PAIRING: Ares!Soonyoung x Priestess!Reader
SUMMARY: For years, you’ve been the lone mortal tending to the forsaken altar of Ares. When war befalls your city and the Temple of the Gods, you refuse to flee, blade in hand, and your defiance in the face of death summons the very god others were too afraid to serve.
WC: 15,776
AU: Mythological
GENRE: Smut, Romance
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Some angst, reader is an outcast at her temple, people being mean/indifferent to her, some violence when a temple is attacked by soldiers, depictions of blood and murder, a single scene where the murder is a bit graphic but not overly so, depictions of terror and soldiers making references to making reader their war prize, lots of things on fire idk they're being attacked, some ambiguous belief in the gods on reader's part, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, virgin reader implications, unprotected sex, I think thats it.
A/N: This is a piece for the 13 Gods of Olympus collab hosted by @aeristudios and @wooahaeproductions! Special thanks to Aeris for reaching out to see if I would be interested in doing this for our shared husband.
A/N 2: This is not beta read :/ sorry!
MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | 13 GODS OF OLYMPUS COLLAB
THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS IS ALWAYS QUIETEST IN THE MORNING. The temple breathes around you, vast and ancient. Stone sweats beneath your palms, the lower levels of the temple always a little cooler, a little wetter. Oil lamps burn low along the corridors, their flames casting flickering light against the marble columns. Incense hangs heavy in the air, smoky and sweet.
Your tunic is damp at the hem, darkened with water and ash. The cloth in your hand catches on the grooves carved into the altar, the stone worn smooth under your hands. The stains never really fade, the rust-colored shadows lingering after years of neglect. It doesn’t matter how many times you scrub or how many times you return with fresh water and salt - the stone does not budge.
You scrub anyway. It’s all you know how to do.
Murmurs of worship reach you at a distance. The sound of voices is never heavy around you - never around you. Here, the air is different. Quieter. Heavier. No one likes to come to this part of the hall with wine to leave or flower petals to place at the foot of the altar. It’s just you and the soft scratch of your scrubbing, day in and day out.
You kneel before the altar of Ares, knees pressed to marble that never warms, even in the summer. Your tunic clings to your thighs, making you shiver. You can’t remember the last time you felt warm while tending to Ares altar, but you’re used to it now.
No one else bothers with the altar. You are its single caretaker, its single worshiper, the only person brave enough to tend to a God of War during a time of peace. Most people think it’s bad luck, an invitation for violence, a foolish temptation of fate.
So they leave his altar to you, an orphan with no patron god, no family name to throw around to get better assignments. It’s you and the cold altar, as it has been for three years.
Candles burn down to the wick. You scrape away at their wax. It’s your own fault - you’re the only one who lights candles for Ares. It feels wrong not to, the lonely altar a little sadder without the flickering flame. It’s also practical, the small flames giving you better light to work with than the oil lamps that are farther down the row.
Standing, you knock your head on the hilt of a sword. You curse, rubbing the back of your hand as you move away from it. The sword is the only part of the altar that's not stone. It’s laid perfectly straight across the upturned palms of Ares, the edges dulled by disuse but free from rust. It is the only thing on the altar not damaged. The statue is cracked and chipped and worn with time, but the sword is eternal. Unchanging.
“Sorry,” you mutter, pausing to adjust it, nudging the hilt back into perfect line on Ares hands. “Didn’t mean to do that.”
Your voice feels small in this space, swallowed by stone and shadow. You don’t typically speak to the god - you’re not sure if he ever listens. But sometimes you do, making quiet observations or muttering small complaints about your day - things you’d never say aloud anywhere else but the silence of solitude.
You finish adjusting the sword, fingertips lingering for a moment on the cool metal. The blade seems to drink in the candlelight rather than reflect it, the edges holding shadows. A faint vibration hums beneath your palm, and an eerie sensation that you've felt before. You remove your hand, the thrum leaving a strange, static sensation on your hand. It never frightens you when it happens, but the lingering feeling makes you uneasy.
Exhaling, you step back, looking at the altar. It looks almost the same as when you arrived this morning. It's still stained and lonely, but the candles burn a little brighter now, the wax pooling neatly instead of spilling over the edges. You gather the damp cloth, the bucket of gray water, the small brush worn down to bristles, and turn away. The corridor swallows your footsteps. Behind you, the hum fades gradually until it is only the memory of pressure against your skin.
The stairs to the upper levels are narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet. You climb carefully, bucket sloshing against your hip. The air changes as you ascend, the cool dampness giving way to warmer drafts and the faint sweetness of myrrh.
You emerge into the great colonnade, afternoon light slicing through the eastern windows. Priestesses in white move like ghosts between the upstairs altars, arranging fresh laurels on Apollo's shrine, replenishing oil in Demeter's lamps, spreading petals around Aphrodite's feet. A young visitor kneels before Hermes, lips moving in rapid, fervent prayer.
No one pays you any mind as you walk.
A cluster of three priestesses near Athena’s statue pauses mid-conversation when your shadow falls across their path. Their eyes flick toward you, brief and dismissive. They resume speaking, voices dropping half an octave, words too soft to catch. You keep walking.
Further along, an older priest with a grey beard steps aside as you pass. Not quickly, not rudely, just enough that your elbow does not brush his robe. He nods once, the barest dip of his chin, then continues toward the inner sanctum without a word. You have long since stopped expecting more.
Outside, the sky has turned to molten bronze. You toss the bucket of water outside on the rocky outcrop that the temple stands on, pausing to look down from the mountainside. Below, the city unspools in winding streets of stone and blue-tiled buildings. The sea breathes beyond, blue and churning, the salt heavy in the air with a mix of fig.
Once you've returned your cleaning supplies to their proper place, you head toward the central courtyard. A massive fig tree stands dark against the growing twilight sky, its branches turning from silver to gold as Apollo drags the sun down so his sister can drag the moon upward.
Tables scatter the courtyard, full of priestesses and a handful of priests that sit in loose circles, breaking bread and passing claw bowls of olives and yogurt thinned with honey, speaking in soft murmurs. You ignore them in favor of sitting at your usual place at the end of the furthest bench, right against the cool bark of the fig tree.
Carefully, you lean over to pluck flatbread, cheese and a handful of figs from the center of the table. No one pays you much mind as you do. It's better that way. When you'd first come here, an orphan looking for anything to do in exchange for shelter, they hadn't been so nice. Pretending you're not there is a better alternative to the scathing comments and looks you'd used to receive.
Murmurs drift around you like smoke. You listen as the fig in your hand bleeds red juice down your fingers, frowning at what you hear. Mentions of raiders sighted along the northern pass, border temples burning. Ares walking the streets.
His name lands like a stone dropped in silver water. You glance up to see people casting sidelong looks your way, frowning. As if it was you who had mentioned the God of War. You look back down at the table, biting into the fig, the juice filling your mouth.
When your plate is empty you rise without hurry, stack the clay dish neatly, and walk past the tables. Conversation stutters, then resumes behind you. It is the way of things here when you're the only person foolish enough to tend to a cruel god. An unneeded god.
Your quarters are tucked behind the grain stores on the lowest level of the temples, down a side passage that few people ever use. The Temple of the Gods is complex, built onto the top of the hill and winding deep into it, the hallways and subterranean rooms serving as its roots. Not everyone lives in the temple like you do - most people have homes.
You don't.
The inside of your room is small. It's barely wider than your outstretched arms and smells faintly of cypress and lemon. A narrow pallet rests against one wall, covered with a single wool blanket dyed the color of rust. A low table holds the few possessions you have: a comb that's missing two teeth, a single extra tunic that's folded, and balm for burns when you knock over candles or when your fingers dip into wax.
Every day is the same routine. Chores in the morning that go through until early afternoon, followed by tending to Ares altar, followed by dinner and bed. You follow that routine now, peeling off the wet tunic and putting it aside to dry. Your shift underneath does nothing to keep the chill of the room out, goosebumps rising on your arms until you climb under the woolen blanket.
You draw your knees up, curl onto your side, and stare at the faint crack of moonlight beneath the door. Somewhere above you, the temple settles into its night rhythm. You listen until the sounds blur into silence, eyes heavy, limbs sore.
Tomorrow you will rise before dawn, go about your chores, and kneel before the altar. Always the same labor, always the same silence.
You breathe in, breathe out, and let the darkness take you.
-
Oil lamps flicker as you descend the narrow stairs, same as every day before you. Your palm stings where the rope of the bucket digs into your palms, water sloshing over as you walk. Dawn always feels heaviest in the temple, as though it's just you and the gods. You feel the press of something around you as you get closer to Ares' altar, something you can't see but you can feel, always just out of sight when you turn your head.
You've noticed that over the years, the way something seems to buzz when you're near the God of War's statue, just beyond your reach. It's one of those small observations you keep to yourself. No one would care what you had to say anyway. They have their own gods to whisper to, ones that promise harvest and safe travels or wisdom, not the bloody blade of conflict.
You set the bucket down with a soft thunk, the water inside rippling faintly. The altar of Ares waits in its alcove, unchanged and unchanging, the statue's broad shoulders casting a long shadow. You kneel, dipping the cloth into the cool water, and begin the ritual scrubbing. The stains are stubborn today, rust-brown flecks that flake under your nails but never fully yield. It's been this way since you first took the task years ago.
That time feels distant, nearly impossible to reach. You'd arrived at the temple an orphan with dirt-streaked clothes and a hollow ache in your stomach that no amount of rotten bread could fill. The high priestess had looked you over and simply told you it was Ares' altar or nothing. You'd taken it in stride. And why wouldn't you? You had no family to warn you of bad omens, no village tales to fill your head with dread. It was just a job, a way to earn your keep in a world that had already shown you its teeth.
The cloth rasps against the stone, a steady rhythm that echoes your thoughts. You've watched the others over the years, clustering around Zeus' grand pedestal upstairs, leaving offerings of wind and cheese. Watched them leave bowls of rosewater and ripe figs for Aphrodite, whispering to find them love and passion, to bless them with a fulfilling marriage.
Fear shapes their world. You learned it long ago - fear of failure, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being brave enough, fear of not climbing high enough. Fear is the lens through which they experience Ares, a monstrous god that threatens to ruin everything they've ever worked for, a name only prayed to when the world is on fire and the air choked in smoke.
There hasn't been war for a long time. The priestesses believe it's because no one prays to Ares anymore, so he has no power here, no way to keep a foothold in this world. But there's you. Tending to him as you always have, his sole patron, the only one who occasionally murmurs about your day to a stone face who cannot hear you, a pleasant buzz at the back of your neck when you do.
Footsteps echo down the corridor, light and hurried. You pause, glancing up to see two priestesses coming your way. You recognize them both - they're sisters. Elara is the taller of the two and older, her tan skin golden in the lamplight. Thalia trails behind her, shorter and rounder in the face, but beautiful enough to have the lords of the city asking for her at the temple gates.
They've never spoken to you directly before, especially not in the dim underbelly of the temple. It makes you straighten slightly, water dripping from your cloth onto the stone, pooling at your knees.
"Why are you doing that?" Elara asks, stopping a few yards away near the closest lantern. You can tell she doesn't want to come any closer to Ares gloom, her grey eyes flickering toward the statue looming over you.
"Tending the altar," you answer slowly. "As I always have."
"Look around, fool," Elara hisses. "The scouts bring word of armies marching, raiders at the border. War's breath is down our necks, and you have the gall to come polish the sword of our would be destroyer?"
Thalia peers around her sister, face like thunder. "You should leave his statue. You're inviting him in."
"Maybe that's what she wants," Elara notes. "She came here scavenging for a place like a rat in the granary - perhaps she clings to him because he's the only one she can have. But we know the truth. Your devotion has called him down."
You say nothing at first, your gaze drifting back to the statue. The sword lies still in his palms, eternal. You've thought about how strange the people of this world think sometimes. Thought it odd, how people carve meaning from chaos by blaming others, how they assign treachery because fear prods at them, a spear to the back of the neck.
An orphan is easy to blame in a place like this. You don't command armies, you don't know how to hold a shield, or burn down a village, and yet only you could be the root of war. The fire starter. There is no logic here, no rhyme or reason. Only fear nipping at their heels like hellhounds.
"War comes from the greed of men," you mutter, turning away from them to resume your scrubbing. "Not from scrubbed stone."
"Selfish," Thalia mutters. "You should abandon this place. Walk away. Then he will sleep again."
"I command no armies, nor do I command the God of War." You scrub at the stains that never move. "Perhaps you should pray to your gods to stop him."
Elara spits at your feet, the glob landing wet on the marble. "When the fires come, I hope they come for you first."
Thalia laughs and they turn as one, footsteps retreading up the stairs to leave you in the dim. You sit back on your heels, cloth in your hand, watching them leave you alone at the foot of the altar. The stone presses cold against your skin, unyielding. The hum returns faintly, a pulse under your knees.
You sit there for a long time after their footsteps fade, the spit drying slowly on the marble in a small, darkening spot near your knee. The lamps have burned lower, the shadows extending farther. Your cloth lies forgotten in your lap, water soaking through the fabric in cold patches. The hum beneath your knees has quieted to almost nothing, a faint tremor you might mistake for exhaustion if you didn't know better.
Slowly, you lift your head to peer at the statue looming above you. The marble is cracked in places, fine spiderwebs spreading from the left cheekbone. There's a deep fissure running down the right forearm where time or some earthquake long ago tried to claim it, but the face remains mostly untouched. You've studied the face of Ares thousands of times, and yet with Elara's threat hanging in the air, the lamplight finds new angles.
The statue of Areas has high cheekbones that catch the flicker of the flame, casting hollows beneath them that make his expression both stern and almost wear. His jaw is strong, and his mouth is full and set in a firm, unreadable line. The eyes have always captured you, fierce in stone, the sculptor leaving the pupils as bare pockets of shadows instead of inlaid with lapis lazuli like Zeus.
Hair falls in carved waves from beneath a crested helm long since broken away at the edges, strands curling against his broad forehead and brushing the strong column of his neck. There’s a faint scar etched across one brow, though you're unsure if it's accidental or deliberate.
You’ve never thought of the statue as beautiful before. Not in the soft, inviting way Aphrodite’s likeness is beautiful, or the serene way Apollo’s is. Ares is different - arresting in a way that is almost uncomfortable, like looking at someone who sees you and immediately knows every fear, every secret.
Tonight, with the accusations still ringing in your ears and the temple settling into uneasy quiet above you, the face feels less like cold stone and more like a witness.
“I don’t know if you’re listening,” you whisper, feeling a little silly as you pick up the cloth to begin scrubbing again. "But I never really believed you were. Not the way the others believe in their gods. Sorry if that offends you."
You pause, fingers aching. "They're stupid. I know I shouldn't say so, but they are. To think that I alone could be the reason border temples burn or call down war like ringing a bell is insanity." A small, dry laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. "If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere warm, and near the ocean. Somewhere there's a lot of fruit and I could have as much as I want. Somewhere I could learn to read, maybe. To have purpose. If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here."
The statue doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. But the lamplight shifts, and for a heartbeat the carved eyes seem to sharpen, as though the shadows themselves are paying attention. Your heart spikes and you lean forward, pressing your forehead down until it nearly brushes the base of the plinth.
"Sorry." You murmur. "That was rude. If you're listening, anyway."
No one answers, but as you resume your scrubbing, the lamps behind you gutter once, the hum under your knees steady as ever.
-
The warning bells wrench you from your sleep with jagged nails. At first, they blend with the remnants of your dreams, the distant roll of thunder blurring to deep, tolling bells of the city guard. You realize with sharp terror that you're not dreaming and you bolt upright on the narrow pallet, your blanket tangling around your tangles as you kick it free. Your night shift clings to your skin, damp with sweat as your heart begins to hammer.
Screams tear through the silence. Panic floods your veins like ice water, sharp and breathtaking. You scramble, forgetting all about your tunic as you fumble with the bronze latch on the door, handles shaking. The door sticks for a single, agonizing moment before it swings free and opens into the Underworld.
At least, you think it's the Underworld for a moment. Chaos reigns supreme in the hall, smoke rolling down from the upper levels in thick waves, stinging your eyes. An orange glow beckons at the end of the hall and screams echo from above, frantic under the heavy thunder of boots. Someone's voice cuts off mid-plea and your heart lurches as you plunge into the smoke, covering your mouth, eyes watering.
You climb the stairs two at a time until you're spilling into the main landing of the temple, sliding to a halt. Heat slams into you, the air turning to ash and fire. Flames devour the eastern wing, roaring up the tall wooden beams, eating at the roof that has sheltered you from rain and wind for years. The fig tree in the courtyard is aflame, bark peeling in curling sheets as it burns.
Priests and priestesses scatter in every direction, white tunics covered in blood and soot, face streaked in tears and ash. One of them stumbles toward you, clutching a bleeding arm, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. A soldier in leather armor and dented bronze grabs her before she can reach you, yanking her hair backward. She screams only once before his sword flashes down. You flinch as blood sprays in a bright arch, spattering the marble floors.
Your breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts. This is the end of everything you’ve known - the altar, the scrubbing, the cold water and heavy bucket - all of it burned to whatever war this is, whoever's army has come here to pillage and burn and slaughter. Burning.
A soldier spots you standing frozen in the chaos. His eyes light with interest and he shouts something at you, pointing with a bloodied sword. Two other soldiers turn, grins splitting their face as they start toward you, boots crunching over broken pottery stained with blood.
Terror surges inside of you, more primal and absolute than you have ever known. You spin and bolt toward the inner corridors, your body taking you to the only path you can think of in the fiery hell scape of the temple. The lower levels call to you, cool and dark and comforting - but what calls to you more is the sword upon Ares alter, the only weapon you can think of to fight back, to save yourself.
Laughter chases you and the soldiers jeer as they start to run after you. You're quick on the steps, flying down them as their boots pound down the corridor behind you. Your lungs scream as you dive into the dark halls of the lower temple, the oil lamps burning low, the altars here untouched as you fly by them, running for the last halo of gold light where Ares stands.
You burst into the alcove, skidding on marble now warm from rising heat. The statue of Ares looms in the flickering gloom, larger and more imposing than ever as shadows dance across its cracked features. The sword rests in those upturned marble hands, eternal and waiting.
Your hands shake violently as you reach up on tiptoe and wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword. It's heavier than you expected, but as you pull it free the weight adjusts, turning from heavy to perfect, like the grip was shaped for you and you alone. The leather grip is cool against your skin and the dull metal of the blade catches the low lamplight in a dull gleam.
The hum you've felt for years surges through you, stronger now than ever, a roaring vibration that travels from the sword up your arm and into your chest, syncing with the frantic pounding of your heartbeat until it feels like your pulse is a living thing connected to the sword.
You spin to face the corridor, raising the sword in both hands. Your stance is all wrong and the weapon feels awkward in your grip, but the weapon steadies you as the soldiers round the corner. It's just the three of them, faces flushed with violence and glee as they look at you, stalking down the hallway.
"Look at the little mouse," the one at the lead says, grin spreading. "Drop it, little mouse, before you poke yourself. I can give you a sword to play with."
One of the men behind him licks his lips, eyes raking over you. “She’ll make a fine prize after we finish here.”
Your arms tremble, but you don’t lower the blade. The hum thrums louder, almost deafening in your ears, drowning out the distant roar of flames. Sweat stings your eyes. The temple groans overhead, beams cracking and shifting as it gives way in sections to the raging inferno.
"Come here, little mouse," the leader coos. He steps into the lamp light of Ares alter, eyes shining. "Let me have a taste."
No sooner than he steps into the ring of light, the world shatters around you.
A deafening crack splits the air, like thunder ripping through the temple. You scream, nearly dropping the sword as you cower, ears ringing. The stone floor shudders beneath your feet and a blinding white-gold flare erupts in the air, like a seam in reality shredding open. You throw one arm over your eyes to hide from it, the sword shaking in your other hand as you step back.
Heat washes over you as the light vanishes and you're left blinking, fading streaks of light fading as your vision adjusts, spots swimming in your peripheral vision.
A figure stands between you and the three men.
He's taller than any mortal you've ever seen, armored in blackened bronze that seems to drink the light from the oil lamps. A crested helm of horsehair and iron shadows his face, his armor shoulders broad, stance lethal. In his right hand is a long spear, its haft made of dark wood bounded with glowing gold, the tip of the weapon gleaming with a sharpness that seems to cut the air itself. In his left hand is a sword that looks exactly like the one in your hand, runes pulsing faintly along the metal.
Ares.
You realize it at the same time as the soldiers do. They stumble backward from him, murmuring his name in awe as they stare, wide-eyed and terrified.
The God of War says nothing. He simply moves - faster than you thought possible, faster than any mortal has the right to. His spear juts forward in a flash of movement, piercing the leader's chest with a wet, crunching sound. The man is lifted off his feet, skewered like a boar before the god tosses him aside. The body crashes against the wall, blood spraying as Ares advances.
Screams of terror rip through the hall from the remaining two men. They lift their swords but they can do nothing against a god. You watch in mute terror as Ares parries without looking and drives his own blade upward in a single, brutal stroke. You hear a gurgle before you realize Ares has cut the man open throat to ear, the crimson surging as the man buckles.
The third turns to flee, but Ares hurls the spear, arm snapping forward like an adder. The weapon punches through the man's armor, sending him forward to the ground as he collapses. He jerks once - twice - then goes still, hanging on the weapon like a trophy of war.
Silence crashes in, broken only by the crackle of distant flames and your own ragged breathing.
Ares turns toward you and your knees nearly give out.
The face underneath the helm is the statue you've tended to for years made flesh. His high cheekbones are hollowed by shadow and the growing firelight at the end of the hall, his jaw clenched in fury that terrifies you. His eyes burn red, the ancient weight of them pressing against you and pinning you in place. Dark hair spills against his forehead, one of his brows interrupted by the same crack on his statue.
He sheaths his sword and lowers himself to a knee before you. You blink, watching as he removes his helm. His hair is dark, the sides and underneath cropped shorter in an undercut. He is devastatingly beautiful in a way that terrifies you, the anger in his face softening to something you can't read.
"You," he murmurs. "Are the one who came to me in darkness. Who scrubbed the stains that time could not remove when others refused. Who lit candles for a god no one else would name. For years I have felt your hands at my altar, and heard your words in what otherwise would have been silence. In a temple that feared me, only you showed me kindness."
Awe crashes over you, mingling with terror and grief until you can barely breathe. Your fingers tighten on the sword - his sword. So he had been listening. All that time - all those years, spent on your knees at the foot of his altar, tending to him and muttering about your day. About your little complaints or observations. The hum you'd felt then hadn't been an illusion or madness. It had been him - real and present.
“Lord Ares,” you manage, voice cracking. You drop to your knees, ducking your head. "Please don't let us burn."
"You do not bow to me." He rises and takes a step toward you. You look up, chest heaving as he approaches you slowly, as though he's afraid to startle you. "I cannot save this place. War is not a hound I call to heel. To halt it here would only shift the slaughter elsewhere - war is inevitable and a wheel that is always turning. I simply honor the wheel - I cannot bend fate for mercy alone."
The ceiling groans overhead, a deep, ominous crack splitting the stone. Embers rain down from the ceiling, red and glowing. You see smoke curling behind him, the fire crawling closer and closer. The heat is relentless now, pressing in.
"But you," Ares murmurs. "You who asked nothing, who gave when others only took. You will not die here."
He reaches out toward you. You let him, his callused palm cupping your chin, thumb brushing feather light over your jaw. You shiver, eyes fluttering as he looks down at you, expression soft, almost reverent. More embers fall, haloing him in firelight as his eyes drink you in.
"Sleep," he whispers. "When you wake, you will know peace."
The world tilts, and darkness swallows you whole.
-
The sound of crackling flames has been replaced by the sound of water. You groan, rolling over. It's not just the sound of water, you realize - it's the sound waves, the rhythmic hush of them retreating and returning. You inhale and you don't smell smoke. Rather, you smell the clean and cool scent of growing things, of salt and brine, of driftwood.
Your eyes flutter open slowly to see light filtering through palm fronds overhead, soft and golden. You lie on a soft bed with a thin blanket of undyed linen that feels softer than anything you've ever known. A low ceiling of thatch stretches above you, open at the sides so the breeze can drift through.
You try to sit up and a gentle ache rolls through you. You glance down and realize you're free from soot and sweat, a new and proper tunic of white and red replacing the night shift you'd been in at the temple.
A shadow shifts nearby, snagging your attention. Ares sits cross-legged on the sand just outside the small shelter's open wall, his back to the endless sea of blue behind him, facing you. The armor is replaced by a simple tunic of deep crimson linen belted at the waist. His helm is absent, dark hair shining in the sunlight, damp like he's just come up from the water.
Swallowing, you sit up fully. The sword from the altar rests beside you. You remember the temple in flashes, the burning ceiling, the fire eating the fig tree, the blood of the priestess as she ran toward you - him, slaughtering the men who chased you to his altar, the sudden violence of it.
"Lord Ares," you whisper.
He tilts his head and a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I've had many names across centuries and places. Ares. Enyalios. Resheph. Montu. Men have called me destroyer, protector, madness, courage. But here, please call me Soonyoung."
The name settles over you like warm sand. Simple. Human. "Soonyoung."
"I like the sound of the name on your tongue."
A flush crawls up your neck. You look around again, taking in the details you missed at first. There's a small fire pit nearby, the embers still glowing beneath a flat stone. There's a basket holding figs and pomegranates, and a few pots with lids on them. You turn, and in the distance of the island, you see a small building, nondescript and built from driftwood, nestled in lush greenery.
"How long has it been?" You ask him, glancing at him nervously. "Since the temple?"
"Two days. You slept rather deeply. The journey here took a lot from you."
"You saved me."
"I would not leave you to the fire." His gaze drops briefly to the sand between his knees, his fingers tracing idle patterns. "Not you."
"The temple?"
"Gone," he says quietly. "The raiders burned what they could not carry. Some survived. Many did not. War took what it always takes."
You nod once, the grief sharp but distant. You had known, somewhere beneath the panic, that there would be no saving it. Still, hearing it aloud makes your chest ache. Even if the people there had not been kind to you, it had been your home.
Soonyoung rises smoothly, brushing sand from his palms. He grabs a pomegranate and splits it open with his thumbs, the red juice running over his fingers. He offers you half, the seeds gleaming like rubies inside.
"Eat," he says. "Your strength needs rebuilding."
You take it, the fruit cool against your palm. The first seed bursts between your teeth, tart and sweet, juice spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, suddenly self-conscious under his steady regard. He seems amused as he sits again, this time a little closer. You feel the heat of him as you eat in silence, both of you watching the water of the beach below and the wind through the palms.
As you chew, you glance toward the building in the distance again, the walls catching the slanting sunlight.
"It's mine," he says, noticing you looking. "Built long ago when this island was a sanctuary for me after long periods of war. I find the peace of this place a necessity for myself."
"Is this place real?"
He hums and nods. "Yes, but no mortal could stumble upon it - save perhaps someone particularly unlucky like Odysseus." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me about yourself.”
You blink, startled. No one has ever asked before. He smirks like he knows this, but he says nothing, chewing on seeds as he watches you with dark eyes. His eyes are no longer red - they're dark and fathomless, warm in a way you don't expect.
"There isn't much to tell," you admit. "I found the temple when I was small. No name, no family. The high priestess took me in because there were chores to be done and an unattended altar that needed scrubbing. Everyone was afraid of you. I wasn't."
A faint smile flickers across his face again. "I know. I listened to you."
"You did?"
"Every word. Every muttered curse when the wax spilled. Every quiet breath when you knelt and thought no one was listening.” He sets the pomegranate rind aside, wipes his hands on his chiton. “You were the only voice in three years that did not ask me for victory, or vengeance, or protection from enemies. You simply existed. I thought it was nice."
“I didn’t know what else to do. It was my place to ask for anything."
"And now? You would still ask nothing of me?"
You look out at the sea, the depth bluer than anything you've ever known. You don't know what you would ask for - can't think of anything, really. Though you know Ares has no connection to the sea, you think he's rather similar - endless, beautiful, stormy.
"I would ask nothing of you," you say eventually.
He hums thoughtfully. "This island is mine. Far from mortal shores and far from the path of armies. No war reaches here unless I will it, and I do not will it. I offer you this place, though you don't ask for it. I don't offer it to you as a worshiper or a servant, but as a guardian. Tend the fire if you wish, watch the horizon. Keep the silence for me. Sleep inside or beneath the stars out there."
The offer hangs in the air between you, his words making your heart skip a beat. You've never had someone offer you to stay somewhere without an obligation, to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on you.
For a moment, you stare at him, the pomegranate half forgotten in your hands, the juice sticky on your fingers. You wonder what it would be like not to exist in the shadowed hallways of the temples, whispers following you as you pass. To live without averted eyes or people treating you like a curse made flesh.
Here, on this island, there would be no one to tell you what to do. No one to chastise you. No one to force you to eat alone in a courtyard of people. A refuge, not a rejection. But beneath the relief simmers doubt, a familiar shadow that has dogged you since childhood. Who are you to accept such a gift? An orphan with no name, no lineage, no skills beyond scrubbing stains that never truly fade. What if this is pity, disguised as kindness? A god's whim, fleeting as the sea foam that dissolves on the shore?
"War isn't always battle," Soonyoung murmurs, watching you mull it over. "Sometimes war is with oneself. Or with others, mental and years long. Sometimes war is survival to a life you were born to, but perhaps don't deserve. It is rest and respite I'm offering. Not pity or amusement."
"Can you read my thoughts?"
"No, but I can read your face." You flush and he grins. "You've tended to me for years and I've listened to you. Perhaps you don't know me, but I know you."
Gratitude sparks in your chest, overwhelming and raw. He saved you - not the temple or the others, but you. Knelt before you in blood and fire, the person who gave him company when no one else did. And now he sees right to the heart of you, to the very wound you knew was there but never had a name for.
You draw a breath, steadying yourself and you meet his gaze. "I accept."
Something brightens in his eyes - relief, you think. His shoulders ease, a tension you hadn't realized was there fading, and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling. He rises and offers you a hand. You set the rind of the pomegranate aside and take it, letting him help you to your feet.
"Come," he tells you. "Let me give you a tour."
You follow Soonyoung, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. It's soft and fine beneath your soles, shifting with each step. The beach curves downward gently to a crescent of white edged by turquoise shallows that foam as the waves meet the shore. The air feels alive as you step onto damp sand, charged with an undercurrent of energy that feels like static on your skin.
Soonyoung walks beside you, his stride confident and unhurried, but there's an energy to him that crackles like lightning on the verge of striking. He doesn't touch you again, but his presence is a tangible force, goosebumps lining your arms that you tell yourself is from the cool ocean breeze.
"This beach is the heart of the island," Soonyoung tells you, spreading his arms. "The sand here never erodes, and the waves bring shells and driftwood as gifts from my uncle when he sees fit."
He gestures ahead where the tide laps lazily, depositing a cluster of iridescent conch shells that gleam in the sunlight. You grin and stop to pick one up. Its surface is cool to the touch, humming faintly under your fingers.
"Bring it to your ear," he urges gently, grinning.
You press it to your ear, and instead of the ocean's roar, you hear a soft melody, like distant flutes weaving through whispers of wind. You turn to him, delighted and he laughs. The sound is so rich you forget all about the shell, watching him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the sky, sun-kissed and happy.
He seems so different from the god who appeared the night in the temple, reigning fury down on your attackers. You wonder if this is the version of Ares only the island gets, the hidden side of war that needs rest, that needs respite and happiness to fuel the rage and the violence.
As you walk, the sand gives way to low dunes tufted with sea grasses that sway, their blades tipped with dew. Wildflowers bloom in random clusters, vibrant explosions of gold and red. Soonyoung bends down to pluck a bloom and tuck it behind your ear casually with no regard for the way it makes your heart slam in your chest, startled.
"These grow year-round," he explains. "There are no seasons here to wither them. The island provides - fruits ripen eternally, herbs grow, and animals thrive. You'll never hunger or want for anything." His tone is happy, almost boyish in its excitement. "I shaped this place with the help of some of my siblings. I desired a place where life persists, defiant against decay."
"It's beautiful," you admit. "Not what I expected."
He nods. "It cannot be war all the time. Even I need peace."
The path curves inland, away from the beach's gentle slope, into a grove of olive and fig trees that form a natural canopy overhead. Sunlight filters through in golden shafts, illuminating leaves. The ground underfoot turns to mossy earth, cool and springy, dotted with fallen figs that split open. Birds flit between branches, their feathers flashing jewel tones you've never seen.
Deeper into the grove, a narrow stream emerges, its waters crystal-clear and bubbling over smooth pebbles. He crouches to cup water in his hand and drinks. You do the same, dipping your hands into the cool water. When you bring it to your lips, the crispness of it startles you. It's the cleanest water you've ever tasted, cool and clear, a shiver rippling down your spine. He grins and splashes a bit of water toward you, the droplets landing cool and tingling on your skin.
The grove opens to a gentle rise, leading toward the house you glimpsed earlier. It's a driftwood house, sun bleached and reflecting the sun's glow. Terracotta tiles crown the flat roof, with vines of blooming wisteria cascading down one side in waves swaying in the breeze. A columned portico faces the sea, supported by pillars carved with small shields. Wooden shutters frame wide windows, open now to let in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the interior.
Soonyoung pushes open the heavy oak door and ushers you inside with a sweep of his arm, his grin eager. The main room is open and spacious, the floor covered in woven rugs of deep crimsons and earth tones. A hearth dominates one wall, a small fire crackling inside.
On another side, a kitchen alcove gleams with copper pots and shelves laden with jars of fruits and spices. A low table nearby is set with clay bowls and ewers of water. He leads you to a short hall into a room, pushing open the door to reveal a room with a wide bed draped in linens and pillows. The windows in the room overlook a small herb garden, bees humming lazily among blooms of lavender.
He leads you to a back terrace, shaded by a pergola overgrown with grapevines heavy with clusters of ripe fruit. You're amazed at how lush everything here, every fruit swelling with ripeness, every ounce of water clear and cool. From here, the view sweeps across the island. You can see the beach below and the grove's verdant sprawl, distant cliffs rising with goats.
Soonyoung leans against a pillar of the pergola, crossing his arms over his chest to turn his eyes on you. He seems nervous, almost, chewing the corner of his lips as he watches you take in the view.
"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," you admit. "I still feel like I'm dreaming."
"I assure you, Wonwoo - Hypnos - is not here." Soonyoung grins when you look at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think I don't know the others?"
"You just talk about them so casually."
"They're my family. We might spite one another and occasionally fight, but they're family nonetheless."
"I've never had a family."
Soonyoung softens, pushing off the column to drift toward you. He lifts his hand as though to brush it against you, but thinks better of it, dropping it at his side. Instead, he tells you, "Rest. Eat. Drink. I'll leave you to it."
"You're not staying?" You hate the instant panic, the way your heart flares. His smile is fond. "I'll be here as often as you wish. Occasionally I've got some things to address, like now. But I won't abandon you here, so long as you want my company."
Soonyoung lingers for a moment longer on the terrace, the late-afternoon light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning the crimson of his tunic to something almost molten. He watches you with that same quiet intensity he’s carried since the temple, sending a shiver down your spine. The wind moves through the grapevines overhead, rustling leaves and sending a few loose tendrils curling toward the floor.
“I’ll leave you to settle,” he says at last, voice low but carrying the same easy confidence he’s shown all afternoon. “The house knows what you need. If you’re hungry, the kitchen will have what you want. If you’re tired, the bed will be warm. If you want the stars tonight, the mats where you woke up remain there, a sort of bed under the stars. I’ll be nearby. Not far. Call if you need me."
You nod, throat tight. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all you have. “Thank you.”
He smiles, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the scar on his brow lift slightly. “No thanks necessary. You’re home now.”
Home.
He turns then, stepping off the terrace with that same fluid grace, bare feet silent on the warm stone path. You watch his back until he disappears around the curve of the grove, swallowed by olive branches and golden light. You stand there a long time after he leaves, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, the borrowed tunic soft against your skin. The fabric smells faintly of sun-dried linen and something like myrrh.
You step back inside the house, moving slowly, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath you like a dream. But the floor stays firm beneath you as you re-enter the sleeping chamber and head toward the wide bed. You sink onto its edge, palms pressing into the mattress. IT gives beneath you, softer than anything you've ever slept on. The constant tension that lived between your shoulder blades finally bleeds out, the ache of release blooming across your back.
Tears come then, sudden and quiet. Not sobs - not grief, because you don't grieve the temple, not exactly. But relief, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. There's a hint of sorrow for the life you lost, even if it was never truly kind, but the utter relief of realizing where you sit now, in a house built by a god, surrounded by things that never stain, that never corrode, is overwhelming.
You're home now.
Soonyoung's words echo. The phrase feels foreign. Home has always been temporary until the temple, and even then, a storage closet in a corner of a world that you'd carved out for yourself or a spot at the farthest bed during meals never really felt like home. You had duty and silence, and you had the hum of an altar no one else but you would touch, but never a home.
Your fingers curl into the linens. Gratitude swells again, so large it hurts. Not just for the rescue, not just for the island, but for the way he saw the war inside of you. The silence battle, not bloody or gory but just as violent. He'd heard your complaints for years, your mindless commentary, and kept watch. Saved you when you needed it.
Lying back slowly, you stare up at the beamed ceiling. Late sunlight slants across the room in long golden bars, painting stripes of warmth across your body. Outside, the waves keep their steady rhythm. Somewhere distant, a bird calls, a clear note that echoes over the water.
For the first time in years, you don't feel watched, but you don't feel invisible either. You just… feel present.
You breathe in, breathe out. And for once, drift into a comfortable sleep.
-
Waking up on the island is unlike most days. Instead of opening your eyes to dim, cool darkness, you're greeted by warm air, the blankets around you soft and scented slightly with something woody. Sunlight filters through the open window, panting the bed in warm shafts. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, peering around the room to find the sound that pulled you from sleep.
Soft footsteps pad across the floor somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Your heart quickens, a remnant of the temple's chaos flashing through your mind: boots thundering down corridors, screams echoing off marble. But there's no smoke here, no heat of flames pressing in. Only the distant hush of waves and the nearer hum of bees in the herb garden.
Sitting up carefully, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet warm against the rug. You pad toward the door, curiosity driving you out into the main room, which is bathed in morning light. You pause when you see Soonyoung, his back to you as he stands at the low table in the kitchen. He's dressed simply again, in a loose tunic of undyed linen that hangs open at the neck, revealing the strong lines of his collarbone and the faint scar that traces across it. His hair is tousled, still damp from what might have been an early swim, and he moves with that same coiled grace.
He turns at the sound of your approach, his dark eyes lighting with that boyish excitement you saw yesterday while he gave you a tour of the small island. "You're awake! Good, I thought you might sleep longer."
You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame. The sight of him here, domestic and unarmored, stirs something unfamiliar in your chest, a flutter that you dismiss. You can't help but stare at him, hypnotized by the way the light catches the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp jaw and the faint scare on his brow. You immediately chide yourself - he's a god, not something for you to stare at like a starstruck priestess.
"I didn't mean to intrude," you murmur, voice rough from sleep."
He waves a hand dismissively. "No intrusion. I was gathering breakfast. The fruits are at their best in the morning. Join me on the terrace? The view is unmatched at this hour."
You nod, following him as he lifts a platter laden with fruit in one hand as he leads the way through the back door. The stone underfoot is warm from the sun, and beyond the low wall, the island unfolds in a tapestry of green and blue. The seat glitters under the climbing sun. No smoke on the horizon. No distant bells tolling alarm. Just the island and the cool breeze.
Soonyoung sets the platter on the low table between two cushioned benches, then settles onto one with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out as if the world bends to his comfort. You take the opposite bench, looking at the platter of fruit. Figs bleed red juice onto the clay, grapes swollen and deep purple. Honey gleams golden in a small jar, and Soonyoung tears a piece of flatbread and dips it into the honey, offering it to you.
"Eat," he murmurs, voice soft but insistent. "The food here will mend the spirit."
You take the bread, the honey sticky and sweet on your tongue, mingling with the warm, yeasty flavor. It's richer than anything from the temple, and you sigh, letting it melt in your mouth. Soonyoung watches you as you chew, like he's gauging your reaction. His eyes meet yours, dark and warm, and a spark jumps in your chest, unbidden. You look away quickly, focusing on a grape you pluck from the bunch, a nervous flush warming your neck.
"How did you sleep?" he asks, breaking the silence as he selects a fig, splitting it open with his thumbs. Juice runs over his fingers, and he licks it away absently, the gesture distracting you.
"Deeply," you answer after a beat too long. "Better than I have in years, honestly."
"The island attunes to you. If you prefer the stars, the shelter by the beach is yours too. Sometimes I like to sleep there." He pauses, popping a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Did dreams come? Or just peace?"
"Peace. Honestly, it was strange to wake without the immediate sense of monotony."
"Mhm."
"Better than the dread I felt waking up that night."
"Dread is war's shadow." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Speaking of that night - you picked up my sword and faced those men with no training and without fear."
"I was plenty afraid."
"Perhaps, but you were brave enough to defeat the fear. That's no small thing. I rarely see that even in battle-hardened warriors. You don't know how challenging it is to look certain death in the face and decide to fight it anyway, even if it's inevitable."
You think for a second, nibbling on a piece of cheese. "I just did what felt right. I knew the way to the altar - knew the sword was there. It was just instinct."
He tilts his head, studying you with that penetrating gaze. "Have you ever thought of learning? Properly, I mean. Not because you'll need to - war doesn't touch this place. But it could be something for you to do, to embrace that strength."
The question hangs between you, laced with possibility. Your pulse quickens. Learning to use a sword never occurred to you - why would it? Women didn't wield swords to begin with, but certainly not those who served a temple of the gods. The idea, however absurd, makes you grin, looking up at him. He smiles like he knows your answer already, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.
"I think I'd like that," you say.
"Excellent!" He shoots to his feet, startling you. Energy crackles around him, making you lean back. He offers you a hand, a grin splitting his face. "Let's start now. Basics first. Come with me, the beach has good footing."
You can't help but laugh. He pulls you up to your feet and drops your hand, leading you down the path to the beach from the terrace. Birds trill in the trees as you pass, the air full of scents of blooming fruit and salt spray. You reach the beach easily, the sand firm and damp near the water's edge, waves lapping gently.
Soonyoung turns to you and holds out a hand. You blink in surprise as the air ripples for a second, like heat waves disrupting reality in the distance, and the sword from the altar appears. Your mouth pops open a little, shocked. You shouldn't be, you suppose. He's a god with powers beyond your understanding at his finger tips, the ability to command armies and summon weapons barely scratching the surface with what he's able to do.
He holds the sword out to you and you stare at it, unsure. He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Take it. It's yours."
Similar to the first time you picked it up, the sword is heavy for a single moment before it balances itself. You marvel at it in the sunlight, watching the way the sun glints off the edge, now sharped and polished to perfection. It's the perfect size and weight in your hand, and when you give it a gentle test swing, Soonyoung's smile is so warm that you feel yourself grin back.
"First lesson," Soonyoung says, voice shifting from playful to commanding. "Discipline. War isn't mindless fury. It's control over your body, your breath, you fear. Control over your enemy, their goals."
He strides toward you and gently reaches out, tapping you on the wrist to lift your sword hand. His touch is electric and you stare at his hands as they adjust your grip on the handle of the sword, fingers callused and precise as he squeezes your fist briefly.
"Looser here," he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly on your knuckle. "Yes, like that."
The sun highlights the muscles rippling in Soonyoung's forearm as he steps to the side, dropping your hand in favor of showing you how to take your stance, bent at the knees, legs firmly planted, not too far apart. You stare at him, watching the way the sun catches the lighter threads of his hair, haloing him in gold.
You swallow, focusing on the sword in your hand as you try to ignore the way your heart races, reminding yourself that Soonyoung is a god - Ares specifically, the God of War - Miaephonus, Thouros - to many. Soonyoung had said he wears hundreds of names, and you know it to be true as he leads you through basic forms, his tone steady, the command threading through his voice though he never raises it.
Soonyoung is a patient teacher, each correction gentle but direct. Sweat beads on your brow but you find the work exhilarating. Never before did you imagine you could hold a sword, never before did you think you might find yourself on the beach with the sun reaching its zenith, learning from the god who makes art of the sword and spear.
As he drills you, you realize Soonyoung is right. There is a discipline to the way he teaches you, a logic to the moves and the steps that is less rage and chaos and more control. More purpose. You think it reminds you of him, fierce but contained, like that night in the temple when his rage had been a controlled vehicle for violence.
Soonyoung laughs and stops you after a particularly clumsy swing on your part, the sword tipping too far forward. He grins, eyes twinkling as he strides forward and summons another weapon. You watch as he holds it loosely, turning his hand to display the grip.
"You're still gripping it too hard," he tells you. He demonstrates again before twirling the blade in a showy arc, winking at you. His grin grows when you glower. "Fighting has a flow to it. If you're too rigid, you'll break. If you're too loose, you'll fall. You need to be the perfect combination of both to flow."
You try to mimic the motion, but your arm wobbles, the sword dipping awkwardly. Laughter bubbles up unbidden. It surprises you to hear yourself laugh. His grin is fierce and he steps toward you, steadying your elbow gently.
"You have a beautiful laugh," he tells you before stepping away again before saying, "Again."
You nod, breathing deeply as he instructed, inhaling the salt air to center yourself. The sand shifts under your feet, forcing you to adjust, to find balance in the unpredictability. You swing again, this time with more intent, the hum in the sword vibrating in harmony with your movements. Soonyoung claps in delight, nodding as he has you do it again and again.
You keep going until your arms tremble and the sun sits high overhead. Sweat slicks your skin, your tunic clinging in damp patches, but the ache in your muscles feels good. Soonyoung watches every movement with that blend of fierce focus and boyish delight, correcting your stance with quick taps of his blade or a murmured instruction.
"Alright, that's enough for now," he declares as the sun dips into the afternoon. "Not bad, honestly."
You lower the blade, chest heaving, and wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The hum in the sword has settled to a gentle thrum against your palm. "Why does the sword hum?"
"It hums?"
"Yes. Like a vibration."
"Ha!" He claps his hands, delighted. "It's my energy. Didn't expect a mortal to feel it. I should have known you'd sense it."
"I sensed it at your altar too."
"Is that so?" Soonyoung cocks his head and his grin sharpens. "Virago."
"Virago?"
"A woman of great strength and tenacity, a warrior, even if only in spirit and not practice. Athena would like you."
The compliment makes you avert your eyes. You don't know what to make of his words. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to respond, summoning you to lunch as he charges up the path that leads toward the little refuge you woke up in yesterday.
You follow him in the white stand, the tide higher now as it laps closer to the dunes. The simple thatch roof comes into view, mat still spread where you slept. The fire pit smolders low, embers glowing under a flat cooking stone. A fresh basket waits beside it, overflowing with more fruit, a round loaf of bread steaming slightly, and a clay jug beaded with condensation.
Soonyoung drops to one knee beside the pit, coaxing the embers back to life with a few dry twigs and a breath that carries the faint scent of smoke and myrrh. Flames lick upward almost eagerly, as though the fire recognizes him.
He glances at you over his shoulder, playful glint returning. “Sit. The island’s hospitality is better than any feast hall in Olympus.”
You settle onto one of the thin mats, legs tucked beneath you. You watch as he slices the bread with a small knife before passing you a thick piece that he slathers with honey. You accept it, biting into the bread. It's warm and sweet, melting on your tongue and you sigh contentedly, earning a grin from him as he slices another piece for himself.
For a while you eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, and the occasional cry of a seabird wheeling overhead. Every bite of bread and fruit is sweet, and when he passes you water from the clay jar, it's cold and refreshing, chasing away the day's heat immediately.
"Will you tell me about Troy?" You ask, sucking juice from your fingers.
Soonyoung pauses mid-bite, brows lifting in surprise. Then he leans back on one elbow, stretching his legs toward the fire, and grins. "You want war stories? Most people beg me to stop once I start."
"I want your stories," you correct. "I've never left the mountain the temple sits on. Never seen a city larger than the one that burned. Your world is bigger than mine could ever be. I want to experience it through you."
Something shifts in his expression. You think it's pleasure, unguarded and bright as he sits a little straighter, dark eyes gleaming. "Alright. Troy, then."
He tells you about the walls first - tall as mountains, white stone gleaming under the sun, built by gods and men together. He describes the sound, the metallic ring of bronze on bronze, the way the ground shook as thousands of Greek chariots charged across the plains of Troy.
Soonyoung tells you about the silent parts, too. About the moment he watched Hector laugh with his son on the ramparts, the way Paris sometimes played the lyre at dusk to chase away the sorrow of the sentries, to make them less afraid.
You listen as he mentions Achilles, the best of the Greeks - not with hatred, like you might have thought, but with a kind of reluctant respect. You listen with rapt attention, leaning forward as he tells you of the battle, of the chaos of war.
"Did you really walk among them?" You murmur. "During the battle?"
"Of course, though oftentimes mortals don't recognize us. We seem to them a great warrior or a brother in arms, perhaps. But we are there, fighting alongside those who honor us at altars and whisper our names."
"Is that why you came for me? Because I tended your altar?"
"I would not know you otherwise."
You nod. It makes sense. "I suppose if war never came to me, you'd have no reason to appear?" He nods, watching you with a careful expression, like the topic of war makes him nervous, somehow. You think of the way the others in your temple feared him, the way they were so worried that tending to his statue would summon him. "I didn't summon you, right?"
He cocks his head. "How do you mean?"
"By tending to your altar did I… did I invite war in?"
"No. War is necessary." He sighs and leans back, looking up at the blue sky. He closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a cat. "It's not right nor is it wrong… it's simply the balance to peace. War has its own logic. I don't choose the winners, though I try to make the fight fair."
"And after? When war is over?"
"I come here. Sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for long times. But men always create war and I am summoned often." He opens his eyes, glancing your direction. "You're the first person I've ever brought here, though."
You meet his gaze, heart doing that unsteady flutter again. He holds your eyes a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you. Then he clears his throat and stands, brushing sand from his tunic.
“Keep practicing while I’m gone,” he says, voice brisk again, though the warmth lingers in his eyes. “Forms one through four, slow and deliberate. Feel the purpose in each one. I’ll be back for dinner.”
Before you can answer, he steps back, the air around him shimmering like heat over stone. One moment he’s standing there, sunlit and solid. In the next, he's gone, leaving only the faint scent of wood and salt in his wake.
You sit for a long minute staring at the place where he vanished. The fire pops softly. Waves sigh against the shore. You rise, pick up the sword where it rests against the shelter pole, and walk back down to the firm sand near the water. The sun is past zenith now, light slanting golden across the beach. You take your stance, and you practice as he says, each movement deliberate.
You practice until your arms burn and sweat drips from your brow. Until the light turns amber and the first stars prick the deepening blue overhead.
-
Days on the island begin to fold into one another like the gentle turn of waves against the shore. The first week feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake from, but the second week you realize this is your new reality, something that won't be taken away from you. It's not borrowed or temporary, it's yours.
Mornings arrive with light spilling through the open window of the bedroom, always warm. You wake without the jolt of bells or dread, body unfolding slowly from the soft linens. Some days you linger in bed, listening to the island breathe. Other mornings you rise earlier, drawn outside by the soft pink light that precedes sunrise. You walk the beach barefoot, sand still cool from the night, collecting shells that hum faintly when you hold them to your ear like Soonyoung taught you.
Breakfast is always abundant. It isn't just Soonyoung who seems to serve you - it's the kitchen, too. Fresh bread and figs appear even when Soonyoung isn't there, yogurt and honey cakes waiting for you when you stumble in. On days Soonyoung is absent, you eat alone on the terrace, legs dangling over the low wall, watching the sea change color from steel to turquoise as the sun climbs.
On the days Soonyoung is there, the routine shifts to include him. He arrives without announcement, footsteps soft on the path toward the house or simply appearing at the edge of the grove with that faint shimmer of his. Breakfast is always shared side by side on the terrace on those days, legs brushing occasionally.
Soonyoung likes to talk, and you like to listen. He tells you stories of distant wars, of siblings who bicker like mortals, of the first time he tasted honey and decided mortals weren't so bad after all. He answers every question that spills out of you, that same fond patience of his bleeding through when he smiles at you no matter how ridiculous the question feels.
“You’re relentless,” he says once, laughing, but there’s pride in it, not mockery. “No one’s asked me that since the fall of Mycenae.”
When he's gone, you practice the sword forms he taught you. The blade feels more familiar each day, less like a foreign object and more like an extension of your arm. You move through the sequences slowly and deliberately, breathing with each strike.
On the afternoons you don't practice, you wander. You trace the grove's paths until you know every twist and turn. You sit at the spring sometimes too, hands in the cool water, letting it soothe the stinging calluses forming on your palms.
Evenings depend on whether he returns. When he does, you eat dinner on the terrace underneath the torchlight and the stares, biting into grilled fish and olives stuffed with feta. You both like to look up at the sky after dinner, Soonyoung telling you about the constellations while you listen. you tell him the smaller details of your life, and though they feel insignificant, he listens like they matter, like your small life is worth the same attention of the sack of Troy.
When he’s absent, you eat alone. You take the platter to the beach shelter, lie back on the mats under the open sky, and watch the stars emerge one by one.
You miss him when he's gone, though. Not because you feel lonely - you've been alone your entire life, even in crowded rooms of people. You miss him because your affection for him has taken root in your heart and grown in increments, like the vines creeping up the columns of the house.
It's hard not to feel something for him, but you can't help the way your chest tightens when he appears after a long absence, your relief so sharp it startles you. You can't help it when your gaze lingers when he laughs, warm and unguarded, head thrown back as though the sky itself amuses him.
You know it's foolish. He's Ares - a god. He is ancient and vast, a concept that is only occasionally made flesh, someone you could never truly hope to understand. So many mortals have loved gods and fallen to tragedy because of it, but now that you've felt the warmth of his palm and heard the depth of his laughter, you cannot blame them for falling.
The gap between you is not bridgeable. You tell yourself this daily, sternly, whenever your fingers brush his while passing a cup, whenever he smiles at you like you’ve said something clever, whenever he watches you practice forms with quiet pride.
And yet.
And yet and yet and yet.
The comfort of him settles deep. When he is near, the world feels steadier. When he is gone, you miss the steadiness. You don't dare name it, though. You barely acknowledge it. It feels like a dangerous thing, whatever it is, so you keep it buried. Knowing him is enough.
It has to be enough.
On nights like tonight, it's more than enough. The air carries the smell of salt and sweet smoke from the small fire crackling on the beach, embers popping and drifting toward the sky. The small shelter stands behind you, but you've dragged the mat out onto the sand near the waterline, close enough that the occasional wave licks at your feet before retreating.
Above, the sky is a vast blanket strewn with stars, brighter than anything you've ever seen. Soonyoung lies on his back next to you, hands tucked behind his head, the gold light from the fire flickering over the faint scar in his eyebrow and the curve of his smile.
"I think I envy the stars," Soonyoung murmurs, staring up at the sky.
You turn toward him, perplexed. "Envy?"
"They're never alone. Even when the world tears itself apart, they have each other. I've had centuries of company. Siblings who tolerate me. Mortals who loved me and shared my bed." He blows out a slow sigh. "But most eventually curse my name when war comes. Company is rarely the same as understanding."
"People are afraid of war."
"War is duty," he murmurs. "Always has been. I am the swing of the blade that protects the hearth and the fury that defends the weak. They thank Athena for wisdom in battle and yet fear the fury that shields them. When they thank me, it's with averted eyes, as though saying my name will summon conflict."
Soonyoung's words sink in. You think about the others in the temple, how the sisters - probably dead, now - told you they believed as much. They had believed that tending to Soonyoung's - Ares' - altar would summon him, that being kind to him would call him down and destroy everything.
You watch him, his profile sharp against the night. His gaze seems distant, like he's lost in thought. You don't know how to comfort a god, but you try anyway.
"People are often afraid of the things and people they don't understand," you murmur. "Logic fails in the presence of fear."
"Well said." His mouth twitches a little. "Even among the gods it's the same. The gods hate to be compared to mortals, and yet we're so similar. They crave peace yet fear the one who makes it possible. Peace is only beautiful because it follows wrath."
"That sounds lonely."
He finally turns his head to meet your eyes. The firelight turns his irises molten, soft in a way that steals your breath.
“You never asked me to be anything other than what I am," Soonyoung notes. "You lit candles no one else would touch, and spoke to me like I was listening even if you weren't sure. It brought me comfort."
You sit up slowly, drawing your knees toward your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes follow the movement, impossibly dark. Your heart stutters as he looks up at you, face softer and more vulnerable than you ever thought a god of war could look.
"I was never afraid of you," you tell him softly. "Not even when the temple burned and you appeared and killed those men. Only for a moment I was afraid - but not of you. Most of all, I was just relieved."
He smiles. "Still not afraid?"
"No. You've given me what others couldn't - time and attention. A life. Something to do. You're kind and you teach me how to fight though most would find it improper. You listen when I tell you about nothing important. You ask questions even if you know the answers just to make me feel heard. It brings me comfort."
His smile deepens, soft and aching, eyes shining in the firelight. For a moment the space between you feels alive, humming with the same vibration you’ve felt from the sword, from his altar, from him. The air thickens. Your breath catches as his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again, searching.
You feel your heart rate spike as you avert your eyes, the panic that he'll see the affection just simmering beneath the surface of your skin. You cannot love him - he's a god. He's vast and ancient, and you're a mortal. Whatever feelings you have for him is too fragile and impossible, and if you name it, you know it'll break.
"Anyway," you say, throat tight. "I envy the stars too. They are far more beautiful than anything us mortals have managed to conjure up."
Soonyoung blinks, surprised at your change of topic. Your heart pounds as you silently beg him not to press the issue, to not keep the conversation so close to the feeling stuck in your chest. Then he exhales, something that's almost a laugh. He leans back on his hands, gazing upward again.
"You've never been more wrong, Virago."
-
The sun is a merciless coin of heat and light in the sky, turning the beach into a sheet of pale fire. Sweat slicks down your spine, your tunic clinging in damp patches that dark against your back. The sword in your hand feels alive, less of an object and more of an extension of your arm. You no longer think about how to move - you just do.
Soonyoung circles you barefoot, sand dusting the tops of his feet. His own linen tunic is sleeveless today, the fabric gathered at the shoulders with glinting bronze pins. His sculpted arms flex as he moves, beads of sweat tracing down each curve of muscle. He holds his sword loosely in his right hand, tip lowered, watching you with that predatory patience you've come to know.
"Again," he says. "Don't hint at the move."
You nod once, breath steady despite the burn in your shoulders and arms. You step forward, the blade rising in a clean arc. Steel meets steel with a bright clang that startles the gulls from the dunes. Soonyoung parries without effort, guiding your momentum past him so you stumble a half step.
"Too much shoulder," he murmurs near your ear, stepping close to catch your wrist in his hand to correct you. "Use the hips. Let the turn carry the force."
He doesn’t release you immediately. Instead he rotates your wrist a fraction, showing the angle, then slides his palm up to cup your elbow, lifting and adjusting until your form feels perfect. His fingers linger there, calluses rasping lightly against your skin. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest, inches away.
You swallow. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He steps back, but the space between you feels smaller than before, your breath shakier as you try to shove down the awareness of him.
The next hour passes in a blur of controlled violence. Disarming lessons are your least favorite - they draw him too close, his forearm brushing yours, his knee nudging the inside of your thigh to correct your stance. When you overextend, he catches you around the waist with one arm to steady you, palm flat against your ribs until your balance returns.
It's utterly maddening. He's gentle, despite the coiled strength in every single one of his movements. You know his hands have killed thousands - you've seen him throw a spear that skewered a man through. And yet he handles you with gentle confidence, like handling glass.
"You're not hesitating anymore," Soonyoung notes after you parry his strike in earnest. He grins. "Not even when I come at you fast. Most men would cower."
"I trust you won't hurt me."
"Good," he says quietly. "Come at me. Full intent, no holding back. Try to take my weapon."
You hesitate only a heartbeat. Then you lunge.
Steel rings as your swords meet. Soonyoung lets you drive him back two steps, giving ground deliberately. You feel the shift in his balance - the tiny tell in his leading shoulder - and you act on instinct, driving your blade high as you slide your weapon against his and twist hard.
Soonyoung's sword flies free as you spin into his grasp. Your balance is off again, the momentum carrying you into him as he pulls you toward him, both of you toppling. You yelp and let your sword fall, afraid to hurt him as the two of you land in the sand, your palms barely catching your weight in the sand.
Laughter bursts from him, bright and unrestrained. The sound vibrates through where you're pressed chest to chest, and you can't help but laugh too for a second, surprised and a little embarrassed.
Your noses are an inch apart, his eyes molten brown with lighter flecks of almost gold. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath against you. Sweat has darkened the hair at his temples, sand dusting him as he looks up at you. His hand at your back hasn't moved as his laughter quiets, eyes sharpening.
Licking your lips, you start to pull away, heart slamming so hard against your ribs you're sure he can feel it. His grip tightens though, just enough to hold you still.
"Why do you always pull back?" He asks, voice so low it's almost a whisper.
For a second, the ocean is the only sound. You can feel your pulse thundering in your ears, your breath shaky. Terror grips at you - not of him, but of the lingering feeling you've been hiding from him for months now.
"Tell me," he murmurs.
You nod, swallowing thickly. "Because I'm afraid. Not of you, but what I feel for you. Of what it means. You're ancient and endless and I'm…" Your throat closes for a second. "I don't want to fall and shatter. I'm only mortal."
For a long moment he says nothing. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of shame and sting of tears, realizing that you shouldn't have said anything. Then he rolls you over and you suck in a gasp, world spinning as he pins you to the sand.
Soonyoung looms over you, weight braced on his forearms. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark as he drinks you in, pupils expanding. He's close enough that when he speaks, his lips almost brush yours.
"Then fall. I've been waiting to catch you, you know?" His eyes drop down to your mouth. "Since the first time you lit my candle. Since the first time you spoke to stone because no one else would listen."
Soonyoung leans down and your breath catches. His nose brushes against yours and his eyelids flutter shut as he breathes you in, salt and sweat.
"I am war," he admits. "I am rage and ruin, but I'm still Soonyoung. I can be still and gentle. I can want things I haven't in centuries. So fall, my Virago. I will never let you break."
Trembling, your hands come up to slide into his hair, fingers threading through damp strands at the nape of his neck. You feel the tremor that moves through him at the touch, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. When he doesn't move, you tug him down to close the last fraction of distance between you.
The kiss is hungry. It's years of silence and candlelight, the hum of his sword that has lived in you since the moment you honored his altar. It's the relief of finally naming the ache that has lived beneath your ribs since the first time he smiled at you, the relief of being heard.
He kisses you like a man who has waited lifetimes, tongue sweeping in to press against yours, warm and wet. The kiss deepens, a slow unraveling that pulls you under. He tastes like salt and honeyed figs, a faint sweetness lingering from breakfast. He lefts a hand to cradle the back of your neck, tilting you to deepen the kiss.
You melt into him and he lowers himself a fraction, his hips pressing against yours. The want is sharp and sweet, making your breath hitch as his teeth graze your lower lip gently, tugging just enough to draw a soft whimper from you.
Soonyoung draws back a little, his eyes blown as he looks down at you. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, voice rough. "We only go as far as you want."
You shake your head, fingers tightening in his hair. "I want you. All of you."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, somewhere between a groan and a growl. He kisses you again, slower this time. His weight pins you down, his hand roaming to trace the lines of your body - the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips - until you're arching into his touch.
"Beautiful," he mutters, brushing his lips against your throat. His tongue darts out to press against your pulse point and you moan, head pressing back into the sand, lashes fluttering. "Wanted you for so long."
His mouth trails lower, nipping softly at your collarbone as his fingers gather the hem of your tunic, inching it upward. Cool sea air kisses your newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps that he soothes away with warm palms. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him slide the fabric higher, until it's bunched at your waist, leaving your lower body bare to him as he pushes up to his knees.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Perfect for me."
He shifts downward, broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart as he settles between them. The first kiss he presses to your inner thigh is feather-light, a tease that makes you gasp. His hands hold your legs open gently but firmly, thumbs stroking the soft flesh of your thighs. Heat pools between your legs, a slick ache building as anticipation coils tight in your core.
"Soonyoung," you whisper, voice breaking.
"I've got you," he soothes, meeting your eyes from below. "Let me make you feel good, my Virago."
His mouth descends then, warm and deliberate, lips parting to taste you. The first swipe of his tongue is slow and flat against your folds. A jolt of pleasure makes you arch your back off the sand. His mouth is wet and hot, tongue tracing upward to circle your clit gently. A shaky moan escapes you as your fingers dig into the sand.
He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. A shiver ripples through you and he groans again, tongue sweeping in broad strokes.
"That's it," he murmurs, words muffled against your skin. "So sweet for me. Let me hear you."
You melt. Soonyoung alternates between long, languid licks that make your thighs tremble and gentle sucks against your clit until stars explode behind your eyes. You shiver, a warm flush spreading from your core outward, each stroke of his tongue coaxing you higher.
Your hips buck instinctively seeking more, and he hums in delight. A hand slides under your ass to lift you toward his mouth, encouraging you to grind against his face as he sucks at you noisily, tongue circling your entrance.
When his fingers join his mouth, you nearly die. One digit circles your entrance, gathering your arousal before pressing in slowly, just the tip at first. You tense at the unfamiliar stretch, gasping. He pauses immediately, lifting his head to watch your face.
"Breathe for me," he murmurs. "You're doing so well. Relax, yeah?"
You nod, exhaling shakily, and he rewards you as his finger slides deeper, inch by inch, the intrusion turning from strange to exquisite as he curls it upward, brushing a spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
Soonyoung works you slowly like that, his tongue rolling in lazy circles around your clit. Your thighs close around his head and he doesn't care, happily tonguing you half to madness as another finger presses in. He scissors them gently, stretching you open as he sucks on your clit in time with each stroke of his fingers.
"So tight," he whispers against you, mouth hot against you. "So fucking wet."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and suddenly it's too much. The tension snaps, orgasm crashing into you without warning. You arch against him, pussy clenching on his fingers as he groans. His tongue keeps moving, flicking over you until you're trembling and oversensitive.
Only then does he ease his fingers out, pressing wet kisses to your thighs as you pant, sagging against the sand. He laughs, nipping your thighs and making your legs twitch as you glance at him where he's grinning up at you.
"I could do that all day," he admits.
"I think I might let you."
You reach for him, tugging at his tunic, and he understands, shedding it swiftly. His body is a masterpiece of muscled under sun-kissed skin, scars faint and silver. He shivers underneath your touch, kicking away at his tunic. His cock is heavy and long, flushed and beading with precum and want.
A flicker of nerves returns, but he chases it away as he leans down to kiss you, his mouth still tasting like you.
"We'll go slow," he promises, settling between your thighs. "You're in control. Tell me if you need to stop."
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick pussy. The first press stretches you wide and you gasp, clutching at his shoulder. It feels like heaven and hell, both too much and not enough. You can barely breath as he ducks his head to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.
"Breathe," he whispers. "Let yourself open up."
You nod and he presses his mouth to yours as he presses in inch by inch, the slide eased by the mess he's already made. The fullness is staggering as he fills you completely, hips flush to yours. He stills, giving you time to adjust, peppering your face with kisses.
"Doing okay?" He asks, one hand stroking your hand.
"Don't stop," you gasp. "Please move."
"You're doing so good, my Virago," he praises, starting a slow rock of his hips.
The motion is gentle at first, his thrusts shallow that let you feel every inch of his cock, the friction addicting. The initial burn fades and is replaced by a liquid heat that spreads through your veins, each drag of him against your walls stoking the fire burning in your gut.
He keeps the pace unhurried, a soft rhythm that makes your eyes roll back and press your hips closer to him, seeking more. One of his hands gathers yours and pins them above your head, fingers laced as his eyes darken, watching your face for every reaction.
"Feel so good," he murmurs, rolling his hips. You whimper and he grins, nodding. "I know. So tight around me, like you were made for me."
You clench around him and he groans, pace picking up as he drives his cock harder into you. It punches the air from your lungs and you squirm under him, feeling the need to orgasm again, toes curling, that coil tightening all over again. You roll your hips to meet his, seeking more friction, hungry for it.
"That's it," he encourages. "Move with me. My hungry Virago."
You do, hips rising to meet his, the new angle deepening his thrusts. He catches your mouth again, more tongue and teeth as your second orgasm breaks, your cunt pulsing around him as you cry out against his mouth.
Soonyoung fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping until you're breathless. The hunger for him isn't gone though, and you surge forward, rolling the two of you until you have him pinned beneath you.
The shift makes you gasp, his cock hitting deeper. Your hands brace on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers. He grips your hips and guides you with gentle hands, a slow grind that makes you dizzy.
"Yeah?" He asks. "Gonna take what you want? Come on, baby. Ride me."
Your moves are tentative at first, finding a rhythm. The slide up and down his length is intoxicating and you chase it, hips rolling as your head tilts back. His hands roam, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples and earning a broken sound from you.
"Just like that," he growls. "So fucking good."
Fatigue burns in your thighs, but the building orgasm drives you on, faster now, breaths mingling as you lean down to kiss him. When it hits, you collapse forward, trembling, walls clenching in waves that pull a guttural moan from him. He thrusts up gently through your aftershocks, then stills, holding you close as his own release follows.
Both of you lay like that, panting in the heat and clinging to one another. The sun dips lower, spilling molten gold across the two of you. He cradles your head, pressing your cheek to his chest, the steady hammering of his heart comforting.
Neither of you move, his arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing idly against your bag. Your legs are tangled with his, and every so often, a small tremor runs through you and he smirks.
Behind you, the sea breathes in and out. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth of his skin against yours, the faint salt-and-myrrh scent that seems to belong only to him. For the first time in your life, your body knows complete quiet instead of the tense silence of temple corridors.
“I’ve spent lifetimes watching people run from me,” Soonyoung says, breaking the silence. "Thank you for not running, Virago."
You turn your face into his skin, pressing a kiss to the place above his heart. He exhales and pulls you tighter, tucking your head beneath his chin. His legs shift, drawing yours more securely between his until there is no space left where you are not touching.
"Sleep, woman of strength," he chuckles, voice soft. "Woman of fire. Woman of my heart. My Virago."
Themes: Smut | Angst | Military AU | Inspired by the movie 'Purple Hearts' | Fake Marriage | Enemies to Lovers | Forced Proximity | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence and death (major character death)
Wordcount: 31.6K
Playlist: 'Baby Came Home' - The Neighbourhood | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Hold My Girl' - George Ezra | 'I Hate the Way' - Sofia Carson | 'The Machine' - Reed Wonder, Aurora Olivas | 'i'm yours sped up' - Isabel LaRosa | 'The Best I Ever Had' - Limi
Previous chapter: Two Sides of the Same Dog Tag (read this first!)
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
If someone told you three months ago that you’d be sharing a roof with someone like Seungcheol, you would’ve laughed in their face.
But it seems fate works in mysterious ways.
While your military apartment had technically been “fine”, the second you watched the nurse manoeuvre his wheelchair through the narrow doorway and nearly clip his bandaged leg on the frame, you knew fine wasn’t going to cut it.
So they found you a small, single-story house not far from the base and the hospital. One of those places with a postage-stamp yard and a ramp already built up to the front door, meant for people whose lives had been changed in ways architects suddenly had to consider.
On the first day, his wheelchair gouges the floor. Just a little. Tiny crescent-shaped dents in the soft wood where he misjudges a turn, or where you both forget that the hallway corners are narrower than they look. Each mark is a punctuation—he was here, he is here, this is different now.
You tell yourself they’re proof of movement. Of him being out of the hospital bed. Of life. He calls them “damage.”
You start collecting house rules without meaning to. Some are spoken. Most aren’t.
Rule One: He pushes himself.
You watch him grit his teeth through physio, knuckles white on the parallel bars as he hauls his body forward. At home, there’s a schedule the therapist gives you both—exercises, stretches, movements that look insultingly small on paper and are anything but in reality. You remind him about them once.
He’s on the couch, leg propped up, jaw clenched against some invisible pain, scrolling through nothing on his phone. “Time for your exercises,” you say from the doorway. He doesn’t look up. “I’ll do them later.”
“You said that three hours ago.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired,” you shoot back, immediately regretting how sharp it sounds. Seungcheol’s eyes finally flick to you, something cold and wounded behind them. “Sorry I’m not performing recovery on your schedule,” he says. You cross your arms. “This isn’t my schedule, it’s your therapist’s. You want to walk again or just vibe with the wheelchair forever?”
“Maybe I’m fine in the chair,” he snaps. You stare at him. “You’re not. And you know it.” He looks away, throat working.“I’ll do them later,” he repeats. “You won’t,” you say. “So do them now and then you can resent me with limbered joints.” He lets out a short, humourless huff. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
He glares for another second and then, to your surprise, swings his legs over the edge of the couch and reaches for the wheelchair. He does the exercises. He doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the afternoon.
Rule Two: You’re allowed to help. He’s allowed to hate that.
Helping him shower is a warzone in its own right.
The bathroom is technically adapted, but the first time he tries to do it alone, you hear a crash that has you sprinting down the hall, heart in your throat.
He’s fine. Mostly. Just wet, furious, and tangled with the shower chair in a way that looks both painful and humiliating. “Don’t come in,” he grits when you smack your palm against the door. “Too late,” you throw back, pushing it open anyway and stepping into a steam-filled, chaotic mess.
You avert your eyes as best you can while still assessing the damage, which is a stupid balance to try and strike. He’s half-covered with a towel, half not. There’s water on the floor. His face is twisted with pain and embarrassment. “I’ve got it,” he snaps. “Clearly,” you deadpan. “Is the goal to ruin the other leg too or…?” His jaw works. “I don’t need you to babysit me in the shower.”
You plant your feet, crossing your arms. “You’re not a baby,” you say. “You’re a large, stubborn man with reduced mobility on wet tile. There’s a difference.” He looks like he wants to argue with the physics, not the logic.
“Let me help,” you add, softer. “Just until you’re steadier. Then you can kick me out and reclaim your shower time for brooding or whatever it is you do in here.” He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Fine,” he mutters. “But don’t look at me like a patient.”
You meet his eyes. “Then stop acting like one,” you say, and reach for the towel before you can overthink it.
He flinches the first time your hands brush his skin, like your touch burns. You pretend not to notice. You talk about nothing—your mom’s latest complaint about hospital food, a guy at the bar who tried to pay you in coins and bad poetry—until his shoulders loosen a fraction.
It becomes a routine. He tolerates it. You pretend it doesn’t hurt that he tolerates you, like you’re another piece of equipment he’s been assigned.
Rule Three: You work nights. He pretends it doesn’t bother him.
You keep your shifts at the bar. Benefits or not, you like having your own money, your own routine, your own life that isn’t entirely wrapped around physio schedules and pill alarms.
The first week, you come home after midnight to find him asleep on the couch, TV still on, one arm slung over his eyes. The wheelchair is nearby, parked like a loyal dog. You turn the TV off and gently place a blanket over him, swallowing the urge to touch his hair.
The second week, he’s awake when you get in, eyes fixed on some late-night documentary he clearly isn’t actually watching. “You don’t have to wait up,” you say, toeing your shoes off. “I’m not waiting,” he replies. You arch a brow. “Right. You just happen to be doing deep research on the history of commercial fishing at 1 a.m.” He shrugs, the movement tight. “I don’t sleep much.” You want to ask if it’s nightmares. You don’t.
Instead, you say, “If you want me to change shifts, you can say it. You don’t have to passive-aggressively Discovery Channel me into guilt.” He snorts. “I don’t want you to change your life because of me.”
“Too late,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Silence falls. You backtrack quickly. “Anyway,” you add, forcing lightness into your voice, “I’m not quitting the bar. It’s my chaos. You’ll just have to deal.” He doesn’t answer, but his eyes linger on you a little too long as you walk past, like he’s counting the hours you spend away without meaning to.
Rule Four: The house belongs to both of you. Neither of you knows what that means.
You want colour on the walls. Art. Plants you will definitely forget to water, but will feel guilty about in a way that fuels you. He wants… function.
“The couch has to be firm enough for me to push up from,” he says as you scroll through options on your phone. “And low enough that I can transfer easily. And not too deep.”
“So you want a bench,” you say dryly. “You want us to sit on a plank of wood.”
“I want something I can get off without needing a winch.” You huff. “I’m not buying an ugly couch.”
“It’s not ugly, it’s practical.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”
You argue about throw pillows. About whether rugs are a tripping hazard or an artistic necessity. About whether your idea of painting one wall a deep, ridiculous blue will be “inspiring” or “a migraine.”
“You visited a bar with neon beer signs,” you point out. “You’ll survive one blue wall.” He looks at you for a long moment. “Do it,” he says finally. You blink. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “If I hate it, I’ll just tell everyone my wife lost a bet.” You flip him off. He smiles properly for the first time in days. It fades quickly, but you still tuck it away.
At night, he insists on sleeping on the couch. It starts as a practical argument. “The bed’s too low,” he says. “The mattress is soft. I’ll sink.”
“We can fix that,” you counter. “Add supports. Get a different frame.”
“The couch is fine.”
“You can’t sleep sitting up forever, Commander. You’re not a bat.”
He sets his jaw. “I’m not sharing your bed,” he says, and there it is—the real rule, the one you’ve both been circling. You feel heat climb up your neck. “It’s our bed,” you say quietly. He looks away. “You should get some rest,” he says instead, effectively ending the conversation.
So he sleeps on the couch, leg propped, TV glow washing his face in cold light. You sleep alone in the bedroom down the hall, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sounds of nightmares that sometimes don’t come and sometimes do. He still doesn’t touch you. It feels less like rejection and more like fear, which you’re not sure is better.
You’re mid-argument about houseplants when his father arrives.
You’re standing in the kitchen, one hand on your hip, the other holding a small potted plant aloft like evidence. “It’s not a jungle,” you say. “It’s one plant.”
“It’s in the way,” he fires back. “Of what? Your deeply important path from the fridge to the table?” He opens his mouth, probably to say something biting, when there’s a knock at the door. You both freeze. He checks the time like he expects it to explain things. It doesn’t.
You wipe invisible dirt off your hands and go to answer it.
The man on the other side of the door is taller than you, shoulders still carrying the memory of parade rest even under a grease-stained jacket. His hair is more grey than black, cropped short. His eyes are sharp, assessing, missing nothing. You know immediately who he is. He doesn’t introduce himself right away. His gaze drops to your hand first, to the ring there, then slides past you into the house, taking in the ramp, the wheelchair tracks, the half-assembled furniture. Then his eyes come back to your face. “You must be her,” he says. You lift your chin. “And you are?” Something like reluctant amusement flickers across his face. “I’m Seungcheol’s father,” he confirms. “Mr. Choi.”
You step aside and gesture him in. “Come in, Mr. Choi.”
His boots are heavy on the floor. You get the sense he’s used to walking into rooms and owning them. Seungcheol is in the living room, leg elevated, the faintest hint of wariness entering his eyes when he sees the man behind you. “Appa,” he says.
There’s a beat. Then his father crosses the space in three strides, not quite embracing him but resting a firm hand on his shoulder. “You look like shit,” Mr. Choi says. “Nice to see you too,” Seungcheol replies. You hover awkwardly, unsure if you should retreat to the kitchen or stay. Mr. Choi makes the decision for you. He turns to you, nostrils flaring slightly. “So,” he says. “You’re the wife.”
It shouldn’t sound like an accusation. It does. You square your shoulders. “Last time I checked,” you say. His gaze is steady. Measuring. “I was notified you got married very fast,” he says. “Right before deployment.”
“We did,” you answer, keeping your voice as even as you can. “Convenient timing, is it not?” he continues. “For benefits. Housing. Insurance.”
The words hang in the air. You feel your spine stiffen. “Convenient for which one of us?” you ask. His eyes narrow. Seungcheol shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “Appa—” he starts. His father lifts a hand, not taking his eyes off you. “Do you love him?” Mr. Choi asks bluntly. It’s so direct you almost laugh. You don’t. Your heart stutters. Your face, thankfully, doesn’t show it. “I married him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You feel the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze now, too, hot on the side of your face. You could lie. You could play the part so hard it silences every doubt. You could also tell the truth and watch this whole careful structure crack. You do what you always do when cornered: you sidestep.
“I’m here,” you say instead. “I moved in with him. I take him to physio. I help him shower. I argue with him about plants. I’m not going anywhere.” You pause. “If that’s not love in your book, I don’t know what is.”
Mr. Choi considers you, lips pressed in a thin line. “Or guilt,” he says. “Or obligation.”
“Or both,” you shoot back. “It’s messy. Life usually is.” His jaw tightens.
“I’ve seen women marry soldiers for the benefits before,” he says. “I’ve seen men drag people into stupid decisions because they can’t stand facing themselves alone. I won’t have my son ruin his name or his life over a mistake he made to dodge responsibility.”
You bristle. “With all due respect,” you say, and you do not mean it, “your son walked into a war and left pieces of himself there trying to save other people. If there’s anyone in this room who knows something about responsibility, it’s him.” You step closer, meeting his stare head-on. “And if you’re implying I’m here to use him, you can take that idea and park it next to whatever decade you got it from.”
The air goes still. You hear your own heartbeat in your ears. You half-expect him to blow up, to bark at you like a drill sergeant, to tell you to pack your things and get out of his son’s house. Instead, something like reluctant respect flickers across his face.
He glances at Seungcheol, who is watching the exchange with a look you can’t quite read—part shock, part admiration, part of course she said that. “She talks back,” Mr. Choi says to his son. “Where did you find her?”
“A bar,” Seungcheol replies automatically. You resist the urge to elbow him. Mr. Choi huffs. “Figures,” he mutters. He turns back to you. “I don’t trust timing,” he says. “I don’t trust miracles. And I don’t trust that my son suddenly decided to settle down right before deployment without some kind of push.” He pauses. “But I’ll say this: you don’t fold.”
You lift your chin. “I’m not paper.”Another beat. Then he nods once, curt. “We’ll see.”
He spends the rest of the visit asking sharper, more mundane questions—about Seungcheol’s physio, his pain management, the house modifications, the plans for work once he’s recovered. He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t soften. But he doesn’t attack you again either.
At one point, he watches you adjust the pillow under Seungcheol’s leg without fuss, watches his son let you, and something in his expression shifts—a crack in the armour, small and fleeting.
When he leaves, the house feels simultaneously bigger and too full. You close the door and lean your back against it, exhaling slowly. From the couch, Seungcheol clears his throat. You look over. He’s studying you like you’re a painting he’s seeing for the first time and isn’t sure how to interpret. “You didn’t have to… go toe-to-toe with him,” he says. You shrug. “He started it.”
A tiny smile ghosts over his mouth.
“You’re not scared of him,” he says, a little wonderingly. “I’m scared of a lot of things,” you admit. “Your dad’s opinions about my life choices aren’t on the list.” He huffs a soft laugh, then winces as the movement pulls at his leg. You cross the room without thinking and reach for the pillow, adjusting it carefully to ease the strain. He watches your hands, then your face.
For half a second, you think he might reach for you. That he might say come here, break his own rule about the couch, let you sit next to him like the gap between you isn’t measured in miles and shrapnel and things unsaid. He doesn’t. “Thank you,” he whispers instead.
You straighten, nodding once. “New house rule,” you say, forcing a small smile. “I insult your father, I have to fix your pillow.” He snorts, the sound half-amused, half-exhausted.
You walk back to the kitchen, fingers still buzzing from the brief contact, from the way he looked at you when you bared your teeth at his father and refused to back down.
The house has dents in the floor, clashing décor, invisible fault lines in the air. But you’re both still here. For now, that has to be enough.
The first time you hear him scream Soonyoung’s name, you almost fall out of bed.
You’re jerked awake by a sound that doesn’t fit the house—too raw, too sharp, like someone tearing cloth down the middle. For a heartbeat, you don’t know where you are. Then you register the faint TV glow bleeding under your bedroom door and the ragged shouting from the living room. You’re already moving before the second shout comes.
You yank open the door and hurry down the short hallway, bare feet thudding softly against the floor. The living room is lit in flickering blue, another late-night documentary still playing on mute. The couch is empty. He’s on the floor beside it.
Seungcheol is twisted half onto his side, one hand fisted in the couch cushion, as if he tried to grab something on the way down, the other clawing at air. His leg is half off the pillow it’s supposed to be resting on, face slick with sweat, T-shirt plastered to his chest. His eyes are open, but not really here—staring past you at something burning in the middle distance. His breath is coming too fast. Too shallow. The frantic rise and fall of his chest makes your own lungs ache just looking at it.
“Seungcheol,” you say, moving closer. “Hey. Hey.”
No reaction. His lips move around a name you don’t want to hear but do. “Soon—” It comes out broken, like his throat isn’t built to carry it anymore.
You drop to your knees beside him, ignoring the way the hardwood bites into your skin. “Cheol,” you repeat, louder this time. “You’re home. You’re not there. Look at me.” His gaze skitters past you, unfocused. His fingers scrabble at the floor like he’s trying to dig himself out. You reach for his shoulder. He flinches as if your touch is fire. “Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t touch me.”
It slices through you, but you don’t pull back. Because you remember the promise he made without making it: You’re not alone. I’m right here. So you stay. You slide your hand from his shoulder to his forearm, gentler, less demanding, just enough contact to say I’m here, I’m real, this is now.
“You’re not there,” you say softly but firmly, leaning into his line of sight. “You’re in our living room. In that ugly T-shirt you think I don’t silently judge you for. Hear the TV? Smell the paint? That’s here. That’s home.” His breathing stutters, still too fast. You shift closer, bracing one hand on the floor, the other anchoring him.
“Okay,” you murmur. “You’re going to breathe with me now, Commander. Got it?” His eyes flicker, the title doing something to him even now. You exaggerate your inhale, dragging it in slowly. “In,” you say. “Now out.”
It takes a moment for him to match you. His chest fights it, muscles taut, but eventually his lungs start to sync: too shallow at first, then marginally deeper, the ragged edges rounding out. You keep talking. About nothing, about everything. The crappy documentary on the TV, the plant he claims is still in the way, the dent his wheelchair put in the floor last week that you swore looked like modern art.
“You’re here,” you repeat, steady as a metronome. “You’re with me. You’re on the floor being stubborn instead of on the couch being stubborn. Both are extremely you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. His breathing slows another notch. The wild, glassy look in his eyes dulls to something more familiar—exhaustion, pain, the miserable awareness that he’s back and that being back sometimes hurts more than whatever was happening over there.
He swallows. “I fell,” he says, voice rough and small in a way that does not belong to him. “Yeah,” you say gently. “I noticed.”
“I tried to get up,” he adds, staring at the couch. “My leg—” His hand drifts toward the bandaged limb, then clenches into a fist. Frustration flickers over his face, sharp and bright. You squeeze his arm. “You don’t have to do it alone. Not this part. Not any of it.” He closes his eyes. “You should go back to bed,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”
You consider all the possible responses to that and discard most of them.
Instead, you shift, sliding an arm around his shoulders, careful of his leg, mindful of your own balance. You take some of his weight, guiding him as he leverages himself back up, helping him pivot onto the couch again. He resists, at first. His muscles go stiff under your hands, pride fighting you in every tense line of his body. You ignore it. You get him seated, leg propped properly this time, back braced against the armrest. Only when he’s settled do you let go. “There,” you say. “Now I’ll consider going back to bed.”
He looks up at you, eyes dark and tired, some battle still raging behind them that has nothing to do with the one that broke his body. “You should be scared of me,” he says quietly. You blink. “I’m not,” you answer. He studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re lying. You’re not.
After that, you don’t talk about Soonyoung until the funeral.
You receive the invitation in the mail—a crisp envelope with too much weight inside, your name written in an official hand. When you open it, the neat typeset letters swim for a moment. You’re invited as family.
The day itself is grey. Not dramatically stormy, not theatrically sunny. Just grey—as if the sky can’t decide what expression to put on for the occasion.
The cemetery is a too-neat stretch of green and stone, crosses and markers lined up in rows that make your stomach twist. Flags snap softly in the breeze. A bugler stands off to one side, instrument glinting dully. You wheel Seungcheol along the path, his hands resting loosely in his lap. He’s in uniform again, medals pinned, hair combed back. He looks like a ghost of himself—everything perfectly in place on the outside, everything cracked underneath. His jaw is clenched so hard you can see the muscle jump. You want to reach for his hand. You don’t. You tell yourself it’s because you’re both already holding on to too much.
Friends and family gather in careful clusters. You recognise Soonyoung’s mother from photos—small, kind eyes in a face that looks like it’s been through too many storms. His father stands beside her, shoulders hunched in a way you suspect is new. There are siblings, cousins, people from his old life before uniforms and cargo planes. People who loved him in ways you never got to see. You feel the absence of his laugh like a physical thing.
The ceremony moves in stages.
Words spoken by people in dress blues. Phrases like “ultimate sacrifice”, and “honour” and “service” drift past you on a breeze. You hear KIA where there should’ve been “Kwon Soonyoung, class clown, relentless optimist, chaos incarnate.” You hear “we are grateful” where there should’ve been “we are so sorry.” You listen anyway, because it’s all you can do. When they talk about the day he died, they say “under fire” and “attempting to protect his unit.” They say “he did not die alone.” They glance at Seungcheol when they say that part. His shoulders go rigid. You stand a little closer.
The folded flag is presented to Soonyoung’s mother. She takes it with hands that don’t quite tremble, lips pressed thin, eyes too bright. There’s a rifle volley, three sharp cracks that make your heart leap into your throat. The bugler plays Taps, the notes floating thin and mournful over the field.
You don’t cry until later.
After the ceremony, there’s handshakes, embraces, that strange mingling of small talk and condolences that happens when grief pulls people together in uncomfortable ways. You and Seungcheol move slowly through it, his wheelchair carving a careful path.
It’s near the end, after most of the guests have drifted toward their cars, that a quiet officer in a black uniform gathers the platoon and immediate family under a bare-limbed tree. He explains there are belongings to be returned, and a will Soonyoung filed before deployment. His voice is soft, practised, but there’s a gentleness to it that makes your throat tighten even before he opens the folder.
The will is brief; for once, there’s no dramatic flair. Even in death, Soonyoung refuses to be predictable.
He leaves his guitar to Seokmin “because you’re dramatic enough for it.” He leaves his favourite hoodie to Mingyu, “so you can finally stop stealing everyone else’s.” He leaves his books to Jihoon “because you’re secretly sentimental and I know you’ll pretend you’re not.” He leaves Vernon his dog tags—if Vernon pulls through— “so you remember you never walk alone, even if you do it slower.” That line makes several people cry outright. He leaves his mother a letter full of things the officer doesn’t read aloud, but you see her chin tremble anyway as she takes the envelope, knuckles white around it.
Then the officer looks up at Seungcheol. “For Sergeant First Class Choi Seungcheol,” he says, and hands him a sealed letter addressed in Soonyoung’s familiar scrawl. Seungcheol takes it like it weighs more than ammunition. He doesn’t open it. He just nods once and slides it into the inside pocket of his uniform.
The officer turns to you next. “And for Mrs. Choi.”
You feel your pulse jump stupidly at the title, at how official it sounds. You accept the small envelope with your name on it, the handwriting making your vision warp for half a second. You tuck it into your bag before anyone can see your hands shake. You don’t read it until that night.
The house is quiet when you get home. The plant in the kitchen still looks accusingly alive. The blue wall in the living room seems too bright.
Seungcheol disappears into the bedroom—the first time he’s attempted to since coming home, dragging his crutches along. You don’t follow. You give him that small victory, that small isolation. You end up in the hallway instead, back against the cool wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor.
The envelope resting in your hands feels heavier than it should. You tear it open carefully, afraid to bruise the paper. You take a breath and begin.
Hey you,
If you’re reading this, first of all: not my fault. I told them not to be dramatic and do the whole “deliver letters if I die” thing, but nobody listens to me, ever. So if you’re mad, take it up with bureaucracy.
Second of all: I’m sorry. I’m sorry because this means I’m not there, and that is the one scenario I tried very hard to avoid. If there was any way to haunt people without paperwork, I’d be doing it already.
Now, to the important part: you and our favourite disaster of a Commander.
Yes, I said “our.” You think I didn’t notice? Please. I’ve known him since he had terrible hair and worse judgment. I’ve watched him put up walls around himself like it’s his full-time job. And then suddenly there’s this girl at a bar calling him “Commander” like it’s an insult and an endearment at the same time, and for the first time in years, I see him look at someone like he doesn’t hate being alive.
He got quieter about you after you got married, which is how I knew it was serious. He stopped making excuses. Stopped calling it a “strategic decision” and started watching his phone like a teenager every time we had a minute to breathe. Do you know how many times I’ve seen him smile at a screen because you sent a picture of paint on your hands? Disgusting. I loved it.
Out here, you see a lot of bad things. You also see small, good ones. The way he changed when he talked about you was one of the good ones. Softer around the edges. Still an idiot, still a control freak, but less…alone.
Here’s the thing about him: he thinks he has to pay for everything that went wrong before. He thinks every good thing has an expiration date, and it’s his job to make sure he doesn’t get too attached before it runs out. Sound familiar?
You’re the same, you know. Two sides of the same dog tag. Both of you convinced you’re better at walking away than staying. Both of you are wrong.
A fake marriage doesn’t survive this much. Whatever you two told yourselves at the start, I’ve seen the way you orbit each other. I’ve seen the way he says “my wife”. I’ve seen the way you look at him through wobbly video connections.
So here’s my dying wish, since apparently I get one now: don’t give up on him. He’s going to try and make you. He’s going to push and pull and shut down and tell himself you’re better off without him. Don’t let him decide that for you. Fight. Yell. But stay. Take care of him. And take care of yourself, too. You’re not paper. Don’t fold for anyone.
Because I promise you, whatever this started as, it’s real now. And if I don’t get to come back, the least you two can do is live loud enough for me to be annoyed from wherever I end up.
I love you. Both of you. In my annoying, loud, “stop getting shot at” way.
—Soonyoung
Your vision goes blurry halfway through.
By the time you reach the last line, you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe. It’s ugly and loud, like grief finally found a crack to burst through. You press a fist to your mouth and laugh once through the tears because, of course, he’d tell you you’re not paper. Of course, he’d smuggle a blessing and a threat into the same paragraph.
You wipe your face until your skin feels raw. You fold the letter carefully, slide it back into the envelope and tuck it into the back of your sketchbook between two unfinished canvases, like hiding it there will keep it safe and keep you from shattering again. You don’t show Seungcheol. Some things are too much to share when the person beside you is already drowning.
That night, you can’t sleep.
The hall feels haunted. By Soonyoung’s laugh, by his handwriting, by the way he called you out from a continent away. By the image of Seungcheol at the funeral, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the coffin. You’re still sitting in the hallway when you hear the soft scrape of crutches.
Seungcheol appears through the door of the bedroom. His hair is mussed, T-shirt creased, sweatpants hanging a little loose on slimmer hips than before. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. For a second, you both just stare. “Couldn’t sleep?” you ask quietly. He lets out a humourless breath. “Ghosts are loud,” he says.
There’s a long moment where it seems like he might retreat back to the bedroom and disappear behind the door. Instead, he moves forward, each step careful. When he reaches you, he doesn’t ask if he can sit. He just lowers himself down with slow, practised motions until he’s on the floor across from you, back against the opposite wall. His injured leg is stretched out; his crutches lie beside him.
You sit there, knees almost touching across the narrow strip of hallway. For once, you don’t rush to fill the silence. It settles around you softly, not empty but full of everything you both aren’t saying. He stares at his hands, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. “I couldn’t save him,” he says at last.
The words are flat, scraped hollow by repetition. You know he’s said them to himself a hundred times already. This is just the first time he’s letting you hear. Your chest aches. “You tried.”
His head snaps up. “So?” he bites out. “Trying doesn’t change the fact that he’s in the ground and I’m in this hallway.”
"No,” you agree softly. “It doesn’t.” His jaw tightens like he expected you to argue, to throw back all the usual platitudes—it wasn’t your fault, he knew the risks, he died a hero. You don’t.
“I was right there,” he continues, voice rough. “I pulled him out. I could feel his pulse. I thought— I thought if I just moved fast enough, if I just did everything right for once, maybe…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. He still—” He can’t finish. You swallow hard.
“You’re still here, that has to count for something, Commander.”
He laughs, sharp and bitter. “Tell that to his mother,” he says. “Tell that to Vernon’s parents, sitting by his bed, wondering if he’ll ever wake up. Tell them their son being dead or half-alive is balanced out because I get to limp around.”
You flinch. “I didn’t say it balances out. I said it counts for something.” He looks at you, eyes rimmed red in the low light. “What?” he asks. “What does it count for?”
You think of the letter folded in your sketchbook. Of stay underlined in Soonyoung’s messy scrawl.
“It counts for the way you sat in that hospital bed and demanded they call me,” you say slowly. “For the way you watched his coffin like you were standing guard one last time. For the fact that you’re sitting here, talking about him instead of pretending none of it happened.”
You take a breath. “It counts for the fact that you’re still trying,” you add. “Even when you think you don’t deserve to.”
He stares at you for a long, long moment. “You sound like him,” he says finally, voice roughened again—but a little less hollow.
“Who?” you ask, even though you already know.
“Soonyoung,” he says. “Always talking like the future was something we were guaranteed. Like… like we didn’t have to earn every breath.” You lean your head back against the wall, letting your eyes drift to the ceiling. “Maybe he was right,” you say. “Maybe you already earned it and you just don’t know how to spend it yet.”
Silence stretches again, softer now. You can feel his gaze on you. You don’t meet it. It feels too much like standing at the edge of something you’re not sure you’re ready to jump into.
After a while, his voice comes again, quieter. “Do you ever…” He hesitates. “Do you ever think this would be easier if I hadn’t come back?”
The question hits you like a slap. You look at him sharply. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”
He holds your gaze, defiant and miserable. “You’d have the benefits,” he says. “Your mom would still get treatment. You’d have housing. You’d have… sympathy. A clean story. You wouldn’t be stuck with a broken soldier who wakes you up at night because he can’t tell the difference between a couch and a combat zone.”
You feel anger pulse through the grief, hot and sharp.
“You think I want a clean story?” you ask. “You think that’s what this is about?” He opens his mouth, but you talk over him, words spilling now that he’s cracked the seal.
“If you hadn’t come back, I’d have a folded flag and a widow label for a marriage I barely got to live in,” you say. “I’d have your mother looking at me like I was the ghost that stole her son’s last good days. I’d have a list of what-ifs and no one to shout at when the shower chair falls over.” You lean forward, elbows on your knees.
“I’d still be broken,” you say, softer. “Just in a different way.”
He watches you, something akin to shock in his eyes. “You don’t…” He shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the thought. “You don’t have to stay because you feel obligated. Because he died and I didn’t.”
You think of the letter again. “Maybe I’m not staying because of that. Maybe I’m staying because I made a choice. And because every day I get up and make it again.”
The hallway feels suddenly cramped with everything hanging between you: grief, guilt, an unsigned promise written in a dead man’s handwriting and hidden in your sketchbook. You look away first, heart thudding.
“You’re not the only one with ghosts in this house,” you add quietly. “So if we’re going to be haunted anyway, we might as well be haunted together.”
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, slowly, he shifts, stretching his leg out a little more, wincing as he finds a new angle that hurts less. His hand drifts, almost unconsciously, to rest on the floor between you. It’s not quite reaching for you. It’s close enough that, if you wanted to, you could move your hand an inch and your fingers would brush.
You don’t. You sit there instead, backs against opposite walls, knees almost touching, breathing the same hallway air. Two sides of the same dog tag, held in place by a chain of things you’re both still too scared to name.
The ghosts don’t leave.
But they quiet down enough that, for the first time in a long time, the house feels like it’s holding more than just echoes.
Seungcheol comes back from physio looking like he went twelve rounds in the ring, with himself.
You hear him before you see him—crutches thudding a stubborn rhythm against the porch steps, breath dragged in through clenched teeth, the front door jostling open. By the time he makes it into the hallway, sweat has darkened the collar of his shirt and his hair is damp at the temples. His forearms shake with the weight he refuses to admit is heavy. Pride is the thing keeping him upright long after his leg starts begging to fold.
You’re at the kitchen counter, rinsing a brush that still smells faintly of turpentine, when he limps past without looking at you. “How was it?” you ask anyway. He pauses just long enough to answer. “Fine.” Then he keeps going.
Fine, in Seungcheol language, can mean anything from I’m improving to I wanted to tear my own body apart and rebuild it with better parts.
You let him have the silence. Some days, talking is another exercise. Some days, getting through the front door upright is victory enough.
He makes it to the bathroom. You hear the faucet turn on. A chair scrape. The clink of a bottle placed too sharply on porcelain. Then—
A sound like something slapped the counter. Another frustrated breath. A curse, low and ripped from somewhere deep. The kind of curse that doesn’t belong to someone who’s “fine.”
You rinse your brush one more time just so you’re not running to him like a damn service dog every time he so much as sneezes, then you dry your hands and head down the hall.
The bathroom door is half open.
Inside, Seungcheol is braced over the sink, both hands gripping the edges white-knuckled. One crutch leans crooked against the wall like it got shoved there mid-fight. His shoulders are heaving. The mirror is fogging from the hot water running full blast. Soap suds bead on his forearms and drip down to the floor. He looks up when you step in, eyes sharp with anger and… something uglier underneath it.
“What are you doing?” you ask carefully, because the air feels like it might shatter. “Nothing.” You raise a brow. “Seungcheol, you’re about two seconds away from headbutting the sink. That’s not nothing.”
“Just trying to clean up,” he mutters, yanking a towel off the rack and scrubbing at his neck too hard. “You can sit,” you say gently. “Let me help you—”
“No.” He snaps. You stop, hands lifting slightly. Not surrender. Just space. “Okay,” you say. “Then tell me why you’re cleaning yourself like you’re losing a fistfight to a faucet.”
He glares at his reflection, not at you. “Because I can’t do it the other way.” The bitterness in it makes your chest tighten. You lower your voice. “What other way?”
His jaw flexes. You see the exact second he decides he’s too tired to keep pretending. “The shower.” He laughs once, flat and miserable. “I can’t stand long enough. My leg cramps and locks up. It starts spasming, and I have to lean on the tiles like a drunk.” His knuckles whiten on the sink again. “And the bath— I can’t get out by myself. I tried once, and my foot slipped. If you hadn’t been in the house, I would’ve gone down headfirst.”
He looks at you then, finally, eyes raw.
“I’m thirty,” he says, like the number is an indictment. “I led men into combat. I’m supposed to be able to wash my own damn body without… without—” his voice catches on the word he won’t say.
Without you. Without help. Without being reminded of everything he has lost.
“Cheol,” you say quietly. Whatever softness is in your voice seems to make him angrier. “Don’t—” he starts, swallowing. “Don’t pity me.” You step closer, slow enough that he can tell you to stop if he wants to. “I’m not pitying you,” you say. “I’m seeing you.”
His nostrils flare. “I hate this,” he spits. “I hate that I can’t do something basic without it turning into a problem. I hate that you have to—”
“I don’t have to,” you cut in, gentle but firm. “I want to.”
He opens his mouth like he’s ready to argue that too. You don’t let him. “We’re doing this together,” you say, voice steady. “You don’t get to lock me out because you’re mad at your body.”
His eyes burn, stubborn as ever. “I can handle it.” You tilt your head. “You just shouted at a sink, Commander.”
His lips press into a hard line. You take a breath. “Let me help you bathe,” you say. Not a question. Not a bargain. Just an offering.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Riot.” The name comes out like a warning.
“Commander.” You match it, level. “You’re exhausted. You’re in pain. This isn’t about dignity, it’s about safety.” You pause, then add softly, “And I’m not going to stand here and pretend I didn’t hear you say you almost fell.”
His eyes flicker. Your words land somewhere behind the anger. “Fine,” he mutters. The fight drains out of him on that word, leaving only tiredness. “Do whatever you want.” You pretend not to hear the defeat in it. “Thank you,” you say anyway. “Now sit.”
The tub fills while the room fogs.
You set a folded towel on the closed toilet lid, within reach, and test the temperature with your wrist, the way you’ve done for your mother a dozen times. Muscle memory takes over where words can’t. When you finally turn to him, he’s standing there rigid and dripping sweat, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s safer than looking at you.
“Okay,” you say softly. “I’m going to help you undress. Tell me if something hurts.” He nods once.
You move carefully, not because you’re afraid to touch him, but because you know how a body can betray someone after trauma. You peel his shirt up and over his head. His skin is hot from physio, damp with sweat. He shivers when the cooler air hits him, more from frustration than cold. His hands go to his waistband like he’ll do the rest himself.
“Let me,” you say, catching his wrist. He goes still. You don’t read anything into it. You can’t afford to.
You unbutton, unzip, ease fabric down inch by inch. Your focus stays clinical—balance, support, not snagging his thigh, not twisting his knee. When his pants slip away and he stands in nothing but his own uneasy breath, you finally see his leg clearly.
Not the clean, bandaged version from the hospital. The real one. The thick, uneven wound running along his thigh, the angry seam of scar tissue where skin doesn’t quite match skin. The pucker of old stitches. The way the muscle looks slightly different now, as if the explosion reorganised him under the surface.
His voice is rough. “It’s not pretty,” he says, like that’s the worst part. Like ugliness is a sin. “Neither is war,” you say simply. He flinches, not at the bluntness, but at the way you said it without disgust. You reach out and steady him by the elbow.
“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s get you in.”
He lowers into the tub with your help, jaw clenched through the discomfort, arms shaking as he controls the descent. When he finally settles into the warm water, he shuts his eyes for a beat like the heat is the first kindness he’s felt all week.
You toe off your socks, then strip out of the rest of your clothes, letting them fall in a soft pile on the tiled floor. There’s nothing performative in it, nothing showy—just practicality and a quiet decision to meet him where he is, no layers between you. He blinks at you, startled. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you,” you say, like it’s obvious. “You don’t need to—”
“I know.” You step in, carefully, and lower yourself behind him. At first, you stay on your knees, water lapping at your thighs, careful of his leg, careful of your own balance on the porcelain. Warm water rises over your skin, a hush settling between you as the heat wraps around your bodies. He stiffens instinctively at your presence.
“I can handle it,” he repeats, voice quieter now, less sharp.
“Mm,” you hum, reaching for the shampoo. “Sure, you can.”
He huffs. “You’re impossible.”
“We’ve established that.”
You work slowly. You pour water over his head with a cup, letting it run down the back of his neck. You lather his hair, fingertips scrubbing gently at his scalp. The suds smell like the bar soap you bought because it was cheap, not because it was fancy. He relaxes anyway, shoulders lowering as if your hands are untying knots he’s kept clenched since Germany.
You rinse him carefully. Your fingers slide over the ridges of scar at his hairline, over the rough patch on his shoulder where a scrape must’ve healed ugly. He doesn’t comment. He just breathes. You move to his shoulders, washing them with a cloth, the warm water making his skin gleam. You trace down his arms, over the old bruises that never quite faded, over the small constellation of marks that say he has been through things you did not see but are now touching.
When you reach his thigh, he tenses. “Cheol,” you say softly. “Let me.”
“It’s—” he starts. Stops. “It’s numb there sometimes. And then it hurts like hell. I don’t like… looking at it.”
“Then don’t.” You lean forward slightly, bracing your hands on either side of his hips for balance. “I’ll look for both of us.”
He goes quiet. Your fingers move over the scar in slow, careful passes, washing the skin like it’s something sacred. You don’t linger because of desire. You linger because of tenderness. Because you’re learning this terrain as patiently as you’d learn any other part of him.
After a while, the strain of kneeling starts to burn in your thighs. You shift, sliding down into the water until you’re sitting fully behind him, legs bracketing his hips, your calves resting along his sides. His back finds your chest almost by accident, then with intention, spine easing into the cradle your body offers.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders without thinking, and then—because the contact feels right—you curl a little more, your limbs looping around him, an imperfect but earnest attempt at holding all of him together at once. He exhales, long and shaky.
The weight of him settles fully against you, head just under your chin. Water laps quietly around you both. Your chest warms against his back, your arms and legs a loose, human harness keeping him from slipping under in more ways than one. You tilt your head, lips close to his ear. “Careful, Commander. I might accidentally drown you.”
He lets out a low laugh. “No, you won’t,” he murmurs. “You’d miss me too much, riot.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper automatically.
“Too late.”
You finish washing him slowly, rinsing the soap away. When you help him shift forward to drain the tub, his hands find the edge without snapping at you. When you rise to get a towel, he doesn’t turn away like he used to. You dry him carefully. You dress him in soft clothes that don’t tug at scars. He lets you. By the time he’s seated on the closed toilet lid, hair damp, skin pink with heat, the hard edge of his anger is gone. What’s left is quiet. Exhaustion.
You stand in the doorway, towel still around your shoulders, watching him catch his breath. The air feels different. Electric in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the closeness you just shared without pretence.
“Sleep in the bed tonight,” you whisper. “The couch is going to start filing for emotional damages.”
He looks up at you. For a second, he seems like he might refuse out of habit. Then he doesn’t. He nods once. “Okay.”
Something in your chest eases and tightens at the same time. You don’t say anything else.
You drape the towel over the rack and flick off the bathroom light, leaving the steam to fade behind you. In the dim hallway, you fall into step beside him and silently steer him towards the bedroom, your hand hovering close to his back in case he stumbles.
When he crosses the threshold, the air shifts. For the first time since moving in, you’re no longer just sharing a house.
The bed feels too small for two people.
Maybe because you spent so many nights in it alone, a whole ocean of sheets between you and the couch down the hall. Maybe because he’s in it now like he doesn’t quite trust the softness under him, shoulders still a fraction too high, breath careful.
You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to the quiet difference of his breathing beside yours. It isn’t the tense, held-in kind you’ve learned to recognise from his pain days. It’s slower. Steadier. Like he’s ready to let sleep carry him for once.
The silence is heavy, but not tense. A minute passes. Two. Then his voice, rough with sleep and something else. “You awake?”
You turn on your side, the sheets whispering against your thighs. The moonlight outlines him in soft edges—jaw, lashes, the slope of his nose. His hair is a mess from drying half-naturally, still faintly damp at the ends. He looks younger like this, less Commander and more just… Cheol.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “You?”
He hums. His gaze meets yours, and there’s no fight in it tonight. Just an exhausted openness you don’t see often enough to take for granted. “Do I… take up too much space?” he asks.
You blink, caught slightly off guard by the gentleness of the question.
“You barely take up any space,” you whisper back, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “It’s annoying.”
His lips twitch. “I’ll work on being more obnoxious.”
“Please don’t. One of us has to be survivable.”
He lets out a soft, breathless laugh. The quiet settles again, easier now. Your hand finds the edge of the pillow between you, fingers tracing the seam. You don’t mean to cross the distance. You do anyway. Your knuckles brush his forearm. He doesn’t flinch. His fingers lift slowly and curl around yours. You squeeze back. He swallows. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles, small and grounding.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly, and the words land between you.
“For what?”
He’s quiet so long you think he won’t answer. Then, softly: “For staying.”
Something in your throat tightens. You want to deflect. You want to crack a joke. You want to say, “Don’t make this weird.”
Instead, you lift your hand—still tangled with his—and bring it to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “You don’t get to thank me for that. You’re stuck with me now.”
His eyes flicker across your face, searching. Finding. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He shifts on the mattress, slow and careful, the movement brings him closer. His leg stays straight, protected, a habit you share. Your breaths mingle. His hand slides from your fingers to your wrist, then up your arm, as if he’s relearning what you feel like in stages. “Can I—” he starts, the sentence fraying. You answer by leaning in.
Your mouths meet in a soft kiss that lasts only a heartbeat too long to be casual. Then another. Slightly deeper.
His lips are warm, a little chapped, familiar in the way your body remembers. You taste something faintly herbal on him from his pain meds, and your heart squeezes. You keep kissing him anyway.
He exhales against your mouth, hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth opens under yours, a quiet sound breaking from his throat when you tilt your head and deepen it. You feel the way he holds himself back and how badly he wants not to. It makes something hungry stir low in your belly.
You shift closer, your thigh brushing his. He freezes for a split second—instinct, caution, making sure his leg is safe. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips: “Tell me what hurts.” His eyes flutter open, dark and unguarded. “Nothing that matters.”
“Cheol.”
“My leg if I move wrong,” he admits softly. “Everything else…” His thumb strokes your jaw slowly. “Everything else feels like it’s been waiting.”
You kiss him again at that, harder, and this time he responds without hesitation. His hand drops to your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, pressing into him, letting your body answer the question his mouth keeps asking.
His palm slides under your shirt, warm and broad over the curve of your ribs, then lower to your stomach. He doesn’t rush. He just touches like he’s confirming you’re real—fingers spreading, thumb tracing circles that make you shiver. Your hand skims his stomach in return, feeling the hard line of muscle there, the faint tremor that runs through him when you drag your nails lightly down his side.
You break the kiss long enough to breathe. “Is this… okay?” he asks, voice rough. You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
“Still okay if we take it slow?”
“Commander,” you whisper, leaning in to bite lightly at his lower lip, “I’ve never been good at slow, but I can try.”
“Try,” he says, like an order he’s offering you gently.
You kiss him again, and your bodies start to find their own rhythm. You guide him onto his back, careful of the injured leg, arranging his pillow the way you’ve learned to. He watches you do it, something tender flickering across his face like he can’t decide whether he’s grateful or undone by it. Then you crawl over him, straddling his hip without putting any weight on his bad leg. Your knees sink into the mattress on either side of his good thigh. You feel his breath hitch when your hands settle on his chest.
“Is this okay?” you ask softly, mirroring him.
His fingers slide up your sides, resting at your waist—steady, hot. He gives a small nod, his throat working. “Yeah. God, yeah.”
You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his throat. Your lips travel slowly, deliberately, mapping him. Your tongue flicks lightly over the pulse in his neck; he sucks in air sharply, fingers tightening at your hips. He makes a low sound when you mouth at the scar near his collarbone. “Riot…”
“Shh.” You keep kissing. “Just breathe.”
You slide lower, letting your mouth and hands work together—kissing the line of his sternum, your palm splayed over his stomach as if to steady him. Or yourself. Your hair brushes his skin; the contact makes his abdomen tense. You glance up once, checking him. He gives a small nod, eyes half-lidded and dark. So you go lower.
You tug his waistband down and free him with a patient, unhurried care that feels almost ceremonial. His breath turns shallow the second your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking slowly, testing how he reacts to pressure and pace. He arches under you with a quiet, wrecked sound.
Your mouth follows—first a soft kiss to the top, then a slow lick up the underside of his shaft that draws another broken inhale from him. You take him in gradually, letting your lips and tongue do the work before you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you suck. Your hands brace at his thighs, the good one tensing, the injured one kept straight and safe.
He grips your hair, not yanking, just holding, fingers tangling in the strands. “Fuck,” he breathes, hips twitching when you pick up the pace.
You hum against him, letting the vibration travel through his cock. You keep the rhythm steady, slow enough to tease, firm enough to make him tremble. His stomach tightens with each suck and lick, his fingers flexing in your hair as his control slips.
“Wait,” he rasps suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. You pull back, blinking up at him. Your lips are slick with moisture, your cheeks hot.
“What?”
He looks wrecked, barely holding himself together. “Come here,” he says. “I don’t want— not like that. Not without you.”
A quiet “fuck” slips out of you as heat floods your spine.
You crawl back up his body, kissing him as you go, until you’re hovering above him again. He catches your face in both hands, kisses you like he’s starving—tongue sweeping into your mouth, deep and slow, stealing your breath.
Then he shifts. His hands guide you onto your back beside him—slowly, minding his leg, minding your balance. He props himself on one elbow. “Let me,” he murmurs.
He starts to move down your body with the same reverence you gave him, mouth grazing your stomach, your ribs, the tender spot just under your sternum that makes you shiver. His hands slip under your shirt, palms warm as they slide up to cup your breasts. He thumbs your nipples gently until they pebble under his touch, then lowers his mouth to one, sucking softly, pulling a gasp from you that makes his eyes flick up, pleased and adoring all at once.
But when he tries to angle himself lower, his injured leg betrays him. You feel the cramp before he says anything—the sudden lock of muscle, the sharp intake of breath, the way his face goes taut.
“Ah—” He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched.
“Cheol,” you panic, reaching for him. “Hey, hey.”
"I’m sorry,” he grits, frustrated, trying to shift it out. “I can— just—”
"Shh.” You cup his cheek, firm yet gentle. “You don’t have to push through everything.”
His breath shakes. “I wanted to—” he starts, voice thick with disappointment. You kiss him reassuringly.
“You already are,” you whisper against his mouth. “Just not like that.”
He looks at you, brows drawn. “What do you mean?”
You slide your hand down his chest, over his stomach, and take his wrist, guiding him.
“We’ll make it work,” you say softly. “We always do.”
You shift positions, rolling carefully so you’re half over him again but angled sideways—your hips aligned with his good leg, your body kept light, your hand braced on the mattress for balance. You keep his bad leg straight and untouched, cradled in a pocket of sheets and pillows.
He watches you, breathing still a little ragged, eyes dark with a mix of pain and hunger and something that feels like trust. “Like this?” you ask. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah. Tell me if it’s too much.”
"Same goes for you.”
You kiss him once, soft, and then you guide him into you with a slowness that makes your breath stutter. You reach between your bodies to angle him right, then ease down onto his cock inch by inch, letting your walls relax around him. The stretch is slow, deliberate, the warmth blooming low in your belly until you’re fully seated on him.
You both freeze for a second at the contact, at the heat of it, at the way your bodies remember each other even after months and grief and recovery. He grips your hips gently, like he’s afraid to hurt you. “Okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Move.”
The first thrust is careful—just a shallow roll upward, testing the angle, seeing what his leg can tolerate. The second goes deeper, your breath catching hard. By the third, you’re rocking against him with a rhythm that makes your thighs tremble and your mouth fall open on a broken sound. His jaw flexes; his eyes flutter shut.
You move together, finding a pace that keeps his leg safe and still lets the rest of him live. You brace one hand on the mattress and the other on his shoulder, guiding the tempo as you roll your hips in slow circles that drag pleasure up through your spine. His hands follow your movement, steadying you, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of your waist so he’s holding you in place. His mouth finds your neck, kissing, tasting, murmuring your nickname like it’s a secret only he’s allowed to say out loud.
“Riot…”
"Commander…” you whisper back, and the word is no longer sharp. He speaks your language now—slow, steady, devoted.
Your hips roll against his, the pace building into something deeper, more insistent, until the bed starts to creak softly beneath you. You keep your faces close, foreheads brushing, mouths meeting between breaths.
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practised gentleness. He rubs soft but fast circles in time with his thrusts, pressure firm enough to make you gasp and stutter his name into his mouth. The sensation clenches your walls around him, and he groans low, a sound he tries to swallow but doesn’t manage.
“Cheol—” Your voice cracks.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you, baby. Just let go.”
You do. The pleasure rises sharp and hot, rolling through you in waves that make your thighs tremble. You dig your nails into his shoulder as your body locks up around him and you come, vision flashing white at the edges. He follows you a beat later, a rough groan spilling from him as his grip on your hips tightens and then loosens. You feel him spill inside you, warm and deep, his abdomen tensing hard before he shudders and goes slack beside you.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing like you ran a mile. His arms fold around you carefully, holding you there. You lift your head slightly, hair a mess across his collarbone.
“You okay?” you whisper.
His thumb strokes your back, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. You?”
"I’m… good.” You swallow. “Better than good.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Come here,” he murmurs, shifting you gently to the side so you can both settle without tugging his leg. “Sleep.”
"Bossy,” you mumble, but you snuggle closer anyway.
He doesn’t argue with that. He just pulls the blanket up over you both and keeps one hand at the small of your back, warm and steady. You fall asleep like that—tangled and quiet and solid.
Morning comes in pale stripes through the blinds.
You wake to the weight of his arm around your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. The house is still. The air smells like clean soap and sleep. You lie there for a while, listening to him breathe.
When he stirs, he doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t flinch like last time. He just tightens his hold a fraction and presses a sleepy kiss to your shoulder.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
“Morning,” you whisper back.
There’s no awkward clearing of throats. No scramble to rewrite the night into something that didn’t happen. No mention of the couch or who sleeps where. You both just stay.
As if the rule has changed without either of you needing to say it out loud.
You don’t notice when the new rhythm of your life shapes.
Maybe because it doesn’t arrive with fireworks or a speech. It just… happens, quietly, in the gaps between physio appointments and paint stains and the way his hand now finds your waist whenever you pass him in the hallway.
Mornings start with coffee.
Not yours alone anymore—two mugs on the counter, two different levels of consciousness. You’re usually up first because your body is still half bartender, half painter, half person who never learned to sleep like she doesn’t have something to prove. You shuffle into the kitchen in an oversized shirt, hair doing whatever it wants, and find him already there half the time, leaning on the counter with that cautious, stubborn posture he wears like armour.
Some mornings, his crutches are propped beside the door. Some mornings, he’s stubbornly walking without them, hand on the wall, jaw clenched in quiet defiance. You try not to stare too hard each time you notice the difference.
He watches you fill the kettle like it’s a mission.
“You know you don’t have to glare at the water to make it boil, right?” you mumble. He doesn’t even look guilty. “Just making sure you don’t start a kitchen fire before 9 a.m.”
You smirk, tipping your head toward the toaster. “That’s rich, considering you tried to microwave a fork last week.” His mouth kicks at the corner. “It was a spoon.”
“Commander, it was metal.”
He steps closer, slow and easy, and slots himself behind you just long enough to reach around and grab the mugs. “If you’re going to bully me,” he murmurs into your hair, “you should do it after you’ve fed me.” You lean back slightly into him, letting the warmth of his chest do something ridiculous to your spine.
“Didn’t you survive war?” you ask. “I’m pretty sure you can survive two minutes without caffeine.”
“Nope.” He sets the mugs down. “War was easier.”
You laugh into his shoulder, and he steals a kiss—quick, absentminded. That’s the new rhythm. The easy kisses. The way neither of you studies or questions them anymore.
After coffee comes rehab. You paint while he works.
He spreads the exercise mat in the living room, right near the blue wall you fought over until it became less of a battlefield and more of a landmark. He does his stretches with the same grim discipline he used to reserve for pushing you away. You sit cross-legged on the floor with your sketchbook, or at the little table you found secondhand, brush between your fingers, paint under your nails again.
At first, you tried not to watch him too much, because he hated being watched like he was fragile. Now you watch anyway. He pretends not to notice. You both know he notices.
Some days, he curses under his breath when his calf spasms. Some days, he breathes through it with that stubborn focus that makes you want to shove him and hug him in the same action. When he’s frustrated, he looks at you like he expects you to scold him. Sometimes you do.
“You’re cheating the reps,” you call without looking up.
“I’m not.”
You glance over, brow raised. “You’re absolutely cheating the reps.”
He pauses mid-lift, giving you a look like he’s choosing between pride and amusement. “You’re supposed to be encouraging,” he says.
“I am encouraging. I’m encouraging you to do it right.” He huffs. “You’re the worst.” You grin, dipping your brush in paint. “And yet you married me.”
“Regrettably.” He says it dry. His eyes don’t match. They follow you when you move like gravity. You pretend not to feel it. Even though you do.
Your house starts to change around you, too. Because living in it stops being a staging area and starts being… lived in.
A couch arrives—after a week of arguing and a final compromise that makes both of you equally grumbly. He helps you get the boxes in, crutches tapping around the living room while you open things with a knife. You build furniture together.
You do most of the heavy lifting because he insists on helping, and you insist on not letting him be stupid about it. He reads instructions instead, lips moving silently as he follows the diagrams. You sit on the floor with screws between your teeth and complain loudly about Swedish furniture as if it personally insulted your bloodline. At some point, you glance up and realise he’s smiling at you. “What?” you demand. He shakes his head, still smiling. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He leans in close enough for you to smell coffee and soap. “I forgot how loud you are when you’re happy.” It catches you off guard. You blink. “Was I… loud before?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “At the bar.”
There’s a beat where the memory sits between you—the old bar, the old fight, the way you both were strangers instead of what it is now. You swallow, then flick a screw at him. “Focus, Commander. This dresser isn’t going to build itself.”
He laughs and goes back to the instructions, but his hand slips to your thigh like he can’t help himself. You let it stay.
Pictures go up.
Not a million. Just enough to make the walls feel like yours.
A candid photo of you and Soonyoung from years ago, both of you sweaty and laughing on some summer day you barely remember until you see it. The platoon shot from before deployment, all stupid grins and civvies and a looming future none of you could picture. A print of one of your early sketches that Mingyu insisted was “the one that started it all,” which is dramatic and false, but you let him believe it.
One night, you catch Seungcheol standing in front of the photo of Soonyoung for a long time. He doesn’t say anything. You don’t either. You just walk up behind him and lace your fingers into his, letting that be the sentence. He squeezes once. Hard.
Your gallery spot moves from abstract possibility to an actual calendar with dates circled in thick marker. You don’t downplay it anymore. Not to him. Not to yourself.
The small gallery is sweet and a little chaotic, the kind of place that smells of old wood, fresh paint, and ambition. Their emails are enthusiastic, their deadlines terrifyingly real. You spend nights on the floor, surrounded by scraps of canvas and crumpled sketches, trying to make decisions that feel huge and fragile at the same time. And Seungcheol… helps. Not like a bored husband hovering in the doorway. Like a teammate.
He carries pieces when he can—slow, careful steps, a hand on the frame, crutches resting nearby like loyal guards. He points out which works draw his eye longer. You hate admitting it, but he’s good at it.
“That one,” he says one morning, tapping the edge of a canvas set against the wall. “It makes you stop.” You squint. “Because it’s unfinished?”
“Because it’s honest.” You look at him sideways. “I didn’t know you knew words like that.”
He gives you a dangerously small smile. “I’ve been around you too long.”
You invite him to the gallery with you once for a meeting because they asked if your husband could come.
He sits there quietly in his black jeans and plain shirt, leg stretched out, cane instead of crutches now. He doesn’t talk much, but when the curator starts leaning into jargon and deadlines that make your shoulders crawl upward, he cuts in smoothly. “She can get you three pieces by Friday if you can confirm the lighting plan by Wednesday.”
The curator blinks. “Yes. Of course.”
You blink too. When you get back to the car, you side-eye him. “Since when do you talk gallery?” He starts the engine, glancing at you with maddening calm. “Since my wife started trying to carry the world on her back again.” Heat flickers in your chest. “Don’t get cocky,” you mutter.
“Too late.”
His hand finds your thigh as he drives, thumb tracing a slow circle. You don’t move it away.
The painting for Soonyoung, Seungcheol, and Vernon takes longer than you expected. Because grief doesn’t care about deadlines.
Because some nights you stand over a blank canvas and your hands shake too much to make a straight line. Because every brushstroke feels like a conversation with someone who isn’t here to answer anymore. Because when you try to paint Soonyoung’s laugh, it comes out crooked. Seungcheol doesn’t hover.
He just sits nearby, doing stretches, reading, watching you. He lets the silence be yours.
Then one night, you finally step back.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. The paint is still wet in places, catching the lamplight. It isn’t pretty in a neat way. It’s raw and layered and alive. There’s sand and flame and a figure reaching back for another hand, and somewhere in the composition a colour that only exists in memory. “This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
Seungcheol stands—slowly, stubbornly, no crutches, just his cane—and comes up behind you. You feel his breath at your shoulder. “It’s beautiful,” he says. You snort weakly. “It’s… a mess.”
“So was Soonie,” Seungcheol murmurs. “And he was still the best person I ever knew.” He reaches around you and turns you gently by the shoulders until you’re facing him. His eyes are shiny, glossed over with unshed tears.
“Thank you,” he says again, but this time it lands heavier. You open your mouth to deflect. He doesn’t let you.
He kisses you—hard, full-bodied, like the emotion has been waiting under his ribs for weeks and finally found a crack to escape through. His hand cups your jaw; yours tangle in his hair. The kiss is too much to be a joke, too soft to be anger, too real to be either of those old things you used to hide behind. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. You’re breathing like you ran a mile. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers. “Of this. Of you.”
You swallow. “Careful,” you whisper back, trying to sound light. “I might start believing you.” His mouth curves slowly. “Good.”
His father returns two days later.
You hear the knock, the heavy boots, the air shifting slightly the way it does when a storm walks into a room in human skin. You open the door and find Mr. Choi in the same grease-stained jacket, the same assessing gaze. He nods once at you—still not warm, but less sharp at the edges. “Mrs. Choi,” he says.
“Mr. Choi.” He steps in.
The house is different from when he visited last: couch assembled, rug laid down (yes, he survived), a shelf filled with sketchbooks and Seungcheol’s rehab gear sharing space without fighting. Photos on the wall. A jar on the coffee table holding flowers Soonyoung’s mother mailed.
You notice his eyes linger on the pictures. Then on Seungcheol.
Your husband is in the living room, easing himself down into a chair—an actual chair now, not his wheelchair—one hand still automatically hovering near his thigh for balance. He looks up when his father walks in. There’s the old stiffness there for a heartbeat. Then it loosens when Seungcheol’s gaze slides past him and lands on you. Mr. Choi sees it.
He sees, too, the way you slide Seungcheol’s chair closer to the table without thinking as you set down the coffee mugs. The way Seungcheol doesn’t even notice because it’s normal now. The way your hip brushes his shoulder as you pass, and he catches you with a lazy hand at your waist.
His father’s suspicion doesn’t vanish. But it shifts. Into something wary. Something like respect he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
The conversation is mostly neutral at first—updates about physio, small remarks about the ramp, your gallery preparations. Mr. Choi listens with the same stern focus he shares with his son, but he doesn’t grill you the way he did last time. He lets your answers be enough. At some point he pulls his phone out and taps through an email, then clears his throat. “They’re awarding you a Purple Heart,” he says to Seungcheol.
Seungcheol goes still. “What?”
Mr. Choi’s voice stays level, but there’s a faint thread of pride stitched through it. “The paperwork is going through. I asked around.” He glances at you, then away. “They’re calling it valour under fire. Attempted rescue.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to the photo of Soonyoung on the wall. “I didn’t do anything special,” he mutters.
“You did,” his father replies, sharper now. “And you lived. So you’ll accept it.” Seungcheol’s throat works. You feel his hand find yours under the table, fingers threading through yours. You squeeze.
When Mr. Choi stands to leave later, he pauses by the doorway. He doesn’t apologise. That would be too easy. Instead, he looks at you, then at his son, and says gruffly: “You’re healing.” It isn’t a question. Seungcheol nods once.
Mr. Choi looks back at you. “And you’re… keeping him honest.” You blink, caught slightly off guard by the near-compliment. “I try,” you say carefully, smiling despite yourself.
He huffs and steps out into the afternoon without another word. You close the door and lean against it, exhaling. From the living room, Seungcheol clears his throat. “Did my father just approve of you?” he asks, sounding mildly traumatised. You turn slowly, deadpan. “Don’t worry, commander. I’ll go pick a fight with him next time to restore balance.”
He laughs, real and low. You grin back, walking toward him.
“Seriously, though,” you add, softer as you reach him. “How do you feel about the medal?” His smile fades. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It feels wrong.” You sit on the arm of his chair, close enough for his knee to brush yours. “Maybe wrong things can still mean something,” you say quietly.
His eyes lift to yours. “Yeah?” You nod. “Yeah.”
A beat passes. His hand slides up your thigh, warm and familiar. “We’re… okay,” he says softly, like he’s also trying to convince himself.
You want to say we’re more than okay. You want to say a thousand things you’re still scared to name. So you start smaller. “We’re almost ordinary,” you whisper. His mouth curves. “That sounds like a threat coming from you.” You kiss his temple. “It is.”
Somewhere between coffee and rehab and stolen kisses while pasta boils, a quiet hope takes shape in the house. You just find yourselves living like people who aren’t pretending anymore.
And in the quiet places—between your ribs, between his breaths, in the soft weight of his hand on your waist when you walk past—something that started as a scam begins to feel dangerously like a promise.
You don’t name it. But you both start hoping it’s real.
The morning starts like all the good ones have lately.
Seungcheol wakes up with your hair in his face.
You’re sprawled half on top of him, one leg thrown over his good thigh, fingers curled in the fabric of his T-shirt. Sun sneaks in between the blinds, striping your bare shoulder, the curve of your neck. For a moment, he just lies there and breathes you in—soap and paint and something warm he’s learned to think of as home. He could stay like this all day. He doesn’t get to.
His phone starts buzzing on the nightstand. You groan, burrowing closer. “Kill it,” you mutter into his chest. He huffs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It might be the base.”
“Tell the entire Army to stop calling at eight a.m.,” you grumble, but you loosen your grip. He reaches blindly, fumbling for the phone. The name on the screen cuts through the softness. Dad.
His stomach tightens. Seungcheol shifts under you gently. “It’s my father,” he says. “I should take this.” Your eyes blink open, blurred with sleep but immediately concerned. “Everything okay?”
He lies automatically. “Yeah. Just business stuff.” He nudges you gently off his chest. “Go back to sleep. I’ll make coffee in a bit.”
You squint at him, clearly unconvinced, but nod. “If you start a fight with him before nine, I’m hiding the good knives,” you mumble, rolling onto your side. He manages a weak smile, then swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his cane. The leg protests the extra weight, a dull ache that never quite leaves, but he ignores it and limps down the hall.
He answers the call in the kitchen. “Appa.” His father’s voice comes through strained, thinner than usual. “You busy?”
“Not yet,” Seungcheol says, glancing at the empty countertop. “What’s going on?” There’s a beat of silence. Then: “He called.”
Every muscle in his body goes taut. He doesn’t need a name. There’s only one he that makes his father sound like that. “What did he say?” Seungcheol asks, jaw already clenching.
“His new lawyer reached out,” his father answers. There’s a scrape of metal in the background; maybe a wrench on the garage floor. “They’ve been reviewing the settlement. He wants the rest in full. By next week.”
For a moment, all he hears is the hum of the fridge and the blood pounding in his ears. “That’s not what we agreed,” Seungcheol says finally, voice flat. “We had a schedule. It’s almost done.”
“It was.” His father’s tone darkens. “Until he got bored, or greedy, or both.” Old anger stirs under his ribs.
Images flicker, uninvited—headlights smeared across rain-slick asphalt, the screech of metal, the sickening lurch of a vehicle already out of his control. His brother’s face, blank in the coffin they never talk about. His own reflection in a holding cell mirror, pupils blown, knuckles bleeding. He shoves the memories back down.
“How much is left?” he asks, even though he knows the number. He’s been carrying it around for years like a weight in his pocket. His father tells him anyway. Not as big as it once was. Big enough still to crush him all over again.
“He says if we don’t pay in full,” his father continues, “his lawyer will recommend reopening the case. Claims the original settlement was generous. That with inflation, with the real cost of the car…” He trails off, disgusted. “He thinks he can get more.” Of course he does.
He has always been like that—polished outside, rot underneath. A man who loved that car more than he loved people. A man who looked at a totalled vehicle and saw insult instead of an accident. Seungcheol grips the counter until his fingers ache. “We can fight it,” he says. “The settlement was signed. It’s done.”
“You think I haven’t talked to a lawyer?” his father snaps, the old defensiveness flaring. “He has money. He has time. He can make our lives hell just by dragging it out.” There’s a creak in his voice that wasn’t there years ago. Age. Exhaustion. The long-term strain of keeping a business alive under a debt it didn’t deserve. Guilt crawls up Seungcheol’s spine.
He remembers the moment, clear as day.
His brother had been dead for three months.
Three months of watching his mother try to cook for a son who wasn’t there. Three months of his father staying late at the garage, shoulders bent under invisible weight. Three months of people clapping him on the shoulder at the funeral, at the store, at the gas station, saying “your parents need you to be strong now,” like he wasn’t bleeding out inside.
He remembers the drink someone pressed into his hand. Then another. And another.
He remembers the keys burning in his palm later that night, the way the client’s custom car gleamed under the fluorescent garage lights. A stupid, perfect machine. A challenge. Seungcheol remembers thinking, “I just want to feel something else.”
He took it. He drove too fast, too drunk, too angry. The city lights smeared into a blur. The engine roared under his hands. For a few minutes, the noise in his head quieted. Then there was a corner he didn’t see. A barrier. A brief, weightless moment of oh.
Metal screamed. Glass exploded. The world turned sideways. He woke up in a hospital bed with a concussion, bruises, and his father sitting in a plastic chair, eyes like stone.
The client wanted blood.
He’d heard later that the man had stormed into the garage, shouting about his car, his money, his status. Threatening lawsuits, threatening to ruin them all. His father, proud and terrified and still raw from burying a son, had stepped between them and said, “It was my fault. My liability. My shop.” He’d taken the hit because that’s what fathers did.
The insurance wouldn’t cover the full custom value. The client wanted more. He wanted enough to teach a lesson, to make sure no one ever thought they could treat his possessions like toys.
The garage almost closed. Bills stacked up like bricks. Suppliers started calling at odd hours. There was talk of selling tools, selling the building, selling everything his father had worked for his whole life. Seungcheol had watched his father buckle under it. And finally, he couldn’t stand it.
He’d walked into that office, head pounding, shame thick in his throat, and said, “It was me.” He’d watched his father’s face go from fury to something worse. He’d heard the client’s satisfied breath down the line when his father called to say the truth. The settlement had become his then. His debt. His burden. He’d signed the papers with a shaking hand. Monthly payments. Interest. Years of his life owed to a man who saw him as nothing but a lesson to be taught.
He’d walked into the recruitment office two weeks later. The military had been a lifeline and a punishment rolled into one: structure he couldn’t argue with, sobriety forced by circumstance, a steady paycheck he could funnel toward the debt without his father’s garage folding. A way to protect his family and make his father proud in some twisted, delayed sense. It had worked. Mostly.
Until now.
“I don’t have that kind of money,” he tells his father, pulling himself out of the memory. “Even if I cleaned out everything I have saved, it wouldn’t be enough.” There’s a pause. “You could borrow,” his father says. Seungcheol laughs, humourless. “From who?”
His father doesn’t answer. They both know the answer to that. The people who lend that much, that fast, aren’t banks. They’re not anyone he wants near you. He closes his eyes briefly. You.
He sees you in his mind—standing barefoot in the living room, paint on your hands, hair pulled up haphazardly, mouth twisted in concentration over the canvas for him and his brothers. The way you’d lit up last night when the strokes finally came together. The way you’d breathed against his neck when you fell asleep, like you were finally resting. He’s not dragging you into this.
“I’ll talk to him,” Seungcheol says. “Face to face.”
His father scoffs. “You think he’ll listen to you?”
“Maybe not.” He grips the cane harder. “But I’m the one who owes him, not you. I’ll handle it.” There’s a long silence. When his father speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“You joined up to fix this,” he says. “You did everything you said you would. You straightened out. You paid almost all of it. I don’t… I don’t want this to drag you down again.” The words lodge somewhere behind Seungcheol’s ribs. “It already did,” he says softly. “But I’m still standing.”
“Barely,” his father mutters. “You can hardly walk.”
“I am walking,” he replies, stubbornly. His father sighs.
“I’ll text you his lawyer’s number,” he says. “They’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Okay.”
“Cheol.” He stops. It’s rare for his father to use his name like that. “Don’t do anything stupid,” his father says. “We can’t afford for you to end up in prison on top of everything else.” Seungcheol forces a breath out through his nose. “I won’t,” he says.
He hangs up before the knot in his throat can become something he can’t talk through. Behind him, soft footsteps. He turns.
You’re leaning in the doorway, T-shirt hitting mid-thigh, hair in a messy knot, eyes still heavy with sleep and concern.
“So,” you say, voice careful. “On a scale from ‘minor annoyance’ to ‘life on fire,’ how bad is it?”
He hesitates. He could tell you. He could lay the whole ugly thing out on the kitchen table between you, let you touch it, and see what you do with it. Instead, he reaches for the safer lie. “It’s… complicated,” he says. You arch a brow. “That’s not an answer.”
“I’ll figure it out,” he adds quickly. “It’s my mess. I’ll handle it.”
Your jaw tightens at that, the same way it does when a customer at the bar calls you ‘sweetheart’ like it’s a compliment. “You know that’s not how marriage works, right?” you say. Seungcheol swallows.
“I just need to talk to someone,” he says. “Then I’ll know more.”
You study him for a long time. Then, slowly, you cross the kitchen, step into his space, and tug lightly at the front of his shirt until he’s leaning down enough for you to kiss him. It’s soft. Not a demand. Not a performance. Just contact. You pull back and search his face.
“Okay, Commander,” you say quietly. “Go handle it. But don’t shut me out forever.” He nods, throat too tight for a joke. He watches you walk away, the hem of your shirt skimming your thighs, and thinks: If this man touches you, I’ll kill him. Then he pushes the thought down and calls the number his father sent.
The client chooses a café downtown. Of course he does.
Neutral ground. Public enough that no one can say he’s being unreasonable. Expensive enough that he can pretend this is just a casual business meeting, not a long-delayed opportunity to twist the knife.
Seungcheol arrives early.
He hates that he does, but he can’t help it—years of being taught that late is disrespectful, that punctuality is the only control you have left in a world that can explode under your feet at any second.
He walks in with his cane instead of the crutches, determination making up for what his leg can’t. Every step is a negotiation between pain and pride. The café is all polished wood, hanging plants, and overpriced pastries. People sit with laptops and tiny cups, living lives that have nothing to do with him.
He spots the man immediately.
Slick suit. Perfectly parted hair. Expensive watch, the kind that could probably cover two months’ rent on its own. He’s seated by the window, posture relaxed, like he’s the one doing a favour by agreeing to be here.
When he sees Seungcheol, his mouth curls in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sergeant Choi,” he says as Seungcheol approaches. “You clean up better than the last time I saw you.” Last time had been in a courtroom hallway, years ago, when Seungcheol still smelled like whiskey and desperation, and his father looked like he’d aged a decade overnight.
He nods once, jaw tight. “Mr. Han.”
He lowers himself into the chair with controlled slowness. His leg throbs, but he doesn’t let it show. A server appears, sets down a coffee in front of Han without asking. He’s already been here a while; of course, he has. Han glances at him.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, too polite.
“No.” He didn’t come to be comfortable. Han shrugs and takes a sip.
“So,” he says, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I hear congratulations are in order. Medals, marriage. You’ve been busy.”
The hairs on the back of Seungcheol’s neck rise. “We’re here to talk about the settlement.”
“We are,” Han agrees easily. “But I like to know who I’m dealing with. And it’s been a while since I saw you driving my car into oblivion.”
His tone is light. His eyes are not. Seungcheol’s fingers tighten around the handle of his cane. “I’ve paid what we agreed,” he says, forcing his voice to stay level. “Every month. On time. There’s only a small portion left.”
Han smiles again, sharp at the edges. “Small is relative, Sergeant.”
“Relative to the original amount,” Seungcheol replies. “Relative to the fact that your insurance covered most of it and you still came after us instead of taking the loss like every other person who’s ever had a bad accident.”
Han’s gaze flicks to his leg, then back up. “You were drunk,” he says. “And joyriding in a vehicle that wasn’t yours. That wasn’t an accident. That was negligence.” He’s not wrong. That doesn’t make him less of an asshole.
“We had a deal,” Seungcheol says. “A signed settlement. I’ve honoured it. I can’t pay the rest in full by next week. But I can keep to the schedule.”
Han steeples his fingers, studying him with patronising interest. “You know what I’ve learned in business?” he muses. “Time is money. The longer something drags on, the more it costs.”
“It’s almost done,” Seungcheol grits. “Another year and it’s over.”
“Mm.” Han tilts his head. “Thing is, I’ve had time to think. About the real value of what you destroyed. Custom work, sentimental attachment, the inconvenience.” He smiles, all teeth. “I was… generous, back then.” Generous. The word makes bile rise in his throat.
“You nearly shut down my father’s garage,” Seungcheol says, voice low. “You call that generous?”
“I could have sued for more,” Han replies smoothly. “Prison time, even. I didn’t.” He spreads his hands. “I gave you an opportunity to make it right.”
“I took it.”
“You started to,” Han corrects. “But now circumstances have changed.”
He leans back, eyes flicking over him, taking inventory. The cane. The scars at his hairline. The tired lines around his eyes. The ring on his finger. “You’re doing well for yourself, from what I hear,” Han goes on. “Steady government pay. Medical benefits. Hero status. A pretty wife.” His mouth twitches. “An artist, right? I’ve seen some of her things floating around online. Interesting work.”
Cold slides under Seungcheol’s skin. “Leave hr out of this,” he says quietly. Han lifts a brow. “I’m just saying, you’ve built quite a nice little life, considering.”
“And?”
“And,” Han says, smile thinning, “I want what I’m owed. All of it. Now. You find the money—loan, fundraiser, family, I don’t care—or my lawyer files a motion to revisit the settlement. We can argue in court again about liability, about intent, about how much your screw-up really cost me.”
“You don’t have a case,” Seungcheol says. “We signed.”
“I have money,” Han replies. “And patience. You?” He looks at the cane again. “I’d hate to see you limping in and out of courtrooms for the next few years on top of everything else. And your father’s business… you think it could survive another round?”
Anger roars up hot and wild. He forces it down. “You already bled us once,” he says. “What more do you want?”
Han’s gaze sharpens. “You drove my car into a wall,” he says, voice dropping its pretend warmth. “You endangered other people on that road. You could have killed someone.”
I did, Seungcheol wants to say. Just not with the car. His brother’s face flashes in his mind again, unbidden. “I was a mess,” he says instead. “My brother had just died. I was drunk and stupid and I’ve been paying for it ever since. I joined the military. I haven’t touched a drink in years. I’ve done everything I can to make this right.” Han’s lip curls. “You think sobriety and war make us even?”
“No,” Seungcheol says, jaw tight. “I think it makes me a different man than the one you met.” Han’s gaze slides to his wedding ring again.
“Maybe,” he says. “But different men can still make mistakes. Like rushing into things. Taking on responsibilities they can’t afford.” He taps the table. “I’d hate to see your wife find out who her husband used to be.”
Something in Seungcheol snaps. He leans forward, the chair groaning under the sudden shift of weight. His hand wraps around the cane so tightly his knuckles ache. “Don’t talk about her,” he says. Han holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not threatening you.” A pause. “Yet.”
Heat beats at the back of his neck.
He sees it—clear as day—the way it would go if he let himself slide. The cane discarded. Both hands in Han’s blazer, slamming him back against the window. The shock on the man’s face as the mask cracks. The waitress screaming. The cops. The charges. His father’s garage. His platoon. You.
You, standing in a hallway somewhere, eyes wide and hurting, saying, “I thought you were done with this.” He swallows glass. “Say what you mean,” he forces out. “Don’t play games.”
Han smiles slightly. “You have people you care about now,” he says. “A father with a business. A wife with a budding career. A nice little house.” His eyes glint. “The world can be… unpredictable. Fires. Break-ins. Bad luck.”
Seungcheol’s vision goes white around the edges. His fingers twitch on the cane. He wants to move. To stand, to close the distance, to wipe that smug look off the man’s face. His leg throbs, a harsh reminder.
His brain flashes images: Soonyoung’s coffin lowering. Vernon still in a hospital bed. Paperwork with dishonourable discharge stamped across it if he screws up now. Your hand in his last night, your breathing evening out beside him as you finally let yourself sleep. He unclenches his jaw just enough to speak. “You stay away from them,” he says. Each word is a stone. “You hear me? This is between you and me.”
Han’s smile doesn’t move. “Then pay me,” he says calmly. “By the end of next week. Or I start getting creative.”
Silence stretches. The café chatter buzzes faintly at the edges of his awareness. Slowly, deliberately, Seungcheol pushes his chair back and stands.
His leg protests, but he doesn’t let it show. He leans on the cane just enough to keep his balance, then steps closer to the table, towering over Han in a way he hasn’t let himself indulge in years. Han looks up, briefly, and for a fraction of a second, there’s something like unease in his eyes.
Good.
“I will find the money,” Seungcheol says quietly. “Without you touching my father or my wife.” Han tilts his head, the unnerving calm sliding back into place. “Clock’s ticking, Sergeant,” he says. “Don’t be late this time.”
Seungcheol stares at him for another beat.
His knuckles are white around the cane. His shoulders are tight with held-in rage. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can feel it in his leg.
He thinks of Soonyoung, laughing at him for wanting to punch a man in a café. He thinks of you, standing in front of his father and not folding.
He thinks of your home—blue wall, dented floors, a plant you insist isn’t a problem—and knows one thing: He is not going back to the version of himself who solved problems by destroying things.
So he says nothing. He turns, limps out of the café, and leaves Mr. Han sitting at the table with his coffee and his smugness and a vindictive anger that only sharpens now that he’s been denied a scene.
On the way home, every step feels like it’s carrying more weight than his ruined leg can realistically bear. He doesn’t know yet what the man behind him is planning.
He just knows that the past he thought he’d outrun has finally caught up.
Seungcheol is different.
On the surface, nothing is wrong. He still kisses you in the kitchen while the kettle heats. He still makes his slow, stubborn laps around the living room without letting you hover too much. He still sits with you on the floor and argues about which pieces should go closest to the entrance of the exhibit because “first impressions matter, Riot.” He still touches you like he’s memorising you.
But something has shifted under his skin.
You feel it in the half-second pauses before he answers your questions. In the way he watches the door like he expects it to kick in. In the way his jaw goes tight sometimes when his phone buzzes, even though he flips it over and says nothing.
You tell yourself you’re imagining it. You tell yourself he’s allowed to have quiet days without you poking at them. You tell yourself you’re not the kind of woman who needs to be told everything. Still, you catch yourself watching him like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You hate that. So you bite your tongue and decide he’ll come to you when he’s ready.
Your gallery date gets bumped up a week anyway—some scheduling miracle-slash-nightmare the curator is thrilled about and you are vaguely nauseous over. Suddenly, the world shrinks to deadlines. Frames. Transport. The way your stomach goes hollow every time you look at the centrepiece painting and think of Soonyoung’s handwriting in your sketchbook.
You don’t have time to worry about whatever shadow is stalking your husband. You keep moving.
You’re alone in the gallery, setting up the corner they’ve given you. The staff are in and out, but mostly it’s just you, your canvases, and the quiet hum of a space waiting to be filled.
You step back from the centrepiece for the third time to check the angle. You adjust the lighting by half an inch. You adjust it back. You chew the inside of your cheek and mutter to yourself about how the spotlight makes the sand tones look either alive or like a crime scene, depending on your mood.
“You’re being dramatic,” you tell your own reflection in the glass.
No one answers, which is rude, frankly.
You’re lifting a smaller piece onto the wall when the door chimes. You glance over automatically, expecting a staff member. Instead, a man walks in who doesn’t belong to the vibe. He’s polished in a way that’s almost aggressive—dark coat, expensive shoes, hair perfectly in place like it never met a gust of wind in its life. His smile is pleasant on the surface, but his eyes skim the room the way someone looks at property they’re thinking of buying.
“Can I help you?” you ask, wiping your hands on your jeans. He turns toward you smoothly. “Just admiring,” he says, voice warm enough to be believable. “Is this your work?”
“Yeah.” You nod toward the corner. “Small feature in a group exhibit. Set up day. Try not to trip over anything.”
He gives a polite laugh that doesn’t touch his face. “You must be proud.” You snort softly. “Ask me again after opening night.”
He walks deeper into the space without asking. He stops at a piece near the entrance, head tilted slightly. His gaze travels across the brushstrokes like he’s reading a code. “You have a strong hand,” he says. “Very… honest.” Something about the word makes you bristle even though you can’t say why. “Thanks.” You keep your tone neutral. “Are you with the gallery?”
He glances back. “No. Just a visitor.”
You nod once, already turning back to your work. He keeps moving. You hear his footsteps stop in front of the centrepiece. The air shifts. You glance over before you mean to.
He’s standing there like he’s rooted to the floor, staring at the painting for Seungcheol and Soonyoung and Vernon. His expression is hard to read—interest, yes, but something sharper as well. Something like satisfaction. “This one,” he murmurs. “This is the heart of it.”
You feel a strange prickle up your arms. “It is,” you say cautiously. “It’s dedicated to three soldiers.”
His smile flickers. “So I heard.” Your stomach tightens. “You heard?” He looks at you, still pleasant, still polished. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to sound familiar.” He gestures at the painting. “The way you captured the fire… It’s almost tender.”
“It’s grief,” you say, sharper than you intend. “Same difference sometimes.” He hums like you’ve amused him. “Soldiers cause a lot of grief,” he says lightly, almost conversational. “Especially the ones who ruin lives and then fail to take responsibility.”
Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
He lifts his brows, innocence painted on. “Art invites interpretation, doesn’t it?” You stare at him for a beat. “That’s not interpretation. That’s a jab.” His smile stays. “Maybe I’m biased.”
Your stomach is now fully awake and unpleasantly alert. “Who are you?” you ask. He takes his time turning toward you. The movement feels practised. “Someone who knows your husband,” he says simply. Your pulse jumps. “Seungcheol?”
“Mm.” He nods. “We have history. A complicated one.”
He says it like he’s talking about a hobby. You step closer without meaning to. “What kind of history?”
His gaze drifts past you to the other pieces, like he’s not in any rush to answer. “Your work is getting attention,” he says instead. “Online. Curated accounts. Emerging artists. It must feel good.”
The dodge makes your skin crawl. “Answer my question.”
He finally meets your eyes. There’s a glint there that makes the back of your neck go cold. “I suppose I should introduce myself.” He inclines his head politely. “Mr. Han.”
The name means nothing to you. That’s the problem.
He steps a little closer, voice lowering like he’s doing you a kindness. “He mentioned you.” A small smile. “Not by name, of course. But I know a firecracker when I see one.”
You stiffen. “When did he mention me?”
“Recently.” His eyes flick to your ring. “He was very protective. It was almost charming.” You don’t like the way he says protective. Like it’s a weakness he’s clocked. Like he’s been testing the seams. A sick intuition crawls up your spine. “What do you want?” you ask.
Mr. Han sighs gently, like you’re being difficult. “Nothing from you.” His gaze travels to your hands again. “Though I suppose you’re part of it now.”
“Part of what?”
He tilts his head, and the polite mask slips half an inch. “Agreements,” he says. “Consequences. The way past mistakes ripple into present lives.”
Your blood turns to ice. “You’re not making any sense—”
“Your mother is doing better,” he says softly, cutting you off.
The gallery seems to tip sideways. “What did you just say?”
His smile returns, tidy as a blade. “I hear her treatments are going well. I’m glad the military is so generous with healthcare.” He shrugs lightly. “It would be a shame if that stability were interrupted.”
You can’t breathe for a second. “How the hell do you know about my mother?” Your voice comes out too loud in the quiet space, bouncing off the walls.
He spreads his hands, still calm. “Connections,” he says with a lazy sort of cruelty. “The same way I know Seungcheol is… behind.” Behind. The word doesn’t fit into your brain. “Behind on what?”
Han steps closer until the distance between you is social but not safe. “He made an agreement with me.” His voice softens, almost to a whisper. “An old one. He’s tried very hard to be a good boy about it. I’ll give him that.”
Your hands curl into fists. “If this is about money—”
“It is.” A beat. “And about respect. And about teaching boys who think they can ruin a man’s life that actions matter.”
You stare at him. You don’t know what you’re staring at exactly, but every instinct in your body is screaming. “What did Seungcheol do to you?”
Han’s smile thins. “Ask him.”
You step back like you’re resisting the urge to lunge.
“You don’t get to walk in here and—” Your voice shakes on the anger. “You don’t get to talk about my husband or my mother like they’re pieces on a chess board.” Something bright flickers in his eyes. “Then tell your husband to pay what he owes.”
The air slices thin. Your heartbeat is a drum in your ears. “Or what?” you whisper. Han studies you for a long moment. “Or agreements stop being civil.”
His gaze dips to your ring again. “And civilian lives tend to get messy when soldiers forget their place.”
Your breath comes shallow. “Get out,” you force out.
Han smiles politely. “Of course. I don’t want to disturb your setup.”
He turns toward the door, unhurried, as if he hasn’t just detonated something in your chest. Then he pauses, like an afterthought. “Tell Seungcheol,” he says lightly over his shoulder, “that threats don’t impress me. Especially when they involve his wife.”
Before you can find words, the door chimes again and he’s gone. The gallery is suddenly too bright. Too quiet.
You stand there with paint on your hands and cold under your skin, staring at the door like it might swing back open. Then your body catches up to what just happened. Your hands start shaking.
You don’t remember packing your supplies. You don’t remember locking up. You only remember the drive home being a blur of white knuckles and a headache that blooms behind your eyes. By the time you pull into the driveway, you are furious. And afraid in a way you haven't felt before.
Seungcheol is in the living room when you slam the front door behind you.
He’s doing his stretches, shirt damp at the collar, cane propped beside the couch. He looks up like he’s about to say something soft—you’re home—and then he sees your face. He stills. “Hey,” he starts slowly. “What happened?”
You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You walk right into the middle of the room and let the words spit out of you like venom. “Who the hell is Mr. Han?”
Whatever warmth was in his expression disappears. His shoulders go tight. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Your voice shakes. “He came to the gallery. He talked about you like you were a dog he still owns. He talked about my mother.”
Seungcheol’s face drains. “He what?”
“He threatened me, Seungcheol. He threatened my mother.”
Seungcheol pushes himself up too fast, favouring his good leg, rage snapping through him so suddenly it almost looks like panic. “Are you okay?” His hands catch your shoulders, searching for injuries that aren’t visible. “Did he touch you?” You shake him off. “Don’t do that.”
“Tell me the truth,” you say, stepping back. Your chest is heaving. “No more half-answers. No more ‘complicated.’ What is this? What did you do? Why is he in my life?”
Seungcheol stares at you. He opens his mouth. Closes it. You feel your vision blur with angry tears. “Talk,” you snap. His throat works. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay. Sit.”
“I’m not sitting.”
He inhales, then nods like he knows he doesn’t get to bargain. He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “My brother died,” he says quietly. The sentence hits you like a shift in gravity.“What?”
“You don’t know what it did to me.” His voice tightens. “I was… gone. I didn’t want to be alive. I drank. I used. I did stupid shit just to feel anything that wasn’t grief.”
He keeps going before you can interrupt.
“One night I took a car.” He swallows hard. “Not thinking. Not caring. I was drunk out of my mind. I didn’t know it was his. It was in my father’s garage—custom, expensive, perfect—and I just… took it. Drove it like I wanted to die in it.”
Your skin goes cold.
“I crashed it,” he says. “Totalled it. It was beyond repair. The owner was Han. Rich. Vindictive. The kind of man who sees a car as a throne.”
You stare at him, breath shallow.
“My father took responsibility at first. To protect me. Han refused to let it go. Sued. Demanded a settlement so big the garage almost shut down. My father almost lost everything he had built.” His jaw clenches. “I confessed. Took the settlement onto myself. I’ve been paying it off for years.”
The room feels too small. His voice drops even lower.
“The military… was the only way I could make the money to pay him and keep the business afloat. And to get clean. I’ve been sober since I enlisted.” You blink at him slowly, trying to make the story settle into place. “How much is left?” you ask, voice thin.
He hesitates. That hesitation makes you want to scream. “How much, Seungcheol?” He says, “Seventy-eight thousand.”
It’s like the floor disappears. You stare at him, mouth slightly open, a terrible laugh trying to climb up your throat and failing. “That’s…”
You can’t even find the word for it. He steps toward you, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “I was going to handle it,” he says. “I didn’t want it near you. I didn’t want you to worry.”
Your vision sharpens dangerously. “You didn’t want me to worry?” you echo. His brows knit. “Riot—”
“You didn’t want me to worry, so you let a man who hates you walk into my gallery and threaten my mother?”
“I didn’t know he would go—”
“You didn’t know because you didn’t tell me.” Your voice breaks on the last word. “Do you hear yourself?”
He looks stricken. “I was trying to protect you.”
You laugh once, a sharp, ugly sound.“By keeping me in the dark?”
“I didn’t want you dragged into it.”
“I am dragged into it!” you shout. “He knows about my mother. He knows about the gallery. He knows about us. How did you think this would end, Commander? You pay him quietly, and we keep playing house until he gets bored?”
He flinches at the word house. “I will pay him,” he says, voice rising now, urgency bleeding through. “I’ll get the money. I don’t care how. I’m not letting him near you.”
“You don’t care how?” you snap. “That’s what scares the hell out of me.”
He takes another step. “Listen to me—”
“No.” The word comes out solid, final, a door slammed in his face. “No?”
“I’m done listening.” Your hands tremble at your sides. “Because every time I listen, it turns out you’ve decided something huge without me. You decided to carry this alone. You decided I didn’t deserve the truth. You decided you could keep me safe by lying through omission.”
His eyes shine. “I didn’t lie—”
“You did.” Your voice drops. “You lied to my face every morning when I asked what was wrong. You lied every time your phone buzzed and you turned it over. You lied by letting me fall for you without knowing what I was falling into.”
His breath catches. You hate yourself for the way the word fall hangs between you like a confession you didn’t mean to make. You keep going anyway, because if you stop, you might break. “He threatened my mother today,” you say, shaking. “You know what that feels like? The one person I have left, the one person I’ve been fighting to keep alive, suddenly being used as leverage because of your past?”
Seungcheol looks wrecked. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “Baby, I swear I didn’t want this—”
“Intentions don’t fix consequences.” The words taste like ash. “And I can’t trust you if you keep deciding my risks for me.” He shakes his head, desperate. “Tell me what you need. I’ll do it. I’ll fix it.”
You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand like you can rub the whole day away. “File for divorce,” you say. Seungcheol freezes. “What?”
“I said file for divorce.” Your voice cracks, but you force it steady. “I’m not doing this. I can’t. I won’t sit here waiting for the next time your past walks into my life with a smile and a threat. I need to protect my mother. And I can’t do that if I’m tied to your mess.”
His face goes slack with disbelief, then tight with something that looks like pain. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean.” You take a shaky breath. “You should’ve told me. You should’ve trusted me. You should’ve—” Your throat closes. You swallow it down. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
That one hits him hardest. You see it in the way his shoulders jerk like you punched him. “You do,” he says, quiet and frantic. “You know me now. I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not drunk. I’m not using. I’m not—”
“You’re still keeping secrets that can get me hurt,” you cut in.
His eyes flicker, searching for something to hold on to. “I love you,” he confesses suddenly. Your heart lurches painfully. The room goes silent around it. The fear claws back up your throat. “Love doesn’t make you safe,” you whisper.
He looks like he might fall apart right there. You can’t watch it. You snatch your bag from the chair and head for the door before the shaking in your hands turns into something worse.
“Riot, wait—” he calls, voice breaking. You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Not because you’re wavering. Because you need your next words to land clean. You turn back, eyes burning.
“Figure out your debt, Seungcheol,” you say quietly. “And leave me and my mother out of it. File for divorce.”
You walk out of the house you helped turn into a home, slam the door behind you, and let the night air hit your face. Your chest feels hollow. Your ring feels like it’s cutting into your finger.
And you hate, more than anything, that as you storm down the steps, the only thing you can think is—Come after me. Please come after me.
Soonyoung’s apartment still smells like him, even though it’s been months.
Not the clean, lemony kind of smell you’d expect from a place left untouched. More like the ghost of someone who lived hard in a small space—laundry detergent and cheap cologne, instant ramen, a faint trace of sweat from someone who danced through life like it owed him a beat.
You drag your bag in, and the door clicks shut behind you. The silence that follows is thick, like the building itself is holding its breath.
You tell yourself you’re only here for a night. Two, maybe. Just until your head clears. Just until the word ‘divorce’ stops ringing in your ears. You tell yourself a lot of things.
The apartment is small but unchanged—Soonyoung’s old pride and joy, the one he used to brag about like it was a penthouse. The living room is still half him, half military thrift-store survival: a worn couch, a low coffee table covered in random trinkets, a cheap rug he probably got for free. His shoes are still lined by the door like he might stomp in any second, breathless, yelling “I’m home, losers!” at absolutely no one.
You stand there too long, staring at them.
“Okay,” you whisper to the empty room, voice wobbly. “I’m not doing this. Not tonight.”
You make tea you don’t drink. You sit on the couch and stare at the opposite wall. You try to paint in your head just to keep from thinking, but every colour turns into a memory you didn’t ask for.
Eventually, you get up because the silence is chewing at you, and you decide to do the one thing you promised yourself you wouldn’t.
You start riffling. Not in a disrespectful way. Not like you’re looking for secrets. More like you’re looking for him.
You open drawers with careful hands. You touch the edges of folded shirts like you’re worried they’ll turn to dust. You find a stack of books by the bed—dance history, military manuals, a dog-eared fantasy novel with sticky notes shoved between pages. On the nightstand there’s a half-melted candle and a stack of old receipts he never threw away because he was allergic to adult habits.
There are pictures everywhere. Not framed nicely, of course. Soonyoung wasn’t a frame guy. They’re taped to walls, pinned to corkboards, crammed into the corner of the mirror.
Soonyoung at sixteen, grinning into the camera with a bruised knee and a stolen beer in his hand. Soonyoung at twenty-one, in civilian clothes, hair wild, holding up a peace sign and pulling Mingyu into the photo with a chokehold. Soonyoung mid-training, dirt-smudged and laughing anyway, Vernon beside him looking like he’s trying to pretend he’s annoyed. Your chest squeezes. Then you see it.
A photo you’ve never seen before—Soonyoung and Seungcheol, shoulder to shoulder at the base, Soonyoung leaning his head on Seungcheol’s with a grin so bright it could power a city. Seungcheol looks half-alarmed, half-soft, his arm slung around Soonyoung like he forgot to be rigid for a second.
You stare at it, brows knitting. You didn’t know. You’ve been friends with Soonyoung forever—so long that you stopped counting the years and started measuring life in before him and after him. And yet you’re only now realising how close he was with Seungcheol. Not just platoon-close. Brother-close. Somewhere along the way, Seungcheol had taken him under his wing, steady hands on a reckless heart, the kind of bond that makes itself in fire.
It makes something in your stomach twist. Grief, yes. But also the sharp, humiliating ache of missing someone you told yourself you were done with. You keep looking.
A letter in a drawer addressed to Jihoon in Soonyoung’s handwriting—probably another one from the will that was left here by accident. A hoodie with Commander’s Fleabag written in marker on the inside hem, like a private joke. A stupid little keychain that says RIOT CONTROL with a dog tag charm clipped to it. You swallow hard.
“You were really everywhere, weren’t you?” you whisper, not sure if you mean Soonyoung or Seungcheol.
You drift into the bedroom last.
His bed is neatly made—neater than you remember him ever being. Military habit, maybe. Or maybe he made it before he left because he didn’t want anyone to walk into a mess if he didn’t come back. You don’t let yourself sit on it.
You open the closet and find his uniforms hanging straight, civilian clothes shoved below, dance shoes tucked to the side. You press your hand to the fabric of one jacket and your eyes sting. You turn away before the tears can get ideas.
That’s when you see the phone. It’s tucked in the back of a drawer with old chargers and a cracked screen protector still stuck to the plastic packaging. You pause. You shouldn’t. You do anyway.
The screen lights up when you press the button. No passcode. Of course, there isn’t. Soonyoung never locked anything that mattered.
Your thumb hovers, then taps the gallery. It opens to a mess of screenshots, memes, muscle shots of Mingyu he probably stole to bully him, and a folder labelled IDIOTS I LOVE.
You snort wetly. You tap it. Your breath catches. There’s a video thumbnail titled: SHOTGUN DAY!!!!
The date stamped beneath it is the one you’ve been trying not to replay in your head since you left. Your hands start shaking. You hit play.
The screen fills with a shaky, blurry view of a courthouse hallway. Soonyoung’s voice is right in the microphone. You remember him holding it up, grinning, making jokes for “proof,” and you remember rolling your eyes at him. You didn’t realise he was talking to himself the whole time.
“Okay,” he murmurs into the recording, breathy with excitement. “It’s happening. I’m filming for evidence because these two will deny this until the grave. But also because—” a tiny laugh, softer now, “—because I can’t believe I get to see this.”
The camera swings in a quick loop of the hallway, then steadies. His whisper continues, just for his phone.
“Look at them. Seriously. Look.”
The view catches you in your barely-white dress, looking like you’re about to bite someone. Seungcheol stands beside you in uniform, visibly uncomfortable. The lens shudders with Soonyoung’s quiet amusement.
“Cheol looks like he’s about to arrest the bride,” he breathes, “and the bride looks like she’s about to set the courthouse on fire. Perfect match. Disaster couple. My favourite kind.”
The video jitters as you walk into the courtroom. The judge’s voice is muffled, but Soonyoung leans closer to his phone, whisper turning tender in a way you had no clue about until now.
“For the record,” he says quietly, “I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that. Not once.”
The camera catches Seungcheol glancing at you while you’re mocking him under your breath. It’s brief, but it’s there—something like reluctant interest, like surprise, like oh no. Soonyoung’s whisper turns into a soft, delighted sigh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs as if to the phone, “keep pretending you hate each other. I grew up with one of you and enlisted with the other. I’ve watched you both be lonely in the exact same way. Two sides of the same dog tag and neither of you knows it yet.”
Your chest aches so hard it feels bruised. The vows are a blur, but Soonyoung keeps whispering little things—sweet, stunned, proud.
“They’re doing it,” he breathes. “They actually did it. I swear I’m not crying. If I cry, delete this. But god, you two…”
You hear your own muffled voice in the background, annoyed at him for filming. “Turn it off, idiot.”
"Nope,” he whispers, laughing under his breath. “History is being made.”
After the papers are signed, the camera wobbles back into the hallway. You’re both holding your rings up like reluctant trophies, faces still half stuck in your old fight even while something new hums under it.
Soonyoung doesn’t shove the phone in your faces. He hangs back, whispering to his screen like he’s leaving a message for the future.
“Say something to each other that isn’t an insult,” he says out loud then, but right after, he murmurs to his phone, “Come on. Be brave. You don’t know it yet, but you’re gonna need each other.”
You lift your hand, wiggling your ring finger. “Is this a nightmare or just your bad idea manifesting?”
Seungcheol deadpans. “Both.”
Soonyoung screeches laughter—that part you remember. But then his laugh dies down, and you hear the same whisper again.
“Seriously,” he murmurs into the recording, “take care of each other. I don’t care how. Just… do it.” A pause, his breath catching. “You already saved him from himself a little. And he’s gonna save you from thinking you gotta burn alone. Don’t be idiots about it, okay?”
The video ends with his quiet little exhale, like he’d pressed the stop button gently because his heart was in it.
The phone slips onto the bed. You sit down without noticing, your fingers clamped over your mouth as the grief comes in one hard, breath-stealing wave. You cry until your ribs hurt.
Because he’s gone. Because he saw this coming before you did. Because he never got to see what you became to each other. Because you miss Seungcheol so much, it feels like you’re missing a limb. And somewhere in the middle of the tears, you stop fighting the truth.
You let it settle heavy and honest in your chest. You love him.
You love that stupid, rigid, fear-haunted man who learned to look at you like you’re the safest place he’s ever had. You love him. And you told him to leave. You press your forehead to your knees and laugh once, broken.
“Soonie,” you whisper to the room, to the air, to the absence. “You absolute bastard.” The apartment doesn’t answer.
Seungcheol doesn’t want to be in the house.
That’s what he tells himself on the way back from the medical centre, and again when he steps through the door and the smell of you slams into him. He doesn’t want to be here without you. But he doesn’t deserve to run. So he stays.
The house is too quiet now. Not the comfortable quiet that used to exist between your coffee sips and his stretches. This is the kind of quiet that echoes. The blue wall looks too bright. The couch looks too big. The kitchen has your mug still in the drying rack, paint smudged on the handle like proof you existed here an hour ago.
He doesn’t touch it. He drops his cane by the door and goes straight to the mat.
Rehab. If he can’t fix his life, he can at least fix his body. He tells himself that’s the point. The truth is uglier. He needs the pain. He needs something to aim at.
He starts with what the physio told him: stretches, slow lifts, and balancing exercises. His leg trembles under him, sensation sharp and inconsistent, but he pushes harder than he’s supposed to. The burn starts in his calf, then spreads like fire along the graft. He doesn’t stop. He moves to the hallway, then to the living room, then outside to the driveway and back again. He ignores the way his knee wobbles. He ignores the way sweat starts dripping into his eyes. He ignores the ache that coils in his hip, the warning shots his body is firing. He keeps going until the warning shots turn into something louder.
By the time he limps to the track behind the community centre, his shirt is soaked through. He shouldn’t be here. He knows it. But he needs to run like he needs to breathe. He steps onto the rubber surface and stares down the lane.
Six months ago, he was running with rifles and laughter, and Soonyoung was calling him slow on purpose just to make him chase him. Now he can barely walk without a cane.
He plants his foot and takes a step. Another. A third. His leg spasms. Pain rips up through his thigh like a wire pulled too hard. He grits his teeth and keeps moving. His pace turns into a jog for three steps before it collapses into a limp again. He pushes. Forces his body to obey. Forces his leg to accept that it has no choice. He makes it half a lap before it buckles.
He goes down on his good knee hard enough to sting, palms slamming onto the track. He sucks in air like he’s drowning.
And then, suddenly, he can’t do it. The pain isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is the empty lane beside him. The space where you used to sit on the porch steps and call him a show-off when he managed another ten feet. The space where your hands used to steady him without making him feel weak. The space where your laugh lived.
His chest caves. He presses his forehead to the track. A sound comes out of him that he doesn’t recognise at first. Then he realises it’s a sob. He shakes with it, sweat pouring down his spine, tears hot and humiliating on his face. His whole body is trembling from exertion and grief, from the way he’s trying to punish himself into being useful again.
He stays there until his breathing evens out. Then, because he hates himself, he reaches for his phone. His thumb hovers over your name. He doesn’t think. He taps. The call screen flashes. Dialing. One ring. Two. He hangs up before it connects.
He shoves the phone into his pocket and forces himself up by sheer stubbornness. He limps home with his jaw clenched until it hurts more than his leg. Inside, the house catches him in silence again.
He doesn’t go to the mat this time. He goes to the drawer.
Soonyoung’s letter is still there, the one he got through the will. He’s read it once—couldn’t make it past the first page without breaking. He sits at the kitchen table and opens it.
To my dumbass Commander,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead and you’re still alive, which is both annoying and kind of expected. Don’t roll your eyes— I can feel it from beyond the grave and I will haunt your ass.
Listen. I’m gonna say this once in a way you’ll pretend not to understand, so pay attention.
You did not fail me.
You tried. You fought. You protected me more than anyone else could’ve. You don’t get to rewrite that into “I should’ve done more” just because the universe is a cruel little bitch. Sometimes you can do everything right and still lose someone. That’s life. That’s war. That’s not on you.
I know about the debt.
Yeah, I know you didn’t want me to. But I’ve known you since before boots, Cheol. You don’t hide pain well. You just stack it in neat little piles and call it discipline.
You were a kid when your brother died. You were drowning. You made a stupid choice and you’ve paid for it every day since. I watched you get clean. I watched you choose the harder road over and over. I watched you join the military not because you loved rules, but because you needed a reason to forgive yourself.
So here’s your permission slip, since you’re weird about giving yourself anything: Forgive yourself.
Not because what you did was fine. Not because you didn’t hurt people. But because you’ve done the work. You’ve been accountable. You’ve been better. And staying trapped in who you were doesn’t honour your brother, and it sure as hell doesn’t honour me.
And about your wife— yes, I’m calling her that, shut up. Take care of her.
You think you’re the one ruining her. Maybe you are. But she’s saving you, and you’re not dumb enough to miss that anymore. You look at her like she’s the first place you’ve ever been allowed to rest. Don’t ruin that by going back to old ghosts. Don’t try to shoulder everything alone because you think love is something you earn by suffering.
Love is something you do. Every day. Even when you’re scared. Especially when you’re scared.
You and her— you’re the same fight in two bodies. Two sides of the same dog tag. I’ve never been more sure of anything. So if she’s angry, let her be angry. If she runs, go after her when you’re ready. But don’t you dare decide you’re not worth her. You are.
Live. Heal. Let her love you. Let yourself love her back without punishment.
And if you need a sign? Here it is, idiot.
I love you, Commander. Not in a weird way. In a “you’re my brother, too” way. So don’t waste the life I didn’t get to keep.
—Soonyoung
Seungcheol blinks hard. Once. Twice. Then the first tear slips down anyway. He presses his knuckles to his mouth and stares at the paper like he can rewrite time if he looks hard enough. He can’t.
But Soonyoung’s voice lives in those words like a pulse, like a shove between the shoulders. Don’t waste the life I didn’t get to keep.
He closes his eyes. Breathes. When he opens them, the house is still quiet. But something in his chest feels less collapsed. Still broken. Just… less alone.
Seungcheol drives to the cemetery the next day.
He hates graveyards. Always has. The stillness feels too final, too neat for the mess of a person Soonyoung was. But he goes anyway. He stands with his cane in the damp cold, breath fogging, boots sinking slightly into the grass.
Soonyoung’s headstone is simple. Name. Dates. A small engraving of a dancing figure someone must’ve commissioned quietly, because it’s too perfect to be military-issued. Seungcheol stares at it for a long time. Then he exhales. “You’re such an asshole,” he mutters, voice rough.
The wind doesn’t answer. He steps closer, reaching down to set a cheap bouquet of yellow flowers against the stone—sunflowers and something small and wild, because that feels right. His throat works. “I read your letter again,” he says softly. “I don’t know if that’s what you wanted. But I did.”
He swallows hard. “She’s gone.” His voice cracks a little on it. “I pushed too hard. I kept things from her. I let the past reach her.”
He stares down at the flowers, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to fix it.” A beat. “I want to. I just—” his breath shakes. “I don’t want to ruin her more than I already have.” The words hang in the cold air, pathetic and honest. He laughs once, bitter. “You’d tell me to stop being dramatic.”
The wind rustles the grass. Seungcheol looks up at the headstone. “I miss you,” he says simply. Then, almost like a confession he can only say here—“I love her.”
He lets the sentence sit there. He doesn’t dress it up. He doesn’t add conditions. He just says it and feels it split him open. “I’m gonna get her back,” he murmurs, voice quiet but steady. “When I’m ready. When I’m not chasing ghosts.”
He touches the edge of the stone lightly, like a promise. “Don’t haunt me too hard, yeah?” he adds under his breath. “Give me a week.”
He turns to leave. His leg still aches. His heart still hurts like hell. But as he limps back out to the lot, Soonyoung’s letter is in his pocket.
And for the first time since you walked out, he feels like he’s running toward something. Even on broken legs.
Seungcheol sits in the too-small chair opposite the desk, hands folded, knee throbbing under the neat line of his slacks. The brace digs in just enough to be annoying. He ignores it.
The bank’s loan officer flips through the file again.
Middle-aged, polite, neutral. Her eyes skim the page—service record, disability rating, projected pay, his father’s co-signature, collateral he wasn’t proud of offering but did anyway.
“So,” she says, “this is for capital investment in your father’s garage?”
He nods once, expression steady. “Yes, ma’am. Equipment upgrades. Expanding capacity. We’ve had more work than we can comfortably handle, and I want to help him keep up.”
Not technically a lie. Just nowhere near the truth.
“You’ve prepared a projection,” she says, tapping the thin stack of papers he brought—estimates he and his father stayed up half the night massaging into something that looked like a believable plan. “New lifts, diagnostic tools, minor renovations. You understand the risks? Small businesses are… volatile.”
“I understand.”
“And you’re prepared to take on this much debt personally?”
He doesn’t look away. “He built that place from nothing,” he says quietly. “It’s the only thing he has. I’m not letting it go under because we didn’t try.”
Something in her expression softens, almost despite herself. She glances back at the file. At the Purple Heart paperwork clipped to it. At the note from his physio about long-term recovery. At the co-signer line with his father’s cramped handwriting.
“You have a strong service record,” she says, almost grudgingly. “And your father’s collateral is solid. The bank is willing to approve the business loan.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens by a fraction. “Thank you.”
“You understand the interest is high,” she adds. “Aggressive, given your circumstances.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then I’ll finalise these.” She pulls a few last pages free and slides them across for him to sign. “Funds will be available in your account by the end of the day. If the projections are accurate, the garage should see benefit quickly.”
He signs where she indicates. His hand doesn’t shake. He’s signed too many things in his life to be afraid of ink anymore.
“I hope it does well,” she says, gathering the documents. “Your father’s lucky to have you investing in him.” He forces a small smile. “I’m the lucky one,” he replies.
Half an hour later, he checks his banking app in the parking lot. The number staring back at him makes his stomach twist. Seventy-eight thousand.
You could buy a house with that. Start a business. Live softer. Instead, he’s using it to buy his way out of a mistake that’s been living in his mind for years. He closes the app. And drives to see Mr. Han.
The building is downtown, in a glass structure that reflects the sky. Seungcheol takes the elevator up, briefcase in his hand, cane in the other. The ride is too smooth, too quiet. He watches his own reflection in the mirrored walls—jaw set, hair too long at the back, tie slightly crooked because you’re not here to fix it. He forces that thought away. The receptionist ushers him in without making him wait.
Mr. Han’s office is exactly what he’d pictured—sleek, cold, expensive. Dark wood desk, minimalist art, a wall of windows overlooking a city that he’s never had to answer to. Han stands when he enters, hands spread in what could pass for warmth if you didn’t know better. “Sergeant Choi,” he says. “Back so soon?”
There’s a mocking lilt under it. It’s clear he expects begging. Bargaining. Seungcheol gives him nothing. He walks to the chair opposite the desk and lowers himself slowly, controlling every inch of the movement even as his leg protests. The briefcase sits upright between his feet.
“You said you needed an answer this week,” he says. “You’re getting one.”
Han reclines slightly, steepling his fingers. “Let me guess,” he says. “You don’t have it. You need more time. You’re here to explain how hard you’ve tried, how unfair this is.”
Seungcheol reaches down. Clicks open the briefcase. Stacks of banded cash sit inside, dense and unreal, the weight of his future compressed into neat, anonymous bills. Han’s words falter.
Seungcheol takes one stack out and sets it on the desk with a solid thunk. Another. And another. He doesn’t count out loud. He already knows the total. Finally, he adds an envelope—certified check for the rest, bank logo sharp in the corner.
The desk between them looks like a crime scene. Han stares, expression finally cracking. “What is this?”
“Seventy-eight thousand,” Seungcheol says, voice flat. “The remaining balance, plus the extra you tacked on for your amusement.”
A muscle jumps in Han’s cheek. “You got a loan.”
“I did.”
“From who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Han’s gaze sharpens. “It does if you don’t want me sniffing around your finances,” he says. “Or your father’s. Or your wife’s.”
Seungcheol leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “We had a deal,” he says. “I wrecked your car. You wanted blood. We settled. I’ve paid every instalment on time. I joined the military. I cleaned up. I carried this shit like a sentence. Now it’s done.” He nudges the cash slightly, the bands scraping together. “You get every last cent,” he says. “Early. In full. Congratulations.”
Han’s eyes flick to the money, then back up. Something in him does not like the way this feels. He wanted contrition. He’s getting closure. “You think this makes us even?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” Seungcheol replies. “Legally and otherwise.” Han’s smile is a bare showing of teeth. “You cost me more than that car,” he says. “Reputation. Time. Stress. You think cash wipes that clean?”
“No,” Seungcheol says. He straightens carefully. “I think nothing wipes it clean. That’s the point of punishment.” A beat. “But punishment has an end. And so does your hold over me.”
Han’s eyes darken. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re forgetting who you are talking to.”
“No,” Seungcheol says, a bitter edge creeping in. “I remember. You’re just a man who loves his car more than people. And I’m the idiot kid who paid for that lesson with a decade of his life.” He gestures to the pile of money. “The kid is gone.” His jaw tightens. “This is the last time we speak.”
Han’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. “You walk in here,” he says softly, “limping into my office, dropping money on my desk like I’m some loan shark you can shrug off, and you think there are no consequences?” Seungcheol holds his gaze. “You got what you wanted,” he says. “More than you deserved. If you ever go near my father again—if you ever go near my wife again—”
He cuts himself off, jaw locking. He’s not giving the man more threats to twist. He stands instead. Reaching for the briefcase, now empty, he closes it with a snap. “We’re done.”
Then, because some small, stupid part of him wants the action to match the feeling, he takes one of the stacks of cash and drops it the remaining few inches to the desk. The bills scatter slightly, edges fanning out, neatness ruined. Han flinches. It’s small. But Seungcheol sees it. He turns and walks out without another word, each tap of his cane on the polished floor a punctuation mark. Done. Done. Done.
He doesn’t see Han’s face as the door clicks shut.
Mr. Han does not like losing control. He especially does not like the feeling he has now—sitting behind his immaculate desk with a pile of cash in front of him and the distinct, ugly aftertaste of being dismissed. The money should feel like victory. Instead, it feels like an insult.
He gathers the stacks with precise hands, movements clipped. The bands snap back into place. The check goes into a folder with a heavy, satisfied thump. On paper, the matter is closed. In his head, it is not.
He was supposed to decide when it was over. He was the one wronged. The one with the leverage. The one with the power to drag things out as long as he pleased. And yet the soldier walks in, pays early, throws money at him, and walks out like he’s… free. Like he owes nothing more. Like Mr. Han is just another bill.
The thought curdles in his stomach. He sits very still for a long time. Then, slowly, he reaches for his phone. Not to transfer the funds. Not yet. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds a name that isn’t labelled but might as well be. The line rings once. “Hello?” a voice answers, calm and professional. “It’s Han.”
“Mr. Han. What can I do for you?”
He leans back, looking out over the city through the glass. “I need someone looked into,” he says. A pause.
“On what grounds?”
Han’s mouth curves. “Let’s call it due diligence,” he says. “A former debtor who seems to have come into money suddenly. I’d like to know how.”
Investigations, when started by men with money and grudges, rarely stay small. The private investigator begins with the basics. Public records. Service history. Marriage licenses. It doesn’t take long to find the first oddity.
Sergeant Choi Seungcheol. Enlisted after an older brother’s death. Clean record in recent years. Commendations. Recent injury in the field. Pending Purple Heart. Marriage certificate filed… days before deployment. A civilian spouse. No long-term shared address before that date. No overlapping lease records. No joint accounts older than the marriage itself. Interesting.
The investigator writes it down.
He digs deeper. Military benefits paperwork is not fully public, but connections do a lot of the heavy lifting. A favour here, a gently phrased request there. An administrative clerk who owes someone a drink lets slip that Sergeant Choi’s file includes a rapid change in dependent status just before deployment.
BAH—Basic Allowance for Housing—adjusted to married rate. TRICARE coverage extended to spouse. Additional notes flagging a dependent parent—your mother—added later under family coverage. A sudden move into military-provided housing under the Choi name. A previous address flagged for eviction proceedings that were never completed after the move.
The investigator pulls threads. Social media. Gallery features. An online article about a “rising local artist” mentions you by first name and describes your “recent relocation into military family housing with your husband, a decorated soldier.” He highlights the phrase.
He compiles it all into a neat report and sends it to Mr. Han with a brief cover note: Pattern suggests potential sham marriage for benefits. See timeline.
Han reads it. Twice. The more he reads, the more a certain narrative settles in his mind—not nuanced, not kind.
A reckless kid crashed his car. That same kid then found a way to use the system designed to reward honour and sacrifice. A quick courthouse wedding right before deployment. Immediate access to housing, healthcare, financial stability. A mother-in-law’s treatments covered. An artist wife’s rent saved.
He doesn’t see desperation. He sees a scam. He sees fraud. He sees insult stacked on insult. Seventy-eight thousand is suddenly not enough. He wants something else now. He wants the soldier taught a lesson he can’t pay his way out of.
Han opens his laptop. The email goes to a general inbox at a regional Inspector General’s office—an address designed for whistleblowers and complaints about misuse of funds.
Subject line: Suspected Fraudulent Marriage for Military Benefits – Sergeant Choi Seungcheol
He attaches the report. He writes:
To whom it may concern,
I am submitting this in good faith as a concerned citizen with prior financial dealings with Sergeant Choi. The attached documentation suggests his marriage may have been entered into solely for the purpose of obtaining military benefits (housing, healthcare, increased pay), which would constitute fraud by military law.
Given the timing of the marriage (immediately prior to deployment), the rapid change in his dependent status, the financial relief his spouse appears to have received, and my personal knowledge of his past reckless behaviour, I believe this warrants investigation.
Respectfully,
Mr. Han
He hits send. Sits back. And feels a little better.
You get the email at 1:07 a.m., right as you’re rinsing paint from your brushes in Soonyoung’s sink.
The apartment is dark except for the weak kitchen light you forgot to turn off, and the water keeps running because you need your tools clean even if your head isn’t. Your phone buzzes on the counter, startlingly loud in the quiet. Unknown sender. Official email address. Word salad in the subject line that makes your stomach pitch before you even open it: NOTICE OF PRELIMINARY HEARING / UCMJ ARTICLE 83, 121, 132 / DEPENDENT BENEFITS FRAUD
You read it once. Then again, slower, like maybe words will behave if you stare hard enough. They don’t. Seungcheol is being court-martialed. You are being called in as a civilian under suspicion of criminal fraud. If found guilty, your case will be transferred to local law enforcement. You are required to attend a hearing at base legal.
Your hands go cold. Your mouth dries out so fast you swallow air. For a second, the apartment tilts. The walls feel too close. The quiet that’s been sheltering you suddenly feels like it’s caving in. You haven’t seen him. Not since you stormed out. Not since you told him to file for divorce. You stare at the email until the letters blur. Then you grab your coat. Because your heart is bruised, but it’s still yours. And it bends toward him whether you want it to or not.
Base legal looks like every institution that’s meant to swallow people whole. White walls. Beige floors. Chairs bolted to the ground as if even sitting needs regulation. The kind of fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look like they’ve been awake for three days.
You sign in at the front desk with a hand that refuses to stop trembling. The clerk doesn’t look at you twice. People come here for all kinds of reasons. Your shame isn’t special to anyone but you.
They make you wait. Of course they do.
Your knee bounces uncontrollably. Your fingers pick at a loose thread on your sleeve until it frays. You can hear your pulse in your ears. You can hear a door open and close down the hall. When they finally call you in, your legs feel like they belong to somebody else.
The hearing room is smaller than you expected. Not a courtroom-courtroom. More like a conference room that got dressed up in authority. There’s a long table. Flags in the corner. A military judge at the front with a face you can’t read. You spot them the second you walk in.
Mingyu, Seokmin, and Jihoon are sitting on a bench along the right wall, all in civilian clothes, all too quiet for men who usually fill a room by their presence. Mingyu’s knee is jiggling like he’s trying to shake the floor loose. Seokmin’s jaw looks locked. Jihoon’s eyes lift to you and soften for the briefest second, then go guarded again. They look like they’ve been holding their breath for days. You want to go to them. You want to ask what happened, how bad it is, where he is, why this is real.
But the bailiff gestures you forward, and your body obeys on autopilot.
Then you see him. Seungcheol is already seated at the table on the left, in uniform, posture straight. His leg is braced under the fabric, the cane resting beside his chair like a quiet reminder of everything he’s fought through. He’s paler than you remember. Darkness around the eyes. Like sleeplessness has been carving at him.
He doesn’t look up when you enter. Not at first. Like he doesn’t trust himself to. When he finally does, his gaze catches you with something so raw it hurts to breathe. You can’t tell if he’s angry. You can’t tell if he’s relieved. You can tell he’s tired.
His lawyer murmurs something to him. He nods once, a soldier receiving orders. He looks past you again.
You take the chair they indicate on the opposite side, in the civilian witness section. It feels like sitting on the edge of a cliff.
The judge begins to speak. Words about allegations, about rights, about the Uniform Code of Military Justice. All of it washes over you in a grey tide you can’t grab onto. You hear your own name. You flinch. The prosecution stands. A crisp-faced officer with a binder that looks too thick.
He starts with the timeline. Marriage license filed two days before deployment. Dependent benefits activated immediately after.No prior shared address. No documented long-term relationship. A sudden change in your housing and financial status. Your mother’s medical coverage added. Increased Basic Allowance for Housing. They say the words like numbers are moral failures. Like love is something you can audit.
They question Seungcheol first. He answers in calm, clipped phrases, the way he talks when he wants to stop shaking. “Sergeant Choi, did you enter into this marriage for the purpose of obtaining military benefits?”
His jaw works. “No, sir.” They open a folder. “We have a complaint submitted by Mr. Han.” Your blood turns to ice at the name.
They read from the complaint—about suspicious timing, about sudden benefits, about knowledge of his “reckless past.” They slide printed pages across the table. Han’s name sits at the bottom. You see Seungcheol go very still.
The prosecution keeps pressing. “You were aware that dependent benefits apply only to lawful marriages entered for legitimate reasons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet your spouse had no knowledge of you until she met your platoon at a bar. She was facing eviction. Her mother’s insurance was failing. Two days later, you marry her. Then you deploy. Can you explain why this doesn’t appear to be a marriage of convenience?”
Seungcheol’s throat works. For a second, you see him flick his eyes to his lawyer. The lawyer leans in, murmurs fast—something about sticking to the narrative, something about mutual affection, something about lack of proof. Seungcheol listens.
Then he does something you recognize in your bones. He decides. He sits up straighter. And when he speaks again, his voice is different. Not clipped. Not defensive. Clean. Final. “Sir, I need to correct the record.”
The room sharpens around him. His lawyer turns his head slowly, alarm flashing behind his eyes. “Sergeant—” the lawyer starts. Seungcheol doesn’t look at him. He looks at the judge. “The marriage for benefits was my idea.”
Your lungs stop working. One beat. Two. You don’t understand what you’re hearing. Seungcheol keeps going, steady as a nail being driven in. “I pressured her. I knew she was desperate financially, and I knew her mother needed medical care. I told her the military benefits would help.”
The prosecution blinks, thrown off balance. “So you’re stating under oath that your spouse did not propose or plan this arrangement?”
“Yes, sir.” His voice doesn’t waver. “She didn’t understand the legal implications. She was trying to keep her mother alive. I exploited that desperation.”
Your mouth opens. No sound comes out. Your heart is pounding so hard you feel it in your teeth.
“How did you meet her, Sergeant Choi?” the prosecution asks, sharp now. Seungcheol’s gaze flickers once to you. It’s not soft. It’s apologetic. Then it locks forward again. “Through Corporal Kwon Soonyoung. He introduced us. I saw her situation. I thought—” he swallows once, the smallest fracture, “—I thought I could help her and myself.”
The judge watches him carefully. “You are aware you are admitting to fraud against the military and the government?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
The lawyer looks like he might combust. “Sergeant Choi, we discussed—” he starts again, lower, urgent. Seungcheol cuts him off without looking. “I won’t let her be punished for my choice.” Your chest caves.
Everything in you wants to stand up, to shout ‘Stop’. To tell them he’s lying, that you knew, that you signed your name with eyes open, that he doesn’t get to martyr himself like this—
But you can’t move. You can’t speak. Because the way he’s doing it is so utterly him. Control as sacrifice. Rules as protection. Love as an action. You hear Soonyoung’s words in your head. Love is something you do. Seungcheol is doing it in front of everyone. For you.
The judge calls a short recess. You sit frozen while they speak in low tones around you. Mingyu looks like he’s about to stand up and pull Seungcheol out of the building with his bare hands. Seokmin’s eyes are wet. Jihoon’s jaw is tight, gaze fixed on the floor like if he looks up he’ll break something. Seungcheol doesn’t look at you during recess.
When the judge returns, the verdict falls. It isn’t theatrical. It’s paper-clean and devastating. “Sergeant Choi Seungcheol, the court finds you guilty of fraudulent enlistment/appointment, larceny of government benefits, and conduct unbecoming. Your sentence is as follows: you will serve an additional one year of active duty service. Upon completion, you will be dishonourably discharged for misconduct. Your Purple Heart will be processed and delivered in accordance with regulation.”
You hear Mingyu suck in a sharp breath that turns into something like a strangled sound. You feel yourself sway. The judge turns slightly. “As to your civilian spouse—” he glances at you, expression unreadable, “—based on Sergeant Choi’s sworn testimony and lack of evidence of intent, this court finds no basis to refer her case to local law enforcement. She is cleared of legal consequences.”
Cleared. The word should feel like relief. Instead, it feels like a noose around your throat. Because he just set himself on fire to keep you warm.
The hearing adjourns. Chairs scrape. People stand. Murmurs rise. Before you can even process the oxygen returning to your lungs, two MPs step toward Seungcheol. He rises slowly. The brace creaks. The cane taps the floor. He keeps his chin up anyway.
You stand on reflex. “Seungcheol—” you say, voice coming out small and broken. He turns his head. Just enough for you to see his eyes. They’re wrecked. Not with fear. With the kind of pain that comes from doing the right thing and still losing something precious. You move forward a step. “Commander, wait—please.”
An MP’s hand lands gently but firmly on his shoulder, steering him toward the side door. Seungcheol doesn’t resist. He lets himself be guided like a man who’s already decided his fate.
“Seungcheol!” you call, louder now, your voice cracking in the middle. He doesn’t look back. The door opens. They usher him through. And he’s gone. You take another step without thinking. The bailiff blocks you, polite but absolute. “Ma’am, you need to stay back.”
Mingyu is suddenly at your side, hand hovering at your shoulder like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you. Seokmin and Jihoon stand behind him. You don’t hear whatever Mingyu says. All you hear is the echo of Seungcheol’s voice in your skull and the dull roar of guilt flooding in behind it, thick and unstoppable.
You’re cleared. He’s condemned. Because he loved you hard enough to take the fall. And you don’t know how to breathe around that.
The universe really doesn’t like you.
It likes sharp edges and impossible choices, likes to see how far it can stretch you before you snap.
The day Seungcheol has to report back to base to start his sentence is the same day your gallery opens. Because of course, it is. You spend the morning pretending you can do both.
The gallery is a flurry of last-minute adjustments. The curator flits around with a clipboard, muttering about lighting and angles and guest lists. Assistants move like anxious bees, straightening frames that are already straight, wiping invisible smudges from the glass. You stand in the middle of it with your masterpiece in front of you.
The centrepiece. The canvas you bled yourself into. Desert earth and dark sky, a burst of fire that doesn’t quite destroy, three figures half-silhouetted and half-remembered. One laughing, one steady, one looking over his shoulder like he’s caught between running forward and staying behind. Soonyoung. Vernon. Seungcheol.
You stare at it, trying not to cry and smudge your makeup before the night even starts. The placard beneath reads:
“Two Sides of the Same Dog Tag” —Oil on canvas
You smooth your dress down—not white this time, but a deep, rich colour that looks better under gallery lights than you feel inside. Your wedding ring glints on your left hand as you adjust the cuff. You’d thought about taking it off. You couldn’t.
Your mother couldn’t come—too tired from treatment still, the trip too much—but she called you three times this morning. Once, to tell you she was proud. Once to remind you to eat. Once, because she’d forgotten if she’d already said she was proud, so she said it again just in case. You’d almost told her everything then. Almost. But the words stuck. You couldn’t hand her that pain when she already carries enough. So you told her you loved her, promised to send photos, and tucked your panic back into your ribs.
You keep to the shadows as you move through the pre-opening hours. Check the smaller pieces on the side wall. Adjust a flower arrangement that doesn’t need adjusting. Accept a hug from the curator who looks like he might cry from second-hand excitement.
“Tonight is your night,” he says, hands on your shoulders. “You hear me? Whatever happens out there—this—” He gestures at the room. “—this is real. You did this.”
You nod. You even smile. He doesn’t know that by tomorrow, your husband will be on base in a uniform he didn’t choose to wear again, paying for a mistake you helped him make. He doesn’t know you might be a soldier’s wife in everything but law. He doesn’t know that the same government that hung your future on a benefits form is now hanging the man you love out to dry.
When the doors finally open, people spill in. The noise rises—polite laughter, low commentary, the clink of glasses. The air fills with perfume and cologne, and you catch whiffs of oil paint and metal from the hanging systems underneath it all. A critic from an online magazine you recognise by face stops in front of your work and makes a genuinely impressed sound. A couple in their fifties whisper to each other, pointing at a piece on the far left, the one of a woman with her back to a storm. Someone younger snaps a photo, tags you in it on social media, and says something about “raw emotion and controlled chaos” in the caption.
You nod. You thank people. You answer questions about your process, inspirations, and use of colour. You hear yourself talking and feel like you’re half a step behind your own words. Every time your phone buzzes in your bag, your heart leaps. It’s never him. He’s not allowed that luxury right now. He’s preparing to go back.
You swirl the champagne in your glass and don’t drink it. A small red dot appears on the placard below one of your pieces—sold. Then another. The curator squeezes your arm, giddy.
“They love you,” he murmurs. “I told you. Look at this turnout. Look at them.” You do. For a second, you try to inhabit the version of this night you used to imagine. The version where your biggest concern is whether the right people see your work, whether reviews are kind, whether your mother feels well enough to watch a livestream. The version where you go home afterwards to a cramped apartment with paint on the walls and fall asleep alone but satisfied. Instead, you’re standing in a room filled with everything you ever wanted, and all you can think is: He should be here.
You can almost see him if you let yourself. Leaning against the far wall in his worn jacket, watching you with that quiet, proud light in his eyes, he thinks he hides. Mingyu knocking into him, Seokmin rambling about how he “knew you were a genius, hyung, I told you,” Jihoon standing off to one side, pretending not to stare directly at the Soonyoung painting.
You imagine Soonyoung himself, loud and bright and unbearably alive, clapping you on the back and yelling something about how “my idiot best friend is famous now, look at her go.”
Your throat closes. You swallow around it. You move on to the next guest because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
You’re speaking to a woman who introduces herself as a gallery owner from another part of town when it happens. She’s elegant, assessingly kind in that way people get when they see profit and potential. “Your brushwork is spectacular,” she says. “There’s a real through-line of… devotion, I suppose. These figures—” Her eyes flick to the centrepiece.
“Are they based on real people?” You nod, the word catching in your chest. “Yeah,” you manage. “They are.”
She smiles. “Your husband must be very proud.” The world stops. You blink. “My… what?”
“Your husband,” she repeats gently, like maybe she said something too forward. “I saw the ring earlier. And that piece—”
She nods toward the painting with the three men in firelight. “There’s something… I don’t know. The way that central figure is looking over his shoulder? It feels like he’s searching for someone. It felt like you were looking at him when you painted it.”
You laugh. Or you try. It comes out wrong. You open your mouth to say He is proud, he told his platoon. He said, “That’s my wife”, and bragged about me halfway across the world. What comes out is nothing. The woman tilts her head, kind concern creasing her features. “Is he here tonight?” she asks casually. “I’d love to meet him. Soldiers and artists—interesting pair.”
Something in you cracks. Just—Cracks. Not a dramatic shatter. Not a scream. More like a hairline fracture giving way after carrying too much weight for too long. “He’s—” Your voice fails. You clear your throat. “He’s… on base.”
“Ah,” she says. “On duty?”
You nod again, too fast. Your eyes sting. “Excuse me,” you blurt, voice low and frayed. “I’m sorry— I just— I need a moment.”
You don’t wait for her reply.
You slip between guests, past the cluster around your centrepiece, past the table of champagne flutes. Someone says your name; another hand reaches for your arm. You duck under it, heartbeat in your mouth. You find the small staff bathroom at the back of the gallery and shut the door behind you. The dim light hums overhead. You brace your hands on the sink and stare at yourself in the mirror. Your eyeliner has smudged at the corners. Your lipstick is half-worn. Your eyes look… not like yours. You look like someone who got what she wanted and is still starving.
Slowly, your gaze drops to your left hand. The ring glints.
You remember the courthouse. The way his hands trembled just a little when he slid it onto your finger. You remember Soonyoung’s whispered commentary in the video you watched on his phone—how he’d said you were already saving each other and you hadn’t even started. You remember the bathtub, steam and scars and quiet devotion. His voice in your ear: “No, you won’t. You’d miss me too much, Riot.”
You remember the motel—fear and need and the way he’d clung to you like you were the only thing between him and the dark. You remember the court-martial. The way he’d said “The marriage for benefits was my idea,” and carved himself up with every word to keep you clear. You blink the tears away, but more gather.
“This was never fake,” you whisper to the mirror, to yourself, to the ring. “Not really.” Your heart already made its choice back in that cramped motel room. The paperwork is just catching up.
By the time you make it back out to the main hall, something in you has shifted. The noise feels louder. People are still praising your work, still pointing at your pieces, still saying your name like it might matter in a month. It should be everything. It isn’t.
You catch the curator’s eye across the room. He beams and starts toward you, probably with news of another sale, another contact, another thing you should care about. Your feet move before your brain can argue. You meet him halfway, catch his forearm.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, the words tumbling out fast and breathless. “I have to go.” His smile drops. “Go? Now?”
You nod, throat thick. “Something came up. Family stuff. I—” You swallow hard. “I trust you. With all of it. You can handle the rest of the night, right? The pieces, the clients—”
He’s already nodding, even though confusion clouds his face. “Of course. But— are you okay?”
“Not even a little,” you admit. “But I will be.”
He studies you for a second. Then, to his credit, he doesn’t push.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he says softly. “Your work speaks for itself. Go do what you need to do.” You whisper a thank you that doesn’t feel big enough, turn on your heel, and walk out of your own opening.
The cool night hits your face. You don’t bother changing. You run in your gallery dress, heels clicking on the pavement until they become a hazard, and you curse, stop, and kick them off. You hook them in your fingers and keep moving barefoot, the city blurring past in streaks of streetlight and neon. You fumble your phone out long enough to call a cab, voice breathless as you spit out the words: “Base. Main gate. As fast as you can.”
The driver glances at you in the rearview when you tumble into the backseat, dress bunched, hair messier than it was an hour ago, mascara starting to streak. He doesn’t ask questions.
The ride feels both too slow and too fast. You press your forehead to the cool glass and watch the city change. Gallery light gives way to quieter streets, to industrial edges, to the looming silhouette of the base emerging against the darkening sky.
Your heart hammers harder with every passing minute. Mingyu said Seungcheol had to report this evening. You don’t know the exact time. You don’t know how much you’ve already lost. You shove your hand into your pocket and feel the shape of Soonyoung’s keychain there—RIOT CONTROL—cool and solid.
“Don’t let me be late,” you whisper, not sure who you’re talking to.
The driver pulls up near the visitor parking, just outside the main gate.
Floodlights wash everything in the harsh blue-white of control and order. The perimeter fence stretches on either side, topped with coils of wire. The guard post stands like a small fortress, uniformed personnel moving in and out. You throw cash at the driver with barely a glance and run.
A security guard steps forward, hand up. “Ma’am, you can’t—”
"My husband,” you gasp. “Sergeant Choi Seungcheol. He’s reporting tonight. I just— I just need to see him before he goes in. Please.”
The guard looks you over. Your dress. Your bare feet. Your smeared makeup. Your ring. Something in his expression shifts. He looks back toward the interior, then at the watch on his wrist.
“You got about five minutes,” he says gruffly. “He hasn’t checked in yet. Stay by the barrier. Don’t cross the line. Understood?”
"Yes,” you breathe. “Thank you.”
You step past the initial checkpoint and into the narrow strip of space between civilian and military. The air smells like exhaust and dust.
For a terrifying moment, you don’t see him. Then you do.
He’s standing near the gate, just off to one side, a duffel bag at his feet. Uniform neat. Hair trimmed shorter than it has been in months. The brace under his pant leg is barely noticeable now, but you know exactly where the straps lie, how they dig when he moves.
His father stands next to him, broad and solid, hands in the pockets of his oil-stained jacket. Mr. Choi’s face is carved in lines deeper than you remember, like the last months have aged him in fast-forward.
They’re talking quietly. Or they were. Because the second Seungcheol sees you, the words die on his tongue.
You slow to a walk, suddenly hyperaware of your breathing, of how dramatic you must look—barefoot, dress swishing around your ankles, hair wild, eyes wet.
No one says anything. Not the guards. Not the other soldiers in the distance. Not his father.
The world narrows to the stretch of pavement between you and him.
You stop just in front of the invisible line they told you not to cross.
He’s close enough now that you can see the small scar by his brow, the one you’ve kissed a dozen times without thinking.
Neither of you speaks. You just look at each other. His father clears his throat quietly. “I’ll… give you a minute.” Mr. Choi steps back, just enough to stand out of immediate earshot, though you’re sure he can still hear every word if he wants to.
You drag in a breath that shakes on the way in.
“You weren’t at the gallery,” you say, and it’s a stupid thing to lead with, but you can’t help it. One corner of his mouth twitches.
“Figured they wouldn’t let me out on good behaviour,” he murmurs.
The joke is weak. It still makes your chest ache.
“It went well,” you say. “People came. They liked the work. A few pieces sold.” He nods. “Of course they did.” He says it like he never doubted, like he never believed anything else was possible. You swallow. “But I left.”
His brows knit, confusion flickering across his face. “You… left?"
“Yeah. Someone asked where my husband was and I—” You huff out a humourless laugh. “I realised I couldn’t stand there and pretend he was just… at work. Or out of town. Not when he’s here. Doing this because of me.”
His jaw clenches. “This isn’t because of you.”
"It isn’t just because of me,” you correct softly. “But I’m part of it. I know that. I’ve always known that.”
You take another step forward, toes nudging the line, not quite crossing.
“Listen,” you say, voice shaking. “I need you to hear me, and I need you not to interrupt, okay?”
He searches your face like he’s trying to decide if he has the right to say no. He doesn’t. He nods once. You inhale, steadying yourself.
“This was never just a scam,” you start, words tumbling out faster now that the dam has cracked. “Not to me. Maybe it started that way. Maybe we sat in that shitty bar and agreed to game the system because we were desperate and scared and out of options. But it stopped being about paperwork the second you walked me to the plane and looked at me like you were trying to memorise my face.”
You keep going.
“It stopped being fake when you called me from the middle of nowhere and bragged about my stupid doodles like they were masterpieces.”
Your voice cracks. You don’t care.
“It stopped when you let me wash your hair in that bathtub, even though you hated every second of needing help. When you learned how to sleep on your side so your leg didn’t lock up, and I could still fit my knees between yours.”
His eyes are shining now.
“When you read Soonyoung’s letter and didn’t let it swallow you whole.”
You sniff, laughing weakly through the tears.
“Somewhere along the line, pretending turned real. I don’t know exactly when. Maybe I never stood a chance. Maybe Soonyoung was right the whole time, and we were always destined to head here.”
You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.
“I told you to file for divorce,” you whisper. “I said I couldn’t trust you. I said I needed to protect my mother.” You shake your head, hating the memory. “I was angry and scared and I thought if I cut this off, I could control the fallout.”
You meet his gaze dead-on. “I was wrong.”
The words sit between you, solid and heavy.
“I don’t want out,” you say, chest tight. “I don’t want easy. I don’t want safe, not if safe means without you. I want the man who runs on a broken leg because he’s too stubborn to quit. I want the idiot who threw himself in front of a court-martial to keep my record clean. I want the Commander who kisses me like it’s a promise he’s trying to keep.”
You step so close now that the line is brushing your toes, and you swear you feel it crackle.
“I love you, Commander,” you say, the words finally free, finally whole. “I love you. You hear me?”
His eyes close for a second, like the words are a hit he wasn’t braced for.
When he opens them again, they’re raw. He exhales slowly, “You can’t—” His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. “You can’t say that now.”
Your brows knit. “Why not?”
"Because,” he bites out, frustration and self-loathing tangled together, “I’m about to go back in. I’m going to be gone for a year. Maybe more. I’ll be under restriction, under watch, doing shit details and training and whatever else they decide fits ‘misconduct.’” He shakes his head, eyes burning into yours. “I might not come back the same.” A beat. “I might not come back at all.”
You feel the fear in his words. The warning. The attempt to give you an out. You also feel the hope underneath, small and shaking: Please don’t take it. You don’t. You step forward and finally, deliberately, cross the line.
A guard somewhere tenses, but no one stops you. You reach up, fist your hand in the front of his uniform, right above where his dog tags rest.
“Then I’ll wait a year,” you say, stubborn heat rising with every word. “Or two. Or ten. I don’t care. I’ll wait for as long as it takes you to run back to me, you stubborn idiot.”
His mouth parts. You pull him a little closer.
“You think I’m not scared?” you press on. “You think I won’t lie awake at night imagining every worst-case scenario? You think I don’t hate that you’re going back into the same machine that already chewed you up once?”
Your fingers press into the starched fabric.
“I am terrified,” you admit, voice low and fierce. “But I’m more terrified of you walking in there thinking you’re alone.”
His composure cracks.
Right there, in the floodlit space between civilian and soldier, between punishment and whatever comes after, Seungcheol finally breaks.
His face crumples in a way you’ve never seen in public.
“You should hate me,” he rasps. “I lied. I dragged you into this. I let Han reach you. I—” His voice shards. “I ruined everything good you had.”
"No,” you say sharply, shaking your head. “You didn’t ruin it. You’re part of it.” You search his face, willing him to hear you.
“You gave my mother care she wouldn’t have had. You gave me time to paint, to breathe. You gave me a home that wasn’t just four walls and overdue rent.”
Your eyes glaze with tears. “You gave me you.”
He closes his eyes again. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.
“Maybe not,” you shoot back. “I don’t deserve you either. That’s kind of the point. We’re both disasters. That’s why it works.”
An empty chuckle escapes him. His father shifts a few feet away, and you hear his voice. “She’s right, you know,” Mr. Choi calls out gruffly.
You both glance over. “About the disaster part,” he adds. “You get that from me.”
A small, startled smile tugs at your mouth despite everything.
Seungcheol huffs another almost-laugh and ducks his head. “Appa,” he mutters. Mr. Choi snorts. “You love her?” he asks bluntly, eyes flicking between you.
Seungcheol’s jaw works. He looks at you. You see the battle in his eyes. The fear. The love. The stubborn hope. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like the word is both confession and oath. “I do.”
Mr. Choi nods once, as if that settles everything.
“Then stop wasting time,” he says. “They’re gonna call you any second.”
As if on cue, a sergeant nearby raises his voice. “Choi, Seungcheol! Load up in five!”
Your chest seizes. Five minutes. You turn back to him. He’s already looking at you. “I meant what I said in there,” he tells you, voice low and urgent. “At the court. I love you. I—” He swallows. “I don’t regret taking the hit if it keeps you safe.”
“Don’t say that like you’re a weapon someone dropped,” you whisper. “You’re a person. You’re my person.” You lift your free hand and touch his face, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He leans into it like he can’t help himself. “I don’t care about the discharge,” you add. “I don’t care about the record. I care that you come back. That’s it.”
He nods, eyes shiny. “I’ll try,” he says.
It’s the most honest promise he can give. You accept it.
You rise onto your toes and kiss him.
It’s not neat or gentle or appropriate for a military installation.
It’s desperate and fierce and full of all the words you don’t have time to say. He kisses you back with the same intensity—one hand finding your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck. His mouth is hot and familiar, his breath uneven. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the taste of salt and fear and want.
Somewhere, someone whistles low. Someone else mutters something about “let them have this one, man.”
You don’t care. You cling to his uniform like you can anchor him here by sheer will.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. Your foreheads rest together, noses brushing.
“Stay out of trouble, Riot,” he murmurs, a faint, watery smile on his lips.
You breathe out a shaky laugh. “No promises, Commander.”
The sergeant calls his name again. “Choi! Time to move!"
Seungcheol pulls back slowly, fingers lingering at your neck for a second longer. He turns to his father. They exchange a look that’s too full to be put into words.
Mr. Choi steps forward and grips his son’s shoulder. “Come back,” he says simply. “I will,” Seungcheol replies. He glances at you. “I have to.”
Mr. Choi’s gaze softens as it lands on you. “I’ll check on her,” he tells his son, as if promising to guard something precious.
You blink. “Thank you,” you manage.
He nods once, then steps back, giving you a clear view as Seungcheol picks up his duffel and straightens to attention out of habit.
He looks at you one last time.
You memorise everything. The line of his shoulders. The way his uniform sits on him. The scar by his eye. The way his mouth curves when he’s trying not to cry.
“I’ll write,” he says. “I’ll draw,” you answer. “That’s my wife,” he murmurs.
Then he turns.
Seungcheol walks toward the waiting vehicle—each step sure despite the faint hitch in his gait. It’s not a transport plane this time. It’s a dark military bus, windows tinted, engine rumbling low.
You can’t follow him onto it. You can’t go past the line. But you can walk parallel. So you do. You move along the barrier as he approaches the bus, fingers trailing along the metal rail.
He hands his duffel up, climbs the steps, and disappears inside.
You break into a run.
You skirt along the perimeter until you’re as close as you can get to where the bus will pass. Your breath burns in your lungs. Gravel bites into your bare feet. Your dress tangles around your knees. You don’t slow down.
The bus pulls forward with a low growl, merging toward the main road that leads deeper into base. You reach the end of the visitor zone just as it draws level with you. Through the tinted glass, you catch a glimpse of movement. Then, as if by some small mercy, the overhead lights flicker on for a moment as someone inside shifts. You see him.
He’s at a window, one hand braced on the glass, searching.
You raise your arm without thinking, left hand high, ring catching the floodlights. He sees it. He lifts his own.
For a heartbeat, your matching rings flash across the distance between you—two small circles of metal, catching every stray bit of light and throwing it back. You’re crying. You know you are.
But you’re smiling too, helplessly, hopelessly, because in that moment, through all the bars and glass and distance, it feels like the two of you have carved out a small space the world can’t touch.
He presses his hand harder against the window. You press yours to the air.
The bus gathers speed. You run alongside it as far as you’re allowed, feet slapping asphalt, breath ragged, hair streaming behind you. A guard yells for you to stop when you reach the boundary; you do, because you’re not here to get arrested. You skid to a halt, chest heaving, and watch as the bus rolls away, taillights glowing like embers.
He doesn’t stop looking back.
Not until the road curves and the bus is swallowed by the base.
You stand there long after it’s gone, hand still lifted, ring still catching light that isn’t there anymore. Slowly, you lower it to your chest.
“Come back to me,” you whisper to the empty road, to the stars, to the idea of him somewhere on base and beyond it. The wind picks up, cool against your damp face. You can almost hear Soonyoung’s exasperated voice in it. “Of course he will, dumbass. You won’t let him do anything else.” You laugh, broken and whole at once.
Then you turn toward the city lights in the distance. Toward the gallery that is still full of your work. Toward the small house that still has his crutches in the corner and his coffee mug in the sink. Toward the year ahead—long and uncertain and hanging by a thread.
You’ll paint. You’ll visit your mother. You’ll fight with insurance and flirt with critics and argue with canvases and talk to Soonyoung’s empty apartment when the nights get too long. You’ll answer every letter he sends. You’ll draw him in the margins of all your sketches.
And when that year is up—when the sentence is done and the discharge papers are signed and he walks out of whatever gate they choose to spit him through— You’ll be there.
Ring on your finger. Heart in your throat. Ready to catch him. However long it takes.
A/N: Soooo, this is the second (and final) part of 2SOTSDT. Hope you all enjoyed this rollercoaster, the redemption of our Soonie and the romance between Riot and her Commander. Thank you for reading, interacting and loving the story! 💟
Themes: Smut | Angst | Military AU | Inspired by the movie 'Purple Hearts' | Fake Marriage | Enemies to Lovers | Forced Proximity | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence and death (major character death)
Wordcount: 28.8K
Playlist: 'Baby Came Home' - The Neighbourhood | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Hold My Girl' - George Ezra | 'I Hate the Way' - Sofia Carson | 'The Machine' - Reed Wonder, Aurora Olivas | 'i'm yours sped up' - Isabel LaRosa | 'The Best I Ever Had' - Limi
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Protected intercourse (use of condom) - PIV - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Emotional Fucking (is this a warning?) - Fingering
Next chapter: Two Sides of the Same Dog Tag Pt. 2
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The smell of lime and cheap cologne is tonight’s problem.
Sticky rings of vodka tonics on the bar top, a row of shot glasses awaiting regret in liquid form, bodies pressed too close to the counter as music hums beneath the chatter. The smell of turpentine clinging to your clothes is from earlier, from the hours that feel like they belong to another life: your cramped apartment, open windows, canvases propped against every possible surface, the air cut sharp with solvent and acrylic.
Your fingers are stained a soft, bruised violet from a failed experiment with texture and shadow. You should have scrubbed harder before work, but the hot water at your place runs out fast, and you were late, and honestly? Nobody here looks close enough to care.
You drag a rag across the bar, wiping up a splash of beer, and the neon sign over the back wall flickers once, threatening to give up completely. Same, you think. Same.
Your phone sits beneath the counter, screen dark. The last notification you saw before your shift started was from your bank app, as if the numbers themselves were disappointed in you. Above you, somewhere in the ceiling, the pipes groan like they, too, are behind on rent. You straighten a row of mismatched bottles, more out of habit than necessity. The place is half-full: a cluster of regulars by the far wall, two women arguing about a man you’re pretty sure isn’t worth their time, and a guy in a suit nursing his drink like it insulted his mother.
The door opens, and cold night air slips in around the frame, curling over your bare arms.
You look up. He walks in first. Of course he does.
Soonyoung is impossible to miss in a crowd, but here, framed by the door’s dim glow, he’s his own little supernova—wide grin, hair pushed back messily, wearing a faded band tee and a bomber jacket that’s definitely not regulation anything. He moves like he’s already halfway through a joke.
Behind him, four other men file in, and there’s an immediate shift to the room. It’s not that they’re loud—they aren’t. Well, not yet at least. But they carry something with them. A kind of focused energy that clings to their shoulders, even under civilian clothes. You recognise that look. You’ve seen it on the news, in recruitment posters, in the tight-set jaws of boys who grew up too fast. Soldiers. Soonyoung’s gaze skims the bar, and then he sees you. His entire face lights up. “No way,” he says, already beelining for the counter, arms spreading. “You actually survived another week in this dump.” You huff a laugh despite yourself as he plants his elbows on the bar, leaning over like he owns the place. “Barely,” you reply, sliding him a napkin out of reflex. “You’re late.”
“It’s called making an entrance,” he says. “You should try it sometime instead of just… existing here like a tragic background character.” You flick the rag at him, and he dodges, laughing. The sound is bright, familiar, cutting through the night’s dull haze.
“You promised me you’d text before you came,” you say, grabbing a clean glass. “I could’ve pretended this job doesn’t own my soul.”
“You love it,” he says. Then he wrinkles his nose at your expression. “Okay, you tolerate it. Fine. You endure it with bitter grace.” You point the glass at him. “There you go. That’s the poet I grew up with.” He rolls his eyes. “I wrote, like, two poems in fifth grade, and you will not let it go.”
“You rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove’ four times.”
“It was thematically consistent,” he protests.
You grin, and it settles something in you that had been buzzing all evening. Soonyoung has always done that—walked in and made the air feel less heavy, like someone had opened a window in your chest.
You gesture with your chin to the men lingering near the door. “You bringing strays now?” He turns, following your gaze. “Oh. Right.” His smile softens with something like pride. “My unit.”
They approach the bar in a loose cluster, the easy way they move together marking them as a group more than any uniform would. You take them in, cataloguing details like you’re sketching them in your head.
The tall one with the dimpled smile and broad shoulders—Mingyu, your brain supplies when Soonyoung starts pointing. The world’s most obvious golden retriever in human form, with a sweatshirt two sizes too big and hair that looks like he cut it himself in the bathroom mirror. Next to him, another sunshine face: Seokmin, radiating warmth, eyes curving kind even before he smiles. He’s in a simple hoodie and jeans, hands shoved into pockets like he’s fighting the urge to wave at everyone. Vernon hangs a little back, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, expression somewhere between amused and perpetually unimpressed. There’s a softness to his mouth, though, that suggests he laughs easily when nobody’s watching. Jihoon rounds them out—smaller, quieter, eyes sharp as if he’s already assessing the quickest exits and the least annoying table. He wears a plain black tee and a watch that looks regulation precise, even if the rest of him reads casual.
And then there’s the last one.
You almost miss him at first because he’s not doing anything loud. He’s just standing there, a half-step to the side, letting the others draw attention. Civilian clothes, sure—simple dark t-shirt, jeans, jacket—but he wears them like a uniform anyway. Everything about him is neat, deliberate. Hair trimmed close at the sides, pushed back cleanly. His shoulders are straight, his stance balanced like he’s ready to move at a moment’s notice. He’s scanning the room, not in the “is this place cool” way, but in a “where are the exits, who’s a threat, what’s that guy’s deal” way. His eyes flick over the bar, the door, the corners. They land on you for half a second, dark and unreadable, and move on. He looks like someone drew the word discipline and gave it a pulse. Soonyoung gestures grandly, one hand sweeping across the group. “This,” he announces, “is my tragic little soon-to-be-war-criminal family.”
“Please don’t say that out loud in public,” Jihoon mutters, sliding onto a stool. “I’m joking,” Soonyoung says. “Mostly. Anyway—this is Mingyu, Seokmin, Vernon, Jihoon…” Each man gives a variation of a nod, a small wave, a murmur of greeting. Soonyoung’s hand lands on the last man’s shoulder. “And this is Seungcheol.”
The name sits heavy in the air for a moment, like it knows it’s important. Seungcheol inclines his head slightly. Not quite a bow, not quite a nod. “Hey,” he says. His voice is low. Even. Controlled.
You wipe your fingers on your apron, suddenly aware of the paint stains, the worn fabric, the fact that you are firmly not pulled-together anything. “So.” You put a smile on anyway. “What can I get you future disappointments?” Mingyu laughs first, bright and loud. “Beer. Whatever’s on tap and won’t kill us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Vernon adds. “If it’s cheap, it’s trying its best.” You reach for the glasses, movements smooth from repetition. “First round’s on me,” Soonyoung says quickly, fishing for his wallet. You freeze, arching a brow. “Since when do you have money?”
“Excuse you,” he says. “I am a responsible adult serving my country.” “You’re a walking hazard sign with a government salary,” you say. He beams. “Exactly. Pay me in alcohol.”
You snort, fill the glasses, and line them up on the bar. While you work, conversation drifts over. “So you are Soonyoung’s famous friend,” Seokmin says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “We’ve heard about you.” You raise an eyebrow, sliding him his drink. “Oh? All lies, I hope.”
“Mostly stories about you rescuing Soonyoung from his own poor decisions,” Vernon says.
“Can confirm,” Mingyu chimes in. “He tried to do a backflip off his bunk last week.”
“It was a morale exercise,” Soonyoung insists. “And my landing was artistic.”
“Your landing was a cry for help,” Jihoon says. You laugh, the sound surprising you with how easy it comes.
“You picked a good place for a send-off,” you say, glancing at Soonyoung. “You could’ve taken them anywhere. Yet, you chose my crumbling second home.” He grins, softer now. “Told them my best friend works here. Felt right.”
You pretend the warmth in your chest is just from the overhead lights.
As you move down the bar to grab a bottle from the back, your shoulder brushes past Seungcheol’s. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step away. He might as well be a wall. You can feel his gaze briefly on the side of your face, like a touch that never lands. “You’re deploying soon?” you ask, more to the group than anyone in particular. Soonyoung nods. “First shipment out.” There’s a moment of quiet after that. Even Mingyu’s grin dims slightly. It’s not fear, exactly. Just… awareness. You swallow. “How long?”
“Six months to start,” Jihoon says. “Longer if they decide we’re useful.”
“Which we are,” Mingyu adds with a grin. “Most of us,” Vernon says under his breath.
You top off another drink, try not to calculate what six months looks like in rent, in medical bills, in canvases that may or may not sell. “You’ll be fine,” you say, forcing brightness into your voice. “You’ve been training, right? Running obstacle courses, rolling in mud, getting yelled at?”
“They yelled,” Soonyoung says. “We vibed.”
“He almost failed his shooting test,” Seokmin whispers loudly. “That was one time,” Soonyoung protests. “And the sun was in my eyes.”
“It was indoors,” Jihoon says.
You lean on the bar, chin tilting into your hand. “God help whatever country you’re supposed to protect.” Mingyu laughs, then looks at Seungcheol. “Our fearless leader here keeps us in line.” You glance at him, surprised. “Leader?” Seungcheol flicks his gaze to Mingyu, something like a warning in it, but it’s too late. “He’s technically not our CO yet,” Vernon explains. “But he might as well be.”
“He’s the guy they yell at when we mess up,” Seokmin says. “He yells at us when we mess up. He lives to yell, actually.”
“I don’t live to yell,” Seungcheol says evenly.
“Yeah, but you thrive on it,” Soonyoung replies.
A twitch ghosts at the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth, so small you think you imagined it. You size him up again with this new information. It fits: the way he stands, the way he watches everything, the way the others unconsciously arrange themselves around him like planets around a sun.
He’s the opposite of you in every visible way. Structured where you’re scattered, pressed where you’re unravelling. If you’re paint splashed haphazardly on canvas, he’s the ruler-lined grid underneath.
You twist the rag in your hands, suddenly restless.
Somewhere in the bar, someone laughs too loudly. A glass clinks. A man near the jukebox starts singing off-key to a song that doesn’t need help being worse. The night blurs into habit. You pour drinks, wipe spills, break up a near-argument over darts. The soldiers—because that’s what they are, no matter how they dress—settle into a table near the bar, drinks in hand.
You catch bits of their conversation as you move around the floor.
“What if they send us somewhere freezing?”
“I packed like, three sweaters.”
“We’re not going on a ski trip, Mingyu.”
“I just don’t want my nipples to freeze off, okay?”
You shake your head, smiling. An hour passes. Maybe two. You lose the feeling in your feet somewhere along the way. Your phone buzzes once from under the counter—probably another bill reminder. You ignore it.
As you’re reaching for a bottle, raised voices cut through the usual noise. Sharper, angrier. At the far end of the bar, near the bathrooms, two men are squaring off—one of your regulars, face flushed, the other a stranger with a jacket too nice for this neighbourhood. They’re chest to chest, voices rising. “Hey,” you call, moving around the counter. “We’re not doing this tonight, okay?”
Regular Guy throws his glass to the floor. “He bumped into me!”
“I said sorry,” the stranger spits back. “You’re the one—” You squeeze between them, palms up. “Okay, okay, let’s all stop squaring off for a second, yeah?” The stranger looks you up and down and sneers. “What are you gonna do about it, princess?” You feel your patience snap. “Kick you out and ban you from ever tasting our suspiciously watered-down gin again,” you say sweetly. “Tragic, really.”
That gets a snort from someone nearby. The tension wobbles, but doesn’t break. The regular shoves the stranger’s shoulder. The stranger shoves back, harder this time, sending the regular stumbling into a barstool. You open your mouth to shout for backup when a shadow falls over your shoulder.
“That’s enough,” a voice says behind you. Calm, but so flat it leaves no room for argument. You don’t have to turn to know who it is. Seungcheol steps in beside you, not touching either man, but suddenly taking up all the space. “You’re done,” he says to the stranger. “Pay your tab and leave.”
The stranger bristles. “And who the hell are you?”
Seungcheol’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “Someone asking nicely before the bouncer comes over and asks less nicely.”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at the phrase asking nicely. His tone suggests he’d be perfectly happy to skip straight to throwing someone out. The stranger looks between the two of you, weighing something. Then he huffs, digs into his pocket, slaps cash on a nearby table, and stalks toward the door. The regular mutters something that sounds like an apology and slinks back to his seat. The tension leaks out of the room, leaving behind the usual buzz. You exhale slowly, then turn to Seungcheol, irritation already warming your cheeks.
“I had it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you at first, gaze following the stranger out the door. “Sure.”
“I did,” you insist. “You can’t just—swoop in like some… stern hall monitor.”
Now he looks at you. Up close, his eyes are darker than you realised, almost black in the low light. There’s a faint scar along his eyebrow, a pale line you somehow didn’t notice earlier. “He was two seconds from putting his hands on you,” he says. “You shouldn’t have been in the middle of that.”
You cross your arms, rag still clutched in one hand. “If I don’t get in the middle, people get hurt, and I have to clean up blood. Which is, believe it or not, worse than spilt beer.”
“So you put yourself in the crossfire instead,” he says. “Smart.” There’s judgment in his voice that rubs you completely the wrong way. “I work here,” you snap. “It’s my job to deal with drunk idiots.”
“It’s your job to serve drinks,” he replies. “Not to play security.”
You feel heat rise under your skin, a familiar mix of defensiveness and stubborn pride. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were in charge of defining my job description,” you say. “Did they teach you that in Soldier 101?”
His jaw tightens, just a flicker. “They teach us not to run toward danger without a plan.”
You let out a humourless laugh. “And they teach you to judge people you don’t know?” He stares at you for a long moment, the bar noise dimming around the edges of your awareness. “They teach us that some people,” he gives you a pointed look, “treat life like a joke and expect others to pick up the pieces.”
You blink. It’s not shouted. It’s not cruel, exactly. But it lands like a slap to the face. Because you hear the subtext. The paint under your nails, the bar job, the overdraft fees, the canvases stacked in your tiny apartment that don’t sell. The way Soonyoung joked earlier that you “exist here”—like there’s nowhere else for you to go.
Your chest tightens. “Wow,” you say, smiling with all your teeth. “Deep.” He watches you, unreadable. You tilt your head, let the knife twist. “Careful, commander, the stick in your ass is showing.” For a split second, surprise flashes across his face. Then his mouth presses into a line so thin it could cut glass. “I’m not your commander,” he says. “No,” you say. “You’re just auditioning very hard for the role of fun police.”
Something shifts in his gaze, like a door clicking shut.
“I don’t care what you do,” he says. “It’s your funeral if you jump between two grown men throwing punches. Just don’t drag other people down with you when you treat everything like a game.” You inhale sharply because that hits closer than it should. You think of your mother in a hospital bed, of late payments, of the ways in which you are absolutely not treating any of this like a game.
You step closer, chin tilted up. “You don’t know me,” you say quietly, venom seeping into your words. “You don’t know anything about what I’m trying to keep together.”
He looks down at you, expression flat. “I don’t need to know you to see the pattern,” he answers.
Your fingers curl around the damp rag so tightly it drips. You want to say something that will crack that composure, make him flinch, anything. Instead, your tongue seizes up around all the words you can’t afford to throw. You scoff, turning away. “Enjoy your drink,” you mutter. “Or don’t. I honestly don’t care.”
You start to walk back toward the bar, needing to put distance between you before you say something that gets you fired. Behind you, his voice follows. “Stay out of trouble, riot.”
You stop. You look back over your shoulder. “What did you just call me?” He shrugs one shoulder, utterly unimpressed. “You heard me.”
Riot. Like you’re a mess, a disruption. Like the walking embodiment of chaos he’s already decided he hates.
You give him a slow, dangerous smile. “Cute,” you say. “Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did your little committee help?” He doesn’t answer. He just moves back toward the table where the others are watching, trying and failing to pretend they weren’t listening.
Soonyoung glances between the two of you as Seungcheol sits down, brows raised. “Everything good?” he asks.
“Fine,” you say at the same time Seungcheol says, “She’ll be fine.”
You bristle.
You retreat back behind the bar, hands shaking slightly as you grab a fresh towel and slam it down on a damp ring of condensation.
Somewhere in the middle of you taking stock, you risk a glance over. Soonyoung is laughing, Mingyu is speaking in his booming voice, Seokmin is making easy jokes, and Jihoon is teasing Vernon about something. Seungcheol is the only one not laughing. He’s listening, nodding occasionally, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass.
Suddenly, his gaze lifts and meets yours across the room. You hold it for half a heartbeat, then turn away deliberately. You go back to your stock. You close out someone’s round. You pretend you don’t feel that unfamiliar nickname clinging to your skin like spilt liquor. Riot.
By the time last call rolls around, Soonyoung and his unit are gathering themselves, ready to spill back out into the night. He makes sure to stop at the bar one last time, leaning across to bump his forehead against yours gently.
“I’ll come by again before we go,” he says. “Promise.”
"You better,” you say. “Someone’s gotta keep you from trying to do a backflip off a tank.”
He grins. “You love me.”
"Tragically,” you say.
He squeezes your hand once, then steps away, following the others toward the door. As Seungcheol passes, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say anything.
Good, you tell yourself. That’s exactly how you like it.
You toss the rag into the sink, flex your fingers, and get back to work.
You always thought rock bottom would feel more dramatic.
Maybe there’d be thunder. A dramatic montage. Some kind of score swelling in the background as your life collapses in on itself like a cheap folding chair. Instead, it’s just Tuesday.
Your landlord blocks the narrow hallway outside your apartment door, one hand braced on the peeling wallpaper, the other clutching a stack of mail like he’s about to throw it at you. “You’re behind again.” Not even a hello.
You hug your jacket tighter around yourself, keys in your hand. “Morning to you, too.” He taps the envelopes against his palm, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the door. “This isn’t funny,” he says. “You’re two months late. I let last month slide because you said you were waiting on a payment. It’s not here.”
You taste metal on your tongue, the familiar bite of anxiety. “I’m getting it together,” you lie. “I picked up extra shifts. I’ve got some pieces I’m selling—” He snorts. “Paintings.” The word drops like a condemnation. “You can’t pay me in art, kid. I need cash. Transfer. Something that doesn’t hang on a wall.” You swallow, the pressure behind your eyes building. “I know.”
"End of the month,” he says, shaking the envelopes once for emphasis. “All of it. Or you’re out. I’ve got people waiting for units. I can’t keep doing this.”
"End of the month,” you repeat, even though the date circles around your throat. “I’ll have it.”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you. You straighten your shoulders, grip the key harder. You must look steadier than you feel, because he just grunts. “End of the month,” he says again, then turns and walks away.
You unlock your door, step inside, and let it close softly behind you.
Your apartment greets you with its usual chaos: canvases leaning three-deep against the walls, brushes clustered in chipped mugs, tubes of paint scattered across your tiny table. The couch sags. The single window lets in more street noise than light. You drop your bag on a chair and stand there for a second, listening to your own heartbeat thud in your ears.
Two months behind. End of the month, or you’re out.
You take a breath, then another, then cross to the far wall where your largest canvas waits, half-finished. A mess of colour and shape and anger. You stare at it, trying to see “sellable” instead of “desperation.” You fail.
Your phone buzzes on the table, and you grab it without thinking, thumb hovering over the screen. New notification: hospital. You don’t open it. Instead, you shove the phone into your pocket and force yourself into motion—shower, pick a pair of jeans with the least amount of accidental paint on them, and an oversized sweater that doesn’t smell too much like the bar. It’s only when you’re halfway to the bus stop, breath puffing white in the cold air, that you check the message.
Your stomach drops as you read the words “additional tests,” “treatment adjustment,” and the number attached to the estimate.
It’s more than your rent. It’s more than a month of rent.
You close your eyes for a second, standing on the sidewalk as cars hiss past. For a moment, you think about turning around and going home. If you don’t go, maybe the reality of it won’t fully form.
You go anyway.
Hospitals always feel like someone tried to bleach out fear and failed.
You sit in a plastic chair that squeaks every time you shift, a clipboard of forms balanced on your knees. Across from you, a TV plays some daytime show too loudly, but nobody is really watching. Your mother is in the room down the hall. You tell yourself she’s just resting. It’s easier than admitting she’s been “resting” more and more lately, and that the nurses have started moving around her with the quiet efficiency reserved for the chronically ill.
A woman in a blazer with a badge around her neck calls your name and waves you over to a small office off the main corridor. You follow, trying not to notice the squeak of your shoes on the linoleum.
She sits, gestures to the chair across from her. There are papers spread out on the desk between you: printouts with line items and amounts that feel like they’re written in a different language. “We wanted to go over the new treatment plan,” she says gently. “There are additional tests the doctor’s recommending based on your mother’s latest results.”
You nod like you understand, because you understand the important part: they cost money. “And the insurance?” you ask, mouth too dry. She hesitates. That’s never a good sign. “The insurance has been covering quite a lot up to this point,” she says carefully. “But they’ve flagged the file for review. Some of these new tests… There may be caps. Limitations.”
"So they’re not going to pay.”
It comes out flatter than you intend. She winces a little. “We won’t know the final determination until the review is processed, but there will likely be out-of-pocket expenses.” You look down at the papers. The numbers blur, then sharpen again. “Can we not… do some of them?” you ask. “Or wait?”
She looks at you with that practised expression you’ve seen on too many faces here—compassion wrapped around pity. “The doctor recommended these for a reason,” she says softly. “Waiting could affect the outcome.” You swallow hard. Outcome. As if this is an exam your mother might fail. “There are assistance programs,” she continues. “We can set you up with someone from financial services. They’ll help you apply for aid and set up payment plans.”
Payment plans. On top of rent. On top of everything else. You nod again, because the alternative is screaming, and that probably won’t help. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Can you… print me what you can? I’ll… figure it out.”
She gives you that look again—like she wants to fix it and knows she can’t—and nods. “I’ll get this together,” she says. “In the meantime, your mother’s resting. You can sit with her if you’d like.”
You would like. You would always like.
You sit by your mother’s bed, fingers tangled loosely with hers. Her skin feels thinner these days, papery and fragile. She smiles when she sees you, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes the way it used to.
“Why the long face?” she whispers, voice rough. You force your features into something lighter. “Just tired,” you lie. “Bar’s been busy.” She squeezes your hand weakly. “You’re working too much.”
"Someone has to,” you say, then immediately wish you hadn’t. She looks at you, something like an apology flickering briefly. “You should be painting,” she murmurs. “Not… all this.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m doing both,” you say. “Multitasking, remember? It’s my one skill.” She huffs a soft laugh that turns into a cough. You help her sit up just enough to sip some water, then ease her back. “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes closing. “Don’t,” you say quickly. “Don’t do that. None of this is your fault.”
She doesn’t answer, drifting back into that half-sleep that smells like antiseptic and sounds like the distant beep of monitors. You sit there a while longer, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles like they’re steps toward something better. Eventually, you have to leave. The world outside is still turning, stubbornly oblivious to your personal apocalypse.
Soonyoung’s building is in a better part of town than yours. Not fancy, but the kind of place where the paint isn’t peeling and the lights in the hallway all work at the same time. You climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last, and knock on his door.
It flies open almost immediately.
Before you can greet him, he drags you into a hug that smells like laundry detergent and instant noodles. You sag into it for a second, your forehead pressing into his shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmurs. “No,” you say honestly, voice muffled by the fabric. He squeezes you tighter. “Good thing I’m a trained professional at emotional triage.” You snort, pulling back. “You barely passed first aid.”
"Hey,” he protests, stepping aside to let you in. “I know how to put a band-aid on with military precision.”
You step into his apartment and blink.
It’s… decent. Bigger than yours, for one. The living room has an actual couch that doesn’t look like it’s seen a crime scene, a half-dead plant on the windowsill, a TV balanced precariously on a stack of crates that he’s absolutely pretending are a “design choice.” There are clothes scattered here and there, a video game controller on the floor, and a mug with something questionable crusted at the bottom. Normal mess. Comfortable mess.
You shrug off your jacket, draping it over the back of the couch. “Wow,” you say. “Look at you. Functioning adult.”
"Please,” he says. “This place is one laundry day away from collapsing in on itself.”
You open your mouth to make another joke when a door down the hallway clicks open. You look up just as Seungcheol steps out of the bathroom, steam curling around him like some kind of cheap movie entrance.
His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead, a towel slung around his neck, dog tags glinting where they’ve slipped out from under his shirt. He stops when he sees you. You stop when you see him. For a second, the only sound is the slow drip of water from his hair onto the floor. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
You scoff. “Try not to sound too excited, commander.”
Soonyoung looks back and forth between you like a spectator at a tennis match. “Right,” he says. “I forgot you two met at the bar.”
Forgot. Sure.
You cross your arms, trying not to think about the way Seungcheol looked that night under the bar’s dim lights. “What are you doing here?” you ask. He blinks once, slowly. “I live here.”
You glance at Soonyoung. He raises his hands. “Temporarily,” he clarifies. “Base housing’s a mess right now. They’ve got us in limbo until we deploy. So I let him crash here.”
You look back at Seungcheol, trying to reconcile him with the pile of shoes by the door and the extra coffee mug on the counter. “Didn’t realise you were inviting half the city over, Soonyoung,” Seungcheol says, gaze shifting to your friend.
“Relax,” Soonyoung replies, unbothered. “She’s not half the city. She’s like… one very loud neighbourhood.”
You toss a throw pillow at him. He catches it easily. Seungcheol’s lips press into something that could almost resemble a smile. “You need the place?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen. “I can get out of your way.”
“You live here,” you say. “I’m just visiting. I’ll try not to ruin your throw pillows with my chaos energy.”
“That ship sailed when you walked in,” he mutters. You bristle. There it is again—that instant judgment, that sense that he’s got you filed away under “problem” in his brain.
Soonyoung clears his throat loudly. “Okay, let’s all remember we are in my home, where I pay rent and therefore get to veto murder.” You drag your gaze away from Seungcheol and force a smile for Soonyoung. “Relax,” you smile. “I’m not wasting a body on your nice floors.”
“Wow,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I feel so safe.”
There’s something off about him today. The usual stiffness is there, but it’s layered with something else—an edge that wasn’t quite so sharp at the bar. He looks… tired. Shadows under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that even the shower steam couldn’t loosen. You catch yourself staring and snap your gaze away.
“Anyway,” Soonyoung says, clapping his hands together. “Kitchen. Now. I have ramen, emotional support chocolate, and a remarkable lack of adult beverages considering who I live with.”
“You drank them,” Seungcheol calls out.
“Allegedly,” Soonyoung replies. You follow Soonyoung into the kitchen, a small galley space with exactly enough room for two people if they genuinely like each other. Three is ambitious. Seungcheol hangs back in the doorway for a moment, then reaches for his phone on the counter. It buzzes just as his fingers close around it. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. “I’ll be outside,” he says, almost to himself.
Without another word, he steps past you, heading for the sliding door that leads to a narrow balcony. He slides it open, steps out into the cold, and closes it behind him with more gentleness than you expected. You watch him for a moment through the glass—broad shoulders outlined against the city, head bent as he lifts the phone to his ear.
“Hey,” Soonyoung says softly, drawing your attention back. “Talk to me.” You drag in a breath. “My landlord cornered me this morning,” you say, grabbing onto the easiest topic. “I’m two months behind. He wants everything by the end of the month, or I’m out.” Soonyoung winces. “Okay. That’s… okay. That’s a solvable problem. We can do math. You can pick up shifts, I can—”
“That’s not all,” you interrupt. He quiets immediately, leaning against the counter, eyes on your face. “The hospital called,” you say. “Mom needs more tests. Insurance is… being difficult. There are new treatments they want to try. It’s…”
You don’t finish. You don’t have to. You see it land anyway.
“How bad?” he whispers. You let out a laugh that sounds nothing like amusement. “If I sell a kidney, we might cover the first round,” you say. “After that, we’re improvising.”
"Hey,” he says sharply. “Don’t joke about that.”
"I’m not,” you say. “Not really.” He reaches out, curls his fingers around your wrist, grounding you. “Look at me,” he says. You do. “We’re going to figure it out,” he says. “You’re not doing this alone.” The words hit a bruised part of you. Your eyes sting.
“You’re leaving,” you whisper. “In a week, you’ll be… I don’t even know where. And I’m here with a landlord breathing down my neck and a hospital billing department that sends me emails with more numbers than sentences.”
He flinches, just a little. Guilt swims through his features before he forces a smile. “Yeah, I’m leaving. And I hate that. But I’m not abandoning you. There’s a difference.”
You blink away the wetness threatening to spill. “What are you going to do, wire me moral support from a desert?”
"First of all, you love my moral support. Second, I can still send money when I can. It’s not much, but—”
"You need your money,” you cut in. “You’ll be out there, you’ll need—”
"Food? Housing?” he says. “Yeah, funny thing, the army gives you that. It’s their whole brand.”
You huff a weak laugh. He lets go of your wrist, reaching instead for two chipped bowls, filling them with hot water from the kettle on the stove. He drops in bricks of instant ramen, stirs, as if this is a ritual that matters. “There are… ways,” he says slowly, eyes on the swirling noodles. “Benefits. Stuff they give soldiers and their families.”
You lean back against the opposite counter, wiping your palms on your jeans. “Families,” you echo. “Yeah, well, unless they start recognising ‘burnt-out bar gremlin with a paint addiction’ as an official dependent, I’m screwed.” He snorts.
“There is… one thing,” he says, drawing the words out in a way that immediately makes you suspicious. “No,” you say, automatically. He grins. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
"Every time you say ‘there is one thing,’ it involves a stupid idea or potential arson.”
"This time it involves neither,” he says. “Probably.” You narrow your eyes. “Spit it out.” He hesitates, glancing toward the balcony. Through the glass, Seungcheol stands with his back to you, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders tense. You catch fragments through the faint crack where the door doesn’t quite seal.
“…told you I sent it last week.”
"No, I can’t…”
“This was supposed to be done by now.”
You drag your attention back to Soonyoung just as he says, “If you married a soldier, you’d have benefits.” You stare. “I’m sorry?” He lifts his hands, the picture of innocent chaos. “I’m just saying,” he goes on quickly. “Spouses get healthcare. Housing allowances. Extra pay. It’s kinda the only good part of this whole thing besides the snazzy boots.”
You blink. Then blink again. “Are you—” you start, then laugh, a sharp sound. “You’re joking.”
"Half-joking,” he admits. “Half ‘I’ve been thinking about this because your situation sucks and I hate it.’” He sets your bowl in front of you, steam curling up between you. You shake your head, incredulous.“I’m not marrying someone for benefits,” you say. “That’s insane. And Illegal.”
“Is it?” he asks. “People do it all the time. Get married before deployment, get the housing, the medical, all that. You’d have help with your mom’s bills, maybe a better apartment, security. You could actually breathe for five minutes.”
You grip the counter behind you, fingers digging into the edge. The worst part is, you can immediately see it. Insurance kicking in, medical bills halved, maybe wiped. Rent covered. Space to paint without counting hours in tips. You push the image away as if it burned. “Even if I was that desperate,” you say, “who am I supposed to marry? Some random private from Tinder?”
He shrugs one shoulder, that same reckless glint in his eye that makes you both love and fear him. “Marry Seungcheol.”
You choke on your own spit. “Absolutely not.” He laughs, weirdly delighted. “You two are literally two sides of the same coin. Wait, no, scratch that. Two sides of the same dog tag. Half the work is done.”
"We met once,” you say. “And he called me a riot like it was an insult.”
“You got into a fight with a guy twice your size in a bar,” Soonyoung counters. “He wasn’t wrong.”
"I was doing my job.”
"You were doing that thing where you throw yourself between chaos and everyone else,” he says. “It’s very noble. It’s also very likely to get you punched in the face." You scowl, heat rising in your cheeks.
“Even if I wanted to,” you insist, “which I don’t—” Soonyoung opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off by the faint sound of Seungcheol’s voice through the glass.
“You can’t keep calling me about this,” he says, voice low but edged. “I said I’m handling it.”
A faint rumble answers him—the other voice too muffled to make out the words, but the tone is clear: sharp, frustrated, authoritative. Another rumble. Seungcheol’s free hand tightens on the balcony railing, knuckles pale. “Don’t,” he says quietly. Deadly. “Don’t bring him into this.”
The silence that follows is heavier than the noise of the city. His profile is hard, eyes focused on some point in the distance that doesn’t exist. You shouldn’t be listening. You know that. But the words seep through the glass anyway.
“I have to go,” he declares, voice flat now. “I’ll send what I can next month.” He ends the call, staring at the dark screen for a second before slipping the phone into his pocket. He rests his second hand on the railing, head dropping forward. For just a heartbeat, he looks like someone held together by sheer force of will and not much else. Then he straightens, pulling the mask back on, and slides the balcony door open.
You snap your gaze back to Soonyoung so fast your neck twinges. He’s watching you, an unreadable expression on his face. You wonder how much he’s heard over the months, how much he pretends not to know.
Seungcheol steps back inside, the cold clinging to him.
“Everything okay?” Soonyoung asks casually, like he didn’t hear any of what you both just heard. Seungcheol’s eyes flick between the two of you. If he suspects you overheard, he doesn’t show it.
“Fine,” he says. “What are you talking about?”
"Nothing important,” you say quickly.
Soonyoung throws you a look that says, “We are absolutely talking about something important,” and then barrels ahead anyway. “Actually,” he says, “we were discussing how my favourite person in the world is in a terrible situation and how the government owes her better.”
“Your favourite person?” you ask, arching a brow. “That’s a rotating title.”
"You’re in the top three,” he assures you. “Anyway, I was explaining how if she married a soldier, she’d get benefits—healthcare, housing, all that fun stuff they use to trick us into signing our lives away.”
You shoot him a warning look, but he’s already committed. Seungcheol’s gaze sharpens, shifting from Soonyoung to you. “So, I said,” Soonyoung continues, oblivious to the way the air thickens, “she should just marry you.”
The room goes quiet. You stare at Soonyoung because that’s easier than looking at Seungcheol. “I told you I’m not that desperate,” you say tightly. It’s meant to be a joke. It doesn’t sound like one. Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes goes colder.
“Absolutely not,” he says. The words are immediate, automatic, like they’ve been waiting on the back of his tongue for years. They hit harder than they should. Your pride, already bruised from landlords and hospital bills and overheard phone calls, flares. “Relax,” you say sharply. “Nobody’s asking you to fall on a sword for me. It was a hypothetical.”
"It’s not happening,” he says, voice flat. “Hypothetical or not.” You turn toward him fully now, anger chasing away the lingering ache. “Trust me, commander,” you say, the nickname sliding out sharper than you intend, “you’re not exactly on my list of dream husbands.”
His jaw ticks at the word. “The feeling is mutual, Riot.”
"It’s not even about you,” you snap. “I’m not planning to try and scam some poor, unsuspecting soldier out of his benefits.”
He snorts softly.” Good, because I’m not putting my career on the line so someone can treat marriage like another messy experiment they can walk away from when it gets inconvenient.” The words slam into that raw, tender place you keep carefully hidden.
“You think that’s what I do?” you demand. “Walk away when things get hard?” He meets your gaze head-on. “I think you have a habit of jumping into situations without thinking and expect someone else to clean it up.”
Images flash in your mind: you between two men at the bar, Soonyoung dragging you out of a party when you called him from the bathroom floor, your mother apologising for hospital bills that don’t have her name on them alone. You step closer, hands trembling with anger. “Congratulations,” you say, your smile all teeth. “You’re safe. I wouldn’t marry you if my life depended on it.”
"Good,” he says again, as if the discussion is already over. “Because mine does.”
The words hang there for a moment, too heavy to parse. You open your mouth to ask what that even means, but the tightness around his eyes and the lingering echo of his phone call slam into place in your head. You shut your mouth.
Soonyoung, who has been silently watching this dumpster fire, throws his hands up. “Okay,” he announces. “New rule. Nobody marries anybody. Nobody insults anybody. Nobody throws punches or metaphors. We’re all stressed and there is ramen getting soggy on this counter and I refuse to let it die in vain.”
You drag your gaze away from Seungcheol, chest heaving, and look at Soonyoung. “I should go,” you mutter. “I have a shift tonight.”
"You just got here,” Soonyoung says, hurt flickering across his features.
“Yeah, well,” you say, shoulders already turning toward the door, “my landlord wants all his money and the hospital wants all of theirs, so I should probably get back to serving drinks to people who don’t talk like they’re better than everyone else.” The last part is aimed at Seungcheol, and from the way his jaw tightens, he knows it.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Soonyoung says, reaching for your arm. You step out of reach gently. “I’m not alone,” you say. “I have you. Until they ship you off to follow orders from people who don’t know your name.” He flinches. You regret it immediately, but the words are already out there, buzzing in the air. “Hey,” he says quietly. “That’s not fair.”
"Nothing is,” you reply, voice cracking. You grab your jacket from the couch and shove your arms into the sleeves. You step out into the hallway, pull the door closed behind you, and lean against it for a second, breathing hard. Your life feels like a painting you’ve tried to fix too many times—layers and layers of corrections until the canvas starts to warp.
You thought meeting Seungcheol once was bad enough.
Turns out, the universe isn’t done slapping your pride around yet.
The blender dies mid-margarita.
It coughs, wheezes, and then gives up entirely, leaving a lumpy swirl of ice and tequila that looks as tired as you feel. You stare at it for a second, hand still on the button.
“Mood,” you mutter.
The woman waiting on the drink taps her nails on the bar, the rhythm just a little too impatient to be polite.
“Is it supposed to sound like that?” she asks.
“Yes,” you say automatically, then sigh. “No. It’s dying. I’m giving it a moment to say goodbye.” She snorts, amused enough to buy you ten extra seconds. You give the blender a strategic smack and it sputters back to life, limping through the last few seconds of the blend.
It’s been three days since you stormed out of Soonyoung’s apartment. It’s also three days until he and Seungcheol deploy.
Your landlord’s text still sits at the top of your notifications: END OF THE MONTH, OR I START EVICTION PAPERWORK. THIS IS FINAL.
You scroll past it whenever you check your phone, which is often, because your brain is trying to decide whether to spiral about rent or about the hospital bill. The hospital bill wins, usually.
You’d barely stepped off the bus after visiting your mom that morning when the email landed. You’d opened it standing on the sidewalk outside your building, hands already cold. There had been a brief, surreal moment where you’d wondered what it would feel like to crumble right there on the concrete. Would anyone step over you? Would anyone stop and ask if you were okay?
You didn’t crumble. You never quite do. You just folded the fear into a smaller, tighter shape and shoved it somewhere behind your ribs.
Now, the fear is thrumming quietly while you pour bourbon into a row of shot glasses, your mind running numbers even as your hands move on autopilot. Bar shift income, tips—if you’re lucky. The tiny trickle from selling a piece last week. You’re not a mathematician, but even you can see the equation doesn’t add up.
The door swings open, letting in a gust of air and the muffled roar of traffic. You don’t look up immediately. It’s just another customer, another order, another delay before your next tiny panic.
It’s only when the air seems to shift that you glance up. He’s halfway across the room by then. No platoon this time, no entourage. Just him.
Seungcheol walks like he’s still in formation. His spine is straight, shoulders squared, gaze steady, like he’s braced for impact and the bar is just another battlefield.
Of all the nights.
You drop the rag onto the counter a little harder than necessary and reach for the nearest glass, polishing with excessive focus. If you pretend you don’t see him, maybe he’ll turn around and walk back out.
He doesn’t. He stops directly in front of you at the bar. “Hi,” he says.
You stare at him. “Are you lost?”
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost a grimace.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“We’re talking,” you say, still wiping the same clean glass. “You want a drink or a refund for the last argument?”
He glances around—a quick sweep of the room. It’s instinctive, and it irritates you more than it should. “I want five minutes,” he says. “Somewhere you’re not trying to serve six people at once.” You squint at him. “I don’t do back-room meetings with men who insult my life choices, commander.” He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s counting to ten.
“It’s important,” he says. “If you tell me no after you hear it, I’ll walk away. That’s it.”
You hate that your curiosity stirs even as your pride kicks and screams. From the end of the bar, your manager lifts a hand. “Take five!” he calls. “We’re good for a bit!”
Traitor.
You place the glass down behind the counter, wipe your hands on your apron, and jerk your chin toward the far end of the bar where a small service corridor leads to the back door and a tiny office.
“Make it quick,” you say. “If I get fired, I’m sending you the hospital bills.”
"You should be sending those to someone,” he mutters. You don’t ask what he means. You just push open the door to the alley and step out into the cold. Seungcheol follows you out, letting the door fall shut behind him. The thump of bass and murmur of voices weaken, leaving just the hum of the city and the buzz of the neon sign above the back entrance.
You lean against the brick wall, approximating casual.
“Three minutes,” you say. “I’m generous.” He studies you for a long moment. “You remember Soonyoung’s idea,” he says finally.
You make a face. “You’re going to have to be more specific. He has at least six terrible ideas per hour.”
"The one about military benefits,” he says. “About you marrying a soldier.”
You scoff. “Yeah. The punchline of last week.” His jaw flexes.
“He wasn’t wrong,” he says. “About the benefits.”
You straighten, arms dropping a little. “If you came out here to recruit me into a pyramid scheme disguised as a wedding, I’m clocking back in.”
"Listen, please,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Less judgment. More… strain. You exhale, breath fogging in the cold. “I’m listening,” you say. “Unfortunately.” He nods once, like he’s accepting your terms. “You need money,” he says bluntly. “For your mom. For rent. You’re not keeping up. You don’t have to confirm it. It’s obvious.”
“You got all that from looking at my bank app over my shoulder?”
"You came to Soonyoung’s place to ask for help,” he says. "He said as much. I’m not an idiot.” You look away, staring at the dumpsters instead of his face. “And you?” you ask tightly. “You just like brainstorming illegal life choices for fun?”
He goes quiet.
“I need money too,” he says eventually. “There are… things I have to pay off. People who need that money more than I need my pride.”
“So you want to commit fraud together,” you say. He exhales slowly.
“I want a contract. An agreement. Strict rules. We get married on paper before I deploy. You get access to my benefits—healthcare, housing allowance, a more stable income stream. I get the additional pay and allowances that come with having a spouse. We split what makes sense. We both use it to fix what we need to fix.”
You stare at him. “And then?”
"Then,” he says, “when I’m out and everything’s paid, we file for divorce. Clean. Mutual. No mess.” You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle.
“You make it sound like returning a pair of shoes you never wore.”
"It’s a transaction. We both know that going in.”
Your heart is beating too hard for a mere transaction.
“It’s fraud,” you say. “You know that, right? Lying to the military? To the government? That’s not a slap-on-the-wrist situation. That’s a prison sentence situation.” He doesn’t flinch. “I know exactly what it is,” he says evenly. “I also know if we do nothing, you might lose your home, and your mom might not get what she needs. And there are people who will come after me—or my family—if I don’t get them their money.”
His voice drops on that last word, something dark shading the syllables.
You search his face, trying to read between the lines. You remember the balcony, the tension in his jaw, the way he’d said Don’t bring him into this and I said I’m handling it.
“Who is after you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
His eyes flicker, a brief flash of surprise. Then his gaze shutters.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Point is, we both have a problem that this solves.” You push off the wall, pacing a short line in the alley. Your boots scuff against the concrete. “Why me?” you demand. “You could marry anyone. Some sweet, sensible person who doesn’t turn every room into a mess.”
"Because Soonyoung trusts you. Because I’ve seen you step between two drunk idiots without thinking. Because I was wrong. You might be chaotic, but you’re not a liar.” You stare at him. “You’re literally asking me to lie.”
“On paper. Not about who you are.” You drag your hands over your face, fingers pressing into your eyes. He’s right and he’s wrong, and you hate that those things can be true at the same time.
“There would be rules,” he says, as if ticking items off a list. “No real feelings. No pretending this is something it’s not. We agree on boundaries. We don’t sabotage each other’s lives. We don’t sleep with half the town and post it on social media.” You look up sharply. “Did you just imply I’m out here sleeping with half the town?” He huffs a breath. “It was a general statement,” he says. “Applies to both of us.”
You narrow your eyes. “And what about when you’re deployed?” you ask, forcing your brain back into the present. “We suddenly become pen pals to sell the story?”
"We keep in touch enough that it doesn’t look suspicious,” he confirms. “Emails. Calls when we can. Social media posts so it looks like we’re trying. If they check, there’s history.”
It’s terrifying how logical he makes it sound. As if you both aren’t standing on the edge of something enormous. You lean back against the wall again, staring up at the sliver of night sky visible between buildings.
“If they catch us,” you finally ask, “what happens?”
“I get court-martialed. I lose my career. Benefits go away. You get dragged into the mess. Best-case scenario, we pay fines. Worst-case…"
He doesn’t finish. You can fill in the worst-case yourself.
You close your eyes.
There’s a painting you started last week, one you can’t afford to ruin with another failed experiment. It’s big—too big for your apartment, really—but it felt right. It was supposed to be about balance: structured lines and chaotic colour, order and mess in conversation. Now, all you can see is the blank space you left in the middle because you didn’t know how to tie it together. This feels like that blank space. Like you’re about to throw paint at it and hope it lands in a way that makes sense.
“Why now?” you whisper. “You hated the idea last time.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low.
“Because I thought I could handle it on my own. I can’t. Not in time. Not before we leave.”
You open your eyes and look at him.
You think of Soonyoung, about to board a plane and leave you behind.
You think of the word riot on his tongue and the word commander on yours, and how neither of you expected any of this when he walked into your bar.
“No real feelings,” you say slowly. “Strict rules. Divorce as soon as you’re out and the debts are paid.” He nods. “That’s the deal,” he says. “You help me. I help you. We keep each other afloat, and then we let go.”
“You make marriage sound like a business partnership.”
"It is,” he declares. “In this case.”
You search his face one last time, looking for a reason to say no. You find desperation instead. Something in you—stubborn, reckless, exhausted—tips. “Fine,” you say, the word tasting like a leap. “I’m in.”
Relief flashes across his features too quickly. His shoulders unclench by a fraction. “Okay,” he says, exhale fogging between you. “We don’t have much time. I deploy in three days. We have to get the paperwork filed as soon as possible.” You try not to flinch at the number. Three days.
“Courthouse?” you ask.
He nods. “Tomorrow. I’ll bring the forms. Soonyoung will come as a witness. We’ll keep it simple.”
You scoff. “Simple,” you repeat. “Right.”
He straightens. The decision has been made, and now it’s just logistics.
“We’ll go over details later,” he says. “You can bail before we sign anything if you change your mind.” You shake your head, lips twisting.
“You don’t know me very well if you think I’m not gonna double down on a bad idea once I commit, commander.” His eyes soften just a little at the nickname this time. “Try not to burn my life down, riot,” he mutters. You swallow, hard. “No promises,” you say.
Inside, someone yells that they’re out of limes. You look back at the door, then at him. For a heartbeat, you both just stand there in the alley, the air between you thick with what you’re about to do.
Fake marriage. Real benefits. Strict rules. No real feelings.
You cling to that last one like a safety line as you push off the wall.
“Tomorrow,” you say. He nods once. “Tomorrow.”
You go back inside to pour drinks and pretend your life isn’t about to become a legal contract with the man who called you a mess after taking one look at you.
You stand at the foot of the courthouse steps, suddenly very aware that your shoes are not wedding shoes.
They’re scuffed boots, the same ones you wore to work last night, and they creak a little when you shift your weight. You tug at the hem of your dress, such as it is. It’s not really a dress so much as a white-ish thing you found at the back of your closet at two in the morning—a slip you’d bought at a thrift store once with the vague intention of turning it into a costume or painting in it. It’s a soft, creamy white that’s seen better days, but it passes at a distance if you don’t look too closely at the faint paint speck on the skirt. You’ve paired it with a cardigan and tights, because it’s not like you had the foresight to buy a coat designed for impulsive fraud marriages.
Your phone is a weight in your bag, full of unread emails from the hospital, a text from your landlord asking if you’d gotten his “reminder,” and a single message from Soonyoung: Don’t freak out before I get there. That’s my job.
Easy for him to say.
The courthouse looms above you, all stone and steps and the kind of architecture that wants to remind you it can outlast your bad decisions.
You’re about to go inside and make one of the biggest choices of your life in front of a bored stranger with a stamp. You resist the urge to turn around and walk away.
“You look like you’re considering bolting,” a voice says behind you.
You turn, and he’s there, because of course he is.
Seungcheol in uniform is a different kind of problem than Seungcheol in sweats or jeans.
The dress blues fit him too well, the jacket sitting perfectly over his shoulders, medals and ribbons you don’t know how to read gleaming against dark fabric. His shoes are so polished that they could probably blind someone if the sun hit them wrong. He looks like he stepped out of a recruitment poster.
“You look like you’re about to arrest me,” you attempt at a joke. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not yet.”
You drag your gaze away from the line of his jaw and focus on something safe, like the courthouse doors. “Where’s Soonyoung?” you ask.
“Parking. He’ll be here.”
“Good,” you mutter. “Someone has to witness my descent into madness.”
He studies you for a moment. “You look…” You arch a brow. “Careful.”
He clears his throat. “…like you didn’t sleep,” he finishes.
You snort. “Is that your way of telling me I look like shit on your big day, commander?”
His jaw tightens, but there’s less heat behind it now. “It’s not my day,” he says. “It’s a transaction.” You roll your eyes. “Nothing says romance like tax terminology.”
He glances at you, and for the first time since you met him, there’s a flicker of something like uncertainty on his face.
“You can still walk away,” he says quietly. “We haven’t signed anything. If this feels wrong, if you think you can find another way…”
You bark out a laugh before you can help it. “Another way?” you echo. “Did the ‘bank of magic solutions’ open overnight and nobody told me?” He doesn’t smile. “I’m serious,” he says. “Once we do this, it’s not easy to undo. Not quietly.”
You look up at the building again.
You think of your mother’s hand in yours, the tremor, the way her eyes drifted away while you talked, like she was already half elsewhere.
“I know what I’m doing,” you say. “Kind of.” He exhales, slowly. “Then we go inside,” he says.
“Wait for me, assholes!” The shout echoes up the steps.
Soonyoung is jogging toward you, hair mussed, tie askew, shoving some kind of pastry into his mouth as he goes. He’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s attended more bad weddings than good ones.
He skids to a stop a few steps below you, breathing heavily.
“You started this,” you huff. “You’re not allowed to be late.”
“I brought emotional support carbs,” he says, holding up a crumpled paper bag. “That buys me forgiveness.”
You snatch the bag, peeking inside.
“You got the good bakery,” you say grudgingly.
“Obviously,” he replies. “If my best friend is marrying my commanding officer, the least I can do is spring for real croissants.”
“Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. “You’ll jinx it.” He grins, then sobers, looking between you and Seungcheol. “Last chance,” he says, unusually serious. “You both sure?”
You look at Seungcheol. He is already watching you, eyes steady. You have the wild, irrational thought that if you say no now, he’ll just turn around and find another solution, and you’ll go back to trying to outrun your bills with minimum wage and tips. You also have the equally wild thought that if you say no, you’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if you’d said yes.
“I’m sure,” you finally reply. Seungcheol nods once. “Me too.”
Soonyoung exhales dramatically. “Okay then,” he says. “Let’s go commit fraud.”
“Stop calling it that,” you and Seungcheol say at the same time. You look at each other. The smallest, strangest bubble of humour pops in your chest. Soonyoung beams. “See? Already finishing each other’s sentences.” You flip him off. He pretends to be wounded.
The three of you climb the steps together.
Inside, the clerk barely looks up when you approach the counter, just slides a stack of forms toward you and points you toward a row of plastic chairs. You sit side by side, pens scratching, filling in boxes with information that feels suddenly enormous: name, date of birth, address. Occupation. You hesitate over that one, then scribble “bartender/artist” in cramped letters. You catch Seungcheol’s form out of the corner of your eye. He writes “active duty soldier” with neat, precise strokes.
Marital status: single. You check it for the last time.
The pen feels heavy when you move it to the next line. When you’re done, you slide the forms back across the counter. The clerk stamps them with the enthusiasm of someone whose soul has slowly been siphoned out by bureaucracy.
“Judge will see you in ten,” she says, pointing down a hallway.
You sit there with the paper ceremony settling around you.
“We should go over the rules,” Seungcheol says quietly. You look at him. “Now?”
“We might not get another chance alone,” he says. “Once we file everything, things move fast. There’s paperwork on base. Admins. My CO.” You grimace. “Okay. Rules.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Number one, we tell as few people as possible. Soonyoung knows. Obviously. Beyond that, we stick to ‘we got married fast, we’re head over heels in love.’ No elaboration.”
You nod. “Agreed.”
“Number two,” he continues, “we keep our finances transparent where they overlap. Housing allowance, medical bills—anything we’re using this marriage for, we both have visibility. No surprises.”
“So no taking your BAH and blowing it on a boat,” you say. He gives you a deadpan look. “Do you want a boat?” he asks.
“I want my mom to live,” you say. “After that, we can talk about boats.”
Something in his expression softens. “Then that’s the priority.” You swallow. “Rule three,” he says. “No real feelings.” You almost laugh.
“Define ‘real,’” you say. “Because I already really want to punch some of your personality traits.” His mouth twitches. “We keep it simple,” he says. “We don’t build… expectations. We don’t promise things we can’t keep. We don’t pretend this is some great love story.” The words land awkwardly.
“So no falling in love,” you say lightly. “Got it.”
“Exactly."
“Rule four,” you add. “If either of us wants out after you’re done with your contract and the money situation is handled, we file. No questions asked. No guilt-tripping.”
He nods. “Rule five: we protect each other. If this goes bad, if someone starts digging, we don’t throw the other person under the bus to save ourselves.”
You look at him for a moment too long. “You really think I’d do that?” you ask, quietly.
“I think people do desperate things when they’re scared. I’m scared. You’re scared. I’d rather say it out loud now than pretend we’re not.”
You sit with that for a second. He’s not wrong.
“Then rule six,” you finalise, surprising yourself. “We don’t lie to each other. We’re already lying to everyone else. We don’t lie in here.”
You tap your chest lightly. His eyes flick down, then back up.
“Agreed.”
The clerk’s voice cuts across the room. “Choi, Seungcheol and…”
She butchers your name halfway through and gives up. You raise your hand. “That’s us.” You stand. Your knees feel less stable than you’d like.
Soonyoung falls into step beside you, vibrating with barely contained commentary.
“Okay, deep breath,” he whispers encouragingly. "Remember: this is fine. Totally normal. People impulsively marry near-strangers all the time. Vegas exists.”
"This isn’t Vegas,” you mutter.
“We can get a fake Elvis after to officiate spiritually,” he says. You elbow him.
The judge is an older woman with kind eyes and a stack of files that suggest she’s seen every version of this before. Her office is plain, a flag in the corner, diplomas on the wall, a faint smell of stale coffee.
She looks up as you enter, glances at the forms in front of her, then at you and Seungcheol. Her gaze lingers on his uniform, then shifts to your thrift-store white.
“Quick one, huh?” she says, tone dry but not unkind.
“Ma’am,” Seungcheol greets, standing a little straighter. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
“You both understand what you’re doing?” she asks. “This is a legal bond. Not a trial subscription.”
You think about saying something flippant, but the words dry up.
“Yes,” you say.
“Yes, ma’am,” Seungcheol echoes. She nods, satisfied enough. “All right then,” she says. “Stand here, please.”
You and Seungcheol move to stand before her desk, side by side. Your hand brushes his. You feel him flinch, then go still. Soonyoung hovers behind you, practically buzzing, his phone out, recording the whole ordeal.
The judge picks up a small sheet of paper, then sets it back down, apparently deciding she doesn’t need it. "Do you, Choi Seungcheol, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to support and care for her, as long as you both shall live?”
You look up at him. He looks down at you.
His eyes are dark and serious and, for a moment, stripped of all the defences he usually keeps between himself and the world.
“I do,” he says.
The words land in your chest with more weight than they have any right to. The judge turns to you.
“And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to support and care for him, as long as you both shall live?”
You swallow.
You think of all the ways this is wrong. The lies it’s built on. The ticking clock of his deployment. The fact that you still don’t know what exactly he’s paying off or who he is as a person. You also think of your mother, of your landlord, of the small measure of control this might give you back.
Of the way he said We protect each other.
You lift your chin.
“I do,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake.
The judge smiles faintly. “Rings?” she asks.
Soonyoung practically lunges forward, producing a small velvet box like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
“I got the classics,” he whispers as he opens it.
Two simple bands. No frills. No diamonds. Just gold, plain and bright. You don’t ask how he paid for them.
You take one ring, your fingers trembling around the cool metal. The judge nods toward Seungcheol. “Repeat after me,” she articulates. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
Seungcheol takes your left hand, his fingers warm against your skin. His thumb brushes your knuckle for half a second, sending a startled jolt up your arm. “With this ring,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “I thee wed.”
He slides the band onto your finger. It fits better than you expected. He must have guessed your size, or maybe Soonyoung did. Either way, the weight of it is shocking. Foreign and familiar all at once.
You clear your throat and take the second ring. His hand is larger than yours, calloused, steady.
“With this ring,” you say, feeling mildly ridiculous and completely overwhelmed, “I thee wed.” The band glides over his knuckle, settles at the base of his finger like it belongs there. You let go of his hand more slowly than you mean to.
The judge watches you both, then nods, picking up her stamp.
“By the authority vested in me,” she says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The stamp comes down with a dull thud on the paperwork.
“You may kiss,” she adds.
You freeze.
You hadn’t thought about this part. Or you had, late last night, when your brain was spinning, but you’d shoved it aside the way you shove aside thoughts about falling and drowning. Now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to shove it. You look up at him.
You see the moment he runs through the same calculations—how this will look if you don’t. How it will look if you do. The judge is watching. The invisible future military admin who might someday scrutinise your wedding file.
His hand comes up, fingers resting lightly at the side of your neck, as if he’s giving you a chance to pull away. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, the touch surprisingly gentle.
Then his mouth is on yours.
He kisses you like he’s trying very hard not to make a mistake, and somehow that makes it worse. Better. His lips are warm, the pressure careful, the angle cautious. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint.
You’re supposed to keep this light. Quick. For show.
You don’t.
You lean into it without meaning to, your fingers curling in the front of his uniform jacket. His breath stutters just a little, and you feel that, too.
For a few seconds, the courtroom disappears. There’s only the taste of him, the steady anchor of his hand, the way your chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like longing.
You pull back first, because someone has to.
His eyes open slowly. They’re darker than before, pupils blown wide.
You don’t know what he sees on your face, but his expression shifts, something soft flickering through before the mask comes back down.
Soonyoung makes a choked noise behind you that sounds suspiciously like “Oh my god.”
You step back, clearing your throat.
“Congratulations,” the judge says, amused. “Sign here and you’re official.”
The rest is ink, signatures, and more stamps.
You sign your name next to his on a paper that says you belong to each other now, in some legal, mechanical way that doesn’t yet match the way it felt when his lips were on yours. When it’s done, you step out of the courthouse into the cold, rings catching the grey light.
Soonyoung throws his arms around both of you at once, nearly knocking you off balance. “You did it,” he says, voice thick with something that might be pride or might be panic. “You idiots actually did it.”
"Language,” you say weakly. “I’m a married woman.”
He snorts.
Seungcheol stands beside you, hand flexing like he’s not sure where to put it now that it’s no longer on your neck, on your back, on the pen signing away his bachelor status.
You look at your hand. At the ring sitting there, simple and bright. You told yourself this was fake. Paper-thin. Transactional.
But as the metal warms against your skin and the ghost of his kiss still tingles on your mouth, you can’t shake the feeling that something about this is very, very real.
You glance up at him.
“Well,” you say, voice lighter than you feel, “congratulations, commander. Try not to regret this too quickly.”
He looks back at you, his own ring glinting as he rubs his thumb over it once. “Too late,” he mutters, but his eyes soften in a way that tells you he’s lying. Maybe you both are.
Either way, the vows are done. The papers are signed.
And whether you like it or not, you’re in this together now.
The restaurant is louder than it has any right to be for a Thursday.
Clinking cutlery. Bursts of laughter that spike over the general murmur. A TV in the corner is playing a game that nobody at your table is really watching. Somewhere, a baby shrieks and is shushed. The air smells like grilled meat, garlic, and something fried that Mingyu has already promised he’s going to order “for the table” and then eat half of himself.
You sit in the middle of it all, at a long pushed-together arrangement of tables near the back—platoon, partners, and soon-to-be-missing chairs. Seungcheol sits beside you on one side, Soonyoung on the other. Your ring glints under the yellow light every time you pick up your glass. It still feels too heavy on your finger, like your hand hasn’t gotten the memo yet. Across from you, Mingyu is mid-story, gesturing with his chopsticks like they’re a prop.
“—and then the instructor looks at him and goes, ‘You are the stupidest brave man I’ve ever met,’” Mingyu says, pointing dramatically at Soonyoung.
“It was a tactical roll,” Soonyoung protests, picking up a piece of steak. “I was providing a distraction.”
“You tripped over your own foot,” Vernon says dryly next to him.
“And yet,” Soonyoung says, “here I am, alive and full of protein. You’re welcome.”
Mingyu’s girlfriend—Nari, sharp-eyed and currently wedged against his side like she’s permanently attached—laughs into her wine. “You didn’t tell me you enrolled in clown school,” she says. “I thought this was the army.”
“Hybrid program,” Vernon murmurs.
You take a sip of your drink, the cold fizz sitting strangely on your tongue. You’ve been aware of the clock all day, ticking louder than everything else. Three days turned into two, then into one. Now it’s the night before.
Tomorrow, they deploy. Tomorrow, you drive to base with him like a proper military wife and watch him walk through a gate you can’t cross. You try not to think about tomorrow. So you count things instead.
The number of chicken wings on the platter in the centre of the table. The number of times Soonyoung has topped off someone’s beer. The number of times your ring has caught the corner of your eye and made your stomach flip.
You feel the warmth of Seungcheol’s shoulder next to yours even when he’s not touching you. His posture is still straight, but something in him is looser. He’s laughed a few times. Genuine laughs, quick and surprised, like they caught him off guard. Every time, you’ve pretended not to notice. You fail.
“So,” Mingyu says suddenly, zeroing in on you. “Tell us about the wedding.” You almost choke on your drink. “What about it?” you ask. He leans forward, eyes bright. “Don’t what-about it me. Last week, you two were arguing in a bar about ‘sticks’ and ‘asses’, and now you show up married? I feel betrayed. I didn’t even get to place bets.”
Nari elbows him. “Don’t bully them,” she scolds. “They’re newlyweds.”
You feel your cheeks heat at the word. Newlyweds. Fake, you remind yourself. On paper only.
Across the table, Seokmin props his chin on his hand, squinting at you over his beer. “Seriously,” he says, already a little pink-cheeked from the alcohol. “I thought you hated each other. Like. Seriously hated. Did we hallucinate that?”
“You saw right,” you say. “He was insufferable.”
“She still is,” Seungcheol says automatically. Heads swivel between you like they’re watching a rally.
“And yet,” Vernon says, “here we are.”
Soonyoung clears his throat, shooting you a quick warning glance that says Careful. You force your shoulders to relax.
“What happened?” Jihoon asks quietly. He’s been mostly silent all night, nursing his drink, eyes tracking each person as they speak. Now his gaze rests on you, steady and sharp. You open your mouth, brain scrambling for a script that doesn’t include the words fraud or panic. “We…”
“We ran into each other again,” Seungcheol says smoothly, picking up the thread. You look at him, startled. He keeps his eyes on the table, voice even.
“After that night at the bar,” he continues, “I went back. To see Soonyoung. She was there. We talked.”
Mingyu snorts. “Pretty sure what I saw that first night wasn’t talking.”
“Argued,” Seungcheol amends. “A lot.” You can’t help the little huff that escapes you. “Still accurate.” He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But, somewhere in the middle of that,” he says, “it… stopped being just arguing.”
The table collectively leans in. “Stopped how?” Seokmin demands. Nari nudges him. “Let them breathe, you gremlin.”
“You gonna tell me you didn’t want to know?” Seokmin asks. She opens her mouth, then closes it, guilty. “…Carry on.”
You should say something. You should contribute to the lie you both agreed to tell. Instead, you find yourself remembering the courthouse—the feel of his fingers at your neck, the press of his mouth on yours, careful and restrained and not nearly as fake as you’d planned. “We didn’t… plan any of it,” you say, which is maybe the truest thing you’ve said all night. “It just… happened fast.”
“Fast,” Vernon repeats, amused. “Very fast,” Jihoon says under his breath, but he doesn’t sound mocking. Just… noting.
“Sometimes you just know,” Nari says wistfully, squeezing Mingyu’s arm. He beams down at her like she hung the moon.
“Exactly,” Seokmin says, raising his glass. “Some people take years. Some people take one badly managed bar fight.”
“Honestly, hyung,” Mingyu says to Seungcheol, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Had what?” Seungcheol asks. Mingyu grins. “The ability to fall in love without scheduling it six months in advance.”
Your spine goes rigid. Love. You nearly drop your utensils. Next to you, you feel Seungcheol go still for half a heartbeat, then relax again in a carefully measured way.
“Love’s not a training schedule,” he says, taking a sip of water. “Even I know that.”
It’s a good line. Smooth. Charming.
You flick your gaze up at him. His expression is the same calm mask, but his hand under the table has curled into a loose fist on his knee. No real feelings, he’d said. Rules. Boundaries. You feel like you’re tap-dancing across a minefield in flip-flops.
Soonyoung leans in closer to your other side, voice low. “You okay?” he murmurs. “Peachy,” you mutter back. “Just lying to the federal government by proxy over appetisers.” He winces. “Think of it as… storytelling with legal consequences.”
“So comforting,” you say. Mingyu, oblivious, leans across the table again. “So what was it?” he asks eagerly. “Like, the moment? The ‘oh shit, I like this person’ moment? Was it at the bar? Was it later?”
You open your mouth, brain a blank slate.
“It was when she called me commander,” Seungcheol says. You stare at him. “That,” he adds, “was definitely the moment.”
The table cracks up.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. You fail. A snort escapes you, and suddenly, the knot in your chest loosens just a fraction. “You were such an ass,” you say. “You started it,” he replies.
“You judged my entire personality based on my job.”
“You insulted my spine.”
“Fairly,” you say.
The conversation shifts. Missions, rumours about where they’ll be sent, and shared complaints about training. Words like rotation and deployment, and if we get back thrown around with forced lightness.
You try to keep your breathing even as the reality of tomorrow presses in again.
At some point, Seokmin starts flirting blatantly with the waitress—a pretty girl with a ponytail and a deadpan sense of humour—calling her an angel every time she refills his glass.
“If you keep this up,” Vernon tells him, “she’s going to spit in your drink.”
“Joke’s on you,” Seokmin says. “I’m into that.” The waitress snorts. “I’m not nearly paid enough for that kind of kink, sweetheart.”
You watch them banter, feeling oddly detached, like you’re watching someone else’s life.
Your glass is empty, and your throat is dry, and the noise at the table is starting to buzz in your ears. You need a drink.
“I’m going to get another drink,” you say, standing.
Seungcheol looks up. “Want me to—”
“Stay,” you say quickly. “I can handle a bar line.”
You make your way through the restaurant toward the bar at the far end. It’s three people deep, a line of bodies pressed against the counter, calling out orders toward the overworked bartender.
You slip into a gap at the corner, resting your elbows on the wood, waiting for a window. The bartender finally slides toward you. “What can I get you?” he yells over the noise. “Gin and tonic,” you shout back. “And a beer—whatever draft’s decent.” He nods, already moving.
You let your gaze drift while you wait, shoulders slowly unclenching.
“Didn’t I see you over there with the soldiers?” The voice comes from your left. You turn your head.
The guy is about your age, maybe a little older, in a button-down shirt that’s trying very hard to be casual and failing. Hair styled, cologne strong. Attractive in a generic way, like a stock photo of “guy at bar.”
He jerks his chin roughly in the direction of your table.
“You’re with them, right?” You blink. “Yeah.”
His gaze drops pointedly to your hand on the bar, where your ring is plainly visible. “And married,” he says.
“Yeah,” you say again, a little tighter. “Very.” He smiles. It’s not particularly friendly. “To one of them?” he asks. “Let me guess. The serious one who looks like he sleeps in a straight line.” Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “Ding, ding, ding,” you reply.
He leans in, crowding your space in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Shame he’s heading out,” he says, voice dropping. “Those guys are always gone more than they’re home. Lonely nights, am I right?”
Your stomach turns. “I’m good,” you say flatly.
He ignores that. “Just saying,” he continues, “once he ships out, you shouldn’t have to wait around bored. Could have some fun in the meantime.”
It takes you a second to process what he’s implying. When it lands, something hot and furious flashes through you so fast it makes your fingers tingle. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Come on,” he says. “You think you’re the first soldier’s wife to—”
“Stop talking,” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice. His brows lift in mock surprise. “Touchy,” he says. “I’m just offering options. You’re married, not dead. And if he’s dumb enough to leave someone like you alone for months at a time—”
“Back off,” you snap.
People nearby glance over, then look away when they realise it’s just another bar conversation getting heated. He smiles a little wider, apparently mistaking your anger for some kind of game. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not asking you to cheat while he’s watching. We can wait until tomorrow.” Your hand curls into a fist on the bar before you consciously decide to do it. “You’re done,” you say, low and lethal. “Walk away.”
He laughs softly. “What’s he gonna do about it from halfway across the world?”
A hand lands on your hip, broad, warm, and very much not halfway across the world. Fingers splay wide, claiming, the weight of that touch as startling as it is grounding. You feel the solid line of a body press in close at your side, heat seeping through the thin fabric of your dress.
“She told you to back off,” a familiar voice says near your ear. Your pulse kicks.
Seungcheol.
He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your temple, close enough that his chest brushes your shoulder when he inhales. His other hand comes up, resting on the bar just past your glass, effectively bracketing you in. The guy’s eyes flick to Seungcheol, then to the hand on your hip, then down to the ring on that hand, back up to the matching band on yours. Whatever bravado he had falters.
“Hey, man,” he says, hands lifting a fraction in mock surrender. “Just talking.”
Seungcheol’s fingers tighten on your hip, just enough that you feel the pressure through muscle and bone. “Didn’t sound like talking,” he says, voice calm but edged with something that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “Sounded like you were disrespecting my wife.”
There it is. My wife.
It lands heavy, like the words are being nailed into the space between you and this stranger so there’s no confusion. The guy laughs weakly.
“Look, it’s not that serious,” he says. “I was just saying—”
“You were just saying she should keep you in mind after I deploy,” Seungcheol cuts in, not raising his voice. “You were just saying she should treat our vows like a suggestion.” The guy’s mouth snaps shut. His gaze flicks to your face, then back to Seungcheol’s, trying to gauge how far he can push this. Seungcheol shifts just enough that his body is between you and the man now, his hand never leaving your hip. You can see the line of his jaw, the steady, contained anger there.
“Here’s what’s going to happen instead,” he says quietly. “You’re going to walk away. You’re not going to look at her again. You’re not going to talk to her again. Because if I hear another word out of your mouth in her direction, I’m not going to be this polite about it.”
There’s nothing theatrical in the way he says it. No raised voice, no puffed-up chest. Just certainty, like he’s stating a fact. For a moment, the guy seems to consider testing him. Then he looks past Seungcheol’s shoulder, toward your table. You risk a glance too.
Mingyu, Seokmin, Vernon, Jihoon, and Soonyoung are all watching. None of them are laughing now. There’s a particular kind of stillness around soldiers when they’re appraising a situation, and right now it’s focused entirely on this man. The guy swallows.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “She can do better.”
“And that’s on her to decide,” Seungcheol says. The guy huffs, tries to muster some dignity, and peels away from the bar, disappearing back into the crowd.
The hum of the restaurant washes back in as he goes. Someone laughs, a glass shatters somewhere, and the bartender curses. Seungcheol doesn’t move his hand from your hip. You realise your shoulders are tense enough to ache. You exhale slowly, trying to get your heartbeat under control.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, but it comes out too soft. He turns his head, eyes finding yours.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
His thumb brushes the fabric of your dress, a small, almost absent-minded sweep that sends heat spiralling through you. “You okay?” he asks. You nod. “I had it.”
"I know you did,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to stand over there and watch some asshole talk about you like that.”
For a moment, you forget you’re supposed to be pretending. You forget this is all part of a script you agreed on. You just feel his hand, the solid warmth of him, the way the words my wife still echo in your chest.
He glances toward the bar mirror, where a slice of your table is visible, a distorted reflection of five men definitely pretending not to stare.
“They’re watching,” he murmurs. “I noticed.”
His lips twitch. Then his hand on the bar shifts, his fingers catching yours where they’re curled around your gin and tonic. Gently, he turns your hand, lifting it just enough that both of your rings flash together in the light. He makes sure anyone looking can see. “Just so there’s no more confusion,” he says quietly.
Before you can come up with a response—sarcastic, deflecting, anything—he leans in. His mouth finds yours.
It’s not tentative this time. Not a quick brush, not an almost-accidental press. He kisses you like he means to erase any lingering idea that guy might have had of you being available. You gasp softly against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, tilting his head and brushing his tongue inside. Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric. You feel the steady thud of his heart under your palm, the heat of his chest. His hand at your hip tightens, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush.
The world narrows to the slide of his mouth, the faint taste of whatever he was drinking, the way he makes a low sound in his throat when you respond without thinking, your tongue brushing against his.
He doesn’t drag it out. It’s not obscene. But it’s not demure either.
It’s enough that there’s no mistaking it for anything but what it is: a claim, a message, a very clear she’s with me painted in the space between you.
When he finally pulls back, your lungs feel a little short on air.
His eyes open slowly. “Just making sure everyone got the point,” he says quietly. “You could’ve just waved,” you manage, but your voice is hoarse around the edges. His gaze flicks back to your mouth, then up.
“This works better,” he says.
Your heart is doing a chaotic drum solo in your chest. You desperately wish you could blame the drink.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse quietly. He huffs a tiny laugh.
“Enjoying not having random guys hit on my wife?” he says. “Sure.”
There it is again. Wife.
“You’re laying it on thick.”
He shrugs one shoulder, the motion barely jostling you. “Might as well make it convincing,” he says. “They’re still watching.”
You glance back toward the table.
He’s right.
Mingyu and Seokmin are craning their necks like vultures. Nari has both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide. Vernon is pretending not to look and failing. Jihoon watches, expression unreadable. Soonyoung’s brows are halfway to his hairline, a mixture of holy shit and please don’t combust on his face.
You turn back toward the bar, cheeks hot. “You’re evil,” you mutter. He smiles, small and crooked. “You married me,” he says quietly.
You grip the edge of the bar with your free hand, trying to steady yourself. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” you remind him softly. His smile fades. “I know.”
You glance at his chest, the faint outline of his dog tags under his shirt.
“We should get back,” you say, before the moment can twist into something you’re not ready to name. He nods.
He grabs the beer in one hand, your hand in the other. You feel the touch all the way up to your shoulder. You walk back to the table together.
The conversation dips as you approach, then springs back to life with exaggerated casualness.
“We were not staring,” Seokmin says immediately, which is exactly what someone who was staring would say. “Totally normal amount of staring,” Mingyu agrees. “Very respectful.” Nari is still half-hiding behind her hands.
“You guys are gross,” she says. “I love it.”
Soonyoung meets your eyes over the table. There’s something complicated there—relief, maybe. Worry. A hint of Is this still pretend? You don’t have an answer for him.
You sit down, and Seungcheol settles beside you. The bench is narrow; your thighs press together, your shoulders brushing with every small movement. He rests his arm on the back of the bench behind you. It’s an easy gesture on the surface. Couples do it all the time without thinking.
But you feel the warmth of his forearm along the back of your shoulders, the ghost of his hand close enough to curve around you again if he wanted.
You lean back. Just a little. Enough that your shoulder blades meet his arm, enough that the contact runs from his wrist to your spine.
It feels… weirdly safe there. Like a makeshift anchor in a too-loud room.
Seungcheol’s fingers brush the back of your shoulder, a barely there touch, but you feel it. You fix your gaze on your plate, trying to breathe around the strange tightness in your chest.
Tomorrow, he walks into war.
Tonight, for a few borrowed hours in a noisy restaurant, you let yourself pretend that this is just what married people do.
The motel looks like every other cheap place near a base—you can practically smell the discount military rate from the parking lot.
Flickering vacancy sign. Pale yellow doors lined up beside each other. A soda machine humming loudly beside the stairwell. The kind of place where the beds are too soft and the curtains never quite close all the way.
You stand in the cool night air with the others, the leftovers of dinner making everything fuzzy around the edges.
Seokmin is still hanging on the waitress—Jia, you learned—arm slung around her shoulders like he’s afraid she’ll blow away if he lets go. She seems more amused than bothered, steering him in the right direction every time he veers off-course.
“This is a terrible idea,” she’s saying, laughing. “I have work in the morning.”
“I’m going to war in the morning,” Seokmin replies, scandalised. “What you’re doing is patriotism.”
Mingyu and Nari are somewhere between walking and making out, his hand in her hair, her fingers hooked in his belt loop as they stumble toward their room, giggling. Vernon is holding Soonyoung’s jacket while Jihoon half-carries, half-drags him in the vague direction of their shared door. “I can walk,” Soonyoung insists, feet doing absolutely nothing to prove that. “I’m a soldier. I have legs.”
“Your legs clocked out an hour ago,” Jihoon says, breathless. “Left, hyung. Other left.”
You and Seungcheol trail at the back of the group.
His hand is wrapped around yours, fingers laced tight. It started as logistics—crowded sidewalk, people weaving through—but he hasn’t let go, and you haven’t pulled away. The metal of his ring is warm against your skin.
“You sure you want to stay out here?” you murmur, watching Soonyoung trip over absolutely nothing and laugh about it. “Last night with them before we deploy,” he says quietly. “I’ll take the chaos.”
You steal a glance up at him. He looks like someone trying very hard to memorise everything.
Rooms get assigned in a haphazard blend of planning and tipsiness.
Mingyu and Nari vanish behind a door with very little preamble.
Seokmin and Jia disappear into another, his voice floating back down the walkway. “I’m gonna marry you too if I come back as pretty as I am now,” he declares. “You’re cut off,” Jia replies while laughing, the door clicking shut behind her. Jihoon finally manages to get Soonyoung upright long enough to shove him through their doorway.
“Hydrate,” Jihoon orders.
“Love you too,” Soonyoung says, promptly face-planting onto one of the beds. Their door closes.
The walkway suddenly feels quieter. More exposed.
You and Seungcheol stand in front of the last door, your keycard in his free hand, your joined hands still between you. You look at the numbers screwed into the frame. You should say something casual—some throwaway joke about bad mattresses or thin walls. Instead, the only words that come out are: “So.”
He huffs a faint breath that’s almost a laugh. “So,” he echoes.
He swipes the keycard. The lock clicks. He lets your hand go only long enough to push the door open and flip on the light. You step inside first. And stop. One room. One bed.
You stare at it, then at him, then back at it like maybe a second look will conjure a second mattress into existence. It doesn’t.
“Of course,” you mutter.
He closes the door behind you with a soft click, taking in the space with a quick glance. Small table, two chairs, dresser, TV, bathroom off to the side. One bed. You drop your bag by the chair and cross your arms.
“I’ll take the floor,” he says immediately. You swing around. “Absolutely not.” He blinks. “It’s fine.”
“You’re deploying tomorrow,” you say, stabbing a finger in his direction. “You’re not sleeping on questionable motel carpet on your last night of comfort for God knows how long.”
“I’ve slept in worse places,” he says. “And you will again,” you shoot back. “Which is exactly why you’re not starting early.”
His jaw tightens, that familiar set to his mouth. “I’m not putting you on the floor,” he says. “I’m not that kind of husband.”
The word punches through you—husband—so you do what you always do with feelings that arrive too fast: you get sarcastic. “Well, congratulations,” you say, throwing your hands up. “You married someone who also refuses to be that kind of wife.”
You both glower at each other for a second, the bed between you like some ridiculous, lumpy battlefield. “We can share,” you say finally, more annoyed than shy. “It’s not like you’re going to catch feelings in your sleep, commander.” His eyes flash. “That’s not the point,” he says.
“Then what is the point?” you demand. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re bending over backwards to make this complicated so you don’t have to admit this whole thing is weird for you too.” His posture goes even straighter.
“It is weird,” he says evenly. “I’m just trying to be respectful.”
“Respectful would be telling me what you’re actually thinking,” you snap. “You’re getting on a plane tomorrow to go into a place where people will be actively trying to kill you, and somehow you’re calmer about that than you are about sharing a mattress.”
“I’m not calm,” he says through his teeth. “Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “All day you’ve been—” you mimic his posture, stiff and upright, voice pitched low—“‘It’s fine, it’s under control, it’s a transaction.’” You drop the act, staring at him. “Nothing is under control,” you say. “Not for me. Definitely not for you. And you’re acting like this is just another box to tick.” His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, voice rising. “You want me to fall apart? To panic? To make it harder for everyone tomorrow?”
“I want you to be a person,” you fire back. “Not a walking checklist. You’re allowed to be scared, Seungcheol. You’re allowed to be pissed, or sad, or anything other than whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely at his whole body, as if that sums it up. He exhales sharply, like you’ve punched the air out of him. “You think I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. You wait. He paces once, twice, then whirls back to face you.
“I’m fucking terrified,” he snaps. It lands in the room. You don’t move. He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising and falling.
“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he says, words tumbling out now, rough around the edges. “I’m terrified. Happy? I have no idea what we’re flying into. I don’t know if I’ll get all of them back. I don’t know if I’ll get back. I don’t know if I’ve done enough, if I am enough, if I’ve paid enough for all the shit I’ve done before this.” His hands lift, then drop, helpless.
“I can’t control any of it,” he says. “And if I let myself sit in that for more than five minutes, I won’t be able to do the job I’m supposed to do. So yeah, I’m calm. Because the alternative is having a panic attack in front of my team right before I lead them into a war zone.” His voice cracks on the last two words.
War zone.
For a heartbeat, you see past the uniform, past the posture, past the way he sizes up every room he walks into. You see a man standing on a cliff edge, staring down at something vast and dark and utterly unknowable.
Your anger evaporates.
You cross the space between you in two steps. He flinches like he expects another argument. Instead, you reach for his hands, prying his fingers open, wrapping yours around them. They’re shaking.
“Hey,” you say softly. His eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re darker than you’ve ever seen, pupils blown wide. “Hey,” you repeat. “Breathe with me.”
He swallows hard.
You lift his hands, press one to your chest, over your heart. Press your own palm flat against his ribs, feeling the fast, shallow rise and fall.
“In,” you say quietly, exaggerating your inhale. “Out.”
He tries. It’s rough at first, breaths catching. You keep your gaze on his, steady and unflinching. “Again,” you murmur. “In. Out.”
Slowly, his breathing starts to sync with yours. Not perfect, not calm, but less like he’s about to bolt out of his own skin. His thumb twitches against your sternum, like he’s surprised by the beat under his palm. “You’re allowed to be scared,” you say, voice low. “You just don’t have to do it alone.” Something in his expression crumples, just for a second. He looks away, jaw tight, like he’s ashamed to have said anything at all. You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be the commander right now,” you add, softer. “You can just be… you.”
For a long moment, you stand there like that—hands on each other’s hearts, breath slowly evening out, the hum of the motel air conditioner the only other sound.
Then, quietly: “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “You barely know me.” You huff a faint laugh, the sound wobbling. “I married you, didn’t I?” you say. “I might as well act like it.” The corner of his mouth lifts, brittle but real. “This isn’t what you signed up for,” he says.
“Neither did you,” you reply. “And yet, here we are.”
His hands have stopped shaking. You become abruptly aware of how close you’re standing, of the warmth of him under your palm, of the way his thumb is still resting against your collarbone.
Something shifts in the air. He leans in, just a little. “You’re going to make this really hard to walk away from, riot,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches. “That sounds like a problem for Future Us,” you say. “Tonight… I just don’t want you to go to sleep scared and alone.” His eyes darken.
He moves before you can say anything else.
His hand slips from your chest to your jaw, fingers spreading warm along your cheek. The other slides to your waist, drawing you closer. He pauses there for half a second—enough time for you to say no, to step back, to put the rules you agreed on between you like a shield.
You don’t. You tilt your chin up instead.
He kisses you.
It’s different from the kiss at the bar. Different from the courthouse. There’s no audience this time, no need to make it convincing. It’s just him and you and the weight of what tomorrow might bring pressing in on you both.
He kisses you like he’s been holding back for days, maybe longer. Like some tight, coiled thing in him has finally snapped. His mouth is warm and sure, angling perfectly over yours. His hand at your jaw tilts your head, deepening the kiss, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone.
A small sound escapes you—stupidly needy, embarrassingly honest. His fingers tighten at your waist in reply.
You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. The buttons pop against your knuckles. He’s solid under your palms, broad chest rising and falling faster now. He walks you backwards gently until the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed.
You break the kiss with a soft gasp, looking up at him. There’s a question in his gaze, one last chance to stop. You answer it by pulling him down with you as you sit.
The mattress dips under your combined weight. You scoot back, he follows, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still firm at your waist.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough. You nod, throat tight. “I don’t want to think about tomorrow,” you whisper. “I just want to feel you.”
Something in him breaks.
He bends to kiss you again, deeper this time, finally giving up on restraint. His hand slides from beside your head to your jaw and down the column of your throat, fingertips trailing over the rapid pulse there before skimming along your collarbone.
Then he finds the hem of your dress.
His fingers curl in the fabric and lift, knuckles grazing the back of your thigh as he pushes it higher. Calluses drag lightly over your skin, rough in a way that makes you shiver, every little scrape sending sparks up your spine. He pauses just below the curve of your hip, giving you a second to protest. You arch into him instead, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and dragging him closer.
He takes the answer for what it is.
The dress slides up, up, a slow rustle gathering around your waist. Cool air hits your bare legs; his palms follow in its wake, framing your hips like he’s settling you exactly where he wants you.
You let out a small, involuntary moan against his mouth. He swallows it down like a man starved.
Clothes become a blur then—tugged, shrugged, peeled away in fragments. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, hair mussed, chest rising and falling fast. You stare for a second, taking in the hard lines of muscle, the faint scatter of old scars, the chain of his dog tags glinting against his skin.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, breathless.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to paint me,” he says.
You almost laugh. It comes out as a shaky exhale when his hands find your dress again and pull.
You lift your arms, letting him strip it off in one motion. It lands somewhere behind him with a soft thud. You’re suddenly half-naked under the too-bright motel light, and for a heartbeat, you think self-consciousness will crash over you. It doesn’t.
Because he looks at you like you’re something holy, not a single hint of mockery in his face. His gaze drags slowly from your face down your throat, lingering on the swell of your chest, the curve of your waist, the bare length of your legs. His throat works.
“You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way he exhales says enough.
Somewhere in there, you manage to toe off your shoes before they become a hazard. He fumbles with his belt, and you help, fingers brushing his, both of you laughing breathlessly when the buckle catches.
Then there’s nothing left between you but skin and underwear, and then—careful, uncoordinated—that goes too.
Skin meets skin, warm and shocking.
You suck in a breath as your bare chest presses against his. The heat of him seeps into you where your stomachs touch, where your thighs slide together. He makes a low sound in his throat, like the contact physically hurts and heals him all at once.
He’s careful, even with need simmering just under the surface. Every movement is deliberate, giving you room to pull back, to change your mind. His hand skims down your side, fingers resting on your hip, not pushing, just asking.
You answer with your body—hooking your leg over his, tilting your pelvis up to meet his, nails biting lightly into his shoulders as you clutch at him.
He groans quietly, the sound breaking against your mouth.
For a while, everything narrows to the map of your bodies.
His mouth finds yours over and over, kisses rolling from slow to urgent and back again. Your hands explore the planes of his back, the flex of muscle under your palms as he shifts his weight. You trace the dip of his spine, the ridge of his shoulder blades, the tense line of his neck.
He trails kisses along your jaw, down the side of your throat, each press of his lips a question: Here? And here? And here? You answer with soft gasps, with the way your fingers tighten in his hair when he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear.
He keeps going, a slow, unhurried line down the centre of you—across your collarbone, over your sternum. When his mouth closes around the swell of your breast, you gasp, hand flying to the back of his head. He doesn’t rush, lips and tongue drawing lazy patterns that make your toes curl, the ache low in your belly sharpening into something insistent.
“Seungcheol,” you breathe. You’re not even sure what you’re asking for.
He hums against your skin, the vibration making you shiver.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, words feathering over the damp skin he’s just kissed. “You,” you say, without thinking.
He lifts his head, eyes dark, breath unsteady.
“You already have me,” he says, and there’s a rough honesty in it that steals your breath more than his mouth ever could.
His hand wanders lower, fingers sliding along the outside of your thigh, then in, nudging your knees apart with gentle insistence. He moves slowly, watching your face, giving you a chance to shake your head, to close your legs, to say no. You don’t.
You let him coax you open, heat pooling and throbbing where his touch is heading. His fingers finally slip between your thighs, and you cry out softly, the sound punched out of you at the first real, focused touch to your core.
He works you open with a care that makes your eyes sting, testing pressure and rhythm, paying attention to every twitch, every gasp. Two of his fingers slip inside your walls while his thumb circles your clit slowly. His digits scissor slowly inside you, curling against your walls on every retreat. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, as if he’s concentrating like this is a mission briefing and not you shaking apart under his hand.
“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “So soft.”
You cling to him, nails dragging down his back as his fingers continue penetrating you, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. Your hips start to move on their own, chasing the feeling, grinding your folds helplessly against his palm.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
Your world telescopes down to his hand and your own stuttering breath. You’re right there, teetering on the edge, every muscle pulled taut.
And then you grab his wrist. “Wait,” you gasp.
He freezes immediately, pulling back like he’s been burned.
“Too much?” he asks, voice tight. “Did I—”
You shake your head frantically, dragging his hand up to rest over your pounding heart instead, his soaked fingers cooling your heated skin.
“I need you,” you say, the words ripped out of some raw place inside you. “Not just your hand. I need you.”
Understanding flickers across his face, chased by something almost like fear and something very much like hunger.
“Baby,” he says quietly, the word slipping out before he can catch it. His jaw flexes. “Are you sure?”
The term of endearment hits you like another touch. You bite your lip, nodding hard.
“I’m sure,” you whisper. “Please.”
He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s steadying himself. When he opens them again, they’re blazing.
He reaches blindly for his discarded pants, fumbling one-handed until he finds his wallet. You watch as he digs out a small foil packet, tears it open with more care than you’ve ever seen anyone give anything, and takes a moment to roll the condom on, jaw clenched.
Then he’s back over you, settling between your thighs, his weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One of his hands finds yours, fingers lacing tight, anchoring you both.
“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You look up at him—at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his lips are pressed together, at the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
“Don’t stop,” you say. “Don’t you dare.”
He exhales, shaky, and then there’s no more talking.
You feel the slow, careful push of his cock lining up with your entrance, the first gentle press as the head starts to slide in. Your breath stutters; your free hand clutches at his bicep, fingers digging into the hard muscle.
He moves inch by inch, pausing when you tense, giving you time to adjust. His forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut.
“You okay?” he pants.
It’s a lot—the stretch, the fullness—but it’s him, and somehow that makes the shock of it sweeter. You nod, forcing your muscles to relax. “Keep going.”
He does, easing forward until he’s fully seated, your bodies fitted tightly together.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You just breathe, learning the feel of his cock inside of you, the way your body makes room, the way the burn slowly melts into something that makes your toes curl.
“You feel—” He cuts himself off with a low groan. You smile, shaky but real. “So do you,” you manage. He laughs once, breathless, then starts to move.
At first, it’s slow—testing, adjusting, shallow rolls of his hips as he watches your face for any stray flicker of discomfort. When your soft gasps turn to needy little whines and your nails sink into his back in encouragement instead of warning, he lets himself go a little more.
The rhythm builds, your hips finding a shared pace. You wrap your legs around his waist, calves pushing him deeper, your heels digging into the small of his back.
“God, you’re going to kill me,” he mutters, voice ragged.
“Terrible last words,” you whisper back.
He huffs another laugh, but it dissolves into a groan when your walls clench around him, your own pleasure spiralling higher again, faster this time. He kisses you through it—mouth hot and insistent, swallowing every sound you make. When the angle shifts just right and a sharp bolt of pleasure shoots through you, you break the kiss with a startled cry.
He hears it, adjusts, chases it again and again until you’re panting.
“Cheol,” you gasp, arms winding around his neck. “Need—”
"I know,” he says, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it takes him not to just lose himself. Then he’s pulling back slightly, shifting his weight.
“Come here,” he murmurs. “Sit up.”
You blink, dazed.
He pulls back just far enough to change the angle, his abs tightening as he brings you with him. One arm bands around your waist, guiding you, the other steady on your hip. You follow his lead, moving with him until you’re upright in his lap, still joined, your knees bracketing his thighs.
The shift makes you gasp as he settles deeper inside you, the new angle sending a sharp bolt of pleasure through your core. You clutch at him on instinct, your hands flying to his shoulders; his grip lands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you steady.
“You’re okay?” he asks again, voice hoarse.
You nod, swallowing hard.
“Move with me,” he says softly. You do.
You start slowly, rocking your hips, testing how your body feels with him filling you like this. He groans low in his chest, head tipping back for a moment.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Just like that, baby. You’re so good.”
The praise hits you almost as hard as the pleasure.
You find a rhythm quickly—every slide down makes you feel stretched and impossibly full; every drag up makes you chase it again.
He meets you halfway, guiding your hips and lifting his slightly to match your movements. The friction is perfect, unbearable. Your hands slip from his shoulders to his chest, fingers splaying over his dog tags.
He ducks his head, mouth finding your collarbone, then lower. When his lips close around the curve of your nipple, you gasp, hips stuttering.
“Cheol, please,” you whimper.
He doesn’t answer with words, just sucks lightly, teeth scraping just enough to make you jolt, then soothing the sting with his tongue. He lavishes attention on you there, one hand still moving your hips, the other sliding up your back, holding you closer, like he can’t stand the thought of you even an inch away.
The combination—his mouth, his hands, the steady thrust of him inside you—pushes you closer and closer to that edge.
“I—” You can’t even form the sentence. He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours. “I’ve got you,” he says, low and fierce. “Let go.”
You do.
It hits you like a wave—no sharp snap, just a swell that rises and rises until it breaks over you, pleasure flooding every limb. You cry out, clinging to him, burying your face in his neck as your body tightens and then unravels around him. He holds you through it, murmuring things you can’t fully catch into your hair.
You’re dimly aware of him still moving, slower now, as if he’s trying to draw every last tremor out of you. Then his rhythm falters, his grip on you tightens, and he’s following you over that edge, breath knocking out of him in a rough groan against your shoulder. You feel the tension snap through him, the way his muscles lock and then give, his whole body shuddering under your hands as he comes.
For a long moment, you stay locked in the embrace.
You breathe, chests rising and falling together, hearts pounding out an uneven, shared rhythm. Eventually, sensibility—and gravity—start to creep back in. He shifts, careful and gentle, easing you off him and guiding you down onto the mattress. He deals with the condom quickly, disposing of it in the bathroom, then returns to crawl back into bed, moving softly like he’s afraid of spooking you now that the haze has lifted.
You don’t give him the chance.
You reach for him, tugging him down beside you. You end up half on top of him, your leg hooked over his, your cheek pressed to his chest.
His skin is warm, slightly damp. You can feel his heart still racing under your ear, slower than before but not yet calm. His hand finds the small of your back, fingers spreading wide, holding you there. Not possessive, exactly. Like a promise.
You trace idle patterns on his shoulder with one fingertip, eyelids heavy.
“You okay?” you murmur, echoing his question from earlier.
He hums, low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your cheek.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “For the first time this week… yeah.”
You smile against his skin, eyes drifting shut.
Sleep pulls at you, slow and inevitable, wrapping around the edges of your exhausted body. You fight it for a second, wanting to stay awake and memorise the feel of him beneath you. As you drift, hovering at the edge, you feel him press a barely-there kiss to the top of your head.
You fall asleep like that—tucked against him, his arm around you, finally lying still for a few stolen hours before morning comes.
You wake up to cold sheets and the hollow shape of where his body should be.
For a second, you think you dreamt it all—the courthouse, the restaurant, the hotel room, his hands, his mouth, the way he’d held you.
Then you shift, and everything aches in ways that are very real.
The clock on the nightstand glows a harsh 04:12 in the dark. The space beside you is empty, a dent in the mattress cooling. Your heart does an ugly little lurch.
You push yourself up on your elbows, squinting in the dim light leaking through the crack in the curtains. The bathroom door is open, light off. The chair in the corner is empty. His bag is still near the wall, neatly zipped. Panic flickers—stupid, instinctive.
Then, the door lock clicks.
You jerk your head toward it just as Seungcheol steps inside.
He’s in a T-shirt and running shorts, damp with sweat, hair pushed back and darker at the temples. His chest rises and falls too fast, breath still coming in sharp pulls. He closes the door quietly, like he’s trying not to wake you. Too late.
“You went running?” you croak. His head snaps up.
He sees you awake—sees the rumpled sheets, the way you’re clutching them to your chest—and something flickers across his face. You can’t name it before it’s gone, replaced by the familiar, controlled blankness.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You sit up a little straighter, tucking your knees under you.
“You could’ve… said something,” you mumble. “I woke up and you were gone.”
He looks away, dropping the key on the table with a soft clack.
“Didn’t want to bother you,” he says. “You were asleep.”
It shouldn’t sting. You told yourself this was a one-night suspension of reality, a mercy for both your frayed nerves. But there’s a part of you that woke up reaching for him and found nothing and now wants to pick a fight just so you don’t have to admit how that felt. “You ‘didn’t want to bother me’ by existing in the same room?” you say, sharper than you mean to. His shoulders tense at your tone.
“I needed to clear my head,” he says, tone clipped. “Running helps.”
You study his profile—tight jaw, muscle ticking in his cheek, eyes fixed on some neutral point near the door instead of looking at you. Your chest tightens. “Right,” you say. “So that’s the plan? Get your head clear, pretend it didn’t happen?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you’re doing,” you shoot back. “You couldn’t even stand to lie next to me for one night without bolting.” The words come out harsh, raw and too honest. He scrubs a hand over his face, streaking sweat across his brow.
“I leave in a few hours,” he says. “I needed to get my head back in the game. What happened—” He breaks off, searching for words that don’t exist. You feel your stomach drop. Here it comes.
“What happened was us trying to breathe for five minutes,” he says finally, carefully. “We were scared. We’re still scared. But it doesn’t change what this is.” You blink. “What this is,” you repeat, voice going flat.
“A deal,” he says, and you can hear the way he hates the word even as he clings to it. “An agreement. We said we’d keep it simple. No...complications.”
No real feelings. You hear it even if he doesn’t say it. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “So we had sex, and your first instinct is to file it under ‘complication’ and pretend it was… what? A stress relief exercise?” He winces. “That’s not—”
“You know what?” you cut in, the hurt buzzing hot under your skin. “Save it. I get it.”
You throw the covers back and swing your legs over the side of the bed, stomping past him to your bag. “You were clear from the beginning, right?” you continue, words tumbling out now that the dam has cracked. “Fake marriage, strict rules, no feelings. Congratulations, Commander, message received.”
“Riot—” Your laugh is brittle. “Don’t fucking call me that right now.”
You grab your clothes with shaking hands and head for the bathroom. He moves to follow.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, reaching out like he might catch your arm and then thinking better of it. “I’m trying not to drag you deeper into this before I—”
“Before you get on a plane and possibly don’t come back?” you snap, whirling around. “Newsflash: I’m already in this. I signed papers. I watched you put a ring on my finger. I married you.” He looks stricken for half a heartbeat. Then the shutters slam down behind his eyes again. “I’m trying to make it easier,” he says quietly. “For you. For me. For when I’m gone.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job.”
You step into the bathroom and slam the door before he can answer.
The lock clicks under your thumb with a finality that doesn’t match how your throat feels—tight and thick and stupidly close to tears. You brace your hands on the sink and let the motel’s harsh fluorescent light strip away any illusions you have left about looking okay.
You look wrecked.
You splash water on your face, then lean your forehead against the mirror, breathing through the tightness in your chest. On the other side of the door, it’s quiet. You don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed.
At exactly 6 o’clock, the airfield is a vast open space.
The transport plane squats on the tarmac, a hulking grey thing with its ramp lowered, engines ticking as they idle. It looks too big and not big enough at the same time.
You stand just inside the designated family area—a strip of painted line where you have to stop and they have to walk away. Your hands are stuffed into the pockets of your jacket, thumb worrying at the cool band of your ring.
Seungcheol stands beside you in full uniform and gear, helmet clipped to his vest, pack slung over one shoulder. His dog tags glint once as he shifts. He’s all straight lines and discipline again, every trace of last night packed away behind neatly sealed compartments. He’s been quiet since you left the motel. You can feel his awareness of you—the way his gaze flicks over sometimes, landing on your profile and then snapping back to the plane, to the men, to the checklist in his head.
There’s a glacier between you now. Cold, wide, impenetrable.
Everyone seems to notice without saying it, too wrapped up in their own goodbyes.
Mingyu is a few meters away, arms wrapped around Nari like he’s trying to memorise the feel of her. She’s crying openly, face pressed into his chest. He keeps kissing her hair, murmuring things you can’t quite make out, his own eyes suspiciously glossy.
Seokmin is there with Jia, who’s still in her restaurant clothes under a puffy jacket, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. He keeps cracking bad jokes, his grin wobbling every time she laughs, and then immediately starts tearing up again.
Vernon’s parents stand on his left—a tall man with kind eyes and a woman who keeps dabbing at her face with a tissue, trying to smile through it. Vernon hugs them both, long and awkward and heartfelt, his usual dry humour stripped back to something softer.
Jihoon’s sister clings to him like she’s twelve again instead of whatever age she is now, berating him quietly between sniffles. He lets her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, cheek pressed to the top of her head.
There’s so much love in the air it almost hurts to breathe.
Tearful, hopeful, terrified love.
You feel out of sync. You’re wearing the wife badge, the ring, the “dependant” wristband they stuck on you at the gate. You’re standing where the spouses, and the girlfriends, and the families stand. But the man beside you is staring straight ahead.
Say something, you think. Anything. He adjusts the strap on his pack instead.
The PA system crackles overhead, announcing boarding times and something about final checks. The plane’s engines whine a little louder. “Boarding in ten!” someone calls.
Hugs tighten all around you. Voices rise, overlapping. You swallow, turning to face him. His eyes find yours immediately.
For a second, the glacier thins enough that you can see the strain underneath—the fear, the regret, the thousand things he doesn’t know how to say without making your last minutes together harder.
You almost cave. You almost step forward, grab his vest, pull him down and kiss him goodbye because that’s what everyone else is doing, because it would be easier to drown in the feeling for one second than stand here trying to pretend it’s fine.
Instead, you pat his shoulder. “Don’t die, Commander. I’m not about to become a tragic war widow for a marriage that doesn’t even come with good furniture.” His mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am… riot.”
It lands somewhere halfway between a joke and an apology.
You both stand there for a heartbeat longer, suspended in the space between what you want to do and what you’re willing to let yourself do. Then someone is calling his name. Officers are gesturing. Men are starting to file toward the plane in staggered lines, packs bouncing, boots thudding against concrete.
He takes a step back.
Now, some panicked part of you insists. If you don’t do it now—
You don’t move.
He gives you one last look—long, lingering, like he’s trying to photograph you with his eyes and take the image with him. Then he turns and walks away.
You watch his back as he joins the line, as he blends into the green and khaki and gear. You watch him climb the ramp and disappear inside the belly of the plane.
Your ring feels heavier the moment he’s gone, like someone added weight to the band when you weren’t looking. You press your thumb against it, hard enough to hurt. Around you, the goodbyes taper into sniffles and silence. The engines whine louder. You’re still staring at the ramp when a familiar voice cracks through the noise like a poorly timed fireworks blast.
“Hey!” Soonyoung, already halfway up the ramp, spins around and cups his hands around his mouth. “Before we go, everyone give it up for the newlyweds!”
Your entire soul exits your body. Heads swivel. A few people whoop immediately. Someone claps. You freeze. “No, no, no,” you mutter, instinctively stepping back, trying to make yourself smaller. It’s useless. Mingyu lights up like a floodlight. “That’s right!” he yells, joining in. “Choi-ssi’s not leaving without giving his wife a proper send-off!”
Traitors. All of them.
You want the tarmac to open up and swallow you. Instead, you get Mingyu and Soonyoung sprinting down the ramp and vanishing into the plane’s interior. For a second, nothing happens. Then they reappear, flanking a very confused, very manhandled Seungcheol. Mingyu has him by one arm, Soonyoung by the other, both grinning like hyenas. “Come on, hyung,” Mingyu crows. “Don’t be shy.”
“Stop resisting the narrative!” Soonyoung adds. You want to strangle him.
The small crowd—family, girlfriends, wives, a few curious base personnel—starts to laugh, to cheer, to clap. Phones appear, because of course they do. You’re fairly sure your soul is now somewhere over the Pacific.
Seungcheol looks flustered. It would be funny if your heart weren’t currently trying to escape through your throat.
He digs his heels in, protesting under his breath, but he’s outnumbered and out-committed. Soonyoung gives him one last shove that sends him stumbling forward, straight toward you. The momentum carries him right into your space. You catch yourself with a hand on his chest. He catches you with both arms, one around your waist, the other automatically supporting your back. Hooting erupts.
“Kiss your wife, Cheol!” someone yells.
“Don’t be shy!” Jia calls.
You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. His grip on you tightens just a fraction. Up close, you can see the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his throat bobs. His eyes search yours, frantic and apologetic and something else you don’t have time to examine. “We don’t have to—” he starts under his breath. You huff, shaky. “We kind of do,” you whisper back, glancing around at the expectant faces. You feel him inhale, slow and deep, as if bracing himself.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “On three.”
"You’re not jumping out of a plane,” you hiss. “It’s just a kiss.”
He gives you a look that says for you maybe and then there’s no more room for commentary. He cups your face in both hands, fingers warm against your skin, and kisses you. The crowd erupts.
At first, it is performative. You tell yourself that as his mouth moves against yours—this is for them, for the story, for the file that will show a happy couple at deployment. Your hands land on his vest in what is supposed to be a casual, photogenic hold.
Then he makes a small, helpless sound against your mouth, and it stops feeling like acting at all. You feel yourself melt. Your fingers curl in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a little closer. His thumbs stroke along your jaw, a subtle, aching tenderness at odds with the rowdy cheers in the background.
For a few seconds, you forget everything. You forget about the plane waiting, the war on the other side of the sky. There is only the warmth of his lips and the way your heart stutters and then finds a new rhythm to keep time with his. You kiss him back like it’s natural. Like this is what you do. Like you’ve been doing it for years.
Then the memory of his face in that motel room flashes behind your eyes.
You pull back. It’s not dramatic. You don’t shove him. You just ease out of the kiss and take half a step back, enough that his hands slide from your face to your shoulders. The crowd is still cheering, a few wolf-whistles cutting through the early morning air. You force a grin you don’t feel and roll your eyes up at him. “There,” you say, loud enough for the nearest onlookers to hear. “Now go and make your wife proud.”
There’s laughter around you. His eyes, though, flicker with something like hurt before he tamps it down. “I’ll do my best,” he says quietly.
The ramp call comes again, more urgent. “We have to go,” someone shouts.
Mingyu jogs past, Nari cupping her hands to her mouth as she yells something you can’t catch. Vernon squeezes his parents one last time before trotting toward the plane. Jia kisses Seokmin so hard he stumbles, both of them laughing through their tears.
Soonyoung hangs back a second. He steps into you, arms wrapping around you in a hug that’s all warmth and familiarity and pain. You squeeze him just as hard, burying your face in his shoulder.
“Bring him back,” you whisper. He nods against your hair. “I’ll drag his stubborn ass home myself,” he murmurs back. “And hey—” He leans back enough to look you in the eye. “Don’t let him make you smaller than you are,” he says quietly, just for you. “He’s scared. You scare him. That’s his problem. Two sides of the same dog tag, remember?” Your throat burns. “You’re not helping,” you say, voice thick.
He grins, eyes bright. “I never do,” he says, then kisses your cheek and bolts for the ramp before you can cry.
You watch him go, watch him clap a hand to Seungcheol’s shoulder as he passes, watch the two of them exchange a look you can’t read from here. Then they’re inside. The ramp starts to lift with a mechanical whine, sealing them in.
You stand there with the others as the plane’s engines roar to life, the ground vibrating under your feet. Wind whips at your hair and jacket. Someone to your left is crying openly; someone else is muttering a prayer under their breath. Beside you, Nari sniffles loudly.
A second later, her hand finds your arm, fingers wrapping around your sleeve like she needs an anchor. You look down. Her mascara is smudged, nose red, lower lip chewed raw. “I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “I just—if he doesn’t… if something happens—” Her voice breaks.
Your own fear swells, a dark, heavy thing that wants to climb up your throat and spill out. You push it down and slide your arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her into your side.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Mingyu’s stubborn. They all are. They’re going to annoy some poor commanding officer for months, and then they’re going to come home and be insufferable about it.”
She lets out a wet laugh, shoulders shaking. “You promise?” she whispers. You look at the plane, at the painted numbers on its side, at the barely visible faces in the tiny windows. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely audible over the engines. “I promise.”
The plane begins to move, lumbering down the runway, gathering speed. Your breath catches as its nose lifts, wheels leaving the earth in slow motion.
You stand there with Nari clinging to you and dread blooming in your chest, watching the metal bird carry your husband into the sky, hoping like hell that the promise you just made isn’t a lie.
Days don’t pass like they used to.
They don’t drag their feet the way they did when every bill felt like a threat and every morning started with the quiet arithmetic of survival. They move faster now, almost rude about it—like time heard you were drowning and decided to toss you a life vest and then sprint away before you could ask questions. You keep waiting for the catch. It doesn’t come.
The first change is a text from your landlord that reads like a smug victory lap: Rent. Today. Non-negotiable.
You stare at it in your kitchen while coffee goes cold in your hand. You open your banking app. There’s money there.
Not enough to buy peace forever, but enough to cover what you owe, plus the shameful little late fees he’s tacked on. Your thumb hovers over “transfer.” You do it.
Twenty minutes later, he’s pounding on your door. You open it with your sweetest dead-eyed smile. He’s holding his phone like it’s proof of a miracle. “You paid.”
“I did.”
His mouth opens, closes. Suspicion tries to crawl onto his face, and you stomp it out with cheer. “See?” you say. “I told you. I’m a responsible adult with a thriving financial plan.” He narrows his eyes. “Where’d you get it?” You shrug. “The bank. Where people get money. You should try it.”
He mutters something about artists and miracles and goes back down the hall. You watch him go, then shut your door and lean your forehead against it for a second, laughing silently at the absurdity of it.
The second change arrives in a thick envelope with a military seal that makes your stomach do a small, nervous somersault even before you open it. Housing authorisation. Military spouse status. A name you can’t quite believe is attached to yours now. You read it twice, then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into psych, gotcha.
They don’t. So you pack.
A steady migration of your life into boxes: paint supplies, canvases, the lamp that flickers but you’ve never thrown away, clothes that smell like the bar, old childhood photos you’ve kept in a shoebox.
You don’t tell anyone why you’re moving. Your coworkers assume you finally found a cheaper place. Your friends assume you got lucky with a sublet. Your mother assumes nothing, because you’ve always moved through life with your life folded under your arm, like you’re on the run from something. You keep it vague. You keep it light. You keep it safe.
Military housing is… not what you pictured.
You expected sterile beige, strict rules, the kind of place where art goes to die. Instead, it’s small but sturdy, a neat row of low buildings behind a gate with a bored security guard who barely glances at you once you show your paperwork. The apartment itself is plain in the way new places always are—clean walls, scratched linoleum, furniture that isn’t yours waiting to be made into something you can stand living inside.
You walk through it slowly the first time you get the keys, half expecting Seungcheol to be standing somewhere in a doorway, arms crossed, saying something judgmental about how you’re holding them. He isn’t.
The quiet echoes a little. You’re surprised by how much you like it. You set your boxes down in the living room and take a long breath.
Space. Not city space. Not “make do with what you have” space. Real, actual room to move. To stretch. To paint without balancing a canvas on the same table you eat on. You don’t call it home out loud. It’s too soon for that. But you still catch yourself looking around like you’re deciding where to put your favourite pieces. Like you’re imagining colour on the walls.
The third change happens at the hospital.
The insurance lady who once looked at you like you were a charity case now smiles with a kind of professional brightness that makes you a little suspicious. “Good news,” she says. “We’ve got supplemental coverage approved. Your mother’s treatments will be fully covered from here on out, and the new tests are greenlit.” You stare at her. “Fully?”
“Fully,” she repeats. “You’ll still see paperwork, but you won’t be responsible for the remainder.”
You wait for your knees to buckle, but they don’t. You wait for tears, and they don’t come either. Your body is too busy doing the math of relief. You sign the forms with a hand that shakes a little anyway.
Your mother doesn’t ask where the coverage came from. She assumes a charity program or one of those government things you never had time to apply for. You let her. You talk about it like it’s an accidental stroke of luck, like you didn’t tie your life to a stranger’s to make it happen.
You still work nights at the bar, still pour drinks for people who think their heartbreak is original, still mop up beer with a rag that never quite dries right. But it’s different now. You’re not counting tips like a lifeline. You’re not staring at your phone between orders, praying for a miracle transfer. You breathe at work, which feels like a luxury. You pay for groceries without wincing. You buy a new set of brushes without doing the mental gymnastics of, ‘Can I eat less this week to afford this?’
You come home to your quiet military apartment at dawn, kick your shoes off, and paint until your hands cramp. You start finishing pieces instead of abandoning them halfway through. You start sketching without that steady buzz in your skull that tells you you’re wasting time. Your fingers are constantly stained now. Your floor gets splattered. Your life looks messy again in a way that feels like you—not like a crisis.
And still, somehow, the biggest adjustment isn’t the apartment or the bills or the way you’re no longer bracing for impact every time you open an email. It’s him being a voice in your pocket now. A person on the other end of the distance who you don’t quite know what to do with.
Your first phone call is a disaster.
You’re sitting cross-legged in the empty living room—no couch yet, just a half-built IKEA table and a canvas drying against the wall—when your phone rings with an unknown number. You answer on the second ring. “Hello?” Static. Then a muffled voice. “—Can you hear me?”
“Barely,” you say, already frowning. “You sound like you’re calling from inside a blender.”
“That’s rich coming from someone who works with a blender,” he says, and you can just barely make out the dry edge of his voice under the crackle. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you outside? Move. I don’t know, two feet left.”
“Two feet left of what?”
“Of wherever you are.”
“That’s not how directions work.”
“They do if you’re not annoying.” More static. A clatter in the background. Someone yelling something you can’t understand. “…Hold on—” he says, and then the signal dies entirely for three seconds. When it comes back, so does he, louder and somehow more annoyed. “You still there?”
“No, I hung up just for fun,” you snap. “Yes, I’m here.”
“…You don’t have to be like that,” he says.“Like what?”
“Hostile.”
“Hostile?” you repeat. “Commander, I can’t hear half of what you’re saying. If I sound hostile, it’s because I’m trying to translate you through five miles of sand and the world’s worst network.” He exhales hard, the sound distorted. “Okay. Fine. I’m sorry. Can you—” Static swallows the rest. You blink at your phone. “Can I what, Seungcheol? Can I set your connection on fire? Because I’m open to that.”
“…Did you call me Seungcheol?” comes his voice again, faint and surprised. You freeze. “No,” you lie instantly. “Your connection glitched. I said ‘you’re intolerable’.” Pause. Then his voice, still crackly but unmistakably amused: “…Sure you did.” You glare at your phone like he can see it. “Anyway,” you say. “What do you want?” A faint laugh, softer this time. “Just checking in,” he says. “Make sure you’re settled.”
“I am,” you say, then add before you can stop yourself, “The place is… fine.”
“…Fine,” he repeats, and you can hear the smile in it. “High praise.”
You open your mouth to retort, and the connection drops again. You stare at your dead screen for a long second. Then you flip it off and toss it onto the pile of pillows you haven’t unpacked yet.
A few days later, your phone buzzes while you’re in the middle of sketching. You wipe your fingers on your jeans before you open it.
Choi Seungcheol sent 5 photos. You tap.
The first one is Mingyu, shirt half-off, flexing at the camera like he’s auditioning for a protein powder ad. There’s a caption scrawled over it in Seungcheol’s neat handwriting through the phone app:
He’s been like this for ten minutes. Please remind him we’re at war.
You snort out loud. The second photo is Seokmin mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, mouth wide open, holding what looks suspiciously like a stolen slice of cake in one hand. The caption: Morale officer. Also menace.
Third is Soonyoung, doing some kind of ridiculous superhero pose with a makeshift cape made out of a towel. He’s grinning so hard it hurts to look at, even through a screen. The caption: Your friend is alive and unbearable.
Fourth is Vernon and Jihoon in the background of a group shot, both side-eyeing the chaos like they’re already exhausted by it. The caption: Our two sane ones. Allegedly.
Fifth is a blurry shot of boots and sand with the message: Tell me something about home.
You stare at that last one for a beat longer than you mean to. Then you angle your camera down at your sketchbook. You send him a picture of the half-finished charcoal portrait you’ve been working on—rough lines, strong shadows, a face that isn’t exactly his but carries the same hard set of his jaw you keep catching in your head without trying. You add a caption: Not sure if this counts as home, but it’s what I’m doing instead of committing arson.
You hesitate. Then you send another photo—your new living room, chaotic already: canvases stacked in one corner, light spilling in through blinds, a bare wall that looks like it’s begging for paint. Our apartment isn’t awful. Don’t get cocky. Three dots appear. Then: I’ll try to contain my ego. You scoff, smiling anyway.
Emails start up after that because emails are easier. They don’t drop out mid-sentence. They don’t distort his voice until he sounds like a robot chewing sand. They arrive when they arrive, and you can read them at your own pace, in your own kitchen, with coffee and quiet to buffer the distance. Also, emails feel easier to perform in.
You both know your messages can be screened. Logged. Read by someone who needs to confirm that the marriage filed in some cabinet back home is real enough to keep. So you write like you’re a little in love. Not too much. Not enough to make it suspicious. Just enough to be believable. It’s weird how natural that becomes. Maybe because you’re good at slipping into roles. Maybe because the line between role and truth has always been blurrier for you than you admit. Your first email takes you twenty minutes of staring at a blank screen before you type.
Subject: Still alive, unfortunately
To my favourite pain in the ass commander,
I’m writing this from the floor of our living room because we don’t have a couch yet, and I’m refusing to buy one without at least pretending you get a vote. Don’t worry, I’m picturing you frowning at every option I scroll past, so your spirit is very present.
I’ve officially moved in. I unpacked the kitchen first because apparently I’m domesticated now. There’s a mug with your Initial on it that I found at a thrift store. It’s ugly in a way that feels vaguely military, so I’m claiming it as yours. I’ll keep it safe until you can drink from it yourself.
I paid the final rent today. Landlord looked so disappointed I almost offered him a sympathy croissant. Almost.
I painted until sunrise this morning. I forgot what it felt like not to paint on borrowed time. I kept thinking you’d hate the colour palette, and then I laughed at myself for caring. So congratulations, Commander. You’re officially haunting my studio.
Send me something normal. A stupid photo. A complaint. Tell me you ate something that isn’t sand. Tell me you’re sleeping at least a little. I’m not asking as your wife, I’m asking as the person who will personally come over there and drag you by your dog tags if you don’t.
Be safe. I know that’s what everyone says, but I mean it.
—Your resident riot
You reread it three times, tweaking every line so it lands sweet enough for a military auditor and casual enough for you to pretend your chest didn’t tighten when you typed it out.
His reply comes the next night.
Subject: Re: Still alive, unfortunately
To my resident riot,
I’m reading this sitting on an ammo crate pretending it’s a chair, so I think that counts as matching your living-room-floor situation. If you buy a couch without me, I will survive war just to be insufferable about it.
I’m glad you’re moved in. The phrase “our living room” shouldn’t sit so right in my head, but it does. I keep catching myself picturing you painting in there, turning every blank wall into a crime scene of colour. I’ll take whatever hives that earn me.
The mug with my name on it is already my favourite thing. Under no circumstances are you allowed to call it ugly again. I expect a photo of it on the counter like proof of life.
The guys are fine. Loud as ever. Mingyu is trying to start a push-up competition and keeps insisting I “have to stay hot for my wife.” I told him to shut up. He did not shut up. Soonyoung says hello and also asked if he can crash on our couch when we finally get one. I told him that decision is between you and whatever pillow you want to throw at him.
I am eating. I am sleeping. Not as much as you’d like, probably, but enough. Don’t threaten to drag me by my tags again unless you plan on following through, because the mental image is distracting.
Also — your sketches. Keep sending them. You have no idea what it does to me to open my phone and see your hands at work, like I get a piece of you in the middle of this place. I carry that with me more than I carry anything else.
Be good. Or be you — I know those aren’t the same thing. Just come home to yourself every night. I need you whole when I’m back.
—Your favourite pain in the ass Commander
You stare at the last line a little too long.
Your chest does that strange, small thing again—like a muscle you didn’t know you had is flexing in the dark cavern behind your ribs.
The emails become routine after that.
You tell him when your mother has a good day. When she’s tired. When you nail a painting or hate everything you’ve touched with a brush. When the bar has a slow shift and you get to go home early. When Soonyoung’s old hoodie shows up in your laundry because you stole it years ago and never gave it back. He tells you about the dust storms and the heat and the dumb games they play to keep morale up. He complains one line and then carefully praises the unit the next. He asks about home, as if he’s trying to keep one hand on it while the other grips a rifle.
One night, you catch yourself smiling at your screen for no reason other than the way he ends a paragraph with “I’m proud of you.” You delete the first three drafts of your reply because every version sounds too warm. In the end, you send: Don’t get used to saying that. I might start believing you. He answers: Too late. You should feel annoyed. Instead, you laugh out loud into your empty kitchen, and the sound surprises you.
You keep your hands busy. You keep your life moving. You keep your feelings locked behind sarcasm and paint fumes.
Because there’s a war between you and the truth, and you’re not ready to lose that fight. Not yet.
You always thought life was supposed to be a rollercoaster—up, down, loops, the occasional derailment.
Lately, it feels like you got stuck on a version that only goes up, click by nervous click, and you keep waiting for gravity to remember you exist. It doesn’t. The car keeps climbing. Little good things keep happening, one after another, and you find yourself gripping the safety bar of your own life, squinting at the track ahead and wondering when, exactly, the drop will come.
A message from a gallery you once emailed and forgot about sends a polite and interested reply, asking if you’d be willing to show a few pieces in a corner of their next group exhibit. A week later, an online feature—one of those curated accounts that spotlights emerging artists—posts your work with a caption you re-read three times. Your phone buzzes for hours after, likes and comments piling up on your social media.
You try to be cool about it because you’ve learned that if you show the world too much hope, it has a way of snatching it back.
Except this time, you don’t want to fold it up and hide it.
This time, when the scheduled video call pops up a few nights later, you wait until he picks up to say it out loud. His face appears on your screen—sun-worn, tired around the eyes, a little grainy from the connection, but there. Behind him, you can hear the low hum of other voices, the muffled chaos of his platoon doing their own calls in the same room. You pretend your heart doesn’t do that soft, stupid thing it’s been doing more often lately.
“Hey, Commander,” you say, leaning your phone against a stack of sketchbooks. “So. I think I have news.” Seungcheol tilts his head, brow lifting. “Bad news or you-pretending-it’s-not-a-big-deal news?” You snort. “Wow, you know me so well. It’s the second one.”
“Go on.”
You take a breath. “A gallery offered me a corner for their next exhibit. It’s small, but it’s real. And there’s an online feature that picked up my work. Like… properly picked up. People are actually asking if anything’s for sale.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like the words have to land somewhere in him before he can react. Then his mouth curves, slow and bright. “Riot, that’s not small,” he says firmly. “That’s huge.”
You roll your eyes on instinct. “It’s a corner.”
“It’s a foot in the door.” He leans closer to the camera, voice dropping. “I’m proud of you.”
The warmth blooms, uninvited, right under your ribs.
Before you can deflect, someone off-screen shouts something that makes his head turn. You hear Mingyu’s unmistakable laugh in the background, then Vernon’s quieter chuckle, then Seokmin loudly asking who’s winning at whatever game they’re playing in the next corner of the room.
Seungcheol looks back at you, still smiling, and then—like he can’t help himself—he raises his voice toward the room. “Hey,” he calls. “My wife just got offered a gallery spot.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then the room explodes. You hear whoops, clapping, someone yelling “SHE’S FAMOUS!”, and Soonyoung shouting something about free tickets. Seokmin starts singing some off-key victory anthem. Jihoon says something dry that makes them all laugh harder. Mingyu’s voice booms the loudest. “THAT’S MY CAPTAIN’S WIFE!”
Seungcheol’s grin turns smug. He looks back at you, eyes warm.
“That’s my wife, alright,” he says, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.
You can’t help it—you laugh, cheeks heating, shaking your head at the chaos you can’t even see. “You’re all idiots,” you say fondly.
“We’re your idiots,” he replies.
You end the call later with your chest feeling too full for a chapter you’re still insisting is not about him. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You don’t quite believe it.
When the uphill rollercoaster of your life finally crashes, you don’t see it coming. You should have.
Good stories don’t get to stay good for long—not for people like you. Not without the universe tapping your shoulder eventually and saying, Alright, that’s enough for now. What you didn’t expect was the whole damn thing coming off the rails.
You’re at the bar, sleeves rolled up, a smear of lime pulp on your wrist, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses moving around you in its usual, familiar rhythm. Someone is laughing too loudly near the end of the bar, the same song has played twice in a row from the jukebox, and you’re halfway through pouring a beer when you feel your phone buzz in your back pocket. You finish the pour, slide the glass across the counter, take someone’s crumpled bill, and make change. The normalcy of it feels almost protective.
Then you pull your phone out. Unknown number. A country code you don’t recognise at first glance. Your stomach dips. You answer. “Hello?”
There’s a tiny delay, then a measured voice, clipped and careful, speaking with the flattened tone of someone who has done this before.
“Mrs. Choi?”
You almost say wrong number on reflex. “Yes,” you say instead, fingers tightening around the phone. “This is she.”
“This is Sergeant Klein calling from Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre in Germany,” the voice says. “I’m calling about your husband, Sergeant First Class Choi Seungcheol.”
For a second, the bar noise drops to a distant muffled roar, like you’ve been shoved underwater. Your hand goes numb. “What—” Your tongue is thick. “What about him?”
The sergeant’s tone doesn’t change. You cling to that, stupidly. “Your husband was wounded in combat,” he says. “He is currently in stable condition and being prepared for transport back to a military hospital closer to you.”
“What does that mean?” you whisper. “What happened?”
“I don’t have all the tactical details, ma’am,” he replies. “What I can tell you is that he sustained a significant injury to his leg. The medical team was able to stabilise him in theatre, and he has been evacuated to us for surgery before transfer.”
Injury. Leg. Stabilise. Your brain tries to build a picture and fails.
“Is he…” You can’t say dying. It feels like if you put the word in the air, it’ll make it true. “He is stable,” the sergeant repeats, firmer. “He will need rehabilitation, but right now he is stable. We will notify you as soon as he has been transferred and admitted to your local facility. Do you have a pen to take down the contact information?”
You look down at your hands, like a pen might magically appear between them. They’re empty. The bar is still moving around you. Someone is asking for another round. Ice rattles in a metal shaker. The jukebox finally flips to a new song.
“Ma’am?” the voice prompts gently. “Are you able to write this down?”
You make some noise of agreement, fumble blindly for the pen you always stick behind your ear, and grab a napkin from the counter. You scribble down numbers, names, phrases that swim on the paper as soon as they’re written. You blink hard. “Thank you,” you manage.
You don’t remember hanging up. One second, there’s a voice in your ear, the next, there’s just the bar’s hum and your own heartbeat pounding too loud. Someone at the counter laughs at something unrelated. Someone else snaps their fingers for your attention. You stare at the napkin in your hand until the ink blurs. Your coworker brushes your shoulder. “You good?” she asks. You look at her like she’s speaking another language.
Your lips try to shape around sound. Nothing. “I… I need to go,” you finally stammer out. She blinks. “What? Now?”
You nod once, already grabbing your jacket off the hook. Your apron comes untied. You walk out through the side door and into the cold night air.
Everything after that is a blur stitched together by adrenaline and dread.
A cab. Paperwork. Phone calls. A security gate that checks your ID with solemn efficiency. By the time you get to the military hospital, dawn has already bruised the sky.
You sit in a waiting room, your knee bouncing, your ring cold against your even colder skin. They’ve told you the basics: he’s had surgery, he’s under observation, they’ll bring you in when they can. There’s a folder in your lap with your name and his on it, full of words like ‘spouse’, ‘next of kin’ and ‘authorisation’. You keep expecting someone to walk in and say, “There’s been a mistake.” That you’re not supposed to be here. That this is meant for some other Mrs. Choi whose marriage to a soldier wasn’t written in panic and pretending. No one does.
When they finally wheel him in, it’s almost a relief just to have something solid to look at. You stand automatically, heart climbing into your throat as the door swings open and the bed rolls into the room, surrounded by too-white sheets and too-blue scrubs and a nurse whose expression is set to that neutral, professional calm you’re beginning to hate.
He looks… wrong.
He’s pale under the harsh light, skin washed out, lips chapped. There’s an IV line taped to the back of his hand, monitors clipped to his fingers, a smear of bruising along his cheekbone. His leg—his left one—is swaddled in thick bandages and what looks like a graft, elevated slightly, wrapped and braced in unnatural ways. His eyes are open, but dulled.
You end up at his bedside, fingers gripping the rail so hard they hurt.
“Cheol,” you breathe. His gaze drags to you, slow, like crossing a distance.
For a second, nothing flickers there. No recognition, no relief, just a flat exhaustion that scares you more than the injury. Then something shifts. “Hey,” he croaks out. “You… beat me here.” You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Traffic was light,” you say weakly. His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t stick.
Up close, you can see more—tiny cuts along his knuckles, a faint tremor in his hand as he exhales. You look at his leg again, at the bandages, at the way the sheet tents awkwardly around the bulk. “Does it—” The word hurt feels ridiculous. Of course, it hurts. “They’ve got me on enough stuff that I can’t feel much,” he says. “It’ll… hit later.”
You swallow. You want to ask what happened so badly your tongue aches with it. But the question sits there, heavy, and your body knows before your brain does that whatever answer he has is going to change more than just the shape of his leg. His eyes slide away, focusing on the far wall. Silence stretches, filled only by the soft beep of the heart monitor.
You realise he’s not going to volunteer anything. You take a breath that rattles your lungs on the inhale. “They said it was… combat,” you say quietly. “That you were wounded.” His eyes close briefly. “Yeah,” he says. You wait. “Cheol,” you say, softer. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”
He opens his eyes again, looks at you for a long moment, something like resistance and grief and obligation all tangled up behind his pupils.
You see the exact second he realises you genuinely don’t know. He exhales, a harsh, broken sound. “IED,” he says finally. “Improvised explosive device. Roadside.”
The words feel clinical coming out of his mouth. Your brain immediately supplies every war movie image it’s ever stored. None of them feel big enough. “We were on patrol,” he continues, staring at a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Convoy. It went off under us. I was… close.” His eyes flicker to his leg, then away again. “So was Soonyoung. Vernon was in the back.” The way he says their names makes your palms sweat.
“Are they—” You can’t finish the question. It hangs between you, heavy and awful. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he opens them, they’re glassy. “Soonyoung didn’t make it,” he whispers.
The world tilts on its axis. You grab the rail harder because if you don’t, you’re sure your legs will not remember how to hold you.
“No,” you say automatically, the word tearing out of you on a breath. “No, he— he’s— you’re wrong, he—”
“I was there,” Seungcheol says, and there’s something raw and sharp in his voice, slicing through the numbness. “I tried.” His hand twitches like it remembers gripping something. “I pulled him out. I did everything I could. It wasn’t enough.”
Your vision blurs. You shake your head, tears hot and relentless, pooling at your waterline. “No,” you repeat, like you can argue the universe into rewriting it. “He was just— he was just texting me stupid memes last week. He was… we were supposed to—”
Your breath stutters, turning to shallow gasps. The sterile room wavers around you. He watches you, eyes wide, guilt and pain warring with the drugs in his system. “Riot,” he says hoarsely. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. His face swims. “And Vernon?” you force out. “You said—”
He hesitates just long enough to confirm the worst. “Critical,” he says. “They got him out. He’s… hanging on.” You press a fist to your mouth, a choked sound escaping before you can swallow it. For a second, the urge to run is so strong you nearly obey it—out of the room, out of the hospital, out of the story entirely. Your knees buckle. Seungcheol reaches for you on instinct, face contorting in pain as the motion jostles his leg. His fingers catch your wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks like all the colour has been drained out of him.
“Hey,” he grits out. “Don’t. Don’t do that here.”
“You’re telling me not to panic,” you manage, voice shaking. “You.”
His mouth twists. “One of us needs to be upright,” he says. “I can’t exactly get out of bed.” It’s a terrible joke. You nearly laugh anyway because if you don’t, you’ll scream.
The door opens before you can reply.
The doctor clears his throat gently from the doorway, flanked by a nurse.
"Mrs. Choi,” he says, stepping inside the room. “We’ll need a primary caregiver for Sergeant Choi once he’s discharged into outpatient rehabilitation. Given his injury and the expected recovery time, the military has approved caregiver benefits. We assume you’ll be taking that role.”
Assume. Because wives do that. Because spouses hold the line when their husbands come home. Because paperwork made you into devotion, whether you feel it or not. Your body is still trying to process everything you just learned. And yet the answer is there anyway, simple as breathing.
“Yes,” you say, voice unsteady but clear. “I’ll do it.”
The doctor nods, professional relief in his expression.
“We’ll also be looking at upgrading your housing assignment to something more accessible,” the officer adds, as if that sweetens the deal. “Ground floor if possible, with modifications available should Sergeant Choi’s mobility require it.”
They continue talking about logistics and optics and future—ramps and handrails and wheelchairs and physical therapy schedules—while your friend is dead and another is somewhere between here and gone, and the man in the bed beside you might never walk again.
“We’ll prepare the discharge plan and therapy schedule,” the doctor says. “You’ll be briefed on at-home care. He’s expected to receive commendation for his bravery during the incident. He… pulled two men from the vehicle before collapse. His commanding officer will speak to you tomorrow about the award.”
Commendation. Bravery. Words that are supposed to make you proud. You glance at Seungcheol. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to care. No amount of metal pinned to his chest is going to rewind the explosion, unburn the sand, pull Soonyoung’s laugh back into the world.
The doctor eventually excuses himself, leaving behind promises of paperwork and updates. The nurse adjusts a drip, checks a monitor, murmurs something about rest, then slips out as well, closing the door softly behind her.
Silence settles over the room again. “You didn’t have to say yes,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I did.” You swallow. “Somebody has to make sure you don’t terrorise the physical therapists,” you add, reaching for the only shield you have left: humour.
His mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile. “You think you can handle that?” he murmurs. You look at him, at the wreckage, at the shape of the life now pulling both of you forward, at the scars you can see and the ones you can’t yet.
You’re terrified. You’re grieving. You know you’re in too deep.
Your reply is final: “Try me, commander.”
A/N: Soooo, this is the first part of my newest Seungcheol story. I know, I write too much for him. Am I sorry about it? Not really. Ya'll should've realised by now that he's my ult. Anyway, there is definitely a second part coming very soon (maybe even a third). Hope you liked it so far, and stay tuned because the rollercoaster hasn't finished yet.💟
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
PAIRING: Ferrari Driver!Jihoon x Journalist!Reader
SUMMARY: Jihoon is suffering through a heartbreaker of a season with Ferrari. The car won’t cooperate, his teammate keeps outpacing him, and nothing seems to go right. Worst of all is what’s happening off the track. It seems racing is slipping through his fingers - and so are you.
WC: 18,786
AU: Formula One
GENRE: Angst, Exes to Lovers, Smut
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Angry Jihoon being miserable, things just not going right for him, a lot of self angsty, some petty arguments between reader and Jihoon, a lot of reflecting on the past and angst over a past relationship, a lot of awkward tension and just tension in general between Jihoon and reader, explicit language, a lot of race jargon shout out to google a lot of this might be wrong because the fuck if I know what some of these things are called only have a vague concept of tire strategy, explicit sexual content including oral (m. rec), vaginal fingering, sex where others can overhear it but who cares, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, a hint of dirty talk but not really, Jihoon is an Ass Guy.... um. I think that's it.
A/N: This is a piece for the Lights Out Collab hosted by @studiosvt! Apologies this is being posted late, Tumblr ate the scheduled post and I am on day 7 of 13 of full work days in a row and I do not even know what day or reality I'm in as I rush to post this. This is not beta'd I am so sorry.
A/N 2: This fic is a part of my Paddock Club Collection.
PADDOCK MAP: MAIN M. LIST | ASK | PADDOCK PLAYLIST
YOU'RE A HEARTBREAKER, DREAM MAKER
LOVE TAKER, DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME
-
LEE JIHOON FUCKING HATES PAT BENATAR SONGS. Not because she's a bad singer - she really isn't. But every time he hears one of her refrains from a distance, he's forced to think of you, and thus, it ruins his fucking day.
He'd like to go a single day without it being ruined. Today doesn't feel like the day. Neither had yesterday, or the day before that, an endless cycles of bad days and things that remind Jihoon of you everywhere he goes and everywhere he looks.
Jihoon swears the looming cloud over practice and media day for Day One of the Australian Grand Prix has followed him all the way from Monaco where he took his single reprieve between preseason testing and the start of the Formula One season. It hadn't been much of a rest, considering testing in Bahrain had been so bad that it had haunted him every night. What should have been warm days by the pool and runs down by the water had turned into hiding in the dark of his apartment, going through simulations and data and about a million other things to prep for this weekend.
This weekend that Pat Fucking Benatar is kicking off.
Australia blurs by on the other side of the window. As many times as Jihoon has been here, the sun never gets any kinder. He can feel its oppressive heat even behind the tinted glass of the car, and his sunglasses do almost nothing to keep the brightness at bay. Still, the sparkling blue of the ocean and the swath of blue sky above him is a nice break from the grey interior of his gloomy apartment back in Monaco.
"Can we change the radio station?" Jihoon asks.
The man in the front makes a questioning sound and Jihoon curses internally. He knew he should have committed to studying Italian in the off season. He's been a part of the Ferrari Formula One team long enough to need a better grip on the language, but he'd been uncommitted in the off season to learning it. He'd been too busy sulking over the poor end to last year's racing season and the very abrupt end of your relationship.
Soonyoung turns around the the front seat of the car, face dubious. "You don't like Pat Benatar?"
Jihoon is surprised his new teammate even knows who Pat Benatar is. Soonyoung, though older than him by a few months, doesn't seem to know much about music beyond the thumping techno and house that is often coming through his headphones or the hiphop that he swears he knows every word to.
Kwon Soonyoung has taken a bit for Jihoon to get used to. As the new driver for the second Ferrari seat, he is a personality that Jihoon can only categorize as wildfire and uncontrollable so far, but he begrudgingly doesn't dislike Soonyoung, which is a surprise. He thought he was going to hate the reckless upstart, but he actually kind of finds him refreshing. Plus, he's got an infection personality about him that reminds Jihoon of Chan, who had only been his teammate for a year, but he'd liked nonetheless.
Soonyoung is the kind of driver in F1 that is in the headlines for his behavior as much as he is his wins. It had surprised Jihoon when they signed Soonyoung after Chan moved to Williams. Soonyoung wasn't exactly the refined, classic Ferrari brand, but he was a good driver, and the long-standing Formula One name needed good drivers, particularly after Jihoon's not-so-great season last year.
"She's not my favorite," Jihoon responds, looking back out the window.
Hobson Bay gleams in the distance. Boats bob in the distance, random pops of colored parasailers dragging across the sky, the people in them the size of ants against the vast blue. As afraid as he is of heights, Jihoon would rather be tangling from one of them right now than heading to the first practice session of the season. He has no idea when he became so adverse to his own career, but the knot in his stomach only tightens the closer they crawl to the circuit.
"Oh man, you're missing out!" Soonyoung puts his hand to his face like a fake microphone and proceeds to belt, "You're a heartbreaker! Dream taker! Love taker!"
"Soonyoung."
"Yeah, yeah." He turns to the man in the driver's seat. He's grinning, apparently as easily charmed by Soonyoung as everyone else always is. "Puoi cambiare la musica? Grazie."
The driver nods and flips it to jazz and Jihoon sighs, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course the new addition to the team speaks perfect Italian. Why wouldn't he? There seems to be a world of things that Soonyoung can do that Jihoon can't, including driving the impossible cars that Ferrari has given them this year.
Preseason testing had gone well for Soonyoung. He had the kind of testing sessions that made the Tifosi hopeful again, article after article talking about how he was bringing the spark back to Ferrari after a challenging last season that had ended up with Jihoon finishing outside of the top three and Chan losing his seat to shift to Williams.
Ferrari is a tough team to drive for. Jihoon knows that. He knew that when he started his rookie year with Alfa Romeo three years ago. He's going on his third season with Ferrari now, and the only thing that seems to stick is that he chases Red Bull and Mercedes for World Championships.
Still, Jihoon has been the closest Ferrari has been to consistent podiums in a while and he knows that. He's sacrificed everything - including being able to listen to Pat Benatar - to help lift Ferrari back to its former glory. To do so would be any drivers dream, and Jihoon was on track to take it until the tail end of last year. Preseason hadn't been kind to him either, leaving him with a dangerous sense of foreboding for what this season has to offer him.
The car this year is a beast, hard to control, hard to steer. Jihoon spend most of the practice sessions trying to muscle it to make the turns he wanted and grip it to death when it wanted to make turns he didn't want. It was like he was in personal conflict with the car, and while the car isn't sentient, Jihoon can't help but feel like it's purposefully chosen to work against him.
If Jihoon's relationship with you had taught him anything, it was that he liked stubborn. Stubborn girl, stubborn car, stubborn driver. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn't seem to know what the word stubborn is, going with the flow and doing whatever Ferrari asked him to do. Mostly.
Australian sun beats down on Jihoon as he steps out of the car. He can already hear the fans screaming in the distance, the echo of their voices carrying over the black asphalt. He cringes internally, pulling the hat on his head down a little lower, trying to hide from wandering eyes. Soonyoung seems to come alive in front of fans, yelling back at them with his hands cupped around his mouth, making them go nuts. Jihoon resists the urge to smack him, knowing it isn't fair to steal Soonyoung's excitement just because he's miserable.
The garage smells the same as it always does, like rubber mixed with the slick scent of grease. The glare of the sun reflecting off the cherry paint on the car nearly blinds him and he holds up a hand, shielding his eyes. Jihoon steps inside and feels the familiar prickle across his shoulders. It's like stepping backward into a house that used to be his but has sold, a stranger in his own house.
Mechanics pause mid-motion when they see him, nodding and giving him tight smiles. Members of his team clap him on the back as he goes, and the tension bleeds out of him when he sees familiar faces. These are the people who want him to win most in the world. Despite the very passionate fan base Ferrari has, the men and women of this garage put just as much time and effort into wins as he does, and the tension eases a little when he remembers that the people her want whats best for him.
Soonyoung bounces in behind him, already waving at people he met for five minutes during testing, marveling at the gold painted Ferrari on the nose of his car. Jihoon ignores him, strolling over to gaze at telemetry screens that line the back walls. Numbers and graphs make more sense to him than people do, and he likes to find comfort in the data, to dive deep and puzzle out what he needs to do next.
It hadn't always been that way. There had been a time in Jihoon's racing career where how he felt behind the car had mattered more than the data. Those were the years that he was finishing inside the top ten with a car no one expected to do well, and before he'd been moved up to Ferrari where he felt more pressure to win, where he felt like he needed more than instinct. Having an instinctual edge for the car wasn't enough - he needed to understand. To be in control.
Data had been the worst thing that ever happened to him, you'd told him once. Jihoon had thought it was ridiculous at the time, but now as he stares at the wall of all the adjustments they've made from Bahrain, he isn't so sure you were wrong. You rarely were.
Matteo spots him first, the senior race engineer grinning as he walks over. Matteo has the look of someone sharp and scary, his dark hair threaded through with grey and wireframe glasses perched on a hawkish nose. Thankfully, Matteo's looks are deceiving. He's warm and loud, a riot in the garage as bright as the paint on the cars.
"Jihoon!" He claps his hands, sound ringing out. "Ready to make the data team cry again?"
Jihoon exhales sharply. Matteo's sense of humor is only appreciated sometimes. "Maybe it'll be tears of joy."
"Così ti voglio!" He claps Jihoon on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!"
After walking around the car a few times and killing time, they head to the motorhome. With his head tilted down, Jihoon heads to the team meeting room on the second floor where there are people sitting inside already through he frosted glass, including the team principal.
Unlike Matteo, Nico isn't as easy on the humor. He's serious and driven, his frown lines deepening when Jihoon sits down. Nico is also Matteo's opposite in appearance, his warm brown eyes and light brown hair making him seem kind and approachable. Jihoon had learned early on that it was deceiving, discovering Nico was clipped, to the point and direct. Jihoon doesn't mind it, but it makes for uncomfortable conversations when Jihoon is under performing like he had in Bahrain.
The table is covered in print outs of historical track data, schematics, tire degradation curves and overlays that probably make more sense to the people surrounding the table than they do to Jihoon. He picks a paper up and frowns when he sees a map of energy deployment in the car that failed him in Sakhir. Energy is a confusing thing in Formula One, especially as the FIA and the teams make new rules about how to be environmentally friendly while being cost efficient.
Matteo doesn't waste anyone's time, tapping the first sheet to start the meeting. The room goes silent, employees leaning forward with their elbows on the table to listen to the man that's supposed to lead them all to victory.
"Front wing adjustment was too aggressive," Matteo starts. He looks at Jihoon. "You were fighting the adjustment too much, so that needs to be accounted for. We made some adjustments that should give you more more control without over correcting."
Jihoon nods once. Clinical. Logical. He's good at this when the alternative is screaming into a helmet to fix problems no one can handle as he drives 200 mph.
"What about rear suspension?" He asks. "It was a mess."
Matteo flips a page. "We're running you two millimeters higher than Bahrain to start."
"Can we drop it back if it's too much understeer?"
"Yes. Better than bouncing like a kangaroo, no?"
They move on to the power unit and show him the revised energy harvesting maps and their strategy to conserve energy on the corner exits to leave him with more juice when he needs it most. He nods, detailing each thing they've change, knowing he'll stay up tonight overthinking about it in that same way that he always does.
As the sun dips outside, the rest of the meeting carries on like that, the team firing data and adjustments at him while he tells them about how the car felt. When the meeting concludes, Jihoon feels a little better, but he has a laundry list of things to report back on for the day's practice run, and he's already trying to commit to memory all the adjustments he needs to make when driving the car.
Soonyoung is waiting outside for his own meeting with Nico and the engineering team, leg bouncing as he sits on the couch. He grins at Jihoon as they exchange places, Soonyoung's team swapping for Jihoon's. Like most teams, they only share a few personnel, keeping the driver's goals, teams, and strategy separate to ensure for clean, fair racing.
Jihoon spends the next hour in his room watching his races in Bahrain, flicking through his notes. The room in the motorhome is small, but it's got good air conditioning, a soft couch that he likes to doze on, and TV screens that he can use for leisure or data. He almost always picks data, touching the mousepad on the computer in front of him to flip screens.
By the time he's entering the garage for his first practice session, the garage has come to life, a full world of life and sound and smells. His personal race engineer Luca waits for him, arms crossed over his chest as he orders something in rapid Italian to the man handling tires. Jihoon likes Luca. He's built like a fire hydrant and manages pressure like one two, keeping most of his feelings bottled up until they come exploding out when Jihoon blows a tire or when someone puts him into the wall. Thankfully, his outbursts are often well-timed and never pointed at Jihoon.
"We'll start with mediums today," Luca says when he sees Jihoon. "We'll do softs after twenty minutes if the track allows."
Jihoon nods, listening as Luca fires off some technicalities about the car. It's hard to listen with Soonyoung's side of the garage turning into a circus, the driver shaking hands with every single one of his engineers and mechanics. Jihoon notices there's a tiny tiger pin clipped to his race suit and decides e doesn't want to open the can of worms by asking about it.
A calm settles over Jihoon as he readies to get in the car. The mechanics swarm around him and someone hands him his balaclava. He pulls it down over his head, noting that it smells faintly like laundry detergent. The helmet goes next, the squeeze of it familiar against his skull, tight and secure. He's field of vision narrows to the oval of the open visor, and he knocks on top of the helmet out of habit, the solid sound good.
Jihoon climbs the car and gets in, the sun glinting off the visor of his helmet as he sinks into the seat, body molding to it immediately. He leaves the visor up for now, reaching up as someone hands him the wheel to the car so he can plug it in. The dashboard lights up like Christmas, numbers colors, readings that are green. Green is good, though he doesn't expect to see red from the jump.
The garage doors are open now and Australian heat pours in, the sun vicious as it bounces off every shiny surface in the garage. Outside, the grandstands are starting to fill in for fans watching practice, team flags everywhere. Jihoon watches the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until he can get out of the car again.
He runs through the start procedure in his head over and over again, reciting everything that he needs to do and everything tiny thing that can go wrong in the first five minutes of a season. Already he feels like he's forgetting what he talked about during the strategy session, but he'll just have to make do. If the car wants to fight with him today, he'll fight back. Jihoon is stubborn like that.
When the car's engine finally roars, Jihoon comes to life. He changes entirely with the sound of the engine humming and the vibrations climbing up through his legs, the steady buzz making him a little itchy and jumpy. The heat soaks through the carbon body of the car and the faint smell of brake fluid reaches him as he shuts the visor to the helmet, rolling his shoulders to ready himself.
"Radio check," Luca says, voice crackling over the comms.
"Good."
"Pit lane opens shortly. You're P2 in the queue."
"Copy."
"All good?
"Yeah," Jihoon says.
What Jihoon doesn't say is how hard it is not to think about how badly he fucked up in Bahrain. He doesn't tell Luca that he can still feel the understeer even though he hasn't started yet, and he doesn't say that it feels like the car hates him and that he hates the car back just as much.
Instead of telling Luca all that - because what the fuck would Luca say - the board goes green and mechanics step away from the ca so Jihoon can shift to idle the car forward, slow and easy out of the garage and into the blinding light of Albert Park.
The radio crackles again. "Out lap. Bring it in nice and slow."
Jihoon doesn't reply. He's already sinking, going deep into the icy, quiet place where the rest of the world falls away and there's only the car, the track, and the thin line between glory and utter disaster. Here, the only thing that can hurt him is himself.
Taking in a shaky breath, Jihoon starts his race weekend with the out lap. It's always the slowest part of the weekend, but Jihoon tries to treat it like the moment before the storm, taking his time to feel the car and see how it's doing. He grips the wheel tight, then let it slides, the hiss of his gloves against the wheel lost to the engine of the car. He feels the vibration of the drive, every bump and drag of the tires against the asphalt, every snag and pull.
Albert Park in March isn't as hot as it could be, but the track's surface is already hot enough to make the car feel stifling. He ignores it, his focus turning to a laser point as he eases into his first practice session, the heat and the nerves secondary to everything else.
Sector one is forgiving, Turn One a long, sweeping right that rewards his patience, and as Jihoon feathers the throttle and lets the car settle, he smiles as he takes it easy, no red on the dash, no losing power.
"Tires at 71 front, 68 reader. Good for now," Luca tells him.
"Copy."
"How's the understeer?"
Jihoon pauses, feeling the way the car takes a curve. "Not bad."
"Good."
At Turn Three, the car fights back a little and Jihoon feels the twitch through the rear, just enough to remind him that he's got new flooring. He notes it and continues to drive, pushing through the turn and leveling out the car.
By Turn Nine, he's relaxed, sliding into a rhythm he was terrified he would never find again, as irrational as it was. He flies down the straight, the wind and the force of the car pinning him to the seat. He feels alive, grinning for real as he remembers why he does this stupid, dangerous job in the first place. He brakes late into the chicane and takes the corner perfectly, the relief so suddenly that he nearly lets out a shout.
"Nice," Luca says. "Brake temps good."
Jihoon exhales. Its' the first time all week he hasn't felt like he's dragging his car by the balls toward the finish line. He settles in deeper, pushing the throttle faster, the car picking up pace as the crowd blurs, the smear of clouds and blue overhead a watercolor backdrop.
"Alright, let's go flying lap."
"Copy."
Turn One and Turn Two are nice to him, the car gliding and letting him feather the throttle again. There's no sudden loss of power and the tires feel good, and Jihoon feels a sense of relief as he starts to eat off half a tenth from his benchmark in 2024.
Then the circuit bites back.
He turns into Turn Six and the front loses its grip, the nose of the car pushing wide and causing the tires to protest. Jihoon corrects the snag of the car, but it costs him momentum as he lets go of the throttle for a moment to avoid going off track. It doesn't shake him at first, but the car continues to fights back as he nears Turn Seven, the rear end stepping out and causing him to break too soon. He curses, losing more time as he shakes his head and curses.
Turn Eight turns into a mess as he rear steps out again and Jihoon jerks the wheel, relieving the throttle for a split second too long. It immediately breaks his flow and he curses, feeling the fear from Bahrain creeping in on him. He'd managed not to think about it for a few laps, but now it's there, looming behind him like the final boss music from the video games Chan likes to play.
Jihoon brakes at Turn Fifteen late like he always does, but the car understeers and runs wide. He curses and corrects again, giving the feedback to Luca in a clipped, frustrated tone. Luca notes the understeer but Jihoon has to keep driving, so he does, despite the fact that he suddenly would rather stop the car, get out, and walk into the fucking ocean to be eaten by the sharks.
When he finally crosses the finish line, he waits. Jihoon already knows it's not great when Luca's feedback takes a beat too long before he says, "Alright. P8 on times so far. Soonyoung is on pace for P3 on time for reference."
Jihoon doesn't answer. He breathes through his nose, jaw locked, staring straight ahead.
Luca, knowing Jihoon, says, "We'll make the adjustments. P8 isn't terrible."
"Noted."
He peels into the pit lane and heads to the garage. When he stops the car, he doesn't move as the mechanics swarm around him like a school of red fish. Instead of getting out, he kills the engine and sits there, staring, staring, staring.
He knew Pat Benatar was going to ruin his day.
-
FP2 is somehow worse.
The changes they made after the morning session should have helped in theory. On paper. On a whim. On track, though, Jihoon spends nearly twenty-five minutes chasing a balance that refuses to stay put, fighting the wheel and the tires and the engine and the entire world through the entire session, and he gets absolutely nothing out of it.
His best lap puts him at P11 when the practice session ends. Meanwhile, Soonyoung floats his way to P4, the younger driver laughing and clapping someone on the back as Jihoon crawls out of the car in the garage, glaring at the back of Soonyoung's head as he greets some girl with a brief kiss. Of course Soonyoung is also in a successful relationship - why wouldn't he be? He's everything Jihoon isn't, apparently.
It isn't Soonyoung's fault. Part of Jihoon his happy for his teammate, but he knows how bad this looks for him specifically, and it eats at him despite how much he likes Soonyoung. Giving a poor performance as the team's senior driver when the fresh blood can handle the car no problem is a tale as old as time in this sport, and Jihoon has no desire to make it a permanent reality.
Jihoon is still damp and simmering when his media responsibilities pull him toward the press conference room. The public relations team walks beside him, rattling off instructions with a tablet in hand: fifteen minutes in the pen, then the main presser. Sky, F1TV, then the big room. You're third.
It's clinical. Rote.
The media pen is the usual circus of cameras, mics, and reporters jostling for position. The sun is lower now, slanting across Albert Park in burnt oranges and faded pinks while the asphalt simmers behind, a black mirror of heat. Jihoon pulls his hat low and steps into the chaos, swallowing thickly as he puts on a brave face and a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
"How do you feel about your performance today in the second practice session?" Someone asks, leaning forward.
He takes it in stride. "Still working through balance issues. We made changes between sessions, but the car's not giving us what we expected. We'll keep digging."
"Frustrating day?"
"Frustrating, sure. But it's Friday. We'll reset and head into qualifying tomorrow."
He keeps his answers short and clipped, nothing short of professional. The anger is there, coiled low in his gut, but this swarm of reporters ask him fair questions. He hates that most of all, how the critique is fair and warranted, how each question is posed with the real question - are you worried?
Jihoon is worried, but he can't say that. So he keeps his frustration leashed, answering each questioning with unfaltering precision that Ferrari loves him so much for. Honestly, interviews and professionalism might be the only place he surpasses his teammate, who had gotten in trouble last year with Williams for mouthing off during an interview.
The rest of the questions pass Jihoon in a blur of more questions and more clipped answers. He's aware he sounds short, but he doesn't care. He gets through it until he's being ushered toward the media room where he lets someone hook him up to a mic on the collar of his shirt and he's instructed to sit between Choi Seungcheol from Red Bull and Chwe Vernon from McLaren, both who had done much better than him today.
One leg crossed over the other, Jihoon waits as the conference starts. He's both relieved and irritated to be sitting between Red Bull's shining star and the man who had blown everyone else out of the water during practice session, everyone wondering what the hell Vernon has brought to the team in orange as the new driver at McLaren. It gives Jihoon the respite he needs to collective his thoughts, but it also gives him just the right amount of time to look at the crowd of media personnel, which is a mistake.
He spots you immediately, his eyes drawn to where you're sitting like second second nature. Perhaps it is still an instinct to look for you after all this time. He's spent so long doing it that he doesn't know how to train himself not to, doesn't know how to forget that you'll be in the room for every single one of these.
You look the same as you always have. Same focused expression, same slight tilt to your head when you're listening hard. You scribble answers down on a notepad - old school, you used to joke - your quick hand visible from where he sits. He already sees parts of the pages where you've torn them, a nervous habit you obviously haven't gotten rid of, and he notices the prong on your pen cap has been snapped off. You never did have still hands, tearing bits of paper and snapping caps whenever things were too quiet around you.
It knots his stomach and he forces himself to look away, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He hates that he knows so many things about you. Last season, he would have been watching you ask other drivers questions, trying to hide the smirk as you grilled them on strategy and performance. Now it's been months since you walked out on him in Austin, and he hasn't spoken to you since.
When it's your turn to ask questions and you fix your gaze on him, Jihoon thinks he's doing to die. If looks could kill, yours would certainly cut his beating heart right out of him. There's no warmth in your expression today, no secret smile as you're given a mic to ask questions, the cool sharpness of your stare so sharp he almost doesn't hear you over the pounding on his own heart as you start talking.
"Jihoon, two questions if I may," you say. He wants to say no, but even now, he can deny you nothing so he nods as if he has a choice. "After two difficult practice sessions, how confident are you that Ferrari can still fight for podiums this weekend?"
The question isn't unfair. It's not even particularly mean, but the way you phrase it in that infuriatingly calm and measured voice, almost clinical, makes it land like a slap. He feels the heat crawl up his neck as he stares at you, rage simmering under the surface immediately. You've always been the only person who can get a rise out of him, and it seems that hasn't changed.
"It's not where we want it," he answers, voice low and controlled as he can manage. "But we've got time. Podiums are still the target and are within reach."
“Even with the gap to Red Bull looking bigger than last year?”
"We’re not here to talk about gaps. We’re here to close them. Next question.”
Your eyes narrow, just a fraction because you are here to talk about gaps. He knows it, you know it. Vernon who is scratching the back of his neck and pretending to avert his gaze knows it.
“Second question, then," you continue. "You’ve spoken before about how important mental reset is after a tough preseason. How are you handling the pressure personally, given that your teammate has adapted to this year's car much faster?”
Jihoon wants to scream. He wants to say a lot of things. Wants to ask why you're asking that question. Wants to ask if this is revenge, if this is what happens when the pressure and his career gets in the way of being with you and if this is punishment for putting you second one time too many.
His answer comes out dangerously low. "I'm handling it the way I always do. I drive the car I'm given, and the rest is noise. I focus on the data, I do the work. The only pressure is from myself to do what I've been tasked to do."
You hold his gaze for a beat. It can't be more than a second, but he swears you cut down to the fucking core of him, your gaze a scalpel he cannot fight.
You nod. "Thank you."
Even though you've asked your questions, Jihoon is so acutely aware of you that he can barely focus on anything else. You stand there in the back, almost hidden behind a taller reporter, but you've opened the floodgates now - not just to the dam holding back his rage, but to the audience of reporters who were waiting for someone to poke him first.
"Jihoon," a reporter from Motorsport.com asks. "A follow up question for you. Given the performance gap to your teammate today, do you feel like the team's development direction still suits your driving style? Or maybe there's a risk that Ferrari has built a car that suits a different style?"
Jihoon scoffs. He can't help it because he hears the question for what it really is - do you think Ferrari has built the car for your teammate. Even Seungcheol makes a face, trying to cover his expression by putting his chin in his hand. It's a bold move to imply that a team has built a car for someone specific, and someone like Seungcheol who has that exact narrative year-after-year recognizes it the same way Jihoon does.
"I think the team is building the fastest car they can," Jihoon shoots back. "My job is to drive the car. If I can't drive the car, I need to adapt. Ferrari does not build the car for the driver. They build the car, the driver drives it. That's it."
No one asks him another question and he's glad. He doesn't want to answer more questions about the car and he doesn't want to answer questions that are the same questions you already asked him organized in different ways to make it sound like it's not a repeat question.
He knows it isn't fair to be upset with you, but he is all the same. He hates that once upon a time, he knew there wasn't malice behind your questions, knew that there was warmth and love instead of this this cold, calculated precision of a journalist and nothing more, asking him questions like he was just another driver.
But that's what he was to you now. Just another driver.
Back on the paddock, the sun is almost gone. The rrange light bleeds across the garages as Jihoon walks fast, cap low, shoulders up. He glances at the sky once and begrundingly acknowledges that the spill of tangerine light is beautiful, but when he nears the Ferrari motor home and hears your voice, he forgets all about where he is and appreciating his surroundings.
He looks up and sure enough, you're standing there with Soonyoung. From the distance you're standing from the motorhome, it's obvious you had just been walking by - not looking for him. Not waiting for him. Just passing through like anyone else, probably heading back to your hotel room to write a feature on how god fucking awful he was.
Soonyoung is laughing, his head thrown back, and you're smiling - not the polite, press smile you give everyone else - but the real kind that's genuine. The kind of smile that Jihoon used to get in hotel rooms at two in the morning when he showed you a funny video next to him in bed or when you woke up in the morning to find breakfast waiting. The kind of smile that you gave him and made anything and everything feel possible.
The sight hits him like break failure at 180 MPH.
Jihoon changes direction without thinking and he's in front of you before he can talk himself out of it, cutting off whatever Soonyoung is saying to ask, "Soonyoung, can you give us a minute?"
Soonyoung's laugh dies immediately. He looks at you and then back at Jihoon, suddenly unsure of the atmospheric change happening now that Jihoon is in the equation. "Uh… yes."
"No," you answer over Soonyoung. You stare at him, eyes flashing. "I'm in the middle of a conversation."
"It'll take two minutes."
"I'm not doing this here."
Jihoon steps closer, not crowding, bust enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there. “Then where? Because you had plenty to say in there.”
“That was work.”
“Work,” he repeats. The word tastes bitter. “Right.”
Soonyoung is frozen, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Jihoon ignores his teammate, watching as you try to look anywhere but at Jihoon directly. Rich, considering you'd looked at him sharp as ever in the media conference.
"I have to go." You step around him. "I have a deadline."
The urge to try and stop you nearly takes over. Jihoon doesn't move though, knowing he can't, a boundary he is unwilling to cross. So he stands rooted to the spot, watching you storm off into the dying sun, your silhouette blazing like the inside of his chest.
Silence stretches. Jihoon can feel his heart pounding just as hard as it does when he watches the lights go out at the start of the race, the adrenaline rush making him dizzy in the dying Australia evening. He wants to scream, his hands tight fists, walking you turn and vanish from his sight before he can muster up something to shout at you.
Soonyoung clears his throat awkwardly and Jihoon glances at his teammate, who is desperately fumbling for something to say. "Umm. Bad day?"
"Yeah."
"Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but she knows me from my time at Williams. Nothing weird. She's cool but I'm not - nothing weird here, alright? I'm not trying to step on anything. I have a girlfriend. Kind of. It's really complicated, to be honest."
Jihoon’s laugh is short and hollow. "You’re not stepping on anything.”
Soonyoung nods slowly. “Okay. Good. Cool.” Another beat. "You wanna grab a drink?"
Jihoon stares at the spot where you disappeared. He wishes you would re-materialize, that the sun's heatwaves will conjure a mirage of you, smiling and happy and looking at him the way you had Soonyoung.
"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah man. I need a drink."
Soonyoung claps him once on the shoulder, light and tentative. "How many drinks until you tell me your beef with Pat Benatar?"
"In your fucking dreams, Soonyoung."
"No biggie. I can tell you about my fake girlfriend."
"Your what?"
-
Jihoon loses the Australian Grand Prix faster than he can conceptualize. One second the lights are going out, the next he's crossing the finish line in P12. It's not dead last, but P12 in a Ferrari at the start of the season feels like swallowing glass, especially with Soonyoung on the podium with a P3 finish after a ruthless drive that turned the crowd into roaring red flags and a thunder of noise.
First podium of the season for Ferrari, and it's Soonyoung's.
Jihoon kills the car and sits. Doesn't move. Mechanics swarm but he stays strapped in, visor down, breathing harshly. The radio doesn't crackle with Luca's voice because he knows there's no sense in a pep talk now. Everyone who knows Jihoon knows that a silver lining won't help cool the sting of reality cutting through Jihoon for the first finish of the season, not that there's any silver lining to pull from today's disaster.
Eventually, Jihoon unclips and climbs out of the car. The heat hits him like a wall, the Melbourne evening still thick and sticky even after the sun has faded beyond the track somewhere, the afternoon still raw but dying. He yanks his helmet off, balaclava soaked through while sweat runs into his eyes and he lets it, trudging toward weigh in before he has to cool down and head to the media pen.
He doesn't speak. No one speaks to him either. Seungcheol from Red Bull glances at him with a single brow arched, but says nothing. Jihoon doesn't expect the golden driver of Red Bull who snatched P2 behind Chwe from McLaren to get it. How could he? Seungcheol has done what Jihoon hasn't - fixed a team clawing for championships.
As always, the media pen is chaos. Jihoon walks through it with his head down, cap pulled low and race suit half-unzipped and hanging off his hips. The PR handler murmurs reminders that are lost to the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the sound of voices and questions and the post-race whirring of machines.
He barely stops walking before someone asks, "How disappointing is P12 after such high expectations from Ferrari this weekend?"
Jihoon stops and forces the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile. "Disappointing. We didn't extract what the car was capable of. That's on me and the team. We'll need to fix it."
"Your teammate just earned Ferrari's first podium of the season on his first race with the team," someone points out. Jihoon pivots toward them, staring. "How much does that result change the mood in the garage for you personally?"
"Soonyoung drove perfectly. He deserved podium. The mood in the garage is fine. I'm focused on why I wasn't there with him. Nothing changes and the goal is to be a team."
He keeps moving, giving short answers with no elaboration. The anger sits low and hot behind his ribs like old oil that won't clear, clogging up everything and making him overheat. Every question feels like someone pressing on a fresh bruise, and now half of them are laced with congratulations for Soonyoung that land like insults even though they're not.
The press conference room is blessedly cold when he enters. He drops to the seat on the far left with Soonyoung in the middle, still flushed and grinning from his race. Seungcheol sits to his right, relaxed and leaning back as Jihoon crosses his arms and stares at the sea of faces with unseeing eyes.
When the moderator starts, Jihoon barely hears her. Soonyoung gets a generic opening question and Jihoon listens to his teammate talk about the management of the car and the strategy, his easy energy making the room laugh. Jihoon has never been able to do that, but he admires Soonyoung for being able to command a room full of sharks.
"Jihoon."
He looks up and sees you're standing near the front row this time, not hidden like before. Your notebook is open, pen poised old school, just like you like it - and your expression is unreadable, save for the slight tightening at the corners of your mouth.
"Two questions," you say. It's the same calm delivery that used to make hotel rooms feel safe after bad races and now just makes him sick to his stomach. "After finishing P12 on a day when Ferrari still earned a podium, how do you assess the performance gap within the team, and what does that say about the car's direction?"
The room quiets or maybe that's just how it feels. It's a similar question to the one you asked after practice on day one, but now you've got a race to use against him and the poor performance as justification.
Jihoon hears his own heartbeat in his ears and notices the way Seungcheol shifts, a small uncomfortable movement. Seungcheol knows who you are and knows what you mean to Jihoon, and for some reason the empathy that comes from another driver that Jihoon considers a long-time friend makes him more irritable.
Jihoon leans into the mic. “The gap is real. We saw it all weekend. Soonyoung maximized what the car could do today. I didn’t. My job is to close the gap. We'll keep working."
You don’t flinch or soften. “You’ve been vocal in the past about the importance of mental reset after difficult sessions. Clearly that reset didn’t happen between FP2 and the race today. With your teammate delivering under the same conditions, what specifically prevented you from finding the same level of performance?”
The question isn’t cruel, but It’s surgical. Fair. Asked the same way you’d ask any driver who just threw away twenty points while his teammate stood on the second step. Butt it's you who's asking the question and it' Soonyoung who is sitting right there, proof that the car wasn’t the problem. Jihoon was.
He exhales through his nose. “Pressure. Expectations. Execution. Same things everyone deals with. I didn’t handle it well enough today and Soonyoung did, that’s the difference.”
You nod once. “Thank you.”
He wants to laugh. Or throw the mic. Or ask why the fuck you’re doing this - why you're sitting there looking at him like he's just data on a screen. But he doesn't. He sits through the rest of the questions and lets Soonyoung charm the room with humble gratitude and jokes, lets Seungcheol talk strategy like the golden boy he is. Jihoon stays quiet unless directly addressed, and when it ends, he stands first.
He doesn't go straight to the motorhome. The buzzing in his veins won't let him. Instead, he stands outside the narrow service corridor behind the media center and leans against the wall, arms crossed. He knows you'll walk this way because you always used to cut through here to avoid the main paddock and the crowd crush when you were on a deadline.
Knowing things like that about you is agony. He hates the way he knows your quirks and tells, hates the way it's instinct for him to know what you'll say or do. Hates that he knows you were being fair in the media conference but he's angry anyway, rage and something like heartbreak simmering just under the placid surface of him.
You appear a few minutes later, phone in your hand and notepad tucked under your arm, typing away at your phone. He says nothing but you sense him, pulling up short as you jerk your attention up to see him. Surprise briefly flickers across your face before it settles into a cool, unreadable mask.
"What, Jihoon?" You sigh, sliding the phone into your pocket.
"You're nitpicking," he says.
"I'm asking questions."
"You don't have to phrase them like I'm the only person who failed today."
"Maybe you didn't notice, but you were on the stage among podium winners and people who finished inside top ten. Bitch at the moderator for the shitting press window, not me."
The laugh that comes out of him is sharp and humorless. "Right. And you've got a story to write, yeah? Am I getting a villain edit?"
"I'm not writing fanfiction, Jihoon. I'm writing what happened. Ferrari got a podium and it wasn't you. The why is relevant. This is my job."
“Your job,” he repeats, the word tasting like bile. “And what exactly is your job now? Because it feels a lot like following me around and twisting the knife every time I open my mouth while everyone else gets to clap for the new guy.”
"Get used to it." You storm passed him and he fights the urge to reach out and stop you. "I've been assigned Ferrari full-time this season for a feature series. I will continue to twist the knife, since apparently asking appropriate interview questions is a crime now."
Jihoon feels something crack inside his chest when the words hang. Knowing you will be in the garage to write about his every failure and Soonyoung's every win makes the room spin as he puts together what you're telling him.
"So I get to see you every race," he grits out. "Every time I fuck up, and you get to write about it."
You watch him with an unreadable gaze before you dismiss yourself. "I'm not hunting you for sport, Jihoon. Stop acting like it. Thankfully for you, your teammate has a lot to write about and is a lot less of an asshole when I ask him about his mistakes."
Jihoon says nothing. He stares at you as you walk away, never looking back to him. The service hallway is cold against his still-damp skin. He stays there even after you're gone, back against the wall, head tipped back, eyes staring fluorescent lights until his vision is swimming in coalescing lights.
The sounds of the paddock are distant - laughter from hospitality, someone singing off-key, the hum of engines as people break down the race. Normal Sunday night noises after a race, except nothing feels normal to Jihoon. Not anymore, not when he's P12 and you've gone somewhere he doesn't know how to reach.
Fucking heartbreaker.
-
The Jeddah Corniche Circuit is one of Jihoon's least favorite tracks. He doesn't hate it because of the walls that come out of nowhere or the straights that punish any ounce of hesitation, but rather hates it because last year when he'd been here, you'd been fighting. Maybe he should have known then that the fighting happening between closed doors wasn't going to mend itself. Now you're here in the garage and he feels that familiar fight or flight hammering under his ribs, your presence in the garage bringing back to life the bickering you'd done in hotel rooms just a year ago in this very city.
He hates seeing you around, the awful sense of desire and frustration clashing inside him every time he sees you, the newest permanent fixture in Ferrari's garage. You move through the garage with the same quiet authority you used to have when you were dating, and he hates how normal it is to see you here, how easy it is for you.
You ask Matteo questions while leaning over Luca's shoulder at the telemetry wall, scribbling notes while you skirt around mechanics and team personnel. You fit in so well that it makes him want to scream, and worst of all, everyone likes you. They had liked you when you'd been around in a less official capacity last year, but seeing the way you make Soonyoung laugh and the way the mechanics stick close to you is just proof that you're not the problem.
Jihoon is.
This will be the fourth race in with you in the garage and Jihoon still flinches when he sees you. He tries to compartmentalize when he sees you with his visor down in the car or headphones on in the garage, but sometimes he can't avoid you, like right now when you're standing in hospitality in front of the coffee machine he was heading toward.
He swallows. Your back is to him, head ducked as you scroll on your phone, the espresso machine churning as it processes your coffee. You're dressed in the black jeans that used to - still - drive him crazy, your media pass dangling around your neck.
"Settling in nicely?" His voice makes you startle and you whirl, looking at him with wide eyes. "Sorry."
You don't answer immediately. "I guess."
He leans a shoulder against the wall a few feet away. Arms crossed. “Garage suits you. You’re practically living there now.”
"Yeah. Now I’m just like you.”
He pauses and let's the words settle. For a second, he doesn't know what you mean. Then he sees the immediate wince on your face, instant regret that tells him it's a barb. He narrows his eyes, arms tightening a little.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks evenly.
"Nothing. I shouldn't have-"
"No. Tell me what you mean."
For a second, you don't answer. Instead you take the coffee from the machine and put a sleeve and lid on, doing anything you can to delay an answer. You've always been good at. taking time to choose your words. It's the single quality you have that makes you stick out among the other journalists, thoughtful and careful in your questions, never stupid, never rage baiting.
"It means," you answer carefully. "That I'm here because the job demands it. No space for anything else. I assumed it would be familiar to you."
"That's not fair."
“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, the same way you used to when you were trying not to cry in hotel rooms after he missed another anniversary dinner. “You were never really there, Jihoon. You chose the garage. Every time.”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out because you’re right, and the truth tastes acidic. This isn't how he imagined starting a Grand Prix day. Outside the room, team members drift past like nothing is wrong, carrying about their day without a care in the world while Jihoon feels like someone is ripping the scab off of a wound he was hoping was finally healing.
It was a futile hope and he knows it. Jihoon has known from the moment he saw you that he isn't healing, and hearing you say why you left so plainly turns his thoughts to static. He doesn't know what to say or do - he never does. That was part of the problem too. You'd wait for him with tears in your eyes looking defeated and he'd come home tired, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. So he just didn't.
You swallow thickly and shake your head. "I apologize. We shouldn't be talking about this. You have a race and I was out of line. I apologize."
"No," he says, though his voice feels distant. "I asked for honesty."
Silence stretches for a moment before you nod and clear your throat. "Good luck today, then."
Jihoon doesn't follow you out when you leave. Doesn't watch you go. Doesn't do anything. He stands and stares with unseeing eyes, his thoughts grinding like the failing engine of his car in practice two days ago.
You were never really there.
It's all he can hear when the lights go out. He starts clean but his head is a mess, the car kissing the wall at Turn 22, him feathering the throttle too early exiting Turn 13. Every fuck up he makes, your voice echoes over and over again until it feels like he's talking to you through the headset, not Luca.
You were never really there.
Despite the haunting drone of your voice, he fights anyway, trying to defend hard against Xu into the final sector on lap 12, managing to hold the inside to force him wide. He even manages to overtake Lee in the Williams car with a late brake down the inside of Turn 1 that makes Luca praise him over the radio, but it's lost to the static of his mind.
You were never really there.
Jihoon finishes in points, but it feels hollow. P8 isn't anything to brag about, but at least he's inside the fucking points for the first time this season. It should feel like a weight off his shoulders, but its not. He still has work to do, the gap between him and Soonyoung at P4 not much smaller than it has been the last four races.
The press routine becomes rote. Jihoon climbs out the car, yanks the helmet off, lets the sweat burn his eyes, and eventually pulls a cap low over his sweaty hair before following PR out to the pen. It's the same wash, rinse, repeat of every race before this one, a time loop he can't break.
"P8 from last weeks P11 - is this a step forward?"
No, he wants to scream. Instead, his voice is clipped and efficient. "Points are points. Car is improving. We keep pushing."
"Mentality still good, then?"
Absolutely fucking not, he wants to holler. "Focused as always. We reset. We move on."
The press conference is a haze of questions and rehearsed answers. He barely hears the questions he's asked, but he somehow manages to ask them. You ask him no questions - pity or resentment, he's not sure - but he's grateful anyway.
Jihoon goes through the motions of finishing a race weekend, sitting through debrief silent and offering feedback when asked. His team looks at him sideways, but no one pushes. No one wants to be too hard on him, like he's fragile. It makes him want to throw something, to scream to stop treating him like a child.
He doesn't. He just gets through it with gritted teeth and steely focus until he's sitting in a hotel room that's too quiet and too clean, too empty.
Jihoon showers to escape the silence, the heat of the water burning away the residual anger and turning it into something else that hurts just as bad. He stays under the spray of water until it runs colder and his fingers prune, reluctantly getting out only to sit on the bed in a towel, staring down at his phone in his hand.
A blank thread with your name stares back at him, the blinking text cursor waiting for him to type. So he swallows and types, fingers moving haltingly.
I'm sorry about this morning.
Deletes.
You were right but I don't know how to do this with you around
Deletes.
You're fucking up my head.
Deletes.
The problem is me. I miss you.
Deletes.
Jihoon locks his phone and throws it onto the armchair across the room. He lies back, still damp as he stares at the textured ceiling. The room smells like generic hotel soap and the faint scent of the cologne you bought him two years ago.
Outside, the city thrums, the traffic and distant thrum of bass from a car echoing toward his window. Inside, your voice loop on repeat, haunting him like that stupid Pat Benatar song you love so much.
You were never really there. Heartbreaker.
You were never really there. Dream maker.
You were never really there. Love taker.
-
Rain beats down on the garage, the wind coming off Biscayne Bay blowing sheets of it across the track, turning it into a black mirror. Jihoon watches the radar with arms crossed in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, suit tied around the waist. They expect a long delay and he blows out a sigh, hating the waiting game, his nerves frayed and the after burn of lost adrenaline making him itchy.
Mechanics kill time by playing cards and engineers scroll data on tablets while Soonyoung sits on the ground playing his switch, chatting with his race engineer. Soonyoung laughs at something she says, corner of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. Jihoon gives them a wide berth, staying away from that ticking time bomb of a PR nightmare as much as he can.
Jihoon spots you coming his way and his heart starts to hammer on instinct. You look toward an empty meeting room and jerk you're head toward it, half a command, half request. Jihoon should say no, considering the last time he spoke to you one-on-one fucked with him so bad he could barely drive the car. But the same desire to be close to you and to hear your voice overrides any logic he has and he nods.
You enter the room first, dropping yourself into one of the armchairs. He sits on the couch across from you, elbows on his knees, watching you fidget as you settle. You don't have a notebook or anything for an interview, so he realizes whatever this conversation is, it's personal. It makes him brace for the worst, muscles locking like he's going in for a fight, heart racing.
"You need to stop fighting the car."
He blinks, momentarily stunned. "What?"
"The car. You're muscling the shit out of the car, and that's never been your style of driving. You're bleeding time in sectors because you're not trusting yourself and you're over-correcting before the rear even steps out."
Jihoon stares. The words land like cold data readouts that are clinical and accurate, brutal in their simplicity. He wants to snap back and tell you to save it for the article, but you're not doing an interview right now. You're starring at him with the same analytical gaze you used to give him when talking strategy on a plane while heading to the next race.
He swallows hard and looks away toward the rain hammering on the window. The sky is gunmetal beyond the glass, Miami turning into a canvas of grey and purple, lightning cracking.
"I don't know how to stop fighting it," he sighs. "Every time I ease off, it feels like I'm losing grip or giving up."
You hum thoughtfully. "Remember Imola last year?"
He nods. Imola last year was one of his best races, a beautiful performance clawing his way from P14 to P1. You'd both celebrated well into the early hours of morning, you pinned under him, him drunk off of the high of winning and the heat of your mouth.
"That was a race you won on pure instinct," you point out. "You just locked in and didn't fight the car. You just drove.
He exhales long and slow. The advice sinks in and he thinks about every race prior to this season, all of his feathering too early, snapping the wheel, the way the car in Bahrain testing had started out like a dialogue but ended up as a confrontation.
Jihoon meets your eyes. You're watching him, fingers fidgeting in your lap, and he realizes you're nervous and that maybe he's not the only one who regrets the conversation in Saudi Arabia.
"You really think that's it?"
"I know it is." There's no hesitation when you answer. "I've watched every single part of your racing. You're fast when you let go. You lose it when you start to overthink."
"I guess."
"You never used to overthink."
You're right. Jihoon have never been someone who was over-controlling on the car or strategy. He was often calm and collected, absorbing the problems as they came. He'd been like that with you too, though. He didn't overthink your problems, didn't dig his heels in to try and figure out each one.
And then you'd left and he realized that maybe he hadn't thought about it enough.
Jihoon wants to tell you that, but he doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make it sound like his failures this season are your fault, because they're not. He just wishes you understood his newfound obsession with control, how he doesn't know how to let it go because the last tie he had, you'd walked out of his life.
Rain taps on the window as he nods, exhaling long and slow. "Alright."
You nod and stand, wiping your hands on your jeans. "That's all I came to say."
"Thanks," he murmurs, voice soft beneath the patter of rain. "For telling me instead of making it a headline."
"I'm not your enemy." He nods but says nothing. "Good luck."
Then you're gone, leaving him with nothing but the rain until the delay ends an hour later.
It's a shortened race, the track wet and slick. Jihoon climbs into the car, a new energy humming in his veins, and for once, it isn't nervousness or the determination to control the car - it's confidence. Confidence in himself and in the car., confidence that he's driven on wet tracks and worse cars than what Ferrari's given him.
So he tries not to think about it too much when the lights go out and the spray is everywhere. The car feels different immediately and even though he starts to tighten his grip, he takes a deep breath and lets the car slide into Turn 3 instead of forcing it. He lets the rear slide a little, heart leaping until it catches and he's out the turn.
Jihoon grins a little, pressing the throttle to gain pace, the water on his helmet slicking off as he hunts the McLaren in front of him, the brake lights a smear of color in the mist off the track.
Luca's voice crackles over the radio. "Good pace. Keep it tidy."
Jihoon keeps it squeaky fucking clean. No over-corrections, no white-knuckles on the wheel, and he breathes through the turns, feeling the hum of the engine and the drag of the tires. He trusts the tires to catch when they need and by lap 12, he's up to P5 after overtaking Lee in the McLaren and Hong in the Mercedes.
Soonyoung is ahead of him, fighting with Choi for P3. Jihoon doesn't worry about chasing him. He drives his own race, cruising into Turn 1 with a late break and beautiful exit, defending against Hong desperately trying to retake P5 behind him.
And then he crosses the finish line inside the top five for the first time since last season. For the first time this season, Ferrari has two cars in the top five and Jihoon starts to laugh, Luca's excitement bleeding through the radio.
It is far from perfect and it's not on the podium where he wants to be, but its so much better than P8 or lower. So much better that he feels like he drove better, not grinding the brakes or bumping the wall on his exits, too tight on the control. For the first time all season, it felt like it was instinct, like he just drove without worrying about trying to control the result.
He rolls the car slowly down the pit lane, engine dropping to a soft purr as his adrenaline bleeds out. Jihoon kills the engine in the garage and sits for a second longer than usual, letting the post-race high crash a little.
He unclips, pushes the steering wheel up and out, and climbs onto the halo. He yanks the helmet off, balaclava peeling away with it, and shakes out sweat-soaked hair. Soonyoung is already out of his car, arms raised as he jumps down from the car and gives Jihoon a feral grin.
"Fuck yeah!" He bellows over the noise of mechanics and dying engines. Soonyoung meets him in the garage, clapping Jihoon hard on the back. "You drove like your old self today. Fucking loved it."
Jihoon swallows and nods once, not trusting himself to say more without his voice cracking.
The media pen is mercifully under cover as the rain picks back up, water streaming off the edges of the canopy in steady ropes as Jihoon stands with a towel around his neck, hair still dripping. He sees you before you see him, speaking to a Sky Sports producer, gesturing with your notebook the way you always do when you’re working out angles in real time. Black jeans. Ferrari media pass. Hair damp from the rain you must have crossed without an umbrella. You look focused. Professional.
Beautiful. So beautiful its like a knife to the ribs.
When your eyes finally meet his across the pen, you don’t flinch or look away. You just give a single, small nod and he returns the gesture, not friends but not enemies. It eases the pressure a little bit, but doesn't ease the ache.
Media goes better today, as it so often does when he's not sucking behind the wheel. Jihoon answers just as short and to the point as usual, but there's less bite today and he doesn't feel snappy, doesn't feel tired and poked and prodded. He just feels…. good, which he hasn't in a long time.
By the time he's back in the garage, you're coming his way, calm and collected. He pauses, brows raised as rain beats down on the garage roof.
"You have a moment to spare for an interview?" You ask.
He nods and gestures toward his dressing room. You look like you want to protest - the dressing room feels too personal - but it's you and him and he charges down the back hall without looking back, knowing you'll follow him.
You do, slipping in and closing the door behind you with a metallic click. He sits on the small couch, melting into it as he closes his eyes, thankful for the cool, dry air to fight of the wet Miami heat. You sit down on a folding chair where his trainer usually sits, crossing one leg over the other.
"Ready when you are," he murmurs.
"Alright." You tap your phone. "I'm recording today."
"No note pad?"
"No, I still have my notepad. It just makes it easier for the longer pieces."
"Got it."
"So," you start. "P5 today. First top five of the season for you personally and Ferrari's strongest team result so far. Walk me through what made the difference."
"Track was tricky," he admits. "But the car felt good but predictable. For the first time in a while, I could learn on the rear without it loosing control. The team gave me a good balance before the restart, and once I stopped trying to fight the car, the pace came naturally."
"You mention you stopped trying to fight the car. Was there a specific moment it clicked today?"
Jihoon opens his eyes and looks at you. He can tell you mean the question honestly - you're not asking him if what you said made a difference. You're asking if something happened during his drive, if the feedback on the radio or the data helped him figure it out.
"Yes," he says. "Someone reminded me that I've never been fast when I'm fighting the car. I took their advice. It had nothing to do with anything else but that."
You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary after his answer before nodding. "Team radio was pretty quiet on your drive today, you had less changes and corrections. Was that deliberate or did the drive just go that well?
"Bit of both. Drive just started right from the beginning and Luca and I just sort of reached a flow state. Didn't need to talk much. Sometimes I just need to shut up and drive."
The corner of your mouth lifts just enough that he knows you're amused. He stares at it, heart skipping a little, and for the first time in a long time, this feels like familiar territory. You've interviewed him in every corner of every track for years, but the two years you were together were the best of them.
This feels almost like that now. Almost. You've reverted back to the polished, calculated interview style you had before you'd started dating, but there's something softer there that has stuck, even after the breakup, something personal. Something in the way you look at him, like it takes you a second to remember that you're not together when you're asking him questions.
Jihoon realizes how much he wishes you were. He enjoyed interviews more back then when it felt like you'd dissect his race because you cared about what was going on in his head and less to piece together a story. It helped that most of them were followed by him pressing you into the mattress until neither one of you thought about racing anymore, but things had been easier then.
Until they hadn't.
As much as he misses it, not every night was perfect. Most nights you'd sit in a hotel room and pore over telemetry together, head on his shoulder and he'd lean into your insights without question, nodding along. You strategy had always been - and still is - sharp as ever. He used to joke about you becoming a race engineer, but you like journalism and the challenge of a story.
But then there were other nights. Missed calls, reschedule dinners, him prioritizing workouts and strategy sessions over planned time with you. Jihoon has no idea when he started making you secondary to the garage, but you'd walked away from him before he figured it out.
"So," you start. "Soonyoung's been the benchmark for Ferrari so far this season with consistent top-five pace. Today you matched him more closely than you have all season. Does that make it feel like pressure is easing internally with the team?"
Jihoon looks down at his hands for a beat, thumbs tracing the edge of the couch cushion. This is the kind of question that could be spun a dozen different ways in print, and he knows you know that. Still, you've asked it anyway - not to hurt him, but to get something out of him that you probably know is there.
So he thinks about the question before he says, "Soonyoung is a good driver. His start reminds me of my first year with Ferrari. He's hungry and adaptive. The pressure isn't to match Soonyoung or catch up, but to drive the car the way I know I can. Today I showed that I can. It doesn't mean the job is done, but it means I'm capable when I apply myself."
Surprisingly, you do smile at that. It's like watching the first spill of pink into a morning sky as the sun rises, warm and startling. He feels his heart race a little faster as you look up, holding his gaze longer than you have all season. You nod once, acknowledging that you like the answer, before dropping your gaze back down to your notes.
"Last question," you tell him. "You've talked a lot in the past about instinct being your strongest weapon. Would you say you're getting that version of yourself back?"
Jihoon leans back, letting his head rest against the couch. He stares up at the lights, blinding by the fluorescent, color swimming at the edge of his vision as he chews on the question. Instinct is how he used to drive - it's what made him stand out from other drivers as he climbed his way through F2 and into F1. Where others spent years getting the mechanics and feel for racing, Jihoon just instinctively raced.
It's what initially drew you to him in the first place. His raw, uncalculated drive on the track was something you appreciated. You'd always told him there was a kind of honestly about it, that Jihoon was never trying to beat anyone else or be anyone else. His biggest competition had always been himself, and he was only ever trying to drive how he knew he could.
Somewhere in the last year, he'd lost that and started comparing himself to his teammates, to the other drivers on the grid that were younger and fresher. He had started thinking that if he just spent more time in the garage, if he just looked over the data more, he could keep up. That he could keep pace with where he wanted to be - needed to be.
Now, Jihoon see's the gap in the logic and sees your question for what it truly is: do you get it, Jihoon. Do you see where you've lost your way?
"Yeah," he croaks finally. "I think I get it now."
You let the silence stretch while you lean back, watching him as he drops his gaze down and looks at you. There's no follow up question. You just stare at him with an unreadable expression, and just when he thinks you're going to say something, you nod and lean forward to stop the recording.
"Thank you." You lean back for a second, finger tapping on your thigh. "It'll be a good piece. Honest without being brutal." You stand then, sliding your phone in your pocket. You hesitate just before you reach the door, turning a fraction to glance at him. "You looked good out there today. Like the old Jihoon."
The compliment makes his heart race. He nods, a tired smile splitting his face. "Felt good."
Before the moment can stretch too long, you slide out of the room, the door clicking behind you. Jihoon stays seated, staring at the door. The absence of you feels heavier than it used to, the ache behind his ribs steadily rising when he realizes that now you'll go back to a hotel room that isn't his and work on a piece without any chances of him distracting or interrupting you. No late night coffee date with your fingers intertwined, no shower hot enough to melt metal to ease the tension of a deadline.
Just you. Without him.
Fucking heartbreaker.
-
The streets of Barcelona past midnight are nice. It's quiet but not empty, making Jihoon feel like he has just enough room to breathe without being entirely alone. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks, the streetlamps casting pools of light on him as he wanders, the smell of the bougainvilleas strong, the violet flowers spilling over iron balconies and gates.
Jihoon had been stellar today. Not just stellar - he'd made his first podium of the season, securing P2 with a clean start and flawless driving. He'd been held off from winning by the McLaren, but for the first time in his career, Jihoon doesn't care about P1. He cares about his drive - about himself - and the trust he's had to put into himself to make the drive possible today.
After having to retire the car in Ferrari's first home circuit of the year at Imola, it's a fucking relief. While he'd done fine afterward in Monaco, being the heartbreaker of the home race had been weighing on Jihoon since slamming his head on the wheel and screaming as the car's engine gave out. Soonyoung had been Ferrari's only pride that day, making podium as a sea of red exploded in the Italian grandstands.
Seeing all that red again today in Spain had lessened the sting of it all. It had been a long time since he stood on a podium with the Tifosi screaming his name, red flags rippling in a sea of fans. Soonyoung had finished in P4, grinning like an idiot when Jihoon had wandered back to the garage, saying welcome back as though even Soonyoung knew the real Jihoon had been found again.
Jihoon turns left, walking toward a string of shops and late-night restaurants. He's still buzzing from the win, restlessness and a little hunger driving him from the quiet luxury of the hotel room onto the familiar streets of Spain.
He looks up and stops dead when he sees you.
You're learning against the low stone rim of a fountain that gurgles quietly, the lights strung between buildings casts a soft, gold light on you that makes you glow. You're in jeans and a soft grey hoodie that Jihoon realizes is his, making him jolt.
Sensing his gaze, you look up at him. You seem confused for a split second before you realize it's him and freeze. "Jihoon."
"Hi." His voice comes out a little more unsteady than he means it to. He clears his through, heart doing that stupid thing that it does whenever it sees you recently. "What are you doing out here?"
"Couldn't sleep." You pocket your phone. "You?"
"Same. Too much adrenaline."
You grin - a real grin, full of warmth that makes Jihoon want to burst at the seams. "Congratulations again. You raced clean today."
"Thanks. Felt good."
"I bet."
He hesitates a beat, the fountain bubbling as the two of you stare at one another. "I'm kind of starving and trying to find something open. Do you want to come?"
Surprise followed by hesitation flickers across your face. He braces for a polite no, realizing that he has over-extended beyond the polite fencing you've put up between the two of you.
"Sure," you say finally. He blinks in surprise. "I skipped dinner to make a deadline."
The two of you walk in silence for the first two blocks. The alleys narrow, forcing you a little closer, shoulders nearly brushing. Jihoon is hyper aware of your warmth and the soft smell of sandalwood perfume you like to wear, the one he bought you when you were in Singapore the year before. The scent nearly undoes him, his hands flexing in his pockets as he keeps himself from reaching over to close the distance and pull you closer.
You discover a tiny bodega tucked under a low archway almost by accident, the stripped awning sagging but the neon on the door flashing that its open. The tables outside are mismatched, some with wicker chairs some with metal, but the smell of hot oil and something spicy drifting from the door is too hard to resit.
A server gestures through the window to take one of the tables so you do, chairs scraping silently against the night. When the server appears, Jihoon panics for only a moment before remembering you are the Spanish speaker between the two of you, relief flooding him as you order two glasses of wine and plates of garlic prawns, bread and thing slices of jamón.
"Wine, huh?" Jihoon grins. "Are we celebrating?"
"Maybe." You take a sip and hum. "Better than podium champagne."
"Everything's better than podium champagne. You learn to hate the smell and taste after a while."
"Still crave being showered in it though, yeah?" He nods, sipping the wine. It's dry, the taste of cherries rich on his tongue. "You looked happy up there today."
"I was. The car felt good. Didn't have to fight the car."
"The car or yourself?"
As always, your question is sharp and to the point. You always had a way of voicing the real issue, of asking the right question. When Jihoon first met you, he thought maybe it was because you were a journalist, but now he knows its because you're good at seeing through the bullshit, your instinct for truth better than anyone else he knows.
"Both, I guess."
When the food arrives, your conversation lulls. Not in a way that feels awkward, but it feels nice. Jihoon watches you bite into a garlic prawn and make a little noise that does things to his stomach and chest, his eyes going to his plate as he steals a slice of jamón.
It melts on his tongue and he makes an equally obscene noise that has you laughing, leaning back in your chair as you nod and sip your wine. "Yeah. It's good."
"Remember Singapore?" He asks, peeling back the shell on a prawn. "That hole in the wall that we loved to go to with the laksa that almost killed me?"
"You mean the one that made you cry?"
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did, Ji."
The nickname is so sudden that it pulls both of you up short. Jihoon’s fingers freeze around the prawn shell. He doesn’t look up right away. He can’t. If he does, he’s afraid the careful distance you’ve both been maintaining since Miami will shatter, and he doesn't know what will spill out of him if it does.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “Old habit.”
When he lifts his faze, your eyes are fixed on the table. You look embarrassed, like the armor you've been wearing all season with him has as single weakness and you've just pressed on it yourself.
"It's okay." He swallows, still frozen. "It was nice hearing it. I know we're not-" He stops and shakes his head, putting the prawn down and wiping garlicky fingers on a napkin. "I know we're not together anymore, but hearing you say it just now felt nice."
You pick up a piece of bread, tear it in half, then tear one half again. You’re not really eating it, you're just giving your hands something to do. Jihoon has seen you do it a hundred times, usually with pens or pieces of paper, snapping caps and ripping corners of notebooks.
"I've almost used it before this," you admit, not looking at him. "It's an adjustment. You're not the only one who thinks of places like Singapore."
Jihoon’s throat closes as he nods. It's both heaven and hell to hear you say it, to know that you remember the smell of the hotel shampoo on skin, the way you'd lay in bed while you read over a piece as he dozed against your side.
"I fucked that up," he admits.
It's not a question and you don't rush to correct him. Jihoon feels his stomach hollow out, heart dropping to his ass. You're nice enough not to agree, but your silence is somehow worse, like you're trying to spare him.
He hates it.
"You can say it. I know. I did."
You lift a shoulder. "You chose something else. Over and over until I decided I wanted to make a choice for once, so I chose me."
“I thought if I gave everything to the car, I would be able to catch up. I guess I just thought you'd understand."
"I did - I do. But I'm not a pit stop, you don't get to come and go as you please."
Jihoon remembers the night you left so clearly. He remembers the exact shade of gold of the Austin skyline, the live music drifting from Rainey Street. You always liked it better than Sixth, and it was closer to the river. He'd almost made podium that day, finishing P5 after Ferrari finally began clicking after Jihoon had spent the entire first half of the season grinding himself to dust to chase Red Bull and Mercedes.
He remembers the way you'd come out of the bathroom fully showered, voice soft as you tried to spark up a conversation. Jihoon was staring at data, looping on how he could have done better, how he could have pushed the car a little harder. P5 was fine, but it wasn't good enough. Wasn't right.
The fight had started softly at first - you asking him if he was listening, him insisting he was. You never raised your voice, but you did that night, your anger sharp against the buzz of Austin traffic, accusing him of making the relationship too low-priority.
He remembers you pacing the room as he yelled back at you, raw and angry. This was his career, his life, you knew what you were getting into. If you didn't want someone who worked hard, what were you doing there? It had been the wrong thing to say, and as he remembers it now, he winces.
You'd packed by morning, pale grey light spilling across the Texas sky as Jihoon watched you numbly. You'd folded your clothes with shaking hands, your silence a wall of ice meant to keep him out. And he'd let you keep him out. He hadn't fought. Hadn't begged.
"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah I know. I get it."
Your eyes soften, but there’s a guarded edge too, like this kind of honesty scares you more than it helps. "I know you do. It doesn't make it easier."
For a moment, the two of you stare at one another. Jihoon opens his mouth to take a risk, heart pounding, to apologize and tell you to let him try and fix it. But before he can, he watches you straighten, the softness in your eyes shuttering, replaced by the cool mask you've kept all of this season.
"It's late," you sigh, signaling for the check. "Early flight tomorrow."
Jihoon slams into your wall of ice at 200 MPH. He reaches for the check before you can, waving off your soft protest. You say nothing as he signs for it, the silence pressing in as you both stand, chairs scraping.
The lights of Barcelona hum softly in the night. He thinks of Austin again, the dim lights reminding him of the same strip of restaurants and bars burning outside the suite, the absence of your voice pressing in on him as he lay on the hotel bed staring at the ceiling.
When you part ways, Jihoon's blood is buzzing. He feels it in his hands and arms, a nagging feeling that he can't stop as he murmurs a quiet goodbye. You give him a small smile and head off. Just like in Austin, he doesn't stop you. Doesn't know what to say.
Somewhere, music is drifting through an open window of an apartment, the crackling sound of Pat Benatar's voice drifting on the wind, a constant phantom that always drifts behind him.
Heartbreaker. Dream maker. Love taker.
-
The roar of the Tifosi is a living thing. Sound crashes over the Autodromo Nazionale Monza, so loud that Jihoon can barely thing. Jihoon's car gleams under the Italian sun, the sea of red flags rippling in the grandstands visible as the heat presses in.
Visor down, the world narrows to the inside of the car. He doesn't let the crowd get to him. Breathes in. Breathes out. Wills his hands to stop shaking. Monza is just like any race, but it feels like more than that today. This is the home race, bigger than Imola, with higher stakes and a louder crowd.
There's no room for error today. Not with Seungcheol on pole, untouchable all weekend in qualifying. Jihoon is slotted at P3 behind Chwe's orange McLaren, and Soonyoung is just behind Jihoon in P4, the energy of two Ferrari's starting so high up palpable.
Beneath him, the engine hums. It feels like an extension of his own body, nervous and edgy but ready. Jihoon knows every straight here, every turn - knows that power and clean exits will reward him here if he just lets the car do what needs to get done.
Today, the goal is simple - finish the race where he started. He's not chasing Chwe and he's not trying to jockey for position with Soonyoung. Jihoon's only goal is to finish the race under his own terms without fighting the car, without forcing it.
Jihoon sucks in a sharp breathe. The grandstands are a blur of crimson, but he focuses on the five lights ahead, thumbs brushing over the wheel. He breathes out as the first light illuminates, then the second. He breathes in. The lights go out, and he exhales.
The launch slams into him immediately. He's careful as the vehicle shoots forward, holding the inside line to Turn 1 as Vernon's McLaren goes wide on the exit. Jihoon attacks without thinking, surging into P2 and peeling off as Luca says something encouraging in Italian. It's lost in the roaring blood in Jihoon's ears, eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol's car ahead.
Jihoon falls into a rhythm of feathering the wheel and braking late. The car feels good under him, each bump of the chicane smooth. His hands grip the wheel as he sails through the sectors, narrowing the gap between him and Red Bull.
"Gap to leader 0.8 seconds," Luca says. "Push push."
Jihoon doesn't respond. He's too focused, the world reduced to turns and braking points. He hardly registers the passing of time until he's debating pit maneuvers with Luca while he defends Soonyoung from overtaking him.
"Solid," Luca says and Jihoon grins, putting space between him and his teammate on the straight. "Gap to Soonyoung 1.2. Can the tires handle more?"
"Yes."
"Keep up the pace and stay out as long as you can. Box for hards on lap twenty four."
"Heard."
On lap twenty, Seungcheol makes a tiny mistake and locks up going into a turn. Jihoon presses the advantage, diving around the outside through the second part of the chicane to overtake. The car slides close enough to the gravel that he feels the rocks kick up and rattle against the metal floor, each ping of the stone on metal that he cut it too close to going out of bounds for an overtake.
He pulls out in front of Seungcheol and grins, pushing the car harder. He knows the heat is building in his tires as Seungcheol heads to the pit lane. The front tires are staring to wear, and the car pushes too wide through a turn, fighting him. Behind him, Soonyoung pits, the orange McLaren hunting Jihoon down.
"Gap to Chwe 3.2"
Jihoon feels the pressure in his shoulders, feels the wheel fight back. He doesn't grip it harder. He breathes deeper and lets the car slide a fraction more than usual, trusting it to catch the edges of each turns. It does, and he exhales, fending off Vernon until Luca calls for new tires.
The mechanics are a blur in his peripheral. He barely registers the stop before he's peeling back out onto the track again, narrowly sliding out in front of Choi to slot himself in P3 behind Soonyoung. But now Jihoon has fresher tires, closing the gap between his teammate on an inside overtake at Rettifilo that forces Soonyoung wide with a late brake.
Jihoon grins, hunting down the back of Chwe's car until he rolls across the finish line in P2 with Soonyoung narrowly behind him in P3.
"Belissimo!" Luca screams, his voice peaking the radio mic. "Fucking beautiful! What a drive, Jihoon. Kwon is in P3, forza!"
Grinning, Jihoon rolls the car into parc fermé and kills the engine. His hands are shaking like he just finished pole, and for Ferrari, it may as well be. He sits for a long second, chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes and soaking through the balaclava.
Outside, the roar washes over him like a wave crashing onto the cliffs. The Tifosi are so loud the air vibrates, smoke and flares of red drifting across the crowd as he rests his head on the back of the seat. Something cracks open inside of him, relief and joy spilling out that he hasn't felt in weeks.
Jihoon unclips and pushes the wheel away, climbing onto the halo to rip of his helmet and balaclava. His hair is plastered to his neck with sweat but he grins, raising his arms as he jumps down, the Tifosi screaming.
Soonyoung is there in an instant, helmet gone, grinning like a madman as he grabs Jihoon and kisses him on the head.
"Double fucking podium at Monza!" Soonyoung screams. Jihoon laughs, shoving Soonyoung off. "What a fucking race!"
Jihoon sees Chwe running to his crew as he launches into them, celebrating another win in what has to be the best season McLaren has had in years. Jihoon is happy for Vernon - happy for himself, jogging toward his crew as he and Soonyoung both celebrate with them, the sound of the crowd swelling even louder.
The podium ceremony is chaos, the fans so loud that the speakers become irrelevant. Champagne hits Jihoon in thick, foamy sprays as Vernon turns to shoot it right at his face, Jihoon choking on sweet fizz as he steps off to shake his bottle in retaliation. He laughs in delight as Soonyoung dumps half the bottle of champagne on Vernon's head in retaliation, screaming wildly like a kid.
A pressure releases in Jihoon's chest. Every missed point, ever bad turn of the car, every night spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room - it all pours out of him as he yells, spraying the rest of his champagne in white arcs.
Jihoon is buzzing by the time the formalities end and he's jogging back to the paddock, heart hammering, blood buzzing. He waves to the crimson see of fans, holding a fist up in the air as he goes.
And then he sees you.
You're standing at the edge of the paddock, media pass flickering around your neck in the breeze. Your notebook is clutched to your chest like always, and Jihoon is surprised to see the smile on your face. For once, you look unguarded, and the small smile that used to light up dim hotel rooms at three in the morning cuts right fucking through him.
He doesn't think. He doesn't warn you. He just takes six long strides across the asphalt, cups your face in his hands, and he kisses you like he's been starving for it because he is. He pours every apology he never said out loud into the kiss, every regret from last season but especially Austin. Every follow race that felt empty without you comfort him after.
You freeze for half a heartbeat, your hands frozen near his hips like you don't know if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Jihoon's heart is hammering and he pulls back a fraction, lips still tasting like champagne and your lip balm - birthday cake, he thinks.
"You told me to stop fighting myself," he murmurs. "So I am. I'm not fighting the fact that I'm an idiot and an asshole or that I fucked up. I did. I'm sorry. I know I don't have to put you first all the time, but I can't make you a permanent second. I won't anymore. Even if I never make another podium again."
Your breath catches, eyes flaring with surprise. Your hands land on his hips, not pushing, but holding, your fingers curling into the sweat-dampened racing suit. Your eyes search his, wide and more vulnerable than they've been in months, looking for any hesitation that he doesn't mean it, any fault in his words.
Jihoon sees the indecision flicker through you. He knows you remember the sting of missed dinners, the lonely nights waiting for him, the way he'd chosen other things over you. But he sees the warmth there too, knowing that there is room for you, knowing that you trust him to be capable of doing both.
Then you're kissing him.
He grins into it, sighing as you press into him. Your kiss is softer than his, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him closer until the champagne staining him is soaking through your clothes.
Love swells in his chest so much he thinks he might not be able to breathe. He crushes you to him, lost in the heat of your mouth and the sweetness of your birthday cake lip balm and the sweep of your tongue. He groans, a shiver rippling through him.
And then Soonyoung's wolf-whistle cuts through the haze and Jihoon breaks the kiss, glancing over. Soonyoung stands with his eyebrows raised, a swarm of mechanics around him, the girl that is Soonyoung's fake girlfriend standing next to the race engineer Soonyoung wants to be his real girlfriend, all of them watching.
Then they start cheering and you laugh covering your face with your hand as Jihoon cracks a smile, laughing as his team yells at him in Italian. He doesn't care, he just turns to you again, hand sliding to your waist as he keeps you close.
"I'm sorry."
"You're still an idiot. And we have talking to do."
"I know."
“And I’m still writing about Ferrari. Full season. That doesn’t change.”
“I know that too.”
You study him for several long seconds and he doesn’t look away. Then you lean up and kiss him again, short and sweet.
"You have press to do. Let's go."
Press is a breeze for once. Jihoon can hardly stop looking at you. For the first time in a long time, when you ask him questions, he trusts that they're not meant to hurt him. They never had been, but it's one thing to know something than it is to feel it. He answers them easily, a small smile on his face as he answers other questions.
Honestly, he barely hears them. His gaze goes back to you every time, watching the way you rip the edges of your notebook to keep your hands busy, watches the way you scribble things down on the corner of the paper. He wants nothing more than to finish this press conference and steal you away, to take you somewhere behind closed doors.
Jihoon is good at waiting. He waited most of his life to earn a seat in an F1 car, and waited again to get promoted to Ferrari. Now, he waits through the rest of a press conference, media responsibilities, a post-race strategy session, and some sponsorship related handshakes and greetings.
It's nothing compared to how many times he's left you waiting, he's sure. He intends to make up for it, spotting you near the coffee machine of hospitality, leaning against the counter with your head cocked. He doesn't say anything - doesn't have to. He nods toward the stairs and you follow, slipping behind him as he leads you toward the small, but clean room that belongs to him in the motorhome.
He doesn't want to wait anymore. Neither do you.
The door to the room clicks shut behind you. The space is small, filled by a single couch pressed against one wall, a coffee table, a mini fridge and two TV's directly across from the couch. The paddock hums faintly outside, but right now he's not worried about that. Right now he's turning to you, the post-race adrenaline humming in his veins.
Neither of you says a word a he closes the distance, hands finding your waist to pull you toward him. His mouth finds yours, desperate and hungry, all teeth and tongue, the past melting as soon as his tongue brushes against yours. He spins you toward the couch, careful as he cradles your face and walks you backward.
"Fuck I've missed this," he breathes against you. His fingers dig into your hips briefly as you tug at his team polo. Your hands peel it upward and off, fingers dancing along the taught muscle of his stomach, his heart hammering. "I've missed you."
"You never said so."
"I didn't think you wanted to hear me."
You press a palm to his jeans where he's already hard and straining. He makes a sound that's strained, lids fluttering as you drop to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. "I guess I didn't. I want to hear you now, though."
Jihoon's heart leaps as you tug the zipper of his jeans down. He doesn't dare move, watching with shaky breath as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pull down just enough to free his aching cock. He shivers, the air cold, the tip of his cock flushed and hardening as you wrap your hand around the base, stroking gently.
"Oh fuck," he groans, tilting his head back, lashes fluttering.
You laugh. "Look at you."
Jihoon can't help it. He feels himself grow harder at just the touch of your hand, velvet around his shaft, stroking agonizingly slow in a way that makes his knees a little weak. He presses a hand against the wall, trying to keep himself steady when he feels the heat of your tongue slither up the underside of his cock.
A broken sound escapes him. His free hand threads in your hair, not pulling or pushing, but grounding himself, trying to gain some sort of semblance of control over himself. Your tongue is devilish, rolling around his swollen tip, and Jihoon swears he sees god.
"Fuck," he whispers.
"You're so fucking hard for me already," you tease.
He doesn't respond. He doesn't think he has the words. His hips twitch of their own accord when you take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate. He shivers, pressing his fist against the wall as he lets out an agonized sound. It feels so fucking good he can't think straight, and when you hollow your cheeks to suck him deeper, he thinks he's going to die.
"Shit," he swears. "Like that. Please. Fuck."
Your free hand grips what you can't swallow down, twisting as your spit drips down to ease the slide of your hand. Jihoon squeezes his eyes, trying not to come as you bob your head and suck him leisurely, humming lightly as your tongue scrapes the vein on the underside of his shaft.
The wet sounds of your mouth nearly break him. You take him deeper, throat relaxing as you swallow around him and his hips twitch. He grits his teeth, growling to stop himself from busting, feeling you gag around him and pull back a little.
"Sorry," he rasps. "You're gonna make me come if you do that again."
He glances down at you and thinks he's going to pass out. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, wet with want, mouth covering in spit and come, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you take a breath, hand sliding up and down his length.
"Come here," he growls, yanking you off the floor to crash your mouth into his.
The kiss is messy, spit and come mixed with the taste of you. He doesn't care. He'll take you anyway he can have you, his hands peeling your shirt away, your bra - anything that stops him from palming your warm skin.
Jihoon sinks to the couch and pulls you with him, your knees straddling his thighs. You're warm and soft in his hands, making him groan as you kiss him, fingers tangled in his hair, pussy pressed to his slick shaft. He grunts, fingers digging into your ass as he encourages you grind on him, the friction turning his stomach to static.
He slides a hand between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He let's out a whimper as he circles your clit with feather-light touches that make you crumble, your head falling to his shoulder as your hips chase the friction of his fingers.
"So fucking wet, huh?" He asks, grinning as he kisses your neck. You nod, clinging to him like a life line. "Missed this pussy gripping my fingers. Can I stretch you out, baby?"
You whine and nod, rocking against him. He sucks greedily at the spot underneath your ear as he presses a finger in, the slide easy. You whine and a shiver ripples through you when his finger presses against your front wall, pressing against that spot he's learned over and over.
"Yeah?" He asks. "That the spot?"
"Please."
He doesn't make you wait. He presses another finger in, pumping slowly as you roll your hips to meet his fingers, pussy gripping him hard. He let's out a sound that sounds strangled as he fucks you with his fingers, grinning at the way you writhe for him, still sensitive just like he remembered.
Your mouths tangle again and Jihoon is spinning, his thoughts turning to a staticky mess as he strokes you, loving the way you drip into his hand, loving the way you whimper and can't focus on kissing him, your brows pinched tight, mouth open as you breath hard.
"Feels good," you whisper.
"Good. Come for me like this, baby. Let me hear you."
It doesn't take you long. His fingers are relentless and you shatter around him with a muffled cry in his neck, walls clenching around him. He works you through it, his heart hammering as he presses his mouth to your ear, tongue darting out to ease your lobe.
"That's it, just like that," he whispers, grinning when you nod, dazed.
Before you can catch your breath, you're lifting yourself and grabbing his cock, positioning him at your entrance. He barely registered you've pulled off his hand when you're sinking down on him, his brain whiting out as the heat of you wraps around him.
"Fuck," you swear. "You feel so fucking good."
Jihoon grips your hips, guiding your movements as you start to ride him, slow rolls turning into urgent bounces. His hands roam everywhere he can grab - your ass, your thighs, your tits - he can't keep his hands off of you, like if he lets go he might lose you again.
"Just like that," he groans, planting his feet on the ground to thrust up into you. "Fuck I missed this. Missed you so much."
You lean forward, foreheads pressing together, your breath fanning his lips as you quicken your pace. The couch leather creaks beneath you but he doesn't care, the heat of your skin sliding against his driving him insane, the smell of your skin and the sandalwood driving him to madness.
He wraps his arms around your waist, barring you to him as he fucks up into you hard, knocking you into his chest, your hands sliding against his sweaty shoulders. You make a loud sound and he lets you, uncaring who hears.
"Right there," you gasp. "Please don't stop, fucking asshole - oh my god."
"Yeah?" He grits. "I'm an asshole?"
"Yes!"
He laughs and shifts, lifting you off him. Your surprise is evident but he smiles and turns you around. "Ass up."
You comply, knees on the couch, hands braced on the cushions as he kneels behind you. You look over your shoulder, smirking as he presses the crown of his cock against your entrance.
"Still an ass man?"
He thrusts in hard and your smugness is knocked right out of you as his hands squeeze the globes of your ass. "Yes. Especially for this ass in particular."
Your head drops down as he thrusts in slow, grinding his hips each time he slides in fully. He presses forward, leaning over you to keep his chest pressed to your back, craving the nearness. You lift your head and lean into him, eager to press back as he fucks into you hard, hands grabbing at your hips.
When you beg him to go harder, he does, driving into you as one hand reaches around to toy with your clit, deft fingers circling as you turn into a mess underneath him. He loves the effect he has on you, loves to watch the ice between you all season melt, loves that he can have you like this.
"Come with me," he murmurs, breath shaky. "Please baby."
You nod, the two of you sliding together until you clench around him, squeezing him tight until he spills. Your name is broken on his mouth, his lips pressed to your shoulder, tasting the sweat on your skin. Your hand is reaching back, digging into his wrist, nails leaving crescent moons as you shake underneath him, coming undone.
Carefully, the two of you collapse together, both on your side. His back is against the couch, one arm slung around your waist to keep you from sliding off the couch, the other under your head. The couch barely fits the two of you - made for relaxing, not desperate sex - but neither of you moves to get up.
Jihoon noses the curve of your neck, still damp with sweat, lips brushing the tender spot beneath your ear. He kisses you lazily and you press into him, making him smile into your warm skin.
"Still alive?" He asks, voice rough.
"Barely. You?"
"Dead. I think you killed me." His teeth graze your earlobe playfully. "Worth it."
"Hmm."
He tightens his hold around you, desperate to keep you closer than you've been in months. "I meant what I said earlier. I won't be perfect, but I'll never put you as a permanent second again."
You turn your head just enough to catch the corner of his eye. You examine him before you nod and say, "That's all I've ever asked for."
“I’ll set reminders to not be a dick to my girlfriend. I'll make it a recurring alarm.”
"Girlfriend? Haven't heard that in a while."
He presses a kiss behind your ear, lingering. "Get used to it. I don't make the same mistake twice."
You twist in his arms until you’re facing him, noses almost touching. Even this close, he can't help but think you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. He grins, watching you through his lashes as you reach up to brush strands of sweaty hair from his face.
"You're sticky from champagne," you note.
"You're sticky from cum."
"Ji!"
He laughs deeply for the first time in forever, squeezing you close. You settle against him, the room falling quiet for a bit with the low hum of the air conditioning and the murmur of post-race activity beyond the door. Jihoon almost drifts to sleep when he hears a sound drifting through the door, muffled at first. When it gets louder, he cracks an eye open, recognizing the unmistakable voice of Soonyoung belting at top volume somewhere in the motorhome.
"You're a heartbreaker! Dream maker! Love taker don't you mess around with me!" Soonyoung shouts, the faint sound of the song on speakers somewhere muted somewhere beyond his yelling.
Jihoon’s entire body goes rigid behind you. Then you start laughing, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your voice as you lose it. The tension bleeds out of him as Soonyoung continues into the second verse, his voice moving around the building, a traveling circus.
"Of course he's singing that fucking song," Jihoon groans."
“Heartbreaker! Dream maker! Every time I think of you-"
You're laughing so hard you're nearly doubled over in his arms, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Jihoon groans as you clutch your stomach, Soonyoung's voice cracking beyond the door.
"I hate him," Jihoon sighs.
"I actually think he's really good for you. He looks up to you, you know?"
"I guess."
"Come on," you tease, trying to free yourself from his arms. "Let's join."
"No!"
"Team bonding."
"I bonded when he kissed my forehead already."
"Jihoon."
He sighs and lets you stand, staring at the ceiling. "Fine."
Looking up at you, Jihoon can't help but smile, his entire world finally settling, the pieces falling back into place where they belong. All he had to do was stop trying to control it and let it happen. He watches you get dressed, entranced with the way you move, the way you smile at him.
Jihoon decides he doesn't hate Pat Benatar so much anymore.
Pairing: Viscount! Seungcheol x Lady Whitlock! F. Reader
Themes: Smut | Angst | Regency AU | Enemies to Lovers | Marriage of Convenience | He Falls First | Protective Eldest | Found Family | Inspired by 'Bridgerton'
Wordcount: 52,8K
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Unprotected intercourse - PIV - Fingering (F. Receiving) - Implied virginity (Periodical context) - Semi-public intercourse - Use of petnames
First part of the series ‘The House of Carat’.
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The Ashbourne gates swallow your carriage whole.
Iron scrollwork rises like black lace against the lanternlight, and the world narrows to the rhythm of hooves on stone, the hush of well-trained horses, and the faint creak of leather harnesses that have carried a hundred families into a hundred nights like this—hope dressed as satin, panic sewn into hems, reputations balanced on the thin edge of a smile. Then the wheels slow. The footman drops down from his perch. The latch clicks, and the door opens, the cold slipping into the carriage.
Georgina shifts so quickly the cushion gives a little sigh beneath her. She’s been trying to sit still for the entire drive and failing with enthusiasm, her excitement too big for her bones. Her gloved hand grips the edge of the seat as if she might launch herself out and into the night. Cecily, beside her, is composed to the point of stillness—chin lifted, shoulders neat, hands folded in her lap as if she has trained herself to take up as little space as possible in case the world decides it does not have room for her. You go first, because you always go first.
The step down is small, but it feels like a threshold. Your boot meets stone, and the chill bites through the sole. You straighten without thinking—shoulders back, chin level—because you have learned that the body must hold the composure even when the mind is crowded.
Ashbourne Hall is not ostentatious the way new money shouts. It doesn’t need to. It is old enough to be certain. A wide, pale façade. Tall windows glittering with candlelight. The faint, warm pulse of music pressing through glass like a heartbeat behind a door. The entrance is alive with motion: servants in dark livery threading between arriving carriages, a doorman receiving invitations, ladies stepping down like swans pretending they are not balancing on thin ice. Each laugh, each murmured greeting, each rustle of fabric is a small performance. You can taste the powder in the air, the faint sweetness of perfume, the smoke of torches, the damp iron scent of spring edged by the last bite of cold. You turn and offer your hand to Georgina.
She takes it like she’s already halfway into the ballroom. She looks up at the hall with eyes that shine as if it might be a promise. “It’s bigger than I imagined,” she breathes. “Everything is bigger before you step into it,” you murmur, and help her down. Cecily follows carefully. Her fingers rest in your palm with one brief tremor—one heartbeat of betrayal from her body—before she steadies. She doesn’t look up at the hall as Georgina does. She looks at the steps, as if numbers are safer than wonder.
You hear your name before you are properly inside. It is not spoken to you directly, but rather threaded through the air like a ribbon someone is pulling. Your family is known. Not powerful enough to be untouchable, not obscure enough to be ignored. Your father’s barony gave you a title and a place at the edges of rooms like this. His death gave you—quietly, efficiently—everything else. The account books. The responsibility. The precariousness disguised as dignity.
A lady in pale lilac turns her head as you pass. Her smile is polished, her eyes sharper than her pearls. Her companion leans closer, fan half-raised like a shield. “That’s Lady Whitlock,” the companion murmurs—softly, but not softly enough. “Poor thing,” the first replies with a sweetness that could curdle cream. “Two sisters out at once. I heard the estate is… strained.”
“Strained,” the companion echoes, pleased with the word, as if it tastes better than simple truth. “And she chaperones alone. How brave.” A third voice slides in, amused. “Or desperate.” There is a small laugh, quickly hidden behind lace.
The phrases land in you like the familiar press of a bruise. Not new pain. Just pain you recognise. You keep walking. Georgina leans close, curls brushing your shoulder. “Are they talking about us?” she whispers—half offended, half thrilled by the drama of it. “They are always talking,” you reply evenly. “Let them waste their breath.” Cecily’s fingers tighten around yours. “I don’t want to be a topic,” she murmurs. You squeeze her hand once—an answer more than comfort. “Then we make them speak about what we choose,” you tell her. “Tonight they speak about your poise. Tomorrow they speak about your prospects.”
The doorman takes your invitation without looking at the name—because he already knows it. He stands aside. Warmth spills over you as you step in. The entry hall is wide enough to host a battle. Marble underfoot, rugs soft enough to swallow sound, paintings that watch you with inherited judgment. A servant appears as if summoned by your breath.“Lady Whitlock,” he says, voice trained to respect. “May I take your cloaks?” You hand them over. Your gloves stay on. You always keep your gloves. Then you step forward, and the ballroom opens like a jewel box snapped wide.
Light everywhere—chandeliers glittering like cut stars, mirrors multiplying the crowd into a soft infinity of movement. Silk moves like water. Fans flutter like nervous birds. Laughter rises and breaks and reforms. Music coils through the air—violins bright and quick, the deeper structure beneath keeping everyone in time whether they wish to be or not. It is beautiful, yes. And it is hungry.
The marriage mart dresses itself as celebration with startling skill. The rules are softened by music, the stakes disguised by champagne. Young ladies carry dance cards as if they are harmless paper, when in truth they are maps—who you allow close, who you refuse, who you are seen with, and therefore assumed to be aligned with. Mothers angle daughters like chess pieces. Men hover with smiles that mean different things depending on the weight of their title. And everywhere—everywhere—you see the theme of the house that built itself on stones pulled from the earth and turned into power.
Diamonds wink at throats. Sapphires hang from ears. Emeralds flash on fingers. Pearls gleam like soft temptations. It is not subtle, and yet it is not vulgar. It is a declaration, perfectly executed. Carat & Co. does not need to advertise here. The ballroom is its showroom. At the far end of the room, set on a side table, is a display—tasteful, almost restrained, but still arranged like an art exhibit. A velvet tray holds a necklace of pale diamonds, a brooch shaped like a spray of leaves, and a ruby pin so small it looks unpretentious until it catches the light. You steer Georgina and Cecily away from the display and toward the edge of the room where you can see everything: the doors, the exits, the corners where trouble likes to grow. You have learned that visibility is a kind of power, and vigilance a kind of protection. Before you can begin the careful work of introductions, a familiar, steady presence is suddenly beside you. Lady Halstead.
“My dear,” she says, and the affection in the words is real enough to press briefly at the back of your throat. “If you stand any straighter, I shall assume you are being fitted for a coffin.” A laugh threatens, small and treacherous. You keep your smile neat. “Lady Halstead.” She takes your gloved hands between hers anyway, as if she has never cared much for rules that do not serve her. She is draped in deep green velvet that makes her silver hair look like moonlight. Widowed, wealthy enough to be unbothered, sharp enough to be feared by those who pretend not to fear women. Your late mother’s friend.
Her gaze sweeps over your sisters with quick precision—measuring without viciousness—then returns to you. “They’re grown,” she murmurs. “And you’ve made them look like they belong.” It lands oddly—not praise, but acknowledgement of the work no one applauds. Georgina curtsies with enthusiasm. “Lady Halstead,” she says brightly, “I have heard you can reduce a lord to stammering in three sentences.” Lady Halstead’s eyes twinkle. “Only the foolish ones,” she replies. “The clever ones learn to keep their mouths shut.” Cecily curtsies more softly. “Good evening, Lady Halstead.”
Lady Halstead’s attention settles on her with a gentleness that does not condescend. “Miss Cecily,” she says. “You look very lovely. Don’t let anyone persuade you that quiet is the same as invisible.” Cecily’s cheeks colour. She nods, grateful, slightly overwhelmed. Lady Halstead turns to you again, voice lowering. “I’ll stay near,” she says, practical as always. “You cannot be in three places at once, no matter how determined you look.”
“I can try,” you murmur.
“Try less,” she returns, and her tone makes it a finality. You draw in a breath and let your shoulders loosen by a fraction. Lady Halstead tips her chin toward a nearby cluster—an impeccably dressed mama with two daughters, both in fresh, hopeful colours, both wearing the careful brightness of girls who have been told this night matters. “Come,” she announces briskly. “I’m going to introduce you to Lady Northcott and her girls. They’re new enough to the Season not to have learned all the cruelty yet.”
“Lady Halstead,” you murmur, half-admonishment. “Oh, hush,” she says, and steers you forward anyway.
Lady Northcott turns as you approach, her smile widening with relief at an introduction offered by someone of Lady Halstead’s standing. Her daughters—Amelia and Alice, as Lady Halstead names them—brighten like candles catching flame. They look at Georgina and Cecily with immediate curiosity, eager for friends, eager for any tether that feels safe. Polite phrases begin—the oil that keeps the machinery running. Compliments on gowns. Remarks on the music. A mild exclamation about the splendour of Ashbourne Hall as if splendour is not the entire point. Georgina is already halfway into charm—voice perfectly pitched—when a footman passes with a tray and she reaches for a second glass of champagne as though the night might be improved by bubbles alone. You stop her without making it a spectacle. Two fingers around her wrist, gentle and unyielding. “Lemonade,” you murmur, smiling as though you’re teasing. Georgina pouts. “It is a ball,” she whispers back, scandalised by your restraint. “It is also a battlefield,” you return softly. “Hydrate.”
Lady Halstead’s mouth twitches as if she approves. Georgina, defeated by your tone, releases the glass. You take one instead—only to set it aside untouched on the nearest table at the first chance. Lady Northcott prattles on, relieved by your attention. Her daughters ask Cecily questions—where she prefers to walk in the park, whether she enjoys music, whether she has been to Vauxhall. Cecily answers carefully, grateful for conversation that doesn’t demand too much of her at once. It is, for a moment, almost pleasant.
Then the room realigns. Not a hush. A ripple. A collective awareness turning toward the grand staircase. At the top of it, the Ashbourne brothers appear. Not one man, but a line of them—five—each cut from the same belonging, and yet utterly different in the way they wear it. They don’t descend like boys eager for attention. They descend like a family returning to its post. Hosts first, gentlemen second.
Jeonghan leads—too composed, too smooth at the edges. His expression is calculating in the way a ledger can be, and you have the sudden sense that he watches the room not for beauty but for leverage, for weakness, for the hidden seam in any conversation he might later pull apart. Beside him walks Joshua, whose quiet feels deliberate rather than shy. His gaze moves like a lantern—soft, searching, finding faces rather than exits. If Jeonghan looks like strategy, Joshua looks like conscience forced to operate in a world that rewards neither. Hoshi follows with a brightness that isn’t foolishness; it’s energy held on a short leash. He smiles at someone in the crowd, quick and dazzling, and you can practically hear the older matrons deciding what kind of trouble that smile might become if it ever stops being decorative. Wonwoo comes next, half in shadow even under chandeliers. He doesn’t scan the room so much as mark it—eyes narrowing, attention landing on corners, on doors, on the spaces where people think no one is watching. He has the air of a man who would rather be somewhere else, and the deeper air of a man who knows he must be here anyway. A pace behind, Mingyu’s absence is a shape all its own—noticed even if no one names it aloud. A missing piece in a set like this is always noticed. It becomes its own kind of story. Then, inevitably last, as though the staircase was built to deliver him: Viscount Ashbourne. Seungcheol. He is dressed like any gentleman—dark coat, immaculate linen, cravat tied with accuracy—yet the clothes look like they obey him rather than the other way around. He carries himself with a calm that reads as confidence from across a room. Up close, you suspect it is something more like control.
The brothers reach the bottom of the staircase, and a cluster immediately forms—mothers and titled men, a slow-moving knot of anticipation. You can see the choreography from across the room as they begin their rounds: greetings executed; nods precise; smiles rationed. Jeonghan speaks and people lean in, eager to be chosen for his attention. Joshua answers questions with quiet care, and somehow that makes him even more disarming. Hoshi is swallowed for a moment by young ladies with dazzling smiles, then rescued by a brother’s hand at his elbow. Wonwoo disappears with him into the shadows as if the shadows were waiting for them. The room barely notices his exit.
Seungcheol speaks to Lord this and Lady that, and receives compliments and condolences with the same guarded expression. He listens. He answers. He never lingers. His gaze lifts then, not to you, but beyond—toward the doors. Toward the exits. A man who keeps counting ways out is a man who never feels fully safe. Your chest tightens with an emotion you refuse to name. Because you know the story of the woman who is not here. Because you know what it means to lose a parent and immediately become something else—something useful.
Lady Halstead’s presence anchors you back into conversation—Lady Northcott still speaking, her daughters still eager—until Seungcheol’s circuit bends naturally toward you. Partly because you are a guest of standing, partly because Lady Halstead is not subtle when she decides someone should do their social obligations properly. “Lady Halstead,” he greets her evenly. Lady Halstead inclines her head. “Lord Ashbourne.” He acknowledges Lady Northcott with polite efficiency, his gaze flicking over her daughters the way a host checks the room is functioning as it should. Then his attention comes to you, attentive in the manner of a man trained to speak to whomever is placed before him. “Lady Whitlock,” he says. You curtsy. “Viscount Ashbourne.”
He offers a brief nod to your sisters. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” Georgina curtsies with too much energy. Cecily’s is more modest, but still impeccable. The Viscount’s attention lingers an instant too long to be meaningless—on Cecily’s soft, uncertain smile and Georgina’s eager brightness. Finally, his eyes return to you. “You look tired,” he observes. It is not a line. It is not said like a compliment disguised as concern. It is said like a truth no one else has dared to speak aloud. Heat pricks behind your ribs—annoyance, surprise, something more treacherous that feels like relief. Because he is not pretending you are fine. You hold his gaze because if you look away, you will feel like you’ve lost something you didn’t agree to gamble. “I am,” you say, and the honesty shocks even you. Then you correct, smooth it, so it sounds less like resignation: “But it is nothing, my Lord. Merely the ordinary wear of keeping a household afloat and two young ladies untrampled.”
“It must be… efficient,” he says, the pause almost invisible, “to bring them out together. To have it done.” Done. As if this is an errand. As if Georgina and Cecily are tasks to complete rather than girls with hearts. It lands wrong. You keep the smile. You let the correction slip out just as smoothly. “Not done,” you say, sweet enough for the room to accept it as pleasantry. “Settled. Happily, if we are fortunate.” Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours for the briefest moment—steady, unruffled. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t apologise. He simply acknowledges the rebuke by not reacting to it at all, which somehow makes it feel more like a challenge than a mistake. “Fortune is a fickle ally,” he replies.
“Then we must be more loyal to ourselves than to fortune,” you return instantly. The Viscount studies you, and you can’t tell if he’s surprised or simply recalculating. Before you can decide what to do with his statements, a gentleman approaches from behind him—murmuring his title, waiting to be acknowledged. Seungcheol inclines his head once—hostly, final. “Enjoy the evening,” he says to the group, and moves on without another glance, swallowed back into the circuit of duty.
Lady Northcott exhales as if she’s just spoken to royalty. Her daughters whisper behind their fans. Lady Halstead says nothing, because she doesn’t need to. You breathe in carefully. The music shifts. The next set is called. A new dance begins. And then Georgina is approached. A gentleman—young, confident, dressed well enough to have money and titled enough to have ambition comes her way. He bows. “Miss Georgina Whitlock.” Georgina curtsies, her eyes already daring him to entertain her. “Good evening.”
“May I have the honour of the first set?” he asks. Before you can even catalogue his face properly, a second suitor arrives from the other side—dark-haired, smiling, a little too pleased with himself. He bows, quick and eager. “Miss Georgina,” he says. “The second, perhaps?”
Georgina’s eyes flick to you—conspiratorial, asking permission in the only way she ever does: by already deciding she will take it. You give her a small nod. Two dances are a safe amount of visibility. Enough to be noticed without being overwhelmed. Enough to make her desirable without letting anyone assume she is easy to corner. Georgina beams. “You may both,” she says brightly, as if granting favours rather than accepting them. She offers her dance card, and their pencils scratch dutifully—two names inked like claims. Her excitement is contained, barely. She looks like she might float. Lady Halstead leans toward you, voice dry. “She’ll have half the room by midnight if you let her.”
“I won’t,” you murmur, even as you watch Georgina glide toward the forming lines with the first suitor. Her set begins, and the dancers take the floor. Music rises, crisp and bright. Bodies move in a practised rhythm. Skirts flare. Hands meet and separate. Cecily stays beside Lady Halstead. No one approaches her. It isn’t cruelty, not always. Often it’s simply the way rooms like this behave—chasing what is loud, what is radiant, what seems easy to want. Cecily’s beauty is quieter. It asks you to look twice. Most people, in a marketplace, refuse to spend time on second glances. Cecily’s fingers twist lightly in her gloves.
Lady Halstead notices—because Lady Halstead notices everything. “Stay with me,” she tells Cecily, as if it’s the most natural thing. “We’ll let them exhaust themselves chasing fireworks. Someone will eventually notice the stars.” Cecily’s lips part in a small, uncertain smile. “Yes, Lady Halstead.” You should feel relief. You do—some. Cecily has protection. Someone steady at her side. A woman who will not let her be swallowed by the room. You watch Georgina’s set end. She returns flushed and triumphant, accepting her second partner’s arm with delight as if she’s already learned to breathe in applause. Cecily remains beside Lady Halstead.
You stand between them in spirit even when you cannot in body—tracking Georgina’s brightness, guarding Cecily’s softness, holding the whole of it together with the kind of composure that costs you more than anyone will ever see. For the first time since stepping through the Ashbourne gates, you allow yourself to want air. Not a dramatic escape. Just a moment of quiet. “Go,” Lady Halstead says under her breath, not looking at you. “Five minutes. I’ll keep Cecily beside me, and I have eyes for Georgina as well. I may be old, but I still know how to stare down a man.”
“I cannot leave them,” you begin automatically. Her fan snaps open with an assertive flick. “You can,” she says. “And if you do not, you will crack in a way that will be far more inconvenient.” The permission feels strange. Like stepping off a ledge. You take it anyway. You slip from the ballroom—neither hurried nor lingering—through a side door left slightly ajar, into the cooler quiet beyond.
The corridor is dimmer, the sound muted. You pass a footman carrying a tray, a maid adjusting a sconce, a butler moving as if he belongs to the walls. No one stops you. A chaperone stepping out for air is not scandal. Outside, the garden air hits your lungs clean and cool. You welcome it. Your boots find the gravel path, lanterns casting soft pools of light across clipped hedges. Somewhere, water moves—a fountain or a stream—quiet enough to feel like a secret. The muffled music follows you through the walls, distant now, like a life you once might have wanted. You walk—only far enough to loosen the tightness in your ribs. Only far enough to remember what it feels like to be alone inside your own skin. You stop near a stone bench, one hand braced lightly against its cold edge. You draw in a breath. Let it out.
And then you hear voices. Two men, close by—emerge from the shadow of a clipped yew. One is tall, familiar, moving like controlled weather. Viscount Ashbourne. The other walks beside him with a different kind of presence—lighter, gentle. Joshua. They are close enough that their voices reach you easily, carried by air and the false privacy of gardens. They do not see you.
You should step back. You should announce yourself. You should not eavesdrop. But your body holds still. Joshua’s voice comes first, lightly teasing, as if attempting to coax a secret out into the open. “You’ve done three rounds. Are any of them suitable?” The Viscount’s reply is immediate and flat, as if the question itself is an inconvenience. “None.” Joshua exhales a faint laugh, half in disbelief. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
Joshua’s tone shifts, warming gently. “You cannot look at an entire ballroom and feel nothing.” Viscount Ashbourne’s voice remains controlled—too controlled. “I can look at an entire ballroom and see what it is,” he replies. “A parade of over-powdered, over-trained dolls. A market.”
Your hands tighten at your side. Joshua stops walking. You can hear it in the way his breath changes. “Seungcheol—”
The Viscount cuts him off. “All of them,” he says, and you can picture the sweep of his gaze, the same measured verdict you felt earlier. “Smiling like they’ve been instructed where to place their teeth. They speak in rehearsed compliments and wait to be applauded for breathing.”
Joshua’s voice tightens. “They are young women,” he says. “Raised to this. They are not the enemy.” The Viscount answers with a soft, humourless chuckle. “I know they aren’t,” he repeats. “But still, they arrive with expectations as tall as the chandeliers. They want devotion and poetry and a husband who looks at them as if the world ends at their waist.”
You feel heat rise behind your ribs, sudden and furious, because you have stood in that room all night holding your sisters upright, and he speaks as if every young woman there is nothing but a tedious decoration. Joshua tries again, quieter now—because he is trying not to make it a fight. “So what do you expect, then?”
Viscount Ashbourne answers like a man stating terms. “I expect competence,” he says. “I expect sense. I expect a woman who can keep a household from collapsing when the ton decides to tear at it for sport. I expect someone who does not weep at every inconvenience and mistake it for depth.” Your breath catches—not with admiration, but with the sting of recognition. Then he continues, and the sting becomes a cut. “I do not require sweetness,” he says. “I do not require innocence. I do not require a girl who thinks marriage is a fairytale.” His voice drops, colder. “I require someone suitable.”
Suitable. Your stomach turns, not because you do not understand strategy—God, you understand it more than most men in that ballroom—but because of the way he says it, as if women are simply collateral. Joshua’s voice sounds troubled. “And if she wants more than that?” Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate. “Then she will be disappointed.”
There is a silence so sharp you feel it in your toes. Finally, Joshua replies: “And what of your own heart?” Seungcheol’s reply is so calm, it is brutal. “Irrelevant.” Joshua exhales—a sound like defeat, like love, like fear for his sibling. “You are not made of stone, brother. Even if you insist on acting like one.”
Viscount Ashbourne’s response is final, leaving no room for rebuttal. “If I act like stone, it is because this house cannot afford softness, brother.” You don’t hear what Joshua says next, because your pulse is suddenly too loud, because your anger has climbed high enough to blur the edges of the world. Their footsteps shift, moving again down the path, and you remain pressed into shadow. So that is what he is.
A man who can look at a room full of young women and reduce them to dull. A man who thinks marriage is ledger work, wives are requirements, love is irrelevant. You think of Georgina—bright enough to be burned by a man who wants a pretty ornament beside him. You think of Cecily—soft enough to be crushed by a world that mistakes quiet for consent. Something in you hardens. A line draws itself through you, clean and absolute, like a blade dragged across silk. You slip back into the house like a ghost returning to its haunt.
The ballroom is still gleaming, still hungry, but now you can see it for what it truly is: a marketplace with better manners pretending to be celebration. You find your sisters easily. They stand half-turned toward a pair of girls you recognise from earlier: the Northcott sisters. Alice is in full bloom, face animated, fan fluttering like a conductor’s baton as she leads the conversation. Amelia is the softer echo—leaning in at just the right angle, smiling as though she is sharing secrets.
Cecily has her shoulders tucked in, but her eyes are brighter than they were at the start of the evening. She is listening. She is answering. She is present. It is a small thing, yet it nearly undoes you. Georgina, of course, is doing what Georgina does—tilting the air toward herself without appearing to try. She laughs at the right moments, offers little sparks of commentary that make Alice giggle and Amelia widen her eyes, and even from a distance, you can see the rhythm of attention gathering around her like moths around a flame. Lady Halstead stands a short distance behind them, her gaze drifting over the crowd like a hawk that has decided, for tonight, to lend its shadow. When you approach, her eyes meet yours—just once. Not a question. Not permission. Simply acknowledgement. For one brief moment, gratitude loosens something tight in your ribs. They’re with other debutantes. They’re supervised. They’re safe. You take two steps toward them.
Alice brightens the moment she sees you, as if your arrival is the next planned part of her little performance. “Lady Whitlock!” she chirps, her voice perfectly pitched. “We were just telling your sisters that the music tonight is divine—Viscount Ashbourne must have excellent taste.” Amelia nods earnestly. “It feels like something out of a novel,” she adds, eyes glancing toward the dancers. “As though the whole room might turn into a story if one simply stands still long enough.”
Georgina laughs, delighted. “If that is true, then I intend to be the heroine.” Alice claps her hands softly, thrilled by the idea. “You would be,” she declares. “You have the look of it. The confidence. The—oh, the way you move as if the world is obliged to make space.” Georgina preens without shame. Cecily, beside her, gives a small, careful smile. “The music is very fine,” she agrees shyly. Alice’s lashes flutter faster. “And the Viscount, did you see him?” she breathes. “Lord Ashbourne does not smile often, but when he does, it is—”
“Dreadfully handsome,” Amelia supplies, with the sort of sincerity that makes it impossible to mock. Georgina hums, amused. “He did smile. Once.” Cecily’s gaze dips, but you catch the flicker of interest anyway. “He spoke very kindly,” she says. “To everyone.”
Your stomach twists—small, sharp—like a ribbon pulled too tight. Because you can picture him. Picture the calm of his voice. The way he spoke of wives and debutantes as if they are tools meant to fit neatly into the machinery of his house. The Northcott sisters are still floating on their own delight, unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred in this room. You do not want to spoil it. Not here.
You let the moment breathe just long enough to keep it natural—just long enough that it does not feel like you have arrived merely to snatch your sisters away. Then you smile, light and polite, and slide neatly into the conversation as if you have been part of it all along. “Miss Northcott,” you say to Alice, “you must be careful praising a host too loudly. You will convince him he has done his duty perfectly, and then he will stop trying.” Alice giggles, delighted by the tease. “Oh, I should never wish that.”
“Nor should any of us,” you reply pleasantly. Your eyes move to your sisters—one, then the other—softening just enough for them to hear the truth beneath the tone. “But you have both made your entrance, and have made acquaintances, and I think we have stolen all the triumphs we may safely claim from one evening.”
Cecily blinks, surprised. “Already?” she murmurs, then quickly, as if the fault must be hers, “Did I—did we do something wrong?” You reach up and tuck a flyaway strand behind her ear. “Nothing wrong,” you tell her. “You were excellent. Both of you.” Georgina’s face collapses, as if you’ve stolen a breath from her lungs. “But I’ve only just begun,” she protests under her breath. “Alice says there is another set soon and—” You catch her wrist gently, the way you might catch a bird before it flings itself at a window. “Georgina,” you say, final. She meets your eyes and glares as if the room itself has turned against her personally. Then, with an exasperated sigh that is half theatre and half surrender, she nods. Alice and Amelia exchange looks, unbothered, already distracted by the next sweep of music and movement. “We will see you at the next ball,” Alice declares eagerly.
“And you must tell us if Lord Ashbourne—” Amelia begins, then stops herself with a bashful little laugh, as though she has caught her own romantic imagination in the act. You interrupt swiftly. “If Lord Ashbourne does anything at all, I suspect all of Mayfair will know before breakfast.” They giggle at that, satisfied, and the moment is done.
You shepherd your sisters through the crowd—through laughter, through swirling skirts, through men who step aside and men who don’t until they must, all while keeping your expression neutral enough to invite no further conversation. The entry hall feels cooler. Serener. The world narrows again into marble and candle smoke and the muted hum of the ballroom behind you. A servant brings your cloaks. Another fetches Cecily’s shawl. Georgina snatches hers with the impatience of a girl who doesn’t yet understand the mercy of leaving, who still believes the night might reward her if she stays long enough. A footman bows as your carriage is called.
As you turn toward the doors, your gaze cuts back once—instinct more than choice. And there, through the open archway, near the edge of the dancers, where the light is strongest and the faces are thickest, stands Lord Ashbourne. His head is angled as if he is listening to someone speak, but his attention is elsewhere—elsewhere being you, now, as his eyes lift at the exact moment yours do. As if he sensed your departure. Your eyes lock. The room collapses into a thin line between you and him—nothing else exists but the fact of his gaze, the weight of it, the way it found you, as if you are a point on a map he’s already marked. You feel your mouth tighten, not from fear, but from certainty. Whatever he is—brilliant, ruthless, burdened, beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—he is not a man you will allow near what you love. You turn away, because you refuse to be held by anyone’s attention, least of all his.
Outside, the air clears the last clinging sweetness of the evening from your lungs. Your carriage waits with its lanterns glowing, horses stamping impatiently against the stone. Cecily climbs in without hesitation, grateful for the cocoon of velvet and shadow. Georgina pauses on the step as if to mourn the loss of a night she is convinced could have changed everything. You touch her elbow—gentle, unyielding. “Another night,” you murmur. Georgina exhales a long, suffering sigh and ducks into the carriage with a sulk that is half performance. You follow, settling opposite them. The door shuts. The world becomes velvet-lined again.
For a few moments, only the sound of wheels and the soft shift of fabric fills the space. Cecily sits with her hands folded in her lap. Georgina stares out the window, jaw set, watching Ashbourne Hall retreat into glittering distance. “You cannot snatch me away every time the night becomes interesting,” Georgina finally mutters, still facing the frosted glass. You keep your voice light, because you refuse to turn your fear into her burden. “If you wish to stay until dawn, you may do so when you are married and your husband is obliged to suffer it with you.”
Georgina turns, eyes flashing. “I would not inflict that on any man.” Cecily’s mouth twitches, the smallest hint of amusement. “You would,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “You would enjoy it, too.” Georgina looks briefly startled—then delighted, as if Cecily has delivered a punchline. “See?” she says triumphantly. “Even Cecily is learning wickedness.” Cecily ducks her head, but the faint pink in her cheeks remains. You watch them both, and the familiar ache settles in—tender and heavy. You have brought them here to find happiness. You have brought them here to be seen. And you will not let the cost be paid in pieces of them.
The carriage rocks over the cobbles. Ashbourne Hall recedes behind the frosted glass, a bright mouth of light in the dark, glittering as if it can outshine consequence. Georgina watches it fade with restless resentment. Cecily watches the window. You let the motion lull you into stillness—the kind of calm you can only find when your sisters are contained, when the world cannot reach for them without reaching through you first.
Ashbourne’s chandeliers can glitter until dawn. Its name can shine until it blinds the ton. But Viscount Ashbourne has made one thing clear, whether he intended to or not. He wants something. And he will learn, if the Season insists on testing it, that the ladies of Whitlock are never to be taken.
The shopfront of Carat & Co. is a different world—glass cases gleaming, chandeliers softened into an intimate glow, Jeonghan’s voice smooth as poured honey as he tells a lady how light will behave on a throat if the stones are cut correctly. Out there, everything is seduction. Out there, everything sparkles. Back here, nothing sparkles until Seungcheol makes it.
He sits at the long table beneath the high window, sleeves rolled efficiently. Rough stones rest on a velvet pad in neat, ugly piles—unapologetic chunks of earth dragged into London under seal and stamp and bill of lading. Next to them: order sheets, an opened ledger, and a scale so precise it feels almost indecent to watch it decide truth. The shipper stands opposite, hat in hand, his coat still smelling faintly of river and horse. He is the sort of man who knows how to look respectable while lying. He has perfected it. It is how men like him survive.
Seungcheol lifts the first stone between his thumb and forefinger. The cut of it is nothing yet, just promise. He sets it on the scale. The needle settles. He writes the number down without looking away. Second stone. Third. Fourth. By the seventh, the silence has thickened. By the ninth, the shipper’s smile has started to sweat. Seungcheol turns one of the stones, eyes narrowing at the grain. He flips the order sheet once, then the ledger, then back to the order sheet. The numbers line up the way they always do when they are not being manipulated. He reaches for his pen and gently taps the scale, as if it might change. It doesn’t. His gaze lifts to the shipper. “Your weights are short.”
The shipper blinks. “Short?” He laughs softly, the sound meant to be friendly. “Surely not. I weighed them twice before—”
“An eighth,” Seungcheol says, and the room goes colder. The shipper’s throat works. His eyes flick to the stones, then back up—calculating. Deciding whether denial might still win. “My lord,” he tries, “with respect, the stones are rough. Naturally there’s—”
Seungcheol doesn’t raise his voice. He taps the order sheet once with his pen, then the ledger, then the scale. “There is my order.” Tap. “There is what I paid for.” Tap. “There is what you have brought.” Tap. “An eighth short.” The shipper goes still. The sheen of confidence slips. Defensiveness rises in its place. “It could be the scale,” he says quickly, as if Seungcheol is a fool who might be swayed by the suggestion that numbers are subjective. “I can fetch mine from the cart—”
“I have three.” Seungcheol’s eyes do not leave the man’s face. “Would you like to test your honesty against all of them?” Silence. The shipper swallows loudly. “No,” he mutters. Seungcheol returns to the stones as if the conversation is already finished. He places the third stone back on the velvet pad and writes a single line in the ledger—short, final. The shipper shifts, nervous now. “My lord, I—”
Seungcheol cuts him off with the gentlest thing in the room: certainty. “You will bring the remainder by noon,” he says. “Or you will return every piece and forfeit your fee. And you will not bring me another parcel until you learn that Carat & Co. is not a place you test.”
The shipper nods too many times, too eager, as though obedience might erase intent. “Yes, my lord. Yes, of course. By noon.” He backs out the door as if it might bite him. When the latch clicks shut again, Seungcheol remains where he is, eyes on the stones.
An eighth. It is a small theft, almost delicate. Not enough to trigger outrage from a man too busy to count properly. Not enough to be obvious without attention. A theft designed for a man who does not have time. Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. He has time. Not because he is fortunate. Because he makes it. Because he bleeds it out of his hours, trims it from sleep, carves it from anything that might feel like softness and calls it duty instead. He closes the ledger carefully and ties the string around it with a neatness that suggests ritual. Then he reaches for the next order sheet. There is always a next one.
A row of commissions, names written in hands that never shake because the people who write them have never had to fear being refused. A bracelet requested “for the Duchess’s dinner” as if a jewel is as necessary as air. A pair of earrings for a bride whose mother insists they must outshine the groom’s gift. A repair—urgent—on an heirloom brooch that has survived three generations but cannot survive one careless maid. On paper, all of it looks manageable. On paper, his life is tidy lines and sums. In reality, the weight sits on his shoulders in ways ledgers do not record. He hears it in the footfalls around him—Jeonghan’s easy drift in the shopfront, the bell over the door announcing another client, another demand. He hears it in the steady scratch of his own pen, in the steadying rhythm of numbers that do not care whether his mother or father is dead. He thinks, briefly, of the ball—of how the chandeliers at Ashbourne Hall glittered too brightly for a house in mourning, and how the ton’s condolences were followed by a pause long enough for speculation to slip in. He does not allow himself to linger there. He returns to the stones. The scale. The truth.
By noon, the remainder arrives. The shipper brings it himself, cheeks flushed, eyes too humble. He does not attempt another smile. Seungcheol checks the weight anyway. He does not say well done. He does not reward compliance with warmth. Warmth is how men begin to believe they can bargain with you again. He gives a single nod and turns back to his work. The shipper leaves like a man released from a sentence. Seungcheol continues as if nothing happened. But in his mind, the ledger entry sits like a splinter.
It is not the eighth that troubles him. It is the instinct behind it—someone thinking Carat & Co. is distracted enough now to be tested. Distracted. As though grief is not merely another weight he has learned to carry without dropping. As though the death of the Viscountess has loosened the seams of the house. If that is what the world believes, then the world will keep pulling.
On the second morning after the ball, Bond Street continues its elegant churn: carriage wheels over cobbles, the flash of parasols, the faint bark of a coachman, the slow glide of women past shopfronts as if the street belongs to them. Inside Carat & Co., the air is cool and expensive.
Jeonghan is in his position behind the counter, elbows resting on the glass with the lazy entitlement of a man who knows the room will orbit him. His hair is perfectly arranged. His smile is faintly bored. Seungcheol moves behind him without being seen. That, too, has become a skill—how to exist in the back while ensuring everything in the front remains flawless. He takes the stairs down to the office again, where the walls close in and the work becomes honest. A clerk is waiting with a stack of correspondence. “My lord,” the clerk says, bowing too deeply. “The customs office has sent notice.”
Seungcheol takes the paper. His eyes scan. A parcel held at the docks. A fee “reassessed.” A delay imposed “for verification of provenance.” The phrasing is polite. The intent is not. He feels the familiar tightening in his chest. Not panic. Not anger. Recognition. They are not satisfied with what he pays. They want to see whether he will pay more just to make the problem disappear. A bribe dressed as bureaucracy. He hands the notice back. “Send Hargreaves to the docks,” he says. “Have him bring the manifest and copies of our previous clearances. If they claim confusion, we will educate them.”
The clerk hesitates. “They—ah—mentioned the Viscountess’s name,” he admits quietly. “As though the approvals were… personal.” Seungcheol pauses. His mother’s signature used to open doors without question. The Viscountess Ashbourne. Patroness. The kind of woman who could make a man’s career live or die with a single invitation—or lack of one. She is gone, and London has noticed. Seungcheol sets the ledger down with care. “Her approvals were earned,” he says simply. “Ours will be, too.” The clerk nods quickly, relieved by direction. He leaves.
Seungcheol sits alone with the ledger, its pages filled with numbers that do not care about grief, do not care about bloodlines, do not care about whispers. Numbers are faithful that way. He inhales slowly, counting the breath the way he counts stones. Then he writes a letter to the customs office with the kind of politeness that cannot be argued with and the kind of precision that cannot be ignored. It is a language his mother taught him well. He seals it with wax. He does not press the signet too hard. A clean impression. A clean declaration. Ashbourne. Carat & Co. Still here.
That evening, Seungcheol returns home and finds the house waiting to be managed as faithfully as the business.
Ashbourne Hall is quieter than it ought to be. The staff moves softly; doors are closed with care; footsteps soften on rugs. Even the fire in the drawing room seems to burn lower, as if it understands restraint. The front door shuts behind him and he stands for a moment in the entry hall, the familiar scent of home filling his lungs. In the mirror above the console table, his reflection looks like a man who has not slept properly in weeks. The butler approaches, deferential, eyes steady in the way servants’ eyes are when they have learned not to be startled. “My lord,” he says, “Mr. Pelham is waiting in your office.”
Pelham. The steward. The man who can turn acres of Kent into columns of ink and speak of tenants’ lives as if they are sums. Seungcheol nods once and crosses the house without pausing in rooms that still feel wrong without his mother in them. He passes the music room and hears nothing. He passes the Viscountess’s sitting room and feels the absence like a stone in his stomach. In his office, Pelham rises quickly. He is a careful man—respectful, tidy, reliable. The kind of man his mother trusted, which is why Seungcheol trusts him too. But tonight Pelham’s face looks slightly strained, as if the paper in his hands is heavier than it should be. “My lord,” Pelham greets. Seungcheol gestures to the chair. “Sit.” Pelham sits, papers aligned on his knee. “Wrotham’s quarterly accounts,” he says. “And correspondence from Kent.”
Seungcheol takes the stack and flips through. Rent lists. Repairs. Notes on harvest stores. A request for funds to mend a section of fence that has begun to lean. A complaint from a neighbouring landowner about “boundaries”—always boundaries, always men who believe land can be shifted simply by insisting. There is also a letter from a magistrate, asking whether the Viscount intends to “confirm” certain arrangements with tenants in light of “recent changes.” Seungcheol’s eyes flick over the words, then lift. “Tell me.” Pelham clears his throat. “There have been… questions, my lord.”
There it is again. Questions. Whispers with manners. “From whom?” Pelham hesitates only a moment. “From the magistrate’s office. From Lord Caversham’s steward. And—” He swallows. “—from some of the tenants.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why would the tenants question anything?” Pelham’s gaze drops, uncomfortable. “They hear what they hear,” he says carefully. “The village hears London. London hears the ton. And the ton…”
The ton makes sport of people’s lives. Seungcheol rubs a hand once over the bridge of his nose. He is tired in a way that makes even anger feel like effort. He looks back down at the papers. A list catches his eye: arrears. Not many, but enough to notice. He recognises several names. Not because he has spent his life wandering fields—he hasn’t—but because his mother made a point of learning them. She would sit with Pelham and ask after families the way other women ask after dresses. She treated tenants as part of the house, not props beneath it. Seungcheol points with his pen. “This.”
Pelham nods. “The winter was harsher than expected,” he says. “Several families lost livestock. One lost a roof beam in the storm. They are struggling.” Seungcheol responds flatly, “And the magistrate thinks this is the time to question arrangements.” Pelham doesn’t deny it. “Some will see an opportunity, my lord.”
Seungcheol flips to the repairs request. The roof beam. The fence. A note about the mill requiring maintenance. All of it money. All of it necessary if he wants Wrotham Castle to remain not just a symbol but a functioning place that does not bleed its people dry. He looks up at Pelham. “We will cover the roof beam.”
Pelham’s eyes widen slightly. “My lord—”
“We will cover it,” Seungcheol repeats, and there is no room in his tone for argument. “We will also reduce rents for those families until harvest. Write it as an adjustment in light of losses. No charity.”
Pelham exhales. He nods quickly, already calculating. “Yes, my lord. Of course.” Seungcheol turns the page again. “And Caversham’s steward.” Pelham’s mouth tightens. “He has sent a ‘courteous inquiry’ about the southern boundary,” he admits. Seungcheol sets the papers down. “Send him our deeds. Send him the map. Invite him to bring a surveyor if he enjoys wasting his own time.”
Pelham nods again, lips pressing into a line. “Yes, my lord.”
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. For a moment, his eyes catch on the inkstand on his desk—a small thing, silver-edged, used by his mother once. Her hand used to rest right there, fingers ink-stained. He feels something in his chest tighten, not quite grief anymore. Grief has become a structure. A room he lives in. Pelham clears his throat gently. “There is another matter.”
Seungcheol’s gaze returns, steady. “Speak.”
Pelham shifts. “The household expenses. For your brothers.” Pelham produces a second list—tailor bills, club accounts, carriage repairs. One line stands out: damages paid to a host after “an incident” involving one of the younger brothers. Hoshi, likely. Or Jeonghan, if he felt bored enough to make a mess. Seungcheol reads the amount and feels the familiar surge of irritation, immediately pressed down by responsibility. He doesn’t have the luxury of being a brother first. He is Viscount first, always. “Who?” he asks. Pelham hesitates. “Lord Soonyoung,” he admits. Seungcheol closes his eyes. Hoshi’s grief has been loud since the funeral, disguised as laughter and movement. Seungcheol has watched him burn himself out on purpose and called it coping because there were too many other things demanding attention. “Pay it,” Seungcheol whispers. Pelham looks startled. “My lord?”
Seungcheol’s eyes open again. “Pay it,” he repeats. “And remind him that if he wants to break things, he may do so in a rehearsal room where the cost is sweat, not scandal.”
Pelham swallows. He does not push. He gathers his papers, bows, and retreats. When the door clicks shut, Seungcheol remains alone in the quiet. He rubs his thumb once over the edge of the desk where his mother’s wrist used to rest, then stops himself. Sentiment is a loop that drags you under if you let it. He opens Wrotham’s accounts again and forces his mind back into numbers. This is what he does. This is what he is. There is no room for collapse. Not when his brothers still have the luxury of falling apart. Not when the ton has begun to prowl. Not when the house is being tested at every seam.
He works until the candle stubs low and the ink begins to thicken. When he finally stands, his body protests—an ache in his shoulders, a heaviness behind his eyes. He realises, distantly, that he has not eaten since morning. He cannot remember tasting anything all day. He crosses the hallway toward his chambers and pauses when he hears a murmur from the drawing room. Joshua’s voice, low and calm. Another voice responding—one of the housemaids, perhaps. Comfort offered, quietly. The sound of gentleness in a house that has learned to survive without it. Seungcheol stands still for a moment, listening like a man outside a door to a life he cannot afford. Then he turns away and continues down the corridor. Duty is oxygen. He breathes it in.
He goes to bed. He sleeps for three hours. At dawn, he wakes, already counting.
Three days later, a bank manager calls. Not in the way a bank manager calls on a viscount—no rush of servants, no grand bows. Instead: a letter requesting his presence “to review the terms of ongoing arrangements in light of recent changes.” Seungcheol goes, because ignoring a request like that is impossible.
The bank smells of polished wood and old ink and men who believe their money makes them immortal. Seungcheol sits in a high-backed chair across from a desk too large for the man behind it. The bank manager smiles and smiles and smiles, the way men do when they plan to ask for something they have no right to. “Viscount Ashbourne,” he declares, voice thick with false warmth. “Our condolences, of course. Your mother was a woman of considerable—”
“What do you want?” Seungcheol interrupts. The manager’s smile falters, then reassembles a little tighter. “Directness,” he says, chuckling as if they are friends. “Very well. We must ensure stability. For the sake of all parties. You understand.”
Seungcheol does not respond. The manager shuffles papers, the sound too loud in the quiet office. “There have been inquiries,” he says. “Concerns regarding continuity. The title is, of course, secure—” Of course. “—but the business,” the manager continues, “is a different matter. Carat & Co. has expanded considerably under the late Viscountess’s influence. Some of our board members are merely mindful that a household with… unconventional circumstances may face heightened scrutiny this Season.”
Seungcheol watches the man’s fingers twitch on the paper, watches him avoid Seungcheol’s gaze. A man about to insult you always looks everywhere else first, as if the room might absolve him. “Say it,” Seungcheol murmurs. The manager laughs again, weaker. “There are whispers,” he admits, and finally, inevitably: “about lineage.” There it is. Blood. Seed. Womb. As if a family is only real if it is biological.
Seungcheol’s hands rest on his knees. He could crush the man with a title. He could ruin him with influence. He could speak a single name—one of his mother’s friends, one of the duchesses who wears Carat & Co. stones like a crown—and watch the manager beg for forgiveness. He does none of that. Because this is not one man. It is the ton. It is a city that has decided the death of the Viscountess means the sons she chose are unworthy. He leans forward slightly. “Carat & Co. has been stable through wars and recessions and the shifting favour of courts,” he says. “It was stable before my mother, and it will be stable after her. If your board is concerned, they may look at our ledgers. They will find no weakness there.”
The manager’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Naturally, naturally—”
“If their concern is not the ledgers,” Seungcheol continues, “but the story they wish to tell about me, then I suggest they consider whether it is wise to challenge a house that supplies half of London’s throats.” The manager’s eyes widen. There is the briefest, ugliest flicker of fear. Good.
Seungcheol stands. He does not offer his hand. “The terms remain,” he says. “If you wish to renegotiate, you may do so with my solicitor. You may also inform your board that I do not respond well to insinuation disguised as stewardship.” He leaves.
Outside, the air is colder than it was when he entered. The street is busy, oblivious. Seungcheol’s carriage waits. He sits inside it and lets his head fall back once, just once, against the upholstery.
His mother should be here. Not because he cannot do this without her. He can. He has been doing it for years already, even when she was alive—catching problems before they reached her, holding the house steady while she held Society. But he is tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Society has caught the scent. Rivals are sniffing. Men are testing weights, customs offices are holding parcels, and bank boards are whispering about blood. Carat & Co. is more than a shop. It is a fortress built of light. A fortress his brothers will inherit, whether they deserve it or not.
The decision forms without drama, without emotion, without flourish. A solution. A shield. A Viscountess. Not a romantic dream. Not a bride in white and poetry. Someone who can stand in a room and make people stop trying him. Someone who can handle the household, the invitations, the politics, the subtle war of cups of tea and seating arrangements. Someone competent enough that even the cruellest tongues hesitate before they speak. He will marry. Not because he wants to. Because he must.
The velvet pad is still warm from the last pair of hands that dared to touch it.
Jeonghan stands on the opposite side of the counter, his fingers hovering over the display. Across from him, a gentleman in a dove-grey coat clears his throat for the third time—each sound a plea, each plea an insult. The necklace between them is not merely diamonds. It is proof. It is leverage. It is Carat & Co.
Seungcheol watches the man’s gaze snag on the stones—how it lingers, how it calculates, how it tries to pretend it is not calculating. He watches the pulse at the man’s jaw. The slight dampness at his hairline despite the shop’s chill. A man with nothing to fear does not sweat over a clasp. “The Duchess believes the setting is… bold,” the gentleman says, with the smile of someone delivering bad news on behalf of a woman too powerful to be contradicted. “Perhaps a more delicate mounting would better suit her grace.”
Jeonghan’s mouth twitches. Not quite amusement. More like hunger. “A more delicate mounting,” Jeonghan repeats lightly, as if tasting the words. His eyes do not leave the necklace. “For stones that were cut to throw light across a room.” The gentleman’s smile strains. “Her grace adores subtlety.”
Seungcheol says nothing. He turns the necklace a fraction, letting the diamonds catch the pale spring sun that slants through the shop’s tall windowpanes. The stones flare—brief, undeniable—and the gentleman’s pupils widen like a confession. Subtlety. Yes. Subtlety is what people demand when they want to dull another person’s power into something manageable. “Her grace,” Seungcheol says finally, voice even, “requested the Ashbourne cut.”
The man’s gaze flicks up—sharp, then quickly respectful. “Of course, Viscount Ashbourne. Naturally.” Seungcheol watches the gentleman swallow, watches him choose his next words carefully, like a gambler sliding coins forward without showing his hand. “There is, however,” the man adds, “the matter of provenance.” Jeonghan lifts his gaze then, and something in his eyes turns from idle to bright. “Provenance,” Jeonghan echoes. “For a necklace.”
The gentleman laughs faintly, as if this is only a conversation. “For a name,” he corrects, still smiling. “Her grace is… mindful of appearances this Season.” Seungcheol feels it before he hears it—the shift in the air. This is not about diamonds. This is about them. Jeonghan leans one elbow on the glass case, casual as sin. “If her grace is mindful,” he says pleasantly, “she will be mindful that Carat & Co. has placed stones on the bodies of women who outrank her.”
The gentleman’s nostrils flare. He cannot deny it. He can only pivot. “No one disputes the work,” he says quickly. “It is beyond dispute. But Society is restless. There are whispers.”
Whispers. He heard them everywhere this week. Adopted. Not blood. Chosen child. A Viscount by permission rather than birthright. The gentleman clears his throat again, emboldened by his own insinuation. “Her grace would simply hate to be associated with controversy,” he says. “It is a sensitive time. The late Viscountess’s passing, the new Season—”
Seungcheol’s fingers close around the velvet pad. Not hard enough to crush it, but hard enough to remind himself that restraint is a choice, not a weakness. Jeonghan’s voice stays light, almost bored, and that is what makes it dangerous. “Controversy,” he murmurs. “Do you mean grief? Or do you mean gossip?”
The gentleman’s smile falters. “I mean the ton is watching,” he says, and the truth finally slips out. “Some are uncertain. The name—” Seungcheol sets the velvet pad down. “The name is Ashbourne,” he interrupts. “And the workmanship is Carat & Co.”
The gentleman quiets. Jeonghan’s eyes gleam, delighted in that private way of his—as if he can taste the moment where someone realises they have misjudged their opponent. Seungcheol continues, tone polished as marble. “If her grace wishes for a more ‘delicate’ mounting, she may commission another house. Our stones do not apologise for their presence.”
Pride wars with practicality on the gentleman’s face. He is a messenger, yes—but he is also a man who enjoys being the mouthpiece for power. Being dismissed feels like being unmade. “Viscount Ashbourne,” he begins, attempting a warning, “you will find that Society does not respond well to—”
Jeonghan tilts his head, smiling, the kind of smile that makes people instinctively check their pockets. “To being told no?” he supplies. “Tragic.” The gentleman’s eyes flick to Jeonghan with irritation, then back to Seungcheol, as if hoping the Viscount will be the reasonable one. Seungcheol is not. He watches the man make his choice.
Finally, the gentleman exhales through his nose, a thin surrender. “Very well,” he says, too quickly. “Her grace will consider. She values quality above all, of course.” Quality above all, except the kind that comes from a mother’s love rather than a father’s seed. Seungcheol inclines his head. Courtesy, not concession. “We remain at her service.”
The gentleman takes his hat and leaves with the stiff dignity of a man who has lost and wants the street to believe he has chosen to go. When the door shuts, the quiet rushes back in.
Jeonghan’s shoulders lift in a silent laugh. “That,” he says, voice warm with delight, “was entertaining.” Seungcheol watches the street through the glass—wheels turning, lives moving, people who will never know how close they stand to ruin because their names are old enough to be unquestioned. “That was predictable,” Seungcheol replies. Jeonghan tuts, the sound comical. “Predictable is when the curate faints at the sight of an ankle,” he says. “This was strategy.” Seungcheol reaches for the ledger behind the counter and flips it open. The only truth that doesn’t lie to his face. “This was a warning.”
“They’re circling,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Like they always do when they smell a change.” A Viscount newly seated. A household full of sons without bloodline—sons with wealth, yes, and influence, yes, but also a vulnerability the ton can taste. Jeonghan taps the glass case—three light taps, like a knock on a coffin. “They’ll try to make you prove you belong,” he says again, softer. Not repeating for emphasis—repeating because it needs to be held twice to fully accept. “Over and over.”
Seungcheol looks up, meets Jeonghan’s eyes, and lets the decision exist there—quiet, absolute—without giving it the softness of further words. Seungcheol’s gaze stays on the street, but his voice is certain. “I will choose.” Jeonghan grins wickedly. “God help them,” he murmurs. “And God help you.”
Seungcheol doesn’t believe in God’s help. He believes in action. And if marriage is the only armour the ton will respect, then he will forge it—cold, perfect, and unbreakable.
Rotten Row is a river of display. It flows in both directions at once—carriages gliding like lacquered boats along the gravel, riders sitting tall as if the sun has been hired to shine only on their shoulders, ladies strolling in clusters with their mamas and their parasols and their measured laughter. Everything is motion. Because standing still in Hyde Park is an invitation. An invitation to be approached. To be watched. To be weighed.
Georgina keeps half a step ahead, her body refusing to remember that she is not meant to run, not meant to dart, not meant to look too eager. Her bonnet ribbon flutters with every turn of her head. Cecily stays close on your other side, gloves immaculate, gaze soft. She walks like she is afraid of taking up too much of the path, even though the path is wide and the city would never dare tell a young lady she does not belong on it. Lady Halstead strolls with you—not pressed into your formation like an officer guarding a prisoner, but near enough that her shadow is a comfort and her presence a quiet threat to any gentleman tempted to become bold. Her cane taps lightly against the gravel, the sound a punctuation. “Look at them,” Lady Halstead murmurs, eyes sliding across the river of people. “All pretending they came for the air.”
“They did come for the air,” you reply, keeping your tone mild as you guide Cecily around a puddle with the smallest touch to her elbow. “They simply intend to breathe it while being admired.”
Georgina gives a delighted little hum. “That is the only proper way,” she declares. Lady Halstead’s mouth curves. “You’ll be devoured or crowned, Miss Georgina. Try not to do both in the same hour.” Georgina’s grin widens as if she’s been offered a challenge.
You keep walking because the rule is simple: if you meet someone and wish to speak, you do so while moving. Stopping makes a circle. Circles attract attention. Attention breeds interpretation. Interpretation breeds gossip. Gossip becomes a rope around a girl’s throat the moment she can no longer wriggle free.
The park is crowded with it—examinations disguised as glances, judgments hidden behind fans, conversations turning fractionally quieter when you pass. You do not turn. You learned a long time ago that the quickest way to give a whisper power is to acknowledge it. Georgina, however, is made of matches and curiosity. Her gaze flicks toward the source, her lips parting, ready to bite. You tilt your head toward her without looking. “No mercy,” you murmur. Georgina’s mouth snaps shut. She exhales through her nose like a dragon forced to behave. Lady Halstead’s cane taps once. “Good,” she approves. “Save your teeth for men who deserve them.”
Men who deserve them are everywhere. There—two young lords walking together, laughing too loudly, eyes skimming the crowd. There—a baronet with a belly and a smugness, arm hooked through his daughter’s as if she might run away if he releases her. There—a gentleman with a polished smile and a gaze that lingers too long on hems, as if the measure of a woman’s worth can be found in the cost of her stitching. And then, inevitably, there are the Ashbournes.
A cluster of girls tilt their faces toward them like flowers turning toward light. A small knot of people ahead subtly rearranges itself, not from command, but from habit.
Jeonghan’s presence is the first you register, his smile coaxing little blushes from passing girls. Joshua walks beside him, calm as a steady hand at the small of someone’s back. Hoshi is bright with energy, contained only by the fact that he is being watched. Wonwoo keeps to the edge, as if the crowd is too loud for his liking. And there—at the centre of it, because he always seems to become the centre whether he intends to or not—Lord Ashbourne. He does not smile. He does not perform as easily as other men do. He carries himself with a control that appears calm from afar. You feel your jaw tighten. Lady Halstead notices the shift in you the way she notices everything. Her gaze flicks up, follows yours, and her mouth twitches—fondness, tempered by instinct. “Ah,” she says softly. “There’s your favourite.”
“He is not my favourite,” you reply, too quickly. Georgina’s eyes brighten immediately, delighted. Cecily’s gaze flickers up and away again, shy as a bird. Lady Halstead’s voice remains airy. “Then try not to look at him like you intend to shoot him where he stands.”
You focus on the path. On your sisters. On the way Georgina’s posture straightens as the Ashbournes near—as if her body cannot resist the possibility of being seen by men from their standing. On Cecily’s instinct to shrink. You cannot shrink. Not when you are the hinge that holds them both.
The brothers’ pace slows as they pass close enough for courtesy to become inevitable. Jeonghan’s eyes dart to Lady Halstead, brightening with recognition. He tips his head. “Lady Halstead.” Lady Halstead inclines her chin, and the gesture holds a familiar warmth. “Lord Jeonghan.” Hoshi’s smile flashes. “Good morning.”
Wonwoo gives a small nod. His gaze glances past you, not unkind, simply distant. And then Seungcheol’s eyes land on you. It is not dramatic. It is not lingering. It is the precise way a man looks at something he intends to understand. You feel the irritation rise like heat under your collar. How dare he look at you like a problem he might solve? You do not slow. You do not stop. You do not allow the river to become a pond. Lady Halstead, however, is not governed by your desire to avoid him. She shifts her formation slightly, turning just enough that conversation becomes inevitable. Seungcheol bows his head. “Lady Halstead.”
“Lord Ashbourne.” The exchange is polite, but there is history beneath it—not favouritism, not bias. Simply familiarity earned. He acknowledges that history with the smallest softening—so brief you might think you imagined it—then his gaze slides to your sisters. Georgina curtsies with the sort of grace that still contains fire. Cecily’s curtsy is perfect and quiet. Then his eyes return to you. “You are out early,” he observes. It is a harmless sentence. It is also a test. You can feel it in the way he says it—like he is assessing how you respond to ordinary pressure. You offer the smallest, most neutral smile. “The park does not belong only to those with leisure, my lord.”
His mouth might have twitched. It is impossible to tell with him. “No,” he agrees. “It belongs to those who understand visibility.”
Lady Halstead’s cane taps lightly. “Now that is an honest thing for a man to say.”
Jeonghan laughs under his breath. Seungcheol doesn’t react to Jeonghan’s amusement at all, which is its own kind of control. His gaze flicks, briefly, to Georgina—as though acknowledging the obvious. “Hyde Park suits you, Miss Georgina,” he says to her. Georgina’s cheeks colour. “It suits everyone who knows how to use it, my Lord.” You could pinch her. Gently. Fiercely. You don’t.
Seungcheol’s gaze catches yours, and you swear—just for a breath—you see something like assessment sharpen into interest. “Enjoy your promenade,” he responds, and then he is past—his stride measured, the line of brothers continuing with him, the river swallowing them back into its glittering current as though it never noticed your stone dropped into it. Except you did drop a stone. You can feel the ripples in the glances from nearby debutantes, the quick tilt of a mama’s fan. You keep walking. Your sisters keep walking.
Lady Halstead’s voice slides into your ear. “If you want to keep him away, you must do it with elegance. Anger is a lantern.”
“I am being elegant,” you mutter. Lady Halstead’s eyes shimmer. “You are being obvious.” You inhale. You adjust your posture. You smooth your expression until it becomes again the mask you have worn through funerals and debt notices and nights of quiet panic where you lay awake counting what you owed to the world.
Cecily stumbles on a loose stone in the path. Not visibly. Only a small hitch in her step, a falter. You catch it instantly, your hand steadying her wrist. “Breathe,” you murmur. Cecily nods, cheeks pink. “I am,” she whispers back, as though she is not certain. You shift Cecily slightly closer to the centre—away from the outer edge. Georgina, meanwhile, becomes a beacon. A gentleman reaches her from across the path—young, pleasant, his coat expensive enough to show sense. You lift your chin. “Miss Georgina,” he says, bowing. “I hope I do not intrude.” Georgina’s eyes sparkle. “Only if you are boring.” The gentleman blinks, delighted rather than offended. “Then I shall endeavour to be remarkable.”
Cecily’s mouth twitches faintly, amused despite herself. You step half a pace to the side. You allow the conversation to form, but you remain the gatekeeper. The person who decides how close a man may come, how long he may linger, whether he may call.
“Lord Brampton,” Lady Halstead greets sharply. “Are you going to speak to the young lady, or are you going to flirt with her shadow?” Lord Brampton flushes. Georgina laughs, delighted. He begins, more carefully now, addressing Georgina properly. You watch his posture. His gaze. His eagerness. He is acceptable. For now. You let him walk with you for a few minutes, long enough for Georgina to sparkle, long enough for him to feel successful, long enough for Cecily to be included when Georgina turns and says, brightly, “My sister plays the pianoforte beautifully.”
Lord Brampton turns toward Cecily. “Do you, Miss Cecily?” Cecily’s mouth opens. Closes. Her fingers tighten around her reticule. “I—” she begins, then her voice falters as if it has tripped over its own shoes. “A little.”
Lord Brampton’s smile remains courteous, but his eyes drift away too quickly. He is drawn back to Georgina like a moth to flame. You feel the familiar pang—the quiet ache of watching Cecily be overlooked by men too impatient to see properly. You shift the conversation, gently redirecting. “Lord Brampton, will you be at Lady Dalrymple’s musicale next week? My sister enjoys music immensely.” It is a small push. A rope tossed gently in his direction. If he is worth anything, he will catch it. Lord Brampton hesitates—just a breath too long—before smiling. “If I am fortunate enough to receive an invitation, of course.”
It is not a yes. It is not a no. It is polite cowardice. Georgina’s laughter covers it. Cecily’s eyes dip. You catalogue it, file it away, and move on. Lord Brampton bows eventually, peels away toward another cluster of girls like he is shopping. Georgina watches him go with a grin that is half triumphant, half hungry for the next.
Lady Halstead’s gaze slides to Cecily. “Stars,” she murmurs, soft enough that only you and Cecily hear. “Remember what I told you.” Cecily nods once. She swallows, steadies. You admire her for it. Quiet bravery is still bravery. Then a shadow shifts into your peripheral vision, and a voice enters your river. “Good morning.”
A gentleman marches up to you with effortless ease, coat dove-grey, cravat tied with enough care to suggest he respects himself. His smile is open. Not oily. Not sharp. The sort of smile that makes mamas relax and daughters giggle because it is sincere. Lady Halstead’s eyes narrow immediately—not hostile, simply alert. Georgina brightens. Cecily looks up, startled by the attention of a man who does not look bored already. He bows first to Lady Halstead. “Lady Halstead.” Then to your sisters. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” His gaze flicks to you last—deliberate—and when it lands, it lingers a fraction longer than propriety demands. Just long enough to feel like choice. “Lady Whitlock,” he greets, and there is a careful respect in the title. “Edmund Hartwell. I hope you’ll forgive the liberty—I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance properly.”
You have heard the name in passing the way you hear most names in Mayfair—floating through drawing rooms, attached to whispers about old money and newer charm, about a gentleman who smiles too easily and somehow never seems to be refused. You have never, until now, been forced into the full weight of his attention. You offer a smile that invites no more. “Mr. Hartwell.”
His eyes brighten, as if hearing his name from you is a victory. “The day is too fine for a drawing room,” he says easily. “And too crowded for anyone to pretend they dislike being seen.”
Georgina’s brows lift, delighted by any whiff of romance. Cecily watches him as if he is a portrait come to life. Mr. Hartwell continues, unbothered by the attention. “May I walk with you?” he asks. “If it would not be unwelcome.” You glance at Lady Halstead, because she has more authority in this world than most men. Her expression is unreadable. She gives the smallest nod. You permit it. Mr. Hartwell steps into alignment with you, matching your pace perfectly. “Do you always choose the cleverest line to stand in,” he asks mischievously, “or is the park simply rearranging itself to make room for you?”
The question is so absurdly flattering you almost choke on your own composure. You feel a laugh threaten—small, traitorous—you press it down. “If the park rearranged itself for me, Mr. Hartwell, I assure you it would do so with far less mud.” He glances at the hem of your skirt, then looks back up. “So you do possess mercy,” he says. “You could have accused me of poor eyesight.”
“I am saving that for later,” you reply, and the laugh you tried to restrain slips out anyway. His gaze catches on your mouth like he’s surprised to have won something so easily. “There it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “I was hoping you could do that.” You lift a brow. “Do what?”
“Laugh,” he says simply, as if it is the most natural desire in the world. Georgina, still walking ahead, tilts her head slightly as if listening without turning. Cecily’s gaze flickers to you, and you see it—the faint relief in her eyes, the small happiness that you are not entirely made of iron. Mr. Hartwell continues, tone easy, as if he is not trying at all while clearly trying very hard. “Do you prefer the park to the ballroom?” he asks. “Ballrooms always feel like rooms where everyone is waiting to be judged.” You reply lightly. “The park judges too, it simply pretends it does so kindly.”
“Then perhaps you prefer honesty.”
“Perhaps I prefer air,” you answer. He gives a small, thoughtful hum. “And what do you do with it,” he asks, “when you have it? When you are not being surrounded by all this?”
The question is angled. You feel a flicker of wariness—quiet, instinctive. You offer him something true that still keeps your door locked. “I read,” you say. “And I drink tea that is never as good as people pretend it is.”
His grin widens. “A woman after my own heart. I despise tea.”
You blink. “Then why is every gentleman always offering it?”
“Because it is socially acceptable to offer,” he says, eyes dancing, “and socially unacceptable to admit one would rather offer brandy at ten in the morning.”
You laugh again, a little louder this time, and feel your cheeks warm with it—annoying, inevitable. Mr. Hartwell watches the colour rise as if it is the prettiest thing in the park. Cecily, beside you, seems to gather courage from the sound. Mr. Hartwell turns his attention to her, gentle in it. “Do you read as well, Miss Cecily?” Cecily’s cheeks flush. “Yes,” she murmurs.
“Then you are both in danger,” Mr. Hartwell says gravely. “London fears a woman with opinions and a library.”
Cecily’s mouth twitches. A small smile, real. Your chest tightens unexpectedly. Because you are not used to watching a man choose to make space for Cecily. Then Mr. Hartwell’s gaze returns to you, and you feel the river shift again. “Tell me one thing,” he says lightly, as though he is asking about the weather. “If you could go anywhere in London right now without being stared at, where would you go?”
The statement is impossible. And yet it makes something loosen in you—some part of yourself that remembers what it is to want something as simple as a walk without being gauged. “Nowhere,” you confess. “That place does not exist.” He doesn’t look disappointed. He looks delighted by the challenge. “Then I’ll amend it,” he says. “Where would you go if you did not care that you were being stared at?”
You glance at him, caught. Your guard tightens. Your honesty does not disappear. It simply becomes careful. “I would go to a bookshop,” you say, “and buy something scandalous.”
“A novel?”
“A pamphlet,” you reply. “One that suggests men are not as clever as they insist.” His laugh boisters with admiration. “Then I should like to see it,” he says. “So I can decide whether to be offended or corrected.”
You almost laugh too loudly. You stop it before it becomes obvious. Somewhere behind you, a carriage rolls past. Somewhere ahead, a game of pall-mall flares. The park continues its elegant performance. And then—like a pin to a balloon—you catch it. A gaze.
Lord Ashbourne has turned on the path further ahead, angled as if he intends to continue on, yet his eyes have landed on you with that same ledger-like focus. His face is unreadable. But his attention is unmistakable. It hits you like cold water. The faint ease Mr. Hartwell has coaxed out of you vanishes, replaced by sharp annoyance so swift it feels instant. You hold Seungcheol’s gaze—one clean, stubborn moment—then look away as if he does not exist.
Mr. Hartwell does not seem to notice the exchange. Or if he does, he is too polite to acknowledge it. Lady Halstead, however, does. “Come,” she announces. “We’ll turn back. The river’s grown crowded.”
You obey because it is sensible, because it is safe, because you cannot afford to let your sisters drift into a current you cannot control. But as you turn, you feel the presence behind your shoulder—the sense of being watched even when you refuse to look. It is infuriating. It is also, you tell yourself firmly, irrelevant.
The stands vibrate before the horses even appear. The announcer’s voice carries across a sea of spectators—calling names, and amounts, and bets. “Final call for wagers—final call!”
Coins clink. Tickets tear. A bookmaker rises from below the stands. The air smells of trampled grass and crushed petals and the faint, metallic tang of excitement—part champagne, part risk, part the simple human desire to win.
You sit with your sisters pressed safely to either side of you on the wooden benches, the crowd packed so tight behind and around that the whole structure feels like it breathes when people shift. Georgina leans forward as if she might will the race into beginning. Cecily keeps her hands folded in her lap, gaze flicking from the track to the crowd as if the crowd is the more dangerous animal. Without Lady Halstead here, the responsibility sits heavier. There is no older woman’s shadow to discourage boldness. There is only you—your posture, your expression, the quiet authority you have learned to manufacture on command. A gentleman in the row below turns around, smiling too widely. Another glances toward Georgina and lingers. You angle your body, not rude, not dramatic—just enough to remind them there is a chaperone with eyes.
The crowd roars as the horses parade into view—sleek bodies, restless heads, hooves biting at the turf like they resent being made to wait. The jockeys sit low and tense, bright silks flashing like exotic birds. The sound is enormous. The world here is louder than any street in Mayfair could ever be. Less polished. Less forgiving.
Mr. Hartwell appears at the edge of your row, somehow unruffled by the crush. “May I?” He inclines his head to the empty seat beside you. He doesn’t hover. He waits—patient, gentle—for the smallest opening. You give him a fraction of it, and he takes the seat swiftly, close enough to be companionable, not close enough to invite comment from the wrong mouths. He bows once he’s settled, the gesture neat even with knees crowded and skirts pressing close. “You see?” he murmurs, as if continuing a thought begun days ago. “The track is louder than a ballroom, but it’s kinder. Everyone’s too busy shouting to listen for whispers.” You keep your eyes on the line of horses, the way they stamp and toss their heads, but you feel his statement settle behind your ribs. “And here I thought you came only to gamble.”
His smile widens. “I came to be wrong about a few things,” he says softly, “and to see whether you would smile at me a second time.” The warmth rises, quick and ridiculous, along your cheeks. You blame the wind. You blame the sun. You do not blame the way he says it, as if it were harmless, when it is not. “It seems your odds are improving.”
“I’ve always been a persistent man,” he replies earnestly, “I simply try to do it without making anyone wish to push me into the tracks.”
Georgina, hearing the tail end, makes a quiet sound of delight that she tries to hide in a cough. Cecily’s mouth twitches—a small smile, like she is pleased for you.
The announcer’s voice swells. The horses move toward the starting line. The crowd rises as one organism, skirts rustling, coats brushing, gloves gripping the rails. You stand too—not because you wish to, but because standing is the only way to see over the heads in front.
A new weight settles behind you on the bench. The Ashbournes have arrived. They take the row behind you as if it has been waiting for them, their presence sliding into the space with the unhurried certainty of men who know they will be accommodated. Behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the warmth of breath when he speaks, Viscount Ashbourne takes his seat. You do not look back. You do not give him the satisfaction. But you can feel his gaze—first on your sisters, then on you, and finally—like a deliberate choice—on the space Mr. Hartwell occupies at your side.
The starting bell rings. The horses surge. The sound is thunder—hooves tearing at turf, the crowd roaring as if their voices can push the animals faster. Georgina clutches the rail, shouting something you don’t quite understand. Cecily stiffens, then relaxes when she realises she isn’t required to understand the sport to survive the noise. You watch the race with your face composed, your attention divided three ways—track, sisters, the awareness behind you that refuses to leave.
When the horses flash past the bend, the crowd erupts again. Men slap each other’s backs. A woman gasps as if she has witnessed a proposal. Someone below curses loud enough to make you wince. The winner crosses the line; hats are thrown; laughter breaks like waves. And in the breath of aftermath—before the next race, before the crowd settles—Georgina speaks. “Do you wager, Lord Ashbourne?” she calls up and back before you can stop her, bright with curiosity and a reckless kind of delight.
“No.”
Georgina twists, startled. “No?”
“I don’t enjoy losing money,” Seungcheol says simply, as if the entire world isn’t built on men enjoying risk. Cecily, quiet until now, turns her head slightly, courage slipping out on the tide of noise. “I thought gentlemen enjoyed the risk,” she murmurs. There is a moment—small, deliberate—before he answers, and when he does, his tone is not unkind. “Some do,” he replies, “Those who can afford to.”
Cecily blinks, surprised by the practicality of it. Georgina hums, half impressed, half offended on behalf of her own taste for bedlam. Seungcheol is not finished. His attention—still that ledger-like focus—settles on you, and he speaks again, lower, quiet enough that only you can hear over the shifting crowd. “You’re everywhere,” he observes.
You keep your posture immaculate and your voice light, as if he is nothing more than an inconvenience seated behind you. “It is remarkable how often one finds oneself in public places when one leaves the house.” You can feel the faint pause before his reply, as if he enjoys the shape of your defiance. “Remarkable,” he repeats, “Or strategic.”
You smile as if you are speaking to the air. “I have no interest in strategy, my Lord.” His answer comes too smoothly. “Of course, you simply have an interest in outcomes.” It is too straightforward. Too accurate. It irritates you in a way that feels like being seen.
Then Lord Ashbourne’s voice changes direction—just slightly—addressing the space beside you without raising volume, without making it a scene. “Mr. Hartwell,” he greets politely. “Final call was a moment ago. The book closes quickly if you intend to place a wager.” Mr. Hartwell turns his head. His smile stays intact—pleasant, almost amused—as though the Viscount has merely offered him weather advice. “How considerate,” he replies lightly. “I had nearly forgotten London runs on deadlines as much as it runs on horses.”
“It does,” Seungcheol agrees. “And it is unforgiving to men who hesitate.”
A harmless sentence. A perfectly reasonable one. And yet something in it lands like pressure placed on a bruise. Mr. Hartwell’s gaze flicks to you, as if checking whether you are enjoying the joke, then he inclines his head with a gentleman’s easy surrender. “Then I shall not keep it waiting,” he states, still charming, still unruffled. “Miss Whitlock. Miss Cecily. And you—” his eyes settle on you, longer, warm, private, “—enjoy the next one. I’ll return if the crowd allows it.”
He rises, neat as a man stepping out of a drawing room rather than squeezing past knees and skirts. It doesn’t take long before he is swallowed by the crowd below, disappearing into the sea of men and money. The space beside you feels colder for his absence. You refuse to acknowledge that. Behind you, Seungcheol shifts back slightly, the bench creaking under the redistribution of his weight. The next race is called; the announcer’s voice slices through the stands again. “They’re at the post—prepare yourselves!”
“Enjoy the race,” Seungcheol says, as if granting permission. As if you need it. “How generous,” you murmur, sweet as poison. He does not answer. The horses assemble again. The crowd rises. The world surges back into anticipation, loud and hungry. He turns away. Only then do you realise you have been holding your breath. Georgina exhales a huff. “He is odd,” she whispers.
“He is a Viscount,” you reply evenly. “That explains most oddities.”
Cecily’s mouth curves. “Does it?” she murmurs, and there is something in her tone that suggests she is not entirely convinced. You ignore it. You have too many things to manage.
At home, management does not stop simply because the curtains are drawn. Your house runs on quiet truths—laundry lists, bills, meals, repairs, letters that must be answered with the right words and the right seals. The servants move with the coherence of people who have learned to read your moods the way sailors read the sky. You review the week’s expenses at your desk with ink-stained fingers and an ache behind your eyes.
A request for extra coal that you approve because Cecily’s chest is still delicate in cold weather. A letter from a distant cousin, politely inquiring whether you might consider selling a small parcel of land. You set the letter aside and write a response that says, in careful language, no.
Then you fold Cecily’s ribbon properly because she’s too flustered to do it herself, and you scold Georgina gently because she’s laughing too loudly with the maid in the hallway and forgetting that walls carry noise.
In the late afternoon, when the house is momentarily peaceful, you stand at the window and watch the street outside and feel the exhaustion settle into your bones.
You miss your father in the way you miss a structure you lean on. Not because he would have enjoyed the marriage mart—he would have hated it—but because he would have stood behind you like a wall. You miss your mother in flashes, sharp and sudden: the scent of her gloves, the curve of her handwriting, the memory of her voice saying your name. You do not indulge the grief. It is not a luxury you allow yourself. The next invitation arrives before you can finish your tea.
Lady Dalrymple’s idea of restraint apparently involves only one orchestra instead of two.
You are not so much arriving as being immediately absorbed—drawn into a current of light and noise and movement the moment you pass through the hedged archway that marks the entrance. Lanterns hang in extravagant clusters from tree branches, layered so thickly that the leaves glow from within like stained glass. Silk ribbons—too many, in colours too bright to pretend they’re natural—trail from trellises, fluttering in the breeze. A parquet dance floor has been laid over the lawn, polished to a shine, framed by garlands that look as if they were ordered in bulk.
There are peacocks. Actual peacocks—strutting between guests, feathers dragging like embroidered trains. One pauses near a table of petits fours and looks down at the pastries with the same judgment the ton reserves for debutantes. A young lady squeals delightedly and lifts her skirt a fraction to avoid a trailing feather; her mama hisses something about propriety as if the peacock might be shamed into manners.
Somewhere to your left, a pair of circus performers move through the crowd with impossible balance—one girl in glittering tights on a tightrope strung between two trees; below her, a man juggles burning torches. People gasp and clap and laugh, delighted in the way the ton always is when danger is contained and decorative.
Music drifts from a pavilion dressed in florals. Violins bright, a harp chiming like spilt coins. Footmen glide between clusters with trays of champagne and iced lemonade. There are tables laden with arrangements so high you must crane your neck to see over them, and every few yards another spectacle has been staged—an ice sculpture already sweating into a silver basin, a fountain dyed faintly rose for no reason other than to be remarked upon, a trellis of roses positioned precisely where the light is kindest.
Guests move through it all in lazy circuits: pausing at the performers, drifting toward the dance floor, hovering near the refreshments, migrating toward whatever looks most impressive in the moment. Lady Dalrymple herself floats through her creation like a queen who has mistaken grandeur for taste, laughing too loudly, touching too many arms, showing off her peacocks as if she personally invented feathers.
You keep your sisters close as you navigate the spectacle, Lady Halstead at your side. People talk over the music. People talk through the music. Everyone is determined to be heard.
A peacock strolls past as if escorting you; Georgina whispers something wicked about its arrogance, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. But everything here is staged for collision.
You see Seungcheol before he reaches you—his path aiming toward you. Not rushed. Not eager. Just a gradual narrowing of distance, polite inevitability in the making.
You pivot smoothly, drawing your sisters into a conversation with Lady Something-Important and her bright, giggling daughters, allowing Georgina to charm and Cecily to be included, whether she wishes it or not. Lord Ashbourne passes behind a cluster of men, slowed by a bow demanded of him, and you slip away—toward the refreshments, where a footman offers lemonade and a peacock tries to steal a sugared violet.
A second attempt comes not much later. The same calm inevitability, the same measured approach. This time, you steer Georgina toward the dance floor, where partners are changing in neat patterns, where propriety is disguised as choreography. You allow her to be swept up by a gentleman who asks for her hand. You bring Cecily toward Lady Halstead and place yourself at the edge of a circle of conversation. You become, momentarily, simply another guest—another moving piece in Lady Dalrymple’s glittering board. It works. It also costs.
Because in all your wrangling, Cecily is spoken to by a gentleman. He asks about the music, about whether she plays. Cecily answers softly, and she is fine. Then the conversation dips into silence, and Cecily, nervous, stumbles on a word. The gentleman’s gaze drifts away, drawn toward louder laughter and brighter ribbons. Cecily’s shoulders tighten as if she is bracing for being forgotten.
You feel the rush of guilt and irritation—at the man, at the world, at yourself for having to choose where to place your attention like a shield that cannot cover everyone at once. You turn toward Cecily—
And you collide, abruptly, with another presence. Lord Ashbourne has stepped into your path. “You are avoiding me,” he says, low enough that only you hear. “I have no idea what you mean.”
His gaze does not waver. “You do.”
You let your smile sharpen. “I am busy, my lord. As you can see.”
His eyes flick, briefly, to where Georgina laughs too brightly. To where Cecily stands too quietly. Then back to you. “You are busy,” he agrees. “And yet you find time to steer.”
You feel your irritation flare. “Is that an accusation?”
“An observation,” he replies. Never raising his voice. “You steer everyone.”
“Someone must,” you return, sweetness layered over steel. His gaze shifts, as if he is considering something he has not decided whether to say aloud. “Do you enjoy it?” he asks.
The question hits you off balance, because it is not what men usually ask. Men ask whether you are enjoying the party. Whether you are enjoying the music. Whether you are enjoying the weather. They do not ask whether you enjoy carrying the weight. You refuse to show the impact. “Enjoyment is not the point,” you reply. “We are here to do what must be done.”
His eyes narrow. “Ah.”
The sound is soft. Almost recognising. It infuriates you. “If you’ll excuse me,” you say, turning slightly as if you intend to leave. He does not move out of your way. “I wished to speak with your sister,” he says calmly.
Your spine stiffens. “Which one?” His gaze flicks toward Georgina, then Cecily. His answer is too honest. “Either.”
Either. As if young women are interchangeable. “My sisters are not items on a display table, my lord,” you say lethally. “You cannot simply point and ask to be handed one.”
Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. He does not flinch. He does not apologise. He simply replies, even softer: “And you cannot simply decide what they are allowed to want.”
The words strike like a slap. You feel heat rise behind your ribs. You keep your face composed anyway. “My sisters are allowed to want happiness,” you say. “They are allowed to want love. They are allowed to want a man who does not treat marriage like a transaction.”
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. Something unreadable passes across his face—too quick to catch fully. “And you,” he asks. “What are you allowed to want?”
You almost laugh. Not because it is funny—because it is absurd. “I am allowed to want silence,” you declare sweetly. “Which you are currently denying me.”
“Then deny me,” he replies.
You stare at him, vexed enough to taste it. Then you step to the side, slipping around him. You leave him standing there as if he is merely another piece of spectacle. Your pulse does not agree with your composure.
You stop near Lady Dalrymple’s coloured fountain. The dusty pink makes space for an electric green. You inhale. You exhale. You tell your shoulders to unhook themselves from your ears. You let yourself be nothing but a woman looking at water.
“You have the look of a woman who is pretending she is not enjoying herself.” Mr. Hartwell arrives at your shoulder as if he has always belonged there. You blink, caught. Then, against your will, you smile. “That is an accusation.”
“A compliment,” he corrects gently. “It takes skill to look unimpressed by lanterns and violins.” You let out an involuntary chuckle. “I am not unimpressed,” you say. “I am simply… cautious.”
His eyes gentle, as if he admires the honesty. “About the lemonade?”
“About gentlemen,” you reply. He places a hand over his heart with theatrical solemnity. “Then I shall endeavour to be the least dangerous one in the garden.”
The fountain shifts colour again—green fading into pale blue. The light catches on the wet stone and throws it back at you, too bright. You keep your gaze on the water because looking at him too directly feels like giving him something. Mr. Hartwell’s voice stays easy, conversational, as if you are not alone in a garden full of watchers and rules. “May I bring you lemonade?” he offers. “Or would you prefer something stronger, if society were not listening?”
“If society were not listening, Mr. Hartwell, I suspect half of these guests would be drinking brandy out of teacups.”
“Then you and I would be the only honest ones.”
You feel your cheeks warm again, absurd and unmistakable. You hate that he can do that—make you blush as if you are a girl with nothing to manage. “Lemonade will do,” you agree lightly. Mr. Hartwell inclines his head—polite, satisfied—and turns away to fetch your drink, disappearing into the flow of guests and ribbons and trays. The moment he leaves, the air changes.
Not because he is gone—because you are aware again of everything around you. Of how the fountain’s coloured water draws eyes. Of how lanternlight makes every face visible. Of how a woman standing alone becomes a question. And then you feel it—sharp, immediate, undeniable.
Lord Ashbourne stands at the far edge of the dance floor’s perimeter, half in the spill of lanternlight, half in shadow, as if even Lady Dalrymple’s grandeur cannot fully claim him. He is not speaking. He is not laughing. He is watching. Your eyes meet his. The world around you fades away: the orchestra, the laughter, the peacock’s shriek, the ridiculous fountain trying to impress God Himself. There is only his gaze. Not warm. Not kind. Not cruel. Assessing. You look away, but the moment does not dissolve simply because you choose to ignore it. It lingers. It clings. As if his eyes have left an imprint.
Mr. Hartwell returns quickly—too quickly for it to be nonchalant—and offers you the glass. “There,” he says. “A small mercy.”
“You are generous with them,” you reply.
“Only with you,” he says, so softly it slips under the music.
Somewhere behind you, you sense movement—perhaps the shift of bodies, perhaps your own awareness sharpening—but you do not turn. You keep your gaze on the lemonade, on the condensation beading along the glass, on anything that is not the fact you can still feel Lord Ashbourne’s eyes in the space you just refused to give him.
Mr. Hartwell shifts closer, just enough to turn the space between you into something that belongs to him for a moment. “May I call on you?” he asks, almost cautiously. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. I should like to continue our conversation somewhere less crowded.”
There it is. Not a flirtation that can be laughed away. Not a harmless compliment. A request with shape. With weight.
You keep your response kind, because kindness is how you refuse without humiliation. You lift your glass slightly, as if considering. “You are very attentive,” you say. “But my household’s calendar belongs to two young ladies this Season. They are merciless tyrants.”
His brows lift, as though he enjoys the challenge. “Then I shall appeal to the tyrants,” he says lightly. “Or to their chaperone.”
You meet his gaze. “Appeal to the hostess,” you suggest gently. “If she continues to invite us, you will surely find us again in public. It would be a pity to deprive society of its favourite pastime.”
“And what pastime is that?”
“Watching,” you answer. You think he might push—might press the point harder, insist on a promise. Instead, he only nods his head, smile intact, as if he has accepted your answer while clearly not accepting defeat. “Very well,” he agrees softly. “Public, then. For now.”
The words are mild. The implication is not. You lift your glass in the smallest toast and take a sip to seal the moment. Lemon and sugar flood your tongue. Across the garden, the orchestra swells, the dancers turn, the torch-juggler’s flames flare once more for a cluster of delighted ladies. Lady Dalrymple’s spectacle continues.
And you stand there—between your sisters’ futures and your own exhaustion, between a man who speaks like he sees you and a man who watches as if he is measuring what you are worth—feeling, for the first time this Season, the uncomfortable realisation that the market has noticed you too.
Behind you, through velvet-draped doors and carved arches, Rossini’s notes of La Cenerentola spill like champagne.
The audience’s laughter rises and falls in waves, trained and delighted. Inside, they are all watching a man in a ridiculous dream of power, watching the greedy family preen and posture as if the world cannot possibly humiliate them. You can hear the humiliation coming. Everyone can. That is half the pleasure.
A footman had hovered at your elbow—breathless in that polite way servants have when something is wrong but must not sound wrong. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” he had murmured. “There is… an issue with your carriage.”
Your stomach had tightened with the familiar irritation of inconvenience. In a house, you can command a problem into submission with a glance. In public, everything must be handled without anyone noticing there was ever a problem to begin with. “What issue?” you had asked softly.
“The near wheel,” he had replied. “A loose bolt, it seems. The coachman says it is best tightened before we depart. He fears—”
“—a spectacle,” you had finished for him, because of course he did. The footman’s throat had worked. “Yes, my lady.”
You had drawn a careful breath, smoothing your expression into calm. “Very well,” you had said. “Tell him I will speak with him myself in the carriage passage.”
The bolt had taken longer than expected. The coachman, face apologetic beneath his hat, had insisted he would not risk London streets on a quick tightening. Better to take the carriage straight back to the mansion and set it right properly, no matter the hour, no matter the inconvenience. You had agreed, because responsibility is often nothing more than saying yes to disruption before it becomes a disaster.
Now, with the carriage passage’s air still lingering in your lungs, you walk back alone, your task done. Your sisters are still inside your private box—safe, contained, protected by velvet and gilt and rank. And Lady Halstead. She resides in the box beside yours, close enough that she could lean and speak through the shared partition if she must, close enough to notice if either of your sisters so much as breathed too fast. A reprieve, she called it when she insisted you attend. “Even taskmasters require entertainment,” she had sniggered, as if your responsibility were a vice.
Inside the theatre, Act II is continuing with gleeful cruelty. You had watched, earlier, the moment Dandini’s act dropped. The false prince’s charm disappeared. The audience leaned forward. A lie collapsed. Magnifico’s pride crumpled under the weight of being laughed at, and for a heartbeat, the whole theatre felt like a lesson: greed is always punished—onstage, at least. In the stalls, where real men barter daughters and reputations, greed is simply dressed better.
You press your palm lightly to the wall as you walk. The corridor bends, drawing you nearer again to your seat—past closed doors, sconces that burn low, and past gilded mouldings that look like frozen lace. The sound of the opera sounds muffled and distant, as if the music is taking place in a different life. You are halfway down the hall when you hear a soft step behind you. “Lady Whitlock.”
You stop and find Edmund Hartwell smiling at you as if he has been expecting you. His charm, tonight, is dressed in propriety. You curtsy. “Mr. Hartwell.”
“I hope I am not intruding,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like he is doing you the favour of asking permission instead of taking it. “You are,” you reply pleasantly. “But I am certain you will manage to survive it.” He grins, delighted. “You always do that,” he notes, as if you are private entertainment. “You cut without drawing blood.”
“It is a talent developed out of necessity,” you answer. “Why are you here, Mr. Hartwell?” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “For air,” he says easily, mirroring the excuse you have used a dozen times this Season. “The theatre is magnificent, of course, but it can be stifling.”
“I find the company far more stifling than the air,” you reply calmly. His smile does not waver. “Then perhaps we share a preference,” he says. “I find crowds exhausting. Everyone is always trying to be seen.”
“And you are not?” you ask.
“I prefer to see,” he admits. You reply with continued steadiness. “If you have followed me for a philosophical conversation, I fear you will be disappointed.” He laughs softly, as if charmed by your refusal to soften. “No,” he says. “I followed you because you disappeared.”
“I had an errand,” you state. “I will return to my sisters shortly.”
“Always the dutiful one,” he murmurs. “Always thinking of others.” You do not like the way he says it. As if he has been studying you. “As you should,” you tell him. He tilts his head. “Should I?”
“Yes,” you say. “Because I have no interest in lingering in empty corridors with gentlemen, Mr. Hartwell.”
The corridor is empty in a way you did not notice at first. The constant foot traffic near the boxes is absent here. The theatre’s servants move mostly behind doors, in passages you do not see. The patrons remain in velvet and laughter. Hartwell’s gaze flicks briefly past you, down the corridor behind, as if confirming what you have just confirmed. Then he looks back at you and smiles again. “You speak as though I am a danger,” he says mildly.
“You are a gentleman,” you reply. “That is reason enough for caution.”
“And yet you are alone,” he points out. “Without your sisters. Without Lady Halstead’s cane-tapping warnings.” Your mouth tightens. “Lady Halstead does not require a cane to frighten men.”
“Nor do you,” he says, and there is feeling in his voice that might have been flattering if it did not feel like a hand reaching for your throat. “But you should not have to.”
You hold his gaze. “I am accustomed to what I must do.”
“And what of what you want?” he asks. There it is again—the question he keeps circling like a hound around a rabbit hole. “I want to return to the opera,” you say. He takes a small step closer. “Then let me escort you.”
“No.” His brows lift. “Why not?”
“Because it will be noticed,” you answer. His smile remains, but something shifts behind it—an impatience, a flicker of annoyance quickly re-painted. “You are always speaking of what must be seen,” he says. “What must be avoided. What must be managed.”
“Because that is the world we live in,” you reply.
“And yet,” he says, voice lowering as if sharing a secret, “I have seen you in public. I have watched you steer conversations as if you were born to command a room. You cannot tell me you are frightened of a gentleman walking beside you.”
“I am not frightened,” you correct. “I am careful.”
He takes another step. The corridor seems to narrow, though it has not changed. The sconces throw his face into half-shadow, making his eyes look deeper, darker. Careful,” he repeats softly. “Always careful.” His gaze drops to your gloved hands. “Do you know what careful looks like from the outside?” he asks. You do not answer. “It looks like distance,” he continues, and the warmth in his voice is gone. “Like coldness. Like punishment.”
You feel your spine stiffen. “If you feel punished by my boundaries, Mr. Hartwell, then you are free to seek softer company.”
He laughs again, but there is no humour in it. “Softer company,” he echoes. “That is what you think I want?”
“I think you want what most men want,” you reply. “A girl who smiles and says yes and never has an opinion sharp enough to sting.”
His eyes darken. “And you believe you are not that girl.”
“I know I am not,” you answer.
“You are,” he insists, and his mask slips. “But you are always with your sisters. Always with Lady Halstead. Always in the middle of crowds. It is as though you are determined never to be alone.”
Your pulse picks up. The opera’s muffled laughter sounds too far away. Somewhere, around a corner, you hear voices—two men speaking low, a lady’s laugh—just close enough to remind you that you are not entirely hidden. Just far enough that they will not see you unless you turn the corner with someone’s hands on you. You lift your chin. “If you have followed me here merely to complain that I have chaperones, Mr. Hartwell, then you have wasted both our time.”
“I followed you here because I am tired of being treated like I am asking for something unreasonable.”
You blink once. “You are asking for something unreasonable.”
His jaw tightens. “I am asking for a moment.”
“A moment becomes a scandal,” you reply.
He takes another step closer. It cuts into your space, too forceful, compelling you to either retreat or make contact. You retreat—one measured step back. He follows. Your heart thuds, hard. “Mr. Hartwell,” you say, keeping your voice polite to mask that you are shaken. “Move aside.” He does not. Instead, he reaches out—not to take your hand in the proper way, not to offer his arm, but to touch your forearm. Glove. Fabric. Wrong. You go still. His fingers tighten slightly, as if testing what you will allow. “You have been smiling at me for weeks,” he says, voice low. “You have laughed. You have spoken with me. You have accepted my company. Do you think I do not understand what that means?”
“It means you are pleasant in public,” you reply. “It means nothing else.”
His grip tightens. “You cannot be so naïve.” The word lands like a slap. Heat flares in your chest—anger first, and then, beneath it, something colder. “Let go,” you say quietly. He does not let go. Instead, he steps even closer, and suddenly his body is a barrier between you and the corridor’s open length. He pins you against the wall. “Why are you doing this?” he asks accusingly. “Why are you making it difficult?”
Because difficult is what men call a woman who refuses to be easy. You swallow once, forcing your breath steady. “Because you are behaving improperly,” you say. His mouth twists. “Improperly,” he repeats. “We are in a corridor, not a bed.” Your stomach drops. The words are too close to indecent to be accidental. You feel your skin prickle beneath your gown. “You will step away,” you say, and there is steel now beneath the silk.
His smile is gone. “Or what?” he murmurs. “You will shout? You will call for help? And then the theatre will turn, and someone will look, and they will see you alone with a gentleman, and they will assume the worst.”
Your blood runs colder. He knows. Of course he does. Men like him know exactly where the trap lies. “You would not,” you say, and your voice is softer than you want it to be. He leans in, close enough that you can smell wine on his breath, faint beneath the perfume of the evening. “Wouldn’t I?” he asks. “Do you truly believe I have spent my life being refused by women like you? Do you think I do not know how to make a refusal… costly?”
Your pulse slams hard against your throat. You twist your arm, trying to pull free. His fingers clamp down. “Stop,” you whisper. He moves again, caging you in, and his free hand rises—toward your waist, toward your face, you cannot even register which because panic blurs the edges of the world. His fingers brush your cheek. Your whole body recoils. He catches you, hand at your waist, keeping you from stepping away. The touch is not tender. It is ownership. Your breath stutters.
Around the corner, the voices laugh again. A man says something about the prince’s foolishness. A lady’s fan snaps open. Life continues, bright and secure, while you are trapped in a dim hallway with a man whose smile has become teeth.
“You are frightened,” Hartwell murmurs, pleased, “Good.” and then his face dips, aiming for your mouth. Instinct takes over.
You shove at his chest with both hands. Your palms hit solid muscle beneath his coat. He barely moves. He grabs your wrists—quick, efficient—pinning them together in one hand like you are a child. A sound tries to rise, but is strangled by the terror of what the sound will cause. If you scream, someone will come. If someone comes, they will see. If they see, they will decide for you. And in this world, decisions about women are never made in women’s favour. Hartwell’s mouth is inches from yours. His eyes are dark, intent. “This would be easier,” he breathes, “if you stopped pretending you don’t want to be wanted.”
Rage flares through the fear like a match struck. You jerk your knee upward, aiming for his shin. Your skirt tangles, but the blow lands enough that he hisses, grip loosening for a fraction. You wrench your wrists free. You twist sideways, trying to slide past him into the open corridor. He catches you again, faster than you are, arm hooking around your waist, hauling you back. The sound you make is small and ugly—a gasp turned into something like a sob. His hand clamps over your mouth. The world tilts. Your eyes burn. Your chest heaves against his arm.
He leans in, voice harsh in your ear. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t make noise. Don’t ruin yourself.”
Ruin yourself. As if he himself is not your ruination. Your teeth sink into the palm covering your mouth. Hard. Hartwell jerks back, swearing under his breath. His hand pulls away, shaking, and you breathe in fast, greedy gulps of air that taste like dust and terror. “Bitch,” he spits, and the word is the truest thing he has said all evening. He reaches again—
But a hand clamps onto Hartwell’s collar from behind, yanking him back with a force so sudden that he stumbles. Your body lurches forward, freed. Air rushes into your lungs like salvation.
“Touch her again and you’ll leave this theatre in pieces.”
Hartwell turns in the grip, furious, breath sharp with pain and outrage. His face is flushed, his mouth twisted, dignity scrambling. “Oh—so this is how it is?” he spits, voice harsh in the hush. “The righteous Viscount prowling corridors to pull women off men’s hands—”
Seungcheol moves before the sentence can finish. A punch, clean and brutal. Hartwell’s head snaps sideways with it. There is a sickening crack—bone meeting knuckle, cartilage giving way—and Hartwell staggers, half-caught by Seungcheol’s grip before his back hits the wall. For a second, he looks stunned—then blood pours down from his nose, spilling over the line of his mouth. He laughs—hoarse, broken, smiling through the pain.
“There it is,” Hartwell murmurs, voice thick, as if delighted by the proof. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and smears the blood across his cheek. His eyes cut to you again. “Did you enjoy that?” he says, and the question is meant to shame you. “Watching him hit for you like you’re worth it?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes. He steps in, seizes Hartwell by the lapels, and slams him back into the wall hard enough that the sconce above them trembles. Hartwell’s grin widens. “Go on,” he breathes, taunting. “Everyone will believe whatever you want them to believe. You’re a Viscount—you can bruise anyone and call it justice.”
Seungcheol’s fist drives forward again. Hartwell makes a choking sound as his head jerks back. He spits—thick and red—onto the floor between Seungcheol’s boots. “She’ll still be what she is,” Hartwell rasps, eyes feral with humiliation and spite. “A woman alone in a corridor. A woman who—”
Seungcheol hits him again And again. And again. Hartwell’s knees buckle. Seungcheol’s fist pauses mid-air—because for a fraction of a second it looks like Hartwell might fall. Seungcheol doesn’t let him. He catches him by the collar and holds him upright only to make sure the lesson lands. You see it then—Seungcheol’s restraint isn’t soft. It’s contained. And the container is cracking.
“Stop.” The word tears out of you. You step forward without thinking, breath sharp. “Lord Ashbourne—stop. Please.”
Hartwell coughs, laughing and choking at once, blood dripping from his nose, from the corner of his mouth. His eyes lift toward you—glass-bright, triumphant in his own sickness. “Tell me,” he pants, “do you feel safe now? With him?” His smile splits wider. “You’ll always be safe with a man who can bury your story.”
Seungcheol’s fist twitches again. You can feel the corridor narrowing, the corner voices too near, the risk of witnesses like a blade at your throat. “Stop.” You command once more.
Seungcheol stills. His chest rises and falls like he has been running. His knuckles are bruised. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. Hartwell hangs there, dazed and upright only because Seungcheol’s fist is still in his collar. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to you for a brief, dangerous moment—fury there, yes, but something else too: a question, a check, a tether.
Then he turns back to Hartwell and drags him closer until Hartwell’s boots scrape, until their faces are inches apart. Seungcheol whispers something in his ear. It is too quiet for you to catch—swallowed by the theatre’s muffled roar, by the blood in your own pulse. But you see the effect. Hartwell’s grin falters. His eyes widen—just slightly, but enough. Something in his face tightens, and for the first time since he cornered you, something like fear crawls across his face and stays there. Seungcheol releases him with a small shove.
Hartwell stumbles two steps, catches himself on the wall, then straightens with shaking hands, wiping his mouth and nose as if he can smear the colour of humiliation away. “You’re both cursed,” he hisses, voice slurred, “Both of you.” His eyes flick to you, and the last of his charm curdles. “Enjoy your saviour.” Then he turns and staggers down the corridor, cursing under his breath, one hand clamped to his bleeding face. He does not look back.
You do not move. Your hands are trembling so badly your gloves whisper against each other. Your breath comes in ragged pulls you cannot smooth. Your heart is banging as if it is trying to escape your chest. Seungcheol turns to you. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and the question is clipped.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Your throat feels like it has been squeezed from the inside. Seungcheol’s gaze drops briefly to your wrists—where Hartwell’s fingers held you too tight—and something in his eyes hardens. His fists curl and unclench once. “Speak,” he says, less harsh than it sounds. “Tell me.”
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “No,” you manage. “I—no. I am—” You cannot say fine. The word feels like a lie too large to fit through your teeth.
Seungcheol exhales through his nose. He steps closer—not into your space like Hartwell, but near enough that you can feel the warmth of him, near enough that if someone came around the corner, they would see a man and a woman standing close and assume—God, they would assume.
You flinch, not away from him, but from the idea of being seen. Seungcheol notices instantly. His gaze flicks toward the corner, toward the distant voices. He lowers his head slightly, blocking you with his body in a way that is almost instinctive. A shield. “We cannot be found here,” he says, voice low. “Come.”
You do not move. Your legs feel like they have forgotten how to obey. Seungcheol’s expression tightens, impatience wrestling with something that looks dangerously like tenderness. He reaches out slowly, offering his hand. Not grabbing. Not taking. Offering. “Lady Whitlock,” he says, and the title steadies you. “Take my hand.”
You stare at it for too long, as though it belongs to someone else. Then you put your gloved fingers into his. His grip closes around yours—not gentle, not soft, but firm in a way that says you will not fall, not while he’s holding you. He guides you down the corridor, away from the corner, away from the risk. Your steps are small at first, then steadier as your body remembers motion.
Somewhere behind closed doors, the opera barrels toward its end. Somewhere, the audience cheers at Angelina’s triumph, delighted by forgiveness that costs them nothing.
You and Seungcheol slip into a small antechamber—empty, shadowed, a place meant for servants to wait or patrons to adjust gloves without being seen. Seungcheol releases your hand only once the door is shut. Silence rushes in.
You lean one palm against the wall, steadying your composure. Your other hand rises to your throat as if you can hold your voice there and keep it from breaking. Seungcheol stands a few feet away, rigid. Something is pulsing beneath his restraint, as though the punch he gave Hartwell was the smallest portion of what he wanted to do. “Why were you alone?” he asks.
“I had an errand,” you say, too quickly. “My carriage—”
“You don’t leave your sisters for air unless you have no choice,” he interrupts, and the accuracy of it makes you bristle even through the shock. “So what was it?”
You lift your chin. “A bolt,” you state. “Loose. It needed tightening.”
Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. “And he followed you.”
“Yes,” you say, voice sharp with the anger you can finally afford now that you are not trapped beneath Hartwell’s hand. “He followed me. Like a dog that thinks if it waits long enough, it will be rewarded.”
Seungcheol’s gaze stays fixed on you. He watches you the way he watches ledgers—seeking cracks, seeking truth, seeking exactly where the damage landed. “Did he—” he begins, then stops, jaw working as if the question tastes like poison. You refuse to let the implication become something bigger by naming it. “He tried,” you say, and that is enough.
Seungcheol’s hands curl at his sides again. He turns away sharply, one step, as if he must move the rage somewhere or it will burn through his skin. “He will not try again,” he says, voice like steel. You laugh bitterly. “You sound very confident.”
Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change. “I am.” The certainty in his tone does not comfort you. Because certainty is a man’s privilege in this world. Your ruin is always closer than his.
“How convenient,” you say, and the words come out with a tremor you hate.
“It was not convenience,” he replies. You stare at him. “Then what was it?” He holds your gaze. Then he answers, and the answer is not what you expect. “It was inevitable.”
The word makes your temper flare because it sounds like fate, and fate is just another excuse men use to do what they want. “I do not believe in inevitability,” you say.
“You believe in outcomes,” he counters smoothly. “And in preventing them before they happen.”
He continues, not allowing you to cut him down with your pride because he is doing something rare for a man like him: he is moving directly toward the problem rather than circling it. “Hartwell will not be the last, you know that.”
Your spine stiffens. “I can handle myself.”
“You bit him,” Seungcheol remarks, and the bluntness of the observation shocks a small, ugly laugh out of you. You hate that he saw it. Hate that it’s now part of the story between you. “I did,” you admit. “And if he had not let go, I would have done worse.”
Seungcheol’s mouth twitches—approval, dark and brief. “Good,” he says, and then his tone shifts again. “But it won’t stop them.” You narrow your eyes. “Opportunists,” he clarifies. “Men who sniff out a weakness and think they can take.”
“And you have decided I am weak,” you snap. Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours, unflinching. “No,” he says firmly. “I have decided you are visible.” You swallow hard.
“Lady Whitlock,” he says, and your title sounds different in his mouth now. “You are the gatekeeper of two debutantes. You are an heiress in your own right. You are alone without a father’s wall behind you, and you move through the ton like a woman who refuses to bend.” He steps closer.
“That draws attention. Good attention. Bad attention. Hungry attention.” You hate him for being right. “Tonight,” he continues, voice dropping, “it almost cost you everything.” Your throat burns. You lift your chin anyway. “I did not ask you to rescue me.”
“I didn’t do it because you asked,” he replies.
Seungcheol breathes in once, restrained, as if he is about to say something he is already regretting. “We need a solution. Not comfort. Not apologies. A solution.”
You let out a small, humourless laugh. He doesn’t react. “You can be furious with me later,” he states calmly. “Right now, listen.”
You fold your arms, hugging yourself without meaning to. “Speak, then.”
Seungcheol’s gaze flicks briefly toward the door, toward the distant swell of applause. The crowd will spill into the grand hall soon—champagne, conversation, judgment dressed as merriment. Time is short. “I will court you,” he says.
The room seems to tilt, as if the world cannot quite believe what it has heard. “You will—” you begin, and your voice cracks with disbelief. You clear your throat, forcing it steady. “You will not.”
“I will.”
You feel heat flare in your cheeks. “Absolutely not.”
“It will stop men like Hartwell,” he says, as if you have objected to a business proposal rather than an insult to your pride. “It will stop most of them, at least. Because the ton respects ownership more than it respects a woman’s refusal.”
Your stomach twists. “I am not property.”
“I know,” he says, and there is a strange sharpness in his tone, as if he is angry at the world for forcing you to speak this way. “But they do not.” You take a step back, needing space. “And why,” you demand, “would I agree to let you parade me around as—what? A shield?”
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. “Because your shield is currently a set of gloves and a sharp tongue, and it nearly wasn’t enough.”
Your hands curl. “You are presuming a great deal.”
“I am stating what happened,” he replies.
The applause in the distance swells—finale near. The audience is beginning to stir. Time is shrinking. You stare at him, trying to find the angle. “And what do you gain?” you ask, because nothing in this world is offered without cost. Seungcheol doesn’t pretend otherwise. “I gain jealousy,” he says evenly. “Speculation. Interest.” You blink.
“Debutantes want what another woman has,” he confesses bluntly. “If they see me paying attention to you, they will assume you are worth competing for.”
It’s so cold you almost laugh again. “So I am bait,” you say, voice sharpened to a point. Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours, and something flares there—annoyance, yes, but also a kind of reluctant respect for how quickly you understand the ugliness of the mechanism. “You are not bait,” he says. “You are armour. For yourself. For your sisters. And—” he pauses, jaw tightening, “for me.”
“For you,” you echo.
Seungcheol’s voice stays calm, but the words are edged. “My household is being tested,” he says. “My name is being weighed. People are waiting for weakness. A courtship—visible, respectable—reminds them I am anchored. It reminds them Ashbourne is stable.”
He’s not asking you to marry him. He’s asking you to stand beside him. To be seen. To be used. To be protected. To be trapped in his orbit in a way you have been trying to avoid since the first night you heard him speak of suitability. “No,” you say again, because your pride must say it even if your mind is beginning to see the bars of the alternative.
“Then Hartwell will try again,” Seungcheol says softly. “Not in a corridor, perhaps. He will wait. He will follow. He will find a moment where you are tired, where your sisters are distracted, where Lady Halstead is speaking to someone else. He will trap you again, and he will make sure there are witnesses next time.”
“And the ton will not ask whether you wanted it. They will ask why you were alone.”
You swallow, eyes burning. “You are cruel,” you whisper.
“I am honest.” You hate him for it. You hate that the honesty feels like a hand under your chin, forcing you to look at reality. “What about my sisters?” you demand. “What about their prospects? What if—what if people think—”
“They will think you are respectable,” Seungcheol interrupts. “They will think you are protected. And by extension, your sisters will be protected too.”
You shake your head, anger and fear tangled. “You speak like a contract.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Because that is what this is.”
You want to refuse. Your whole body wants to refuse. You can feel the stubbornness rising like a wall. And then, like a ghost with teeth, the memory of Hartwell’s hand over your mouth returns. The noose of scandal. The corner voices. The trap. Your hands tremble. Seungcheol sees it. His expression softens—barely. “I am not asking you to like me,” he says quietly. “I know you don’t.”
Your lips part, ready to deny it—
He cuts you off. “I’m asking you to survive the Season without being ruined by a man who thinks he can take what he wants.”
The theatre beyond the walls erupts in applause—curtain falls, the whole audience rising in delighted approval. Act II ends with the greedy being humiliated. Real life ends with women being punished.
You close your eyes, feeling the tremor in your hands, the aching strain in your ribs where panic still sits like a lodged stone. When you open them again, Seungcheol is watching you as if he has already decided what you will do. You hate him for that, too. “What are your terms?” you ask, because if you must step into the trap, you will at least choose the shape of the cage. Seungcheol is alert now, as if he respects you more when you negotiate than when you refuse.
“We appear together,” he says. “We speak politely. We allow people to speculate. We do not give them anything improper to feast on.”
“And my sisters?” you press.
“I will not interfere with their suitors,” he says. “Unless a suitor becomes a threat.”
“And you will not speak of them as if they are interchangeable.”
He nods once. “Fine.”
“And you will not—” You force the words out. “You will not touch me without permission.”
Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. The pause is only a mere second, but it feels heavy. Then, very quietly, he whispers, “I’m not Hartwell.”
You nod. “Then we are agreed.”
Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to the door. The applause has faded into the rumble of movement—people leaving, drifting toward the grand hall. Time is up. “We need to return,” he says. He steps closer again and offers his arm. The gesture is so ordinary that it is almost obscene after what happened. His forearm is solid beneath the fabric of his coat. A structure. A public signal. You stare at it too long.
Seungcheol’s voice drops, low enough to feel like a private thread between you. “If you hesitate,” he murmurs, “they will notice.”
You place your hand on his arm. The contact is immediate, startling—not because it is intimate, but because it is easy. Because your body knows the shape of propriety as instinctively as it knows panic. Seungcheol’s hand rises briefly to cover yours—a shielded gesture of possession that makes your stomach twist and your spine straighten in equal measure. Then he drops it again, guiding you toward the door.
The grand entrance hall is filled when you step back into it. Champagne trays glide past. Fans flutter. Men laugh too loudly, voices warmed by music and brandy. Ladies tilt their heads together like conspirators. Everywhere the ton swarms—hungry, alive, eager for new stories to chew.
You and Seungcheol move into it as if you have always belonged like this—your hand on his arm, his pace measured to yours, his posture calm and assured. Nobody turns at first. Then the attention shifts—like clouds rolling in. A mama’s fan pauses mid-flutter. A gentleman’s laugh stutters. A debutante’s eyes widen. You feel the ripple of recognition catch and spread. Lord Ashbourne. Lady Whitlock. Together. It is astonishing how quickly a room can rewrite a narrative the moment two people offer it a new shape.
Seungcheol guides you through clusters with the familiar confidence of a man who compels every room he enters. His gaze stays forward, but his awareness is everywhere. He is watching for danger, for gossip, for the sharpness in someone’s smile. You are watching too—because you have always watched. Ahead, near the edge of the hall where the light is softer, you spot Lady Halstead with Georgina and Cecily.
Georgina looks flushed with the opera’s energy, eyes bright, cheeks warm. Cecily looks calmer than she has in weeks—her shoulders less tense, her gaze softer, as if the music has soothed something raw inside her. Lady Halstead stands between them like a fortress, her cane resting lightly against the marble. Her eyes lift and catch on you. Her expression barely changes. Only the smallest lift of her brows. A question asked without words. You cannot answer it here.
Seungcheol’s mouth drops close to your ear. “Smile,” he murmurs. “If you look hunted, they’ll scent blood.” Your stomach twists, but you obey. You curve your mouth into something that could pass for ease. Seungcheol’s breath brushes your hair as he continues, lower still, a whisper only you are meant to hear. “Let them be confused,” he says. “Confusion buys us time.”
Us. The word lands strangely, unwanted yet undeniable. You keep walking. You reach Lady Halstead, and she steps forward with an immediate, perfectly pleasant smile. “Lord Ashbourne,” she greets. Seungcheol bows his head. “Lady Halstead.”
Georgina’s eyes flick from him to you to your hand on his arm, and her expression blooms with curiosity so bright it is almost dangerous. Cecily looks at you first—not at him. She watches your face, as if searching for a crack, a signal, a truth. You give her none. Georgina is the first to cut through the moment—innocent in its boldness. “Why were you gone so long?”
“The carriage took longer than expected,” you say lightly. “The coachman would not risk it—he’s taken it back to the mansion to have it set properly.”
Georgina’s brows jump. Cecily’s eyes widen slightly, already thinking ahead—how you will all return, what you will do without your own carriage waiting. Seungcheol steps in smoothly, the lie fitting his mouth like a well-worn glove. “I came upon Lady Whitlock in the passage,” he announces. “She mentioned the trouble. I offered my assistance—and my carriage, of course. It would be improper to leave the ladies inconvenienced.”
Lady Halstead’s gaze flicks between you, then softens just enough to signal she understands more than she will ever say aloud in a hall full of listeners. “How fortunate that you were nearby, my lord,” she expresses.
“Yes,” he agrees.
You feel Seungcheol’s arm shift slightly beneath your hand, a subtle adjustment that draws you closer by the smallest degree—protective, possessive, correct. Your fingers tighten slightly on his sleeve. Seungcheol’s voice brushes your ear again, almost gentle in its direction. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “And keep your hand where it is.”
The hall continues to watch. It is terrifying how easily the performance fits. It is even more terrifying how quickly the ton accepts it as truth. And you are suddenly, horribly aware that you are standing on a stage without having chosen to step onto it.
The housekeeper has been speaking for three corridors. Her voice is dutiful and so perfectly measured it begins to feel like another layer of stone—part of the castle itself, as fixed and unyielding as the cold plaster beneath your fingertips when you trail them along the wall. Mrs. Wilson walks as if she has been built for this place, not simply employed by it. Her keys jingle at her hip with every step she takes. “—and the third Viscount had the gallery extended after the French scare of 1793,” she announces, “He believed a longer corridor made intruders easier to spot.”
You hum politely, because you have learned the art of listening while your mind ticks elsewhere. Behind you, Cecily makes a sound in agreement. Her gaze keeps catching on the carved moulding, the tall windows, the tapestries that hang like frozen scenes of hunting and conquest. She looks as if she isn’t sure whether she is allowed to stare. You don’t tell her not to. This is not your house. You are, in every possible sense, a guest. It is the first thing you remind yourself every time your instinct tries to correct a servant’s angle or smooth a crease that is not yours to smooth.
The corridor opens into the portrait gallery. Mrs. Wilson slows, pleased—this is the part of the tour she enjoys. Here, history is framed and varnished. Oil-painted eyes follow you as you walk. long-dead men with proud chins and indifferent eyes; women in stiff gowns and softer expressions that still somehow look like they would judge you for breathing too loudly. There is a rhythm to them, to the lineage: the same restraint in different generations, the same ownership repeated like an inheritance.You stop before a portrait of a Viscountess with a gaze like polished ice. “Her Ladyship was not born an Ashbourne,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Married in. Kept this house in order during the old Viscount’s… difficulties.”
The word ‘difficulties’ can hide anything. You glance at the painted woman’s hands—folded, composed, rings glinting. You imagine those hands signing letters, balancing accounts, choosing who to bless and who to ruin with a single invitation. You wonder, briefly, what it must feel like to be the kind of woman who can afford to be revered.
Mrs. Wilson moves on to the next portrait without waiting for your thoughts. “And this was the seventh Viscount, and that was his first wife, and this is—” She doesn’t point at the absence. But you notice it anyway. Between two portraits—one a Viscount in a red sash, one a woman in a pale gown—there is a space in the line that has been made ready. Not empty. Prepared. The wall has been measured, the hooks are there, the panelling looks slightly newer, slightly cleaner, as if it has been maintained in anticipation. A place for someone who is not yet there.
As the tour continues, more rooms unfold: the morning room with its embroidered chairs and flawless symmetry; the blue drawing room, colder than it looks; the long dining room, where the table seems to stretch on. Mrs. Wilson points out wainscoting, hearths, renovations, the view from each window as if the landscape has been curated for inspection.
Your attention drifts, despite yourself, toward the living details—the way the servants move like they have perfected not being in the way, the way the house smells faintly of old wood and something mineral from the stone itself. You notice the small signs of modern life that no tour mentions: a pair of muddy boots placed neatly on a tray near a back entrance; a half-forgotten riding crop by the hall table; a shawl draped over a chair like someone abandoned it in haste. There are brothers here. Young men. Lives that do not sit still for portraiture.
Mrs. Wilson leads you up a gently spiralling staircase. “The guest rooms are on this floor,” she informs you. “We keep them aired, of course. No damp. No drafts. The Viscount insists.”
“Mrs. Wilson,” a voice announces behind you, “that will do. I’ll steal them from you now.” Jeonghan appears as if he has been conjured by boredom. London’s stiffness has slipped off him somewhere between the gates and the country. He is dressed for ease but still looks unreasonably polished, sunlight slanting through the leaded panes and catching in his hair like pale thread.
Mrs. Wilson stops in her tracks. “Lord Jeonghan,” she says, disapproving by habit rather than truth. “I am giving a tour.”
“Yes,” Jeonghan replies brightly, “I can tell. Lady Whitlock looks like she’s being marched into a sermon.” You lift a brow, amused despite yourself. “If this is a sermon, it is exceptionally long.”
Jeonghan’s eyes flick to you, satisfied. “She has that effect,” he confides, and then he steps closer to Mrs. Wilson with the easy affection of a man who has survived her discipline since childhood. “You’ve done your duty. You’ve spoken for—what—five corridors? Six? Give the poor women air.”
Mrs. Wilson makes a disapproving sound, but it lacks conviction. “The young ladies must learn the house.”
“They will,” Jeonghan promises. “But if you keep them trapped inside much longer, Miss Georgina will come in through a window out of spite.”
As if on cue, laughter cracks through the glass somewhere around you—bright, unruly, unmistakably Georgina. It drifts down the corridor, followed by a second sound: a man’s shout, delighted, unmistakably Soonyoung’s. Cecily’s mouth twitches. Mrs. Wilson’s lips press together as though fighting a smile. She loses. “Very well,” she relents. “But do not break anything.”
Jeonghan’s grin widens. “We never break anything.” Mrs. Wilson’s gaze is pointed. “That is a lie.” Jeonghan places a hand over his heart, offended only for performance. “Not a lie,” he says. “A belief.”
Mrs. Wilson gives you a curt nod. “The ladies’ rooms are at the end of the corridor. A maid will assist. Dinner at seven.” Then she is gone, keys chiming away with every step. Jeonghan turns back to you, sweeping into a bow that is too playful to be proper. “Come,” he says. “Before she changes her mind and locks you into the portrait gallery until you can recite every Viscount by name.”
“That would be a cruel fate,” you answer.
“We are a cruel family,” Jeonghan replies lightly. “But only to each other.”
He offers his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You hesitate—habit tugging your hand toward independence—then you remind yourself: you are here because of an arrangement that requires visibility. Warmth. Ease. You place your hand on his arm. Jeonghan immediately guides you down the staircase, his pace matching yours as though he has done this a thousand times. Cecily follows, a little less tightly wound now that Mrs. Wilson’s voice has been removed from her ears.
The moment you step outside, the world changes. The lawns stretch wide and impossibly green, sloping gently toward a line of trees that sway with the wind. A tent has been erected near the terrace—white canvas, poles lacquered, chairs arranged beneath like a little pocket of calm. Someone has dragged out a basket of mallets and wooden balls, and the grass near it is already scarred with play. And in the middle of it—spinning like a comet—Georgina. She is flushed with motion, her cheeks bright, her hair slightly loosened beneath her bonnet. Her skirts are lifted just enough to run without tripping, and her laughter is unrestrained. Soonyoung is chasing her in a half-serious, half-theatrical lunge, his sleeves rolled, his grin feral with delight. “You’re cheating!” Georgina shrieks, darting away.
“I am winning!” Soonyoung shouts back, as if those are synonyms. Jeonghan calls out, voice carrying over the field. “Miss Georgina, if you cripple my brother before dinner, Seungcheol will make you repair him.” Georgina skids to a stop and turns. “I would,” she declares shamelessly. Soonyoung throws a hand to his chest as though wounded. “See?” he complains. “She has no mercy.”
“We already knew that,” Jeonghan says. “It’s practically her hobby.”
Georgina finally spots you, and her grin softens into something like triumph. She runs toward you, then remembers herself at the last moment and slows into a walk, attempting composure. She fails. She bounces on her toes like she cannot keep the joy contained. “You were taking forever,” she complains immediately, as if you have been doing something frivolous rather than enduring corridors of history. “I was being educated,” you reply. Soonyoung reaches you and bows dramatically. “I attempted to rescue her,” he announces, gesturing grandly to Georgina. “But she is feral.” Georgina flicks her wrist. “You like it.”
Soonyoung beams. “I do.” There is no flirtation in it. Only the pure, childish thrill of having found someone who matches your speed. Georgina looks at him like she has found a brother made of fire instead of obligation. Jeonghan leans closer to you, murmuring as if sharing a secret. “He hasn’t laughed like that since the funeral.”
The words land softly, yet heavier than their tone suggests. You glance at Soonyoung again—at the bright motion, the gleeful chaos—and you suddenly see the edges beneath it: the way his laughter is slightly too loud, the way his hands never quite go still. You know that costume. You’ve worn a quieter version of it for years.
Jeonghan straightens, clapping his hands once. “Now,” he declares, “we are going to play. Because if Seungcheol finds out we have guests and we did not provide entertainment, he will create an itinerary.”
Georgina makes a dramatic choking sound. Cecily’s eyes widen, amused. “He does that?” she asks quietly. Jeonghan’s smile turns wicked. “He does worse.” Soonyoung grabs a mallet and holds it out to Georgina like a sword. “My lady, your weapon.” Georgina snatches it with a grin.
Cecily hangs back at the edge of the grass, uncertain. She watches the mallets, the hoops, the balls. She watches the brothers with a softness that is less fear and more curiosity now. You touch her elbow lightly. “You don’t have to play,” you murmur. Cecily shakes her head quickly. “No, I— I can,” she says, as if the fact that you offered her an out has made her want to refuse it. Before she can be swallowed by doubt, a quiet figure shifts beneath the shade of the tent. Wonwoo. He is seated in a chair angled away from the chaos, a book open in his hands. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert, watching without demanding to be included. When Cecily’s gaze flicks toward him, he lifts his head slightly, raising the book as if offering it. Cecily’s shoulders loosen. She drifts toward the tent like someone stepping toward safer air. Wonwoo doesn’t stand. He doesn’t bow. He simply makes space—shifts his chair slightly, and sets a second chair at an angle. Cecily sits.
Wonwoo turns a page, then tilts the book toward her so she can see the illustration. Cecily leans in, and the movement is so small, so natural, that your chest tightens unexpectedly. This is what she needs: not pursuit, not performance. A quiet place to exist without being evaluated. Jeonghan notices too. His grin softens. Then Soonyoung shouts something about rules that no one listens to, and Georgina smacks a ball so hard it shoots through a hoop by force. “That was not a proper stroke,” Jeonghan calls.
“It went through!” Georgina yells back. Jeonghan spreads his hands. “Force is not skill.”
“It’s my favourite kind of skill,” Georgina declares.
You pick up a mallet. It’s heavier than you expect. Solid. Jeonghan’s smile brightens when he sees you take it. “Oh,” he announces. “You’re going to be good.”
“I’m not going to be anything,” you reply, already measuring the distance, the angle, the grass. Soonyoung points at you dramatically. “If she wins, I will accuse her of witchcraft.”
“If I win,” you correct calmly, “you will accept it.”
Jeonghan laughs sharply. “She speaks like Seungcheol.”
As if summoned by the mention, a door opens on the terrace above. Seungcheol steps out. He appears the way he always seems to: suddenly, inevitably, like the house itself has decided to give him shape. He is dressed less formally than you have seen him in London—no severe black, no hard structure. His sleeves are not starched to perfection. His hair is slightly tousled, as if the wind has dared to go through it. He stands at the top of the steps, gaze sweeping the lawn: Soonyoung shouting, Jeonghan grinning, Georgina in her element, Cecily under the tent with Wonwoo, and you holding a mallet like you might use it as a weapon. His eyes meet yours. The contact is brief. But something shifts in your stomach anyway, irritating and unwanted. He descends the steps with his hands behind his back. Jeonghan calls up, “We’re corrupting our guests, brother.” Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to Jeonghan, then to you. “I can see that.”
Georgina curtsies quickly. “My lord!” Cecily rises under the tent and curtsies softly. Wonwoo doesn’t stand—he simply dips his chin. Seungcheol gives him a look that is not reprimand, just acknowledgement. Then Seungcheol’s gaze returns to you. He steps onto the grass, stopping at a respectful distance. He bows. “Lady Whitlock.”
The way he says it is different here. Less like a title being tested in a room full of predators. More like a name being placed carefully on the tongue. Your fingers tighten on the mallet. You force your voice steady. “My lord.”
Jeonghan’s grin turns feral again. “We were just beginning. Will you play?” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow faintly. “I wasn’t aware I was invited.” Soonyoung scoffs loudly. “You live here.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy being hit by wooden balls,” Seungcheol replies. Georgina lifts her mallet. “Then don’t stand in the way.”
Seungcheol’s gaze slides back to you. His mouth might—might—have curved. “Are you playing?” he asks you directly. It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t feel like a dare. It does anyway. “Yes,” you reply.
He studies you as if measuring whether this is performative or true. Then he reaches for a mallet. The movement is unexpected enough that Jeonghan’s brows lift in surprise. Soonyoung cheers. Georgina claps like a child. Your competitive instinct stirs, quick and sharp. And then the game begins.
Soonyoung swings too hard and sends his ball skittering into the flowerbed. Georgina hits hers clean through two hoops in a row. Joshua appears from nowhere—as if he’s been watching the madness like a fond spectator—and takes a mallet. You take your turn. You line up your stroke the way you line up your life: measured, careful, unromantic. The mallet connects with a satisfying thud. The ball rolls straight and true through the hoop. Jeonghan makes an appreciative sound. Soonyoung groans theatrically. Georgina looks offended that you are so competent. Seungcheol watches intently. Then it is his turn. He steps forward and adjusts the ball with his foot. He swings. The ball shoots forward with force, arcing through the hoop with aggression. He looks up at you and raises his eyebrow. Jeonghan claps slowly. “Oh, he’s decided to enjoy himself.”
“I’m not enjoying anything,” Seungcheol says.
“You are lying,” Jeonghan replies instantly.
The game turns, slowly, into a battle between you. Not declared. Not announced. Just inevitable. You hit clean, and he answers cleaner. You take a risky angle; he counters with one more precise. You steal a point by sliding your ball through a hoop that should have been impossible; he responds by knocking yours slightly off course. “That was improper,” you remark, voice mildly murderous. Seungcheol’s eyes flick to you. “It was strategic.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Then you would have avoided it.”
You stare at him, incredulous, and the absurdity of it—this Viscount arguing over a game like a boy—tugs a laugh out of you before you can stop it. The laugh is small. But it’s real. Seungcheol freezes, as if he isn’t sure he was allowed to hear it. His gaze returns to the game, but something has shifted. Something like pride, quickly extinguished.
Soonyoung declares you both tyrants. Jeonghan claims he is a victim. Joshua tries to keep score and fails because everyone argues over what counts. At one point, Seungcheol leans slightly toward you as you line up a difficult shot. His voice is low in your ear. “You’re angling too far left.” You don’t look at him. “Are you trying to help me, my lord?”
“No,” he says smoothly. “I’m trying to make sure you fail properly.”
You smirk without permission. “How generous.” You swing. The ball shoots forward and hits the hoop dead centre, rolling through with obedience. Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Damn.” The word is quiet. It shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is. You turn, lifting your chin. “Was that improper?”
The game continues until the sun dips low enough to make the grass glow gold. Georgina ends up with grass stains and doesn’t care. Soonyoung attempts a victory dance and nearly trips over a hoop. Wonwoo closes his book to watch the final shots, and Cecily leans forward in her chair.
When it ends—when someone declares a winner and someone else declares it invalid—it doesn’t matter who “won.” Not really. What matters is the strange, startling feeling that settles in your ribs when you look around and see your sisters… lighter. Georgina, laughing as if her lungs had been starved for it. Cecily, speaking more than she has in days, quietly answering Wonwoo’s gentle questions. Even you, with your hands aching from swinging a mallet, feel something like breath return to your chest.
Seungcheol steps away from the lawn as if suddenly remembering himself. As if he has allowed too much crack in the structure and now must rebuild. Jeonghan calls after him, “Don’t disappear into your office, brother.” Seungcheol doesn’t look back. “I have work.”
“You always have work,” Jeonghan sings. Seungcheol pauses at the bottom of the terrace steps. His gaze flicks to you again—quick, intense, as if checking something. Then he goes inside. The shift is immediate: the game disperses, the servants appear to gather equipment, and Mrs. Wilson re-emerges to shepherd everyone inside for tea with the authority of a woman who can outlast chaos.
Joshua finds you in the hour between daylight and candlelight.
It is the softest hour at Wrotham Castle—the sky turning lavender at the edges, the wind cooling, the house glowing from within like a beacon. The servants move faster now, preparing. Somewhere above, you hear footsteps, doors closing, water being poured into basins. You are near the small sitting room Mrs. Wilson designated for “lady’s use,” mostly because you needed somewhere to stand without being in anyone’s way. Cecily has gone to change, her cheeks still warm from the afternoon. Georgina has vanished with Soonyoung—likely to commit some final act of mischief before being forced into supper. You can already imagine her bursting into the dining room with a grin and hair undone.
“Lady Whitlock,” Joshua greets softly. “May I steal you for a moment?” You incline your head. “If it is not a trap.”
Joshua’s smile deepens. “We’re Ashbournes,” he says. “Everything is a trap. But this one isn’t. I promise.”
He gestures toward a door you hadn’t noticed—half-hidden behind a tapestry. You follow him through, down a short corridor, into a smaller room that smells faintly of cedar and lavender. Glass-fronted display cases line the walls, lamps turned low and angled so the light falls exactly where it is meant to fall. Velvet trays rest beneath the panes—deep jewel tones, carefully chosen. You step in slowly. Your footsteps soften on the rug. For a moment, you don’t speak. You simply take it in. Because you recognise some of it. Not from Bond Street, not from town gossip, but from oil paint and varnish—the pieces you glimpsed earlier in the portrait gallery, caught on pale throats and gloved hands. A pendant at a collarbone. A brooch pinning silk. Earrings like small moons. Seeing them here, close enough to cast a shadow, makes the portraits feel suddenly less like history and more like memory preserved. You drift along the cases, unhurried. Joshua stays near the door, letting you take your time, the way London never allows.
At the far end, set apart not for lack of splendour but for gravity, one display case is broader than the others. Its velvet is darker, its lamp angled lower. And inside it—arranged together, as if they are meant to be seen as a set rather than separate temptations—six pieces sit in quiet formation. A ruby cravat pin—too red, too alive. A sapphire watch-seal, colder, deeper than ink, meant for a palm or a pocket. A diamond pendant that seems modest until it tilts and turns bright enough to throw fractured light. An amber brooch holds warmth as if it stored the sun for years. An emerald locket, forest green, the sort of thing that could hide a portrait or a lock of hair. And beside them—darkest of all, simplest of all—an onyx ring. A smooth, heavy stone set into gold, the surface so polished it drinks the lamplight instead of throwing it back. It should be the least interesting thing in the case.
And yet, you find yourself—without meaning to—leaning closer. You cannot explain why your chest tightens. Then you can, and you dislike yourself for it. Because it isn’t merely a ring. It is responsibility made physical. A thing that doesn’t glitter because it doesn’t need to. A thing meant to be felt, not admired. A mark.
Behind you, Joshua takes a few steps into the room, stopping at your shoulder. His gaze moves over the velvet, over the spread of heirlooms, then he looks to the onyx. His voice reaches you gently, as if he’s careful not to snap the thread of your attention. “It’s his.” You don’t look back at him. You keep your attention on the ring as you hear your own voice come out quietly. “Why doesn’t he wear it?” Joshua’s breath leaves him slowly. “Because if he puts it on,” Joshua murmurs, “it becomes… a statement.”
You tilt your head. “Everything about him is a statement.” Joshua’s mouth curves faintly. “Yes.” The agreement is gentle. “That’s exactly the problem.”
“So he keeps it behind glass.”
Joshua’s voice lowers another fraction. “He keeps everything behind glass,” he admits, and then—seeing your expression tighten—he corrects himself. “Well, not everything. Not the house. Not the business. Not the rest of us.”
You can hear it in his tone: affection you only earn by being loved long enough to frustrate someone safely. Your fingers hover near the glass, stopping short. The case is closed. And still the onyx feels like it might absorb everything around it and give nothing back.
“He wears duty instead,” you say, sharper than you mean. Joshua’s eyes lift to yours. “He wears responsibility,” he corrects gently. “Every day. Where everyone can see it.”
“And these?” you ask, gesturing faintly toward the spread—ruby, sapphire, diamond, amber, emerald. “They’re meant to be seen.”
Joshua’s gaze slides over the pieces again, fondness flickering, then settling. “They’re meant to exist,” he says. “Whether we’re brave enough to claim them or not.”
There’s your answer without being an answer. You don’t say the obvious—that none of the pieces looks warmed by skin, none of them have the careless scuffs of daily wear. They sit too perfectly, too untouched, like relics awaiting hands that keep refusing.
You let the silence stretch, and in it you hear the castle beyond the door: distant movement, a muffled call, the soft rush of servants preparing the next scene of the evening. Joshua speaks again, carefully, as if he’s choosing how much truth to set down. “Our mother chose these,” he says, and the word mother changes the room, no matter how steady his voice remains. “Years ago. Not for mourning. Not as some lesson.” His gaze traces the line of velvet. “She liked certainty. She liked things that held their shape.”
You keep your eyes on the case. “Then why these?”
Joshua’s mouth quirks, almost reluctant. “Because she believed each of us should have one thing that was ours,” he says simply. “Not a toy. Not a reward. Something that could sit on a body and say who you are before you speak.” He nods toward the jewels—his attention passing over them the way someone passes over scripture. “A signature for each son.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “And now?” you ask, because the now is what presses. Joshua’s eyes lift. “Now she isn’t here to see them worn, so they stay where she left them.”
He doesn’t launch into a story. He gives you what you asked for, the truth—plain, direct—because it’s kinder that way. “Soonyoung keeps his feet busy,” he says, gaze flicking toward the door as if he can hear the movement outside. “If his legs aren’t moving, he ends up in here staring at the glass like it might open for him.” His eyes drift to the sapphire. “Wonwoo disappears into pages. If he’s reading, he doesn’t have to look at anything that’s missing.” The diamond catches as he speaks, flashing once as if it resents being ignored. Joshua’s gaze touches it—brief, betraying. “Jeonghan fills rooms,” he says drily. “Noise, charm, trouble. Anything but quiet. Quiet makes you hear the house.” You’ve seen enough of Jeonghan already to believe it without effort. Joshua exhales. “And I…” His fingers flex once at his side, a restrained tell. “I keep things in order. Because if I move them, if I put one on, it stops being a heirloom and becomes a conversation with someone who can’t answer.”
Joshua’s gaze shifts, as if acknowledging the brother-shaped absence. “Mingyu couldn’t stand being watched while it happened,” he says simply. “So he left. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s always done.”
Flight as survival. You understand that, too.
Then his eyes return—inevitably—to the onyx. His tone gentles, not lower, but heavier. Like the floor settling. “And Seungcheol...” Joshua exhales, “He didn’t have the luxury of any of it. He became what was needed. Structure. Schedule. Answers.”
You stare at the ring again, and suddenly you don’t see only cold strategy. You see a boy—once—being handed keys and ledgers and expectations heavy enough to cripple. You see a man who learned to swallow grief because someone had to keep the walls standing. Joshua watches your face the way kind people do—without prying, but without pretending not to notice the shift.
“Dinner will be… lively,” he says at last. “Jeonghan will make sport of everyone. Soonyoung will knock something over and pretend it was the furniture’s fault. Seungcheol will pretend he is not listening.”
You breathe in. “And you?”
Joshua’s smile warms. “I’ll make sure no one burns down the house,” he says, and the emotion in it makes your chest tighten in that unpleasantly human way again. He bows slightly. “Thank you for coming,” he adds. “Whatever the reasons.”
You don’t answer that. You can’t. So you nod once and follow him out, leaving the jewel room behind like a secret you weren’t meant to see.
Dinner at Wrotham is not the battle you expected.
It is warm. Not simply in temperature—though the candles burn steady and plentiful, and the hearth along the far wall keeps the edges of the room heated—but in the way the house holds its people. The long dining table is set with precision: silver cutlery, crystal glasses, linens pressed tightly. Food arrives in swells—soup steaming, bread warm enough to fog the air when it’s torn, different cuts of meat carved and cured and roasted, sauces rich and fragrant. It smells like comfort. The noise arrives too. It comes alive the moment everyone gathers. Chairs scrape, laughter bursts too loud then settles into something continuous, the kind of sound that fills a room and makes it harder for fear to find anchors.
Seungcheol stands at the head of the table as the others take their places, hands behind his back, gaze tracking the room the way he tracked the lawn earlier—counting bodies, counting comfort, counting what needs adjusting before it becomes a problem.
Soonyoung is already talking, too loud and animated, as if his voice exists to prove the day was real. Georgina matches him without effort, her laughter skipping between sentences like sparks. Jeonghan slips into his chair with an easy elegance, watching the entire room as if he’s been handed a match and is deciding where to set the first fire. Wonwoo is quiet, attention angled toward Cecily with the kind of gentleness that doesn’t demand anything. Cecily sits nearer to him, and she looks less small here. Not loud. Not suddenly bold. Like she understood the castle’s vastness gives her permission to take up an inch more space without apologising for it. Mrs. Wilson stands at the edge of the room, supervising the servants with eyes that dare anyone to spill.
You take your seat to Seungcheol’s right. He watches you pull your chair out. He doesn’t reach in front of you. Doesn’t perform. He simply steps closer as you begin to sit, one hand coming to the chair back—steadying it, guiding it in once you’re settled, as if the smallest discomfort would be unacceptable on his watch. The gesture is subtle enough to pass as ordinary courtesy. But you feel it anyway. He waits until your skirt is arranged and your hands have found your napkin. Only then does he take his own seat. Conversation surges again immediately, loud enough to drown out most things.
Soonyoung begins telling a story about a cricket match that devolves into an accusation that Jeonghan cheats at everything. Jeonghan agrees with a smile and claims cheating is simply “creative strategy.” Georgina adds fuel to the fire. “If cheating is creative, then Soonyoung is an artist,” she declares. Soonyoung clutches his chest. “Miss Georgina, you wound me.”
“Good,” she replies cheerfully. “Now you’ll remember it.”
Jeonghan lifts his glass. “To remembering wounds,” he says. “It’s the only way we learn.” Joshua makes a soft warning sound. “Jeonghan.” Jeonghan’s smile turns innocent. “What? It’s wisdom.”
Wonwoo murmurs something to Cecily that you don’t catch—quiet enough to be theirs alone. Cecily’s mouth curves, small and real, and she answers in a voice that doesn’t tremble. Joshua leans slightly, listening, offering a comment that makes Cecily’s eyes brighten again. The table has split itself into currents: loud and bright on one side, quiet and steady on the other. It leaves a pocket of space—strangely private—in the centre of all that noise, right where you sit.
Seungcheol fills your glass without asking. He pours a measured amount—enough to warm, not enough to loosen. Then, without drawing attention, he shifts a dish closer to you so you don’t have to reach. He sets your bread plate within an easier distance. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t make a show of care. He simply notices. You keep your gaze on your plate as you accept the small accommodations like they’re nothing. Like they don’t make your heartbeat falter.
It’s in the brief lull—between Hoshi’s next proclamation and Georgina’s next provocation—that Seungcheol leans the slightest bit toward you, voice low enough to be lost under your sibling’s theatrics. “Is your room comfortable?” The question is simple. Practical. It shouldn’t feel like anything. And yet it lands with a quiet intimacy you don’t want to name. “Yes,” you answer evenly, cutting into your dinner. “Very.”
Seungcheol’s gaze stays on you a moment longer, as if he doesn’t trust one-word answers. “No drafts?” You glance up, meeting his eyes. Candlelight makes them look darker than they do in daylight. “No drafts.” His jaw eases—barely. He takes a sip of his wine, and you can tell he’s filing it away like a checked box.
Soonyoung’s voice erupts again. “And then—listen—then she hit it so hard it flew into the roses. The roses!” Georgina slaps the table lightly with delight. “It was an excellent shot.”
“It was violence,” Jeonghan corrects, amused. “We should all be afraid.”
You try very hard to focus on the food and not the way Seungcheol keeps glancing at your glass to measure whether it needs refilling. Then his voice comes again. “Do you sleep well in new places?”
You pause, fork hovering in the air. “Not always,” you admit softly. “New beds are… loud.” His brow lifts faintly. “Loud?”
“Different,” you correct, the corner of your mouth tugging despite yourself. “The mattress feels unfamiliar. The sheets sit wrong. The air smells like someone else’s house.” Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. “And the silence.” You blink. He’s guessed too easily. You look down again, cutting a carrot with measured care. “The silence, too,” you concede.
A pause. Then, “If it’s too loud, ring.” You nod once, because refusing would be more noticeable than accepting.
On the far end of the table, Georgina and Soonyoung have begun whispering like conspirators. Their shoulders are too close. Their eyes gleam with that particular cleverness that means trouble has already been decided. You feel it before it happens. So does Seungcheol. Georgina has a roll in her hand. Soonyoung has a grape. Jeonghan is leaning back in his chair, watching them with the indulgent smirk of a man about to enjoy the consequences. Georgina whispers something, and Soonyoung snorts, laughter trapped behind his teeth. Then—because they are incapable of restraint—Soonyoung flicks the grape. It arcs through candlelight and bounces off Jeonghan’s shoulder.
“Georgina.”
“Soonyoung.”
Georgina freezes mid-grin, caught red-handed. Soonyoung sits up straighter as if posture could retroactively undo a launched grape. Their eyes go wide with the shock of being reprimanded by the same kind of voice at the same time. Jeonghan’s gaze flicks from Seungcheol to you, his smirk deepening into something wickedly pleased—as if he’s just witnessed a trick he intends to remember. Mrs. Wilson takes one step forward, expression stern. “Miss Georgina.” Georgina straightens instantly. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson?” Mrs. Wilson’s eyes cut to Soonyoung. “Lord Soonyoung.” Soonyoung attempts dignity. He fails. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson doesn’t raise her voice. “If anything else flies across this table, I will remove the tray myself and you may eat in the kitchens.” Soonyoung looks appalled. Georgina looks delighted by the concept. Jeonghan lifts his glass in silent applause for Mrs. Wilson’s restraint. The room settles back into food and laughter, but Jeonghan has shifted his attention—like a cat deciding it wants a different toy. He tilts his head towards you. “So,” he says, voice light as lace, “should we pretend we’re not all curious?”
Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t tense visibly. But you feel a quiet change beside you—the way he becomes a fraction more still, a fraction more prepared. Jeonghan’s smile stays sweet. “When did this begin?” he asks. “I mean, our brother doesn’t pursue. He strategises.” He looks at you openly now. “And you, you don’t strike me as a woman easily persuaded.”
Joshua makes the same warning sound as before. “Jeonghan.” Jeonghan ignores him. Georgina adds, far too cheerfully, “I didn’t expect it.” The words aren’t unkind. They’re simply honest—bright, blunt, Georgina’s nature. “I thought you had no interest in marriage.” Your throat tightens. You keep your expression composed, the way you always do when the world tries to corner you with truth. Seungcheol speaks before you can. “I didn’t pursue her because she wants marriage,” he says, and every head at the table turns to him. “I pursued her because she does not.”
Jeonghan’s brows lift, intrigued. Soonyoung looks confused. Joshua’s expression shifts—surprised, thoughtful. Cecily’s eyes widen. Georgina blinks, giddy. Your pulse stutters. Seungcheol turns his head toward you, gaze heavy. It pins you—not unkindly, but completely. Like he is forcing you to stay present for the story he is telling. “She doesn’t need saving,” he continues. “She doesn’t need to be dazzled. She doesn’t need a man to tell her what her life should be.” A pause. “She already holds her world together.”
Your cheeks warm so fast it is infuriating. Because that sentence—spoken in this room, in front of these people—sounds dangerously like affection. And the worst part is that it sounds sincere.
Jeonghan leans forward slightly, “That,” he murmurs, “is far more tender than I expected from you, brother.” Seungcheol doesn’t look away from you. “It’s honest.”
You can feel your control slipping—just a fraction—under the weight of being looked at like this. Seen like this. You force yourself to breathe. You recover fast. You have to. You lift your chin, letting a small smile curve your mouth. “Lord Ashbourne is correct,” you confirm, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze. “I don’t require dazzling.” You turn your gaze toward Seungcheol now, because you must. Because you cannot let him hold the narrative alone. “He didn’t try to convince me I should want something I don’t,” you confess, and the candlelight suddenly feels too close to your skin. “He simply… met me where I already was.”
The admission hangs in the air. You remind yourself—firmly—that this is performance. That he is saying what he must. That you are responding because the table is watching and Jeonghan is baiting and Georgina is too delighted to be careful. Still, Seungcheol’s expression holds something you can’t name, and it makes you feel oddly unbalanced.
Then he reaches and places his hand over yours on the table. The contact is simple. Proper. Barely anything. And yet it sends a strange heat up your arm. Seungcheol’s thumb passes once over the fabric of your glove. A grounding touch, subtle enough no one can accuse, but present enough that you feel it. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t trap. He simply holds.
Jeonghan lifts his glass again. “Well,” he says lightly, “if our brother is going to be honest, we may as well all try it.”
Dinner ends with laughter and a mild argument about whether Soonyoung should be allowed to host games unsupervised. Mrs. Wilson’s look implies the answer is no, and the table agrees with the solemnity of men who have been threatened with kitchens before. As chairs scrape back and servants move in, Seungcheol stands when you stand. He offers his arm. You don’t hesitate before placing your hand on it. The gesture is easy now. Too easy. Jeonghan watches with a satisfied grin, like he’s seen exactly what he wanted.
You guide your sisters toward the staircase, your hand still on Seungcheol’s arm. Georgina chatters, still energised, describing some ridiculous plan involving Soonyoung and a lantern. Cecily indulges her, surprisingly, her steps lighter than they ever were in London. At your door, Seungcheol pauses. He inclines his head. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you reply. His gaze lingers on you longer than propriety allows. Then he steps back—releasing you without fuss. You close the door behind you and exhale. Only then do you realise your shoulders have been tense all evening.
You cannot sleep. The storm makes sure of it.
Rain lashes the windows in heavy sheets, the sound relentless, like the sky is trying to scrub the earth clean. Wind pounds against the glass hard enough to make the panes tremble in their frames. Every so often, a gust shoves at the castle as if it is testing whether the walls will yield.
It is not your room. It is not your mattress. It is not cold. It is not a solvable problem. It is simply the weather. Loud. Wild. Uncontrollable. And it reminds you of nights when you were younger, when thunder made Georgina cry, and you held her until she stopped shaking, when Cecily clung to your sleeve, and you pretended you weren’t afraid, too. It reminds you of being awake in a house that was once full and is now missing the two people who should have made storms feel smaller. You stare at the candle until your eyes blur. It doesn’t work. Eventually, you rise.
Your robe is soft, tied at the waist. Beneath it, your chemise clings lightly to your skin, thin enough that you feel the chill the moment you step into the corridor. You take your candle, shielding the flame with your hand.
The hallway outside your room is dim, lit by occasional sconces that throw pools of light on the carpet. The castle is quieter now, the day’s warmth folded away. Somewhere far off, a door clicks. Somewhere else, a floorboard creaks in the old way houses do. The library is where your feet take you without debate. You don’t know why until you arrive. Perhaps because libraries feel like places where sound is punished. Where storms can rage outside, and still you are surrounded by paper and silence and order—things that do not shout. You push the door open and step inside.
The room is enormous. Shelves climb to the ceiling, packed with spines that look like they have been touched by generations. Ladders rest on rails, ready to slide. A fire burns low in the hearth, banked but not dead, throwing a faint orange glow that fights the storm’s cold. Your candle adds a smaller, trembling light, making the shadows of books stretch long and strange. You move toward the shelves, scanning titles. You don’t know what you’re looking for until you see it. Gulliver’s Travels. The spine is worn. Loved. The leather softened at the edges from hands that returned to it again and again, like a habit, like a comfort. You reach for it, fingers brushing the cracked gold lettering. The book slides free with a soft sigh. You hold the candle high, the storm’s wind making the flame twitch and bow, and find a quieter corner near a window. You open the book.
Your thumb falls naturally where the pages loosen most, where it has been opened the most. Then, as if you have been caught doing something intimate, you flip back to the first page. There is a note. A woman’s writing—neat, elegant, affectionate. Just a few lines, penned with care. A private blessing disguised as ink. Your breath catches.
“Who left a candle burning?” a voice murmurs behind you, edged with practical annoyance. “Wilson will—” The door opens with a soft click. Footsteps enter the library. Seungcheol stands in the doorway.
He is not dressed like he was at dinner. No coat. No stiff formality. His shirt is loosened at the throat, collar open as if he stopped caring the moment he closed his office door. His hair is slightly curled at the edges, as if he ran a hand through it too many times. His sleeves are rolled up towards his elbows, exposing his forearms. He looks like a man caught off duty—and briefly uncertain what to do with himself. His gaze lands on you. His eyes narrow—first in confusion, then in something like immediate calculation. “Lady Whitlock,” he greets, voice level, but not entirely masked. You swallow. “My lord.”
He steps closer slowly, carefully, as if he doesn’t want to startle you into bolting. “I saw light,” he explains. “I thought one of my brothers—”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you interrupt. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to the window, where rain smears the glass. The wind booms again, rattling the frame, and his expression softens. “Your room,” he says immediately. “Is it cold? Drafty?” There it is again. The instinctive solution. You almost smile. “It’s not my room,” you say gently. “It’s… the rain.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens faintly, as if irritated by problems he cannot fix. “I can move you,” he offers anyway, because he cannot help himself. “There are rooms farther from the west windows. Less wind. Less noise.”
You stare at him, and the candlelight makes his face look sharper, more carved. It also makes him look… younger. Less invincible. Less like the Viscount and more like the man beneath the title. “Why do you always do that?” you ask quietly. His gaze flicks up. “Do what?”
You take a step forward. “Offer solutions,” you say. “Even when there isn’t a problem to solve.”
“There is a problem. You cannot sleep.”
“Yes,” you agree softly. “And the rain will still exist even if you change my room.”
Seungcheol’s eyes hold yours, and you see something flicker there—something like being caught. Like being seen. He looks away, gaze sliding to the shelves as if books are safer than your face. “It’s habit,” he says finally.
“Habit,” you repeat, stepping forward until you’re close enough that the heat from the hearth brushes your shins. Seungcheol’s voice is almost reluctant. “If you solve things quickly,” he says, “they don’t become larger.”
The words land like the kind of confession that slips out when you are tired, and the room is dim, and the storm is loud enough to swallow pride. The candle flickers between you like a fragile boundary. “And if they become larger?” you whisper. Seungcheol’s gaze returns. He looks at you the way he looked at Hartwell in that corridor—like he can destroy something if he chooses. But the thing he wants to destroy now is not you. It is helplessness. “Then you build something strong enough to hold them,” he says.
Outside, the wind hammers the window again, unforgiving. A log shifts in the hearth, making the fire flare briefly. The light dances over Seungcheol’s hands. His knuckles are stained with ink. You don’t comment. Instead, your gaze drops to the book. Seungcheol’s eyes follow it. “Gulliver,” he murmurs, and the word is not said like a title. It’s said like a boyhood. You lift it slightly. “Is it yours?”
His mouth tightens. Then he gives a small nod. “It was my favourite.” The admission is so simple it nearly steals your breath. Not ours. Not the house’s. His.
“You don’t sound like a man who had favourites,” you say before you can stop yourself. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks up to yours, and something almost warm moves through his eyes. “I was a boy,” he answers, as if that is explanation enough. Then, more quietly, as if he’s surprised the truth still exists: “I liked… how it laughed at everything.”
Your eyes flick to the first page again, to the note in his mother’s handwriting. You don’t point at it, but you think he sees you see it. He steps closer. He reaches out, not for you, but for the book. His fingers hover, as if asking permission without asking. You hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for the briefest instant. Seungcheol stills, as if his body registers the feel of your bare skin before his mind does. Then he takes the book fully, thumb sliding over the worn leather with an almost unconscious tenderness. “Our mother read it to us,” he states. The confession loosens something in you that has been tight since the opera. Since Hartwell. Since the Season began. “All of you?” you ask softly.
Seungcheol nods. “Yes,” he says. “Even Jeonghan. Even Mingyu.” A flicker of amusement shadows his mouth. “Soonyoung never listened,” he admits. “He’d act it out instead. Climb furniture. Pretend to be giants. She’d scold him without scolding him.”
You can picture it too easily: a boy with too much energy, a stern housekeeper somewhere in the distance, and a woman laughing as if laughter is a kind of protection. Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the first page. His thumb brushes the note there, careful—reverent without making it a shrine. “She wrote little things like that,” he says quietly. “For each of us. As if ink could… stay.”
The storm rolls another gust into the window. The glass rattles, but inside the library, the air feels suddenly still, listening. Seungcheol’s voice softens further, and the hardness you’ve associated with him unspools at the edges. “She had a voice for every character,” he adds, the memory taking over. “And she’d pause at the worst parts—right before the cruelty landed—so we’d all groan and beg her to continue.”
Your mouth tugs. “Did you?” His eyes lift to you. In the firelight, he looks almost startled by his own honesty. “Yes,” he admits. “Every time.” You tilt your head. “Why did she pause?”
He hesitates, then exhales in surrender. “Because she wanted us to learn that the world can be ridiculous and cruel at the same time,” he says. “And that if you can still laugh, you haven’t been swallowed.”
The words hang between you. You realise, suddenly, that you have never heard him speak of his mother as if she were alive in the room. Not a title. Not a loss. A person—laughing, teasing, pausing on purpose. You step closer without meaning to. The candlelight catches the loosened strands of your hair—hair you didn’t pin properly because you were too tired to care. Seungcheol’s gaze lifts, quick and instinctive, and lands there. On the softness you forgot to hide. His expression changes. Not outright desire. Awareness. As if he has been seeing you in armour for weeks, and only now registers what it looks like when you are not strapped into it. “I like your hair loose,” he confesses, and the words are so unguarded they feel like they don’t belong to him. Your breath catches.
You should step back. You don’t. Seungcheol shifts closer, still holding the book. He looks at you like he’s about to say something practical to cover the intimacy of what slipped out. Instead, he does nothing practical at all. He lifts a hand and slowly tucks a strand behind your ear. The touch is gentle. An instinct that surprises you both. Your skin prickles where his fingers brushed. Your pulse stutters, then races as if it has decided to ruin you all on its own. Seungcheol’s hand lingers too long. Then his fingers slide—almost without thought—to your cheek. He cups it. Your breath stops. His thumb rests near the corner of your mouth as if he is holding the fact that you exist. The library shrinks. The storm becomes distant. The crackle of the hearth quiets.
Seungcheol’s gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. You don’t move. You can’t. You are suddenly too aware of your own breathing, of the thin fabric beneath your robe, of how close you’ve drifted. He leans in. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Like gravity. Your lips are millimetres apart. So close you can feel the warmth of his breath, the faintest tremor of it, as if even he is not entirely steady. As if he’s measuring something he wasn’t meant to want. Your hand—traitorous—lifts slightly, hovering near his wrist, not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Caught between impulse and fear. And then—
A violent gust slams the window. The glass rattles hard enough to make you flinch. The candle flame bows, sputters, and dims. The spell breaks. You jerk back, the sudden movement making your robe gape open—your chemise, your bare collarbone, the scandal of being undressed in the wrong kind of company. Heat floods your face so fast it makes you dizzy. You tighten your robe, fingers fumbling at the tie. Your hands shake, ridiculous and disobedient, as you knot it too tight.
Seungcheol stills, his hand falling away as if it never touched you. His jaw flexes once—shock, restraint, something he’s swallowing hard. The book is still in his other hand. He looks down at it as if it might save him. Then he extends it toward you, an offering, a correction, a way back to sanity. You take it quickly, clutching it to your chest like proof you came here for ink and paper and not—whatever that was. Your voice comes out too fast. “I should— I should go.”
Seungcheol’s mouth opens as if to say it’s fine or I’m sorry or something sensible that would make the moment less dangerous. You don’t let him. You step backwards toward the door, already turning, already escaping yourself. “Goodnight,” you blurt. You don’t wait for his reply. You leave the library with the candle trembling in your grip, the book pressed tight to your sternum, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise you from the inside.
When you reach your door, you slip inside and shut it behind you with shaking hands—too quietly at first, like you are trying to pretend you were never there at all—then, because you are human and furious and mortified, you slam it hard enough that the frame rattles. You lean your back against the wood, breath ragged, robe tied too tight, cheeks burning. In the storm beyond the glass, the wind howls again.
And you stand there in the dark, clutching a childhood book, trying to understand why your mouth still feels like it remembers the heat of a kiss that never happened.
Tea has been poured three times before the first name is even spoken. “Lord Brampton calling on Miss Georgina,” Mrs. Wilson announces, voice ringing with the crisp finality of a bell.
The Wrotham drawing room has been arranged to look effortless, which means it has been arranged with near-military precision. Chairs are angled so no one can corner a girl against the wall. Tables are placed so teacups remain within reach but never become an excuse to linger too close. The windows are thrown open just enough to let spring air soften the room—fresh grass and budding leaves slipping in beneath the perfume of bergamot and polished wood. Even the curtains look disciplined, gathered back as if they’ve been instructed not to flutter too theatrically.
Your sisters sit together on the settee, as they have been instructed, as they must—Georgina with her spine too straight and her eyes too alive, Cecily with her hands folded neatly and her lashes lowered. You sit a little apart, positioned to be a chaperone without being a warden, the way you’ve always been this Season: present, watchful, never interrupting unless the world gives you no other choice. You tell yourself, as Mrs. Wilson’s announcement echoes through the room, that this is only a tea. It is never only a tea.
Across the room, the Ashbourne brothers have arranged themselves. Not in a line, not in formation—nothing so obvious that it would look like guarding. Joshua is by the fireplace with his hands folded behind his back. Wonwoo sits near the shelves, a book open in his palm, eyes up more often than down. Jeonghan is perched on the arm of a chair as if a seat exists only as a suggestion. Soonyoung hovers near the windows, restless energy barely leashed by the knowledge that Mrs. Wilson is watching and that this is, in fact, a room meant for respectable courtship and not competitive shouting.
And Seungcheol—Viscount Ashbourne himself—is no longer merely a hinge at the doorway. Today, he is everywhere without being anywhere: a quiet presence that shifts, repositions, and becomes suddenly beside the tea table when a man leans too far forward, becomes suddenly behind Cecily’s chair when a suitor’s gaze lingers too long. He sits when it suits him. He stands when it suits him. His attention is the sort that doesn’t need to declare itself to be felt. You don’t look at him. You do. You don’t. If you look, you will remember last night. The library. The warmth of his breath. The way his thumb hovered at the corner of your mouth like it belonged there. The way your own body leaned in before your mind had time to veto it. You lift your teacup and pretend you care deeply about the temperature.
Mrs. Wilson steps aside as Lord Brampton is shown in. He is exactly what his name sounds like: respectable, well-fed, confident in the way that tells you he never had to wonder whether he would be welcomed in a room. His coat is a shade too loud for your taste—fashionable, yes, but eager. His hair is too perfectly arranged, as if a valet has combed through it at the door. He bows, and his gaze goes immediately to Georgina, drawn there like every suitor is, because Georgina is a lighthouse and men in the marriage mart are ships with questionable navigation. Georgina rises. Curtsies. Smiles. The smile is sweet. It is also a warning, if one knows how to read her.
“Miss Georgina Whitlock,” Lord Brampton greets. “You are even more—” he pauses, searching for the right flattering word as if selecting fruit, “—radiant in daylight.” Georgina tilts her head. “Radiant is what one calls a hearth. I prefer to be called dangerous.”
Silence falls, the sort that makes you feel every inch of carpet beneath your shoes. Then Soonyoung makes a delighted choking sound from the windows, and Jeonghan laughs openly into his hand like an unrepentant sinner in church. Lord Brampton blinks, as though he has been struck by a gust. “Dangerous,” he repeats, trying to make it flirtation, trying to turn it into praise rather than challenge. “A charming quality.”
“Is it?” Georgina asks brightly. “Or is it simply inconvenient?” Lord Brampton’s smile wobbles. He glances at you, as if expecting the eldest sister to rein her in like a horse. You lift your teacup and take a sip you don’t taste. Joshua drifts forward with a cup in hand, the perfect gentlemanly interruption. “Lord Brampton,” he says warmly, “we’re honoured. Tea?”
Brampton turns, grateful for a safer target. “Ah—yes. Thank you.” Joshua pours as if this is a sacrament. Then, as if making light conversation, he asks, “How is Kent treating you this spring? I heard your tenants had trouble with flooding.”
Lord Brampton’s face shifts, caught. The question is polite. The implication is not. Georgina watches with growing interest. Lord Brampton clears his throat. “Yes, well. A nuisance. But these things happen.”
“They do,” Joshua agrees pleasantly. “And what is your approach when they do?”
Brampton glances—inevitably—toward Seungcheol, as if searching for rescue. Seungcheol doesn’t move. He simply lifts his cup, takes one measured sip, and watches as if he’s listening to a man recite his own character under oath. Lord Brampton gives a vague answer about stewardship and responsibility that sounds well-rehearsed and means nothing. Georgina’s eyes narrow with boredom. He tries to pivot back to compliments—your sister’s hair, her gown, the way she “brightens the room”—and Jeonghan slides in with a grin as if summoned by the scent of dullness. “Do you hunt, Lord Brampton?” Jeonghan asks, as if curious. “I—yes,” Brampton answers, a little too eager. “Of course.” Jeonghan nods thoughtfully. “Then you must tell Miss Georgina about your favourite kill.” Georgina’s brows lift. “His favourite kill?” Jeonghan looks at her with sweet sincerity. “You said you prefer to be called dangerous. I assumed you’d want to compare notes.”
Soonyoung loses the war against his own laughter and makes a sound so undignified Mrs. Wilson’s eyebrow twitches in the corner. Lord Brampton flushes. Georgina smiles wickedly. You should step in. Smooth it. Rescue him. This is your sister’s future, after all. But you don’t. Because Georgina is not cruel. She is simply frank. And men who can’t survive frankness will never survive her. Brampton tries anyway. He straightens, clinging to dignity like a lifeboat. “I favour pheasant,” he states. “A noble bird.” Georgina’s words are almost tender. “How tragic.” “Tragic?”
“Yes,” Georgina replies. “Imagine being born noble only to be shot by a man who calls himself sporting.” Jeonghan presses a hand to his chest. “Miss Georgina,” he breathes, as if scandalised. “That’s nearly a thought.”
Soonyoung cackles. Cecily’s lips part in a faint, shocked smile. Brampton’s gaze darts to Seungcheol again, now clearly panicked. Seungcheol finally speaks. “Lord Brampton,” he asks, “do you prefer your wives noble birds as well?” Brampton’s mouth opens. Closes.
“Just curiosity,” Seungcheol adds, tone unchanged. He rotates his cup slightly in his hand, thumb gliding along the rim with absent-minded control. It’s such a small movement. It shouldn’t mean anything. Your mind betrays you anyway—his breath on your lips; his hand on your cheek; the pause before he leaned in. Your stomach tightens. Your breath stutters once, traitorous, and you stare at the floor as if it’s suddenly fascinating.
Brampton fumbles into a speech about “cherishing” and “protecting” and “providing,” and Georgina listens as if she’s watching a play she already knows the ending of. He stays ten minutes. Fifteen. Long enough to recover his dignity, to try again, to fail again. He leaves with a bow that is a fraction too stiff.
The moment the door closes, Georgina exhales. “I liked him,” she announces cheerfully. You blink. “You terrified him.” Georgina shrugs. “That’s how I decide if I like them.” Jeonghan claps softly. “Excellent system.” You lift your cup again, this time to hide your smile—and to hide the fact you are still watching Seungcheol’s hand on that teacup like it’s an indecent thing.
Mrs. Wilson returns with the next suitor before Georgina can fully bask in her first victory. “Mr. Pritchard calling on Miss Cecily,” she announces—same tone, same precision. Cecily’s fingers tighten around her teacup.
Mr. Pritchard arrives looking as though he has been dressed by his mother and frightened by the act of walking into a room at all. He is young—too young, almost. His ears are pink. His eyes keep flicking to the floor as if he fears stumbling. He bows so low he nearly loses his balance. “M-miss Whitlock,” he stammers, then corrects, panicking, “Miss Cecily Whitlock.” Cecily rises. Curtsies. Her voice is soft. “Good afternoon.” Mr. Pritchard looks as though he’s been granted mercy by an angel.
He sits on the edge of his chair. His hands grip his hat like it might fly away. He tries to speak about the opera from last and ends up praising the weather, then apologising for praising the weather. Cecily listens with gentle patience, which is the most dangerous kindness in the world because it makes timid men believe they are safe. Wonwoo, from his chair by the shelves, turns a page in his book and says without looking up, “It rained last night.” Mr. Pritchard startles. “Yes! It did! Terrible. I mean, beautiful for the crops. Not terrible. Not—”
Soonyoung bites his knuckles to keep from laughing. Jeonghan looks as if he’s about to burst. Cecily’s mouth twitches faintly. A smile, small and real, tries to happen. It does. Mr. Pritchard sees it and brightens as if he’s found the sun. “You—you smile,” he blurts, immediately horrified by what he’s said. “Forgive me. That sounded—”
“It’s all right,” Cecily says softly. “You said nothing wrong.”
Mr. Pritchard swallows, visibly relieved. Then, with the courage of a man who has decided to try again, he begins to speak about books—about how he was made to read sermons as a child and rebelled by reading poetry instead. “My mother says poetry is frivolous,” he confesses, voice lowering as if he’s admitting a crime. “But I—well, I think it’s… It’s useful.” Cecily tilts her head, interest flickering. “Useful?”
“Yes,” he says. “It gives you words for things you cannot say properly. Or things you shouldn’t say properly.” That line—unexpectedly clever—lands like a small spark. Cecily’s eyes brighten. “What do you read?” she asks, and the question is so natural, so steady, that your chest tightens with pride. Mr. Pritchard fumbles the name of a poet—stammers, shakes his head, embarrassed—
Wonwoo murmurs, still not looking up, “Cowper.” Mr. Pritchard latches onto it. “Yes! Cowper. Exactly. And—” he exhales, laughing at himself, “forgive me, I’m not usually this—”
“Human?” Jeonghan supplies. Mr. Pritchard turns toward him, eyes wide. Jeonghan smiles like a cat. “You look like you’re awaiting execution,” he says conversationally. “It’s making everyone nervous.” Mr. Pritchard’s face goes scarlet. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I—my apologies—”
Seungcheol lifts his gaze and speaks calmly. “Mr. Pritchard,” he says. Mr. Pritchard nearly levitates. “Continue,” Seungcheol adds evenly. “Miss Cecily asked you a question.” The order is not cruel. It’s simply firm. It gives Mr. Pritchard rails to hold on to. Mr. Pritchard inhales, steadies, and turns back to Cecily. “I—yes. I also read Swift.”
You feel the name land inside you with a ripple. Swift. Last night. The book. The note. His mother’s handwriting. Seungcheol’s voice: "Our mother read it to us." Your mind flashes an image of his thumb sliding along the page, careful as prayer. Your cheeks warm before you can stop them. You glance up without meaning to. Seungcheol is watching you. Not Cecily. Not Pritchard. You. His gaze drifts to your mouth, as if the curve of it has become a problem he can’t solve. You turn away so fast you nearly spill your tea.
Mr. Pritchard continues, talking about his favourite books with earnest passion, and Cecily—Cecily answers. Not stumbling. Not shrinking. She laughs softly when he confesses he cried over a poem and then apologised for it. “You needn’t apologise for feeling,” Cecily says.
Mr. Pritchard stays longer than Brampton did. He forgets to be afraid. He becomes, for a little while, simply a young man speaking to a young woman who doesn’t require him to perform. And then—inevitably—his gaze flicks again to Seungcheol. Seungcheol’s expression hasn’t changed. Mr. Pritchard’s spine goes rigid. He rises too quickly, knocks his teacup slightly, catches it before it spills. “I—I shall not keep you longer,” he stutters, bowing to Cecily. “Miss Whitlock. Thank you. Thank you for your time.” Cecily curtsies, still polite. “Of course.” He flees. The door shuts.
Cecily’s cheeks are pink with a mixture of embarrassment and the strange thrill of having been engaged with, truly, and then complimented for something other than her quietness. Wonwoo looks up and says softly, “He’ll recover.” Cecily glances toward him, and her smile grows by half an inch. You sit back, tea cooling in your hands, and realise—slowly—that you have not spoken in several minutes. Not once. No one has needed you. It is unsettling. It is also relief, sharp enough to make your ribs ache.
“Lord Ellison calling,” Mrs. Wilson announces next, and you feel the room tighten before the man even arrives. Even Georgina stills a fraction.
Lord Ellison enters like he has been born for a stage—handsome, sure, too comfortable with attention. He carries his charm like a weapon he enjoys polishing. His eyes sweep the room, take in both sisters, take in you, and pause with quick calculation. He bows. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” Then, because he knows precisely who holds the gate: “Lady Whitlock.” You incline your head. His gaze flicks toward Seungcheol, assessing. “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol nods once. Ellison smiles as if unfazed. “A fine house.”
“It is,” Seungcheol replies, and the simplicity of the words makes Ellison’s smile tighten. He takes the seat offered and begins with Georgina first—because it is easiest. He tells a story about a man at White’s who tried to charm a duchess by comparing her eyes to brandy. Georgina laughs, delighted, then says she would have poured the brandy into his lap for insolence. Ellison brightens, pleased by her fire. “You’d have ruined him.”
“Ruination is so fashionable,” Georgina replies. Ellison turns to Cecily. “And you, Miss Cecily—do you enjoy spectacle?” Cecily hesitates. You feel her reflex to disappear. Seungcheol’s voice cuts in smoothly. “She enjoys sincerity,” he says. Cecily blinks, startled—then her mouth curves. “Yes,” she says softly. “That.”
Ellison’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes sharpen. He pivots, sliding compliments like cards. “And you, Lady Whitlock,” he says, gaze landing on you like he’s decided you’re the true prize. “I’ve heard you are formidable.”
“How unfortunate,” you reply. Jeonghan makes a delighted sound. Soonyoung grins. Joshua’s gaze flicks to Seungcheol, as if checking whether Seungcheol is enjoying this. Seungcheol is not smiling. He is watching Ellison like a hawk watches a mouse from a bell tower.
Ellison’s gaze flicks between you and your sisters with a faint, careless hunger. He asks Georgina what she wants in a husband. Georgina says, “A man who doesn’t expect me to be quiet.” Ellison laughs. “Then you’ll die unmarried.” Georgina’s smile turns sour. “Then I shall die happier than many wives.”
Ellison’s eyes glitter. He likes the fight. He likes the heat. And that—somehow—makes you dislike him more. He shifts his gaze to Cecily again. “And you, Miss Cecily—would you be content with a quiet life?” Cecily opens her mouth, then closes it. Her fingers tighten in her lap. Seungcheol’s cup touches the saucer—soft, controlled, but the sound lands like finality. “Lord Ellison,” he asks, “what are you looking for in a wife?” Ellison leans back, amused. “A wife?”
“Yes,” Seungcheol replies. “A wife.”
Ellison smiles. “Beauty. Temperament. A pleasant household.” Seungcheol’s gaze remains steady. “And what do you offer?” Ellison blinks. A man like him is used to being asked what he wants, not what he provides. “My name,” Ellison says lightly. “My title. My—”
“Temperament,” Seungcheol repeats. “And your household. And your expectations.” Ellison’s smile falters. His eyes flick to you, as if hoping you’ll intervene. You don’t. You sip your tea, letting it glide down your throat while your pulse continues to misbehave for entirely different reasons. Seungcheol continues. “Miss Georgina is not a trinket for a bored man’s mantle. Miss Cecily is not a quiet thing to be ignored until convenient. If you’re here to collect either of them for sport, you’ve mistaken the house.”
Ellison’s jaw flexes. He forces a laugh. “My lord, you speak as though I’ve insulted them.” Seungcheol shakes his head. “You have not,” he says. “Yet. I’m preventing the opportunity.” Jeonghan, ecstatic, cannot resist. “Lord Ellison,” he says, “do you cheat at cards?” Ellison turns, startled by the abrupt shift. Jeonghan’s grin widens. “If you do, I’d like to know in advance. I prefer to lose only by skill.”
Ellison takes the escape. He rises with polished grace, bowing. “A pleasure,” he says, voice a fraction too tight, “to be… enlightened.” He leaves. When the door shuts, Georgina turns to Seungcheol with open admiration. “That was exquisite.” Seungcheol looks at her, expression softening. “It was necessary.” Georgina hums. “Necessary can be exquisite.”
Your cheeks warm unexpectedly, and you hate yourself for it. Because your mind, traitorous, repeats: Necessary. Outcome. Preventing. His language. Your language. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten beneath the glove. You are fighting for your life today and no one in the room knows it. Not because of the suitors. Because Seungcheol is a distraction made flesh.
By the fourth caller, you feel as if you can breathe.
Not because you trust this. Because the Ashbournes—strange, infuriating, chaotic—become a wall at your back, not because they owe you, but because they understand predators. They understand appetite. They understand the way people test what they think is weak. And you understand, with reluctant clarity, that you have been holding your household alone for so long you forgot what it feels like to have someone else lift a weight.
Mrs. Wilson announces the next name. “Lord Halbrook calling on Miss Georgina.” Georgina’s posture changes immediately—less fire-for-the-sake-of-fire, more interest. You notice.
Lord Halbrook enters with confidence that isn’t loud. Younger than Brampton, older than Pritchard. His coat is well cut but not eager. His smile is easy in a way that suggests he isn’t afraid of being refused.
He bows. “Miss Georgina.” He turns to Cecily. “Miss Cecily.” He acknowledges you properly. “My lady.” Then, with a respectful nod: “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol returns it, gaze already measuring. Halbrook doesn’t fidget under it. That alone makes you sit up.
He takes his seat and begins not with compliment, but with honesty. “I was told,” he says to Georgina, “that you are difficult.” Georgina’s grin flashes. “I was told you were brave.” Halbrook’s eyes brighten. “Then perhaps we’ve both been warned properly.”
Georgina leans forward. “Do you fear difficult women?” Halbrook lifts a brow. “I fear bored ones.” Georgina laughs, bright as a match struck. They speak of horses. Of travel. Of ridiculous incidents in the park. Halbrook tells a story about nearly being thrown into a lake as a boy; Georgina declares she’d have pushed him in just to see if he could swim. Halbrook says he’d have deserved it. Then, because Georgina cannot help herself, she tilts her head and asks sweetly, “And what do you do when a woman refuses you?”
The question is a trap. You hold your breath. Halbrook doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t laugh it off. He answers simply. “I leave,” he says. “Because refusal is a kind of honesty. And I prefer honest company.”
The room goes subtly quiet—not fully, not dramatically, but enough that you feel the shift. Cecily’s gaze lifts, surprised. Joshua’s eyes soften. Even Jeonghan’s grin stills, interested. Seungcheol’s voice enters quietly. “Lord Halbrook,” he asks, “what do you consider a partnership?”
Halbrook turns, surprised, but not defensive. He thinks. Actually thinks. “A person who doesn’t become smaller beside you,” he answers at last. “Someone who grows. Someone you’d rather be honest with than impressive for.” Georgina blinks, then smiles in a way that looks softer than you’ve seen on her in a long time. You swallow. Seungcheol holds Halbrook’s gaze, then nods once. Not approval, exactly. Permission to continue.
Halbrook speaks a little longer, asking Georgina questions that aren’t about her looks: what she reads, what she hates, what she’d do if she were born a man. Georgina answers with gleeful wickedness. “I’d duel,” she says. “Frequently.” Halbrook’s smile widens. “And win?”
“Obviously,” she replies. “I don’t do anything halfway.”
When Halbrook finally leaves, Georgina watches the closed door like she’s just been offered a life that might actually fit her shape. “That one,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Your chest loosens, relief flooding in so hard it nearly makes you dizzy. Because if Georgina chooses, she will be safe. And if Georgina is safe, maybe—maybe—you can stop bracing for catastrophe at every turn.
“Sir Lionel Hartmere calling on Miss Cecily,” Mrs. Wilson announces next, and you know immediately this will be unpleasant.
Not because Cecily cannot handle unpleasantness. Because men like Sir Lionel are the ones who don’t notice a woman’s discomfort until it inconveniences them. His smile is too wide. His eyes travel too quickly. He bows to Cecily, but his gaze keeps darting to Georgina as if checking whether the “brighter option” is available. Cecily sits with her hands folded and her chin lifted—quiet courage, held like a candle against the wind.
Sir Lionel begins by complimenting Cecily’s gown, then compliments Georgina’s laugh, then—without even noticing what he’s doing—compliments you. “And you, my lady,” he says, eyes lingering too long, “you look as though you could run a parliament.”
You smile thinly. “How kind.” Sir Lionel chuckles. “Yes, well, some women have that air.”
Cecily’s cheeks flush. She carefully answers a question about music. Sir Lionel nods once, not truly listening. Then he asks, cheerfully, “Which of you ladies prefers the countryside?”
Cecily blinks. Georgina cocks her head. You see it—how he doesn’t care which answer belongs to which girl. How he’s shopping. Jeonghan, who has been silent out of sheer boredom, perks up. “Sir Lionel,” he says, “a question.” Sir Lionel smiles, flattered to be addressed. “Of course.”
Jeonghan’s tone stays fair. “Are you here for Miss Cecily or Miss Georgina?” The room goes so still you can hear the soft tick of the mantel clock. Sir Lionel laughs, thinking it’s a joke. “Oh, now—does it matter?”
Cecily’s fingers tighten around her glove. Seungcheol moves for the first time in several minutes. He shifts forward—not looming, but inescapable. He doesn’t raise his voice. “It matters,” he says simply.
Sir Lionel’s words stutter out. “My lord—”
“Miss Cecily and Miss Georgina are not interchangeable,” Seungcheol continues. “If you don’t know which one you came to court, you may leave.” Sir Lionel flushes, offended. “This is high-handed.”
Jeonghan tuts softly. “And yet, here you are,” he murmurs. “Still standing.”
Cecily lifts her chin a fraction higher. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft, but it doesn’t tremble. “I think,” she says gently, “that if you cannot decide, Sir Lionel, you are not suited to either of us.”
Sir Lionel splutters. “I—well—”
Mrs. Wilson, from the edge of the room, clears her throat. Sir Lionel stands abruptly, bowing too stiffly. “My apologies,” he says, not apologising at all. “Good day.”
Cecily sits very still for a moment. Then she exhales slowly, as if she’s just stepped out of deep water. You want to go to her. Touch her shoulder. Praise her. But you don’t—because she’s done it. She’s found her own spine in front of an entire room. And it is extraordinary.
Wonwoo murmurs, delighted, “Butterfly,” as if he’s witnessed something rare hatch in real time. Cecily looks down, cheeks pink, but her mouth tugs into a smile. You look away too quickly, pulse skittering. You tell yourself you’re simply tired. You tell yourself you’re simply relieved. You tell yourself you’re not being ridiculous. You are.
By the time the final caller is shown out, the drawing room looks faintly ransacked.
Teacup rings bloom across polished wood like pale ghosts. Half-bitten cakes sit abandoned on plates. Lemon peels curl in silver dishes. The air is sweet with jam and warm pastry, but underneath it all lingers the sharper scent of male cologne and performance.
Mrs. Wilson claps her hands. At once, the maids appear like clockwork. Cups are collected. Plates lifted. Napkins are whisked away. One maid bends at your elbow for your saucer and cup; you surrender both with a distracted nod. The room exhales.
Georgina springs upright before Mrs. Wilson has fully turned her back, immediately talking over herself as she turns toward Soonyoung—who is already half out of the door, delighted by the mere fact that men came, spoke, stumbled, and survived. He launches into an exaggerated imitation of one suitor’s bow; Georgina nearly folds in half laughing before she swats his arm and attempts it herself, making it even worse on purpose.
Jeonghan, sprawled elegance a moment ago, straightens only enough to fall into conversation with Joshua near the hearth—something practical, by the sound of it, though Jeonghan keeps interrupting with lines that make Joshua close his eyes as if asking heaven for patience.
Wonwoo closes the book he has been pretending not to read and turns—quietly, as he always does—toward Cecily. “Miss Cecily,” he asks, “would you care to see the library?” Cecily stills, then blinks up at him. “The library?” Wonwoo nods once. “If you like. It is quieter than this room. And there are illustrations in one of the travel volumes I thought you might enjoy.” Cecily’s mouth parts slightly. It is not often one sees her want something quickly enough for it to show before she has time to school it away.
Your mind betrays you with images: leather worn soft at the edges, a low fire, rain on the windows, his hand reaching for the book, his thumb brushing the page. Without thinking, you look up. Seungcheol is watching you again.
He is standing upright, no cup in hand, no excuse left. There is no crowd to hide behind. No gentleman to interrogate. No sisters to shield. Just you, and the thing neither of you has named.
Something in his eyes shifts when he sees your expression—recognition, immediate and unnervingly exact. The library. Last night. The fact that you both went there in your heads the moment Cecily spoke. He starts toward you. “Lady Whitlock—” he begins lowly, private even in a crowded room. You are on your feet before the sentence is finished.
“I need some air,” you say, too quickly and yet perfectly smooth, because panic has made you excellent at sounding composed. You turn to no one and everyone at once. “Excuse me.”
Before he can step into your path—before he can say something sensible, or dangerous, or kind—you move past him, past the remnants of tea and conversation, past the drawing room threshold and into the corridor like a woman escaping a house fire with her dignity pinned in place. You do not run. Running would be noticed. You simply walk quickly enough that no one can call it fleeing unless they know you well. And he does.
Wortham Gardens takes you in at once.
You keep walking, down the terrace steps and along the path, not looking back, not allowing yourself to think about whether he follows. The late afternoon has softened into that golden hour the castle seems to wear too well. You should feel calmer. You do not.
Your hand rises to your cheek, fingertips pressing the heated skin, as if the memory of his thumb has left an imprint there. You drag your hand down to your throat, then lower, flattening your palm against your bodice where your heart is behaving like a frightened bird. Your other hand presses to your stomach, as though you might force your body back into order by sheer insistence. Breathe. You draw in air. It catches. You try again. You take the long way on purpose.
Past the rose walk, where the first blooms are unfurling pale and pearlescent. Past the yew hedge clipped into geometry. Past a stone bench warmed by the sun and half-shadowed by a willow. You pause once at a narrow path lined with lavender, close your eyes, and try to let the scent pull you into yourself. Instead, it drags up his voice.
In the drawing room: asking a suitor what he offered, not what he wanted. In the library: “It’s habit.” Just now, starting your name before you fled. You keep walking.
By the time the pavilion comes into view—white-painted, half-veiled in climbing ivy, tucked beyond a curve of hedges like a secret too pretty to trust—your pulse has steadied only enough to make room for anger. At him. At yourself. At the unbearable fact that both feel the same in your body.
You step inside the pavilion and stop in the centre, breathing through your nose. Sunlight slants through the lattice and lays patterned shadows across the floorboards. The bench along the side is smooth with years of use. A breeze stirs the ivy at the entrance, making the leaves whisper against painted wood. “Running to ground, Lady Whitlock?” His voice cuts through the quiet behind you.
You startle hard enough that your breath catches, spinning toward the entrance. Seungcheol stands there, one hand braced on the post, expression composed in that way that only makes the strain underneath more visible. He has followed you, then. You lift your chin on instinct. “If you came to mock me, my lord, your timing is poor.”
He steps inside, eyes not leaving your face. “I came because you left the room as though it were burning.”
“It was warm,” you retort. His mouth tightens. “You fled from me.”
“Do men of your station always flatter themselves so thoroughly?”
A flicker of his temper sparks in his gaze. Good. Let him feel what he keeps stirring in you. “I am not here to fight,” he says.
“No?” You fold your arms, because if you leave them at your sides, you may do something foolish with them. “Then you have chosen a curious expression.”
He exhales, short and heavy. “I came to apologise.”
“For which offence?” you ask coolly. “Today’s? Last night’s? The general burden of your existence?”
“Don’t,” he says sharply. You hold his gaze. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend it meant nothing.” The words come out hard, as if dragged up against his will. “Not after the way you have looked everywhere but at me since this morning.” Heat flares under your skin. “You mistake me for a woman who arranges her day around your notice.”
“Do I?” he returns, stepping closer. Not enough to trap you. Enough to make the air change. “You flinched every time I spoke. You answered everyone but me. And the moment I addressed you without spectators, you vanished.”
Your pulse jumps, furious at being seen so clearly. “I was occupied,” you say.
“So was I,” he replies, the edge in his voice cutting cleaner. “And yet I managed to do my duty in that room.” The implication lands exactly where he intends it to. You laugh once, brittle. “Yes. Duty. You do wear it beautifully. Forgive me for failing to meet your standards, my lord. I know how very high they are.”
His brows draw together. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.” You step to one side, needing movement. He tracks it instantly. “I have spent two days learning the rules of your house, your arrangement, your expectations. It seems I was remiss in learning the rules of your moods as well.” His jaw flexes. “Speak plainly.”
You stop moving. “I heard you,” you say. “At your first ball.” The quiet in the pavilion thickens. “In the gardens. Speaking to your brother,” you continue. Something ugly flickers across his face—anger first, quick and defensive, and beneath it something darker, something like shame. “You were listening,” he says.
“You were talking,” you reply.
“That conversation was not meant for—”
“For women to hear?” You cut across him, venomous and cutting. “How noble.” His eyes flash. “For anyone beyond my family.”
“And yet it was about women.” You snap. “Women like merchandise. Suitability. Convenience. As if we are all simply pieces to be selected and arranged.”
“I was speaking of the ton.”
“The ton includes my sisters.”
His voice darkens. “Your sisters are not what I was describing.”
“Not what?” you demand, stepping toward him. “Not trainable? Not decorative? Not interchangeable?” For the first time since you have known him, he hesitates. Then, very quietly: “Not interchangeable.”
You hate how your body reacts to the truth when you are trying so hard to hold onto anger. You take a breath and force the emotion back into your voice. “Then why did you make yourself sound exactly like every man I have spent years protecting them from?” His face hardens. “Because you wanted me to be that man.”
Rage blooms hot and immediate. “How dare you.”
“How dare you,” he fires back, control cracking, “hear one bitter conversation and build an entire man out of it.”
“I built him from your own words.”
“I spoke like a man drowning.”
The sentence stops you. You stare. “Drowning?”
His nostrils flare, as if he regrets the word yet refuses to take it back. “Grieving,” he enunciates. “Being watched from every side. Carrying a title I had no time to prepare for while society waited to see whether I fail.”
You scoff because if you do not, sympathy will ruin you. “Grief is not a license for contempt.” His breath leaves him unevenly—the mask slipping from the man who has built himself on control.
“Do you think I do not know that?” he asks. “Do you think I have not replayed that night? Do you think I have not despised myself for sounding like him?”
“Him” hangs between you without a name. Hartwell. Men who take. Men who smile and press and assume. You feel your anger falter. You seize the safer part. “So you admit it was cruel.”
“I admit I was angry.”
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And afraid?” you press, because he said it and you still do not know what to do with it. His eyes lock onto yours. “Afraid of failing,” he admits quietly. “Afraid of needing what I cannot afford to lose.”
You know that language. Not the words, perhaps—but the shape of it. The private exhaustion of being the structure everyone leans on. The panic of imagining one weak point and watching the whole house come down. Recognition flickers. You hate that he sees it happen. He takes another step closer. “That night, I was trying to convince myself I did not need anyone.” You force your chin up. “Then be comforted. You do not. Especially not me.”
His breath catches so faintly you might have missed it if the space between you were any larger.
“Is that what you believe?” he asks.
Not mocking. Not triumphant. It is far worse. Humiliated.
You mean to say yes. You mean to say, of course. You mean to say something sharp enough to end this. Nothing comes out.
His eyes change when he hears your silence. He comes closer. You take one step back and hit the pavilion wall with your shoulder blades. Cool painted wood. No more room. His voice drops, every word forced out against his restraint. “Say it, then. Say you hate me.”
You shake your head, breath shortening. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you an exit.” His gaze drops to your mouth and returns. “Tell me you feel nothing. Say it plainly, and I will leave you.”
Your heart beats so hard it hurts. “You are impossible.”
“Say it.”
You inhale. Exhale. Try again. “I cannot,” you whisper, and the truth sounds like surrender.
Seungcheol falters. Then something in him gives way. Not temper. Not violence. Need. Bare and immediate and devastating. “You say you hate me,” he murmurs, stepping into the last breath of distance. “And yet you cannot say you feel nothing.” Your throat tightens. “I do hate you.”
The lie is thin. You both hear it. His hand lifts, pauses near your face. His fingers settle along your jaw, thumb against your cheek. The gentleness of it nearly undoes you. It is so unlike being taken it feels more dangerous than force.
He studies your face with a kind of fierce disbelief. “What do you do to me,” he says, words fraying, “that I cannot think when you look at me like this?” Your pulse stumbles. “Then stop looking.”
His mouth curves, but there is no humour in it. Only heat. “You first.”
You should push him away. You should remind him of propriety and scandal and the fact that the house is not far, and voices travel, and this is how women ruin themselves. Instead, your hands fist in his coat. That is all the permission he needs.
Your lips crash together.
It is not tentative. It is not careful. It is two people who have been holding themselves like walls finally deciding to collapse. Your head tips back with the force of it. His hand slides behind your head, fingers into your hair, holding you steady. You kiss him back with equal fury, because anger and wanting have become impossible to separate.
He moans against your mouth—low, rough, half relief, half desperation—and deepens the kiss until your lungs forget their work. You grip him harder. He breaks from your lips only to drag his mouth along your jaw. Your breath stutters. “Seungcheol—” His name leaves your lips, and the sound seems to strike straight through him.
He kisses the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Slow. Then again. And then lower—to your throat, where your pulse is wild and betraying you. His lips press there, deliberate, learning. His tongue flicks once at the spot beneath your jaw, and a gasp tears out of you before your pride can catch it. The sound is indecent in the quiet pavilion. You know it. He knows it. Neither of you stops.
His free hand finds your waist and pulls you in until your bodies align, until the shape of him against you makes your mind go white at the edges. He is breathing hard against your skin, control hanging by a thread.
“Tell me again,” he murmurs against your throat, “how much you hate me.”
A broken laugh catches in your chest and turns into something softer, stranger. “I—” you start, but he kisses your skin again and the sentence dies unborn.
Your hands slide up, over his shoulders, the back of his neck, and into his hair. He shudders at the contact, and the reaction is so immediate, so unguarded, it sends another wave of heat through you. He lifts his head and looks at you. God. He looks ruined.
Not weak. Not insecure. Ruined in the way men look when they have finally allowed themselves to want something and realised precisely what they have been missing. It should frighten you. It does. And still you pull him back in. The second kiss is worse. Wilder. Hungrier.
Somewhere beyond the hedges, a voice rises. Footsteps scrape faintly across gravel. Reality returns like a dose of cold water.
You wrench back with a sharp breath, fingers flying to your mouth. Your lips feel swollen. Your chest is heaving. The world is suddenly too bright, too open, too close to witness. Seungcheol freezes where you left him, breathing hard, eyes fixed on you as if he cannot quite believe you were the one to stop.
“You—” you begin, but there are too many endings to the sentence and none of them safe. He steps toward you, something urgent rising in his face—as if he is about to say something that could change everything or make it worse. You do not let him. You run.
Skirts gathered in your fists, gravel spitting beneath your shoes. You do not care how it looks. You do not care who might see. You do not care that your steps are loud, uneven, unbeautiful.
The hedges blur at the edges of your vision. Your mouth burns, your tongue remembers him, your body feels the shape of his hands as if you have carried the whole pavilion away under your skin. You do not look back. You cannot.
At the edge of the path, you falter just enough to betray yourself. You turn your head. He is still in the pavilion, one hand braced against the post, head slightly bowed before he lifts it and finds you. His mouth is parted. His eyes are dark and far too full. The whole garden seems to hold its breath with you. And you know—cold and certain and far too late—that whatever was supposed to be between you has slipped beyond recall.
You wrench your gaze away and run on. But your mouth still burns. And the taste of him follows you back to the house like a secret you will not be able to pray out of your body.
Bond Street wakes in pewter.
Mist clings to lamps and windowpanes, turning every shopfront softened —gold behind glass, silks behind velvet, jewels behind the kind of locks that imply someone is always watching. Carat & Co. glows as always. Even before the shutters come down, the place holds its own light. Seungcheol is there before the first clerk.
He likes the quiet hour when the counters are bare and the cases are still empty of hands. When the only sounds are the building settling into itself, the faint tick of the clock, and the careful work of men who understand that beauty is made with patience and sharp tools. He hangs his coat, rolls his cuffs back, and opens the ledger. Ink, numbers, inventory—his holy trinity. The neatness of columns. The honesty of sums. The relief of problems that have solutions. He tells himself this, repeatedly.
Because the moment the pen touches paper, his mind slips—just a hairline crack—and ivy appears. A white pavilion. Sunlight in lattice shadows. Your mouth, hot and furious, colliding with his like the world had finally stopped pretending. He presses harder with the pen, as if pressure can pin a memory to the page until it behaves. It does not.
A jeweller’s loupe sits beside his inkstand. He picks it up without thinking, turns it between his fingers. The glass catches a stripe of morning light and fractures it into pale colour. It reminds him of you pulling away—breathless, eyes bright with shock—as if you’d startled yourself by wanting. And then you ran. He’d stood there like a man struck. His mouth still tasting you, his whole body demanding he follow—now, now, now—as if the world would end if he let you get too far away. He hadn’t moved. He thinks about that more than he thinks about the kiss.
He thinks about stillness. About restraint. About how he has built his entire life around control—and how easily you unmade it with the simple, impossible truth of your mouth against his. He sets the loupe down as if it has burned him.
A door opens. “Morning, my lord.” Mr. Everett, the senior clerk, enters with a bundle of post. “We’ve had three notes delivered at dawn. And Mrs. Dalloway’s man insists she’ll be in today for the sapphire reset.” Seungcheol nods his head. “Put the notes on my desk.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Everett hesitates—barely—but Seungcheol sees everything. “And… there’s a gentleman waiting. Says he requires a word. A Mr. Hartwell.”
The name falls flat in the silence of his office.
Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change. It cannot. His face is a kind of armour—built in the same way Carat & Co. is built: carefully, with intention, without flaws anyone can hook a finger into. “Send him in,” he says. Everett bows and leaves.
Seungcheol doesn’t rise. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t prepare a speech. He simply sits, his hands folded over the ledger, and waits. Hartwell enters with a new nose and an old smile. The bruising is gone, but the memory of blood is not. Hartwell’s eyes flick to Seungcheol’s hands, as if he’s checking whether the knuckles remember him. “Lord Ashbourne,” Hartwell greets, voice slick as oil. “How industrious. I always find it fascinating when men of title pretend to be men of trade.”
Seungcheol looks at him. Lets the silence do the work. Hartwell clears his throat. “Of course. Forgive me. Carat & Co. It must be gratifying. Playing at legacy.”
Seungcheol’s gaze drops—briefly—to Hartwell’s collar. He remembers hauling him back in that opera corridor like a misbehaving dog. He remembers the sound of your breath when Hartwell’s hand covered your mouth. His voice stays level. “Why are you here?” Hartwell spreads his hands, the picture of injured innocence. “A social call.”
“This is a jeweller.”
“It’s also Bond Street.” Hartwell’s eyes gleam with that bright, intrusive interest. “And you are quite… fascinating.”
Hartwell paces one step, just enough to show he believes himself untouchable in a room full of glass and gold. “You hit me,” he says lightly—too lightly, like he’s trying to pretend it was nothing. “In public. In a theatre. You broke my nose for a misunderstanding.”
Seungcheol doesn’t correct him. There was no misunderstanding.
Hartwell’s smile thins. “Then, very conveniently, you begin a courtship with the very woman I—” His eyes flicker, as if the memory of his hand on you still pleases him. “—admired. How swift you are, my lord. How… decisive.”
Seungcheol’s fingers tighten on the ledger. Hartwell leans in, voice dropping as though sharing a confidence between gentlemen. “I confess, I wondered.”
“Wondered what.”
Hartwell’s gaze slides toward the front windows, where the street beyond is misty and awake, where anyone might walk past and glance in and think of safety and luxury and permanence. “How the courtship was progressing,” he says. “If Lady Whitlock was enjoying being claimed.”
Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. Hartwell’s smile brightens, cruel with pleasure at having struck a nerve. “Or if she still enjoys empty corridors.”
Seungcheol’s gaze narrows. “Be very careful.”
Hartwell’s lips part in a soft laugh. “Oh, do forgive me. It’s only that Mayfair is… attentive. And Lady Whitlock—your lady with her resolve of steel—has been seen in curious circumstances.”
He lifts a finger, as if counting. “Once, alone in a theatre passage with me.” Another finger. “And again—so I hear—in a library corridor, late at night, with you.”
Seungcheol’s blood goes cold. The library. Wrotham. Who talked? Hartwell watches Seungcheol’s face like a man studying a lock for weakness. “It would be a shame,” Hartwell murmurs, “if anyone began to ask why the eldest Whitlock sister wanders empty halls and meets men when she believes herself unseen.”
Seungcheol does not move. His restraint becomes something vicious and calculated. Hartwell’s voice becomes venomous. “A woman’s reputation is such a fragile thing. And the Whitlocks’ position is already… delicate, is it not?” His eyes sparkle. “No father. No mother. Just an inheritance and three unmarried ladies.”
Seungcheol’s spine goes rigid. Hartwell continues, enjoying the way each word feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise. “If the ton thought Lady Whitlock’s virtue was—how shall I phrase it—careless…” He makes a vague gesture, like he’s wiping dust from a sleeve. “Suitors might vanish. Not only for her.” Seungcheol’s gaze turns razor-sharp. “For the sisters as well. Such a pity. An entire household punished for one woman’s little… strolls.”
Seungcheol finally speaks. “Say it plainly.”
“I want my pride restored.”
There it is. Not morality. Not justice. Not concern. Just ego bruised and hungry. “You embarrassed me,” Hartwell says, and now the civility disappears to show the snarling thing beneath. “You took what I wanted and turned it into your trophy. And now everyone is whispering about you, about her, about how quickly she folded. I want the whisper to change.”
Seungcheol’s fingers uncurl from the ledger. “You’re threatening a woman because a man struck you.”
“No, my lord. I’m reminding you how the world works.” Hartwell’s gaze sweeps the counters, the cases, the jewels. “You have so much to lose.”
Seungcheol pushes to his feet and steps into Hartwell’s space, bringing them face to face. He doesn’t lunge or posture—he simply stands, broad and solid and suddenly far too close, and Hartwell’s bravado flickers. “You will not speak of her.” Hartwell’s brows lift. “Or what?”
Seungcheol’s voice lowers. “Or you will learn the difference between a broken nose and a ruined life.” Hartwell falters—then recovers, brittle. “Ah.” He exhales. “There’s the animal beneath the Viscount.” Seungcheol doesn’t blink. “Get out.”
Hartwell’s face turns insolent because insolence is what men use when they sense danger but refuse to show fear. “Mayfair will talk,” he states softly. “And you can’t punch a whisper.”
Seungcheol doesn’t back down. Hartwell holds his stare for one last moment—two men measuring which one will break first. Then Hartwell bows, mockingly correct. “Enjoy your courtship, my lord.” He turns toward the doors. “Let’s see what survives when people remember where you came from.”
Hartwell walks out. The bell over the door gives a polite chime as it closes behind him, like the shop itself is unaware it has just hosted poison. Seungcheol stays standing until his breathing steadies. Then he turns to Everett—who has reappeared like a ghost, trying desperately to look as though he heard nothing. “Double the men at the door,” Seungcheol demands calmly. “And if anyone asks after me, they wait.” Everett swallows. “Yes, my lord.”
“And send for Jeonghan.” Everett blinks. “Lord Jeonghan?”
“Now.”
Everett goes. Seungcheol sits again, picks up his pen, and stares at the ledger until the columns blur. He thinks of Hartwell’s words like fingers around your throat. He thinks of your sisters—Cecily’s quiet bloom, Georgina’s fire—both of them vulnerable to the ton’s appetite for punishment. He thinks of you, always the wall, always the shield. And he feels something shift in him that he does not like. Because Hartwell came for you. And Seungcheol did not feel strategic. He felt protective. He felt possessive. He felt the raw, ruinous impulse to burn the whole world down for the crime of imagining you ruined.
The first tremor arrives in the form of a note with too much perfume. Everett brings it on a silver tray. “From Lady Dalloway, my lord.” Seungcheol breaks the seal. Lady Dalloway’s handwriting is elegant. Her words are polite. “Regretfully,” she writes, “I must postpone today’s appointment. There is conversation in my circle, and my husband insists we avoid anything that might appear imprudent until the Season settles.”
It is an excuse in the form of a compliment. The sapphire reset has been in commission for months. Lady Dalloway is not the sort of woman who postpones jewels unless her fear is sharper than her vanity. Seungcheol folds the letter once. Twice. Places it aside. “Send her my respects,” he says evenly. “And let her know her stone will be held safely until she chooses to be brave.” Everett flinches at the words but bows. “Yes, my lord.”
The second tremor arrives in the form of absence. The shop is not empty—never truly. Foot traffic remains. The curious remain. But there is a difference between a crowded street and a room full of buyers. Three ladies enter together late afternoon—veiled, gloved, expensive. They pause at the cases. Their eyes skim the pieces. One of them laughs softly behind her fan. They do not ask to see anything. They leave without buying a single stone. Everett looks ready to weep with frustration. Seungcheol stands behind the counter and feels something cold settle between his shoulder blades. This is the ton’s language. Not refusal. Not accusation. Just the slow withdrawal of comfort, like a hand pulling a blanket away inch by inch until you are shivering and pretending you are not.
Jeonghan arrives an hour later, looking as though he has been insulted by the concept of urgency. He takes one look at Seungcheol’s face and stops. “Someone died,” Jeonghan states. “Or you want them to.”
Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Jeonghan wanders behind the counter and picks up the note from Lady Dalloway with two fingers. “Mm.” Jeonghan scans it. “She’s afraid.”
“She’s vapid,” Seungcheol declares.
“Both can be true.” Jeonghan folds the letter and sets it back down. His gaze flicks toward the street, toward the people who drift past the windows without stopping. “Hartwell?” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “How do you know?” Jeonghan’s mouth curves. “Because his type never loses quietly. And because the air in Mayfair tastes different today.”
Jeonghan leans closer, voice dropping steadier beneath the flippancy. “What did he say?” Seungcheol’s fingers curl. “He threatened her.”
Jeonghan’s smile vanishes so quickly it’s almost frightening. “How.” Seungcheol stares at the ledger. The columns. The numbers. The neatness. The lie that any of this can be controlled with ink. “He suggested,” Seungcheol speaks slowly, “that Lady Whitlock’s refusal could be… corrected. Publicly.” Seungcheol’s words grow colder. “Hartwell’s pride is bruised. He wants to punish her for not accepting what he thought he was entitled to.”
Jeonghan’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He inhales, then exhales like a man forcing himself not to shatter something expensive. “He wants you to react,” Jeonghan says finally.
“He wants her ruined,” Seungcheol answers quietly.
“He wants you to blame her.” Jeonghan steps closer, blunt in that brotherly way that doesn’t soften.“Don’t let his poison make you treat her like she’s the problem.”
Seungcheol’s throat tightens. He thinks of you—stiff-backed at the Opera, perfect, controlled, still placing your hand on his arm like you are not trembling inside. You are not the problem. Hartwell is. Mayfair is. And Seungcheol—Seungcheol is becoming something he didn’t intend to become.
Jeonghan picks up a stack of invoices and flips through them like he’s looking for something to stab. “All right,” he says briskly. “We’ll play.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “We?” Jeonghan glances up, grin returning like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “You dragged me here. I assume you want my charming face to reassure the frightened little lambs.”
Seungcheol doesn’t have the patience for Jeonghan’s theatrics today. Jeonghan doesn’t care. He steps out from behind the counter and begins greeting the next patron with warmth bright enough to make the sun envious. He flatters. He smiles. He makes a countess laugh. He is good at this—better than Seungcheol—because Jeonghan looks like ease, and Mayfair always trusts ease more than it trusts competence. Seungcheol watches Jeonghan work and feels something else twist in him: gratitude he doesn’t know how to express without making it uncomfortable.
And beneath it—still, always—you. Because even while he talks of stones and settings and commissions, his mind keeps turning to the pavilion, to the way your hands fisted in his coat like you meant to ruin him. He had thought work would be refuge. Work is only another place your name follows him.
By the time he goes to White’s, the rumours have gained shape. He hears it in the way men greet him now—smiles a fraction too bright, bows a fraction too deep, as if they are trying to prove they are not thinking the thing they are thinking. He tastes it in the small hesitations—doorways held open too long, a whisper clipped short when he turns his head, a laugh that stutters and then recovers as if nothing happened. Hartwell said it: you can’t punch a whisper.
Seungcheol takes a seat with a glass he doesn’t want. He listens to a conversation he doesn’t respect. He waits for something useful.
Lord Haversham—loose around the mouth—leans forward with a grin like he’s about to share a joke. “Ashbourne,” Haversham says, “you sly devil.” Seungcheol regards him. “Pardon?” Haversham explains. “The Whitlock sister. I didn’t think anyone could catch her, and you’ve done it in a week.” Another man—Sir Dalrymple—chimes in, eyes filled with envy. “The ice queen,” he says appreciatively, as if describing a rare horse. “Steel composure, sharp tongue, makes grown men sweat and calls it sport.”
Haversham continues. “And the inheritance.” He lifts his glass slightly, toasting. “Well played.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “She’s not a card to be played.”
Haversham waves a hand. “Oh, don’t sulk. We’re admiring you.” His eyes gleam. “Truly—how did you do it?” Dalrymple leans forward. “Did you corner her? Was it a scandal? Did you frighten her into it?”
Haversham chortles. “I’d wager he simply promised security. A woman like that must be exhausted. Offer her relief and she’ll sign any contract.”
The words twist in Seungcheol’s gut because they’re not entirely wrong—and that truth makes him want to break something. Because yes: he offered you protection. Yes: he offered you a shield. Yes: he built a plan. And then you kissed him like you could not bear the lie anymore. And now these men sit here and call you a prize and ask him which method worked best, as if your mouth isn’t yours. Seungcheol sets his glass down carefully. Then he looks at Haversham. “You’re speaking of Lady Whitlock as if she doesn’t have ears.”
Haversham blinks. “What?” Seungcheol’s voice stays level, which is worse than shouting. “As if she isn’t human. As if you’re entitled to discuss her like she’s meat on a table.”
Dalrymple laughs uncertainly. “Come now—”
Seungcheol’s gaze cuts to him. “Stop.” Haversham’s grin falters, annoyance creeping in. “All right, all right. We meant no disrespect.”
“You meant envy.”
Haversham’s eyes flash. “Of course we envy you. Do you think men don’t notice a fortune?” Seungcheol leans forward slightly. “If fortune is all you see when you look at her, you are unfit to speak her name.” Haversham scoffs, trying to recover his humour. “Listen to him. The adopted Viscount lecturing us on virtue.”
The room changes. Not everyone laughs. Some of them go quiet, because even here—especially here—the rumour becomes truth. Seungcheol’s spine goes rigid. He feels, all at once, Hartwell’s smirk in a shop full of diamonds. Blood. Not legitimate. Puppy story. Title. Haversham thinks he’s won. “Strange, isn’t it?” he muses. “A man without Ashbourne blood guarding Ashbourne jewels. Makes one wonder how long the ton will tolerate it.”
Seungcheol watches him. He watches Haversham’s mouth move and thinks of his brothers—six men bound by different blood and the same name, the same house, the same grief, a bond stronger than most men ever earn. He thinks of his parents. He thinks of loss, of the shape it carved into him, of everything he had to become before he was ready. He thinks of the scrutiny now turning toward his lineage—cold, entitled, eager to question his right to stand where he stands. And then he thinks of you. Of what that scrutiny will cost you if it sharpens. Of how quickly Mayfair takes a man’s uncertainty and lays the punishment at a woman’s feet. He thinks of Hartwell’s threat: no suitor will go for either of her sisters. And he feels something in him tilt—dangerously, irrevocably—away from diplomacy.
“Say that again,” Seungcheol murmurs. “Say that I do not belong.” Dalrymple clears his throat. Someone else shifts in their seat. The air tightens, thick with the knowledge that Seungcheol does not bluff. Haversham swallows, tries to laugh it off. “Come now, Ashbourne, don’t be—”
Seungcheol rises. “You want to know how I did it?” Seungcheol asks. Haversham’s eyes flicker. Seungcheol steps closer, just enough to intimidate. “I didn’t.” Haversham blinks. “What—”
“She wasn’t caught,” Seungcheol says. “She wasn’t cornered. She wasn’t frightened into anything.” His throat tightens around the next truth because it tastes like surrender. “She chose.” Haversham’s mouth opens, then closes.
“And if any of you speak of her like property again, if any of you so much as imply she can be purchased with a dowry or a rumour, I will make it my personal pleasure to ensure you never enjoy another Season.”
Seungcheol turns and leaves. Not because he fears them—because he cannot stand breathing the same air as men who think you’re a ledger entry. Outside, the night hits his lungs like retribution. He walks. Away from their laughter, their entitlement, their smug certainty that women exist to be discussed and acquired, the ease with which they assume they are entitled to you. He hates that. He hates that he understands it.
Ashbourne Hall is lit when he returns. Seungcheol gives his coat to a footman and takes the stairs without slowing. He tells himself he wants silence. He reaches his study, shuts the door, and stands in the dark with one hand still on the latch, breathing like he has outrun something only to find it waiting inside him.
The door opens again. Joshua steps in with a bottle of brandy in one hand and two glasses in the other, which means he already knows enough. “Jeonghan talked.”
Seungcheol turns his head. “He always does.”
Joshua sets the bottle down on the desk and fills the glasses without asking. “White’s?”
“Yes.”
Joshua offers one. Seungcheol takes it and downs it in one swallow. Joshua watches him. Seungcheol reaches for the bottle, refills, and drinks the second just as fast. When he tips the bottle for a third, Joshua catches his wrist lightly and eases it from his hand. “No,” Joshua says, gentle but firm. “You don’t get to disappear into this.”
Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. For a moment, he looks like he might argue simply because he hates being managed. Then he drops into the chair behind the desk instead. Joshua sits opposite him with his own untouched glass. “What happened that has you looking like you’d cheerfully break your hand on brick?” Seungcheol stares at the desk. “They spoke about her.” Joshua’s brows lift. “You mean Lady Whitlock.”
Seungcheol answers too quickly. “I mean us.” Joshua leans back slightly, studying him. “They were needling you.”
“They were vile.”
“Yes.” Joshua nods. “But it got under your skin.”
Seungcheol’s gaze goes distant—Haversham grinning into his glass, the word inheritance tossed across the table like bait, men speaking about you as if you were a purchase with a pulse. “They congratulated me,” he says at last. “As if I’d cornered her.” Seungcheol gives a humourless exhale. “Then they wanted details. How I ‘managed it.’”
Joshua inhales slowly. “Cheol.” Seungcheol’s eyes cut to him. “What?” “I believed this arrangement was duty.” Seungcheol’s face hardens on instinct. “It is.”
“Then why is Hartwell’s rumour eating through you by the hour?” Seungcheol stills. The rumour is not only after his name. It is after the business. The house. The legitimacy of both. It wants Ashbourne to look borrowed. It wants Carat & Co. to look precarious. It wants your courtship to look like calculation made desperate. Seungcheol leans forward. “He threatened her.”
“That’s the game,” Joshua says quietly. “Make you furious. Make you rash. Make her panic.”
“I’ll ruin him.” Joshua does not flinch at Seungcheol’s vow. “You probably can.” He pauses. “But don’t confuse punishing him with protecting her.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A very large one.” Joshua supplies. “One soothes your temper. The other keeps her safe.”
The words hit harder than Seungcheol wants them to. Because the truth is uglier than his anger. He does not only want Hartwell chastened. He wants him erased. He wants the world taught not to put its hands on your name. He wants, somewhere dark and ungoverned in himself, to close his fist around every room you enter and decide who breathes. Joshua watches the silence work through him. He has known Seungcheol too long to mistake that silence for peace. “Look at me,” Joshua whispers. Seungcheol does. “Tell me this is still only a plan.”
“It is.” Clipped. Instant. Joshua’s gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hand on the armrest. “Then why are you shaking?” Seungcheol looks down. A tremor, slight but there, runs through his fingers. He tightens his hand until it stops by force. Joshua exhales through his nose. “Cheol.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
Seungcheol’s voice catches and comes out sharper because of it. “Looking at me like I’ve gone soft.” Joshua’s expression shifts—fond, tired, too perceptive. “I don’t think you’ve gone soft.” Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. “Then what is it?” Joshua holds his gaze. “I think you’re attached.”
Seungcheol looks away at the confession. He wants to scoff. Deny it. Turn it into annoyance and move on. But denial feels idiotic with the memory of your lips still living under his skin. Attachment. Not duty. Not optics. Not strategy. Attachment is how men get careless. He has built his life on never being careless.
Joshua lets the silence stretch before speaking again. “If this turns messy, it won’t be because you care. It’ll be because you lie to yourself about caring.” Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. “If I lose control, she pays.”
“Not if you choose where the control goes.”
That lands, too. God, he hates how cleanly Joshua says things. Seungcheol looks at the desk—the bottle, the glasses, the papers stacked in exact lines like order is a spell that still works if he arranges it neatly enough. Joshua studies him for a long while, then says it with infuriating kindness: “You’re falling, brother.” A beat. “And harder than you meant to.”
Recognition moves through Seungcheol. He does not deny it. How could he? It is everywhere—in how quickly his temper rises when men speak of you, in how his eyes find exits and doorways when you’re in a room, in how Hartwell’s threat narrowed his vision to a point.
Joshua stands, finally taking his own drink and finishing it. He sets the glass down with a soft clink. “All right,” he says, moving toward the door. “Call it a plan if that helps you stand upright.” Seungcheol stays seated, gaze fixed on the desk. Joshua pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back. “Just remember,” he says softly, “plans do not keep men awake.” Then he leaves.
Seungcheol sits in the dim study long after the door closes. The house settles around him. Pipes, boards, distant footsteps, then quiet. He listens to his own breathing and tries, for once, to picture you without the poise, without the gloves, without Mayfair looking on. He cannot. Every attempt drags him back to that kiss. He grips the desk edge until the wood bites into his palm. The truth is brutal in its simplicity: Seungcheol is becoming reckless in the one way that matters most—emotionally—because the lie of the courtship no longer feels like a lie inside him.
He reaches for his pen. Tries to return to figures, orders, stone weights, and delivery dates. But the first word his mind offers is not a number. Not duty. Not strategy. You. And the worst part—the part he cannot file, cannot master, cannot discipline away—is that he is no longer certain he wants to.
By the third quadrille, your smile has become a discipline. Lady Halstead’s ballroom is all light and scrutiny—mirrors multiplying every glance, chandeliers making everyone appear a fraction brighter and a fraction more false, the floor crowded with silk and moving in measured patterns while the room itself hums with that particular kind of excitement that means society has scented something and has not yet decided whether it is scandal or sport. The Whitlocks and the Ashbournes are placed on opposite sides of the room as if by accident. It is not an accident. You arranged it so in the first ten minutes.
Not with anything so crude as a command. A pause here, a turn there, a gracious acceptance of Lady Halstead’s suggestion that you stand nearer the second row of pillars where the widowed countesses like to collect, and a gentle redirection of Georgina toward Lord Halbrook before she could drift too near the Ashbourne side of the floor. Cecily was easier. Cecily goes where she is invited if the invitation is kind. You have become very good at architecture.
It’s been two weeks since Wrotham. Two weeks since the pavilion. Two weeks since the library before it, and the storm, and the almost-kiss that became a real one the following day in sunlight and ivy and ruin. Two weeks since you last saw Seungcheol. Not a call. Not a note. Not a chance encounter so much as a carriage glimpsed through rain.
Only whispers with no bones yet—his name in passing, Bond Street mentioned beside the phrase conversation in town, someone at tea remarking that Carat & Co. seemed busy and not busy at once in that irritating way people use when they know half of something and want credit for the whole. Nothing direct. Nothing you can take hold of. Nothing that lets you ask. So you do not ask.
Across the room, the Ashbournes stand in a loose, gleaming knot beneath one of the mirrored panels. Jeonghan is cornered by two mamas and appears to be enjoying himself far too much for a man being interrogated about siblings and prospects. Soonyoung is pretending to listen to a countess while making faces over her shoulder at Georgina whenever he thinks no one sees. Joshua is speaking to an older gentleman, and Wonwoo is at the edge of the group, seemingly trying to blend in with the wallpaper. And Seungcheol— You do not look at him. You do.
He is doing exactly what a viscount should do: standing where he can be seen, speaking when required, bowing to the right women, allowing himself to be surrounded by debutantes and ambitious mothers. His face gives little away. It always did less than yours. That used to comfort you. Now it only infuriates. Because he is speaking to other women with perfect courtesy, and every time one of them tips her head up at him and smiles as though she has been singled out by fate, something mean and hot twists under your ribs. Because he has barely spared you a glance all evening—if that. Because it has been two weeks.
A turn of the set takes you farther along the room. When the figure ends, you step back beside one of the gilt chairs and let your gloved fingers rest lightly on its carved edge. For the first time in longer than you know how to measure, your sisters do not need rescuing.
Georgina is across the room with Lord Halbrook and looks, infuriatingly, like herself and like a woman discovering she can be adored without being reduced. Their courtship has not become quieter since Wrotham; if anything, it has become more dangerous in the best possible way. He laughs when she startles a room. He asks follow-up questions when she says something outrageous. She says something to him now—chin tipped, eyes filled with wickedness—and Halbrook throws his head back laughing instead of attempting to tame her. She looks pleased. Not triumphant. Pleased. There is a difference. You notice because you have spent years watching for the opposite.
Cecily, miracle of miracles, is not fading into shadow. She stands half-turned beneath the long mirror near Lady Halstead’s fern stands, speaking with Lord Marlowe, grandson to the Duke of Marlowe, who began calling a week after Wrotham and has not once made her look as though he expects gratitude for being kind. He is not loud. He is not dazzling. He is, perhaps most importantly, attentive in the right direction. He listens when she answers. He does not interrupt to improve the shape of her thoughts. When she speaks, he leans in—not because he cannot hear, but because he wants to. Tonight, he has somehow coaxed her into discussing astronomy with a seriousness that makes her forget to be afraid. Cecily’s hands have come alive while she speaks. Her shoulders are lower. Her eyes lift and stay lifted. At one point, she even laughs—not into her glove, not apologetically, but openly, a soft, bright sound that carries farther than it should. Marlowe smiles like a man who knows better than to touch the moment with praise.
Your burden has not vanished. Burdens like yours do not vanish. They settle. They redistribute. For one suspended stretch of time, you are only the eldest sister standing alone at a ball while both your girls are occupied by men who appear, astonishingly, to deserve the time. The relief is so sharp it almost feels like salvation.
“Lady Whitlock.” Lord Haversham bows over your hand with polish. You know him by sight, of course. One always knows men like Haversham by sight before one knows their names: unearned confidence, expensive boredom. He smiles as if you are old allies in a private joke. “You are unclaimed for the set,” he says, glancing toward the floor, where couples are reforming in lines. “Will you allow me the honour?”
There is a pause in which you could refuse. You feel—without looking—where Seungcheol is in the room. You hate that you can. You have spent the better part of the evening proving distance. To everyone. To him. To yourself most of all. And here is a gentleman of acceptable standing, asking in full view of Lady Halstead’s chandeliers and half of Mayfair. You smile. “Of course, Lord Haversham.”
His satisfaction is almost imperceptible. Almost. He leads you into the set with impeccable manners and a grip just this side of presumptuous. You do not like him, but you have danced with worse men and smiled through worse reasons. Around you, the room rearranges. Silk turns. Gloves brush. Partners bow and cross. At the edge of the next figure, your gaze betrays you and finds Seungcheol.
Three young ladies have formed a crescent around him, with two mamas behind them like artillery. One of the girls says something earnest. Another laughs too quickly at nothing. Seungcheol inclines his head, answers, and then—because God is cruel—looks up at exactly the moment your hands join Haversham’s for the turn. His expression does not change. The change is in you.
Something defensive and defiant lifts in your chest, and before you can reason with it, you are dancing more brightly than the figure requires, answering Haversham with crisp wit, allowing your smile to appear as though you are enjoying yourself immensely instead of staging a demonstration no one asked for. Haversham leans slightly closer in the next pass. “You dance like a woman making a point.”
“Do I?” you reply smoothly.
“Most certainly.” His gaze slides, not subtly enough, toward the Ashbourne side of the room before returning to you. “I admire clarity.” You look at Haversham then and think, with sudden bitterness, that it is absurd. Seungcheol on the sidelines with women he does not want. You in the middle of the floor with a man you would never choose. The ton, no doubt, questioning your courtship. You continue on.
The set breaks and reforms. Lady Halstead, who treats choreography like warfare, has chosen a cotillion that delights her precisely because it trades partners every few turns and leaves everyone pretending not to care where they end up. The room shifts into fresh lines. Across the floor, a small ripple passes through the mamas near Seungcheol. One of them wins. You do not mean to watch. You watch him take the hand of a lady in pale blue. She is lovely in the way the ton rewards—fair, polished, delicate without looking fragile. She smiles up at him, and he gives her the kind of perfectly proper attention that makes older women nod approvingly into their fans. He bends his head to hear her over the music. His hand settles at her waist. He turns her through the figure. It hurts. You look away too late. Haversham notices it. Men like him always do when they think it will be useful. “Ah,” he says lightly as the figure moves you apart and back again, “now there is an instructive arrangement.”
You meet his eyes. “If you intend to spend this dance discussing other people, my lord, you may return me to the wall.” He laughs and lifts both hands in surrender. “Forgive me. I am chastened.” You do not believe him, which at least gives you something steady to stand on.
The music drives on. Partners trade. A gentleman bows, a lady curtsies; hands touch and release, and touch again, according to rules strict enough to survive the chaos. You move where the dance demands. Once to the left. Once forward. Once away. Haversham is replaced by a baronet’s son with damp palms. Then by a married colonel who smells of starch and certainty. Then by—
A hand you know before it closes around yours. You look up. Seungcheol bows as though this is an ordinary turn in an ordinary set and not the first time his body has been this close to yours since he kissed you in a pavilion. “Lady Whitlock.” Your curtsy is flawless. “Lord Ashbourne.”
He leads you into the next figure with devastating precision. Not too close. Never too close. Not in public. His fingers at yours are steady and impersonal and impossible. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You keep your smile for the watching room. “Have I? I thought we were both attending the same ball.”
“For the ton, perhaps.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not for me.” You turn under an arch of joined hands, another couple briefly passing between you. When you face him again, your heart is thudding so hard you can feel it in your ears. “Then you should not have spent two weeks proving absence suits you.”
Something flickers in his face. Regret, maybe. Anger, certainly—though not, you think, at you. The figure pulls you apart and returns you. When Seungcheol takes your hand again, his voice drops a fraction beneath the music. “I was handling what followed Wrotham.” That lands badly. You hear business. Damage. Consequences. A mess to be contained. You hear yourself, somehow, included in a ledger. You lift your chin. “How diligent.” His jaw tightens. “Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn every word into a weapon before I can finish it.” Your laugh is small and bright and entirely false. “You mistake me, my lord. I am merely trying to follow the plan.” The word hits him. You see it. For one raw moment, his composure slips enough to show the man underneath—the one in the library, collar open, voice tired; the one in the pavilion with your name breaking in his throat.
The next figure brings you closer. Too close for safety. Not close enough for honesty. Seungcheol’s hand closes around yours for the crossing turn. “That is exactly what I have been trying to do,” he says, each word forced through his locked jaw. “Put duty back where it belongs. What happened at Wrotham…” he continues, and his gaze flicks to your mouth, then away again. “…was not part of our arrangement.”
The ballroom does not change. The chandeliers still burn. The strings still play. Lady Halstead still smiles from her chair like a queen surveying crops. And yet, all you can hear is the echo of that line inside your own skull. Not part of our arrangement. He means to continue. You see it in the way his mouth parts, in the urgency that flashes too late through his eyes. Perhaps there is more. Perhaps there is some explanation buried beneath that brutal, tidy phrasing. You do not let him reach for it. Because shame is quicker than patience, and pride is a better shield than hope. “Of course,” you say.
The figure ends. You curtsy before he can stop you. A beautiful, correct curtsy that gives nothing away except, perhaps, the speed with which you rise. Then you turn and leave the set before the next exchange is called. You move through the room with your spine straight and your breath gone thin, past Lady Halstead’s circle of seated matrons, past a knot of gentlemen pretending not to stare, past the mirrored wall that throws your face back at you, too pale, the mask slipping. Behind you, the music stumbles on. You hear your name once—low, cut short by the crowd. Then, you hear what you knew you would. His footsteps, leaving the floor.
You do not stop walking until the corridor gives way to the rear of the house, then to the glass-lit hush of Lady Halstead’s orangerie. You slip inside and let the door fall shut behind you. Moonlight and house-light catch in the panes and iron ribs overhead, turning the rows of citrus trees into shadow. Marble urns stand pale at the edges. Leaves whisper faintly in the draught. The tiled floor gleams in broken strips of light. Your chest rises sharply under your stays. Not part of our arrangement. You press your hand flat to your sternum as though you might quiet the line where it lodged. It does not move.
The door opens again. You close your eyes before you turn. Seungcheol stands just inside, one hand still on the latch, the ballroom’s light framing him before the door settles and leaves him in the same dim silver you stand in. His expression is held together by effort. His eyes are not. Neither of you speaks.
Then, low and rough—more exhausted than angry, though the anger is there too—he asks, “Why do you always run from me?” You laugh, breathless. “Why do you always come after me?”
“Because you leave before I can finish a sentence.”
“You finished enough of one.” The words leave you too fast. “Quite clearly.” Something flickers across his face—frustration, then immediate regret for it. He takes one step closer, stopping well short of you. “I know what I said.”
“Do you?” You fold your arms because your hands are unsteady and you refuse to let him see that. “In there, you looked me in the face and called Wrotham a mistake in better tailoring.”
“I did not call it a mistake.”
“No,” you say, voice thinning at the edges despite your best efforts. “You called it outside the terms. How much kinder.” He inhales slowly, visibly, like a man trying not to break something fragile with the force of his own temper. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then perhaps you should stop speaking in duty when you mean to address me.”
His mouth hardens, but not at you. At himself. At the truth of it. “You think I do not know that?” he asks quietly. “I have spent two weeks knowing it.” You blink. The hurt in you does not lessen. It sharpens. “Two weeks,” you repeat. “And still you chose that.”
“I chose control,” he snaps, then checks himself instantly, lowering his voice. “Because I have been losing it everywhere else.” The words hang between you, abrupt and too honest for the room they are in. You lift your chin. “And I am what suffers when you decide to recover it?”
His gaze cuts to yours. “No.” Immediate. Certain. “That is exactly what I have been trying to prevent.”
You do not answer. The silence pushes him. Seungcheol steps closer, and when he speaks, the anger in him has gone silent—made raw by emotion. “What happened at Wrotham was not part of our arrangement,” he says, and for one blinding second the wound opens fresh—until he continues, voice frayed at the edges, “because what happened at Wrotham had nothing to do with the arrangement at all.”
You go still. He looks at you like the confession hurts. “I said it badly in there. God, I know I did. I was trying to say I cannot keep pretending that what is between us sits neatly inside anything I planned.” Seunghceol takes another step. Close enough that you can see how tightly he is holding his hands at his sides. “I have tried,” he says. “For two weeks. Duty. Work. Business. Every sensible thing I know how to bury myself in. And every time I think I have managed it, I remember your mouth and I stop being sensible.”
Your throat tightens so suddenly you hate him for it. “Do not say things like that when you have just spent an entire night making me feel like an embarrassment you must tidy away.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“What else should I think?” you fire back, finally losing the carefulness you have worn all Season. “You avoid me for two weeks, then speak of duty and arrangement and control as if I am some error in your schedule. You dance with another woman. You—” Your voice catches. You hate that too. “You looked at me as if you were forcing yourself to.”
He stares at you for too long. Then, very softly: “I looked at you like a man trying not to drag you out of the room.” The air leaves your lungs. Seungcheol closes his eyes, as if he did not intend to say that either. When he opens them, he does not look away. “I danced with her because if I stood still any longer while you let that fool put his hands on you, I would have caused a scene Lady Halstead would dine out on for years.”
Something hot and helpless turns in your chest. You hate the relief. You hate how quickly your body believes him. “You do not get to speak as if I belong to you,” you whisper.
“I know.” An exhale. “And still I cannot seem to watch another man touch you and feel anything I am proud of.”
You should leave. Right now. While the floor still feels steady beneath you, and your heart is merely loud instead of reckless. Instead, you ask, because you are as doomed by honesty as he is, “Then what is it you feel?” He comes closer. This time he does not stop until there is only breath between you. His hand lifts, hesitates near your cheek, and falls back to his side—not from disinterest, but because he is waiting. It is the waiting that nearly ruins you. “Everything I was not supposed to,” Seungcheol says. You shake your head as if you can physically shake sense back into the moment. “You are impossible.”
“You have said that before.”
“Because it remains true.” Your voice is thin, breath-frayed. “You anger me. You command rooms as if you own the air in them. You speak in rules and then break them yourself. You make me feel—”
He leans a fraction closer. “What?” You swallow. Hard. “Unsteady.” Something in him softens so visibly it is almost unbearable. “You make me unsteady, too.”
You stare at him. He looks tired. Beautiful. Undone in a way only you can see because everyone else gets the Viscount, the stonework, the precision. You get the man standing in an orangery asking for words he has no practice saying. Your anger is still there. So is the hurt. So is the bruised pride. But underneath all of it, something older and more honest rises and reaches for him. You grab his lapel. “I should hate you,” you whisper. His gaze drops to your mouth. “I know.” He murmurs. “And if you kiss me anyway, I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for your poor judgment.” A broken sound—half laugh, half sob—leaves you. Then you pull him down and kiss him.
He answers like he has been starving. Hunger held in careful hands until you open your mouth to him and he makes a low, wrecked sound into the kiss and gives up the pretence of restraint. His hand comes to your waist, firm and warm, drawing you in as though he is afraid you might disappear again if he does not keep hold of you. You kiss him harder.
He turns you gently, guiding rather than pressing, until the backs of your knees meet the edge of a low stone border near one of the planters. He breaks from your mouth only to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips again, as if he cannot quite decide where he wants to begin now that he is allowed. “You are shaking,” he murmurs against your skin. “So are you.” Seungcheol’s mouth curves against your throat. “Yes.”
The admission is so soft it feels intimate all on its own. You slide your hands up his chest, over the broad line of his shoulders, to his cravat. Your fingers work at the knot and he stills for you, eyes on your face while you tug the fabric loose. When it slackens, he exhales as if something in him unclenches with it. He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Then your wrist. Then the pulse there, slow and intentional, eyes never leaving yours. “Seungcheol…”
He answers by touching your face—finally—his palm warm along your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” You stare at him, heart pounding. Then you shake your head and kiss him again. Whatever remains of his restraint melts. He sinks with you to the floor, careful of your skirts, your limbs, the hard tile beneath. His coat comes off and he folds it under you without thought, the same maddening instinct to make comfort where he can. You should laugh at him for it. Instead, your heart aches.
Your gloves are worked free and set aside. Seungcheol kisses the inside of your palms when he bares them. You undo his waistcoat with impatient fingers while he nuzzles beneath your jaw, mouthing soft, open kisses that make your head fall back against the dark wool of his coat. His hands find the back of your gown. He pauses. You nod once, already breathless.
He opens your dress with reverence that borders on worship—hooks eased loose, ribbons drawn through, layers parted only as needed, every shift of fabric accompanied by a glance to your face as if he would rather burn alive than miss the moment you hesitate. The room seems to narrow to his hands and your breathing. When he loosens your stays enough for you to inhale fully, the relief steals a moan from you. He freezes, searching your face. “Too tight?”
You catch his wrist and guide his hand lower, beneath the loosened edge of your bodice, over the heat of your skin. “No.” Your voice comes out soft, unsteady, far more yielding than either of you expected. “Just… don’t stop.” His eyes darken with something that is not triumph but awe. He kisses you again—slow, deep, almost careful until you arch into him and the care roughens into need. Your hands move inside his shirt, pushing linen apart, palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest and the heat of him. He shudders when your nails drag lightly over his skin. “You undo me too easily,” he breathes against your mouth. “Good.” The word is barely more than a whisper, but it makes him kiss you even harder.
When his hand slips beneath your skirts, you part your legs for him instinctively. The first touch of his thumb against your clit pulls a helpless cry from your throat. He stills just long enough to look at you, a silent question in the pause. You answer by lifting your hips toward his hand. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the words are so soft, so devastatingly fond, that your whole body melts. He touches you again.
His fingers slide through the slick heat between your folds, circling your entrance in slow, precise strokes, before dipping in. He learns you in real time—what makes your breath catch, what makes your thighs tense around his wrist, what makes your mouth fall open on his name. “God, look at you,” he breathes, eyes fixed as much on your face as on his hand between your legs. Seungcheol curls his digits, drawing each upwards stroke out until you’re almost shaking with it; when your hips jerk up in protest, he huffs a soft, frayed laugh and does it again, watching you fall apart. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the back of his neck, losing track of where to hold because the pleasure keeps building, flooding, pulling you under in warm, rolling waves. “Seungcheol—” you gasp, the syllables breaking. “Please, I—”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your cheek, the top of your breasts—words brushing your skin as soft as his kisses. “Let go for me. I have you.” You do. Your body seizes and then releases for him almost instinctively, the fight draining out of your limbs as your orgasm crests hard and hot. It rushes through you in a sharp, blinding sensation; your thighs clamp around his arm, and a high, broken whine spills from you, impossible to swallow back. He keeps you there, his fingers working you gently through it, praising you under his breath, his hand never leaving your soaked core until your breathing turns ragged and your inner muscles spasm around him. You cling to him, dazed, pulse thundering against his mouth where he kisses the spot just below your ear.
When you finally manage to focus, you realise he’s shaking—subtle tremors running through his arms and shoulders with effort, with his own need held in check for your sake—and something in you melts completely. Your hands go to his face, thumbs brushing the flush along his cheekbones. “Come here,” you whisper, voice breathless, invitation threaded through every quiet word. He looks wrecked by the invitation alone, pupils blown wide, lips parted like the air has been punched from him. You undo more of his shirt with unsteady fingers, pushing it aside to bare the heat of his chest, and he helps you in silence, clumsy in his urgency. He kisses you between each hurried movement as if he cannot bear to let more than a heartbeat pass without touching you somewhere. When your hand slips lower, over the hard line of his stomach to the ridge of his cock straining beneath his trousers, he exhales your name like a prayer. The sound is rough, wrecked, dragged from somewhere deep, and it runs straight through you. His hips jerk once, instinctive, a helpless push into your palm before he catches himself. He grabs your wrist gently, brings your fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss against your digits, then guides your hand back to his chest. “Later,” he breathes. “If we start that now, I won’t be patient with you the way I should.” You feel the shiver that goes through him as he says it, the hard, undeniable proof of how much he wants you, and your whole body answers with a fresh, helpless ache. He settles between your legs, caging you against the floor. His weight is a comfort, his warmth a shield. “Look at me,” he whispers. You do. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb sweeping once along your skin. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Anything at all.” You nod, drawing him down by the nape of his neck. “I will,” you breathe. “I promise.”
There’s a brief, fumbling shift of his weight; you feel the subtle drag of fabric as he reaches between your bodies, the muted clink of buttons, the quick, unsteady exhale against your mouth as he frees himself from the last barrier between you. Then he’s there again, closer than before, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive centre with no more cloth in the way. The first careful thrust of him inside steals the air from both your lungs. He pushes forward slowly, his eyes searching your face even as his own composure frays. You are warm and open and aching for him, and he moves with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten.
When he finally sinks fully into you, filling you with a deep, slow thrust, your mouth opens on a sound you cannot soften. It’s half-gasp, half-moan, the kind of desperate little cry that sounds like you’ve been holding it in for years. His eyes slam shut. A strained, reverent groan leaves him at the same time, low in his chest, torn straight from somewhere under his ribs, and the sound of it—so unguarded, so full of feeling—makes your hands fly to the back of his neck to hold him there, as if you could keep him from slipping away. He kisses you through the first roll of his hips, all softness and heat and impossible patience. His free hand lands at your waist, braced just where you need it as he rocks into you, letting your body learn the girth of him. “There,” he murmurs when some deep, clenched part of you finally yields to the size of him, when the sharp edge of stretch gives way to something molten and unbearably good. “That’s it. Just like that.” You moan into his shoulder, fingers digging into his back, no longer caring how loud you might be, no longer caring about the walls or the glass or the woman who owns this house. The world narrows until there is only the glide of his cock within your walls, the weight of his body on top of yours, and the heat of his breath against your ear.
Your knees fall wider, skirts bunched around your midriff, and your hips rise to meet each slow thrust. The effect is instant—his breath shatters on a curse against your throat, his next thrust losing its perfect control as he follows your lead. “God,” Seungcheol whispers against your lips, already half-lost. “You feel…” The sentence breaks on a groan when you move with him just right, and he laughs softly, helplessly, kissing you again like he can’t help himself. “No. I cannot speak and survive this.” You smile against his mouth, drunk on him, and then the smile melts into a whimper when he slides the hand that was around your waist under your backside to haul you up, the new angle lighting up every nerve. Your thighs straddle his, and the position allows him to thrust deeper, faster, driving any coherent thought from your mind. His hand slides between your bodies, and his fingers find your aching clit again. The combination is devastating. It’s like being pulled in two directions at once—sharp and soft, pressure and release—until your whole body feels like a live wire, every nerve tuned to the rhythm he sets. A cry spills from you before you can stop it, high and unrestrained.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” Another deep thrust, another circling stroke of his thumb. “Don’t hide from me.” You don’t. You can’t. You can’t. Your moans turn softer, then higher, breaking apart around his name in a way that makes his jaw clench, and his rhythm falter.
The pleasure builds fast—too much and not enough, tight and trembling, a sharp, coiling pull low in your belly that will not let you go. Your thighs shake around his, your fingers slip in the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto something solid as the room seems to tilt. “Seungcheol, I—” The rest breaks off on a choked moan as his thumb circles more tightly, and the head of his cock brushes against the most sensitive part inside you. “I know, love.” The words slip out of him instinctively while his hips keep their rhythm. “Take it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Your orgasm breaks over you all at once. Your core locks around his cock and then releases in a shudder that tears a full, desperate cry from your throat. It rips through you in waves—sharp, dissolving, too much—and you feel yourself come, fingers clawing at his shoulders. He follows not long after—one, two, three thrusts—before his body stutters and then surges. Your name leaves him in a shattered whisper into the space between your lips as he comes and his seed fills you.
The orangerie settles around you again—leaf-rustle, distant music through walls, the thin hush of night at the glass. You look at his profile in the moonlight, hair disordered, mouth reddened from your kisses, shirt open, and the truth arrives with terrible clarity. You love him.
Wrotham is quieter in the morning than any church he has ever entered. Not because the house is empty—it never is, not truly. But this quiet is older than sound. It sits in the walls. It waits in the rails polished by generations of hands. It lingers in the portrait gallery, where men in oil and gilt look out as though blood alone could keep a house from breaking. Seungcheol moves through it alone. He has not come to inspect accounts. He has not come to review tenants’ letters. He has not come because a steward requires correction or a roofline needs repair. He has come because he is out of excuses.
The key to the jewel room turns with familiar resistance. He enters, closes the door behind him, and stands for a moment without moving while the lamps throw their careful light over velvet and glass. Ruby. Sapphire. Diamond. Amber. Emerald. And the onyx. The ring sits where it sat the last time he saw it, dark and patient, as though it knew he would eventually return once he had finished pretending not to understand himself. He unlocks the case. The click sounds indecently loud. When he lifts the ring, the weight of it lands in his palm. Cool gold. Smooth stone. No shimmer. No plea to be admired. It does not flash. His mother chose it for him for a reason, and he has spent years resenting how precisely she knew him. Beside the ring, tucked beneath the velvet lip, lies a sealed letter. His name is written on the front in her hand. Not Viscount Ashbourne. Not my eldest son. Just his name, as if she knew titles would be the first place he hid. He breaks the seal. The paper opens with that soft sound old letters make, like breath released after being held too long. He reads.
My dearest Seungcheol,
If you are opening this, then either you have chosen someone at last—or you are about to make a noble mess of a woman’s life in the name of duty. If it is the second, go wash your face in cold water and begin again. You have always mistaken endurance for virtue and restraint for wisdom. Sometimes you are right. Just as often, you are frightened and call it discipline. If you have found a woman worth standing beside, do not insult her by offering only the useful parts of yourself. A title is not tenderness. Protection is not devotion. Duty may build a house, but it does not warm one.
The onyx was chosen for you because it holds its depth in bright rooms. Let it remind you of this: if you place it on her hand, it is not a claim. It is a vow. That she will not become smaller beside you. That your strength will never be used to cage what you love. If you are afraid, good. Men who feel nothing are never afraid to lose. Tell the truth, my son. And for once, let devotion be the braver thing.
Your mother
He reads it twice. The first time like a son being scolded by a ghost. The second like a man being handed his own reflection and told, with motherly precision, to stop lying to himself. By the end, a short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. Grief is still grief, even when it comes dressed in affection. He folds the letter carefully and slips it inside his coat. The ring remains in his palm, heavy and unignorable. A vow. Not a shield. He closes his fingers around it and exhales. For the first time in weeks, the path ahead does not feel like strategy. It feels like terror and certainty walking side by side.
He leaves Wrotham before noon. By the time he reaches Whitlock House, he is dressed for a proper call and breathing like a man headed for execution. The footman opens the door, sees him, and goes instantly formal in the way servants do when they are about to lie. “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol inclines his head. “I am here to call upon Lady Whitlock.” The footman does not blink. “I am afraid Lady Whitlock is unwell, my lord. She is not receiving callers.” He studies the man’s face. Admirable composure. “What is the nature of her illness?” he asks. A fractional pause. “A headache, my lord.”
“When did it begin?” The footman holds his breath too long. “This morning, my lord.” Seungcheol’s mouth nearly twitches despite the war in his chest. “Of course.”
Before the footman can attempt another defence, Georgina appears. She is bright-eyed, unbothered, and assessing him with unnerving accuracy. She takes one look at his face and understands enough to become, for once, efficient instead of theatrical. “Thomas,” she says sweetly to the footman, “you are a dreadful liar. Kindly stop suffering for our household’s honour.” The footman bows and retreats with the expression of a man who has survived many Whitlock women and expects no reward for it. Georgina turns back to Seungcheol. “She is not ill. She is hiding.” He nods his head. “I gathered as much.”
Georgina steps closer, lowering her voice. There is no mockery in it—only sharp, sisterly warning. “Back garden. Near the old rose wall.” Her gaze flicks once to his coat pocket, then back to his face. “I am telling you because I am tired of watching two intelligent people behave like wounded aristocrats from a novel.” A pause. “If you upset her, I shall make Halbrook shoot very badly in your direction.”
Seungcheol almost smiles. “I will do my best to avoid being shot.” Georgina steps aside, something approving flashing in her expression. “Do better than that, my lord.”
He goes through the house, past a corridor lined with family miniatures, through a side door opened by a maid who pretends not to stare, and out into the back garden where late spring has begun. You are exactly where your sister said you would be. Near the old rose wall, armed with pruning shears you are not currently using, standing very still in front of a rosebush that does not need your attention. You hear the door before you hear him. Your shoulders tense. You do not turn. He stops several feet away. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you turn. And there, all at once, Seunghceol feels the thing that has been chasing him since Lady Halstead’s orangery: not simply wanting you, not simply missing you, not simply anger at himself for what he said—fear. Fear that he has made you believe the wrong story about him and about what passed between you. Fear that he is already too late.
You knew he would come eventually. That is the most humiliating part. Not that he is here. Not that Georgina betrayed you in all of five minutes. Not even that your stomach dropped so fast when you heard his voice in the hall that you had to grip the stone edge of the rose wall to remain upright. The humiliating part is that some vicious, hopeful piece of you has been listening for him since the orangery. You turn and find him standing in your garden as if he belongs there. Perfectly dressed, of course. Coat immaculate. Hair neat. Gloves in one hand. The other close to his coat pocket, like he has come holding on to something he does not trust himself to reveal too quickly. Your pulse gives one hard, traitorous beat. You refuse to let your voice do the same. “My lord. You were told I am very ill.”
Warmth flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, I was informed.”
“You should not approach me, then.” You tilt your chin. “Contagion.” He exhales through what might have been a laugh in a kinder universe. “If wit were contagious, all of London would be unsafe.”
You hate that the line sounds like him again—the man from Wrotham, from the library and the pavilion, not the one in Lady Halstead’s ballroom who cut you open with one sentence. You set the shears down because your fingers are too tight around them and because stabbing a viscount in your mother’s rose garden is probably poor form. “Why are you here?” you ask. His gaze does not leave your face. “To speak properly.”
You decide to strike first, because fear has always worn precision best in your body. “If you’ve come to propose because of what happened at Lady Halstead’s, do not.” He goes very still. You keep going before courage can fail. “I know what the world expects after that kind of intimacy. I know what men call ‘honour’ when they are trying to cover up guilt. I know what duty looks like. I have spent years arranging my life around other people’s versions of it.” Your throat tightens. “You do not owe me a rescue from my own choices.” His jaw flexes. “If this is guilt, I will not take it. If it is protection, I will not be purchased by it. If it is scandal management, choose a better strategy than me.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there is no anger there. No distance. Only a kind of fierce, exhausted resolve that makes your breath catch in your lungs. “Are you quite finished?” he asks quietly. The question should offend you. It does not. It sounds like a man asking whether he may stop bleeding through his teeth and finally tell the truth. “No,” you say, because pride is a sickness and you are apparently violently ill. “But continue.”
That earns a short, helpless laugh from him. He reaches into his coat. He draws out the onyx ring. You recognise it at once. Old gold. Dark stone. The ring you saw at Wrotham behind glass, untouched and waiting. Your mouth goes dry. He looks at the ring in his hand, then back at you. “I went to Wrotham this morning.” You swallow. “I opened my mother’s letter.”
Something in your face must change, because his expression softens—not in triumph, but in recognition. He knows exactly what that admission costs him. He comes closer. Another step. Then another. You do not move. “You were right to be angry,” he says. “At the first ball. At Wrotham. At Halstead’s. I have hidden behind duty so long I speak it even when it is the wrong language for the truth.” His fingers close around the ring, hard enough to whiten at the knuckles. “So I will not use that language now.”
Your pulse is loud enough that you are convinced he can hear it. He stops in front of you, close enough that the roses at your back brush your skirts when the wind moves. “I am not here because of guilt,” he declares. “I am not here because you need saving. I am not here because of gossip, or the ton, or what happened at Halstead’s, though I will answer for all of it if I must.” He inhales deeply. “I am here because I love you.”
You forget to breathe. The garden remains. The house remains. Somewhere inside, Georgina is almost certainly restraining herself from storming outdoors and demanding progress. The world around you does not stop turning.
He keeps going, because of course he does. Because once Seungcheol chooses honesty, he does not do it by halves. “I love your temper. I love the way you hold a room without begging it to notice. I love the way you steady your sisters and think no one sees what it costs you. I love that you challenge me when I deserve it and when I do not. I love that you make me a worse strategist and a better man in the same breath.”
Heat floods your face so quickly it hurts. Your eyes sting. You hate that too. He glances down at the ring, then back to you, and for the first time since you have known him, there is no armour left between you—only a man standing upright inside his hope. “Duty built the arrangement,” he says. “It may have brought me to your door. But duty means nothing to me now if you are not beside me.” His voice catches, then steadies. “I do not want a wife I can protect from a distance. I want you. In my house. In my days. In all the difficult years after society grows bored and turns its attention elsewhere.”
You hear your own voice come out thin, disbelieving, and far more wounded than you meant it to sound. “At Halstead’s, you said what happened at Wrotham was not part of the arrangement.” He nods immediately. “It was not.” He steps close enough now that if you lifted your hand, it would find him without effort. “I said it badly because I was trying to speak like a careful man in a crowded room when I was one breath from saying too much. What happened at Wrotham was not part of any plan I made.” His gaze drops to your mouth and returns, open and wrecked. “That is exactly why it mattered.”
He opens his hand and lifts the ring between thumb and forefinger. The onyx catches nothing. It drinks the daylight. “This is not a claim,” he whispers. “It is not a leash. It is not me asking you to become smaller so I can feel stronger. It is a vow, if you want it. If you choose me. That I will stand with you—and ask you to stand with me.”
There it is. Not belong to me. Not let me save you. Not be sensible. Stand with me. Your throat closes around a hundred answers. Most of them impossible. One of them true enough to terrify you. You look at the ring. You look at his hand, steady only because he is forcing it so. You look at his face and see him without title or plan standing between you: the man from the library, the pavilion, the orangery floor—the man who can be severe as a blade and gentle as prayer at the same time.
You think of Georgina laughing at Wrotham. Of Cecily unfolding, slowly, into herself. Of the weight in your spine easing for the first time in years because someone strong enough to carry the burden offered to share it—and then had the decency to ask instead of assume. You lift your hand. It trembles. “You are still impossible,” you whisper. His mouth curves, shaky and helpless. “I know.”
You take one more breath and give him the answer that feels like stepping off a cliff and landing on solid ground. “Yes.”
He goes utterly still. For one absurd moment, you think he has not heard. Then his eyes close, and the relief in his face is so naked it nearly undoes you on the spot. When he opens them again, they are bright in a way that has nothing to do with sunlight. “Yes?” he repeats, afraid to trust good news while it is still warm. You almost laugh through the tears you are refusing to let fall. “Yes, Seungcheol. Though if you make me repeat myself, I shall change my mind on principle.”
A real laugh breaks from him then—low, startled, alive. He takes your hand with such care your knees weaken. When the onyx ring slides onto your finger, it is cool and heavy and startlingly right. Not possession. Promise. His thumb brushes your knuckles. Then again, as if checking the ring and hand are both real. You stare at it. Then at him. “It’s very severe,” you murmur, because if you do not say something dry, you may cry, and Georgina will never let you live. His gaze follows yours to the ring. “It suits you.” You lift your brows slowly. “That sounds like an insult.”
“It’s a compliment.”
You do the only sensible thing left to do. You step into him. His exhale leaves him hard from the impact. Then his arms are around you—careful for one second, then not careful at all, pulling you in with an urgency that says he has imagined this and feared it and now cannot quite believe his hands are allowed the reality of it. You press your face to his shoulder and close your eyes. He feels like steadiness and surrender all at once. He feels like home. His mouth brushes your hair, then your temple. “I love you,” he says against your skin. This time, you do not hide behind silence. You pull back just enough to see him. Your hand lifts to his face. His eyes close briefly as your fingers touch his cheek. Your throat feels dry, but you force the words through it because this is something you refuse to keep. “I love you too.” The sentence shakes on the way out. It is still the truest thing you have ever said.
His eyes open. Then his forehead comes to yours, and he laughs under his breath—half relief, half disbelief. “Say it again,” he murmurs. You narrow your eyes through tears and a smile that betrays you completely. “Absolutely not. You heard me the first time.”
His mouth curves. “Cruel.”
“You chose me.”
“Gladly.”
He kisses you then. Not with the desperate, incendiary hunger of the pavilion. Not with the wrecking urgency of the orangery. This kiss is slower. Fuller. No less devastating for it. It feels like a vow learning your name. When he lifts his head, your lips are warm and your breath unsteady and the world looks altered around the edges. He rests his hand over yours, over the onyx on your finger. “Stand with me,” he repeats. You look at the ring. At his hand covering yours. “I will.”
He keeps your hand in his as you turn toward the house together, and for the first time in a very long time, the future does not feel like a burden braced across your shoulders. It feels like something you are walking toward—side by side.
“Sister!” Georgina’s voice barrels down the corridor with all the restraint of a thunderstorm. “If you are still in bed, I will personally drag you out by your ankles—We have been waiting ages—Mingyu is arriving!”
You make a strangled sound that is half laughter, half panic, and lift your head just enough for the world to tilt. Linen. Warmth. The dim gold of morning filtered through heavy curtains. And Seungcheol—decidedly, scandalously—under the blankets, as if the concept of interruption is something that happens to other people. You turn your face into your pillow to muffle a laugh, then call back, voice pitched deliberately bright. “I’m coming!”
You feel Seungcheol shift below you, slow as a cat stretching in the sun. Then his head appears from under the sheets—hair mussed, eyes dark with wicked, lazy satisfaction—and the sight of him like this still does something to your lungs that is profoundly unfair. He looks up at you as though you are the only thing in the world worth devoting time to. “So soon, Viscountess?” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “I’ve only just started.”
You swat his shoulder, light but scolding, and he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it that steals the edge right out of your outrage. “We have duties,” you warn him, trying—trying—to sound stern. He blinks up at you with feigned innocence that would fool no one who has ever lived under this roof. “We do,” he agrees.
You slide out from under the blankets on sheer determination and the knowledge that Georgina will, in fact, break down your door. Cool air skims your naked skin. You reach for your shift and your stays. Behind you, Seungcheol turns onto his back, utterly unbothered, and watches you dress as if it is a sacred painting and he is the only man alive who understands it. His ring—his pinky ring—catches the light when he lifts his hand, onyx gleaming darkly. Your own wedding ring, the matching half set into gold, sits heavy and familiar on your finger—proof and promise and the quietest kind of devotion. He makes an appreciative sound that you pretend not to hear. “If you keep looking at me like that,” you mutter, struggling with a ribbon that suddenly feels determined to ruin you, “we will never leave this room.”
“That,” he says calmly, “is not a tragedy.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder. He smiles like a man with no intention of behaving. “There are, however, other duties I’m much more concerned with,” he adds, voice softening into something more dangerous. You huff, tugging your gown into place. “Oh?” You try to walk around the bed.
He catches you by the wrist and pulls—gentle, unyielding—and you stumble back toward him with an undignified little gasp, landing on the mattress beside his hip. His hand slides to your waist as if it has always lived there. You glare at him, breathless with annoyance you do not feel in any useful way. “And what duties might those be, my lord?” you ask, daring. Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the place where your ribs rise and fall beneath fabric. His hand follows, settling flat against your stomach with an intimacy so simple it makes your throat tighten. He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin. “Making an heir,” he whispers.
Your mouth betrays you into a smile. Because the words should feel like pressure. Expectation. The world’s oldest demand dressed up as romance. But with him—here, like this—they feel like an exciting premise. A vow spoken in laughter and heat and the knowledge that you chose each other. You cup his jaw and pull him into a kiss that tastes like mischief and the life you built in the wreckage of what society expected. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his and let your breath mingle with his. “Well,” you murmur, voice gone soft and treacherous, “you know how particularly important duty is to me.”
His laugh is delighted. “I do,” he says. And then he tugs you down into the sheets again—utterly shameless—while outside your door, Georgina continues to shout about the scandal of lateness and the triumph of Mingyu’s return, and the whole castle carries on as if it hasn’t just been handed its favourite sort of truth: that this is what you always meant when you insisted duty mattered.
A/N: Hello mes chéries, with this, book 1 of my new series is finished! It took a bit longer than expected because I did feel some (positive) pressure, but I'm pleased with the results. As always, I hope you enjoyed it! 💟
[Description: a TikTok video showing someone holding up a Macbook laptop with an incredulous look, with a caption reading "Alan Turing after I bring him to 2026". The person inspects the laptop, and as they do so they say "Oh my god. This is—this is incredible. Like, I just—I can't even comprehend what I'm looking at here. Like, I just never thought that like in a million years society would ever, ever be able to create something like this." They pause and look at the laptop screen, and say "And you said they're both hockey players?" /End description]
if you pitched goncharov vs the dangerous crow boy (who destroys plastic) alongside one another to an outside person and asked them to choose which one was a tumblr fever dream and which one was a real thing published in the real world. i do not think they would choose correctly
जीत गये !!! 🇮🇳🇮🇳
India Women Cricket .. WORLD CHAMPIONS !!
So much pride you have brought for us all ..
CONGRATULATIONS CONGRATULATIONS CONGRATULATIONS !!!!
💃🏻💃🏻🕺👏💪
Pairing: Seungcheol x reader
Word Count: 3.7k
Genre: Pure fluff
Warnings: self-indulgent nerdiness once again, thats it
Summary: When Seungcheol finds out you've married someone else in your little farm game, he takes it upon himself to change things.
Can be read stand alone, original couple made in this fic
thank you to my new amazing friend @hanniehaeo for beta-reading this on such short notice, you came in clutch and I wouldn't be here without you ✊😔
“What do you mean you married someone else?!”
Seungcheol’s outraged voice is only met by a small shrug from where you’re bundled in his blanket, perched in his gaming chair, using his PC to play his copy of Stardew Valley.
In your defense… okay, you don’t have much of one. You didn’t realize that a simple farming game would have a hot emo man waiting in his basement for you to fix his broken computer and heart.
“Sorry, baby,” you say, half-hiding a grin. “But I’m a married woman now. Anyway, the more relevant question is—what should Sebastian and I name our kid?”
The sound Seungcheol makes behind you is somewhere between a scoff and an actual growl. “Your kid? You’ve been playing this save for, what, three in-game months? You barely even upgraded your watering can!”
You swivel slowly in his chair, cocooned like a very smug burrito. “Three in-game months is 3/4ths of a year! Besides, we bonded over shared trauma,” you counter, gesturing at the pixelated couple standing in front of their cozy farmhouse. “He liked me when I was just the weird girl who kept fainting in the mines. That’s real love.”
Seungcheol’s jaw drops. “You fainted because you kept trying to fight slimes with a hoe!”
“And yet,” you say, clicking to pet your virtual dog, “he never judged me. He just stood there in the rain, smoking under that pixel tree, saying mysterious things like ‘What am I going to do today? Probably nothing.’”
Seungcheol groans like you’ve personally offended his soul. “That’s not mysterious, that’s depression!”
You gasp dramatically. “He’s deep, Seungcheol. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I would understand,” he fires back, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder, “if you didn’t just—oh my god, did you name the farm after him?”
You grin at the screen. “Sebby Acres has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
He just stares. “You didn’t even name your real plants, but this guy gets an estate.”
“Love changes people.”
“Yeah, apparently it changes your standards too,” he mutters, crossing his arms as he glares at Sebastian’s pixel sprite. “He’s just… standing there. Doing nothing.”
“He’s thinking,” you defend.
“About what, the void?”
“Maybe,” you whisper dramatically, “maybe me.”
That earns you a loud, disbelieving laugh. “You’re actually insane. You know that, right?”
You click through a few menus, ignoring him. “He made me coffee this morning.”
“Oh, so now we’re romanticizing caffeine dependency?”
“Better than romanticizing being a jealous gamer boyfriend,” you shoot back, smug.
That stops him for half a second—just enough for you to glance up and catch the exact moment he schools his expression, trying not to smile.
“I’m not jealous,” he says finally, voice lower now, softer. “I just think it’s tragic that my girlfriend is out here emotionally cheating with a pixel.”
You grin. “Emotionally cheating? Bold of you to assume it’s not physical.”
His jaw drops. “You did not just say that.”
“Oh, I did.” You spin back toward the screen. “Sebastian’s got those 16-bit biceps for a reason.”
He groans again, but this time it sounds closer to laughter than despair. You can feel him behind you now—his presence warm and looming as he leans down over the back of the chair. His chin brushes your shoulder as he squints at the screen.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice close enough that it sends a little shiver through you, “so what happens if I—” he reaches over you, taking the mouse, “—go into your house and delete your save file?”
You gasp, clutching your blanket like a shield. “That’s a war crime!”
“Oh, it’s justice,” he says, smirking now, the corner of his mouth curling as he hovers over the [Delete] option just to watch you panic.
You twist in the chair to glare up at him. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might,” he says, teasing, but there’s that glint in his eyes—half mischief, half affection. “Maybe then you’ll stop flirting with trench-coat Minecraft boy and pay attention to your real-life boyfriend.”
You hold his gaze for a beat, heart skipping in that annoying, traitorous way it does when he’s too close. Then you say, voice quiet but pointed, “You wanna start a new save together?”
He pauses, just for a second, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and taking a deep breath. You can feel the hesitation before his hair brushes your skin as he nods.
“Even though it's a ‘boring farm game with limited rpg capabilities and—”
“Yes, yes, okay! I was wrong. M’sorry.” He pouts into your shoulder, “Promise to never judge your taste in games again. Just… marry me in our save?”
You bite back a smile, trying not to sound too triumphant. “I’ll consider it.” You turn your head to press a kiss to the top of his. “Dork.”
Seungcheol hums against your skin, the sound low and satisfied—like a man who’s just won a battle he didn’t actually fight. “ ‘Consider it,’ ” he echoes, voice muffled against your neck. “That’s not a yes.”
“That’s a maybe,” you correct, scrolling back to your cozy pixel house. “You’ll have to prove yourself worthy first.”
He leans back just enough for you to see the mock offense on his face. “Worthy? You’re acting like I have to duel Sebastian for your hand.”
You don’t look away from the screen as you murmur, “You could try, but he’s got a motorcycle.”
Seungcheol scoffs. “Oh, please. I’ve got a car.”
“Yeah, but can your car brood under the moonlight?”
“I can brood under the moonlight!” he protests, and you lose it—bursting into laughter that makes the chair spin slightly. He catches it before it can whirl too far, one hand steady on the armrest, the other landing lightly on your knee, caging you in and surrounding you with his warmth.
“See?” he says softly, the teasing edge fading to something gentler. “I can brood, I can farm, I can mine—hell, I’ll even water crops every morning if that’s what it takes.”
You blink at him. “You hate resource management.”
“I hate losing you to a pixel more.”
That earns him a snort, but the warmth that blooms in your chest gives you away. You tilt your head, studying him from under your blanket hood. “You’d actually play with me?”
“I’d actually play with you,” he repeats, earnest this time. “Even if I die every five minutes in the mines.”
You grin, leaning closer until your noses almost bump. “Then we can faint together.”
He laughs—a bright, unguarded sound—and before you can say another word, he kisses you. Just a small one, soft and warm, like punctuation on a joke that suddenly got too sincere.
When you pull back, you whisper, “You’re trying to distract me.”
Seungcheol’s smile is slow and lopsided, still close enough that you can feel his breath when he answers, “Is it working?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Maybe.”
He chuckles, thumb brushing idly against your knee through the blanket. “Guess I’ll have to try again—hey! You’re not supposed to go back to your game!” He whines as you spin the chair back to face the screen.
“Why not?” you tease. “Keeps you guessing. Builds character.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of character,” he says, voice dropping just a little as he leans in again, lips brushing the skin under your ear. “I’m literally offering to play farm husband, and you’re still playing hard to get.”
“Correction,” you say, spinning back toward the monitor with a grin, “I’m playing hard to marry.” You click a few times, pretending to focus very seriously on harvesting your pixelated strawberries. “There’s a difference.”
He exhales through a laugh, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” you sing-song, clicking to water your crops. “Let me just finish this day and I’ll start us a new save file, m’kay, you big baby?”
He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your back. “You just called me a big baby while wrapped in my blanket, stealing my chair, and emotionally cheating on me with a two-dimensional man.”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
He huffs out a laugh, “Clearly not enough, if you’re settling for emo-boy.” He replies as he hooks his chin over your shoulder again, watching you play with that soft, restless energy he always gets when he’s trying not to admit he’s enjoying himself. His thumb starts tracing idle circles against your leg, absent-minded but distracting.
Finally, after you finish the day and save, you click back to the main menu and open a new save folder. “Go get the switch.”
He’s up before you can even finish, Nintendo Switch in hand as you create the farm and add him. You only pause to yelp when he lifts you out of the chair to settle instead with you in his lap, his arms around you, and his chin tucked over your shoulder so he can see what he’s doing.
“Clingy.” You mutter, pecking his cheek as you set up the new game. “Name suggestions?”
He hums, pretending to think very seriously as his hands settle around your waist. “Hmm… Revenge Acres.”
You blink. “Revenge?”
“For the fallen Sebastian,” he says solemnly, eyes locked on the screen. “May his emo soul rest in pixels.”
You snort, nearly dropping the controller. “You’re insufferable.”
“Or—hear me out—‘Farmy McFarmface.’”
“Absolutely not.”
He grins, delighted at your horror. “Okay, fine, fine. What about… Coups Crops?”
You stare at him flatly. “That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you,” he says proudly. “I try.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “We’re naming it something cute. Something wholesome. Like—” You pause dramatically. “Snugglefield.”
Seungcheol physically recoils. “Snugglefield?! You’re going to make me farm turnips on Snugglefield?!”
“You’d rather live on Coups Crops?” you shoot back, turning in his lap to raise a brow.
“Yes! It’s branding!” He gestures broadly. “Imagine: local farmer S.Coups, humble provider of the valley’s finest parsnips.”
You can’t help laughing at that. “Fine, farmer Coups, but if you ever actually refer to yourself like that again, I’m divorcing you.”
He grins wide, unbothered. “You can’t divorce me if you never say yes.”
“Oh, so now it’s blackmail?”
“Strategic patience,” he says, fingers squeezing gently at your sides until you squirm.
“Mm, that’s cheating,” you warn, even as you’re giggling. “You can’t just tickle me into saying yes.”
“I can try,” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough that your breath catches. “But I’d rather earn it.” He presses his lips to your neck, softly kissing the sensitive skin.
“Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You type Coup’s Crops and Co. Farm into the [Farm Name] field before selecting a type (four corners because you’re co-opping and it's clearly the only correct answer) and loading up the new farm.
“Why am I in a different house than you?” You can feel Cheol’s pout against your neck, and you laugh.
“Because you’re my farmhand. How inappropriate would a farmhand in the main house be?”
Seungcheol lets out an incredulous scoff, the kind that vibrates against your back because he’s still got his chin hooked over your shoulder. “Farmhand? Excuse me—” he reaches forward to poke your screen accusingly, “—I am co-owner material, at the very least. You think I’m waking up at 6 a.m. to water your crops for free?”
You stifle a laugh. “Technically, you’d be waking up at 6 a.m. because I’d make you.”
“Oh, so now I’m your underpaid labourer and your husband-in-waiting?” he deadpans.
You hum thoughtfully. “Sounds accurate.”
He narrows his eyes. “This is a scam.”
“Welcome to marriage.”
That makes him groan—loud and dramatic, like you’ve just told him he’s being exiled to the mines forever. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”
You grin, smug. “I am aware.”
The first few minutes of the game are chaos. You both spawn into the pixel farm surrounded by weeds, rocks, and trees—your avatar immediately starts chopping trees with your axe while Seungcheol’s stands there doing absolutely nothing.
“Cheol,” you say, suspicious, “why are you just standing there?”
“I’m observing the land,” he says sagely. “Assessing productivity potential.”
“Translation: you forgot what button makes you move.”
“...That too,” he mutters.
You giggle and hand him a quick tutorial rundown, watching his character start to move in clumsy little jerks across the field. He immediately starts cutting down grass with his scythe.
“Don’t cut that down! We need it for the animals once we build a silo!" you cry.
“It’s in the way!”
“You’re starving our future chickens and ruining my vision!”
He pauses, his avatar mid-swing, then looks over at you in real life with that slow, knowing smirk. “You mean our vision, boss.”
You turn to glare at him, but he looks way too pleased with himself, leaning back in his seat and drumming his fingers against your waist like he’s keeping score.
“Fine,” you say, feigning exasperation. “You can have a say in our vision. What’s your idea, Mr. Efficiency?”
He leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to drop the world’s greatest strategy. “Simple. We build one big field. No decorations, no fences, just pure money-making crops.”
You stare at him, horrified. “So… you want to make a corporate farm?”
He grins, unashamed. “Coup’s Crops, LLC.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“That’s capitalism.”
“That’s worse than Joja.” You swat at his arm, laughing so hard your character stops moving entirely. “We’re not doing this. We’re gonna have flowers and beehives and cute scarecrows, and maybe—” you click a few times, placing a chest by your cabin, “—a little pond area where we can sit together.”
“...You’re making a kissing spot, aren’t you?”
You pause. “I’m making an ambiance.”
He lets out a low laugh and presses a kiss to the side of your jaw, catching you off guard. “Sure, baby. Ambiance.”
You nudge him with your elbow, trying not to smile too widely. “You’re supposed to be chopping wood, not flirting with your boss.”
“I multitask,” he says smoothly, returning his focus to the game—though his hands never quite leave you, thumbs tracing slow circles on your waist.
A few quiet minutes pass like that—soft music from the game, faint tapping of keys, the occasional ping of harvested wood—until he breaks the silence again.
“So,” he says casually, “when do I get to move into your house?”
You grin, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe after your first successful harvest.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he complains immediately. “Sebastian didn’t have to harvest anything to get into your house.”
“Sebastian had emotional depth,” you tease, deadpan.
He gasps. “I have pecs!”
You nearly choke on your laughter. “Not the same thing, Cheol.”
He turns you slightly in his lap, enough to catch your eye with a mock glare that’s betrayed by his smile. “Oh, it’s exactly the same thing. Wait till you see me water these crops. You’ll be proposing to me by the end of the season.”
You arch an eyebrow, amused. “Confident, aren’t you?”
He grins, leaning in until his nose brushes your temple. “Farmer Coups doesn’t need confidence. He’s got irrigation.”
You groan, half laughing, half sighing. “If you make one more irrigation joke, I’m marrying Shane next.”
He stiffens. “The chicken guy?!”
You smirk. “He gives me beer.”
Seungcheol squints, pretending to process that like you’ve actually betrayed him. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No. Nope. That’s it.”
You blink. “What are you—hey!”
Because he’s already reaching past you, grabbing your mouse, muttering, “War crime time.”
“CHEOL—don’t you dare delete this save!”
“I’m saving it!” he insists, laughing now, “And we’re going to bed. It’s almost midnight.”
“Still early by your usual hours!” You argue as you make an attempt to grab the mouse back, but he’s stronger, and it devolves into chaos—tickling, laughing, your blanket half falling off, his voice all smug and breathless as he says, “Say you’ll marry me and I’ll stop.”
You freeze for a heartbeat, cheeks warm, eyes meeting his—he’s still grinning, but there’s a softness underneath, something a little too real.
The laughter fades just enough for the sound of your breathing to fill the space between you—shallow, uneven, caught somewhere between teasing and something that feels a lot like the truth.
“Say you’ll marry me,” he repeats, quieter this time. The playful lilt is still there, but it’s gentler now, the edge rounded by sincerity.
You blink up at him, still half-tangled in the blanket, your hair a mess, and your cursor hovering over the in-game farmhouse. “In the game,” you clarify, but your voice wavers just slightly, and he catches it—of course he does.
His grin softens, that dimple showing for just a second before he dips his head closer. “Sure,” he murmurs, “in the game.” His eyes flick toward your screen. “But, you know… maybe also not just in the game.”
You laugh, breathless and a little flustered. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whisper, trying to sound lighter than you feel.
For once, Seungcheol doesn’t immediately joke back. Instead, his grin falters—just slightly—and when he looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Still warm, still mischievous, but threaded through with something steadier that makes your heart stutter
He shifts, the chair creaking under both your weight, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle and grounding, “You think I’m joking?” he asks, quiet enough that the words barely clear the space between you.
All you can do is blink, breath caught in your throat as he goes on.
“I…” He exhales, a soft sound that's half nervous, half fond. “This isn’t how I planned this. I—I bought a ring like, months ago. Fuck, give me a minute.”
He picks you up and sets you down gently on the chair, leaving you wide-eyed as he rushes to rifle through his nightstand before returning with a small velvet box.
“Okay. Fuck, I had this whole plan. Flowers, dinner at the restaurant we had our first date, Jihoon was even gonna play live music like we were in a drama—”
You snort at that, despite the tears welling in your eyes as he takes one of your hands in his, getting on his knee in front of the gaming chair.
“Well, cats out of the bag now, so I guess I’ll just go with it. It’s very us.” He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, but it seems more to ground him than you. “The past three years with you have been… everything. Being able to spend time with you, have your face be the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing I see when I go to sleep… it made me realize that I want that forever. With you. I want every sleepy morning, or loud ones where you forget your keys and yell at me for not reminding you, even though I did.” You let out a shaky laugh, and he smiles, squeezing your hand gently. “I want to argue about our in-game farms and real-life living rooms. I want to grow old hearing you tell me how insufferable I am and how I can’t design for shit.”
You swallow hard, letting the tears fall from your eyes because there was no way you’d let them blur the vision that is Seungcheol in this moment. Your fingers shake where they hold his.
“I don’t care if we’re rich, or if we’re still living off of takeout and late-night gaming sessions,” he continues softly. “I always wanted to build something—a life, a home. But I realized that I can’t have any of that if you aren’t there. Before you, those were just words, but now… now they’re a person. They’re you.”
There’s a beat where neither of you says anything, and the only sound is the hum of the PC, the faint game music looping quietly in the background.
Then, he releases your hand to open the velvet box, revealing a ring that makes you choke out a sob. You’d only talked with him a few times about styles, gems, and rings in general, and this man listened. His hands are steady as he looks up at you, eyes filled with security and hope and fear and love as he murmurs, “Marry me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a confession, an offering.
Your hand comes up almost on instinct, fingers threading into his hair as your forehead presses back against his. “You’re supposed to have music,” you say softly. “And flowers.”
He laughs, the sound low and rough. “You’re supposed to say yes anyway.”
You breathe out a shaky laugh, tears now flowing steadily down your cheeks. “You’re unbelievable.”
He brushes his thumb over your cheek again. “And you love me.”
“I do,” you whisper, and the words feel too big, too right.
His breath catches. “Then marry me.”
You look at him—really look—and realize there’s no version of your life where you wouldn’t.
You nod, smiling through the tears. “Okay,” you say softly. “Yes.”
For a second, he just stares, eyes wide, like his brain short-circuits. Then he laughs—quiet, disbelieving—and presses a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and your mouth, all in a flurry of warmth and relief.
He slips the ring onto your finger with a boyish smile. “This part I did plan,” he says quietly. “Just didn’t plan for you to be already married to some pixel guy first.”
You laugh through your tears, covering your face. “You’re impossible.”