ask. "With work and everything."
Jess waves a hand. "October. Everyone's taking time off. Alex already cleared it with his boss. Jay's job is flexible and Jake can quit."
Jake snorts. "I'm not quitting my job for a trip."
"You could get another job."
"I could not. The market's shit."
Jay reaches for more grapes. "What about you, Y/N? Can you get time off?"
You nod slowly. "Yeah. I have days saved up. I haven't used them in...a while." No one comments on why. The silence is brief but noticeable. Jungwon finally shows up, out of breath and apologizing for his bus being late. He squeezes onto the couch next to you, close but not uncomfortably so. "What'd I miss?"
"Cat statues." Jake says.
"That’s fucking cool. I'm in."
Jess continues. "So the house has 6 bedrooms. We'll have to double up. Couples get their own rooms obviously and the rest of us are splitting."
Jay raises a hand. "I'm not sharing with Jake. He snores."
"I do not snore."
"You snore so loud I heard you through the wall last week." Jay and Jake live in the same apartment complex since college.
"That was the neighbor's dog."
"We don't have a neighbor with a dog." The argument devolves into the two of them arguing about decibel levels and who kept who awake during a camping trip three years ago. Jess ignores them and turns to you. "You okay sharing with someone? Or do you want your own room?"
You pause to think about it. Sleeping alone in a foreign country, in a house full of people, with nothing but your thoughts ? Or sharing a room with someone who might ask questions you don't want to answer ?
"I can share," you say. "Whoever."
Jess nods, making a note. "Jungwon, you're with Jay. Jake, you're with—"
"If I have to hear one more thing about Jake's sleep apnea—" Jay starts.
"I don't have sleep apnea, you motherfu—"
"You stop breathing in your sleep. That's literally the definition."
"It's a deep breath. It's relaxing."
Jungwon is watching them like a tennis match. He leans toward you. "They do this every time."
"I've noticed."
Jess slams a sticky note onto the table. "Enough. Jay, you're with Jungwon. Jake, you're with Y/N. Problem solved."
Jay looks offended. "Why do I get demoted to Jungwon?"
"Because Jungwon doesn't snore."
"I don't snore, for fuck’s sake !” Jake throw back his head on the couch in frustration.
"Just admit it, it’s not gonna kill you." The conversation spirals again about diverse subjects. You listen, half-participating. At some point, Jake catches your eye from across the room. He tilts his head slightly, checking in.
You give him a small nod. I'm fine. He nods back. Okay.
Jess is now explaining the itinerary she's already half-planned, 3 days in Tokyo, a day in Kyoto, a day trip to Nara to see the deer. She's vibrating with excitement, pen behind her ear and hair falling in her face.
"We should also do karaoke," Jay says. "I mean, we have to."
"Obviously."
"And we need to try that crazy vending machine stuff."
"And hot springs," Jungwon adds. "The ones outside, with the monkeys."
Jess points the pen at him. "Monkey hot springs are already on the list."
You lean back into the couch cushions. The conversation washes over you, it’s loud, messy, and full of interruptions.
Jess looks at you. "You're being quiet. What’s up?"
"I’m just thinking."
"About what ?"
You shrug. "Monkey hot springs."
She laughs. "That's the spirit."
Jake throws a pillow at you from across the room. You catch it and throw it back. He misses and it hits Jay in the face.
"Who threw that?"
"Jake."
"Jake, I swear to God—" The argument starts again. Jungwon steals the last grape. Jess adds "buy more grapes" to her sticky note. You sit there, in the middle of it all, feeling something you haven't felt in a long time. Something close to happiness, an ordinary chaos that reminds you you're still alive.
──────
At the airport, people are everywhere. Luggage carts weaving through crowds and children screaming. You're standing there, clutching your passport while Jess argues with a check-in agent about baggage weight. "It's not my fault the souvenirs from the duty free will add three kilos," she's saying. "That's future me's problem." Alex puts a hand on her shoulder. "Babe. Let it go."
"I will never let it go."
Jake is sprawled across three seats near the window, his phone in hand and earbuds in. He looks up when you pass and pulls one earbud out. "Nervous?"
"No," you say. "Maybe."
"First time on a plane?"
"First time out of the country." He whistles low. "Damn. And you're starting with Japan. That’s crazy."
"Yeah, I guess."
Jay and Jungwon come back from the coffee shop, each holding a drink. Jay hands you one without asking. You don't remember telling him to bring you one but apparently you did at some point. "Flight's on time," Jungwon says, checking the board. "Boarding in 40 minutes." Everyone settles into a cluster of seats. The conversation begins with work, rent and memories from college. Jay is on his phone, scrolling, the way he's been doing for the past 10 minutes. His thumb stops. "Huh," he says. No one pays attention. "I said huh." Louder this time.
Jake looks over. "What ?"
He holds up his phone. " A news article. About Tokyo." He reads aloud. "'Local authorities report a sharp increase in criminal activity over the past six months, with drug trafficking and money laundering operations expanding into residential areas. Police have made several arrests but warn tourists to remain vigilant.'"
Your stomach drops. Jess frowns. "That's where we're going?"
"Apparently." Jay keeps scrolling. "It says here they've been trying to crack down on a network connected to...wait." He pauses, squinting at the screen.
"What ?" Jake asks.
"It mentions something about a cold case from a couple years ago. Some rich kid who got caught up in it. Shot, body never found." Jay looks up. "That sounds a bit too familiar." The silence that follows is heavy enough to crush something. You feel everyone's eyes flick to you. Jungwon clears his throat. "It’s probably not related."
"I guess so," Jay agrees, but he's still staring at his phone. Jake stands up. "I'm gonna grab another coffee. Anyone want anything?" A chorus of no's. He walks off, not looking back.
Jess reaches over and puts her hand on your knee. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. "Fine."
"You don't have to be fine, you know ?"
"I know."
She leaves her hand there. The airport buzzes around you with announcements and footsteps. Jay locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket. "Sorry. I shouldn't have read that out loud."
"It's okay," you say again. The news exists whether you hear it or not. The world keeps spinning, crime increases, cases go cold and people disappear. You’re getting on a plane to a country where the same shit that took him away is still happening.
Jake comes back with his coffee. He stands near your seat, close enough that his leg is almost touching yours.
"Y/N," he says quietly. "We don't have to go. We can change plans and go somewhere else."
You look up at him. His face is serious and he rarely is.
"No," you say. "Jess wants this. I'm not ruining her trip because of...because of something that happened two years ago."
"That's not ruining anything. That's called taking care of yourself."
You shake your head. "I'm tired of running away from things. If there's crime in Tokyo, fine. We'll be careful, we’ll stay in safe areas and won't do anything stupid." You pause. "I'm not letting him take this from me too."
Jake holds your gaze for a long moment before he nods.
"Okay," he says. "But if you need to tap out at any point, you tell me. Not Jess, because she'll make it a whole thing. Just tell me."
"I will."
He squeezes your shoulder once and goes back to his seat. Jess is looking at you with a mixed expression. She doesn't say anything.
The boarding announcement crackles over the speakers. Group 1 and then group 2. You pick up your carry-on and stand in line with everyone else, your passport in one hand, your boarding pass in the other. The anxiety is real once you get to the jet bridge. You walk toward the plane. Ahead, you hear a flight attendant smiles and says "Welcome aboard." You find your seat at the window. You press your forehead against the cold glass and watch the ground crew load the last of the bags.
Jess sits next to you and she takes your hand and holds it until the plane takes off.
──────
The house sits at the end of a narrow street in Kyoto's Higashiyama district, a traditional machiya with wooden lattices and a sliding door that sticks halfway through. You drag your suitcase across the threshold and stop.
The place is gorgeous, with polished concrete floors in the entryway give way to tatami mats in the main room. A low wooden table sits in the center with a tea set already arranged. The garden out back is small but immaculate, a single maple tree dropping leaves into a stone basin.
"Holy shit," Jay says behind you, pushing past with his duffel. "Jess, how did you find this ?"
"TikTok and prayers."
Jake is already wandering toward the back hallway, running his fingers over the wood frames. "There are six bedrooms. I'm calling dibs on the one with the private bath."
"You don't even know which one has the private bath," Jungwon points out.
"I'll find it."
You grab your bag and head down the hallway, glancing into rooms as you pass. Futons on the floor and paper lanterns hanging from hooks. The last room at the end has two futons already laid out and a window facing the garden.
Jake appears behind you. "This one's ours."
Ours. Right. The room assignment Jess had finalized weeks ago. You'd forgotten until now. You set your bag down and unzip it, pulling out your toiletries and a change of clothes. Jake does the same on the other side of the room, humming a melody. The space is small enough that when you both turn around at the same time, you almost bump into each other.
"Sorry," you say.
"Don't apologize. It's a small room." He grins. "Guess we'll have to get used to it."
You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. He stumbles back onto his futon, laughing, and you can't help but smile. It feels foreign and welcoming at the same time.
An hour later, everyone is showered, changed and hungry enough to eat a horse. Jess has a list of restaurants saved on her phone. TikTok recommendations again.
"This one has good reviews for ramen," she says, holding up her screen. "And it's a 10 minutes walk."
"I could eat ramen every day for the rest of my life," Jay announces.
"You'd get stomach aches."
"Worth it."
The streets of Kyoto are narrower than you expected, lined with small shops and vending machines that glow in the afternoon light. You walk in a loose group, Jess and Alex holding hands up front, Jay and Jungwon arguing about something behind them and Jake beside you with his hands in his pockets.
The ramen shop is tiny, fitting maybe ten seats at a wooden counter, steam fogging up the windows and an old man behind the stove who nods at you when you enter. You squeeze in, elbows touching, and order without really understanding the menu. The broth arrives dark and rich, pork slices floating on top and green onions scattered like confetti.
You eat until your stomach hurts.
After eating ramen, Jess insists on hitting a dessert place she found online ; some spot that does mochi stuffed with sweet red bean paste. It's down a side alley and behind a curtain that looks like someone's front door, but inside it's warm and smells like rice flour. The old woman serving doesn't speak English yet she smiles at you like a grandmother would and you point at things until you end up with a plate of green mochi, matcha flavored.
Jungwon checks his phone. "There's a place nearby that does yakitori. Like, grilled skewers. There’s chicken, beef, vegetables. That actually sounds fucking good."
"That's the most real food I've ever heard."
You end up at a yakitori spot that's essentially a guy with a grill on the sidewalk and a few plastic stools. The smoke curls up into the evening air and the chicken is charred perfectly, salty and sweet. You eat standing up, sauce dripping down your fingers and no one cares because everyone else is doing the same thing.
The bar is a recommendation from the guy running the yakitori grill. He wrote the name on a napkin in kanji , which you couldn't read, and pointed down the street, saying something about whiskey and good music.
It's a basement place, stairs leading down into darkness with a red curtain at the bottom. Inside, the lighting is low, jazz playing from speakers, bottles lined up behind a bartender. You find a booth in the corner, leather seats worn smooth and slide in.
Jess orders champagne for the table because it's her engagement celebration and she can do what she wants. The bottle arrives in an ice bucket and she pours everyone a glass with shaking hands.
"Toast," she says, holding hers up. "To Japan and to this trip. To Alex for putting up with me."
"To Jess for planning everything so I didn't have to," Alex counters.
"To Y/N for finally leaving the country," Jake adds and everyone laughs.
You raise your glass and take a drink. The champagne is dry and cold, it bubbles up your nose. Two bottles later, the conversation has scattered to a dozen different places. Alex and Jess are tucked into their own world at the end of the booth, foreheads touching, whispering things that make her giggle. You're sitting next to Jake, your shoulder pressed against his while watching the bartender polish a glass with a rag.
"I'm glad you decided to come," Jake says, not looking at you.
"Me too."
"It’s good to see you lighter and…happier, than usual."
He's not wrong. The weight in your chest hasn't disappeared but it's shifted somehow, it became something you can carry without hunching your shoulders. Or maybe it's the champagne, or it's the city as it’s full of things you've never seen, surrounded by people who refuse to let you disappear into yourself.
"Maybe I'm getting better," you say.
Jake turns his head to look at you. His face is open in a way it rarely is, no jokes hiding behind his eyes.
"You are," he says.
Jess stands up suddenly, nearly knocking over the ice bucket. "I have to pee," she announces. "After that we're doing shots."
"We're doing shots ?" Alex asks, alarmed.
"We're celebrating. Shots are made for it."
No one argues. The bartender lines up glasses and pours vodka in tiny glasses. Jay downs his in one go and coughs so hard Jungwon has to slap his back. Jess does a little dance after hers. Jake holds his up to you before drinking, a silent cheers, and you clink your glass against his.
You're not sure you believe in happiness anymore. However all of this ; the noise, the warmth, how your face hurts from smiling — this is something. It’s making you feel better, making you feel like you’re alive.
──────
The walk back to the house is quiet, only the distant sound of a train carries with your footsteps on the concrete. You're tired but it feels good, like you've earned it. Jake keeps bumping into your shoulder accidentally on purpose. Jess is leaning on Alex so heavily he's practically carrying her.
The house greets you with its wooden warmth and the faint smell of the tatami. Shoes come off in a pile by the door. You brush your teeth in a shared bathroom, elbows knocking against Jay's, spitting into the same sink because there are too many people and not enough space. It should be gross but it’s just familiar.
Back in the room, Jake is already on his futon, phone face-down on his chest and his eyes closed. You crawl onto yours and pull the blanket up to your chin. The garden window is dark now, it’s just a square of deeper black.
"Goodnight," you whisper.
"Mmph," he responds.
Sleep comes faster than it has in years.
──────
Morning light filters through the shoji screens, soft and warm, turning the whole room alive. You wake up on your stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, and for a disorienting second you don't know where you are. You hear Jake snoring lightly on the other side of the room and everything clicks back into place. He's still asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over his head. You just notice before you look away.
The kitchen is already active as you wander out in your sweats. Jess is making coffee with a setup she found in the cupboard. Alex is reading something on his phone and Jay is slumped at the low table, head resting on his arms, clearly not recovered from yesterday’s flight.
"There's a bakery two streets over," Jess says without looking up. "They have pastries like croissants and stuff. Jungwon found it on Google."
"I'm going," you say.
"Take Jay and Jungwon with you. I need to talk to Alex about something." Jay groans but stands up. Jungwon emerges from the bathroom, hair still wet and looking disgustingly awake.
You enter a tiny bakery, where everything is made in the back and displayed in a glass case. The woman behind the counter has flour on her apron and kind eyes. You point at things : a custard-filled bun, a flaky pastrywith red bean, a sesame pastry that looks delicious and she boxes them up with careful hands.
Outside, the three of you find a low stone wall to sit on, the morning sun warm on your shoulders and you tear into the pastries like animals.
"I heard that," Jungwon says between bites, "the hot spring baths in Kyoto are different from Tokyo, right? They’re more traditional?"
Jay nods, his mouth full. "Yeah. The ones here are like—outdoor, natural, they’re mixed sometimes. Tokyo is more like—Commercial and super modern."
"I want to do the outdoor one with the monkeys."
"You and everyone else." Jay brushes crumbs off his lap. "But when we get to Tokyo, there's this sento near the place we're staying. It’s kind of old school."
"Sounds authentic."
"Original, I would say."
You're quiet, listening, the pastry warm in your hands. The street is waking up.
"Is it weird?" you ask. "The whole...I mean—being naked with strangers ?"
Jungwon shrugs. "I don’t know about you, but for me, I get over it after five minutes. Everyone's too busy relaxing to care."
Jay points a sesame crust at you. "First time, you'll be nervous. Second time, you'll be planning your next visit. It's so relaxing that it’s almost addictive."
You take a bite of the custard bun. It’s sweet and soft, the filling warm against your tongue.
"Maybe I'll try it," you say. "The one here, not the monkey one. Just a regular one."
Jungwon smiles. "I'll go with you. If you want."
"Yeah, let’s do it one day."
You’re having dinner at night. Twelve courses at a kaiseki place where each dish looked like a painting and tasted like nothing you'd ever had before. You ate fermented soybeans that made Jay gag, a new kind of jelly, and a piece of fish so fresh you could still taste the ocean. By the time you rolled back to the house, everyone was too full to speak.
Sleep came heavy and dreamless.
──────
Morning arrives with suitcases zipped and the house returned to its original state. Jess does a final sweep of the rooms while Alex hauls bags to the curb. The taxi to the station is cramped, knees knocking, someone's elbow in your ribs but you don't mind. The shinkansen slides into Kyoto Station like a silver bullet, it’s quiet and terrifyingly fast. You find your seats and settle in for the 2 hours ride. Jake falls asleep within five minutes, his mouth open, head lolling toward the window. You watch the countryside blur past, mountains, small towns with train crossings and vending machines. Very different from home.
As you arrive in Tokyo, it’s totally different. Crowds push from every direction, buildings stacked on top of buildings and noise from a thousand sources. The hotel is in Shibuya, a slim tower with a lobby. The check-in is smooth.
"We've got four rooms," Jess announces, handing out key cards. "Couples get their own. The rest of you, pair up however."
Jungwon catches your eye. "Roommates ?"
"Yeah sure."
He hands you a key card which says Room 129.
The room seems small at first but efficient. Two twin beds separated by a nightstand. A window overlooking an alley, a bathroom so compact you can sit on the toilet and wash your hands at the same time. You toss your bag on the bed by the window and Jungwon takes the one near the door. You unpack in comfortable silence. He's easy to be around. He hums while he folds his shirts. You hang your dress in the tiny closet.
After a few minutes, he sits on the edge of his bed and looks at you.
"Y/N," he says. "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
He smiles, his teeth slightly showing. "That article at the airport. The one Jay read about the crime in Tokyo."
Your hands pause on your suitcase.
"I've been thinking about it," he continues. "About how you reacted. You went really quiet. I know you've been doing better on this trip. I’ve seen that you've been smiling more, laughing too. It's good to see." He pauses. "But…I don't want to pretend like that article didn't happen and like…we didn't all read it and think of him."
You sit on your bed facing him.
"You want to talk about it ?" you ask.
"I don't know. Do you?"
That past is the past after all. Yet you could feel the ache from holding back everything you’ve been wanting to say since then.
"I need to get over it already," you say. "That's the truth. I've been stuck on something that happened two years ago, it’s something I can't change. And mostly someone who's not coming back." You pick at a thread on the duvet. "Everyone else has moved on. Why can't I?"
He doesn't jump in with reassurance as he lets the question hang.
"I don’t know…maybe because moving on isn't a straight line," he says finally. "You may not be as stuck as you think. You're here, in Tokyo, eating new things and sharing new memories with us. That's not nothing."
You look at him. His face is calm and patient.
"I just don't want to be the person who's still crying over a ghost 2 years from now," you say.
"You don't have to be." He says it simply, "But don't beat yourself up for taking the time you need either. You're not on anyone else's schedule."
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Thanks," you say.
"For what ?"
"For not telling me to just get over it."
He shrugs. "That would be stupid advice."
You let out a small laugh, barely audible.
Jungwon stands up and stretches. "Come on. Jess said she wants to do some department store food hall thing for lunch. She wanted to try sushi, I think."
"Okay, let’s go."
You grab your jacket and follow him out. The elevator doors close behind you, and you don't look back.
──────
The hotel room is dark, you could only see the red little light coming from the air conditioner. Jungwon's breathing has been even for hours, a tiredness coming from too much walking and too much visiting. You've been staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever, your phone on the nightstand reading 2:47 AM.
Your legs feel restless and your brain won't shut off.
You decide to slip out of bed without making the floor squeak, pull on a hoodie and grab your room key. The hallway is empty and the elevator silent. The lobby has one person at the front desk, a young man scrolling through his phone, who nods at you without interest as you walk past.
The night air hits you immediately as you step out of the lobby. Tokyo in spring is cooler than you expected, it’s damp, and the streets shining from a rain you didn't even hear fall. The convenience store is two blocks down, its bright lights spilling onto the sidewalk, a little place for insomniac and broken people. You've been that person before, you're still that person now.
The store is warmer than the outside when you make your way inside. You grab a basket and wander the aisles without purpose. You take ramen in a black cup, chips and a little salmon onigiri wrapped in plastic. You also take on the way a can of soda. The cashier is a girl with tired eyes, she seems like she doesn’t sleep either, not like she had the choice. She scans your items without speaking. You eat outside, sitting on the low concrete wall that separates the parking lot from the street. The ramen is too salty and the chips aren’t making it better but you eat them anyway.
The street is quiet at this hour. You're thinking about nothing, really, perhaps the texture of the noodles, when you hear it.
A thud and then another. It’s wet and heavy. So you look up.
Across the street, in the gap between two buildings where the streetlight doesn't reach, two shapes are moving. One is on the ground, the other is standing over him, arm pulling back and his fist connecting with something soft.
Your body moves despite your fear.
"Hey !" The word comes out loud and sharp. "Stop it !"
The figure on the ground scrambles backward, he gets to his feet and runs. His shoes slap against the pavement, echoing down the street until they fade. He doesn't look back and you can’t even blame him.
The other man doesn't run, he stays still. He just stands there, breathing hard, his head down. A hoodie obscures his face. His hands are hanging at his sides, one of them bloody, the knuckles split open in the dark.
You cross the street without thinking. The pavement is wet, making your sneakers squeak.
"What the fuck is your problem ?" you say.
He doesn't respond. His chest is heaving.
"I said—"
He looks up.
The hood falls back slightly, just enough for the streetlight to catch his face. His jaw is sharper than you remember. The scar near his eyebrow. His eyes are the same, dark, and so tired. You can feel it, your stomach dropping under you.
Ni-ki.
You stop breathing. He looks at you like he's seen a ghost, like you're the one who shouldn't be here.
"Y/N ?" he says.
His voice is rougher than before. It’s sounds older. You can’t believe it’s him. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is entirely shaking.
"You're dead," you whisper. "You're supposed to be dead."
He doesn't say anything, standing there, bleeding, breathing, and real.
You slap him.
Your palm connects with his cheek and the sound cracks through the quiet street as sharp as a gunshot. His head turns with the impact, hood slipping further back, and when he looks at you again there's a red mark blooming across his skin.
"You asshole," you say. Your voice breaks. "You absolute fucking asshole."
You hit him again and again. Your fists are clumsy, landing on his shoulders, his chest, and anywhere you can reach. He doesn't block you nor move, he takes it like he deserves it, because he does, he let you think he was dead for two years while you drowned in your own grief. The tears come, streaking down your face, choking your throat. You can't see him anymore.
"Y/N." His voice is quiet. His hands close around your wrists, gentle but firm, stopping your fists mid-swing. "Y/N, stop."
"Don't touch me."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"You already did." You're sobbing now, you haven't done it since the first month after he disappeared. "You already did and you don't even know."
He holds your wrists and doesn't let go. His thumbs press against your pulse points, feeling your heart race.
"You're right," he says. "I don't know. But I want to. So let me explain."
A black car appears from nowhere or maybe it was parked nearby the whole time. You let him open the passenger door and you climb inside because your legs won't hold you anymore. The leather seats are warm and the engine is already running.
He gets in on the driver's side and pulls away from the curb without checking his mirrors.
For a block, both of you stay completely silent. Your breathing is still uneven, tears still wet on your cheeks and your hands shaking in your lap.
"How the fuck are you alive ?" The words come out strangled. "They said you were shot. Your body wasn't found but everyone assumed—"
"I was shot." His voice is flat. "I am alive. Both things are true." You turn to look at him. His profile is illuminated by the passing streetlights, the scar near his eyebrow catching the glow.
"Where have you been then? Two years, Ni-ki. Two fucking years. I went to your house, I watched the news every night like a crazy person hoping for—" You stop to swallow. "Jess had to drag me out of my apartment because I stopped leaving, eating. I stopped everything."
His jaw tightens. His hands grip the steering wheel.
"I know," he says.
"How could you know? You weren't there."
"I had someone watching. Not—not in a creepy way. I was just checking, and making sure you were okay."
You stare at him. "You had someone watching me while you were playing dead. Are you out of your mind ?"
"It wasn't playing dead, I was trying to stay alive."
The car stops at a red light. The city is quiet around you. "Show me," you say.
He looks at you. "What ?"
"The shot. Show me."
He hesitates before he pulls up the hem of his hoodie and the shirt beneath, just enough to expose his torso. In the hazy light from the dashboard, you see it ; a scar just below his ribs, round and puckered, the edges jagged like the bullet tore through him instead of cutting clean. It's healed.
You reach out, your fingers hover over the scar without touching it, you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Does it hurt ?" you whisper.
"Not anymore."
The light turns green. He pulls his shirt down and drives.
"Why were you beating that man ?"
He doesn't answer right away, letting the question hanging. The car winds through streets you don't know, away from the bright lights of Shibuya, into a neighborhood that's quieter and darker.
"He owed me money," he says finally.
"So you beat him up ? In the middle of the street?"
"He wasn't going to pay otherwise."
You shake your head. "Why are you even doing this? In a whole different country?You're supposed to be—" You stop. "What are you, Ni-ki?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The car turns into a gated driveway, the gates swinging open automatically and you catch a glimpse of the house before he pulls into the garage.
"It's complicated," he says, cutting the engine. "Long story short, the people who shot me are still out there. I couldn't go back and call. I couldn't risk anyone knowing I was alive because if they found out, they'd come after me again, and they'd come after anyone connected to me."
Your heart pounds. "Connected to me ?"
"Yes."
"So you just...disappeared and let everyone think you were dead."
"It was the only way to keep all of you safe."
The garage is dark. His face is half in shadow.
"Am I supposed to thank you?" Your voice is bitter. "Is that what you want? A thank you for breaking my heart?"
"No." He reaches over and takes your hand. His palm is rough, the knuckles still bloody. "I want you to be angry. You should be angry and I'm angry too. Every single day, at myself, and at the people who did this, at the whole fucking situation." He squeezes your fingers. "But I'm not sorry I did it. Because now you're alive."
His house is huge. Not the same as the one back home, it’s smaller, maybe, yet still too big for one person. It’s modern, all glass and concrete with warm light spilling from windows that face a garden you can't see in the dark. The entranceway has a high ceiling and a wooden bench where you sit to take off your shoes.
He leads you through a living room with a low sofa and art on the walls, then to a kitchen that looks like someone actually uses it. A kettle on the stove and dishes in the rack.
"You live here?" you ask.
"Mostly."
"It doesn't seem like you're living off debts."
He fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. "I'm not. The money situation got...resolved. After the shooting."
"Resolved how?"
He doesn't answer as he pulls two mugs from the cupboard and sets them on the counter. You lean against the kitchen island, watching him. He moves differently than before, more cautious and less careless. The nonchalance is gone. He still has the same face, the same hands, the same way of not quite meeting your eyes, however he's different. The two years changed him the way they changed you.
"Who shot you?" you ask.
He turns to face you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
"The people I was involved with. The drugs, the money, all of it. I thought I could walk away but…they didn't agree." He pauses. "The night my dad called me to his estate, I told him everything. He was fucking furious but he helped and got me out of the country, he set me up here and made sure the right people knew I was dead."
"Your dad helped you fake your death?"
"He helped me survive, if we can say it like that."
The kettle whistles. He pours the water into the mugs, steam rising between you.
"Why now?" you ask.
He slides a mug toward you. His fingers brush yours. "I didn't come back for you," he says. "I didn't even know you were in Japan. I was handling business and you just...appeared, like you always did." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "You never could mind your own business."
You wrap your hands around the mug. The warmth seeps into your palms. "I thought you were dead," you say again. "For two years, I thought you were dead. And now you're standing in front of me like nothing happened."
"Something happened." His voice drops. "Something happened every single day. I just couldn't tell you."
The man you loved and lost, the one you mourned day and night, is standing three feet away, alive and real, covered in someone else's blood.
"What happens now?" you ask.
Ni-ki looks at you. His eyes are the same and different, depth where there used to be walls.
"I don't know," he admits. " You're here and I'm here."
You drink your tea while he drinks his.
The night stretches on, long and strange. You don’t know which questions you should ask or not.
He takes your empty mug and sets it in the sink, then nods toward the hallway. "Come on. I'll show you around."
You follow, your legs are still unsteady, your mind still stuck on the image of him looking up from that bloody fist, the hood falling back. The house is bigger than it looked from outside. He leads you through a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows like the one you used to come over, a study with books, you're not sure he's read, a guest bedroom that looks untouched, and a master suite at the end of the hall.
"Bathroom's there," he says. "If you need it."
You’d rather need answers.
"You still haven't explained," you say, stopping in the middle of the hallway. "The money, your house, your car. The way you're living. You said the situation got resolved but that doesn't just happen. Like, someone doesn't just give you all of this because you got shot."
Ni-ki turns to face you. His expression unreadable.
"I had help," he says.
"From who ?"
"My father and some people he knows. It's not—" He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "It's not clean, Y/N. I'm not going to pretend it is, but I'm not doing anything I wasn't already doing before. I just got better at it."
You stare at him. "What in the hell—"
"Forget it."
Your chest tightens. "You're into something, that might be dangerous. Ni-ki, it’s something that got you shot and you're still doing it, here in Japan. Do you realize how twisted that it ?"
He doesn't deny it. You know you’re right.
"Ni-ki." Your voice is quieter now. "You have to admit it. You're running something. Drugs or money or both. That's why you have all of this, that’s why you can't go home."
His jaw tightens. Before he could argue back, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, and steps away from you. "I have to take this."
You watch him walk to the end of the hallway, phone pressed to his ear. You catch fragments of the conversation ; "the shipment," "tell them tomorrow," "I don't care about the cost." He's speaking in a practiced and controlled tone. This is not his first time having this conversation.
You lean against the wall and wait. Your phone rings in your hoodie pocket. Jess.
"Hey," you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Where are you ?" She sounds groggy, like she just woke up. "I knocked on your door and Jungwon said you weren't there. It's like four in the morning."
"I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk."
"A walk in Tokyo. At four in the morning." She pauses to let out a yawn. "Are you okay?"
You glance at Ni-ki. He's still on the phone, back turned but he glances over his shoulder at you. His eyes meet yours as he stays silent. He just mouths four words.
Keep your mouth shut.
Your stomach turns. "Yeah," you say into the phone. "I'm fine. I just needed some air. Don’t worry, I'll be back soon."
Jess hesitates. You can hear her breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. "Okay," she says finally. "But text me when you're back. I'm not going back to sleep until I know you're in your room."
"I will." You hang up. The phone feels heavy in your hand. Ni-ki finishes his call and walks back toward you. He shoves the phone in his pocket and looks at you with a slight guilty expression.
"Jess?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You didn't tell her. Right ?"
"No." Your voice is flat. "I didn't."
He nods like that was the right answer of a test he made you pass. You push off the wall. "Take me back to the hotel."
"Y/N—"
"Now." Your voice cracks. "I can't do this tonight. I can't look at you and lie to my best friend and pretend I understand any of what's happening. So take me back." He doesn't argue. He grabs his keys from the counter and heads toward the garage. You follow, your feet heavy but your chest heavier. You don’t talk to each other during the drive to the hotel. The streets are still dark, the city is still asleep. When he pulls up to the curb, you don't wait for him to put the car in park, you just open the door and step out.
"Y/N."
You stop but don’t turn around.
"I'm sorry," he says. You don't answer. You walk into the hotel lobby, past the front desk and get into the elevator. The doors close and you lean against the wall, staring at the numbers as they climb.
Room 129. Jungwon is still asleep when you slip inside and still breathing evenly, still dreaming whatever he's dreaming. You crawl into your bed and pull the blanket over your head.
Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown number [04:38 AM]
Same place tomorrow. 2 PM.
Please.
You hold the phone to your chest and stare at the dark ceiling until the sun comes up.
──────
The sun is out but the wind has teeth, cutting through the observation deck of Tokyo Tower. You're leaning against the railing, phone in hand, pretending to take photos of the city sprawled below. In reality you've been staring at the same cluster of buildings for five minutes.
Jake appears next to you, elbows on the railing, not looking at you.
"You've been really quiet since yesterday," he says.
"I'm always quiet. What do you mean ?"
"I don’t know." He turns his head slightly. "I just have a weird feeling."
The wind whips your hair across your face and you tuck it behind your ear. Jess wanders over, phone out. "Let's get a group photo. Everyone squeeze in."
People shuffle and rearrange. Jay makes a face. Jungwon adjusts his stance. You move to the edge of the frame, half-smiling. Almost a fake smile. Jess notices. The photo happens. There’s someone's thumb is in the corner so Jay wants a retake. You drift back to the railing.
An hour later, you're in the base of the tower, standing in front of a vending machine that sells everything from hot coffee to canned corn soup. Your phone buzzes and it’s a text from the unknown number.
Unknown number [2:11 PM]
You coming?
You type back.
You [2:12 PM]
Soon.
Jess appears at your shoulder, a bottle of green tea in her hand. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. I’m a bit tired though."
"You've been tired since we got here. More than usual."
You shrug. "Maybe the time difference is hitting me late."
She doesn't look convinced. "Y/N. We've known each other for years. You don't have to lie to me. But…you also don't have to tell me anything if you're not ready." A pause. "Promise me that you will not disappear on me, okay? Not here."
Your throat tightens. "I'm not going to disappear, I promise."
"I love you so much." She bumps your shoulder with hers. "Anyway, I have a whole list of shitty souvenirs I need help carrying."
You laugh as you follow her.
A bit later. "I forgot my charger at the hotel," you announce when the group is debating lunch options. "I should go back and get it before we eat."
Jake frowns. "You can use mine. I have a portable one."
"No, it's fine. I need to grab something else anyway." You're already backing away. "I'll meet you at the restaurant. Text me the address."
"You want company?" Jungwon asks.
"No, no. I'll be quick."
You're gone before anyone can argue.
The taxi’s driving you to the address Ni-ki gave you. You spend the drive staring out the window, watching the city change from tourist crowds to quiet residential streets, you notice the gated entrance you remember from last night. The gate swings open automatically when the driver pulls up to the intercom.
The house looks different in daylight. It’s less intimidating and more like somewhere someone actually lives. The garden is visible now ; a small pond with koi fish and little stones scattered everywhere. You ring the bell and the door opens before you finish knocking.
Ni-ki is wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair is wet, like he just showered. The cut on his knuckle is already scabbing over.
"Damn, you actually came." he says.
"Don't sound so surprised."
He steps aside and you walk in. The living room is flooded with natural light, white sofas and a glass coffee table. You sit on the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits on the other end, facing you with one arm draped across the back.
Silence settles between you. It’s somewhere between uncomfortable and soothing.
"Hum," he says, looking at the orchid pot instead of you. "Two years is a long time."
"It is."
"Have you been with anyone? Since...then?"
‘Why would he even ask that, right now?’ You ask yourself.
"No."
"No one?"
"No." You pick at a loose thread on your jeans. "I wasn't exactly in a dating mindset."
He nods slowly. His jaw works like he's chewing on something.
"What about you?" you ask. "Any girlfriends? Or just...business partners?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Just business."
"I shouldn’t have asked you—"
"I’m joking."
You lean back into the couch. The cushions are soft and expensive, they could swallow you whole. "You haven't changed."
"I've changed." His voice drops. "Not in the ways you can see."
The room is quiet. A bird sings somewhere in the garden, filling the silence of the room.
"Why did you ask?" you say.
"Asking if you had a boyfriend?"
"Yeah."
He looks at you then. His eyes are the same dark brown you remember, you’ve looked into them too many times to forget.
"Because I needed to know if you'd moved on," he says. "If you'd found someone who wasn't...this." He gestures at himself. "Someone who could make you feel good things."
You swallow. "What if I had?"
He holds your gaze. "Then I would have let you go."
The words hang in the air between you for a fragile instant.
"Hopefully you didn't," he says. "So now I have to figure out what to do with that."
You don't have an answer as you don't think he expects one. You sit there. The silence stretches long enough that you start counting the ripples in the koi pond through the window. One, two, three. The orchid on the coffee table looks fragile yet beautiful. You focus on that instead of the weight of his gaze.
When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before.
"What kind of love did you have for me?"
The question catches you off guard. "What?"
"Like, romantically? Or just...I don't know. You couldn’t let go because you were used to the pain?" He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not good at this, with words and all. But I need to know what I'm working with."
You open your mouth to close it right after. Your chest feels like someone cracked it open with a crowbar.
"I don't know," you admit. "I spent two years thinking you were dead. I didn't have the luxury of categorizing my feelings. I could only miss you everyday, and…that made everything else feel bad."
He nods slowly. "That's fair," he says. He shifts on the couch, turning his body toward yours, one knee pulled up on the cushion.
"I have a request," he says. "And you can say no. Like, genuinely no. I'm not gonna be a dick about it."
You wait.
"Can you stay? For a bit. I mean, not forever, I'm not asking you to move in or some crazy shit." He exhales. "But stay so I can apologize, properly. Not with words, obviously, because words are cheap and I've never been good at them anyway. I want to show you I changed, or at least that I'm trying to." His fingers tap against his thigh, nervous. "I want to do it right this time. I can’t keep pushing you away because I'm scared. I want to try to be someone worth coming back to."
Your throat feels tight.
"You don't owe me that," you say.
"I’m aware of that." He holds your gaze. "That's why I'm asking."
You pause for an exhale.
"Okay," you say.
His eyebrows lift. "Okay? That easy?"
"Don't make me say it twice."
His face loosens, a tension unknotting itself. "Thank you," he says.
You stay on the couch, and he stays on the couch, the afternoon light shifts across the floor, bringing a soft atmosphere.
That's a start.
Suddenly your phone buzzes. Jess's name lights up the screen, and you know she's not going to stop until you answer. She's been patient all day, but patience has its limits and you've been pushing them since the convenience store situation.
"Sorry," you mutter to Ni-ki, holding up the phone. "I have to take this. She'll send a search party." He nods, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Take it."
You swipe answer. "What’s up?"
"Where the hell are you?" Jess's voice is sharp with concern. "You said you were going to the hotel for a charger. That was two hours ago. I called the hotel front desk and they said you never came back."
Your stomach drops. Oh she checked up on you.
"I'm fine," you say. "I just—I ran into someone."
"Ran into someone? Here? Who do you even know in Tokyo?"
You glance at Ni-ki. He's watching you, head tilted slightly, reading your face. His expression shifts when he hears the panic in your voice.
"Jess," you say carefully, "I can't explain right now. But I'm safe, I promise."
There's a long pause on her end. You can hear her breathing, the muffled sound of Jay asking something in the background.
"Y/N." Her voice drops, quieter now. "You're scaring me."
You look at Ni-ki. He holds your gaze for a second before he gives a small nod. Permission.
"It's him," you say. "Ni-ki. He's alive."
The silence on the other end is deafening.
"That's not funny," Jess whispers.
"It's not a joke."
"He's dead. We watched the news. His face was on the screen."
"I know, I know. He's not dead. He's here in Tokyo. I'm at his house right now."
Jess doesn't respond. You hear her hand over the microphone, muffled words you can't make out. She comes back, her voice shaky.
"I'm coming to get you."
"No please, Jess. I need to figure out what's happening first. But I needed you to know, because you're my best friend and I can't lie to you."
A long exhale. "You're really okay?"
"I'm really okay."
"Text me the address."
"Jess—"
"Text me the address, Y/N. I'm not fucking kidding." Her voice hardens. "I don't care if he's alive or a ghost or whatever. I'm not letting you disappear into some rich asshole's house in a foreign country without knowing where you are."
You look at Ni-ki. He shrugs. "She's not wrong."
You text Jess the address. She says she'll be outside in 30 minutes and hangs up. The phone feels hot in your hand.
"She's coming," you say.
"Yeah, I figured."
"She's going to lose her mind when she sees you."
"She's going to punch me," Ni-ki says flatly. "I'd bet money on it."
You couldn’t agree more.
──────
The doorbell aggressively rings. Ni-ki stands up, smooths his shirt, and walks toward the entrance. You hear the door open, unknown voices, and the shuffle of shoes on the entryway floor. You stay on the couch because you don't know if you're supposed to be seen.
He comes back with two men behind him.
They're both in dark jackets, they look expensive. One is older, maybe in his forties, with a shaved head. The younger one has a tablet in his hand and looks like he hasn't slept in days.
"The numbers from last quarter are finalized," the younger one says without looking up from his screen. "The Osaka route cleared customs this morning without a single issue."
The older one nods toward you. "Boss, we didn't know you had company."
Boss. Oh Ni-ki you’re fucked.
Ni-ki's jaw tightens. "It's fine. She's with me."
The two men exchange a glance. The older one's eyes linger on you for a little too long, assessing and cataloging. He finally looks back at Ni-ki.
"We can come back," he says.
"No. Give me the report now." Ni-ki walks toward the kitchen and the two men follow. Their voices drop to murmurs, words you can't catch, but you catch the tone, it’s business and it’s serious.
You sit frozen on the couch, replaying the word in your head.
Boss. He’s not just some guy who got mixed up in bad things or a random survivor. He might be the person in charge.
When Ni-ki comes back alone a few minutes later, the men gone, you're still staring at the spot where they stood.
"They called you boss," you say.
He doesn't deny it.
"Ni-ki. What the fuck ?"
He sits down across from you, elbows on his knees and his hands clasped.
"It's not what you think," he says.
"Explain it to me. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're running the exact same shit that got you shot."
"I'm not running anything," he says finally. "I own it."
Your blood runs cold.
"Same thing," you whisper.
"No." His voice is sharp. "It's not. Running means doing the dirty work. Owning means other people do the dirty work and I make sure no one dies." He pauses. "No one else dies."
You want to scream at him, leave and never look back again but your legs just won't move.
"Jess is going to be here any minute," you say. "What am I supposed to tell her?"
Ni-ki looks at you. His face is tired, it looks older than 23, weighed down by something heavy.
"Tell her the truth," he says. "Just not all of it. You can’t yet."
"That's not fair to her."
"I know." He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. "None of this is fair but I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to be careful. That’s all."
Outside, headlights flash through the window. A car pulls up to the gate. Jess is here. You stand up, heart pounding. Ni-ki stands too, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"You ready?" he asks.
"No."
"Good, neither am I."
He walks with you to the front door, and you step out into the evening air, toward your best friend and whatever comes next.
Jess's rented car idles at the gate for a full minute before Ni-ki pulls out his phone and taps the screen. The gates swing open. She drives in slow, like she's expecting an ambush, and parks behind the black car you arrived in last night.
She gets out and just stands there for a second, taking in the house, the garden and the whole absurdity of the situation. Next, she sees him. Ni-ki is standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his expression totally blank. She walks toward him like she's approaching a wild animal.
You step out from behind him and she stops. "You're not joking," she says.
"No."
She looks at Ni-ki, slightly squinting her eyes.
"Two years," she says. "Two fucking years."
"Jess—" he says.
"You let her think you were dead. You let all of us think you were dead. I watched her fall apart and held her while she cried. I picked her up off the floor more times than I can count." Her voice cracks yet she doesn't cry. Jess is tougher than that. "And now you're just...here."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I know that doesn't fix anything. But I am really sorry."
Jess stares at him for a long moment. After ward, she walks past him into the house without waiting for an invitation. You follow as Ni-ki closes the door.
Jess sits on the edge of the couch like she's afraid of getting it dirty. You sit next to her. Ni-ki stays standing, leaning against the wall near the window.
"Explain," Jess says. "From the beginning, don't you dare leave anything out."
He does. He tells her about the shooting, the hospital stay he wasn't supposed to survive, his father's connections, the people who wanted him dead, the fake death, the move to Japan. His voice stays flat through most of it, it looks like he's reciting a report, as he gets to the part about leaving you behind, his mask subtly cracks.
"I couldn't reach out," he says. "If anyone knew I was alive, they would have come after me again. And they would have used anyone I cared about to get to me." He looks at you. "That meant staying away from her, even though I hated every second of it."
Jess absorbs this. Her fingers twist in her lap.
"So what now?" she asks.
Ni-ki pushes off the wall and sits on the coffee table across from you both.
"Now I'm trying to figure out how to do this without getting anyone killed," he says. "Which is not a great answer, but it's the truth."
Jess turns to you. "And you? What do you want?"
You look at your hands, not wanting to meet her eyes.
"I want to stay," you say. "For a little while. I need to know if there's anything left of what we had or if I've been mourning a ghost for two years for nothing."
Jess is quiet for a long time. "Okay," she says finally.
You blink. "Wait what?"
"Okay." She stands up, pulls out her phone, and starts typing. "I'll tell the others you met an old friend from college who lives here. Someone you haven't seen in years. You're going to crash at their place for a few days to catch up. It's not even a lie, technically."
"Jess."
She looks up. Her eyes are red, she's holding it together.
"I don't like this," she says. "I don't like him. I don't like that he's involved in whatever the hell this is." She looks around, at everything. "Y/N, I trust you. If you need to do this, I'm not going to stand in your way. Just..." Her voice wavers. "Please don’t disappear like I said. Text me every day. Let me know you're alive."
"I will."
She pulls you into a hug, tight and fierce, that’s her way to say that she loves you and she’s scared, don't make her regret this all at once. After that, she pulls back, wipes her eyes, and looks at Ni-ki.
"If you hurt her again," she says, "I don't care how many bodyguards you have. I will find you and I will make your life hell."
Ni-ki nods. "Noted."
Jess walks to the door and pauses. She looks back at you.
"Call me tomorrow. I love you."
"I love you too."
She leaves. The door closes. You hear the sound of the engine starting and fade. Now it's just you and Ni-ki, in his huge mansion, once again. He standing right in front of you, waiting to give you space to change your mind.
You don't change your mind.
"What now?" You ask.
He exhales, long and slow. "Now I make you dinner and you can ask me all the questions you didn't ask last night. I’ll just try really hard not to fuck it up."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah."
──────
The blue light from the massive TV screen is illuminating the living room, casting long shadows across the marble floors. It’s quiet as you’re sitting on the edge of the sectional, still nursing that low level sound of anxiety that comes with being around someone who went missing for two years.
Ni-ki is slumped at the other end, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who basically rose from the dead. He’s staring at the screen, one hand mindlessly messing with the remote, until he suddenly winces, making a sharp and hissed sound.
"You good?" you ask, shifting toward him.
He presses a finger to his jaw, his expression flat but pained. "Bit my cheek. The inside."
You reach for the glass of water on the coffee table and hand it over. He takes it, the condensation cold against his skin, and takes a slow sip. He doesn't say thank, the two of you have always had a rhythm that skipped the formalities.
"Better?" you ask.
He swallows, setting the glass down. He looks at you then, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "Not really. My mom used to say a kiss on the cheek makes things heal faster."
He says it with such a straight face, his voice devoid of any typical ‘flirting’ inflection, that it catches you off guard. It’s a ridiculous, childish line coming from a man who spent the last two years in the underworld, yet he’s just sitting there and waiting.
"You’re serious ?" You feel the heat creep up your neck. "That’s...that's not how it works, Ni-ki."
"At least I tried," he mutters, turning back to the TV like he didn't just ask for something that made your heart do a nervous stutter.
You look away, staring at the screen without seeing it. "I’m tired. Where’s the guest room ? I’ll just head up."
"Follow me."
He stands up in one fluid motion, not waiting to see if you’re coming. You follow him up the glass staircase and down a wide hallway. He stops at a tall oak door, pushes it open and walks inside. You stand in the doorway, looking at the cal king-sized bed, the discarded watch on the nightstand, and the faint scent of his cologne. "This is your room."
"Yeah, and ?" He’s already pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it onto a chair.
"I asked for the guest room, Ni-ki." Your voice is a mix of frustration and that recurring shyness you can't seem to shake.
"Sheets aren't changed in the other rooms. The dust's bad," he says, his back to you. He turns around, his expression nonchalant as he gestures to the vast expanse of the bed. "It’s a big bed. Just stay here. I’m not going to do anything."
"That’s not the point. It’s weird."
"It was only weird two years ago because we made it ‘weird’," he says, voice dropping lower. He doesn't move toward you, staying rooted where he is. "I’m tired, you’re tired. Let’s just sleep."
You bite your lip, the silence stretching between you. Eventually, the exhaustion wins. You move to the far side of the bed, staying as close to the edge as humanly possible while he clicks off the lights.
The darkness is heavy. You lie there, staring at the wall, listening to the sound of his breathing. You expect to stay awake all night but the silence of the mansion eventually pulls you under.
A few hours later, the shift happens. It’s gradual ; a weight dipping the mattress, a sudden warmth pressing against your back. In his sleep, Ni-ki doesn't have his guard up. He moves by instinct, his arm sliding over your waist, pulling you back until there’s no space left between you.
His forehead rests against the nape of your neck, his breathing deep and steady. It’s the most clingy he’s been since he resurfaced, a silent and unconscious admission that he’s glad you’re actually there. You stay frozen for a second, heart racing, before your own muscles finally relax into the familiar heat of him.
The next day, the room feels more like a gallery than a bedroom as the light shines through the curtains. You wake up tangled in a silk duvet, the space beside you is empty. The only proof he was even there is a slight indent in the pillow and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne, something crisp and expensive, a far cry from the scent of coffee he used to carry.
You reach for your phone. A single notification sits on the screen.
Ni-ki [9:34 AM]
Had to head in.
I’m coming back a bit late tonight.
Eat whatever you want, the fridge is stocked.
It’s typical and short. He doesn’t apologize for leaving you alone in a house that feels like a maze, he assumed you’ll manage.
The silence of the house is heavy. After a few hours of wandering through the high-tech kitchen and staring at the sprawling view of the estate, curiosity finally wins. You find yourself back in his room, hovering by the bedside table. Back in college, Ni-ki always smelled faintly of smoke, either the sharp scent of cigarettes during finals week or the hazy, sweet smell of weed when things got stressful. It was a constant.
You open the top drawer of his nightstand. There’s nothing but a high-end watch box and a stack of documents in Japanese. You check the bathroom, no lighters hidden behind the mirror, no stray rolling papers in the cabinets. You even check the pockets of a discarded jacket hanging in the closet. There’s absolutely nothing.
The air in the room is perfectly filtered, devoid of any grit. It’s unsettling. It’s like he’s scrubbed away every habit that made him human, replaced by this clinical, almost polished version of a man who runs empires.
As the sun dips below the horizon, the mansion transitions from modern to eerie. You’re sitting on the massive sectional in the living room, the TV on mute just to have some flickering light. By 9:00 PM, the isolation starts to grate on your nerves.
You pull out your phone and hit his contact. It rings three times before he picks up.
"Yeah ?" His voice is filtered through some background noise, the muffled sound of doors closing and distant voices. He sounds tired, but his tone is level and sounds almost detached.
"Hey," you say, your voice sounding small in the giant room. "I was just making sure if you were close."
"I’m still busy," he says. There’s a brief pause, the sound of him exhaling. "Give me a bit. I’m wrapping things up now and I'll be back soon."
Right before he hangs up, his voice softens just a fraction, losing that sharp edge. "Don't lock the main door. I have my key."
The line goes dead. You set the phone down on the velvet cushion, the silence of the house settling back in, but feeling slightly less hollow now that you know he's on his way.
‼ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 : Focus - H.E.R
The click of the heavy front door echoes through the foyer, breaking the silence you’ve been sitting in for hours. You stand up as Ni-ki walks into the light of the living room. He looks exhausted, his shoulders slumped like he never allows when he’s putting on his ‘professional’ and cold side, however it’s his left hand that makes your breath stop.
The knuckles are split, and a dark, drying smear of red covers his palm and fingers, staining the cuff of his expensive shirt.
"Ni-ki," you whisper, moving toward him, your hands reaching out instinctively. "What happened? Are you hurt? Is it yours?"
He doesn't bother to look at his hand. He stops in front of you, his eyes searching your face with a weary intensity. Before you can grab a towel or start a frantic interrogation, he exhales a shaky breath.
"Just...give me a second," he mutters. He reaches out with his clean hand, hooking it around your waist and pulling you flush against him. "Hug me. Please."
You hesitate for a fraction of a second, worried about the blood, but you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in. He sinks into you, his head dropping onto your shoulder, his weight heavy and direct. You can feel the pounding beat of his heart slowing down against your chest. The smell of the cold night air and a metallic tang clings to him, and beneath that, he still smells like himself.
"Don't do this again," you say into his shoulder, your voice thick with a mix of anger and fear. "Don’t disappear and hurt yourself...I can't look at you like this and pretend it’s okay."
He stays quiet for a long time, his grip on your waist tightening. "I'll try," he says, the words muffled against your skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. "You showered already?"
You nod slowly.
"Go to the bedroom," he says, his voice low but steady. "Wait for me there. I just need to get clean."
The sound of the shower runs for a long time. You sit on the edge of the bed, the vastness of the room feeling smaller now that he’s home. When the water finally stops, the door opens, and Ni-ki emerges in nothing but loose grey sweats, his hair damp and messy. The lethal, untouchable version of him from the foyer is gone, replaced by the boy you used to know, the one who was just a little too tired for his age.
He doesn't say a word as he climbs onto the mattress. He doesn't go to his side, he moves toward you, lying down and shifting until his head is resting firmly on your stomach.
"Cuddle me," he murmurs, his eyes already drifting shut. "I don't want to talk. I just want this."
You lie back against the pillows, adjusting so he’s comfortable. Your hand finds its way to his hair, your fingers weaving through the damp strands, massaging his scalp in slow, rhythmic circles. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, his body finally losing its tension.
In the quiet of the room, the outside world and the two years of silence feel like a fever dream. Here, with his weight grounding you and your fingers carding through his hair, it’s just the two of you. He turns his face slightly, pressing his forehead into the soft fabric of your shirt, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. You don't dare to ask him any more questions, you’d rather hold him, your thumb tracing the line of his ear, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest until the shadows of the room feel a little less cold.
He suddenly shifts, his arms tightening around your waist, almost in a possessive way. He’s usually so composed, so untouchable, yet right now he’s acting like he’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second. He nuzzles closer, his voice muffled by your shirt.
"You’re too soft," he mutters. "I forgot how calm you are. Everything else is loud, but you’re just being quiet."
You stop your hand in his hair for a moment, surprised by the sudden honesty. "Is that your version of a compliment?"
"Take it or leave it," he says, though he doesn't move an inch. He lets out a small, contented hum, his breath warm against your skin. "You smell so good too."
He stays like that for a few minutes, being uncharacteristically clingy, refusing to give you any personal space. Just as the atmosphere starts to feel deeply, almost with romance, you feel him shift again. The weary tension in his shoulders seems to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, mischievous energy you haven't seen since college.
He lifts his head just enough to find a spot on your midriff, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he leans in and blows a sharp, loud raspberry against your skin.
The vibration and the sudden rush of air make you jump, a startled laugh bubbling out of you. "Ni-ki ! Stop !"
He does it again, higher up this time, his eyes crinkling at the corners as you squirm beneath him, trying to push his head away.
"Stop, it tickles !" you gasp, breathless from laughing.
"You were getting too serious," he says, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at his lips as he looks up at you. He settles back down, resting his cheek on your stomach again and looking up at you with a look that’s far too fond for someone who claims to be nonchalant. "Stay like this. Don't move."
The laughter from the tickling session fades as the room settles back into its quiet intimacy. Ni-ki doesn't move his head from your stomach, he shifts slightly, tucking his arm more firmly around your waist as if ensuring you can't go anywhere.
You resume the slow, rhythmic motion of your fingers through his hair. The strands are drying now, they’re soft and cool. "I was looking around earlier," you say quietly, your voice vibrating slightly against his ear. "You don't smoke anymore? Not even when things get…hard?"
Ni-ki is quiet for a beat, his eyes fixed on the far wall of the dark room. He exhales a long breath.
"Nah," he mutters, his voice low and raspy. "I stopped about a year ago."
"Just like that?"
He nudges his face deeper into the fabric of your shirt, his nose brushing against your skin. "I just wanted to change things. Everything felt messy, and that was one thing I could actually control. Plus," he adds, his tone shifting back to that effortless laziness, "I know it’s not good for me. It’s hard to stay fast if your lungs are trashed."
You smile a little, the honesty of the answer surprising you. "Look at you, being responsible."
"Don't make it a thing," he grumbles, though he sounds more relaxed than he has all day. He turns his head, looking up at you from his position on your lap. His eyes are soft, devoid of the coldness they held when he first walked through the door. "I just—I didn't want to be that version of myself anymore."
He reaches up, his hand tangling with yours to pull it down from his hair so he can press a lingering, lazy kiss to your palm. He doesn't let go afterward, instead interlacing his fingers with yours and resting both your hands over his heart.
"You're staying," he says, a quiet demand. He closes his eyes again, his breathing hitching once before evening out into a deep, steady rhythm. He’s starting to be clingy, his heavy weight a constant reminder that for all his money and power, just lying here with you is the only place he actually wants to be.
When you wake up, the room isn't empty and Ni-ki is still there, lying on his side and watching you with a heavy-lidded, sleepy stare. He doesn't look like a man who was covered in blood twelve hours ago ; he looks like he’s still 21 and back in college.
"Stop staring at me," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.
"It’s my bed. I can look where I want," he says, his voice a low, morning rasp. He doesn't move to get up. He just reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your wrist where it peeks out from the duvet. "I’m not going in today. I told them I’m busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Nothing," he says simply. "With you."
The day unfolds. He doesn't call for a chef or take you to some expensive brunch spot where you have to dress up because you personally asked him to do that. He leads you down to the kitchen in his sweatpants, standing barefoot on the cold marble as he fumbles with an espresso machine.
"Don't laugh," he says, narrowing his eyes at the blinking lights on the display. "It’s complicated."
"You can run a business in Tokyo but you can't make a latte?"
"I have people for the coffee," he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. He eventually hands you a cup that’s surprisingly decent.
You spend the afternoon in a room you hadn't seen yet, it’s a massive home theater that feels more like a lounge, filled with deep velvet couches and stacks of vinyl records. For a few hours, the cold version of Ni-ki vanishes completely. He sits on the floor with his back against the sofa, showing you music he found while he was away, passing you one of the headphones so you can listen together.
At one point, you find an old gaming console tucked away in a cabinet. When you challenge him, he directly dives in. He’s competitive—viciously so, leaning forward with his jaw set as he tries to beat your score, his shoulder bumping into yours every time you get ahead.
"You’re cheating," he accuses, his eyes fixed on the screen.
"I’m better than you anyway."
He scoffs, a second later, he’s leaning his weight into you, trying to distract you by nudging his head against your shoulder. It’s a cheap move and it works. When you lose the round, he lets out a short triumphant breath, looking at you with a look of pure, smug satisfaction.
"Really mature of you, Ni-ki."
"A win’s a win," he says then his expression softens. He reaches over, tugging at the hem of your sleeve until you shift closer to him on the floor. He rests his chin on your shoulder, watching the menu screen loop. The mansion is still huge and a little cold, and the shadows in the corners still remind you of the world he belongs to now. Yet for this afternoon, it feels like the 2 years gap never happened. He’s just a boy who’s a little too clingy, a little too competitive, and very clearly trying to make sure you don't feel like a guest anymore.
By late afternoon, the quiet of the mansion starts to feel a bit too heavy, so Ni-ki pulls on a black trench coat and leads you out to the garage. He drives a car that’s far too fast for city streets, his hand resting loosely on the gear shift, looking like he’s in his natural element behind the wheel.
He pulls up to a chic pastry shop tucked away in a quiet district. The interior is all white marble and gold accents, the scent of sweets hits you instantly. You stand in front of the glass display case, staring at the rows of perfect and colorful macarons. They look like jewelry.
"See anything ?" Ni-ki asks, standing just behind you, his presence a warm weight at your back.
"They all look so good," you murmur, leaning closer to the glass. You look at the employee behind the counter, who’s waiting with professional patience. "Could I get five, please ? The pistachio, the earl grey and…the—"
"Just give us all of them," Ni-ki interrupts. He’s not even looking at the display. He’s looking at his phone, his tone so flat and casual he might as well have been ordering other pastries.
The employee blinks, her eyebrows shooting up. "All of them, sir? We have 24 different flavors today."
"Yeah. All of them. Double up on the ones she just mentioned," he adds, finally pocketing his phone and looking at the girl behind the counter with a ‘did I stutter ?’ look.
"Ni-ki, wait," you whisper, your face heating up as the employee starts pulling out a massive, ornate gift box. You can feel the eyes of the other two customers in the shop on you. "I don't need 24 macarons. I can’t even eat that many."
"You can eat them tomorrow," he says, leaning his elbow on the marble counter. He looks at you, a ghost of a shrug in his shoulders. "I’m not going to watch you stand here for 10 minutes trying to decide which ones are better. It’s easier this way."
"It’s embarrassing," you hiss, shifting on your feet. "It looks like we’re showing off."
"I'm not showing off. It's called being practical," he counters though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He taps his black credit card on the reader without even looking at the total. When the girl hands over the heavy, ribbon-tied box, Ni-ki takes it with one hand and uses the other to guide you toward the door. Once you’re back in the car, he places the box into your lap.
"There," he says, starting the engine. "Now you don't have to wonder what the other 19 flavors taste like."
You look down at the box before raising your gaze at him. He’s already looking back at the road, his expression back to that neutral state, but the way he lingers for a second before pulling out of the parking spot just to make sure you’ve buckled your seatbelt, gives him away. He isn't trying to be the "big spender", he just genuinely doesn't see the point in you having to choose when he can just give you everything.
The sugar from the macarons is still a lingering sweetness on your tongue as Ni-ki steers the car away from the busy district. He’s driving with one hand, the other resting on the center console, fingers drumming a light, rhythmic beat against the leather.
"Where are we going now ?" you ask, glancing at him. "I thought we were heading back."
"You ask too many questions," he says, the corner of his mouth twitches. "You’ll see. It’s on the way."
He pulls up to a quiet side street where the buildings look ancient but impeccably maintained. There’s a storefront with tinted glass and a heavy steel door with no sign, no logo and no window displays. It looks more like a private bank than a shop.
When you walk in, the air is cool and smells expensive. A man in a perfectly tailored suit looks up from the counter. The moment his eyes land on Ni-ki, his posture shifts in practiced respect.
"Mr. Nishimura," the man says, bowing slightly. "You’re early."
"I was in the area," Ni-ki replies, his voice dropping into that tone he uses with everyone but you. "Is it ready?"
"Of course. It arrived from the workshop this morning."
The man disappears into a back room for a moment and returns with a small, heavy box wrapped in textured black paper. No money changes hands and no receipts are signed. Ni-ki only takes the box with a short nod and gestures for you to follow him back out. Once the doors of the car are shut, sealing the two of you back into your own private world, the silence feels heavy somehow. He doesn’t start the engine yet, he shifts in his seat to face you, holding out the small black box.
"Here," he says. His voice is back to its usual tone, he’s watching your hands as you take it.
"What is this ?"
"Open it."
You carefully undo the wrapping. Inside is a sleek black velvet case. When you flick it open, the interior light of the car catches the glint of polished metal. Resting on the cushion is a solid silver cross necklace, the pendant is hanging from a delicate but sturdy chain.
Your breath hitches. You look at the necklace then up at Ni-ki. Your eyes instinctively go to his neck, where the identical silver cross ; the one he’s worn since college hangs against his skin.
"It’s the same as yours," you whisper, your fingers trembling slightly as you touch the cool metal.
"I had them make a second one," he says, leaning back against his seat and looking out the windshield, though his focus is clearly still on you. "The one I have doesn't tarnish. I wanted you to have something that lasts."
"Ni-ki, this is too much. First the macarons, now this ?" You feel that familiar wave of shyness, mixed with a strange tightening ache in your chest.
He finally looks at you, his expression softening just enough to let you in. He reaches out, his thumb grazing the back of your hand.
"It’s not 'too much.' It’s just so people know."
"Know what ?" you ask softly.
"I don’t know. That you're with me," he says simply.
He takes the box from your lap, lifts the necklace out, and moves closer. His scent, that expensive cologne, wraps around you. You lift your hair, feeling the cold slide of the silver against your skin as he clips the clasp at the nape of your neck.
His fingers linger there for a second, a gentle and protective pressure before he pulls back.
"It looks better on you anyway," he mutters, finally turning the key in the ignition.
You arrive at his mansion. The moment the heavy front door clicks shut, Ni-ki’s bored composure starts to dissolve. He doesn't even bother taking off his trench coat before he’s behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist and his chin dropping onto your shoulder.
"Couch," he mutters, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. "Please."
"You’re barely inside the house, Ni-ki," you say, though you’re already letting him lead you toward the living room.
"It was a long drive," he counters, which is a blatant lie considering he drives like a F1 racer.
He practically pulls you down onto the oversized leather sectional, not bothering with personal space. He sprawls out, pulling you into the crook of his arm so your head is resting on his chest. His hand, now clean and bandaged from the night before, finds yours, his fingers tracing the new silver chain around your neck.
He’s being uncannily needy, his other hand tangling in your hair to keep you close. He leans in slightly to pull you into a slow kiss.
"You're being incredibly clingy these days," you whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to look at him. "And you’re spoiling me too much. The all-flavors box ? This necklace ? It’s a lot."
He looks at you with a flat, unimpressed stare, yet his grip on your waist doesn't loosen. "I have the money. Why wouldn't I spend it on you ? Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to a low mumble, "you look like you belong here now. It was a calculated investment."
"An investment ?" You huff a laugh, poking him in the chest. "That’s fucking ridiculous."
"Whatever," he mutters, pulling you back down to hide his face in the crook of your neck. "Just stay still."
The peace lasts for exactly an hour before his phone starts vibrating violently on the marble coffee table. He ignores the first three times but on the fourth, he lets out a sharp frustrated hiss.
He reaches for it, eyes scanning the screen. His entire posture shifts instantly, the softness vanishes and it’s replaced by that cold, sharp focus you saw when he first returned home.
"I have to go," he says, sitting up and running a hand through his messy hair. "There’s an emergency at the docks. One of the shipments got flagged."
He’s already on his feet, reaching for his keys. He looks professional again, like the man who disappeared for two years. But as he reaches the door, he pauses, looking back at you sitting alone on the giant couch, surrounded by his expensive things and a half-eaten box of pastries.
A smirk ; sharp, dry, tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Try not to cry while I'm gone," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I know it’ll be devastating for you to spend three hours without me. I'll miss you so much."
He gives you a mock, lazy salute before disappearing out the door, the roar of his car engine signaling that the rest day is officially over.
The clock on the wall clicks over to 2:00 AM. You’ve sent three texts. None of them have been read. You’re pacing the length of the marble floor, the silver cross he gave you feeling heavy and cold against your skin.
When the front door finally groans open, the sound is hefty, lacking the usual sharp energy that Ni-ki carries. He steps into the foyer, his coat hanging loosely off one shoulder, his face pale under the yellow hallway lights.
"Y/N" he says, his voice little more than a ghost of a sound. He leans against the doorframe. "Come here. Just give me a hug."
You move toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs, relief already starting to wash over you. But as you get close enough to reach out, the light catches his face. A jagged cut sits right along his hairline, the blood starting to dry in a dark smear down his temple.
You stop dead, your hands hovering in mid-air. "Ni-ki, what is that?"
He shifts his gaze, looking at the floor. "Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding at the site."
"A misunderstanding ?" Your voice rises slightly, the fear you've been sitting with for hours finally curdling into sharp, hot frustration. "People don't get gashed across the head during a 'misunderstanding’. What happened?"
"It doesn't matter," he mutters, closing his eyes like the sound of your voice is physically taxing. "I'm home, and tired. Just drop it."
"I won't drop it." You’re trembling now, the silver necklace catching the light as you gesture wildly. "This is dangerous. You’re coming home covered in blood every night, acting like it’s just another day at the office. You have to stop this. You have to stop beating people and putting yourself in these situations."
Ni-ki stands there, his expression flat and weary, watching you with eyes that look older than they should. "You don't understand how this works," he says quietly. "It’s not as simple as just stopping."
"It is. It’s a choice." you snap, the worry in your chest making it hard to breathe. "I can’t sit here and wait for the night you don’t walk through that door because a 'misunderstanding' went too far. I can't do it again."
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, his voice devoid of emotion which only makes you angrier.
"You can’t predict things, Ni-ki." You turn away from him, your eyes stinging. You aren't angry at him, you’re terrified for him, and the fact that he’s staying so calm, so careless about his own safety, feels like a slap in the face.
"I'm sleeping in the guest room," you say, your voice tight.
Ni-ki finally moves, reaching out to catch your wrist. "Don't do that. Please Y/N—"
"No." You pull your arm back, the movement sharp and final. "If you’re going to act like your life doesn't matter then I don't want to be the one watching you throw it away."
You turn and walk down the long hallway. You find the first guest room you can, throw yourself inside, and turn the heavy iron lock. The click of the bolt feels deafening in the silence. You lean your back against the door, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, listening for his footsteps.
On the other side of the door, there’s a long silence. You expect him to knock but you just hear the soft, receding sound of his footsteps walking away, leaving you alone in the dark.
You wake up and the guest room feels cold cold, a stark contrast to the heavy warmth of the night before. You wake up with your head throbbing, it’s already 11:00 PM. For a moment, the silence of the mansion feels oppressive, reminding you of the lock you clicked into place and the heavy footsteps you heard walking away.
You head straight for his master suite, your heart doing a nervous gallop, but the bed is perfectly made, it’s too perfect. No indent in the pillow, no discarded shirt on the chair. He’s gone.
As you step out of the bedroom and head toward the main living area, the air changes. The sterile scent of the mansion has been completely overwritten by a thick fragrance.
The living room is entirely transformed. It’s a sea of color, there’s bouquets of deep red roses, pale lilies, and white hydrangeas are overflowing from every available surface. Vases are lined up on the marble coffee table, the sideboards, and even the floor near the windows. It looks less like a home and more like a garden.
Your breath catches as you walk toward the kitchen, finding even more arrangements crowding the breakfast bar. Resting right in the center, propped against a crystal vase, is a small card.
You pick it up, your fingers tracing the expensive cardstock. The handwriting is unmistakably Ni-ki’s, it’s sharp and slanted.
I’m not good at the talking part, especially when I’m tired. You were right to be angry. I don’t want you waking up in a guest room ever again. I’m sorry for the scare.
Get ready. There’s a dress in the bag near the bed. A car will be at the front at 7:00 PM. I will wait for you.
Ni-ki.
You look around the living area being filled with flowers, the anger from last night softening into a knot of affection and lingering worry. He didn't promise to quit, he’s too honest for a lie that big but this was his version of a white flag.
You spend the rest of the afternoon in a daze, the scent of the lilies following you through the house. At the foot of the bed in his room, you find the black shopping bag he mentioned. Inside is a dress that feels like liquid silk, chosen with the same silent and focused precision he uses for everything else.
By 6:55 PM, you’re standing in the foyer, the silver cross necklace resting against your collarbone. At exactly 7:00 PM, the low rumble of a car pulls up to the front gates. You take a deep breath, smoothing down the silk of your dress, and step out into the evening air, wondering exactly what kind of "apology" Ni-ki has planned for the rest of the night.
The driver doesn't speak, and you spend the trip staring at your reflection in the window, your fingers habitually reaching up to touch the silver cross at your neck.
When the car pulls up to a discreet, ivy-covered building in an unknown area, the valet opens the door. You’re led to a private elevator that opens directly onto a rooftop. The wind is cool up here.
Ni-ki is leaning against the railing near the entrance, looking detached as he watches the skyline. He’s changed into a dark suit with no tie and the top buttons undone, the cut on his forehead is hidden beneath his hair. When he sees you, his posture straightens, his eyes dragging slowly from your heels to your face. He gives a short, approving nod and holds out his hand.
"You look really pretty," he says, his voice low.
He leads you to a table set at the very edge of the roof, giving you a panoramic view of the glowing city. The dinner is effortless. For the first two hours, the tension of the previous night is buried under "everything and nothing." You talk about the music he’s been listening to, the strange people he’s met in Japan, and how he still can't stand the taste of certain vegetables. He listens more than he speaks, his chin resting in his palm, watching you with intensity, making the bustling restaurant feel miles away.
He’s back to his usual self, cracking dry jokes and making fun of the way you hold your wine glass, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn't there two years ago.
As the dessert plates are cleared and the city lights seem to burn a little brighter, a lull falls over the table. You watch him trace the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. The weight of the flowers, the necklace, and the empty guest room from last night all sit heavy in your mind.
"Ni-ki?" you ask softly.
"Mmh?" He doesn't look up, his thumb still circling the glass.
"Can I ask you something? And don't give me a sarcastic answer."
He finally looks at you, his dark eyes steady. "Depends on the question."
"The flowers, the dress, the necklace...and the fact that you stayed calm even when I was yelling at you last night." You lean forward slightly, your voice calm but searching. "Do you actually feel something serious for me ? Or am I just the only person from your past that you felt like keeping around?"
It’s just an honest question from someone trying to find their footing in a life that feels like shifting sand.
Ni-ki sets his glass down, the ring of the crystal the only sound between you. He leans back, exhaling a slow breath. He looks away for a second, out toward the horizon, before turning his gaze back to you.
"I don't 'keep people around' out of habit," he says, his voice devoid of its usual playful mockery. "If I didn't want you in that house, you wouldn't be there. If I didn't want you wearing that necklace, I wouldn't have spent the last 2 days for the right jeweler."
He pauses, his fingers drumming once against the tablecloth. "Two years is a long time to be looking over your shoulder. The only thing that didn't feel like a weight was the idea of coming back and finding you exactly where I left you."
He reaches across the table to rest his fingertips near yours, settling a quiet, grounded connection.
"I'm not good at talking, you already know that, and I'm definitely not good at being a normal guy," he admits, a small, self-deprecating smirk touching his lips. "But I think the fact that I’m sitting here trying to explain myself to you, instead of just walking away like I do with everyone else, should tell you the answer."
He looks at you, his mask finally cracking just enough to show the raw and quiet affection underneath. "It’s serious. It’s been serious since college. I just had to survive long enough to tell you."
You both get home after dinner. The heavy front door of the mansion clicks shut, locking out the cool night air and the rest of the world. The foyer still smells faintly of the lilies and roses Ni-ki filled the house with earlier. You’ve barely stepped onto the marble floor, your hand still on the strap of your dress, when your phone starts vibrating violently in your palm.
Jess.
You slide the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear. "Hey, Jess—"
"Oh my god, finally," Jess’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone a few inches away. "You haven’t texted me back in hours. Are you okay? Is everything fine? Did he actually take you somewhere nice or am I going to have to fly out there and rescue you?"
You catch Ni-ki’s eye. He’s already tossed his suit jacket onto the bench by the door, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow movements. When he hears Jess's voice echoing faintly from the speaker, his eyebrows twitch in slight irritation. He doesn't like sharing your attention, especially not tonight.
"Yeah, everything is totally fine," you say, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you watch him walk toward you. "We just got back from dinner. It was—"
Before you can finish the sentence, Ni-ki steps right into your space. He slides his hands around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Wait, what was that?" Jess asks on the other end. "Are you guys home?"
"Yeah, we just...walked in," you stammer.
Ni-ki leans down, his hair brushing against your cheek as his lips find the sensitive skin right beneath your ear. He presses a slow, warm kiss there, his breath hot against your neck. You freeze, a sharp breath catching in your throat.
"I'm fine !" you say, a little too quickly. You try to elbow Ni-ki gently in the ribs, but he just tightens his grip on your waist, anchoring you to him. He moves his lips down your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone, right next to the silver cross necklace he gave you. He’s doing it on purpose, a lazy, teasing smirk evident as his lips curve against your skin.
"Seriously, Jess, I'll call you tomorrow," you squeak out, your shoulder bunching up as you try to escape the ticklish, intoxicating sensation of his mouth on your skin. You grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he doesn't budge. He nuzzles deeper into your pulse point, making your heart race.
"Alright, alright, you sound busy. Call me in the morning with details !"
"Will do. Bye !" You practically slam your thumb onto the red button to end the call, tossing the phone onto the nearest console table. You turn around quickly in his arms, your face burning with a mix of shyness and frustration. You look up at him, putting on your best exasperated expression.
"Are you serious?" you huff, poking him sharply in the chest. "That was Jess. She already thinks you're dangerous, and you’re out here trying to tease me while I’m actively talking to her."
Ni-ki doesn't look even remotely guilty. His hands resting loosely on your hips, watching your flushed face with total satisfaction.
"She talks too much," he says, his tone perfectly careless, though his eyes are dark and focused entirely on your lips. "And I waited 2 hours at that restaurant while you talked to the waiter and looked at the sky. My patience expired when we hit the driveway."
"You're spoiled," you mutter, though you can't stop the smile from breaking through. "And clingy."
"Shut up," he murmurs softly.
He reaches up, his thumb catching your chin to tilt your face up. The teasing vanishes in an instant, replaced by that heavy, genuine warmth from the rooftop. He leans down and kisses you for real ; there’s no more playing around, no more distractions. It’s deep, slow, and entirely possessive, effectively wiping any lingering thought of the phone call completely from your mind.
The grand foyer of Ni-ki's mansion fades into the background as his lips claim yours with urgent need. The marble columns and crystal chandelier become irrelevant as his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against his body. You can feel the hard planes of his chest through your dress, his heartbeat thudding against yours.
"God, I've been wanting to do this all night," he murmurs against your lips before deepening the kiss. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, demanding entrance. You part them willingly, and the kiss becomes hungry, desperate. One of his hands slides up your back, tangling in your hair while the other presses against the small of your back, arching you into him. Your own hands explore his shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath your touch.
Without breaking the kiss, Ni-ki lifts you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you through the sprawling mansion. Each step sends a jolt of anticipation through your body. The journey to his bedroom feels both endless and too short.
He kicks open the door to his bedroom and gently lays you on the cal king-sized bed. The room is dimly lit with soft moonlight filtering through the large windows. Ni-ki hovers over you, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans down to capture your lips again. This time his hands explore more boldly. He traces the curve of your hip, slides up your ribcage, and cups your breast through the fabric of your dress. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. His thumb circles your nipple, causing it to harden instantly beneath the fabric.
"Take this off," he whispers, tugging at your strap.
You raise your arms obediently as he pulls the dress over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of you. He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth while his hand continues to play with the other. The wet warmth of his tongue against your sensitive skin sends shivers down your spine.
Your hands find the hem of his shirt, and you unbutton it, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and abdomen. Your fingers trace the lines of his abs, feeling the muscles contract beneath your touch. Ni-ki moves lower, pressing kisses down your stomach. His hands work at the button of your panties, sliding them down your legs. You're completely exposed now, vulnerable beneath his gaze.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes dark with hunger.
He positions himself between your legs, lowering his head. The first touch of his tongue against your folds makes you gasp. He's careful and thorough, exploring every part of you with his mouth. His fingers join in, one then two sliding inside you as his tongue works your clit.
The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling in your stomach. Your hips move instinctively, grinding against his face. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot. The combination of his tongue and fingers is overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Ni-ki," you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair. "I'm—"
He doesn't let you finish, doubling his efforts. The orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out his name. He continues his ministrations, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and spent.
He moves up your body, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, which only adds to the intimacy of the moment.
"Your turn," you whisper, pushing him onto his back.
You position yourself between his legs, your hands working at the button of his pants. He lifts his hips to help you slide them down, along with his boxers. His erection springs free, hard and ready.
You wrap your hand around his length, feeling the weight and heat of him. Ni-ki watches you, his eyes half-lidded with desire. You lower your head, taking him into your mouth. He groans, his hands tangling in your hair as you begin to move.
"Fuck, yes," he breathes. "Just like that. Take it deeper."
You follow his guidance, adjusting your pace and pressure based on his reactions. His hips begin to move, thrusting gently into your mouth. You can feel him getting closer, his breathing becoming more ragged.
"Look at me while you do that," he commands. "God, your lips look so good wrapped around my cock."
You meet his gaze, maintaining eye contact as you continue to pleasure him. His eyes are dark with lust, his pupils blown wide.
"Play with my balls," he directs. "Gently."
You comply, cupping them with your free hand as you continue to work his length with your mouth. His response is immediate ; a deep groan and a slight thrust of his hips.
"Shit, I'm close," he warns. "Stop. I want to be inside you."
You move up his body, straddling his hips. He positions himself at your entrance, but hesitates.
"Are you on birth control ?" he asks, his voice tight with concern.
You shake your head. "No."
Ni-ki's expression clouds with worry. "Maybe we should—"
"It's okay," you interrupt, placing a hand on his cheek. "I want this. I want you."
He searches your eyes, then nods slowly. "If you're sure."
You lower yourself onto him, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is slight but pleasant, a feeling of fullness that's both intense and comforting. Once he's fully inside you, you pause, adjusting to his size.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle.
You nod, leaning down to kiss him. "Perfect."
You begin to move, slowly at first, finding a rhythm that works for both of you. Ni-ki's hands rest on your hips, guiding your movements. The pace gradually increases, the pleasure building with each thrust.
"I've missed you so much," he says, his voice strained with emotion.
You lean down, capturing his lips in a deep kiss. The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming, a perfect blend of passion and affection. His hands roam your body, memorizing every curve and dip.
The position changes, with Ni-ki now on top. He supports his weight on his arms, thrusting into you with a steady rhythm. His eyes are locked on yours, the connection between you palpable.
"You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "So perfect."
The pleasure builds, coiling in your stomach. You can feel another orgasm approaching, this one deeper and more intense than the last. Ni-ki must sense it too, because he increases his pace, hitting that spot inside you with each thrust.
"Come for me," he whispers, his voice strained. "Let me feel you."
That's all it takes. The orgasm crashes over you, more intense than before. Your body convulses around him, waves of pleasure coursing through you. Ni-ki follows soon after, his body tensing as he finds his own release.
He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You're both breathless, bodies slick with sweat. The room is quiet except for your ragged breathing.
Ni-ki brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. "I love you," he says softly.
You turn to face him, your heart swelling with emotion. "I love you too."
He kisses you, a soft, tender kiss that speaks volumes. The night is far from over, and for now, you're content to lie in his arms, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. The mansion around you feels less like a grand structure and more like a home, filled with the warmth of your shared intimacy.
The tangles of the duvet are warm around your legs when awareness returns, slow and heavy. For the first time since arriving here, there’s no sudden jolt of panic upon waking. Ni-ki is already awake, propped up on one elbow, his thumb tracing the small depression of your collarbone just below the silver cross. In the diffused morning light, the sharp angles of his jaw look softer, shadowed by a faint trace of sleep.
He shifts his weight, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, letting his eyes close again. It’s a quiet gesture that feels entirely separate from the massive estate surrounding you.
"Your skin is cold," he murmurs, his voice a low in a gravelly vibration. He pulls the blanket higher, tucking it securely around your shoulders before sliding his arm beneath your neck to draw you flush against him. You rest your palm over his chest, listening to the steady, unhurried thud of his heart.
An hour later, you both decide to get up and eat breakfast. You’re sitting on the high stool at the marble island, watching him navigate the space quietly. The peace fractures when your phone rings against the countertop, sliding slightly with the vibration.
The screen reads Jake.
You pick it up, sliding the bar to answer. "Hi."
"Hey. God , I finally caught you," Jake’s voice comes through, underscored by the faint background noise of a television. "Look, I’m just calling to make sure you’re actually functioning. Jess told us you skipped out on the rest of the trip because of some sudden errand, but she was being weirdly evasive about it. You’re good, right ?"
"Yeah, completely fine," you say, shifting your gaze to Ni-ki, who has stopped mid-motion, a plate held loosely in his hand. "I just had some things to sort out here."
"Alright. Just checking. It’s boring without you here anyway," Jake sighs, a brief rustle of paper audible on his end. "We’re wrapping things up and heading back home in three days. I just wanted to see if you were going to join us at the station or if we should just see you back at the hotel."
"Three days," you repeat, the timeline suddenly tasting heavy. "Yeah. I’ll—I’ll figure out let you know."
"Cool. Don't do anything stupid. See you." As the line goes dead, you set the device back down. Ni-ki places the plate of food in front of you with a bit more force than necessary. The ceramic clinks sharply against the stone. He sits on the stool beside you, picking up his coffee mug and staring into the dark liquid, his jaw visibly set.
"Who's that?" he asks. His tone is intentionally light, an obvious attempt to sound detached, but the tight grip of his fingers around the handle gives him away. "Jake," you reply softly, watching his profile. "Remember ?"
"I remember," he mutters, taking a slow sip. He keeps his eyes fixed ahead, his shoulder shifting away from you by a fraction of an inch. "It sounds like he’s keeping close tabs on your calendar."
"He's just a friend, Ni-ki. We’re supposed to be all on a trip right now." He lets out a short, humorless breath through his nose, setting the mug down. "Whatever. Eat your food before it gets cold." You watch him pick at his own breakfast, his movements rigid. "Ni-ki," you start, setting your fork down. "I have to leave in three days. I have to go back home with them."
The announcement causes him to freeze entirely. He doesn't look up, but his shoulders drop slightly. He pushes his plate away, leaning his elbows on the counter and burying his face in his hands.
"Three days is nothing," his voice comes out muffled, thick with a stubborn, brooding reluctance. "Just don't go. Tell them you're staying here. What's the difference?"
"The difference is that I vanished into thin air, Ni-ki," you explain, your voice laced with gentle frustration. "What am I supposed to tell them? 'Guys, remember our friend who we thought died two years ago ? He’s actually living in a fortress, and I’ve been staying with him instead of being on a trip with y’all.' They’d think I’ve lost my mind."
He drops his hands, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are slightly narrowed, a sulky, dark look clouding his features. "Let them think whatever they want. Why do you care so much about what they think?"
"Because they're my friends. They were your friends, too."
That hits a nerve. The silence that follows is prolonged, punctuated only by the distant sound of the clock. Ni-ki looks away, his fingers tracing a small pattern on the marble island. The brooding irritation slowly drains from his face, replaced by a weary expression.
He stands up, walking over to the window that faces the expansive grounds. He stays there for several minutes, his back to you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants.
"Fine," he says suddenly, turning around. His voice has regained that flat, decisive edge. "I’ll go with you."
You blink, caught entirely off guard. "What?"
"I’ll come with you in three days," he repeats, walking back toward the island. He stops right in front of you, looking down with a steady, unblinking focus. "I’m tired of hiding behind a dead name anyway. Jay, Jungwon, Jake... they deserve to know I'm not in a ditch somewhere. And I'm not letting you walk out that door alone."
──────
The platform at the regional train station is crowded, filled with the echo of announcements and the rush of commuters. You’re standing near the exit gates, the weight of the silver cross cold against your collarbone under your jacket.
Beside you, Ni-ki stands perfectly still. He’s pulled a black baseball cap low over his eyes, a high-collared coat shielding most of his face, but his presence is still massive, drawing occasional glances from passersby. His hand is tucked into yours inside his coat pocket, his grip almost uncomfortably tight.
"They're coming," you whisper, catching sight of three familiar figures navigating through the crowd near the baggage car.
Jay is leading the way, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, talking animatedly to Jungwon, who is looking down at his phone. Jake follows just behind, laughing at something Jay said. They look exactly as they always did ; untouched by the dark reality that has consumed Ni-ki’s life for the past two years.
As they approach the gate, Jake’s eyes scan the crowd and lock onto you. "Hey ! Over here!" he calls out, raising a hand.
Jay and Jungwon look up, their faces instantly brightening with familiar smiles. They cut through the remaining commuters, stopping a few feet away from you.
"You actually made it," Jay says, setting his bag down with a heavy thud. "Jess was acting so weird, we thought you’d—"
He cuts himself off. His eyes slide past your shoulder, landing on the tall figure standing directly beside you.
Ni-ki reaches up, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He takes off his cap, letting his hair fall over his forehead, and raises his chin to look them in the face.
The silence that hits the group is instantaneous and total. It’s as if the sound of the entire station has been sucked out of the air.
Jake’s hand, which was about to reach for his phone, freezes mid-air. His jaw slackens, his eyes widening to a degree that looks almost painful. Jungwon takes a involuntary step backward, his breath catching sharply in his throat, his gaze darting from Ni-ki’s face to yours, searching for some sign that this is a hallucination.
Jay is the only one who moves forward, though his boots heavy against the tile. His expression hardens, a mixture of profound shock and a sudden rising anger twisting his features. He stops barely two feet from Ni-ki, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"What is this ?" Jay’s voice is a low rasp, completely devoid of its earlier warmth, a glimpse of tears in his eyes. "Is this some kind of joke ?"
Ni-ki doesn't flinch. He stands his ground, his face pale but completely steady, his hand still holding yours tightly inside his pocket. "It’s not a joke," Ni-ki says quietly, his voice cutting through the tension with a chilling familiarity. "I'm back."
i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u i missed u
