𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯!

어디를 가든지 .•°*𓆩♡𓆪*`*.

[shibarinu0000]

𝙝𝙞 𝙞'𝙢 𝙨𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣!

𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲

𝟗𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧!

​ 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 ¸¸♫·¯·♪¸ 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬  𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝘫𝘶𝘫𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘶 𝘬𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘖𝘧 𝘋𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘪 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘦 & 𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬!

𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘺𝘮 - 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨! .•°*”˜

𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘺! 𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 ˜”*°•.˜

´´•.¸¸.•` 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦 ´´•.¸¸.•` 𝐝𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧

𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫!

[stxrrywoo]

SUICIDE MISSION ── k.ys

“am i dead?” you couldn’t help but burst out laughing at his starstruck expression. tears pooled in your eyes and relief flooding your veins. “no, you’re very much alive.”

during the apocalypse, you end up meeting yeosang, the only known survivor of a zombie bite, and also the man you are tasked with escorting to the capital. it was going to be a rough journey, and you weren't even sure either of you would make it out alive, much less unscathed. so you have to work together in order to overcome hardships and keep each other safe until you make it to your destination. however, when the crucial time comes, will everything still go as planned?

released july 4th, 2025

read here

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[mingiatz]

Yeosang says something in an interview that gets mistranslated and blown out of proportion. Y/N is a game design graduate who accidentally ends up in the same room as ATEEZ, then accidentally in the same restaurant, and then very much not accidentally in a photo that goes viral. She doesn’t care about idol rumors. But suddenly, sitting next to someone means more than it should.

Pairing: Kang Yeosang x Plus Size Reader (Y/N)

Genre: Idol AU, Slow-burn Romance, Social Commentary , Slice of Life, Angst with Comfort

Tropes: Misunderstood Idol, Forced Proximity, Body Positivity (Non-Preachy), Accidental Scandal, Calm Female Lead, Slow, Earned Attraction

Featuring: ATEEZ as themselves, Iseul as y/ns best friend

Main Masterlist | Yeosang’s Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

This is Part 1

The dorm was too quiet for a place that housed eight people.

Yeosang noticed it immediately. Not because silence was unusual, but because it was deliberate. The kind that sat heavy in the corners of the living room, pressed into the cushions of the couch, hummed faintly beneath the glow of the television. Even the fridge seemed to buzz more cautiously than usual. As if aware that one wrong sound might set something off.

He sat on the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, elbows resting against his thighs. The remote felt heavier than it should in his hand.

On the screen, his own face stared back at him.

He looked calm in the interview. Relaxed. The lighting was warm, flattering. His hair sat neatly where the stylists had placed it earlier that day, eyes soft, mouth curved in a small smile that now made his stomach twist.

He knew exactly what was coming.

“Hyung,” Wooyoung said lightly from the armchair, legs thrown over one side, chin propped on his hand. “You don’t have to rewind it again. It’s not going to magically change.”

Yeosang ignored him and pressed play.

The clip ran. The interviewer laughed at something Yunho said off-camera. A harmless question followed. One of those rapid-fire prompts meant to feel casual, friendly. Something about food. Something about preferences.

And then Yeosang answered.

He heard the words again. Heard his own voice. Even, thoughtful, unguarded.

Not cruel.

Not mocking.

Not meant the way people online were saying it was.

But intent didn’t matter once it was cut into a ten-second clip with subtitles added by someone who didn’t speak Korean fluently. It didn’t matter once the tone was flattened, once context was stripped away, once strangers decided what his words meant.

He paused the video right after the line.

The room stayed quiet for a moment longer than necessary.

Hongjoong was the first to sigh. He stood near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the frozen frame of Yeosang’s face on the screen.

“…Yeah,” he said slowly. “I see how they twisted that.”

Yeosang swallowed.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped himself. Saying it out loud felt pointless. Everyone in the room already knew.

San leaned forward from the floor, elbows on his knees. His expression was serious in a way Yeosang didn’t see often outside of practice rooms and late-night talks.

“We know,” San said. “That’s not the problem.”

Seonghwa nodded beside him. “The problem is that people don’t care what you meant. They care what they felt when they heard it.”

Wooyoung clicked his tongue. “Which is stupid,” he added immediately. “Because anyone with ears and a brain...”

“Woo,” Hongjoong warned.

“What?” Wooyoung shot back. “I’m just saying. If this is what they’re going to cancel Yeosang for, then half the industry should already be buried.”

A weak huff of laughter escaped Jongho from the other couch. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to,” Wooyoung insisted. Then he glanced at Yeosang again, eyes softening just a little. “Okay, maybe I’m not. But you look like you’re about to disappear into the couch, hyung.”

Yeosang didn’t respond.

He stared at the paused frame on the TV, at the way his lips were parted mid-sentence, eyes warm, unaware of what would follow. It was strange, seeing himself seconds before everything tipped.

“I should’ve chosen my words better,” he murmured.

Yunho shook his head. “You answered normally. Like a human.”

“That’s the issue,” Seonghwa said quietly. “They don’t want normal. They want perfect.”

Perfect was exhausting.

Yeosang rubbed his palms against his knees, trying to ground himself. His phone lay face-down on the coffee table, screen dark but heavy with notifications he hadn’t opened. He didn’t need to. He already knew what they said.

Fatphobic.

Insensitive.

Disgusting.

Disappointed.

Some were worse.

“I didn’t even think—” He stopped again, breath catching. “I didn’t think anyone would take it like that.”

Hongjoong finally turned away from the screen. “That’s because you don’t think like people who are looking for a reason to be angry.”

The words helped. A little.

Still, shame curled low in Yeosang’s chest. Not the sharp, deserved kind, but something messier. Guilt tangled with frustration. With helplessness. With the awful awareness that his face, his voice, his name were now attached to a narrative he couldn’t control.

San stood and crossed the room, plopping down beside him with no warning. He nudged Yeosang’s shoulder gently.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll deal with it.”

“We always do,” Jongho added.

Wooyoung grinned. “Worst case, you disappear for a bit, grow mysterious, release one devastating performance, and everyone forgets.”

Yeosang snorted despite himself.

But the humor didn’t stick.

Because even as the members joked, even as they circled around him in their familiar way. Teasing, protecting, grounding. Yeosang could feel it. The shift. The moment where this stopped being something they could laugh off.

The consequences were coming.

He just didn’t know yet what form they would take.

The city didn’t feel real.

That was the first thing Yeosang noticed when they stepped outside. Not that it was loud, or busy, or bright, but that it felt thin, like the world had lost a layer of protection. The pavement reflected the evening light in dull patches. Cars passed too slowly. People lingered too long.

Everything felt watchful.

He adjusted the brim of his cap without thinking, fingers lingering there as if it might shield him from more than the moon. The fabric of his mask pressed warm against his mouth, trapping his breath. He exhaled carefully, counting it like he’d been taught once, long ago.

In.

Out.

“Relax,” Wooyoung said beside him, voice deliberately casual. “You’re walking like you just committed a crime.”

Yeosang didn’t answer.

He hadn’t realized he was holding his shoulders that tight until San brushed against him, a quiet grounding presence. Even that small contact made him flinch.

He hated this part. The hyperawareness. The way every sound seemed too sharp, every movement too deliberate. Usually, being with the others diluted it. Today, it only amplified the feeling that he was the reason they were being watched.

They weren’t far from the building when he felt it.

Not heard.

Felt.

That subtle shift in air pressure, the wrongness of footsteps syncing behind them. Yeosang’s skin prickled, instinct flaring before logic could catch up.

Click.

The sound was unmistakable.

He stopped walking before he meant to.

“ATEEZ!”

The name snapped through the evening like a crack of glass.

Hongjoong reacted immediately, body angling forward, already assessing exits, already calculating risk. Wooyoung swore under his breath. Jongho’s hand tightened briefly at Yeosang’s elbow. Not pulling, just there.

Click. Click. Click.

Cameras.

Too close.

“Yeosang!” someone called. “Can you explain what you meant in the interview?”

His heart dropped.

Not sped up. Dropped, like it had missed a step and fallen straight into his stomach.

Keep walking, he told himself.

Don’t answer.

Don’t make it worse.

But his body didn’t listen.

Because this wasn’t a stage.

This wasn’t scripted.

And he was already being misunderstood.

“I didn’t—” His voice slipped out before he could stop it, thin and wrong in his own ears.

Wooyoung hissed his name under his breath.

Yeosang turned despite himself.

The cameras surged forward like they’d been waiting for permission.

“I didn’t mean it the way people are saying,” he said, words tumbling too quickly now. “It wasn’t about anyone’s body.”

A microphone appeared near his face.

“Then what was it about?”

His mind blanked.

Not empty...overcrowded.

Every possible explanation collided at once, each one too long, too nuanced, too easy to twist.

“I was just talking,” he said finally. “Casually. It wasn’t supposed to—”

“Are you saying fans misunderstood you?”

“No,” Yeosang said immediately, panic sharpening his tone. “No, I’m saying the clip doesn’t show everything. Context matters.”

The word matters echoed too loudly.

Someone laughed under their breath.

The flash went off again.

“I’m not fatphobic,” he said, and the moment the sentence formed, it was already wrong. “I don’t think like that.”

Why did that sound like a defense?

Why did everything sound like a defense?

San’s hand closed around his wrist. Firm now, grounding, unmistakable.

“Hyung,” he said quietly. “Stop.”

But Yeosang couldn’t stop hearing it. The accusation looping in his head, warping everything he said around it.

Fatphobic.

Like a label slapped onto his chest.

Like a verdict.

They still got the food.

That was the strangest part to Yeosang. The normalcy of it. The way the van pulled into the familiar lot, the way Wooyoung argued with Jongho about portions, the way Yunho insisted on ordering extra “just in case.” It all happened as if the world hadn’t tilted earlier that evening, as if his name wasn’t already being bent into shapes he didn’t recognize.

The bags were warm when they were handed over. The smell filled the car almost immediately. Fried, salty, comforting.

Yeosang felt his stomach turn.

He stared out the window on the ride back, city lights smearing into long streaks against the glass. His reflection hovered faintly over the passing streets, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. He didn’t look like himself. Or maybe he did, and that was worse.

No one mentioned the food once they were back at the dorm.

That silence was louder than the jokes had been.

They spread out instinctively. Shoes kicked off, jackets draped over chairs, the low hum of the refrigerator opening and closing. Plastic rustled. Chopsticks clinked. Wooyoung complained about the sauce ratio. Jongho told him to shut up.

Yeosang sat down at the table with them because that was what he always did.

He opened his container.

Steam curled up, warm against his face. The smell hit again, heavier this time. His throat tightened.

He picked up his chopsticks. Held them there.

Across from him, Yunho noticed first.

“…You’re not eating,” Yunho said quietly.

Yeosang blinked. Looked down at the food like it had surprised him.

“I will,” he said automatically.

But the thought of swallowing anything made his stomach clench. Every bite felt like it would get stuck halfway down, like his body had decided it didn’t deserve comfort tonight.

He set the chopsticks down.

“I’m just tired,” he added, softer.

No one pushed.

San nudged his knee under the table then kept eating, deliberately casual. Wooyoung shot Yeosang a glance but didn’t tease him. That alone said enough.

Yeosang eventually stood up, container barely touched, and took it to the fridge. He labeled it out of habit. The date looked wrong, like it belonged to a different version of today.

In his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and finally let his shoulders slump.

The quiet crept in again.

He replayed the moment on the street over and over. The way his voice had sounded, the way his words had stacked too fast, the exact second he’d felt control slip through his fingers.

I’m not fatphobic.

Why had he said it like that?

Why did it sound like a confession?

He lay back and stared at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest, counting his breaths until sleep came out of sheer exhaustion.

The first thing he saw in the morning was the video.

Not because he went looking for it. Because it was everywhere.

His phone buzzed nonstop on the bedside table. Notifications stacked on top of each other, vibrating like something alive. He reached for it slowly, already knowing what he’d find.

The thumbnail froze him in place.

His own face, caught mid-sentence. Eyes wide. Mouth open. The wrong moment, forever preserved.

He sat up.

The caption was neutral enough. The comments were not.

He scrolled.

At first, there was relief. Fans defending him, pointing out the mistranslation, urging patience. Familiar usernames. Purple hearts. Long threads explaining context with care.

Then the tone shifted.

This response made it worse.

Why did he get so defensive?

I don’t think he meant harm, but this hurt.

I am disappointed.

That word landed harder than the insults.

Hate was loud, predictable, easy to dismiss if he tried hard enough.

Disappointment was quiet. Disappointment came from people who had believed in him.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, elbows braced on his knees. The phone felt heavy in his hand, like it was pulling him down with it.

When he finally stood and made his way to the living room, the dorm was already awake.

Everyone was there.

The members sat scattered across couches and chairs, postures tense in that familiar way that meant something serious was about to happen. And standing near the window, coffee in hand, was their manager.

Yeosang stopped just inside the doorway.

The manager looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Yeosang bowed instinctively. Too deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before anyone could stop him.

The manager crossed the room in a few steps and placed a hand on Yeosang’s shoulder, steady and warm.

“Don’t,” he said. “Sit.”

Yeosang obeyed, perching on the edge of the couch. His hands folded together in his lap without him noticing.

“We’re having a crisis meeting this morning,” the manager continued. “After… everything last night.”

Yeosang nodded.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I made it worse.”

The manager sighed. Not frustrated, just tired.

“You panicked,” he said. “That happens.”

He paused, studying Yeosang for a moment with something like fond exasperation.

“It really is unfortunate,” he added, almost to himself, “that the most antisocial member ends up with a scandal like this.”

Wooyoung snorted despite the tension.

The manager glanced at him, then back at Yeosang, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“If this had been Wooyoung,” he went on, “he would’ve already gone live, waved his hands around, and told the paparazzi, the interviewer, and half the internet that they’re delusional.”

“That’s true,” Wooyoung said proudly.

“But you,” the manager said, voice softening, “you’re not cut out for that kind of chaos. And that’s not a flaw.”

He squeezed Yeosang’s shoulder, then reached up and ruffled his hair gently. An uncharacteristically familiar gesture.

“We’ll fix this,” he said. “Somehow. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Yeosang’s throat tightened.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

The manager gave his head one last reassuring pat before straightening.

“Get ready,” he said. “We’ll talk through options. Carefully.”

As he turned away, Yeosang sat there, heart heavy but steadier than it had been all night.

They believed him.

That had to be enough for now.

The meeting room smelled like coffee that had been reheated too many times.

Yeosang noticed that before anything else. The faint bitterness in the air, the way it clung to the back of his throat. The table was too long. The chairs were too stiff. The walls were decorated with framed achievements that suddenly felt very far away from him.

This was not a room you entered unless something had gone wrong.

He sat near the end, hands folded in his lap, posture straight out of habit. Hongjoong sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The rest of the members filled the chairs along the table, quieter than usual, eyes tracking the door every time it opened.

Management had brought reinforcements.

That alone told Yeosang how bad it was.

The PR team filtered in one by one. A mix of familiar faces and strangers, all with the same measured expressions. Laptops opened. Notepads slid into place. Someone dimmed the lights just enough for the screen at the front of the room to glow.

The first slide appeared.

A screenshot of the video.

His face again.

Yeosang swallowed.

“Okay,” the team lead said, hands clasped. “Let’s ground ourselves first.”

Grounding sounded optimistic.

“The situation,” she continued, “is not catastrophic. But it is volatile.”

Yeosang flinched internally.

Volatile meant one wrong move away from explosion.

“The initial backlash,” another PR rep added, “was manageable. The paparazzi interaction shifted the tone.”

Shifted was a gentle word for set it on fire.

No one said his name. No one needed to.

A graph appeared. Sentiment analysis, color-coded. Yeosang didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough. Yellow turning orange. Orange flirting with red.

“This,” the team lead said, tapping the screen, “is disappointment. That’s what we need to address.”

Not hate.

Disappointment.

Yeosang stared at the graph until it blurred.

“I didn’t want to argue,” he said quietly, surprising himself by speaking at all. “I just… panicked.”

The room stilled.

The team lead turned to him, expression calm. “That’s clear. And human.”

She paused. “Unfortunately, the internet is not.”

A few of the members huffed weakly.

“We’re not here to scold you,” the manager added quickly, glancing at Yeosang. “We’re here to protect you.”

Protect.

The word felt fragile.

Another slide appeared: Potential Responses.

Formal apology statement

Clarification interview

Temporary hiatus

Contextual reframing

Each option felt heavier than the last.

Wooyoung squinted at the screen. “Those all sound terrible.”

“They are,” the team lead said pleasantly.

Seonghwa leaned forward. “So what does work?”

That was when Yeosang noticed her.

She sat slightly apart from the others, posture relaxed, legs crossed, hands folded loosely on the table. She hadn’t spoken yet. Her hair was pulled back simply, expression attentive but amused. Like she was watching a story unfold rather than a crisis.

Something about her tugged at Yeosang’s attention.

Not recognition, just familiarity. Like a face you’d seen in passing more times than you could count.

She caught him looking and smiled politely.

He looked away immediately.

“Before we jump to solutions,” she said suddenly, voice warm and confident, “we need to talk about narrative repair.”

The room turned toward her.

“This isn’t about proving Yeosang isn’t something,” she continued. “That only reinforces the accusation. What you want is to overwrite the story.”

Hongjoong tilted his head. “How?”

She leaned back slightly. “By introducing a counter-narrative that feels organic.”

Wooyoung blinked. “You make it sound like fanfiction.”

A corner of her mouth twitched.

“That’s not an accident.”

Several people looked confused.

She gestured toward the screen, now frozen on Yeosang’s face mid-sentence. “Right now, the public story is: ‘He said something hurtful, then got defensive.’ That’s the arc.”

Yeosang winced.

“We need a different arc,” she said. “One that reframes him as someone who exists in relationship to the people affected.”

San frowned. “You mean… like listening?”

“Yes,” she said. “But listening alone is invisible.”

She paused, then added lightly, “You need something people can see.”

Yeosang’s stomach tightened.

“What are you suggesting?” the manager asked carefully.

The woman hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. Then she straightened.

“He needs a friend.”

The room went quiet.

“A what?” Jongho asked.

“A friend,” she repeated. “Someone who contradicts the narrative simply by existing next to him.”

Yeosang’s pulse spiked.

“That sounds…” Yunho searched for the word. “Risky.”

“Insane,” Wooyoung offered.

She smiled wider. “Effective.”

The team lead frowned. “We’re not tokenizing someone.”

“Of course not,” the woman said smoothly. “That would be unethical.”

Yeosang had a sudden, terrible feeling.

“But,” she continued, “what if this friend already exists?”

Yeosang’s breath caught.

“What if,” she went on, carefully avoiding certain words, “this person is visibly not aligned with the accusation? What if their presence quietly undermines it?”

Silence.

Then...

“…Oh,” Wooyoung said.

“No,” San said immediately.

“Absolutely not,” Hongjoong added.

Yeosang stared at the table, heart pounding.

“That’s—” Jongho shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

The woman nodded. “Yes.”

Then she added, cheerfully, “But it works. One hundred percent.”

Everyone looked at her.

“How do you know that?” the manager asked.

She shrugged. “Romance novels.”

Wooyoung choked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” she said brightly. “It’s a classic trope. Misunderstood man. Public accusation. Soft counter-narrative. People eat it up.”

Yeosang felt dizzy.

“This isn’t a book,” Hongjoong said tightly.

“No,” she agreed. “But people read celebrities the same way.”

Yeosang’s hands clenched in his lap.

“So you want me,” he said slowly, voice barely above a whisper, “to pretend…?”

She turned to him gently.

“Not pretend to change,” she said. “Pretend you’ve always been something they refused to see.”

The room stayed silent.

Yeosang’s chest felt too tight.

A friend. A specific kind of friend.

One whose body would speak louder than his words ever could.

He hated how quickly his mind filled in the blanks. Hated how clearly he could already see the headlines.

This was insane.

And somehow..

Terrifyingly..

Everyone in the room was starting to think about it.

No one spoke for a long moment.

The silence wasn’t shocked. It was processing. Yeosang could almost hear the collective mental gears grinding, everyone turning the same impossible idea over and over, trying to find a corner where it didn’t cut.

He stared at his hands. A friend.

The word felt harmless on ist own. Soft. Normal. Something he should be allowed to have without it becoming strategy.

But that wasn’t what they meant.

“This sounds dangerously close to using someone,” Seonghwa said finally, voice measured but firm.

The woman, the PR consultant with the familiar face, inclined her head. “That’s why it has to be consensual. Controlled. Temporary.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Jongho muttered.

Wooyoung leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Also, no offense,” he said, glancing at Yeosang, “but you don’t exactly scream ‘has a childhood best friend we’ve never heard about.’”

Yeosang winced.

“I don’t,” he agreed quietly.

The woman smiled at him again, not unkindly. “That’s actually part of the appeal.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“People already see you as private. Reserved. Emotional but quiet,” she said. “A long-term friend appearing now doesn’t feel suspicious — it feels revealing.”

Hongjoong rubbed his temples. “I hate that this makes sense.”

“So do I,” the manager said.

Yeosang shifted in his chair, unease crawling up his spine. “What exactly would this… friend do?”

The woman folded her hands on the table. “Very little. That’s the point.”

She tapped the screen, bringing up a mock interview layout.

“She sits beside you. She exists in the same space. She answers when asked, but doesn’t defend you aggressively. No speeches. No lessons.”

San frowned. “And people just… change their minds?”

“They don’t change their minds,” she corrected. “They rewrite the story.”

Yeosang’s chest tightened.

“Right now,” she continued, “you’re a headline. With her, you become a character.”

Wooyoung stared at her. “You really are talking about this like a book.”

She shrugged. “People consume celebrities emotionally. They just don’t like admitting it.”

The manager exhaled slowly. “Who would this person be?”

Another pause.

The woman hesitated. Just long enough this time for Yeosang to notice.

“That,” she said, “is the most important part.”

She stood and walked toward the screen, clicking to the next slide.

Option: Longtime Friend (Non-Industry)

“This person,” she said, “cannot be a fan. Cannot be someone who benefits long-term from proximity. They need plausible justification for why they’re suddenly visible now.”

Yeosang’s stomach sank.

“So,” Yunho said carefully, “someone who needs money.”

The woman nodded once. “Ideally.”

Wooyoung let out a short laugh. “Wow. That sounded bad.”

“It is bad,” she said calmly. “Which is why we’re being honest about it here.”

The team lead crossed her arms. “And the body type?”

The woman didn’t answer immediately.

She chose her words with visible care.

“Someone,” she said slowly, “whose presence contradicts the accusation without turning into spectacle.”

Yeosang stiffened.

He knew what she was avoiding saying.

Everyone did.

“That still sounds like a setup,” Seonghwa said.

“Yes,” she replied. “But a subtle one.”

She glanced at Yeosang. “You wouldn’t touch her. You wouldn’t speak about her body. You wouldn’t even reference it.”

“People aren’t blind,” Yeosang said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “But they are narrative-driven.”

Wooyoung raised a hand. “I still don’t get how this magically fixes everything.”

She smiled again. “Because people love consistency.”

She tapped the screen again, and a familiar pattern appeared. Screenshots from old interviews, candid moments, soft Yeosang smiles fans had always adored.

“You’ve always been read as gentle,” she said. “The scandal clashes with that image. People don’t want to believe you’re cruel.”

Yeosang swallowed.

“So you give them something else to believe,” she finished.

The room fell quiet again.

Yeosang felt strangely detached, like he was watching this happen to someone else.

“And if it doesn’t work?” he asked.

The woman looked at him directly. “Then we pull the plug. Immediately.”

She softened. “But it will work.”

“How can you be so sure?” the manager asked.

She laughed under her breath. “Because I’ve watched people forgive fictional men for worse crimes with less evidence.”

Wooyoung stared at the ceiling. “I hate that sentence.”

“Me too,” Hongjoong said.

Yeosang pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, grounding himself. “What does this… friend get out of it?”

The woman didn’t dodge the question.

“Money,” she said. “Short-term exposure they didn’t ask for. And a clear end date.”

Something about the bluntness made Yeosang’s chest ache.

“That doesn’t sound fair,” he murmured.

“No,” she said gently. “But neither is what’s happening to you.”

The meeting dragged on after that. Logistics, risks, contingencies. Yeosang heard his name spoken in third person like it belonged to a case study. He nodded when required. Answered when asked.

All the while, a single image kept forming in his mind.

A stranger sitting beside him.

A body the world would read before it listened.

A lie everyone would pretend not to see.

At one point, as the discussion circled back yet again, the woman leaned back and studied him.

“You’re uncomfortable,” she said.

“Yes,” Yeosang replied immediately.

She smiled softly. “Good.”

He blinked.

“If you were comfortable,” she continued, “people would feel it. This only works if it feels awkward.”

Wooyoung laughed weakly. “Great. Weaponized discomfort.”

The manager stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “We’re not deciding today,” he said firmly. “But we’re exploring options.”

He turned to Yeosang.

“You did nothing malicious,” he said. “Remember that.”

Yeosang nodded, throat tight.

As people began packing up, the woman gathered her things last. She paused as she passed Yeosang, then hesitated.

“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked lightly.

He frowned, studying her face more carefully this time.

“No,” he admitted. “But you feel… familiar.”

She smiled, amused. “That makes sense. My sister does your styling sometimes.”

Realization flickered. Fleeting images of backstage mirrors, quiet figures moving around him, a laugh that echoed faintly in memory.

“Oh,” he said.

She inclined her head. “I’ll see you soon. Probably.”

That probably sat uneasily in his chest.

As she left, Yeosang leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

A friend. A lie dressed up as salvation.

And somewhere out there was a person who didn’t know yet that they were about to be written into his story.

The sun had already started to dip by the time Y/N realized she’d been sitting in the same position for almost three hours.

Her legs were tucked beneath her on the couch, one sock missing, the other stretched thin at the heel. The controller rested warm in her hands, thumbs moving on instinct more than intention. On the screen, her character watered neat rows of pixelated crops, the soft plink-plink of the animation looping gently.

She liked games like this.

No timers. No failure states.

Just effort and small rewards.

A bag of chips lay open beside her, crinkled and half-empty. She reached in without looking, licking salt from her fingers before returning to the screen. Somewhere in the background, a lo-fi playlist hummed softly, the kind designed not to demand attention.

It was peaceful.

Which was rare lately. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She ignored it.

The game chimed cheerfully as she completed another in-game day. She smiled faintly despite herself. At least something was growing.

Eventually, she paused the game and set the controller down. The silence felt heavier without the music, so she let it play as she leaned forward and grabbed her laptop instead.

Job applications.

She opened the bookmarked folder, stared at the list of tabs she’d meant to look through all week.

Game design internships.

QA testing gigs.

Freelance UI mockups.

Her eyes skimmed the first posting, then drifted away.

She closed the tab.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she murmured, even though she’d said that yesterday too.

Breakups were supposed to come with clarity. Motivation. A dramatic new chapter feeling.

Instead, she just felt… tired.

She stood, joints popping slightly, and stretched her arms overhead. Her shirt rode up a little as she moved. Soft fabric, worn thin with washing. She didn’t bother pulling it down immediately.

On her way to the kitchen, she caught her reflection in the mirror mounted near the hallway.

She stopped.

There she was. Oversized pajama shirt. A very visible sauce stain across the front. Reddish, unmistakable. Hair pulled into a messy knot that had surrendered hours ago, strands sticking out in quiet rebellion.

She stared at herself for a moment longer than necessary.

Her body filled the mirror without apology. Rounded stomach. Soft thighs. Familiar curves that had shifted over the past year in ways she was still learning to recognize.

Her hand drifted to her belly without thinking, fingers pressing lightly into the softness there.

“I should really work out more,” she muttered.

The thought came automatically, like a reflex.

And just as quickly, another followed. Sharper, more grounded.

That won’t change anything overnight.

She knew this. Rationally. Intimately. Bodies didn’t work like that, no matter how many motivational videos insisted otherwise.

Her reflection didn’t argue back.

Instead, memory slipped in where confidence usually lived.

I just… don’t feel attracted anymore.

You’ve changed.

You’re chubby now.

She swallowed.

He hadn’t shouted. That was almost worse. He’d said it gently, like it was a fact they both had to accept. Like it wasn’t something he was choosing.

“I can’t come over anymore,” he’d added, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “It’s not fair to either of us.”

She’d nodded. Because what else was there to do?

Y/N dropped her hand and turned away from the mirror, jaw tight.

She grabbed a glass from the kitchen, filled it with water, and drank too fast, as if it might wash the words away.

A knock sounded at the door.

She frowned. No one ever knocked anymore.

Another knock followed. Louder, impatient.

“I know you’re home!” a familiar voice called.

Y/N groaned.

She shuffled to the door and opened it just in time to be enveloped in a hug.

“Oh my god,” her best friend said dramatically, squeezing her. “You look like you’ve been rotting beautifully.”

“Hi to you too,” Y/N muttered, hugging back despite herself.

Her friend pulled away, eyes immediately dropping to the pajama shirt. “Is that pasta sauce?”

“Yes.”

“From today?”

“…Also yes.”

She beamed. “Iconic.”

Y/N snorted despite herself and stepped aside to let her in.

The apartment looked exactly like Y/N felt. Lived-in, quiet, a little stuck in time. Her friend took it in with a practiced glance, then dropped onto the couch like she owned the place.

“Okay,” she announced. “We are not doing this tonight.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “The wallowing. The silent suffering. The ‘I’m fine’ energy.”

Y/N sank into the armchair opposite her. “I’m not wallowing.”

“You’re playing a farming sim in stained pajamas and avoiding job applications,” her friend replied sweetly. “That’s wallowing-adjacent.”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Come on,” her friend said, softening. “Let’s go out. Café. Somewhere with good pastries and bad opinions.”

Y/N hesitated. “I look—”

“Like a person who survived something,” her friend cut in. “Which you did.”

She stood and held out a hand. “Ten minutes. Get dressed. We’ll talk about how your ex is an idiot who peaked emotionally at lukewarm.”

Y/N laughed quietly and took her hand.

They barely made it two blocks before her friend’s phone rang.

She glanced at the screen and swore.

“Please tell me it’s not work,” Y/N said.

“It’s work,” she sighed.

She answered, pacing slightly as she listened, her expression shifting from annoyed to alert.

“Yeah,” she said. “I can be there in twenty.”

She hung up and turned to Y/N, eyes bright.

“They need a stylist urgently. Like, urgently urgently.”

Y/N blinked. “Now?”

“Now.”

She hesitated, then grinned. “Come with me.”

“What?” Y/N laughed. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m dressed for coffee, not—”

“—chaos?” her friend finished. “Perfect. You’ll blend right in.”

Y/N shook her head, but something fluttered in her chest. Nerves, curiosity, the faintest spark of something else.

“Fine,” she said. “But if I spill coffee on someone important, that’s on you.”

Her friend looped an arm through hers. “Deal.”

They turned down the street together, café forgotten, the city stretching ahead of them. Unaware that this detour was about to change everything.

The studio looked nothing like Y/N expected.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected. Flashing lights, screaming fans, maybe something louder. But instead it was controlled chaos. Clean concrete floors. White walls broken up by racks of clothes and rolling mirrors. People moved with purpose, headsets pressed to ears, clipboards tucked under arms.

No one looked impressed by anything.

Which somehow impressed her.

Isi walked ahead like she belonged there, pace quick, ponytail swaying as she waved at a few familiar faces. Y/N followed half a step behind, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, eyes quietly cataloging everything.

Cameras.

Lighting rigs.

A table full of makeup brushes arranged with almost religious precision.

Fascinating, she thought. The same way she found documentaries fascinating. Interesting systems. High stakes. Not personal.

They stopped near the entrance where a man with a tablet looked up, relief flashing across his face when he saw Isi.

“Thank god,” he said. “We were about to reshuffle the entire lineup.”

Isi smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I was literally on my way to dinner.”

She gestured over her shoulder. “With a friend. I brought her so I could get here faster.”

The manager’s gaze flicked to Y/N.

Y/N straightened slightly, suddenly aware of herself again. The casual clothes, the lingering comfort of not having tried too hard.

“Oh— hi,” she said, offering a small nod.

“That’s fine,” the manager said distractedly, already checking something on his tablet. “As long as you’re here now.”

Isi leaned closer to him. “She’ll stay out of the way.”

“No problem,” he replied absently.

Just like that, the moment passed.

Y/N blinked.

She hadn’t been dismissed so much as… absorbed by the space around her. No one stared. No one questioned her presence. She was simply another body in a room full of bodies doing jobs.

She kind of loved that.

Isi was already moving again, weaving between racks and rolling cases. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll park you somewhere.”

“Park me,” Y/N echoed faintly, amused.

They passed a corridor lined with framed photos. Polished, dramatic, intense. Y/N glanced at them briefly, recognizing faces only in the loosest sense. She knew of ATEEZ. She knew Isi worked with them. She’d seen a few music videos in passing.

That was it.

The door Isi pushed open led into a backroom that felt quieter, tucked away from the main set. A couch sat against one wall, already claimed by a few discarded jackets and a tote bag. A mirror leaned against the opposite side, surrounded by lights that hummed softly.

Isi dropped her bag and pointed at the couch. “Sit. Be comfy. Don’t touch anything expensive.”

Y/N smiled. “I won’t lick the lighting equipment.”

“Appreciated.”

Isi was already tying an apron around her waist, hands moving with practiced ease. She barely paused as she reached for brushes, products, tools.

Y/N settled onto the couch, sinking into the cushions. The room smelled faintly of hairspray and coffee.

From somewhere down the hall came laughter. Male voices, overlapping, animated. Y/N tilted her head slightly, listening without really listening.

So those are them, she thought distantly.

It still didn’t feel real. Or rather, it didn’t feel important. This wasn’t her world. She was just passing through.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it, the glow of the screen grounding her instantly.

Job boards. Emails. A half-written cover letter she hadn’t touched in days.

She scrolled.

Junior Narrative Designer — Internship.

UI/UX Assistant — Contract.

Gameplay Tester — Temporary.

Her thumb hovered, then kept moving.

Behind her, Isi was already working, greeting someone cheerfully as they entered the room.

“Morning!”

“Hey, can you tilt your head for me?”

“No, not like that — like you trust me.”

Y/N smiled faintly to herself and leaned back, legs tucked beneath her again. The hum of activity faded into background noise as she opened another listing and began to read.

She didn’t notice the way the room shifted when the guys arrived nearby.

Didn’t clock the sudden careful movements.

Didn’t yet feel the gravity pulling her closer to the center of things.

For now, she was just a girl on a couch, scrolling through job applications, unaware that she’d already been noticed.

Isi’s entire posture changed the second the guys walked in.

It was subtle. Just a straightening of her shoulders, a brightness in her eyes. But Y/N noticed it immediately. She’d seen it before, the difference between hanging out and being on the clock. Isi didn’t tense; she energized.

“Oh my god,” Isi said, delighted, clapping her hands softly once. “You’re all alive. That’s a good start.”

A chorus of voices answered her at once.

“Barely.”

“Emotionally? No.”

“I want to go back to bed.”

Y/N didn’t look up right away. She stayed curled into the couch, phone balanced in one hand, scrolling through listings that all blurred together. Still, the room shifted. Fuller now, louder, warmer.

Isi was already moving, reaching for tools. “Okay, first of all,” she said, tone instantly conspiratorial, “can we talk about the internet absolutely losing ist mind?”

A groan rippled through the room.

“Please don’t,” someone said.

“No, we have to,” Isi insisted. “Because it’s ridiculous.”

Y/N’s thumb slowed.

Isi leaned her hip against the counter, shaking her head. “I mean, Yeosang? Yeosang? Of all people?”

A pause.

Then someone sighed heavily. “Right? He’s literally the nicest one.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Isi replied. “The man apologizes when other people bump into him.”

Wooyoung snorted. “He once apologized to a chair.”

“That chair had feelings,” San added solemnly.

Y/N smiled faintly without realizing it.

“And now,” Isi continued, voice softer, genuinely sympathetic, “he’s getting dragged like he kicked a puppy on camera. It’s awful.”

“It’s exhausting,” Yunho said.

“He didn’t even say anything that bad,” Mingi added. “It was just—”

“—taken out of context,” Hongjoong finished.

Y/N finally glanced up.

Her gaze landed on the group in pieces. Familiar faces she’d seen on screens before, now casually existing in the same space. They looked… normal. Tired. Human. Not mythic at all.

Her eyes snagged briefly on one figure near the back.

He was quieter than the rest. Sitting slightly apart, shoulders sloped inward, hands loosely clasped between his knees. His hair was dark, framing his face softly, eyes downcast like he was replaying something on a loop only he could hear.

So that’s him, she thought distantly.

Yeosang.

He looked… lost.

And still, annoyingly, very handsome.

The kind of handsome that felt unapproachable. Like someone who wouldn’t even register her existence, let alone look twice.

She dropped her gaze back to her phone.

Mingi’s voice cut in, louder. “Wait — Isi. Why do you look like that?”

She blinked. “Like what?”

“You’re not in your usual outfit,” he said, squinting at her. “You look… civilian.”

Isi laughed. “Rora’s sick. I got called in last minute.”

“Oh,” Yunho said. “That explains it.”

“And,” Isi added, gesturing vaguely toward the couch, “I was actually on my way to dinner with my best friend.”

She pointed.

Y/N froze.

Multiple pairs of eyes turned to her.

“Oh,” Wooyoung said, brightening immediately. “Hi.”

Y/N lifted her head again, suddenly very aware of her posture, her clothes, the way she was sitting like she owned the couch despite very much not owning it.

“Hi,” she said, offering a small, polite smile.

Isi grinned. “She’s being kidnapped by proximity today.”

Y/N huffed quietly. “I agreed to coffee. This is… more.”

Isi leaned over and bumped her knee affectionately. “Have you actually started applying for jobs yet?”

Y/N winced. “Wow. Betrayal.”

“I’m serious.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “I was kind of busy mourning the idiot ex-boyfriend that broke up with me last week. So no. Motivation was low.”

The room went very quiet.

Y/N felt it before she saw it. The shift in attention, the sudden stillness that told her she’d said something out loud that people weren’t expecting.

She looked up.

Every single one of them was staring at her.

Especially Yeosang.

His gaze wasn’t intrusive. Just… focused. Like he’d been pulled out of his own head without meaning to.

Heat crept up Y/N’s neck.

She cleared her throat and looked back down at her phone. “Anyway,” she muttered. “Back to capitalism.”

She scrolled harder than necessary.

Wooyoung, unfortunately, did not take the hint.

He walked over and stopped in front of her, crouching slightly so he was in her line of sight whether she wanted him to be or not.

“So,” he said cheerfully. “What do you do?”

Y/N glanced up despite herself. “Uh. I just finished my degree in game design.”

That did it.

“Oh?”

“Wait, really?”

“Like — games games?”

“Design or coding?”

“Can you make a game about us?”

The questions came fast, overlapping, genuine curiosity lighting up the room. Seonghwa leaned in thoughtfully. Hongjoong tilted his head, already interested. Yunho smiled wide, eyes bright. Mingi’s mouth fell open.

“That’s so cool,” Jongho said earnestly.

San nodded. “What kind of games?”

“Do you do story?” Seonghwa asked.

“Systems?” Hongjoong added.

“Characters?” Yunho.

Y/N laughed despite herself, lifting her hands slightly. “Okay, okay...mostly narrative systems and gameplay flow. I like designing how choices feel.”

“That’s insane,” Mingi said. “In a good way.”

She answered questions as they came, warming despite herself, explaining mechanics, laughing when Wooyoung tried to describe a boss fight idea that made absolutely no sense.

All the while, she felt it.

That quiet pull.

She didn’t look directly at him again, but she caught Yeosang watching her from the edges of her vision. Not staring. Just… observing. Like he was trying to understand how she fit into the room.

She thought, briefly, that he looked like someone who didn’t belong anywhere right now.

And just as quickly, she thought:

He would never look at someone like me.

The thought sat heavy, familiar, automatic.

She pushed it aside and answered another question, smiling when Yunho gasped dramatically at her explanation.

She had no idea that this was the exact moment everything had already started to go wrong.

Watching people work was one of Y/N’s favorite things.

Not in a voyeuristic way. More like studying systems in motion. She liked seeing how everyone fit together, how roles overlapped without colliding. It was the same reason she liked games: mechanics, timing, flow.

The photoshoot unfolded like that.

Isi moved with purpose, confidence stitched into every step. She adjusted collars, smoothed fabric, fixed hair that had shifted half a centimeter out of place. No wasted movements. No hesitation. The guys followed her instructions easily, joking between takes but snapping into focus the moment the camera lifted.

Y/N sat off to the side, legs tucked beneath her, watching it all with quiet fascination.

Lights shifted.

Music played.

Cameras clicked in steady bursts.

She’d never been this close to something like this before. Not just fame, but the machinery behind it. The way everyone knew where to stand. The way time bent around schedules and shot lists.

It was strange.

It was impressive.

And somehow… still just work.

She found herself smiling at the ordinariness of it all.

Yeosang caught her eye once during a break. Just for a second. He looked tired. Quieter than the others. Like he was carrying something heavy that didn’t have a shape yet.

She looked away first.

When the shoot finally wrapped, the collective energy shifted. Relief replaced intensity. People stretched, laughed louder, checked phones.

Someone suggested food.

Actually several someones.

“There’s a place nearby,” Yunho said.

“Big tables,” San added.

“The whole crew’s going,” Hongjoong confirmed.

Isi looked at Y/N. “You in?”

Y/N hesitated only a second. “Sure.”

The car ride was quieter.

Isi drove. The manager sat in the passenger seat, already on his phone, thumbs moving quickly. Y/N sat in the back, watching city lights blur past the window.

“So,” Isi said casually, eyes still on the road, “what are we doing about Yeosang’s little internet disaster?”

Y/N blinked.

“Disaster?” she echoed.

The manager sighed, long-suffering. “You didn’t hear?”

Y/N shook her head. “I don’t really… follow idol news.”

Isi glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then shrugged. “Fair.”

The manager explained, briefly, clearly. The mistranslated lyric. The clip. The paparazzi. The follow-up that hadn’t helped.

Y/N listened, brows knitting slightly.

“Oh,” she said when he finished.

“That’s it?” Isi asked, incredulous.

“I mean,” Y/N said, tilting her head, “that sucks. But it sounds like a mess, not… malicious.”

The manager huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised how rarely that distinction matters online.”

Y/N nodded slowly, then looked back out the window. “People love being angry at ideas instead of people.”

Isi smiled faintly at that.

The restaurant was crowded.

Too crowded.

Every table was taken, chairs squeezed close together, the air loud with conversation and clinking dishes. The hostess looked apologetic.

“We can push some tables together,” she offered.

ATEEZ didn’t seem to mind. Neither did the crew.

Y/N followed Isi toward the only available space. A long table already half-occupied.

She didn’t realize where she was sitting until she’d already slid into the chair.

Next to him.

Yeosang stiffened slightly when he noticed.

She noticed that too.

Across from them, Wooyoung grinned. “Well, this is cozy.”

Menus were handed out. Orders discussed. Y/N tried to focus on the noise, the normalcy of it.

Then Wooyoung leaned forward.

“So,” he said lightly, “why’d your boyfriend break up with you?”

Y/N looked up.

She didn’t feel embarrassed. Just… tired of pretending things needed soft edges.

“He said he wasn’t attracted to me anymore,” she replied calmly. “Because I gained weight.”

Silence rippled across the table.

She shrugged. “So we broke up.”

Mingi stared. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” she said.

She reached for her water.

Beside her, Yeosang laughed once. Short. Bitter.

“Well,” he said quietly, eyes on his plate, “you must be having a great time sitting next to me, then.”

Y/N turned to him.

Really looked at him this time.

He wasn’t smiling. His jaw was tight, shoulders drawn inward like he was bracing for impact.

Understanding clicked.

She blinked, then grinned.

“Honestly?” she said. “I don’t care.”

He looked up, startled.

“I judge people on how they behave in real life,” she continued easily, “not what the internet decides they are for the week.”

She leaned back in her chair, completely unbothered. “You’ve been polite, quiet, and you haven’t insulted anyone’s body at this table. That’s a good start.”

A few of the guys laughed.

Yeosang didn’t.

He just stared at her. Something in his expression loosening, just a little.

“…Oh,” he said.

She smiled at him, simple and sincere.

“See?” she added. “Not complicated.”

Yeosang noticed her immediately.

Not because she was loud. She wasn’t. Not because she was trying to be seen. She very clearly wasn’t. It was the opposite, actually. She sat on the couch near the backroom wall, legs tucked up, phone balanced in one hand, thumb scrolling with practiced ease like the room around her barely registered.

That alone made her stand out.

Everyone else reacted when ATEEZ entered a space. Even staff. A flicker of attention, a shift in posture, a glance that lingered half a second too long. She didn’t look up at all. Just kept scrolling, expression neutral, long hair falling loose over her shoulders in soft waves.

Cool, he thought distantly.

He hadn’t meant it like that. It just… landed that way in his mind.

Isi’s voice cut through the room, delighted and familiar, and the others responded with their usual chaos. Yeosang stayed a step behind, hands clasped loosely, eyes drifting back to the couch despite himself.

When Isi pointed her out as her best friend, Yeosang looked properly this time.

She wasn’t styled. Wasn’t polished. No performative ease. She existed the way people did when they weren’t trying to be anything for anyone.

And she still didn’t look impressed.

That should’ve made him nervous.

Instead, it relaxed something tight in his chest.

He listened as the others asked her questions, about work, about games and felt a flicker of interest spark when she mentioned game design. Not just games, but systems. Narrative flow. Choice.

He liked people who thought about how things worked.

She spoke easily, hands moving when she explained, eyes brightening just slightly. He found himself watching the way her mouth curved when she smiled, the confidence tucked beneath casual humor.

He wondered, briefly, if she knew how smart she sounded.

At dinner, the table was cramped, loud, warm. He ended up sitting next to her without really deciding to. When Wooyoung asked about her ex, Yeosang expected deflection. A joke. Something softened.

She didn’t do that.

She said it plainly.

That he wasn’t attracted to her anymore. Because she gained weight.

The words hit Yeosang harder than he expected.

Not because of the content, he’d heard worse but because of how calmly she said it. Like it was settled. Finished. Filed away under things that happened.

His first instinct was guilt.

She must be uncomfortable sitting next to me, he thought immediately, stomach twisting. After everything. After the internet. After him.

The bitter laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

“Well,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate, “you must be super amused then, sitting next to me.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it.

So he wasn’t prepared for her reaction.

She turned toward him fully. No hesitation. No guarded politeness. Just… attention.

And she smiled.

Not careful. Not polite.

Unfiltered.

Dimples pressed into her cheeks. Deep enough that they changed the shape of her face entirely. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and bright, and for the first time he noticed their color.

Honey brown.

The kind that caught light and kept it.

“I don’t care,” she said simply.

He looked up, startled.

“I judge people on how they behave in real life,” she continued, shrugging lightly, “not what the internet decides they are for the week.”

She leaned back, completely at ease. “You’re fine.”

Fine. The word felt enormous.

Something loosened in his chest, unexpected and almost painful. He nodded, unsure what to say, and focused very hard on not staring.

When she stood to go to the restroom, he noticed anyway.

The way her body moved. Confident, unselfconscious. The gentle curve of her hips, the weight of her presence. His gaze followed her without permission, heat pooling low in his stomach before he could stop himself.

Sexy, his brain supplied traitorously.

He looked away immediately, mortified with himself.

When she came back, he failed again.

His eyes lifted without asking, tracked her like she’d pulled gravity in with her. She paused mid-step, brows drawing together slightly.

“…Is something wrong with my face?” she asked, half-amused.

Yeosang opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Before he could recover, he heard it.

Click.

His head snapped up.

Two teenage girls stood a few tables away, phones held just a little too high, expressions caught between excitement and guilt. One of them lowered her phone too late.

Yeosang’s stomach dropped.

He followed the angle of the lens.

To him.

To her.

Together.

The room seemed to tilt.

And suddenly, painfully, he understood.

This wasn’t just a dinner anymore.

Yeosang wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Wooyoung was the first to react. Sharp-eyed, instincts honed by years of being watched. He followed Yeosang’s line of sight just in time to catch the two girls lowering their phones, faces flushed with the thrill of having gotten something they weren’t supposed to.

“Hey,” Wooyoung said, voice suddenly hard. “Did you see that?”

San turned. Then Yunho. Then Hongjoong.

The girls were already halfway to the door.

“—Manager,” Hongjoong said sharply.

The manager was on his feet immediately, chair scraping back as he moved. “Excuse me,” he muttered, already pushing through the narrow space between tables.

Too late.

By the time Yeosang stood, heart pounding, the door had swung shut behind them. The manager followed, disappearing into the night.

The table fell into a strange stillness.

Y/N looked between them, confusion knitting her brows. “What just happened?”

Yeosang swallowed.

No one answered right away.

“They took a picture,” Yunho said finally, carefully.

“Of… us?” Y/N asked.

Yeosang nodded once.

Her expression shifted. Not alarm, not embarrassment, just mild surprise. “Oh.”

That reaction made his chest ache.

The manager returned a few minutes later, breath slightly uneven, frustration etched into his face.

“Gone,” he said curtly, sitting back down. “They ran.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Is that… bad?”

The manager hesitated.

Yeosang saw it. The flicker behind his eyes. Calculation. Memory. The echo of a meeting room and a suggestion that had felt insane at the time.

“Well,” the manager said slowly, “given the current situation…”

Yeosang’s stomach tightened.

He watched the thought finish forming on the manager’s face before he spoke it.

“We were already looking for a way to… soften the narrative,” he continued. “And, uh—”

Yeosang turned toward him fully now. “Hyung—”

But the manager was looking at Y/N.

Not unkindly.

Not carefully either.

“You fit the type,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “You know—”

Yeosang felt cold.

“—bigger,” the manager added, then winced slightly, as if realizing too late that he should’ve chosen a different word. “And you said you’re looking for work. Do you… need money?”

The table went silent.

Not the awkward kind.

The kind that drops.

Y/N stared at him for a second.

Then she smiled.

Not the unguarded smile she’d given Yeosang earlier. This one was polite. Detached. Professional.

“Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”

Isi stood so fast her chair nearly tipped over.

“Are you serious?” she snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

The manager opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, flustered. “I just—”

“You just called my best friend fat and transactional in the same sentence,” Isi cut in. “Congratulations.”

Y/N stood.

“It’s okay,” she said calmly, already slipping her jacket on. “I think I’ll head out.”

Yeosang’s chest constricted.

“I—” He stood too, instinct screaming at him to do something, but the words tangled uselessly.

She didn’t look at him this time.

Isi grabbed her bag. “I’m coming with you.”

The two of them walked away together, Isi muttering furiously under her breath, Y/N quiet but composed.

The door shut behind them.

The restaurant felt colder without them.

Wooyoung turned slowly toward the manager.

“…What possessed you,” he asked carefully, “to think that was a good idea?”

San folded his arms. “No, seriously. I want to know.”

Mingi stared, jaw slack. “Hyung. What.”

Jongho shook his head. “That was bad.”

The manager scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll explain later.”

Hongjoong’s voice was tight. “You’d better.”

“There will be another meeting tomorrow,” the manager added. “All of you. And the PR team.”

Yeosang didn’t hear the rest.

All he could see was the way Y/N’s smile had changed right before she left.

Back at the dorm, the living room lights were low.

ATEEZ sat scattered across the couches, shoes kicked off, exhaustion settling into their bones. No one turned on the TV. No one reached for their phones.

“Isi’s friend was cool,” Yunho said quietly.

“Yeah,” San agreed. “Normal. Like… actually normal.”

“She didn’t freak out,” Jongho added.

Wooyoung sighed. “And now she probably thinks we’re all insane.”

“She doesn’t,” Hongjoong said, though he didn’t sound sure.

Yeosang sat apart, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly.

He thought about the way she’d smiled at him. The dimples. The honey-brown eyes. The way she’d said she didn’t care about rumors like it was the simplest truth in the world.

He thought about how pretty she was.

And how easily she’d walked away.

“I liked her,” he said quietly, surprising himself.

The room went still.

No one teased him. No one laughed.

Wooyoung glanced at him, expression soft for once. “Yeah,” he said. “We could tell.”

Yeosang leaned back and stared at the ceiling, heart heavy.

Tomorrow, they would talk strategy.

Tomorrow, they would make plans.

But tonight, all he could think about was the girl who’d sat beside him without fear and left because of them.

Isi didn’t stop muttering the entire walk to the car.

“I swear,” she snapped, keys jingling as she unlocked it, “what is wrong with him? Antisocial idiot. No filter. No brain-to-mouth delay whatsoever.”

The car door closed harder than it needed to.

She sat behind the wheel with her hands gripping the steering wheel like she might strangle it, jaw set so tight the muscles there jumped when she inhaled. The engine roared to life a second later, louder than usual, and they pulled away from the curb with a jerk that pressed Y/N back into the seat.

“I cannot believe him,” Isi said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I actually cannot believe he said that.”

Y/N stared out the window, watching the restaurant disappear behind them, ist warm lights shrinking into something distant and unreal. Her chest still felt strange. Hollowed out, like something had been scooped from the center of her and left echoing space behind.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

Isi laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What did he even want from you?” Isi continued. “Seriously. What was that supposed to accomplish?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Streetlights streaked past, blurring into pale lines against the glass. Her reflection hovered faintly in the window. Tired eyes, neutral mouth, the same face she’d had yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that. The same face that now, apparently, meant something else entirely to strangers.

“I think,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “he was panicking.”

Isi shot her a look. “So?”

“So people say stupid things when they panic,” Y/N replied. “Especially when they think they’re being practical.”

“That wasn’t practical,” Isi snapped. “That was insulting.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah.”

The agreement seemed to deflate Isi just a little. She exhaled through her nose, one hand leaving the wheel long enough to rake through her hair before returning to ist death grip.

“I’m sorry,” Isi said after a moment. “I shouldn’t have brought you.”

Y/N turned her head slightly, looking at her best friend properly now. Isi looked furious not the performative kind, but the quiet, simmering rage of someone who felt like they’d failed to protect someone they loved.

“You didn’t drag me into anything,” Y/N said. “You answered a work call. I followed. That’s on me too.”

Isi frowned. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.”

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

Isi glanced at her again, this time softer. “That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

“No,” Y/N agreed. “But it makes it survivable.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Isi’s anger hummed through the car like static, but it wasn’t directed at Y/N. It was shielding, protective, fierce.

When they reached Y/N’s apartment, Isi parked too close to the curb and killed the engine with unnecessary force.

“Text me when you’re inside,” Isi said. “And if you want me to come back and scream at someone professionally, I will.”

Y/N smiled, small but genuine. “I’ll keep that option open.”

Isi hesitated, then leaned across the console and pulled her into a tight hug. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“I know,” Y/N said into her shoulder.

That was the thing she did know.

Her apartment welcomed her back with familiar stillness.

The lights were off, the air faintly cool, the couch still bearing the indentation of where she’d sat earlier that day playing her game. It felt strange to return to it after the sensory overload of the studio and the restaurant. Like stepping from a crowded street into a quiet room and realizing your ears were still ringing.

She kicked off her shoes and stood there for a moment, bag still slung over her shoulder, just breathing.

Then she moved on autopilot.

Changed into clean pajamas. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth while staring blankly at her own reflection. The mirror showed the same body it always had. Soft in places, solid in others, undeniably hers. No flashing signs. No headlines.

Just her.

She sat on the bed and replayed the evening whether she wanted to or not.

Isi’s laugh. The chaos of the studio.

The way the guys had talked over each other when she mentioned game design.

The restaurant noise, warm and loud.

And then...Yeosang.

The bitterness in his voice when he’d spoken. The way his eyes had flicked up to her face like he hadn’t expected kindness. The way something had loosened in him when she smiled.

She frowned slightly.

That wasn’t my job, she thought. I didn’t owe him that.

And yet, she didn’t regret it.

She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling until sleep crept up on her slowly, unevenly, like it wasn’t quite sure she wanted it there.

Her phone woke her the next morning.

Not with an alarm. With vibration.

Constant. Insistent. Like something was trying to claw ist way out of the device.

She groaned and rolled onto her side, squinting at the screen. Notifications stacked over each other in a way she’d never seen before.

@user tagged you in a post

@user mentioned you in a story

@user tagged you in a reel

@user started following you

Her heart stuttered.

“…What?”

She sat up too fast, the room tilting slightly as she unlocked her phone.

Instagram opened.

And the world shifted.

There she was.

Not kind of her. Not maybe her.

Her.

Sitting at the restaurant table. Laughing at something Wooyoung had said. Leaning slightly toward Yeosang without realizing it. Another angle caught her mid-sentence, mouth open, hands gesturing. A third showed her profile, soft light catching her cheek.

The image had been reposted.

Then reposted again.

Every single one tagged her.

Her username blinked back at her from the top of the screen, hyperlinked, undeniable.

Her stomach dropped.

She refreshed without meaning to.

More.

Stories. Reels. Screenshot threads. Speculation accounts.

Her pulse thudded in her ears as she tapped into the comments.

At first, it was confusion.

Who is she?

Did he confirm anything?

A friend?

Then the tone sharpened.

Of course they’d use someone like that.

This feels gross.

She’s clearly being paid.

Damage control girlfriend?

Her throat tightened. She scrolled further. She shouldn’t have, but she did.

He’s lost the plot.

So disappointing.

I thought he was different.

This just proves it.

Her fingers trembled.

She dropped the phone onto the bed like it burned and stood up, pacing the room in short, uneven steps. Her chest felt tight, breath shallow, like the walls were slowly inching closer.

“This is insane,” she whispered.

She hadn’t agreed to this. She hadn’t even known.

Her phone rang. Isi.

She answered immediately.

“Hey—”

“You need to come to KQ,” Isi said, voice urgent but steady. “Now.”

Y/N sank onto the edge of the bed. “Isi, I just woke up and my face is everywhere and I don’t—”

“I know,” Isi said quickly. “I saw it. My sister saw it.”

Y/N blinked. “Your sister?”

“The one from the PR team,” Isi continued. “She wants to explain. Properly. About last night. About what the manager meant.”

Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t consent to any of this.”

“I know,” Isi said again, softer now. “That’s why you need to hear it from her directly. Before the internet decides for you.”

There was a pause.

“…Someone’s already on the way to pick you up,” Isi added carefully.

Y/N closed her eyes. Her apartment, suddenly, felt too quiet. Too small. Like it was no longer enough to contain what was happening to her.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll come.”

She hung up and stared at the blank wall across from her.

Last night, she’d been a girl on a couch scrolling job listings, thinking about a breakup and whether she should do laundry.

This morning, she was a narrative.

And she hadn’t been asked.

Main Masterlist | Yeosang’s Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Taglist: @ninjakitty15 @dalsuwaha @likeejennie @starmee-lodurrson @luviebears @darjeelinglemontea @ffenjoyerdazme @moonlitcelestial @livonianmaia @m00njinnie @tinycloudz @whoreforjongho @shrimpwoo @soso59love-blog @1itachi-lover

[03jyh23]

“Dinner Can Wait” ── s.m.g

── virgin!sub!mingi x experienced!softdom!fem!reader

When your roommate Mingi bursts through the door with that question, you probably should’ve said no. But one impulsive “yes” later, you’re giving hands-on lessons neither of you saw coming—and learning that some cravings don’t come with a delivery option.

Genre: smut, roommates to friends with benefits Trigger Warnings: guided first time, active consent/check-ins (traffic-light system), cunnilingus, penetrative sex (p in v), protected sex (condom), fingering, multiple orgasms, submissive-leaning dirty talk, praise kink (repeated use of “good boy”), a lot of guidance, permission-based touch WC: 8.7k

Mon’s Note: yes, I knew what I was doing. Domi (@m1ntyoongi) this one’s for you 🫶🏻

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎You’re sprawled on your bed, winter light striping the floor through the blinds, scrolling a food delivery app instead of getting ready for the dinner you swore you’d leave the apartment for. Your hair’s a mess, your shirt is half‑twisted, and you’re debating whether paying that much for delivery is worth not moving. The comforter smells faintly of cotton and your roommate’s citrus detergent.

The door flies open.

You don’t look up at first. “Ever heard of knocking?” you call—then your gaze lands on Mingi.

He’s got the expression that means he either broke something, bought something stupid, or is about to say something he should not.

“Can I eat you out?” he blurts.

Your phone slips, thuds onto your stomach, bounces onto the bed.

“…What?”

You stare. He stares back. You consider smacking him with a pillow.

His mouth opens, closes, opens—words stalling. “You heard me,” he says, far too casual for what just came out of his mouth.

Heat floods your face. “Mingi, that is the single dumbest thing you’ve ever asked me.”

“I’m serious.”

You blink. Then you laugh because what else do you do with a sentence like that at 5:43 p.m. on a Friday.

“Why don’t you go on Tinder like a normal person?”

He makes a face like you’ve suggested he lick a subway pole. “Tinder is like shopping for people. You have to take pictures with plants and pretend you hike. I don’t even own a straw water bottle.”

“What does hydration have to do with dating apps?”

“Everything? I don’t know!” He swipes the air as if rejecting oxygen. “And people say ‘no ONS’ and I don’t know if I do want that or don’t, and—” He gulps, hands flattening on his thighs. “Because I’ve… never done this before.”

The room seems to hold its breath with you.

“Never done what?” you ask, though your pulse already knows.

“Any of it. Not like this. Not… wanting to.” He inhales, shaky. “I want to try. With someone who won’t make me feel like an idiot for asking.”

“So you picked me,” you deadpan.

Immediate nod. “You’re extremely qualified at telling me when I’m being stupid.” Beat. “Lovingly.”

You snort. “Great. That’s going on my resume. Professional Idiot Translator.”

Mingi edges in, sneakers squeaking. “I don’t want a stranger who smells like laundry pods. I want—” His eyes flick to your mouth, away, back. “I want it to be you. If you’d consider it. If not, I’ll buy a straw and learn to hike.”

“Oh,” you say, a trapdoor opening under you. “You can’t just burst in and say that.”

“I tried knocking,” he protests, weakly.

“You tried existing loudly in the hallway and then detonating in my doorway.”

He winces, then manages a smile that’s eighty percent terrified, twenty percent Mingi. “Is that a no?”

You take in the pink ears, the fidgeting hands, the way this doesn’t feel like a joke even though you wish it was, because jokes are safe and this isn’t.

“It’s a—sit down before your knees give out.”

Mingi folds onto the bed careful and too big, hands planted on either side. He doesn’t look at you, like he’s giving you an out.

“Okay,” you say, softer. “Ground rules. If this is a joke, I will kill you with a throw pillow.”

“Not a joke.”

“If either of us feels weird, we stop.”

“Deal.”

You glance at your phone. The burger on the app glares like you’re betraying lunch. Back to Mingi, who looks like he sprinted here.

“So you never had?” you add after a whole stretch of silence, contemplating if you should even ask.

Mingi freezes, hands still hovering near your thighs. His eyes flick up to yours, wide and uncertain.

“Had...?” he prompts, voice careful.

“Sex,” you clarify, gentler now. “You said you haven’t done ‘any of it.’ I just want to know where we are. No judgment.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping. “No. I haven’t.” The admission comes quiet, almost defiant, like he’s bracing for you to laugh. “Is that... weird?”

“It’s not weird,” you say firmly. “It’s just you. And I’m glad you told me.”

His throat works. “I thought about it sometimes. With people I didn’t really like. But it never felt right. And then I thought about you, and—” He cuts himself off, ears blazing.

“And?” you coax.

“And it felt right”, he finishes, barely above a whisper. “Too right. Scared me a little.”

Your chest does something complicated. You reach down, fingers curling around his wrist, grounding. “We go at your pace. If anything feels like too much, we stop. Okay?”

“Okay.” He leans into your touch, some of the tension bleeding out. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say, smiling. “I’m about to be very bossy.”

Mingi laughs, breathless and relieved. “I’m counting on it.”

“One more thing,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“You are, in fact, stupid.”

“Hey—”

“Lovingly,” you add. The corner of his mouth betrays him.

Silence hums. You shift closer. He doesn’t move, but his breath hitches like you tugged a string.

“We talk first,” you say. “No heroics. No speedrunning. What do you mean by ‘try’?”

He swallows. “I mean... I want to learn how to make a girl feel good. With my mouth. And my hands but that is if you want.”

Your chest does a funny, traitorous ache. “Okay. Boundaries.” You shift to face him knee to knee. “Kissing is okay?”

He nods, then falters. “I... um. I haven’t done much kissing before.” His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, sheepish. His ears are going pinker by the second.

“That’s fine,” you say, gentle. “We go slow. I’ll show you. You just follow.” You tip your chin toward him. “Rule one: breathe. Rule two: less thinking. Rule three: ask when you need to.”

Mingi huffs a nervous laugh. “I can do those. Maybe. Probably.”

“You already are.” You nudge his knee with yours. “Come closer.”

You lean in. Mingi does too. The world narrows to the clean line of his mouth and the ridiculous flutter under your ribs. His gaze keeps dropping to your mouth and darting away.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You can look.”

He does, and it’s like standing in warm light.

“Start simple,” you say. “Just your lips. No pressure to be perfect. If I want more, I’ll take it.”

“Okay.” He swallows, steadies. “Can I...?”

“Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s testing water with his toes-light, almost reverent. He pulls back half an inch, checking your face.

“Good start,” you tell him, smiling. “Again. This time, stay.”

He obeys. The second kiss lingers, and when you angle, he mirrors. You feel him relax by degrees, shoulders dropping, you smooth your thumb over the edge of his ear and the heat there jumps under your touch.

“Pink looks good on you,” you tease softly against his lips.

He makes a wounded noise. “Don’t- I’m trying to be serious.”

“You are. And you’re cute.” You brush another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Open a little. Just a little.”

Mingi follows, and when your tongue grazes his, he jerks-then exhales, cheeks scorching. He looks like he might yeet himself out the window if you asked nicely.

“Sorry. Surprised. Not— not bad.”

“Good,” you say, and kiss him again, longer this time. He makes a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and his hand comes up to hover near your waist like he’s afraid to commit.

“You can touch me,” you murmur against his mouth.

His palm settles warm on your hip, fingers spreading like he’s memorizing the shape. “This is—I mean, I didn’t think—like, obviously I hoped, but I wasn’t sure if—”

“Mingi.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up for a second.”

He laughs, breathless and a little manic. “Right. Sorry. I’m just—nervous? But good nervous. Like when you’re about to go on a rollercoaster and you’re already strapped in so there’s no backing out and—”

You press your finger to his lips. His eyes go wide.

“Breathe,” you remind him.

He nods against your finger, and when you pull it away, he inhales like he’s been underwater.

“Okay,” you whisper. “One more. Nice and easy.”

You meet him halfway. This time it lands just right—no rush, no second-guessing, just the warm press of his mouth fitting to yours. He follows the angle you give him, pressure steady, breath syncing to yours until the world quiets. The kiss is soft and sure, the kind that hums in your chest instead of sparking wild.

When you ease back a fraction, he stays close, eyes still closed like he’s listening for the echo. A slow smile tugs at his lips.

“That—” he whispers, opening his eyes. “That was… nice.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “That was nice.”

Mingi’s hand at your hip settles with new confidence, not gripping, just there. He leans in to place one more quick, perfect peck like a punctuation mark, and you laugh, light and a little breathless.

When you part, he stays close, breath mingling with yours, eyes bright. “For the record,” he says quietly, “Tinder could never.”

“Flatterer,” you say, and tug lightly at the drawstrings of his hoodie until he dips closer. “Careful. Compliments might get you places.”

He swallows. “Like… the kitchen?”

You huff a laugh. “Adorable. Also, no. Different places.” You tip your head, letting your breath skate over his mouth without giving him the kiss he’s already leaning for. “But you’re going to have to earn it.”

His eyes flicker, equal parts panic and fascination. “H-How?”

“Listening test.” You trail your finger from the shell of his pink ear down the strong line of his jaw, slow enough to watch him shiver. “Hands behind your back.”

He blinks, startled, but obediently folds his wrists there. The shift makes his chest broaden, makes the hoodie stretch over him. He looks very large and very sweet and very, very pliant.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and his throat works. “Rule for the next minute: you don’t chase. I come to you.”

“O-Okay.”

You hover, letting your lips ghost his without landing. The not-quite of it draws a tiny sound out of him, helpless and soft.

“Sensitive,” you note, amused, and pass your mouth from corner to corner, barely there. “Tell me where you want it.”

“Everywhere,” Mingi says, scandalised by his own honesty.

“Pick one.”

He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s bracing for impact. “M-mouth.”

“Specific,” you coax. “Top lip? Bottom? Here?” You brush the bow of his top lip with a feather-light kiss and he inhales sharply. “Or here?” You nip the plush of his bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make him gasp.

“Bottom,” he whispers, dazed. “Please.”

“See? You do know how to ask.” You give him what he asked for, a slow, deliberate kiss to his lower lip, drawing it into your mouth and releasing it with a soft pop. His fingers flex behind his back, impulse straining against instruction.

“Hands stay,” you remind, smiling against him.

“Staying,” he manages, voice rough with effort.

“Good.” You kiss him once more, then pause so he can breathe. “Just so you know—when I ask for a colour, it’s our… cheat code. Green is yes, yellow is pause, red is stop. You can use any of them any time.”

You kiss him properly, deepening by degrees, then break just to breathe against his cheek. “Colour?”

“Green,” he says, nodding like it’s a test he studied for. “Green. Like… neon.”⁠

“Good.” You slide your mouth to his jaw and place a single, smug kiss there. “I like you like this.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “Me too? I think?”

“You think,” you echo, teasing. You nose along to the hinge of his jaw where you can feel his pulse flutter. “Still hands?”

He swallows. “Still hands.”

“Reward then.” You finally press your mouth to the spot and stay, a warm seal. He goes very still, breath stuttering. When you suck lightly, just once, a stunned, wrecked noise escapes him.

“Language lesson,” you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. “That sound means you’re doing amazing.”

He laughs, helpless and a little dizzy. “I—okay. I want to be amazing.”

“And you are,” you say, generous for once. You brush your thumb over Mingi’s lower lip again. “Now you can use your hands.”

He exhales like a held note and brings them forward—slow, careful, like you’re a gift he’s unwrapping.

“Start where I left you,” you prompt, tipping your chin to offer the line of your jaw. “Remember: jaw, then neck, slow.”

“Jaw, then neck,” he echoes, gathering himself. His hands bracket your hips, warm and steady, and he leans in to press one shy kiss to the angle of your jaw. Another, surer. He follows the curve like he’s tracing a map he actually wants to memorize.

“That’s it,” you breathe. “Linger.”

He does, mouth melting from kiss to kiss. When he reaches the hinge where your pulse flutters, he pauses, looks up for your read.

“Go on,” you whisper. “Gentle.”

He kisses there, barely pressure, then a second, a third, patience embodied. The heat of his breath blooms against your skin; the careful way he holds himself makes your stomach dip.

“Try a little more pressure,” you say, and his mouth seals warmer. When he sucks, soft and brief, your fingers catch in his hair.

“Okay?” he asks, voice roughened.

“Green,” you tell him, smile audible. “Very green.”

He exhales, relieved and a little proud, and trails lower by a fraction, then back up like he’s learning what “tease” tastes like. You can feel him smiling when you shiver.

“Show-off,” you murmur.

“Listening,” he counters, and you can hear the grin in it.

You tilt his chin with two fingers so he meets your mouth again. The kiss slots in perfectly now—practice made easy. When you part, you scrape your nails lightly along the nape of his neck and his eyes flutter like you flipped a switch.

“Good,” you say again, softer. “You’re catching on fast.”

“Teacher’s very motivating,” he mumbles, dazed.

“Then here’s extra credit.” You guide one of his hands to your waist and the other to your ribcage, over your shirt. “Hold me while you kiss. Same pace.”

His fingers spread, anchoring you. He returns to your jaw, kisses a slow path to that pulse‑point and back, settling into a rhythm that lets both of you breathe.

“Color?” you ask, voice low.

“Green,” he says, sure. “Promise.”

“Then we escalate,” you murmur, and catch his hoodie string to tug him closer. “Take this off?”

Mingi nods, scrambles adorably, and peels it over his head, hair mussed, tee clinging to the line of his shoulders. He looks at you like he’s waiting to be graded.

“A+,” you say, amused. “My turn.” You gather the hem of your shirt an inch. “Eyes on me. Hands help, but only where I put them.”

“Okay.” His palms hover until you guide them, one steady at your waist, one warm at your ribs again. The shirt lifts just enough to bare a stripe of skin to winter air.

“Start here,” you tell him, tapping just below the curve of your throat. “Then follow.”

He bends, mouth obedient and soft at the spot you chose. He maps down the slope of your neck, kisses stitched with patience, breath shaky but intent even as your fingers toy with his hair. At your collarbone you hum and Mingi lingers, tries a careful nip, pulls back for your read.

“More pressure there, less here.” You nudge him a fraction, he adjusts like he was built to.

When he reaches the place where fabric meets skin, he hesitates, eyes flicking up. “Here?”

“Ask me,” you remind.

“Can I… kiss lower?” The question is careful, earnest, heat threaded through it.

“You can,” you say, and lift the hem another inch.

He exhales, relieved, and kisses the new skin like it’s a secret. Your stomach jumps under the warm spread of his mouth; he laughs, breath fogging your skin. “Sensitive?”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, amused and a little undone.

“Listening,” he says again, and proves it—slow kisses, firmer now, a reverent pass of his lips along the edge of your waistband that makes your breath catch.

“Good,” you tell him, hand tightening in his hair. “If I tap twice, pause. If you feel lost, ask. If you want more—”

“I’ll say so,” he finishes, eyes bright. “I want to keep going.”

You tip your head back, offering your throat. “Then earn it. One more pass up. Make it count.”

He does, ascending with the same care, kissing a line back to your mouth—jaw, corner, lips—until the kiss you share is deeper than before, patience thrumming into hunger.

When you part, he’s breathing hard and smiling. “Different places?” he asks, shy, hopeful.

“Last check,” you say, “you still want this?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, voice sure despite the flush climbing his neck. “Please.”

“Then help me.” You guide his hands to your waist. Together, you ease the fabric down, leaving you in just underwear. The winter air pricks your skin; his gaze feels warmer.

“Lie back,” he says, surprising you both. When you raise an eyebrow, he adds quickly, “Please? I want—I want to do this right.”

“Bossy,” you tease, but you do, settling against the pillows, heart kicking against your ribs. He follows, kneeling between your legs, hands hovering like he’s afraid to break something.

“Touch me,” you tell him. “Thighs first. Get used to it.”

His palms land, warm and broad, smoothing up and down in careful strokes. The reverence in it makes your breath hitch. He leans down, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher—testing, asking without words.

“Good,” you murmur. “Keep going. Slow.”

He does, mouth tracing a path along your inner thigh, each kiss a little firmer, a little closer. When he reaches the edge of your underwear, he pauses, looks up through his lashes.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hooking gently at the fabric.

“Yes.”

He eases them down, careful, almost ceremonial, and when you’re bare he just... stares for a second, awed and a little overwhelmed.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just—wow.”

You laugh, light and a little breathless. “Flattery later. Focus now.”

“Right. Focus.” He settles lower, hands spreading your thighs wider, and the first touch of his breath makes you shiver. “Tell me what to do.”

“Start gentle. Flat tongue, slow. Listen to me—if I make noise, you’re doing it right. If I go quiet, ask.”

“Okay.” He leans in, and the first pass of his tongue is careful, exploratory, warm. You exhale sharply, fingers finding his blonde hair.

“Like that,” you manage. “Again.”

He does, more confident this time, tongue dragging slow and deliberate. When he finds the right spot and you gasp, he hums against you—curious, pleased—and the vibration makes your hips twitch. A soft moan escapes you, barely more than a breath, and you feel him smile against you.

“There,” you breathe. “Stay there. Little circles.”

He adjusts, focused, and the rhythm he finds is unpracticed but earnest, pressure building in careful increments. Your hand tightens in Mingi’s hair; he groans softly, and the sound buzzes through you. Your hips jerk up involuntarily, seeking more, and his free hand presses gently to steady you.

“Mingi—” His name comes out ragged, your breath shattering on the syllables. “Doing so good.”

He doubles down, encouraged, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you steady, the other sliding up to rest warm on your hip. The combination of his mouth and the anchor of his touch winds you tighter, breath coming shorter. You bite your lower lip, trying to hold back the sounds building in your throat.

“Flatten your tongue for me,” you say, voice thin. “Broad. Slow.”

He obeys immediately, tongue going wide and warm as he licks a long stroke from your entrance up through your folds. He tastes you like you asked him to—patient, unhurried, mouth sultry with focus. You feel him learn the terrain. The soft give at your entrance that makes your breath hitch, the slick seams that part under his tongue, the way your hips try to chase him when he drags upward. A whimper slips out, and you feel heat flood your cheeks.

“Good,” you manage, your other hand finding his where it rests on your hip, fingers threading through his. “Again, a little firmer at the top.”

The next pass has weight, a steady press that lingers right where your body lights. He repeats it, rhythm gathering, each stroke a touch slower than the last so you can feel the shape of his tongue as it moves: broad, then narrowing on the upstroke as he traces the curve of you, then broad again on the way down to keep you drenched. Your breath comes in shallow gasps now, each one punctuated by a soft moan you can’t quite suppress.

“Taste me,” you say, and he does—open-mouthed now, sealing his lips just enough to pull softly as his tongue slides. The wet sound he makes is obscene and earnest all at once; you feel it everywhere. Your hips jerk again, harder this time, and you squeeze his hand reflexively.

A soft sound slips out of you—barely a moan, more breath than voice—and it makes him shiver. Your hips twitch up without permission; he tightens the hand on your thigh and murmurs something you can’t catch, a soothing sound that helps you settle and then rise to meet him again. You bite down harder on your lip.

Your free hand finds his and he lets you lace your fingers with his, palm to palm, squeezing back when your breath stutters. He holds you there, anchored, while his mouth keeps moving—patient pulls, slow strokes—until the moans get a little less shy and a little more open, catching on the edges when his tongue drags just right. You hear yourself whimper his name, voice breaking.

He swaps to smaller movements when you guide him: little side-to-side flicks along one fold, then a careful scoop that gathers slick and brings it up. He pauses to breathe, to listen, and then he’s back, tongue drawing lazy figure-eights over your inner labia, painting you until you’re shaking. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your other hand gripping his so hard you worry you’ll hurt him, but he just squeezes back encouragingly.

“Circles,” you remind, breath breaking on a moan. “Small. Stay shallow.”

Mingi circles exactly where you told him, pressure building—unpracticed but so intent it steals your words. His hand on your thigh tightens when you moan; the other steadies you at the hip, thumb rubbing thoughtless comfort into your skin. Your hips buck up again, chasing the pleasure, and a breathy whine escapes before you can stop it.

He leans in closer, chasing the taste of you—and the bridge of his nose nudges up, brushes your clit by accident.

A bright bolt fires through you. Your hips jolt violently, and a sharp cry tears from your throat.

He jerks back a centimetre, startled. “Sorry, I—”

“No,” you gasp, grabbing his hair to bring him right back, breath completely shattered. “That. Do that again.”

“Here?” He tests, nudging with the soft of his nose, barely pressure.

Your laugh breaks on a whine, hips rolling up to meet him. “Yes. Gentle. Keep your tongue where it was.”

He hums in relief and returns to his circles, tongue slow and sure just below while his nose brushes your clit on each pass—accidental turned intentional, the perfect double touch. The combination unravels you: the steady, wet glide of his tongue and the sweet, buffered nudge of his nose, the way he breathes you in like he’s getting drunk on it. Soft moans spill from you now, unrestrained, your hand in his hair alternating between pulling and petting.

“Good boy. Keep going, just like that.” Your voice is wrecked, barely coherent.

He does, settling into a careful rhythm—lick, nudge, breathe—letting you roll minutely against him. When your thighs start to tremble he tightens his grip, anchoring you through the climb, and adds the smallest flutter to the tip of his tongue at the end of each circle that makes your vision spark. Your breath comes in ragged gasps now, punctuated by moans that climb higher with each pass. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, trying and failing to stay grounded.

“Mingi—” You hear your own voice and barely recognise it, high and desperate. “If you do that three more times, I’m going to—”

He does it once. Your hips jerk, a broken moan escaping. Twice. Your fingers clench in his hair, your other hand crushing his. The third time, the flutter lands perfectly, his nose brushing just right, and you break with a startled cry, pleasure sluicing through you sharp and bright. Your whole body arches, hips rolling against his mouth as waves of sensation crash through you.

He stays with you, tongue easing to long, soothing strokes as you shudder, his nose nuzzling softer, his hand petting your thigh. When you finally sag back into the pillows, breath still coming in shaky gasps, he lifts just enough to look up, lips slick, eyes blown and desperate to be told he did well.

“Perfect,” you whisper, releasing his hair to cup his face, thumb brushing over his flushed cheek. “You did so perfect.”

He beams, that shy, devastating smile breaking across his face even as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Really?”

“Really.” You tug him up gently until he’s hovering over you, and you kiss him—slow, deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. The kiss goes deeper and you feel him, hot and hard against you. Your hands slide to his neck, thumbs fitting under his jaw; a low sound breaks in his throat as you angle him where you want.

When you finally pull back, breath still unsteady, you see the way he’s trembling—not from cold, but from restraint. His eyes are dark, unfocused, and when you glance down you can see the obvious strain against his grey sweats.

“You okay?” you ask softly, thumb still tracing his jaw.

Mingi nods quickly, then shakes his head, then laughs—breathless and a little panicked. “I—yeah. I just. I only asked to... you know. Eat you out. I didn’t—I don’t want to assume—” His hips shift involuntarily and he winces, biting his lip hard. “But I’m kind of... really hard right now.”

“I can tell,” you say, voice still rough from before. Your hand slides down to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering under your palm.

“I should probably—” He moves to pull away, face flushed darker now with embarrassment. “I need to take care of this. I’ll just... go to my room or the bathroom or something. Give me like five minutes and I’ll—”

“Mingi.”

He freezes, looking at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Look at me.” His gaze snaps to yours like it’s a reflex. You cradle his jaw with one hand, the other still warm at his neck. “You don’t go anywhere unless I send you. Understood?”

He swallows. “Understood.”

“Words.”

“Yes. Understood. I’ll stay.”

“Good boy.” The praise lands and you feel him melt, that delicious looseness returning to his shoulders. You pause, thumb brushing his jawline. “Hey. Check in with me—do you like when I call you that? Good boy?”

Mingi’s eyes widen slightly, then soften. “Yeah. I really do.”

“You’re sure? If it ever feels off, you tell me immediately.”

“I promise,” he says, earnest. “I like it. Makes me feel... wanted.”

You smile, relieved and fond. “Good. Because you are.” You stroke his pink cheek once more. “You listen so well. Such an eager thing, hm?”

His breath hitches. “I want to be. For you.”

“You are,” you say, gentle but firm. “Colour?”

“Green,” he answers, almost instantly. “Please.”

“Then here’s what you’re going to do for me, pretty boy,” you murmur, thumbs stroking his pulse. “You’re going to breathe. You’re going to keep your hands where I put them. And you’re going to ask when you want something. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Mingi’s voice goes soft and obedient. “I can do that.”

“There’s my good boy.” You guide his wrists to the pillow above his head again and he offers them up without resistance, a quiet, grateful sigh leaving him. You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Such good manners.”

He shivers. “I like when you say that.”

“Good.” You shift down his body, palm smoothing over the line of him through his sweats and then lower, the pressure light, teasing. He keens, immediately biting it back.

“Don’t hide from me, love,” you chide softly. “Let me hear you.”

“Yes,” he breathes, and the next sound he makes is open and honest.

“Perfect.” You cup him through the fabric once more, then ease his waistband down. He lifts obediently, eager under your hands. “That’s it. Always so helpful.”

A helpless, pleased sound escapes him.

You bend to press a slow kiss just below his navel, then another lower, praising between each. “Good. So good. My pretty thing. My sweet boy.”

He’s trembling again, but it’s the good kind-the floating kind. “Please...”

You look up. “Ask.”

He flushes, brave. “Please touch me. However you want.”

“That’s my eager boy.” You wrap your hand around him again, firm enough to reassure without rushing.

“Hands here,” you murmur, guiding his wrists back to the pillow. He offers them up immediately, eyes wide and shining. You hook your fingers in his waistband and tug. “Up.”

He lifts obediently and you strip his sweats the rest of the way, then his briefs. He flushes hard when he’s bare, instinct curling him in, but you smooth a palm down his thigh and the tension melts out of him.

“Look at you,” you say, soft awe threading your voice. “So pretty like this.”

Mingi’s big. Thick and heavy in your hand, flushed dark at the head. The weight of him drapes against your palm when you test it, the heat of him throbbing once, shy, when you kiss just below his navel.

You sit back on your heels, leaving your bra on and nothing else. His eyes go darker at the sight of you over him naked and offered up-and you feel him pulse against your fingers.

You stroke him slow, base to tip, letting slick gather under your thumb. “Feels like a lot, doesn’s it, love?”

He nods, wrecked already. “It’s... a lot. Good.”

You shift forward and let him feel you, lining him up to slide along your slick folds without pressing in-just a long, wet glide that paints you both and makes his head tip back. He’s so thick that the press of him at your entrance makes your breath stutter even though you’re not taking him yet; your body answers with a hungry clench around nothing.

“Breathe,” you remind, hand at his throat light as a necklace, thumbs under his jaw. “Offer. Don’t chase.”

Mingi offers-hips staying obediently still while you rock. Every pass drags the blunt heat of his head through your slick and bumps your clit; you gasp, and he whimpers like the sound gives him permission to make his own.

“Such a good boy,” you praise, voice low. “So big and so sweet for me.”

Mingi swallows, eyes glassy with wanting. “I like when you tell me that.”

“Then listen: you’re perfect.” You reach for the drawer without leaving him, find the foil again and keep it ready in your fingers. “Last check before I take you. Color?”

“Green,” he answers, immediate and certain. "Please."

“Good boy,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss him as your hand keeps him gliding along you, letting him feel exactly how wet he’s made you.

You tear the foil, roll the condom on with steady hands, and guide him back to your slick. The blunt heat of him nudges your entrance and you exhale, centering.

You hold his throat lightly, thumbs under his jaw. “I’m going to ride you. You stay still for me. Offer, don’t chase.”

He nods, obedient, wrists still where you set them above his head.

You sink just the tip and stop. Your breath stutters at the stretch. He’s big-more than your body expected after the teasing glide-and your fingers tighten at his neck to keep him still when his hips try to help.

“Easy, love,” you soothe, voice still firm. “I need a second. You’re thick. You’ll fit. Let me take you.”

His eyes go wide. “Yes. I’ll stay.”

You breathe with it, the first inch giving, then another. Heat blooms and the ache turns bright. You rub small soothing circles at his pulse while your other hand braces on his chest.

“Good boy. That’s it. You feel so big in me.” You pause again, jaw slack for a beat, then nod. “Okay. Another little bit.”

You work down in slow increments, sitting back an inch at a time, waiting for the stretch to melt before you take more. Each inch he gives you is praise you feed him back.

“That’s it, pretty boy. Offering so well. You’re perfect.”

You bottom out with a startled gasp, the fullness stealing your words. You fold forward to kiss him through it, letting the kiss go slow while your body settles around him.

“See?” you whisper against his mouth when your breath returns. “You fit. All of you.”

He laughs, helpless, eyes wet with relief. “Feels... unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, proud and fond. “Hands stay where I left them. If you need anything, you ask.”

He nods, eager. “Yes.”

You draw up a third of the way and sink back down, testing the angle; both of you groan. Another slow lift, another deliberate seat, a rhythm forming that’s all control and honeyed heat.

“Offer,” you remind when his hips twitch. “Let me use you.”

“Yes,” he breathes, pliant.

You set the pace-lazy, claiming rolls that let you feel every thick inch, pausing to breathe when the stretch spikes, then riding through it with soft curses and a smile he can hear.

“C-Can I... touch?” he asks, voice trembling. His fingers twitch where you’ve laced them over his head, thighs quivering with effort.

“Ask for what you want, sweetheart.”

“Your bra,” he says, wrecked and brave. “Please. I want to see you.”

“Good boy.” You guide his wrists down to your waist. “Slow. Take it off for me.”

Mingi fumbles sweetly, obedient, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. The hooks give way under his careful fingers and he slides the straps down your shoulders, peeling it away. The cool air kisses your skin; his breath punches out of him like he forgot how to hold it. His gaze drops helplessly to where your bodies meet, to the way you’re seated on him—how you’re just taking him, steady and sure—and the sound that breaks in his throat is an unguarded moan.

“Eyes up,” you murmur, catching his face and tilting it back to yours. “You can look, but you keep listening. Don’t chase.”

“Yes,” he breathes, glassy‑eyed.

You sink again, slower this time just to feel his cock stretch you, just to hear the desperate noise he makes when he glances down and watches himself disappear into you.

He gasps, the sound breaking. “I’m-sorry, I can’t—”

You catch his face, thumbs under his jaw, steadying his ragged breath. “Hey. Look at me. You’re okay. It’s your first time. It’s all new. You’re doing so well. Colour?"

“G-Green,” he manages, eyes huge. Panic flickers and you press your forehead to his, riding him in tiny, soothing rolls.

“Good boy. Breathe. If you need to come, you ask me.”

His fingers curl in the sheets like he needs to hold on. “Can I-please—”

“You can,” you say, voice warm and sure.

He swears, helpless. “You’re so... warm... fuck—” His breath turns ragged, head dropping onto your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as you rock through it, slow and claiming.

“That’s it,” you murmur in his ear, praise threading through the heat. “Let go for me. Good boy.”

A wrecked moan tears out of him. Mingi’s whole body tightens under you, then shudders, and you feel it—the sudden heat blooming inside the condom, the pulse of him filling it as he comes. You hold him there, hands stroking his nape and chest, hips easing into soft after-rolls until the tremors ebb.

You lift slowly, feeling the weight of him slipping free, and reach down to carefully hold the base of the condom as you ease off completely. He watches, dazed and flushed, as you tie it off and set it aside with care.

When he lifts his head, flushed, glassy, somewhere between mortified and blissed out: “I’m sorry. That was so fast, I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you cut in gently, cradling his jaw so he has to see you. “No sorries. It’s your first time. Your body did exactly what it’s supposed to do. You were perfect for me.”

His breath hitches. “But I—”

“You asked. You listened. You checked colour. You let me take care of you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and certain. “That’s everything I wanted, sweet boy.”

Some of the tightness leaves his shoulders. “I... did good?”

“You did so good,” you say, smiling against his lips. “My good boy.” You brush hair from his forehead. “Water in small sips.”

You reach for the bottle and tip it for him; he drinks, and when you drink after, his hand comes up tentatively to steady the base like he’s learning how to help. “There you go,” you murmur. “Proud of you.”

“Proud?” Mingi echoes, dazed.

“Very,” you confirm. “First time is about feeling safe, not performance. You’re safe with me.” You press your forehead to his then you kiss his temple. “We can cuddle as long as you need now.”

He swallows, eyes big and earnest. “I want you to cum again,” he says, too eager to hide it.

You cup his cheek, smiling. “Eager,” you murmur, fond.

He rushes forward to kiss you, eyes bright with want, and you laugh—warm, delighted—pressing a palm to his chest to hold him back.

“Not so fast,” you say, grinning. “You just came. Give yourself a minute.”

He blinks, caught between eagerness and obedience, mouth still parted like he forgot to close it. “But I want—”

“I know what you want.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb, soothing. “And I love that you want it. But your body needs a second to catch up.”

“No it doesn’t," he slurs out, shaking his head, words tumbling over each other in his eagerness. His hands come up to your waist, steadying you like he’s already planning the next move.

You catch his wrists gently, bringing them back down. “Min,” you say, voice soft but firm. “Listen to me.”

He blinks up at you, still flushed, still breathless, but something in your tone makes him pause.

“Please,” he breathes, the word catching in his throat. His fingers flex against your hips where you’re still holding his wrists. “I can—I want to make you feel good. Please let me try.”

You study his face: pupils blown wide, lips parted and kiss-swollen, that desperate sincerity that makes your chest ache with fondness.

“You already made me feel good,” you remind him gently. “This isn’t about proving anything.”

“I know," he says quickly, nodding. “I know, but—” He swallows hard, gaze dropping to where your thighs bracket his hips. “I want to. Not because I have to. Because I want to.”

Something in the way he says it—raw and unguarded—makes heat pool low in your belly again.

“Colour?” you ask softly.

“Green,” he answers immediately. “So green. Please.”

You cup his face, searching his eyes one more time. “If anything changes, you tell me. The second it does.”

“I will," he promises, voice steadier now. “I will. Just—please let me.”

“Hands only,” you say, stroking his jaw. “No mouth. You’ll use your fingers and your thumb. You follow me.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Tell me how.”

You guide his hand down, settling his palm warm over you. The heat of his skin against yours sends a shiver through your body, and you feel hyper-aware of every point of contact—the width of his palm, the slight tremble in his fingers.

You slide two of his fingers through your slick, guiding them slowly. His fingers are longer than you expected and the glide of them feels almost too good. You can feel your pulse thrumming where his fingertips rest, and the wetness makes the movement smooth, unhurried.

“Flat first,” you instruct, voice softer than you meant. “Gentle.”

Your breath catches as he follows your guidance, those long fingers spreading warmth through you. The sensation blooms low in your belly—a mix of anticipation and the sweet ache of sensitivity from before.

He does as told, slow passes that gather heat back into your skin. When your hips nudge, he stills on instinct like he remembers the rule.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “Now one inside. Palm up. Just there.”

He eases a finger in, shallow, careful. You exhale, shoulders dropping. “Curl-tiny. Not hard. Like you’re saying ‘come here.’”

He tries. The first press is tentative, almost shy. You hum, take his wrist and adjust the angle a breath. “There. Smaller. Steady.”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that.” You guide his thumb to rest above, soft. “Thumb here. Small circles. Don’t chase me. If I move, you stay.”

He nods, concentrating, and the pattern settles: curl... release... thumb circles... breathe. The regularity of it pours heat through you, a low, insistent thrum that lets your body uncurl around the touch.

“More or less?” he asks, voice careful.

“A little more pressure with your thumb. Same speed.”

He adjusts, and the sound that leaves you is involuntary, catching on your breath. He freezes a heartbeat-checking-and you squeeze his wrist in answer.

“Keep going.”

You feel him glow at the praise even as his focus tightens. He adds the slightest pulse to his curl, not deeper, just firmer on the up-press, and your hips answer without permission. His eyes flick to your face, greedy for the signs; you give him them on purpose-open mouth, soft yeses, the shiver when his thumb’s circle hits just right.

“Two fingers?” he asks, tentative.

“Yes,” you breathe, and the word comes out rougher than you meant. “Go slow.”

He eases the second finger in alongside the first, and the stretch makes you gasp—fuller now, the press of him deeper. Your eyes flutter shut as he pauses, giving you time to adjust.

“Okay?” he whispers, voice tight with concentration.

“Perfect,” you manage. “Keep the curl. Same rhythm.”

He does, and this time when his fingers press up, the sensation blooms hotter, more insistent. He reaches deep inside you, finding that spot with careful, deliberate pressure, your breath catches in your throat.

“Fuck—” The sound escapes before you can stop it. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, chasing the feeling.

“There?” he asks, awed.

“There,” you confirm, voice breaking. “Stay right there. Don’t change anything.”

Mingi doesn’t. His thumb keeps its steady circles, his fingers maintain that perfect curl and press, and the combination builds heat through you in waves. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into it—the warmth of his palm, the careful attention, the way he’s learned your body so fast.

“You’re so wet," he murmurs, wonder in his voice. “I can feel—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, desperate now. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping for anchor as the pleasure coils tighter.

His fingers don’t falter, steady and sure, and you feel the tension gathering at the base of your spine—tight, inevitable. “Fuck Min,” you gasp, his name breaking on your lips as the heat crests. Your body tightens around his fingers, pulsing, and he holds you through it with reverent focus, thumb still circling as you shatter.

“Kiss me,” you breathe, voice trembling.

He surges up immediately, mouth finding yours, and you moan into him—deep and unrestrained—as the orgasm crashes through you. Your body clenches around his fingers, pulsing in waves, and he swallows every sound you make, kissing you through it like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your pleasure.

Mingi’s fingers stay steady, working you through the aftershocks with that same careful rhythm until you’re shaking, oversensitive, reaching down to still his wrist.

“Okay,” you gasp against his lips. “Okay, that’s—”

He eases his fingers out slowly, reverently, and you both exhale at the loss. When you open your eyes, Mingi’s staring at you like you’ve just handed him the universe.

“Did I—” he starts, breathless, searching your face. “Was that okay?”

You cup his jaw, still trembling slightly, and kiss him soft and deep. “You were perfect,” you whisper against his mouth, meaning every word.

He melts into you, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and you can feel his smile against your lips—proud and overwhelmed.

You stay like that for a while—wrapped around each other, breathing in sync, the world narrowed down to the warmth between your bodies and the gentle comedown settling into your limbs. When you finally ease back to look at him, his eyes are soft, glassy with afterglow, a small smile playing at his lips like he’s still processing that this was real.

“How do you feel?” you ask, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

“Like I want to do that again,” he admits, then immediately flushes. “I mean—” He stops, swallows. Starts again. “I mean, like, not with you—wait, no, I mean with you I liked it, I loved it, but I mean—” His face goes crimson. “Like, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just—we’re friends, right? And I don’t want you to think I’m like, expecting—or that this means—”

He’s spiraling now, words tumbling over each other in a rush of anxiety. “Because I know we’re just friends and this was just—I mean it wasn’t just anything, it was amazing, you’re amazing, but I don’t want to make it weird or like—assume things—and I’m not trying to like, change what we are, I just really wanted to try this and you let me and—”

“Mingi,” you say softly, pressing a finger to his lips.

He stops mid-word, chest heaving slightly, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“Breathe,” you say gently, catching his hand.

He sucks in air like he forgot how.

“You’re spiralling,” you observe, trying not to smile.

“I know!” He covers his face with both hands, voice muffled. “I don’t know why I’m talking. Why am I still talking?”

You gently pull his hands away, meeting his panicked gaze with something steadier. “Because we’re friends,”you say simply. “And friends can be awkward after they make each other cum.”

He blinks at you, processing, then lets out a strangled laugh. “Oh my god.”

“We’re okay," you promise, squeezing his hands. “This doesn’t have to be weird unless we make it weird.”

“I’m definitely making it weird,” he mutters, but there’s relief in his voice now, the edge of panic smoothing out.

“Do you want to kiss me?” you ask softly, watching the way his eyes flicker between yours and your lips.

He nods immediately, wordless, like the answer was already sitting on his tongue waiting to escape.

You smile, leaning in slowly, giving him time to close the distance. When your lips meet, it’s different from before—gentler, unhurried, like you’re both savoring the fact that you can do this now without the urgency of need driving you forward. His mouth is soft, still a little swollen, and he kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

Mingi’s hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you melt into him, letting the kiss deepen naturally. There’s no rush, no frantic energy—just the two of you, breathing together, tasting each other in the aftermath.

When you finally pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, a dreamy smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he whispers, like he’s confirming something to himself. “I really wanted to do that.”

You brush your thumb along his jaw, feeling the tension still humming beneath his skin. “Come here,” you murmur, tugging gently until he shifts beside you on the bed.

He goes willingly, folding himself against your side like he’s been waiting for permission. His head finds your shoulder, arm draping across your waist, and you feel the full weight of him settle—warm and solid and real.

“You did so good,” you whisper into his hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands at his nape. “You listened, you checked in, you were perfect.”

He makes a small sound against your neck—half laugh, half exhale—and burrows closer. “I was so nervous,” he admits quietly. “The whole time.”

“I know.” You run your hand down his spine in slow, soothing strokes. “But you trusted me anyway.”

“Yeah.” His voice is soft, muffled against your skin. “I did.”

You pull the comforter up over both of you, cocooning the warmth between your bodies. His breathing evens out gradually, the adrenaline draining away as the comfort seeps in. Your fingers trace idle patterns on his shoulder—circles, lines, nothing in particular—just touch for the sake of touch.

“Do you need anything?” you ask after a while. “Water? Snack? More blankets?”

Mingi shakes his head against you. “Just this,” he murmurs. “Just you.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. “You’ve got me,”you promise, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He hums contentedly, fingers curling into your shirt like he’s anchoring himself. The room settles into a quiet lull—no urgency, no expectations, just the two of you breathing together in the fading winter light.

“So,” he says after a long, comfortable silence, voice still soft and a little tentative, “we can do it again?”

You can’t help but smile at the hopeful note in his voice. “Yeah,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. “We can do it again.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes bright despite the drowsiness settling in. “Really?”

“Really.” You brush your thumb across his cheek. “Whenever you want.”

The smile that breaks across his face is pure sunshine—relieved and delighted and a little disbelieving all at once. He drops his head back to your shoulder with a contented sigh, holding you tighter.

“Okay,” he whispers, like he's sealing a promise. “Good.”

[shibarinu0000]

this was hot 10/10

[loppsyloo]

Hi Lou!! I'm back with another orderrr but this time I brought my wallet unless you'd rather I pay with photocards again 👀😋

Can I get a grande caramel cinnamon chai blend, a few hints of maple with Yeosang from Ateez please?

Thanks love<33

Lost in Translation// Yeosang x Reader

you first notice it when he stops humming in the mornings.

yeosang’s the kind of person who hums without realizing it — brushing his teeth, frying eggs, untangling his headphones. soft, absentminded tunes that fill the quiet like sunshine through blinds. but lately, it’s been nothing. just the low hiss of the stove and the quiet scrape of utensils.

you lean against the counter one morning, watching him flip an omelet like it personally offended him.

“you’re being weird,” you say, breaking the silence.

he doesn’t look up. “good morning to you too.”

“morning,” you mumble. “but seriously. weird.”

“define weird.”

“you’ve been quiet. even for you quiet.”

he shrugs, still staring at the pan like it owes him money. “maybe i just don’t have much to say lately.”

you frown. “since when has that ever stopped you from saying random philosophical things about cereal?”

a tiny twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth — the kind that almost turns into a smile before he smothers it.

“you’re projecting,” he says.

“oh absolutely,” you reply. “but i’m right.”

he finally glances at you, eyes soft but unreadable. “i’m fine.”

it’s not convincing. but you let it go, because pushing yeosang before he’s ready is like trying to force open a locked door with a feather.

he starts doing small things differently. folding laundry into crisp stacks instead of lazy piles. labeling leftovers with dates. checking the stove three times before bed. and one night, you find him reorganizing the spice rack.

“what are you doing?” you ask, voice caught between amusement and confusion.

“organizing,” he says. “they were all out of order.”

“there was no order,” you point out. “you’re the only one who knows the system.”

he hums thoughtfully. “i’m sorting by emotional intensity.”

you blink. “come again?”

he gestures at the jars. “gochugaru’s fiery. cumin’s mellow. cinnamon’s flirty.”

you stare at him for a beat. then laugh — a full, helpless laugh that shakes your shoulders.

“you’re unbelievable,” you manage.

“thank you,” he says dryly, though the faintest smile flickers across his lips.

you lean on the counter, trying to catch your breath. “you know you’re actually kinda cute when you’re spiraling?”

“spiraling?”

“yeah. it’s like watching a very organized breakdown.”

he rolls his eyes. “you talk too much.”

“and yet you still date me.”

“questionable decision-making,” he mutters, but you see the corner of his mouth curve up before he turns away.

but the light moments don’t last.

somewhere between late-night schedules and short phone calls, the distance creeps in again. texts go unanswered a bit longer. hugs feel more like routines than relief. you keep telling yourself it’s just a phase — that he’ll bounce back like he always does.

but one night, it snaps.

you’re both tired. you from work, him from rehearsals. the air is heavy before either of you speak.

“you’ve been distant,” you say quietly.

“you’ve been... noticing a lot lately,” he replies, voice careful.

“because you’re acting different,” you say. “you barely talk. you barely look at me.”

he runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “i talk to you.”

“yeah, about what? grocery lists and laundry detergent?”

“what else am i supposed to say?”

“i don’t know! maybe what’s actually on your mind for once?”

his silence cuts sharper than any argument.

you feel something twist in your chest. “forget it.”

he exhales slowly, then walks out of the kitchen. the door doesn’t slam — it just closes. soft. final.

you end up sitting on the floor, surrounded by neatly lined spice jars. everything’s in perfect order except you.

you don’t cry, exactly. you just... sit. trying to convince yourself that he’ll come back in, say something stupid, make you laugh again. but the minutes stretch out too long.

then, finally, soft footsteps.

he stops in the doorway, hair messy, eyes tired but gentle. “you reorganized the spices again,” you mumble.

“i was stressed,” he says quietly, lowering himself beside you.

“cinnamon’s flirty?”

he huffs a laugh, the first real one in days. “you’re making fun of me.”

“a little.”

his shoulder brushes yours. you can feel the tension leaving him in small, hesitant pieces.

“i’m sorry,” he says after a while. “things have been... heavy. i didn’t know how to talk about it without feeling like i was making it your problem.”

you tilt your head against his shoulder. “you are my problem. that’s the point.”

he lets out a shaky breath, the kind that sounds almost like a laugh. “i just didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“you don’t drag me,” you say softly. “you just go quiet and make me guess. and i’m really bad at guessing.”

his head drops slightly, forehead almost resting against yours. “so we both suck at communicating.”

“pretty much.”

he smiles — small but real. “at least we’re consistent.”

“that’s one word for it.”

later, you both end up cooking dinner side by side. he’s still quieter than usual, but now it feels peaceful instead of tense. the kind of quiet that says, we’re okay, even if we’re still figuring it out.

you bump his hip gently as he plates the food. “so, where does salt fall on the emotional scale?”

“neutral,” he says. “essential but overlooked.”

“like you?”

he glances at you with a small smirk. “smooth.”

“i try.”

he leans over and kisses your temple. it’s quick, almost shy, but you feel the warmth spread through you anyway.

that night, he falls asleep with his arm draped lazily over your waist, his breath steady against your neck. you trace small circles on his wrist until you drift off too.

and maybe that’s what love is — a language neither of you fully understand, full of mistranslations and pauses. but somehow, the meaning always finds its way back home.

[shibarinu0000]

this is rlly cute :(

[scousero]

The weight you carry

Pairing: Yeosang x f!reader

Genre: fluff, hurt, comfort, established relationship, romance

Trigger warnings: none

Word count: 1620

Summary: After being betrayed by your best friend, you withdraw into silence, unable to explain the pain that’s slowly building a wall between you and Yeosang. But when he finally urges you to open up, your tears and his patience become the first steps toward healing what was broken inside you.

MASTERLIST

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆

The city lights blur outside the car window, and you focus on them because it’s easier than looking at Yeosang. He’s driving, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other tapping an idle rhythm on his thigh. You recognize the beat, it’s the chorus of the song that had been playing at the restaurant earlier. He doesn’t hum along like he usually does.

You know he’s thinking. You can feel it radiating off him, quiet but thick, like humidity before a storm.

You try to breathe normally, to look unbothered, but the lump in your throat hasn’t dissolved since dinner. The laughter from the table echoes in your mind, hers most of all. Your ex-best friend’s. Sharp, deliberate, cutting across conversations like a blade.

Every time her gaze flicked to you, you felt yourself shrink, and Yeosang noticed. Of course he did.

He notices everything.

Still, he didn’t ask. Not there. Not once.

He just reached under the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, a small gesture that somehow kept you anchored when all you wanted was to disappear.

Now, with the night stretched out quiet between you, you can feel the weight of what’s unsaid pressing harder and harder on your chest.

When you finally step into the apartment, you almost sigh in relief. Home. Familiar. Safe.

But Yeosang closes the door slowly behind you, and something about the way he exhales tells you that silence won’t last.

You kick off your shoes and mumble something about taking a shower, but before you can move, his voice stops you.

“Babe.”

It’s gentle, so gentle, but it makes your stomach twist anyway.

You turn. “Yeah?”

He’s still by the door, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing at his wrist, eyes fixed on you. There’s no anger there, no irritation, just worry, soft and unspoken. The kind that hurts more than yelling ever could.

“What happened tonight?” he asks quietly.

Your throat tightens. “Nothing happened.”

He takes a step forward. “That’s not true.”

You look away, busy yourself with hanging up your coat. “I just… don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

Yeosang doesn’t argue. He never does. He just watches, his silence heavy and understanding at the same time.

“I know you don’t,” he says after a moment. “But you’ve been… different. For weeks. And when she showed up tonight…” he pauses, voice careful, “…I saw the way you froze.”

Your fingers clench around the fabric of your coat.

“I thought I could handle it,” you whisper.

He frowns. “Handle what?”

The tears threaten right there, pricking at the corners of your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that just hearing the concern in his voice makes everything inside you crack open.

“Yeosang, please. Not now.”

He doesn’t move. For a second, you think he’ll drop it, that he’ll give you the space you’re asking for, but instead, he walks up to you slowly and wraps his arms around you from behind.

His chin rests lightly on your shoulder, and his voice is a murmur against your ear. “I’m not trying to make you talk before you’re ready. I just… I don’t like seeing you hurt and pretending you’re fine.”

You close your eyes. His warmth seeps into you, grounding you, but it also undoes you. The tears spill before you can stop them.

“She used to be my best friend,” you choke out.

Yeosang’s arms tighten just slightly. He doesn’t speak. He just listens.

“And I trusted her with everything,” you continue, words trembling. “My secrets, my plans, my fears, everything. I thought she cared about me the way I cared about her. But then she…” Your voice breaks, and you swallow hard. “She betrayed me, Yeosang. In the worst way.”

He says your name softly, urging but patient.

“She told people things I’d said in confidence. Twisted my words. Made me look like some manipulative, jealous person. I didn’t even realize it was her until everyone had already chosen sides.”

The words come out in fragments, heavy and uneven.

“She ruined everything. And I thought maybe, if I ignored it, if I just gave her time, she’d realize how much she hurt me. But tonight…” You let out a shaking laugh. “She looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was the villain in her story.”

Yeosang finally turns you around to face him. His eyes are steady, dark with emotion, but his hands are tender as he brushes away the tears on your cheeks.

“She doesn’t get to make you feel that way,” he says quietly. “Not after what she did.”

“She already did,” you whisper. “And the worst part? I can’t even be mad at her without feeling guilty. Like I should’ve seen it coming.”

Yeosang shakes his head. “You trusted her. That’s not something to feel guilty about.”

You sniff, eyes dropping to the floor. “But it’s affecting us. Isn’t it?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “It’s… been hard. Not because of you. Don’t think that. But I can see how much you’re holding in. You smile and say you’re okay, but I can tell when you’re not.”

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

He gives a small, sad smile. “You’re not a burden. You’re the person I love.”

The words hang between you, simple and true. You’ve heard him say them before, but tonight, they hit differently.

You finally meet his gaze. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“I know,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles against your jaw. “But you don’t have to face things alone just because you’re used to it.”

Your chest aches. “You make it sound so easy.”

He chuckles softly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not. But it’s easier together.”

For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in. The room feels smaller, warmer, like the rest of the world has been blurred out.

When Yeosang finally speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper. “When she looked at me tonight, I could tell she was trying to get to you through me.”

You blink, surprised. “You noticed that?”

He nods. “I’m not blind, Y/N. The way she spoke, she wanted you to feel small. To doubt yourself. I saw it.”

You press your forehead to his chest. “It worked.”

His hand slides up your back, steady and sure. “Then we’ll take it apart piece by piece until it doesn’t anymore.”

Something inside you shifts, just a little, but enough to breathe again.

You pull back to look at him, studying the quiet determination in his expression. Yeosang has never been one for dramatic speeches. He’s the kind of person who stays when things get ugly, who listens instead of interrupts, who holds you until the trembling stops.

And tonight, that’s exactly what he does.

He leads you to the couch, sits down, and pulls you gently onto his lap. It’s not about comfort, it’s about closeness. About safety.

You tell him everything then. Every piece of it. The lies, the humiliation, the nights you cried yourself to sleep wondering what you did wrong. You speak until your voice is raw and your tears have dried into salt on your skin.

And Yeosang listens through it all, his arms around you, his thumb occasionally brushing your shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours.

When you finish, when there’s nothing left to confess but the emptiness in your chest, he exhales softly.

“I wish I could take it away,” he murmurs. “All of it.”

“You already did, a little,” you admit. “Just by listening.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “That’s all I ever want, to be here for you, in whatever way you need.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. “Even when I don’t make it easy?”

“Especially then.”

You laugh, a shaky, half-broken sound, but it’s real. For the first time in weeks, it’s real.

The night stretches long after that. You talk about small things, about tomorrow, about maybe cutting certain people out for good. Yeosang doesn’t tell you what to do, doesn’t give you advice you didn’t ask for. He just reminds you, in that quiet Yeosang way, that you’re not alone.

When he finally carries you to bed, your body feels lighter. Not healed yet, but no longer heavy with silence.

He tucks you in, turns off the lamp, and slips beside you. His arm finds your waist automatically, his hand warm against your stomach.

“You okay?” he asks softly in the dark.

You nod, though he can’t see it. “Better.”

He hums. “That’s all I need to hear.”

You fall asleep with your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like something inside you has finally, finally, stopped breaking.

[shibarinu0000]

this is so sweet ugh

[arilevenatz]

Silent Vows 𝟐 | K.YS

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, One-sided slow burn (idek), slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 12k (so 34.4k in total)

Warnings: slow ahh burn, implied child neglect, slapping, crying, self worth struggles, reader kinda hated herself for a few mins, and obviously yeosang being so domestic and yummy

AN: hehe I've made u guys wait a lot huh? But it's finally here tho and I'm happy that it turned out how i wanted to be, u know what I'm saying? Like i didn't want to put up something that I ain't happy with. So yeah quality over quantity everyone. I hope y'all like this one as well (pls don't ask me for part three I ain't got no idea what to write anymore 🙏🏻😭)

Part 1 | Masterlist

The thing about domestic life with Yeosang was,it was dangerous. Not because of the mafia thing. Not because of bodyguards or enemies or whatever. No, it was dangerous because he was too good at it. Folding sleeves while helping you hang laundry. Holding the back of your neck softly while passing by you in the kitchen. Walking around the apartment barefoot in sweatpants like it wasn’t illegal to look that good doing nothing.

Like right now.

Right now, you were standing in the kitchen, hair clipped up messily, sleeves pushed to your elbows, flipping through your notes for university on the counter while stirring something in a pot. And him? He was leaning against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you with this stupid half-smile like you were the most interesting thing in the room. Like you were the TV. Like you were art.

“What?” you finally mumbled, not even looking up from your notes.

“Nothing,” he answered easily. “Can’t look at my wife?”

“Not when I’m clearly fighting for my life in biochemistry,” you muttered, scribbling something with irritation.

But then,you felt it. The warmth of him moving closer. You hated that you liked the way he moved around you like he belonged there. Like he owned the whole place, including you.

“You’re doing great,” he said, voice low by your ear, “But you know I don’t like it when you stress over this stuff alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

But then,betrayal. Your stomach growled. Loud. You froze. Yeosang’s smirk grew wider, the audacity dripping from every inch of him. “Are you, though?”

“Don’t.”

“I will.”

You elbowed him half-heartedly, cheeks warming, but he caught your arm gently before you could fully pull away.

“Sit,” he said, soft but final. “I’ll finish stirring. You explain your homework to me. Win-win.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. “Since when do you cook for me?”

“Since I got tired of watching you nearly pass out before dinner.”

Cocky and caring. Disgusting.

So, you sat. Let him take the wooden spoon like it was his birthright, sleeves already rolled, rings catching the light. And there he was, stirring like he was born to be a husband, stealing glances at you every few seconds like you wouldn’t notice.

You hated how good this felt. You hated that it didn’t feel forced. You hated that you almost wanted to lean your head on his shoulder right then and there.

But most of all,you hated that you were starting to love being his. And he knew it.

The bastard knew.

You glanced down at your phone, thumb scrolling lazily until the notification popped up,buried in your notes app, wedged between grocery lists and half-done assignments.

Dad’s birthday. Mom invited us.

A pause.

A day before. Both of us. Why.

The reminder sat there like an unwanted guest in your head. Ironic, really. They never celebrated his birthday before. Never a cake, never a dinner, never a mention. And now suddenly they were throwing a get-together with invitations and everything,right after you got married.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. You could almost feel it under your skin. Like this wasn’t a celebration,it was a statement. Their way of parading you around, showing people that you were finally “settled,” finally doing something they could brag about at family gatherings. Finally being useful.

Gross.

You glanced up from your screen, the bitter thought still lingering, just in time to see Yeosang walking back into the living room, rolling the sleeves of his black button-up further up his forearms as he moved. His watch caught the light when he adjusted it, veins on the back of his hand standing out in that stupid way that made you look even when you didn’t want to. Shirt slightly untucked like he’d gotten home from work and didn’t care to fix it. Slacks loose but perfect on him, casual yet expensive. His hair was still slightly messy from running his hands through it, a habit you noticed when he was thinking too hard,or irritated,or, worse, watching you.

Effortlessly hot. The kind of hot that made you annoyed on principle. He didn’t even try. It wasn’t fair.

He sat on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs slightly without meaning to, long fingers lazily undoing the first button of his shirt. Comfort. Casual. Not for show. Just him existing, unaware that it made your throat go dry for no reason other than spite.

You swallowed, tried to act normal, even though normal around him was becoming increasingly difficult.

“So,” you finally broke the silence, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you. “Did she invite your dad?”

He tilted his head a little, processing, eyes on yours now. Sharp. Heavy. “Yeah. On the day itself.”

“But she asked us to come earlier.”

“Apparently.”

You hated how even his voice was hot. Low, smooth, slightly raspy at the edges like he hadn’t spoken much today. Like he saved his words for you and you alone. The worst part? He wasn’t even doing it on purpose. Just existing like that.

“And do you know why?”

He shrugged lazily, thumb brushing his lower lip for a second as he thought. “Maybe they wanna parade us around early. Maybe they wanna test me.” He glanced at you, one brow barely lifting. “Maybe they’re just bored.”

You sighed. “Or maybe they just wanna show off that they finally got rid of me.”

His gaze sharpened,not with pity, not with softness. Something else. Something sharper. Like he was filing the information away somewhere deep. You were used to people looking at you like you were fragile glass. Yeosang didn’t do that. He just listened, stored it, remembered.

“You’re not something to ‘get rid of,’” he finally said, steady. Quiet. “They’re stupid if they think that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of those words, not because they were sharp,but because they were gentle in a way you didn’t expect from him.

“I don’t care what they think,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the coffee table.

And maybe you were telling the truth. Maybe you weren’t. Didn’t matter.

Yeosang leaned back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. Long legs, sleeves rolled, one hand resting against his stomach, fingertips idly brushing his rings. The picture of relaxed power. “Doesn’t matter what they think,” he said again, slower this time. “You’re with me now.”

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just a fact he laid out like gravity, like physics, like it couldn’t be argued with. He wasn’t claiming you.

He was reminding you.

And you hated,hated,how much that stupid, effortless heat of his made your heart betray you. Just a little more. Just enough to make you feel the slow burn starting to creep under your skin again.

You both went. Bags packed neatly, yours folded properly, his thrown together last minute like he didn’t care, but of course he did, you knew by now that he cared about everything. Before you left, Yeosang had held up the necklace and the rings, both matching, both expensive, both screaming his. He didn’t even argue, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t try to sweet-talk you into it. He just looked at you. And with him, that was enough.

“I don’t like wearing so much-”

“Wear it,” he cut you off softly, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne, expensive and warm. “Trust me.”

So you did.

Hair done. Jewelry on. Wearing the cardigan he got you last week because he knows you fidget with sleeves, layered over the designer dress that fit too well to be coincidence. Rings catching the sunlight. Necklace resting against your collarbone, delicate but clearly worth more than your dad’s entire car. Everything about you said: untouchable.

But the real final touch?

Yeosang’s hand. Wrapping around yours, warm, steady, undeniable. Like a quiet statement.

When you walked into your family’s house, you didn’t have to say a word.

The look on your mother’s face was priceless. The pause. The flicker of disbelief behind her carefully practiced smile. She didn’t expect this. Not the jewelry. Not the designer clothes. Not the calm way you carried yourself like you belonged in that skin now. And certainly not the way Yeosang stood beside you like you were his entire world on display. Not proud, not showing off, just present. Solid. Real. Someone no one could touch.

It wasn’t just the clothes or the money, it was the weight behind it.

He wasn’t showing you off. He was protecting you. Dressing you in armor you didn’t even realize you’d been missing your whole life.

You didn’t need him to tell you why anymore.

You saw it written all over your mother’s face: this was a game she wasn’t winning anymore.

And when Yeosang squeezed your hand gently, not too hard, not too soft, you finally understood:

He wanted them to see.

Your mother greeted you with that smile, the one she wore to every social event, every uncomfortable conversation, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Like clockwork, the passive-aggressive commentary started before you’d even set your bags down.

“Well,” she hummed, eyeing the necklace around your throat, “finally wearing something proper now, aren’t you? Marriage must be doing you well.”

You swallowed. Familiar sting. Same routine. You were used to it. You braced yourself, ready to just nod and let it slide, like always.

But then, Yeosang spoke.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, like honey with a sharp edge. “She always looks good. But I guess money makes it easier to see, doesn’t it?” You blinked.

Your mom’s smile tightened, sharp as glass. “Of course. Not everyone’s used to that kind of lifestyle.”

Yeosang let out a soft hum, nonchalant, barely acknowledging the insult. “True. But I like giving her things. Makes up for the years she didn’t get them.”

You felt it then, that shift in the air. Like someone opened a window in a stale room. Fresh, biting, unexpected. Your mom’s eyes flickered to yours like she wanted backup, but you weren’t giving it. Not now. Not with him standing next to you like that, calm, sharp, dangerous without even raising his voice.

“Oh, well, we managed just fine before,” she tried again, tone syrupy sweet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Yeosang’s lips twitched,bnot a smirk, just something close. Something controlled. “Yeah. I saw.”

That was it. No yelling. No scenes. Just a few precisely chosen words, placed like knives on fine china. Clean. Silent. Lethal. And you? You were standing next to him, trying to remember how to breathe, because, God, how was he this hot right now? Not just physically, though the rolled sleeves, the watch, the perfectly tailored black slacks were not helping, but mentally. Emotionally. Intellectually. Attractive in the way that made your knees weak because he was on your side. Not just tolerating you. Defending you. Matching every jab with ease, making it seem effortless, like he’d been trained for this.

Because he had. And that’s when it hit you like a punch to the gut—

Oh no. You were in trouble. Real, real trouble.

Because you were falling for this man.

Your mother, visibly swallowing her pride, gave one last flicker of that brittle smile before waving you both off with a tight, “You know the way. Your room’s ready.” Defeated. For the first time, she didn’t have the last word. And that alone felt like fireworks under your skin.

You both went upstairs. Same old room. Same faded wallpaper, same creaking door, same window with the view of nothing in particular. It felt smaller now, too small with him standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, the sharp line of his jaw set like stone, rings glinting on his fingers as he tossed the bags down like he owned the whole damn town.

You didn’t even look at him as you spoke, folding your arms awkwardly, eyes locked on the carpet. “It’s… not as big as your place. Sorry.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe some old leftover habit from constantly apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. You hated that it slipped out.

Yeosang tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a new painting. And then, cool as ever, voice low, warm, dangerous in that stupid effortless way—

“I don’t need the room to be big,” he murmured. “I just need you in it.”

And just like that, oxygen left the room. No teasing, no cocky smirk. Just facts. Solid. Like of course that’s what he thought. Why wouldn’t he?

You wanted to punch something. Mainly because, why the hell did that sound the most genuine and hottest than anything you’d ever heard in your entire life?

You stared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, half from embarrassment, half from pure rage. “Don’t-don’t say shit like that!” you snapped, voice a little louder than you intended, biting at the edges.

Yeosang just lifted his hands like he was fending you off, palms up, rings catching the light. “I said what I said,” he answered, completely unbothered. No teasing grin, no cocky expression, just plain honesty delivered like a punch straight to your throat.

Infuriating.

You stomped off toward the bathroom before you said something stupid, muttering curses under your breath as you went. The old door creaked as you shut it, hands gripping the sink like you could squeeze your irritation into the porcelain. You washed your feet quickly, letting the cold water ground you, but the second you stepped back into the room, something was different.

The suitcases.

Yours, unzipped neatly, placed by the old dresser like it belonged there. His already halfway unpacked, shirts folded sharp, belts coiled perfectly. Like he hadn’t just been flirting with you five minutes ago, like he wasn’t casually flipping your entire life inside out.

You blinked, standing there awkwardly with wet feet on the faded carpet. He didn’t even look at you. He was by the suitcase, rolling his sleeves back down now, slowly, like this was some kind of ritual.

Effortlessly hot. Domestic. Dangerous.

“Didn’t ask you to unpack,” you muttered, feeling small.

“I was doing mine anyway,” he replied simply, folding another black shirt and sliding it into the drawer like he’d done it a thousand times. “And besides, you looked tired.”

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t kind. It was matter-of-fact, like the sky being blue or the floor being under your feet.

And God,why did that make your stomach twist more than anything else?

You never really expected to marry someone. The idea of sharing your life, your space, your routines, it never felt real. Not because you hated love or feared commitment or any of that dramatic nonsense. No. It just… never seemed like you. You were the quiet one. The invisible daughter. The one people forgot to ask opinions from. The one who learned to thrive in silence. You were used to shrinking into spaces, not opening them up for someone else to walk into. And yet, here you were.

Married to a man who didn’t just walk into your life, he walked in, kicked the door open, threw a damn rug down and started rearranging furniture. Not loudly. Not rudely. Just… unapologetically. Existing in your space like he belonged there.

And worse? He fit. Too well.

You didn’t know what kind of divine comedy this was, but it was definitely messing with your heart. Because that dumb organ was doing little flips and somersaults every time he folded your clothes without being asked, or poured water into your cup before filling his own, or carried your bag like it was an extension of his arm. He never made a show of it. Never called it out.

He just did things. Like you mattered. Like he noticed you. And maybe that scared you more than anything else ever had.

But if he was going to do this,this husband-thing, then maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little space in your world too. Not the one built by your family. Not the name they tried to carry like a badge of shame. Your world. The one you made with your tiny comforts, your small joys, your quiet favorite places.

So, after unpacking, you stood in the middle of the room, fingers brushing over the rings he told you to wear. Still warm from your skin. Still heavy with meaning.

“I want to take you somewhere,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

Yeosang, who had just set down his cologne bottle onto the dresser, paused. Then turned to face you fully. “Yeah?” he asked, voice calm but something sparking behind his eyes.

You nodded, awkwardly playing with your sleeve. “Just… somewhere I go when I need to breathe.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied you with that unreadable expression, the one that made it feel like he was seeing parts of you even you didn’t know existed. Then, slowly, his lips tugged into something small. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just, soft. Warm.

“I’d like that.”

You weren’t ready for how much those three words meant. For the way they made your chest feel tight. He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand an explanation. He just grabbed a jacket, slung it over one arm, and said, “Lead the way.”

And you knew.

You knew at that moment, he wasn’t just some random name attached to your family’s pride. He wasn’t just a title, or a deal, or a man with money and power.

He was someone who, whether you liked it or not, had already started building a room inside your life.

The cold air bit at your nose as you stepped out, jacket wrapped around you tightly. You didn’t say much on the way, just gave Yeosang a look when he asked where you were taking him, and he didn’t push. Just followed behind you with steady footsteps, jacket slung casually over his arm, black boots echoing on the pavement like something out of a drama.

He looked so out of place in your world.

In his all-black outfit, hair styled just enough to look like he didn’t try, cologne subtle but warm—he was the kind of man who belonged in sleek lounges or high-rise penthouses. Not on this quiet street with chipped sidewalks and flickering neon signs. But you didn’t tell him that. Because a part of you wanted to see if he could fit here too.

You stopped in front of a small corner building, glass windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A sign above the door, painted in soft pink and cream:

Whiskers & Tails Café.

He raised a brow. “A pet café?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

Then pushed open the door and stepped in.

Warmth greeted you instantly, both from the heaters and from the familiar scent of fur, coffee, and the faintest trace of vanilla-scented candles. The bell jingled above as you walked in, and the moment your face appeared, a sleepy golden retriever in the corner perked up, tail thudding against the floor.

It wasn’t just any pet café. It was yours. You volunteered here when you could. Cleaned kennels, fed them, played with them, sometimes just sat with the animals when the world outside was too loud. This place had always been your safe space.

And now… he was here.

You didn’t look at him as you unwrapped your scarf. Just mumbled, “I come here sometimes. Help out. Thought I’d check on them since we’re in town.”

Yeosang stood at the entrance for a moment, hands in his coat pockets. You expected him to make a comment. Something dry or sarcastic. Something about you being secretly soft-hearted.

But instead—

A small kitten, tabby with white paws, padded up to his feet. He knelt down. Not just crouched, fully knelt. One knee on the floor, hand out gently, voice soft.

“Hey, little guy.”

The kitten mewed and immediately rubbed its face against his fingers. Yeosang chuckled.

You blinked.

Then watched, absolutely dumbfounded, as the man you thought only cared about suits, expensive watches, and control, started going around the café… greeting every animal.

One by one.

Petting the large dogs with careful hands. Letting a sleepy cat climb onto his lap like it owned him. Even playing tug-of-war with a tiny puppy who definitely wasn’t winning, but Yeosang still made it feel like it was.

You didn’t know what to do with that information.

You sat down on the sofa and let the old Pomeranian you always fed climb onto your lap. You watched him, arms crossed, as he laughed when a kitten climbed into his coat. He made himself at home like he’d been there a hundred times.

You narrowed your eyes from your seat on the couch. “You good down there or are they starting a coup?”

Without looking up, he deadpanned, “I think this one’s the leader,” pointing to the tiny kitten who had now decided to nap on his thigh. “She’s got the eyes of a war general.”

You snorted, petting the sleepy Pomeranian curled into your lap. “Didn’t peg you for an animal person.”

“I’m not,” he said, while simultaneously adjusting the kitten’s head so she was more comfortable. “I’m just very approachable, apparently.”

“Oh yeah, that resting mafia face is super welcoming.”

He finally looked up at you, one brow raised. “Says the woman who stomps like a ghost when she walks and never makes eye contact.”

“That’s stealth,” you argued. “That’s a skill.”

“Sure,” he said dryly. “That’s exactly why the cat followed you the moment you walked in. Real ninja energy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I smell like food.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, brushing fur off his pants. “You were navigating my kitchen like it owed you rent.”

“I was cooking, not robbing it.”

“You even found where I hide the sugar.”

“…You hid the sugar?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “You don’t need that much caffeine.”

You stared at him, offended. “You don’t even live in your kitchen!”

“And yet somehow, you’ve claimed it. Like it’s your natural habitat.”

A kitten chose that exact moment to sneeze on his hand, making him flinch slightly. You burst out laughing. “Oh yes, very majestic. You’re really commanding the animal kingdom right now.”

He shook his head, trying not to smile. “I literally own weapons and yet I’m being taken hostage by a two-pound furball.”

“Whiskers is the boss around here,” you said, pointing at the kitten in his lap. “Bow to her or be banished.”

Yeosang let out a soft laugh, real, low, warm, and scratched Whiskers under her chin. “At least she’s nicer than your mom.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

“What?” he shrugged. “Whiskers didn’t say I was a waste of good suits.”

You tried to look scandalized, but you couldn’t help the laugh bubbling out of you. It was rare, laughing like this. Laughing with him. You weren’t supposed to be this comfortable. This… normal.

Yeosang glanced at you then, just briefly. “You laugh more when we’re not in your house.”

You blinked. “You notice that?”

He looked back down at the kitten, brushing his fingers through her fur. “I notice everything.”

And there it was. That stupid warmth again.

The air was cool and quiet as you and Yeosang walked down the familiar streets back home, the sun dipping just low enough to wash everything in that soft golden haze. Your feet were starting to ache, but you didn’t say anything. Mostly because Yeosang was already holding your bag, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You did huffed, but didn’t argue. And maybe, just maybe, you liked the way it felt. Having someone quietly notice the things you struggled with and not making a big deal about helping.

You reached your house just as the golden light began to fade, the front porch casting long shadows. Yeosang’s grip on your bag shifted slightly as he pushed the door open for you, and the moment you stepped inside—

There she was.

Your mother. Standing there like she’d been waiting. That same tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more like a challenge than a greeting. “Where have you both been?” she asked, voice dripping with sweetness that somehow stung more than actual venom.

You shrugged off your shoes. “Places.”

She blinked. “Places?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

That smile wavered for just a second. “Well, as long as you’re not wandering around wasting time. Married life shouldn’t distract you from your responsibilities. Your husband might not always be so forgiving.”

You opened your mouth, ready to respond, or maybe just sigh, but Yeosang beat you to it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, setting your bag down gently, tone sugary-sweet and razor-sharp. “I’m more than forgiving. I even let her choose the restaurant today. Can you imagine?”

Your mom blinked. “Oh?”

“Crazy, right?” he continued, peeling off his jacket slowly, casually. “Letting her make her own decisions? Next thing you know, she’ll have opinions.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Your mom’s smile dropped just a millimeter.

“And besides,” Yeosang added, voice light but eyes cold, “it wasn’t wasting time. We were at a place that made her happy. Which, I assume, isn’t a common theme around here.”

Dead. You were dead. He did not just say that.

Your mom blinked at him, clearly stunned for a half second, then let out a tight chuckle. “Well, I’m glad she has such a... supportive husband.”

Yeosang smiled. “Me too.”

You were just about to make your escape up the stairs, Yeosang right beside you, your bag now resting by the steps, when her voice cut through the air. "YN, come help me in the kitchen."

Your feet froze mid-step.

Yeosang slowed too, looking down at you with a glance so subtle no one else would’ve noticed. But you did. His eyes scanned your face, taking in the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers tensed slightly. You didn’t even look at him, just nodded once and turned back. Because at the end of the day, no matter how many rings you wore or necklaces draped around your neck or husbands stood beside you,

She was still your mother.

You stepped into the kitchen like a soldier walking onto familiar, scorched battlefield. The air was already heavy with the smell of oil and something boiling, but you knew that wouldn’t be the thing to make your stomach turn.

“Wash those vegetables,” she said without even looking up. You did. Quietly. Mechanically. You always did. Then it began.

“I see you’ve gotten used to letting someone else speak for you now.” You kept washing the spinach. “Can’t even answer a simple question earlier. Just ‘places,’ huh?” You didn’t reply. Not yet.

“Not surprised. You were always a bit slow to speak. Just like your father.” The knife clinked a little harder against the cutting board. You knew that trick. Cut someone else down so you forget the weight of your own bruises.

You placed the spinach in the bowl. She turned to you, eyes narrow. “He must’ve spoiled you real quick. Is that why you’re suddenly standing up like a big girl now? His money made you bold?”

You finally looked at her. “No,” you said. Calm. Sharp. “I think I just stopped being afraid.”

She stared at you like you’d grown two heads. “Excuse me?”

You held her gaze. “You heard me.”

Her lips curled. “He’s not going to protect you forever. He’ll get bored of you. They always do.”

Your stomach twisted. “He’s not like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think he married you out of love? You’re not even that special. Don’t let some designer label fool you, girl.”

You felt it. That slow-burning heat, shame and anger tangling like wires in your chest. But this time, it didn’t silence you. This time, you said, “Maybe he didn’t marry me for love. But he treats me better in months than you have my whole life.”

And that’s when it happened.

Her hand was faster than your eyes. A crack of palm against cheek, the sound almost louder than the pain.

Almost.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You just stood there. Frozen.

Because the sting on your cheek wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how familiar it felt. That helplessness. That silence. That deep ache of being reduced to a child who didn’t have the right to speak.

You thought you had outgrown this. You thought you were healing.

But the tear that slid down your cheek wasn’t from the slap, it was from the sudden, brutal realization that a part of you was still that girl. Still folding napkins at dinner. Still flinching at footsteps. Still pretending it didn’t hurt.

And you hated it.

You hated that she could still reach inside you and drag that little girl out. Just with a few words. A raised hand. A name that still had power, even if you tried to forget.

The moment the slap landed, you dropped everything. The vegetables, the bowl, the knife. You didn’t even flinch at the sound of it clattering to the ground. Your hands trembled, not from the sting but from the crushing wave of emotions that surged through you, humiliation, fury, sadness, and something deeper. Something rotten that had been buried for too long. You didn’t say a word. Not to her. Not to yourself. You just turned, eyes burning and steps heavy, and walked. No…ran.

Up the stairs. Past the photos on the wall. Past the familiar scent of a house that never really felt like home. Your feet hit the last step and you all but burst through the door of your old bedroom.

Yeosang looked up just as you entered. He had his jacket in his hands, half off, like he’d just finished fixing his hair in the mirror. The casual, effortless way he looked, black sleeves rolled to the elbows, shirt fitted perfectly across his shoulders, it should’ve made your heart do those little flips again. But right now, you were too full. Too heavy. You didn’t even speak to him. You just locked eyes for half a second, long enough for him to see it. The tightness in your jaw. The gleam of tears unshed. The way your hands were clenched like you were holding on to the last strand of composure.

You walked past him, your steps unsteady but fast, and went straight into the bathroom. Yeosang didn’t move for a second. He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to guess. He knew.

He knew your face by now, every flicker, every twitch. He knew the storm behind your silence. You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just overwhelmed. You were hurt. And he didn’t need to hear it from your mouth to understand the source of it. His jaw tightened as he slowly placed his jacket on the hook, not saying a word. But his mind was loud.

Of course that woman did something. He knew this was more than just a fight. This was history. Years of belittling. Years of you being told you weren’t enough. Years of silence and shame so normalized it felt like air in this damn house. And even now, even with the jewelry he gave you on your skin, even with him standing next to you as your husband, she still saw you as that same small girl she could bend and break.

His fists clenched at his sides as he exhaled slowly. He had known you longer than you thought. Maybe you didn’t know that part yet. Maybe you never noticed how often he showed up where you were before this marriage. How much he had watched, not in a creepy way, but like someone fascinated by a person who moved quietly through the world and still held so much within her. He remembered the way you used to fidget with the ends of your sleeves when walking alone. He had always noticed you. And that’s why it burned so much now. Because even after all that time, you still had to deal with this.

He took a slow step toward the bathroom door, didn’t knock, didn’t call out. He just stood there.

When you came out of the bathroom, the air in the room felt heavier. Your face was washed, but the redness around your eyes betrayed you. Yeosang didn’t look up right away; he was lying back against the headboard, one arm folded under his head, the picture of composure. But he was watching. Not obviously, not directly, but every flicker of your movement was caught in the corner of his gaze.

You didn’t say a word. You walked over and sat at the very edge of the bed, your back stiff, your hands folded tightly in your lap as if keeping yourself from falling apart depended on it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until his voice cut through it, low, steady, but gentle in a way that disarmed you instantly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, not even shifting his posture. “You don’t have to explain. But if you need me,” his eyes flicked toward you, softer than you’d ever seen them, “I’ll be here.”

That was it. No lecture. No questions. No demanding answers you weren’t ready to give. Just that.

Your throat closed up before you could even think of a reply. The kind of ache that doesn’t warn you, it just rises. Your eyes blurred, and before you could stop it, tears began slipping down silently, trailing hot down your cheeks. You never were the kind of person to cry out loud—your pain had always been quiet, tucked away where no one could see. But the tears betrayed you now, your shoulders trembling, your chest rising unevenly as you tried to hold the pieces of yourself together.

Yeosang didn’t say anything else. He just moved. Slowly, steadily, he sat up, closed the small distance between you, and pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you, firm but not suffocating, the way someone holds something fragile but refuses to let it break. He didn’t shush you, didn’t tell you to stop. He just held you because he knew you needed it more than anything.

And in that moment, with your forehead against his chest and his steady heartbeat under your ear, you realized he wasn’t here to fix you. He was here to stand with you while you broke, and to make sure you didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

The words slipped out of you before you could even stop them. You weren’t planning to tell him, weren’t planning to open your mouth at all, but it came so naturally, like a reflex, like breathing. “She slapped me,” you said quietly, staring at your hands in your lap.

Yeosang froze. His entire body went still, like a string pulled taut. His voice came next, sharp but measured, carrying a weight that told you he already knew but wanted to hear it confirmed. “Who?”

You swallowed, the word barely leaving your lips. “Mom.”

It sounded almost childish, almost like a confession you’d make as a kid when you ran to a grown-up, expecting them to fix it. But with Yeosang, it felt different. It wasn’t childish. It wasn’t weak. It felt like you were telling someone who had the power to take that weight from you, someone who wouldn’t just sit by. It felt like complaining to a guardian who could shield you, who could make the world’s cruelty back off.

Yeosang didn’t speak right away. He was still, utterly still, except for the tightening of his jaw. His eyes darkened, not in sadness, but in fury, an anger that sat deep in his chest and burned hot in his veins. He rarely felt it, and even more rarely let it show. But now, he was furious.

How dare someone touch you? His wife. His partner. The thought alone made his stomach knot and his blood hum with rage. He could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind, the lessons drilled into him since boyhood: You protect the women in your family. And if anyone dares to lay a hand on them, you crush them. Especially your partner. She is your shield and your heart. No one touches her and walks away unscathed.

Yeosang’s fists curled into the blanket, his breath steady but heavy. It wasn’t just anger. It was something deeper, more dangerous. The kind of fury that demanded action. The kind that could dismantle a person piece by piece without even raising his voice.

The house was oddly quiet, you and Yeosang were tucked away in your room, standing in front of the mirror as you fixed the last bit of your hair. The soft glow of the lamp lit your face, but there was something about your eyes, dimmed, distant. No matter how carefully you blended your eyeliner or how well you draped your outfit, the shadow of what had happened earlier still lingered behind your expression.

Yeosang noticed. He always noticed. Even if you smiled, even if you tried to tuck it away, he could read you like lines written across his own palm. Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, he leaned slightly toward you, catching your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly, almost like a command but softened for you. His tone carried that steady confidence of his, the kind that made you feel like maybe he really could shoulder it all for you. “She’s not worth your thoughts tonight.”

You glanced at him, your lips twitching as if you wanted to respond but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. Instead, you smoothed the fabric of your dress, pushing away the heaviness for the moment. If he said not to worry, maybe you could trust him enough to try.

The venue was only a short walk away, near the house, and the sound of music and chatter already carried through the air when you both stepped outside. The street was glowing with lanterns and fairy lights, the venue itself dressed in bright colors and flowers that looked extravagant, too extravagant. You frowned slightly, tilting your head. Where did all this money come from? When you lived under this roof, the only thing you ever heard was how broke they were, how sacrifices had to be made, how you were a burden on the household. Yet suddenly, for this celebration, there was no shortage of decorations, food, and flair.

Your stomach twisted with the bitterness of it, but you kept walking. Yeosang, carrying himself with a calm sharpness beside you, noticed the way your lips pressed into a thin line. Without asking, without prying, he slipped your bag from your arm to his. “Clumsy hands,” he teased lightly, the same excuse he’d given earlier. But it wasn’t just that, he wanted to ease the weight you carried, even if it was something small.

Inside, the venue gleamed with people bustling, laughter rising, and the smell of food filling the air. And though your chest felt tight, you held your chin a little higher. Yeosang was beside you, his presence steady, and that alone felt like armor.

Yeosang had told you earlier, almost in passing while straightening his cufflinks, that his father was also on his way to the venue. The words had been simple, but they left a strange warmth in your chest. For some reason, knowing that man would be there settled you, as if the ground beneath your feet felt a little sturdier. His father had always been kind to you, genuinely kind, not the hollow politeness you were used to from others. He treated you like you were someone worth noticing, worth listening to. And it made you wonder, in the quiet corners of your mind, why your own father never looked at you that way. Why he never thought his daughter deserved the same softness a stranger could offer.

You didn’t say any of this out loud, of course. Words had always felt like a battlefield to you, every sentence a risk. So you kept them tucked behind your lips where they belonged, only giving Yeosang a small nod when he mentioned his father’s arrival. You knew he would catch it, knew he would read that tiny movement like it was a whole paragraph. That was the thing about him, he never needed your explanations to understand you.

His father had only been there for a few minutes, but the difference in the air was impossible to ignore. He carried himself with the kind of ease that drew people in, that quiet authority that made others soften just by being near him. After greeting your parents politely, your father stiff and formal, your mother forcedly cheerful, he drifted toward where you and Yeosang stood, positioning himself naturally by your side as though he belonged there.

The flow of relatives and family friends soon began, trickling into the venue in groups, all smiles and curious glances. One by one, you found yourself being tugged forward into the routine of introductions. You barely managed the words, your voice soft and clipped, but it didn’t matter. Yeosang filled in every gap you left, his hand at the small of your back, his responses smooth and respectful, his presence a shield more than anything. His father was no different, gracious, warm, steady. He didn’t just stand there like an ornament, he engaged, asked small questions, even made sure to include you when others seemed to gloss past your presence.

You could feel the eyes of your relatives lingering longer than they should. These were the same people who had sighed in pity when your marriage had been announced, whispering behind your back about how unfortunate it was to be bound to the Kang family. You remembered their voices, their sideways glances, their rehearsed sympathy. And now? Now you could see the jealousy simmering beneath their skin, their smiles stretched too tight, their words stumbling when they realized Yeosang wouldn’t stop orbiting around you.

He didn’t hide it. He didn’t play it down. He stayed close, adjusted the edge of your sleeve when it slipped, handed you a glass of water before you could even think to ask, leaned in to answer questions for you when your throat locked up. He didn’t do it to make a show of it, it was simply how he treated you. And the envy in your relatives’ eyes was so sharp it was almost laughable. You could see it in the stiffness of their shoulders, in the way they exchanged looks with each other, as though each glance was a needle pricked against their skin.

They had pitied you once. Now, standing there with Yeosang’s easy devotion surrounding you and his father’s steady presence at your side, you almost wished you could hand them a mirror so they could see themselves, jealousy dripping from their faces like pins stuck carelessly in cloth.

The chandelier light glowed soft golden, laughter bouncing around the decorated hall, but for Yeosang and his father this was nothing more than the perfect stage. The world thought they were here for your father’s birthday. They weren’t.

You stood beside Yeosang, your hand loosely in his, when his father leaned closer with a faint smile that only the two of you could read.

“So,” his voice was smooth, carrying easily over the chatter, “this is the family that thought they could treat my daughter-in-law so carelessly.” His eyes flicked toward your mother across the hall, who was busy playing hostess, and then to your father, stiff in his seat as relatives crowded around him. “I must admit, Yeosang, I expected… better.”

Yeosang’s hand tightened slightly around yours, grounding you, his lips curving into a smile that looked charming to the outside world but was laced with quiet malice. “That’s why I told you not to hold back tonight. Let them see what respect really looks like.”

You blinked up at him, confusion stirring, but neither man looked at you with pity. Yeosang’s father’s gaze softened for a brief second as he glanced at you, almost as if telling you silently: This isn’t your burden to carry anymore. This is ours.

A group of relatives approached them, gushing over the Kang family name, trying to curry favor. One of them made a passing remark, tone sly, “Ah, Yeosang, we heard it was quite the surprise, wasn’t it? A rushed marriage, hm?” The words were meant to sting, meant to remind you of how they once pitied you.

Yeosang’s father chuckled, rich and deliberate. “Surprise, yes. But only for those who didn’t realize what a treasure she is. You see, my son chose well. He could’ve had anyone, but he wanted her. And after seeing how she’s been treated before?” His gaze, sharp as steel beneath his smile, landed on your father briefly. “Let’s just say the Kang family makes sure no one forgets her worth again.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, whispers starting among the group. Yeosang didn’t let the moment linger too long—he smoothly added, his tone deceptively light, “People don’t often realize how cruel words can be behind closed doors. But I think she deserves a room full of people knowing she’s valued. Don’t you agree, Father?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” his father replied smoothly, raising his glass. To outsiders it looked like casual praise, but the bite in his words was unmistakable to the ones who knew. Your father shifted uncomfortably across the room, and you caught it.

And then, like a knife slicing clean through the tension, Yeosang’s father announced it. Loud enough for the nearby relatives, your parents, and soon the entire hall to hear:

“Speaking of surprises, we Kang men don’t come empty-handed. Tonight, I am pleased to announce that we are in the final stages of acquiring the very company your father works at.” He turned deliberately, his smile kind but razor-edged, to face your father. “Which means, from now on, he’ll be working directly under us.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Your relatives’ eyes widened, their envy morphing into disbelief, then thinly veiled glee at your father’s humiliation. You felt your stomach drop, a dizzying mix of shock and something dangerously close to satisfaction.

Yeosang’s hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He didn’t even look at your father, he only looked at you, his eyes calm, his voice low so only you could hear. “You don’t ever have to bow your head to them again.”

Your father’s face had gone red, your mother’s forced smile faltering as the murmurs grew louder. And you? For the first time in years, standing between Yeosang and his father, you didn’t feel small in that house of shadows.

You felt untouchable.

The hall was glowing with lights, laughter, and clinking glasses, but for Yeosang and his father, it was all just a stage. Neither of them cared for the decorations or the false pleasantries exchanged across the room. This wasn’t a celebration. This was their battlefield.

Yeosang stood close to you, his hand brushing against yours as if grounding you in place. His gaze, however, was sharp, scanning the room like he was calculating every move before it happened. His father leaned against the tall glass table beside him, his expression calm, even casual, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You were right,” Mr. Kang said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Yeosang caught it. “They treat her like a stranger in her own family. Look at her mother, she smiles at me but she won’t even look at her daughter. Pathetic.”

Yeosang’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to you for a moment. You were fidgeting with the rings you had on, shoulders tense, trying to appear small in the crowd. He hated it. He hated that this house, these people, made you shrink yourself.

“They’ll learn tonight,” Yeosang replied, his tone colder than ice. “You’ve always told me, never let anyone lay a hand on the woman of my family. And she’s mine. They think they can treat her like she’s nothing. Let’s see how they handle when the room starts whispering about them instead.”

His father chuckled, that low dangerous sound. “That’s my son.” He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “I’ll handle the first strike. Subtle. Sharp. I’ll make them bleed without realizing they’re cut.”

Yeosang’s lips curved, though it wasn’t a smile—it was a warning. “And I’ll finish it. Once we announce the company, there’ll be nothing left of his pride.”

A waiter passed, and Mr. Kang smoothly lifted a glass of champagne. He didn’t drink it, simply held it as though it were a prop in his act. His eyes found your father across the room, laughing too loudly with his friends, chest puffed with fake importance.

“Enjoy your last night of dignity,” Mr. Kang murmured, almost to himself, but Yeosang heard. “By the time we’re done, everyone in this room will know exactly what kind of man you really are.”

Yeosang’s hand brushed against yours again, this time firmer, more deliberate. You glanced up at him, confused by the look in his eyes, fierce, unyielding, protective. He didn’t say a word to you, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel it. Tonight, he wasn’t just standing by your side. Tonight, he was fighting for you.

And the Kangs never fought to lose.

Your father stood near the center of the room, chest out, soaking in the attention of his colleagues and relatives. He thrived in this spotlight. He always had.

Mr. Kang made the first move. He stepped forward with ease, smile warm enough to seem genuine yet sharp enough to cut. Holding his champagne glass, he spoke loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

“Your daughter is precious, you know.” His voice was smooth, conversational, yet it carried. “Yeosang told me how strong she had to be while living here. Not every girl can survive such… strict households.”

The people around them stilled. Some glanced toward you, then at your parents. Your mother’s smile faltered, the corners of her lips twitching nervously. Your father’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, but he covered it with a strained laugh.

“Oh, you know how kids exaggerate, Mr. Kang,” he said, voice overly cheerful. “We raised her well, didn’t we?”

Yeosang, standing tall beside you, let out a low chuckle, soft but audible. It wasn’t amusement, it was mockery. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer into his side like he was shielding you from them all. His words cut like a blade, smooth and deliberate.

“She doesn’t exaggerate,” he said calmly. “I’ve seen enough to know what she’s been through. She deserved kindness, not… discipline masked as care.”

The crowd’s silence was heavy now, whispers beginning to stir like embers catching flame. Your relatives’ faces were pale, their envy earlier replaced by shock.

Your father’s jaw worked, his smile twitching. “Yeosang-ah, don’t misunderstand—”

“Misunderstand?” Yeosang interrupted, his tone still respectful yet laced with steel. “No, I don’t misunderstand. I protect what’s mine. And when I see the woman I love flinch in her own home, when I hear she’s been struck…” His gaze sharpened, his voice lowering dangerously. “That isn’t misunderstanding. That’s truth.”

Your breath hitched. His words weren’t shouted, yet they echoed louder than any scream could have.

Before your father could sputter out another excuse, Mr. Kang stepped forward, commanding the room with practiced authority. He clinked his glass gently, drawing all attention to himself.

“On another note,” he began, smiling as though nothing heavy had been said, “I’d like to share something important. My company will officially be acquiring the firm your dear host here works for.” He gestured politely to your father, whose face drained of color. “I believe that makes him… well, my employee now.”

A ripple of gasps ran through the hall. Some guests exchanged stunned looks, others covered their mouths with their hands. Your father’s pride shattered right before their eyes.

Mr. Kang’s smile was razor sharp. “I do hope you all continue to support him in this new… position.”

Yeosang didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. He simply stood tall beside you, his hand steady on your back, his expression unreadable but victorious. And for the first time in years, you weren’t the one shrinking under everyone’s gaze. It was your father.

The hall buzzed with whispers, your relatives’ envy twisting into something else entirely, fear, awe, regret. You felt your chest tighten, tears prickling at your eyes, but not from sadness this time. For once, someone had stood up for you. For once, you weren’t alone.

And as the chandeliers glowed brighter, it didn’t feel like your father’s celebration anymore.

It felt like Yeosang’s victory.

Yeosang’s grip on your hand was steady, too steady. It wasn’t the kind of handhold you could slip out of, not the kind where he gave you space to hesitate. It was firm, grounded, the kind that said we’re leaving, and I won’t let you look back.

The hall’s murmurs still rang in your ears as the three of you walked out. People parted in silence, unsure whether to whisper or bow, and you could feel their stares clinging to your back. You didn’t dare turn around.

Your heart twisted. Part of you wanted to breathe, wanted to smile, wanted to lean into the warmth of his hand and the comfort of finally being defended. But another part of you, the part that had been trained to obey, to fear, to seek approval, ached at the thought of leaving your father standing there in the ruins of his pride.

The cold night air hit your face before you even realized you’d stepped outside. Yeosang didn’t slow, didn’t falter. By the time you blinked, you were standing at the car, his father quietly instructing the driver. You hadn’t even noticed the suitcases being loaded into the trunk.

Your throat went dry. When did he-?

And then, just like that, the car door was opening for you. Yeosang guided you in with that same unshakable grip, sliding in right after you. His father took the seat in front. The door shut, muffling the noise of the party, muffling your father’s world.

Only then did the silence crash down.

You stared at the window, watching the house fade in the distance. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your mind torn between relief and guilt, freedom and grief.

Yeosang’s hand was still over yours. Warm. Steady. He hadn’t let go. Not once.

“You’re not going back there,” he said finally, his voice quiet but absolute. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or to thank him. Maybe both. But all you managed was a small nod, your fingers curling back into his, hesitant, trembling, but holding on.

The soft click of the penthouse door echoed in the quiet, and the only light spilling in was from the city skyline, gold and silver scattered like stars against the glass. The hum of the city felt so far away compared to the heavy silence between you and Yeosang.

He didn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he turned to you the moment the door locked behind him. His hands were on your shoulders, steady but gentle, anchoring you in place. He lowered himself just enough so his eyes caught yours, dark and unrelenting.

“YN,” he said, voice low, careful, “don’t do that.”

You blinked at him, startled. “Do what?” Your voice cracked despite you trying to make it sound even.

His grip on your shoulders tightened, firm, not harsh. “Keep it all inside. Pretend you’re fine when I know you’re not.” He searched your face like he was trying to read every thought you refused to say out loud. “I can see it. I’m not blind. Don’t hide from me.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. That familiar instinct clawed at you, to shake your head, to stay quiet, to keep the ache bottled where no one could touch it. But Yeosang wasn’t letting you get away with it.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping softer, almost a whisper now. “You don’t have to say it pretty. You don’t have to explain it right. Just- say something. To me. Please.”

Your throat tightened. His eyes didn’t waver, not once. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t demanding, it was something worse. He was begging you to let him in. And for the first time that night, you felt your chest crack open.

Your words came out like they belonged to someone much younger, someone small and fragile,

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, Yeosang…”

It cracked at the end, sharp and thin, and you hated how childlike you sounded. But it was the truth, the rawest thing you could give. Yeosang didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go. He only guided you to the couch, slow and deliberate, his hand still steady on your shoulder as if he was afraid you’d crumble if he moved too quickly.

“Sit down first,” he murmured.

You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, your body heavier than you realized. But his hand never left you, it was still there, grounding, firm and warm against your shoulder. You stared at your knees, at your trembling fingers, at the floor, anywhere but him.

“It’s okay,” Yeosang said, voice like velvet over steel. “Take your time.”

That was when it slipped. One tear, hot and stubborn, slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You didn’t even wipe it away. You just let it fall, your eyes slowly lifting to meet his again.

His gaze softened the moment he saw it. No mockery, no impatience. Just this unbearable tenderness, like the sight of you breaking, was breaking him, too.

You finally let it out, the words shaky and bitter, like they’d been rotting in your chest for years.

“I feel horrible… like a horrible daughter.”

Your lip trembled as you forced yourself to keep speaking. “That was his party, Yeosang. And I ruined it. For me, for us, he had to…” your throat caught, “it was supposed to be a celebration, and I—”

“Yn,” Yeosang’s voice cut through, low but firm. He crouched in front of you, catching your eyes even when you tried to look away. “Don’t you dare put this on yourself.”

You shook your head, whispering, “But I feel like the worst—”

“You’re not.” He reached up, brushing away the tear sliding down your left cheek. The gentleness of it made your chest ache even worse. Another tear slipped from your right eye, and this time, his thumb caught it before it could fall. He held your face carefully in both hands, like you were glass.

“They were never parents to you, Yn,” he said, steady but sharp, as if each word was a truth he needed you to believe. “They were owners. They treated you like something they could control, not someone they could love. Parents don’t raise their hands on their child. Parents don’t make their daughter cry herself to sleep.”

Your shoulders shook, your voice small. “Then why… why do I still feel guilty?”

“Because you’ve been made to feel guilty your whole life.” His thumb traced lightly across your cheek, drying the wet trail left behind. “But listen to me, none of this is your fault. Not tonight, not ever.”

His gaze softened, his voice lowering into something almost pleading.

“You didn’t ruin his party. He ruined you. And I won’t let him, or anyone, touch you again.”

Your breath hitched when the image of your mother’s face flashed across your mind, the cold, unmoving stare she gave you as if you were nothing. It twisted in your chest, and before you could stop it, a sob broke free. You dropped your gaze, ashamed of the sound, but Yeosang didn’t let you hide.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His hand threaded through your hair, slow and steady, while the other rubbed circles on your back. His voice hummed low above you, calm, protective.

“It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” His chin rested lightly against your head. “You don’t have to hold anything in with me.”

You clung to his shirt, your voice muffled against him. Another sob wracked through you, but his arms only tightened, grounding you.

“They don’t deserve your tears, Yn. Not one of them,” he whispered, stroking your hair like he was trying to smooth away every scar left behind. “You’ve carried this weight alone for too long. Let me carry it now.”

You lifted your head slowly, eyes swollen, lips trembling, and met his gaze. He looked softer than you had ever seen him. There was no sharp edge, no cool distance, just warmth. His thumb brushed your cheek again, so carefully it made your chest ache.

“You’re safe now. With me, you’re safe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one can hurt you here.”

Something shifted inside you then. The safety in his arms was foreign, almost overwhelming, but it wrapped around you like a blanket you’d never had before. It felt intimate, terrifyingly so, like he was peeling back all the layers you’d built to protect yourself. And still, he didn’t flinch.

For the first time in years, you let yourself lean into someone. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness.

His thumbs were still brushing away your tears when he suddenly froze, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart skip. He didn’t know what possessed him, maybe the sight of your trembling lips, maybe the ache in your eyes, but his hands rose, cupping your face gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t let slip through his fingers.

Your lips parted slightly, pouting as if they were begging to be soothed. Without thinking, Yeosang leaned down and pressed the softest kiss against them. Just a fleeting touch. You blinked in surprise, but you were too buried in sadness to fully react.

He pulled back, searching your face, and whispered, almost as if he was testing the words on his own tongue.

“I don’t know why, but I felt like you needed that.”

Before you could even process it, he kissed you again. This time slower, lingering, like he wanted you to feel it.

“Yeosang” your voice cracked, fragile.

“I’m right here, Yn,” he murmured, his forehead leaning against yours. “I’ll always be here, whether you’re crying, whether you’re silent, even when you don’t know what you’re feeling, I’ll stay.”

Your breath shook as more tears fell, though not all from sadness this time. He wiped them away again, his palms still warm against your cheeks.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said softly. “Not strong, not perfect, not unbothered. Just… you. That’s all I want. Now do you want me to remove your makeup? Cause your mascara is going all over the place.”

A shaky little laugh slipped out of you, surprising even yourself. It wasn’t loud, but it was there, soft, real, and it broke through the heaviness in the air.

His chest loosened at the sound, and his lips curved into something more genuine. “There it is,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You’re laughing while crying. Do you know how beautiful that is?”

You wiped the corner of your eye, still sniffling, and muttered, “That sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “But it’s you. And right now, I’ll take any excuse to see you smile.”

For a moment, the silence felt lighter. He exhaled slowly, still keeping his hands near your face, as if he couldn’t quite let go. Then he leaned back a little, his voice calm but certain.

“It’s late. We should get ready for bed.”

He said it not as an end to the moment, but as if he was carrying you forward away from the weight of the night, and into something safer.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the tall windows. The penthouse was dark, only the silver glow of the moon spilling in through the curtains. Yeosang lay on his back, one arm resting against his stomach, the other draped lazily over the sheets. It was a familiar sight, he always slept like that, still and calm, like the world couldn’t touch him.

You, however, couldn’t sleep. Your mind wouldn’t stop turning. The images of the evening, your father’s expression, your mother’s silence, the weight of everything that had been said and done, kept replaying behind your eyes. But more than that, the way Yeosang had been with you. The way he held you together when you were falling apart. The way he hadn’t let go once.

“Yeosang?” your voice came out softer than you intended, almost childlike.

He turned his head immediately, eyes sharp even in the low light. “Hm?” he hummed back, voice deep and steady, like he’d been waiting for you to call him.

You hesitated, then slowly shifted onto your side, facing him. He mirrored you without even thinking, his body turning to you, as if his instincts wouldn’t let him do anything else.

For a second, you just looked at him, the relaxed set of his jaw, the way his hair was a little messy against the pillow, the quiet warmth in his eyes. And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the nerves crawl in, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

It was small, delicate. A flutter of a kiss. Barely there, but it still made your chest tighten like you’d leapt off a cliff.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, but not with shock, more with a kind of wonder, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“…Thank you,” you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.

His brows softened. “For what?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile moment.

“For tonight. For being here. For… everything,” you breathed, your eyes flickering away.

And then, almost like it slipped out of you before you could stop it, you whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you for only a beat before you quickly turned around, facing the other side of the bed. Your heart was pounding in your ears, your fists curled in the sheets. You didn’t want to see his reaction. You didn’t think you could handle it.

Yeosang just lay there frozen for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind spiraling faster than it ever had in battle. He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or jump up and run around the entire penthouse like a lunatic. His chest felt tight, but in the best way, like his heart was too big for his body.

You. The one he had quietly, obsessively, devoted himself to. The one he’d spent months trying to read, trying to break through, trying to protect without scaring away. You, the girl who always kept her feelings locked away, who never let anyone know what was going on inside, just said you loved him.

If anyone else had said it, he would’ve dismissed it, maybe even laughed. But from you? His wife? The girl who could barely admit when she was hurt? It was everything.

Yeosang pressed a hand over his face, trying to smother the stupid grin threatening to spread. Get a grip, man, he scolded himself, but his body wasn’t listening. His stomach was a mess of nerves, his throat tight, his heart thundering like he was some lovesick teenager, not the cold, calculating Yeosang that people feared.

Butterflies. Actual butterflies. This is humiliating.

But then his eyes flicked to your back, your shoulders rising and falling as if you were trying to pretend you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

The second Yeosang realized you were faking sleep, something inside him twisted. He had been patient for so long, silent when you avoided, soft when you broke down, careful when you were fragile. But now? Now you had kissed him, whispered those three words that had haunted his dreams, and then had the audacity to turn away as if nothing happened.

Not on his watch.

Without warning, his arm clamped tighter around your waist. You barely had time to register before he tugged you back with such strength that the air hitched in your throat. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he rolled you toward him, his grip unyielding, caging you against him.

“Yeosang!” you gasped, startled, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable, like marble brought to life. His dark eyes locked on you, sharp and burning, and the look on his face made your protest die in your throat.

“No.” His voice was low, firm, but there was fire simmering beneath it. “That’s not how it’s gonna be.” His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer until you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm. “You can’t just kiss me, drop that on me, and then run away. No, YN. Not tonight.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You were trapped, not by force, but by the sheer weight of him. By the intensity in his gaze. By how he looked at you like you were the only thing in his universe.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice a demanding whisper. “Look at me. Say it to my face. If you’re gonna love me, then don’t you dare hide it behind your back.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. His words weren’t cruel, but they shook you to your core, cracking the walls you’d built. You could feel his fingers at your side, strong and steady, like he was anchoring you in place, refusing to let you escape not this time.

“Yeosang…” your voice cracked, small and trembling.

He softened for only a second, his thumb brushing gently against your side, but his eyes never wavered. “Say it.”

You wanted to bury your face, to hide like you always did, but his grip wouldn’t let you. And maybe— maybe that was exactly what you needed. His strength wasn’t a prison, it was a reminder that someone, finally, wanted you to stop running.

“I-” You hesitated, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible. But his gaze, unrelenting yet patient, drew the truth out of you. “…I love you, Yeosang.”

The moment the words slipped from your lips a second time, clear, certain, undeniable, Yeosang couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His arms wrapped around you with a force that knocked the breath right out of you, pulling you into him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you together.

You froze, startled by the sudden intensity, but then you heard him. His voice was muffled against your chest, raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, his words trembling with emotion, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Your hand, almost on instinct, found its way to the back of his head. His soft dark hair tickled your fingers as you cradled him close, your palm resting against him like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go. He pressed his face harder against your chest, almost desperate, as if trying to drown in the sound of your heartbeat.

And you, you didn’t expect to feel it. That sudden warmth blooming in your chest, spreading through your veins like sunlight breaking into a dark room. Happiness. Pure, unexplainable, bone-deep happiness.

You didn’t know why it felt so overwhelming, but it did. Maybe because for the first time, the weight you had been carrying alone didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe because the walls you had built weren’t protecting you anymore, they were finally coming down. Or maybe because the man everyone else feared was clinging to you like you were his entire world.

Slowly, tenderly, you wrapped both arms around his head, holding him as if you could shield him from everything. His breath hitched against you, and you felt his shoulders loosen, the tension he always carried melting away in your embrace.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world outside the bed didn’t exist,the creak of the ship, the salt of the sea, the dangers waiting in every corner, none of it mattered. It was just you, him, and this fragile, breathtaking truth between you.

It felt like the beginning of something new. A chapter neither of you had dared to dream of, now written in the quiet safety of a shared embrace.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it, this was the start of your life with him.

General Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty @xh01bri @chinsun16

This story's taglist: @k3nzzasf @sspersonally

[shibarinu0000]

more when.

[arilevenatz]

Silent vows | K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, One-sided slow burn (idek 😭), slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, slow ahh burn, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Part 2 | Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune

[shibarinu0000]

this is so good i love it

[yeonlymine]

strawberry notes ᢉ𐭩 yeosang

a sticky note that turned sweet

‎ ⋆˚⊹˚🍓 ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪⋆˚₊

ꫂ᭪ yeosang x f!reader

ꫂ᭪ warnings: strangers to lovers, this is so fluffy it'll make you kick and giggle in complete silence, very soft/light smut!

ꫂ᭪ you guys i have so many drafts. the amount of times i went back and forth with posting something absolutely filthy vs sweet is insane. but then i realized...all my works so far have been straight smut, so here's some fluff. & if u should know, im so in love with domestic yeo--this is not the first or the last of him!!

The first thing you notice about your neighbor isn't his face, it's how he parks.

Spot 804, perfectly centered between the lines like he measured it with a ruler. Meanwhile, your car in 704 looks like you drove it without your glasses. There's a little plush strawberry hanging from his rearview mirror, swaying slightly.

You don't think much of it until the sticky note appears on your windshield.

"2 inches from stealing my spot. menace behavior." Complete with a tiny doodle of a traffic cone.

Oh, so that's how it's going to be.

The next morning, you leave your own note on his windshield: "next time ill park ON you." Your doodle is less artistic, basically a circle meant to be a tire.

By the end of the week, it's escalated into a full sticky note war. He draws an increasing number of different fruits; apparently, the strawberry has inspired him. 

You counter with fake parking citations and sarcastic awards for "most anal-retentive parking job in the building."

His notes get funnier. "parking evaluation: C-. points deducted for creative interpretation of 'between the lines.'"

Yours gets more ridiculous. "award for best supporting strawberry in a rearview mirror drama."

You still haven't actually met him face-to-face, but you're pretty sure you're either going to be best friends or he's going to file a complaint with the building manager.

The answer comes on a Tuesday night when your car decides to die.

You turn the key and get nothing. Not even a pathetic wheeze. Just complete silence. You try again, pumping the gas pedal like that's ever helped anyone in the history of cars.

Nothing.

"Shit, shit, shit," you mutter, banging your forehead against the steering wheel. You've got an early meeting tomorrow, and calling an Uber at 6 am is going to cost more than your rent.

"Knew this day would come."

You jump and whip around to see a guy walking toward you with jumper cables already in his hands. He's got dark hair that's slightly messy, like he just woke up, and he's wearing a gray hoodie.

"You've got 'forgetful headlights' energy," he continues, and his voice has this dry humor that makes you realize—

"You're the sticky note guy."

"Yeosang. And you're the parking disaster." He's already popping your hood. "When's the last time you turned your headlights off?"

You think about it. "...Yesterday?"

"Uh-huh." He connects the cables to his car first, then yours, explaining each step even though you're clearly not paying attention to the technical parts. "Red to positive, black to negative. Don't touch the other ends together unless you want to see some sparks."

"Is that a metaphor?"

He glances at you with what might be amusement. "Try starting it now."

The engine turns over like it never caused you any problems.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," you groan. "It's fine now?"

"Battery just needed a jump. Happens when you kill it completely." He's already disconnecting the cables, moving around your car to check other things. "When's the last time you checked your tire pressure?"

"My what pressure?"

Yeosang makes a sound that's half laugh, half despair. He crouches by your front tire, pressing something that makes a small hissing sound. "You're about six PSI low. And your windshield fluid is nearly empty."

"I don't even know what PSI means."

"It means you're lucky your tire didn't blow out on the highway." He pulls a small bottle from his trunk, because of course he has emergency windshield fluid in his trunk, and fills yours. "There. You're good for another 300 miles."

He straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag that he also apparently keeps in his trunk. "Give me your number."

"What?"

"For future car emergencies. Which, let's be honest, are inevitable." He pulls out his phone and looks at you. "Unless you want to wait for another dead battery to get my attention."

You rattle off your number, and he types it in. "Now I can properly worry about your car maintenance from a distance."

Twenty minutes later, you get a text from an unknown number. It's a photo of your dashboard with a thumbs-up emoji positioned next to the gas gauge.

unknown: good for another 300 mi. – ur unofficial mechanic

You save his contact as "unofficial mechanic" and text back.

you:  how much do i owe you?

unofficial mechanic: a promise to check ur headlights before you get out of the car

you: deal, but I'm not promising to park better

unofficial mechanic: i wouldn't expect you to, that would ruin my entertainment

Sticky notes continue, now rating your parking C+ and commenting on progress rather than mishaps.

You start leaving coffee shop gift cards under his windshield wipers with notes like "unofficial mechanic payment" and "thanks for keeping me alive on the roads."

He starts leaving perfectly folded cloths in your passenger seat after it rains, so you don't get water spots, because of course, you’re the type to forget to lock your car doors.

Then your schedules begin syncing up without either of you really trying. He leaves earlier on Mondays and Wednesdays, you notice because the garage feels wrong without his car next to yours. 

You usually slam your door first thing in the morning, a habit you've never been able to break, and one day, when you're running late, you get a text.

unofficial mechanic: runnin behind? garage is too quiet without ur door slam

Saturday mornings become car wash time.

You're not sure how it starts, but you come to get something from your car and find Yeosang with a bucket and sponge, working around his car, and he's got music playing from his phone.

He looks up when he sees you and holds out a second sponge.

"I didn't agree to manual labor," but you take the sponge anyway.

"Your car looks sad next to mine. It's bringing down property values."

"My car has character."

"Your car has bird poop on the windshield."

You flick soapy water at him, he squeezes his sponge over your head, and now you're both laughing and dripping wet in the garage at 11 am on a Saturday.

It becomes routine. Every weekend, he brings two sponges, and you show up in clothes you don't mind getting soaked. 

You're terrible at it, you miss spots, you use too much soap, you get distracted and start drawing patterns in the suds, but he never complains. Just quietly goes over the spots you missed and leaves those perfect cloths for you to find later.

The grocery store thing happens by accident.

You're debating whether you actually need vegetables; you do, but they're expensive, and you've got ramen at home. When someone taps your shoulder.

"Let me guess. You're wondering if ramen counts as a vegetable because it has 'vegetable oil' listed in the ingredients."

You turn around to find Yeosang with a shopping basket that contains entirely sensible things: fresh produce, whole grain bread, actual proteins that don't come in a cup.

"Ramen is a grain. Grains are part of a balanced diet."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." He plucks the ramen from your hands and drops it in his basket. 

"Come on. I'll show you how adults shop for food."

You end up going through the store together, him handling produce the same way he uses to park his car, you sneaking ridiculous snacks into the cart when he's not looking.

"Gummy bears are not a food group."

"They're fruit-flavored. That's basically a smoothie."

He finds the cookies you've hidden under the bread and holds them up with raised eyebrows.

"Those were already in there."

"Uh-huh." But he doesn't put them back, just shakes his head and heads toward checkout.

He pays for the cookies without saying anything about it, and when you try to protest, he just shrugs. 

"Payment for not reporting your parking violations to the building manager."

Walking back to the apartment building, he carries your groceries along with his own, even though you're perfectly capable of carrying your own bags.

"I'm not an invalid."

"No, but you're untrustworthy with breakable things." He nods toward your keys, which you're juggling along with your phone and trying to unlock the building door at the same time.

He's not wrong. You once broke a carton of eggs just getting them from the parking garage to your apartment.

This becomes a routine too. Grocery runs turn into a coordinated effort, him handling anything that requires judgment or skill, you providing entertainment, and sneaking junk food into the cart. He pretends to be exasperated by your choices but always pays for them anyway.

Your keys start staying on his keychain during grocery runs because you have a tendency to set them down and forget where you put them. He hands them back every time with the same patient expression, like he's dealing with a chaotic child.

The banana bread thing starts because you feel guilty about all the cookies.

"You don't have to feed me," he says when you show up at his door with a still-warm loaf wrapped in a dishtowel.

"It's payment for unofficial mechanic services. And grocery sherpa services. And general life maintenance."

He disappears into his kitchen and comes back with a plate of sliced sourdough that looks like it came from an actual bakery.

"I stress-bake," he admits when you stare at him. "My kitchen counter looks like a bread museum most weekends."

The bread is incredible. Crusty outside with that tangy flavor that only comes from a real starter.

"How long have you been making this?"

"A few years. Started during grad school when I needed something that required correctness, but wasn't related to my thesis."

You trade baked goods after that. Your banana bread and blueberry muffins for his sourdough and ciabatta, and these incredible dinner rolls that you eat four of before you remember you're supposed to pace yourself.

"Your yeast starter is the most well-cared-for thing in this building," you tell him one evening, watching him feed it.

"Her name is Doughlicious and she's very particular about her schedule."

"You named your yeast starter."

"She's basically my only dependent."

The shift happens gradually, then all at once.

You start texting each other about things that have nothing to do with cars or groceries. He sends you pictures of perfectly risen bread with the caption "Doughlicious says hello." 

You send him photos of your various parking attempts with ratings like "today's effort: D, but with style points."

He starts checking your car before storms, making sure your wipers are positioned right and your windows are cracked if it's going to be hot. 

You start bringing him drinks when you see him washing his car, because he never remembers to stay hydrated when he's focused on something.

Your evenings sync up. You both get home around the same time, both usually carrying too many bags and fumbling with keys. 

He starts just taking half your bags without asking. You start waiting for him if you see his car pulling in, because the elevator ride is less awkward with company.

"You know you don't have to carry my stuff," you say one evening as he juggles his laptop bag, his groceries, and your dry cleaning.

"I know." He shifts everything to one arm so he can press the elevator button. "But you always look like you're one dropped thing away from a complete meltdown."

"I'm very graceful, thank you."

Your keys slip from your fingers and hit the elevator floor with a loud clatter.

Yeosang just looks at you.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

But he's smiling, and when he bends to pick up your keys, he adds them to his own keyring without asking.

The storm hits on a Wednesday night. You're already in bed, listening to rain pound against your windows and hoping your car will start in the morning, then your phone buzzes.

yeosang: lock your car, saw you juggling five bags earlier and leave it open

You groan.

you:  i'll check in the morning

yeosang: i'm already here, your passenger door is wide open

Guilt wins out over laziness. You throw on sweatpants and a hoodie and take the elevator down to find Yeosang standing next to your car in the rain, completely soaked, as your assigned spots are in the uncovered part of the garage.

He's not just closing your door, he's also double-checking to make sure it’s locked.

"You're going to get pneumonia," you call out, jogging over to him.

"You're going to get your car broken into." He shuts your passenger door and turns to face you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and his hoodie is so wet it's basically useless. "Do you know how easy it would be for someone to just take whatever they wanted?"

"It's a 2012 Honda Civic. The most valuable thing in there is probably my emergency granola bar."

"That's not the point." He's standing close now, close enough that you can see the water droplets on his eyelashes. "The point is that you're careless with things that matter."

"It's just a car."

"It's not just a car. It's your way to get to work, and to the grocery store, and to wherever else you need to go. It's important." His voice is quieter now, almost lost in the sound of rain. "You're important."

Something in his expression makes your chest tight. "Yeosang..."

"C’mon. Let's get out of this rain before we both catch something."

But neither of you moves. You're both standing there, soaked and shivering.

"Your lips are blue," he says softly.

"So are yours."

He reaches up and touches your cheek, thumb brushing away raindrops. "We should go inside."

"Yeah. We should." You kiss him.

It's supposed to be quick, just a press of lips, but he makes this small surprised sound and his hands are in your hair and you're pressed against the side of your car with rain pouring down around you.

He tastes like minty gum and feels like the sun, even though you’re both being soaked to the skin. His hands are careful, always careful, even now when he's kissing you like he's been thinking about it for months.

"We're going to get struck by lightning," you breathe against his mouth.

"Worth it," he murmurs back, and kisses you again.

You break apart only when thunder cracks overhead, close enough to make you both jump.

"Okay, now we really should go inside," he says, but he's smiling.

"Your place or mine?"

"Mine's closer to the elevator."

"Practical even when making out in thunderstorms."

"It's called planning ahead."

He shrugs his hoodie over your shoulders so some of the rain doesn’t soak you completely, although that was a dying effort.

You grab his sleeve and tug him along as you dodge puddles, slipping and laughing with each step. He wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you as you run toward the elevator, hoodie half-over both of you, dripping but smiling

His apartment is exactly like yours, but feels completely different. Everything is organized, lived-in but tidy. There are books stacked neatly on shelves, plants that are actually thriving in the windows, and the scent of fresh bread.

"Shower," he says, already pulling towels from a closet. "Before you get sick and blame me."

"I would never blame you for anything."

"You blamed me when that parking spot was too small for your car."

"That spot was designed for motorcycles and you know it."

He disappears into his bedroom and comes back with clothes, shorts and a t-shirt that's going to be huge on you.

"These should work until your clothes are dry."

The shower is heaven. Hot water and good water pressure, and fancy shampoo that smells like cocoa and something vanilla-y. You stay under until your skin is hot and you can't feel the cold anymore.

When you come out, your wet clothes are gone, and you can hear movement in the kitchen. The clothes he gave you are ridiculously big, but warm and smell like fabric softener.

You find him at the stove, still damp-haired but changed into dry clothes, stirring something that smells incredible.

"Hot chocolate," he explains without turning around. "With actual chocolate, not the powdered stuff."

"Next, you'll tell me you grow your own herbs."

He points to the windowsill above the sink, where small pots of parsley and chives are growing in the kitchen light.

"Oh my god, you do."

"Store-bought herbs are expensive, and they go bad before you use them all."

You hop up onto his counter, swinging your legs. "What other domestic goddess secrets are you hiding? Do you make your own soap? Grind your own coffee beans?"

"I do grind my own coffee beans." He turns around with two mugs, and his expression goes soft when he sees you perched on his counter in his clothes. "You look..."

"Like I'm drowning in fabric?"

"Comfortable. Like you belong here."

The words sit between you, air heavier than it should be. You take the mug he offers, wrapping your hands around it.

"This is really good," you say after taking a sip. The chocolate is smooth, with a hint of cinnamon.

"Family recipe. My mom used to make it when I was sick." He leans against the counter across from you, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.

You want to.

"Yeosang?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're my neighbor."

He smiles, and it's different from his usual smiles, more open. "I'm glad you're a terrible parker."

"Hey!"

"If you parked correctly, I never would have left that first note."

"So you're saying my complete inability to center a car between two lines is actually a romantic triumph?"

"I'm saying some of the best things happen by accident."

You set your mug down on the counter beside you. "C’mere."

He steps close enough that he's standing between your knees. You reach up and trace the line of his jaw, feeling the little stubble he hasn’t shaved yet.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks quietly.

You lean forward and kiss him again. It's different this time, slower, without the urgency of rain and thunder. The taste of chocolate now on his lips, and when he sighs into your mouth, you feel it all the way down to your toes.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing against the strip of skin where his shirt has ridden up a little bit. 

"Your hands are freezing," you murmur against his lips.

"Sorry." He starts to pull away, but you catch his wrists.

"I didn't say stop."

 "What do you want?"

"You." The word comes out steadier than you expected. "Just you."

He kisses you again, and you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. The angle is perfect, him standing between your thighs, your hands fisted in his shirt.

"Not here," he says when things start escalating. "Let me do this right."

His bedroom is as tidy as the rest of his apartment, but you're not paying attention to the decor. You're focused on the way he's looking at you, like you're something special he's been waiting for.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you down onto his lap, so you're straddling him with your knees on either side of his hips. 

"Better?" he asks, hands settling on your hips.

"Much."

You kiss him until you're both breathing hard, until his composure starts to crack and his hands start wandering. When he slides them under your shirt, his shirt, his palms are hot against your skin.

"Can I...?" He's already pulling at the hem, but he waits for you to nod before lifting it over your head.

The appreciation in his eyes makes you feel beautiful instead of self-conscious. He traces patterns on your skin with his fingertips.

"You're so soft,"  leaning down to press kisses along your collarbone.

Your response gets lost when he finds that sensitive spot at the base of your throat. All you can manage is his name, breathless and wanting.

Getting his shirt off requires some coordination, but you manage it without falling off his lap. He's lean but stronger than his demeanor portrays, with a small scar near his shoulder that you trace with your finger.

"Childhood mishap with a scooter," he explains.

"Of course it was something practical."

"I was seven and thought I could jump a curb."

"Rebel."

He laughs and flips you both over so you're on your back and he's braced above you. 

The rest of your clothes disappear gradually, between kisses and soft touches and questions of "is this okay?" and "what do you like?"

He's thorough and attentive, learning what makes you gasp and arch beneath him. When he settles between your thighs, you're already trembling.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, but you're already shaking your head.

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He's careful at first, so careful that you want to tell him you won't break. But then he finds the right angle, the right rhythm, and you forget how to form words.

"God, you feel incredible," he breathes against your ear.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, trying to pull him deeper. The sounds you're making are embarrassing, but he seems to love them, responding with his own groans and praise.

"So good," he keeps saying, between kisses pressed to your throat, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach. "You're so good."

When you come, it's with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair. He follows soon after, face buried in your neck, holding you so tightly.

For a while, you just lie there catching your breath. He's heavy but not uncomfortably so, and you like the feeling of being surrounded by him.

Eventually, he stirs. "I should clean up."

"Don't go anywhere yet."

"I'm not going anywhere." But he does shift, smoothing your hair back from your face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I should have been a worse parker months ago."

He laughs, "I'll remember that for next time."

"Next time?"

"Unless this was a one-time neighborly favor."

You turn your head to look at him. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he looks absolutely perfect.

"I think I could be convinced to make this a regular thing."

"Good." He kisses your forehead, sweet. "Because I wasn't planning on any other alternative."

He does eventually get up to clean up, but he comes back with water and a warm washcloth, taking care of you. Then he pulls his shirt over your head and tucks you against his side.

"Your turn to pick what we watch," he says, reaching for the remote on his nightstand.

"We're watching something?"

"Too early to sleep, and I make really good post-sex snacks."

"Post-sex snacks?"

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Trust me."

You're not hungry yet, but you love the idea of him taking care of you in this small way. "Can I help?"

"You can keep me company. But you're not allowed near the stove in just a t-shirt. That's a safety hazard."

"Your t-shirt is basically a dress on me."

"Exactly. Too distracting."

He makes the best grilled cheese you've ever had, perfectly golden and crispy with cheese that stretches when you pull the sandwich apart. 

You sit on his couch with your legs tucked under you, wearing his clothes, eating food he made, and it feels more natural than anything in your life.

"This is better than my usual post-hookup routine," you admit.

"What's your usual routine?"

"Awkward small talk and trying to figure out how to leave without seeming rude."

"Well, you can't leave. Your clothes are still in the dryer."

"Convenient excuse."

"I'm very strategic." He steals a bite of your sandwich, and you don't even pretend to be annoyed.

You fall asleep on his couch during the second episode of whatever show you picked, curled up against his side with his arm around you. 

You wake up in his bed the next morning, tucked under his covers with sunlight streaming through the windows.

The smell of coffee and something baking draws you to the kitchen, where you find Yeosang in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulling cinnamon rolls from the oven.

"Morning," he says when he sees you. "Sleep okay?"

"Did you carry me to bed?"

"You looked uncomfortable on the couch." He pours coffee into two mugs, adding cream to yours without asking how you like it. "These need to cool for a few minutes."

You accept the coffee gratefully, inhaling the scent. "You made cinnamon rolls. From scratch. At seven in the morning."

"I wake up early. And I stress-bake, remember?"

"What are you stressed about?"

He's quiet for a moment, focusing on cleaning up the kitchen. "I wasn't sure you'd still be here when I woke up."

The admission is vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tight. You set down your coffee and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.

"I'm here," you say against his shoulder blade. "I'm not going anywhere."

He leans back into your embrace, some of the tension leaving his body. "I'm glad. Because I make really good breakfast, and it would be a shame for you to miss it."

"Just breakfast?"

"Breakfast, lunch, dinner. I'm a full-service neighbor."

You turn him around in your arms, standing on your toes to kiss him. "I should probably go get ready for work," you say eventually, even though the last thing you want is to leave this kitchen and his touches.

"Your clothes should be dry. But..." He trails off, looking almost shy.

"But?"

"You could leave some things here. If you want. For next time."

Next time. Like this isn't a one-off, like he's already thinking about future mornings and shared coffee and cinnamon rolls cooling on the counter.

"I'd like that," you say, and his smile is so bright.

He walks you to the elevator even though you're just going one floor down, carrying your dry clothes and the container of leftover cinnamon rolls he insisted you take.

"See you tonight?" he asks as the elevator doors start to close.

"You know where to find me. Probably parked crooked in 704."

"I'll leave you a note about it."

"I'll leave you a worse note back."

The last thing you see before the doors close is his grin.

That evening, you find a sticky note on your windshield: "parking evaluation: B+. significant improvement noted. management is pleased w/ ur progress."

You text him a photo of your response note before you stick it on his windshield: "management can kiss my ass. but thanks for the cinnamon rolls."

He texts back a laughing emoji,

yeo<3: dinner? im making pasta

you: is this you asking me on a date or just feeding the neighborhood disaster?

yeo<3: both, bring wine if you have it. ill provide everything else

you: im not promising the wine will be any good

yeo<3: i'm not promising the pasta will be either, but we'll figure it out 

You bring the cheapest bottle of red wine from the corner store and a bag of salad that's definitely going to expire tomorrow. 

He provides homemade pasta with sauce that tastes like it simmered all day, bread that's still warm from the oven, and candles that make his apartment feel like a real date instead of just dinner with your neighbor.

"This is too much," you protest when you see the spread he's prepared.

"It's really not. I like taking care of people." He pulls out your chair like you're at a restaurant instead of his kitchen table. "Especially people who struggle with basic life maintenance."

"I maintain my life just fine, sir."

"You bought pre-made salad that expires tomorrow and wine that costs less than a cup of coffee."

"The wine was on sale!"

"I'm not complaining. I'm just saying you need someone to make sure you eat actual food occasionally."

"And you're volunteering for that job?"

He reaches across the table and takes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "If you'll let me."

It's such a simple offer, but it feels like everything. Someone who wants to take care of you, who notices when you're not taking care of yourself, who makes you cinnamon rolls just because he was worried you might leave.

"I'd like that," you say, and he brings your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your palm.

"Perfect. I already bought ingredients for the rest of the week."

Six months later, you still park in 704 and he still parks in 804, perfectly centered between the lines. 

But now your cars are usually dirty at the same time because you wash them together, and there's a spare key to your apartment on his keyring right next to your car keys.

The sticky notes have become more like love letters. "thnx for letting me steal the covers last night" and "ur morning hair is so cute & i'm obsessed with it," and "doughlicious missed you while you were at work today."

Your apartment is slowly filling up with his things, a spare toothbrush, a few changes of clothes, half the books from his shelf because you mentioned wanting to read them. 

His apartment has your touches too, your coffee mug in the cabinet, your terrible reality TV shows saved on his streaming services, your favorite snacks in his pantry.

You still can't park worth a damn, but at least the notes he leaves now also start to end with things like “p.s. I love you<3”  and "come upstairs when ur done trying to park in the lines, i made dinner."

And when you find those notes, you’re not annoyed. You just smile and take the elevator up to 804, where he's waiting with whatever magic he's created that day, ready to take care of you in all the small ways that add up to everything.

The strawberry still swings from his rearview mirror, and your car still looks like you parked it with your eyes closed. 

But now, when you walk into the garage together, keys tangled on the same keyring, it feels less like coincidence and more like coming home.

[shibarinu0000]

this is so cute what

[digitalnative-deactivated202512]

series summary: Max tells his daughter the story of how he met her mom, and how he asked her to marry him.

prologue

part one

[shibarinu0000]

this is so cute stop this

[yuyuyukiii]

Two Charms, One Promise ⛐

Summary: Long before the podiums, the titles, and the fame, he was just a boy in a treehouse. She was the girl who promised to stay. She didn’t break that promise. Someone else did it for her.

Content: Childhood heartbreak, missing letters, mistaken goodbyes, unresolved feelings, and one very symbolic bracelet.

Author’s Note 🏎️:

This story is purely fictional and not based on real events. Some timelines, career paths, and personal details have been adjusted or reimagined to fit the narrative. It’s all for the sake of the story, so please don’t take anything here as factual. Just vibes, emotions, and a lot of imagination. Thank you for reading. I hope it makes you feel something 🫶🏻

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The day Y/N moved in, Max Verstappen was already sitting in the treehouse, legs dangling off the edge, half-listening to the wind and trying to ignore the distant sound of car doors slamming. It was unusually noisy for their sleepy neighborhood, which usually had more dogs than people outside at any given hour.

He was up there because Jos had yelled again that morning, something about focus, about wasting time. So Max went where he always went when things got too loud, up in the treehouse, tucked between thick branches and scratched wood that smelled like old pine and dried glue.

Down below, a moving truck pulled up, rattling and coughing, followed by a car that barely rolled to a stop before someone burst out of the backseat. A girl.

She was dragging a suitcase with one hand and waving frantically at someone inside the house with the other. Max was just about to look away when she turned suddenly and looked straight up. Straight at him.

Then she pointed.

A few minutes later, she was standing at the base of the treehouse ladder, squinting up at him through the leaves.

“Hi!” she called, like they’d met before.

Max didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know her. He didn’t talk to new people if he could help it.

“You live here, right?” she asked again.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Y/N,” she said. “We just moved in.”

He just stared.

“Can I come up?”

That caught him off guard. No one ever asked to come up. Not even the neighbor kids who sometimes wandered too close.

He shrugged. “If you want.”

And that was how it started.

She climbed up with the confidence of someone who had never fallen out of a tree in her life, then plopped down next to him and looked around like she belonged there. Like it was already hers too.

They played cards using a half-broken deck he kept in a tin box. She asked him questions, what grade he was in, how fast his kart was, what he wanted to be when he grew up. She answered all of her own questions without waiting for him to respond.

When she finally left, she said, “I’ll come back tomorrow. You better not lose.”

He didn’t say anything, but when she was gone, he smiled to himself.

And she did come back. Every day after that.

The treehouse became theirs. It wasn’t official, but it didn’t need to be. They carved their initials into the floorboard. They stored candy in a metal lunchbox. They taped leaves and wrappers and even a movie ticket stub to the wall. They shared stories. Secrets. Fears.

Sometimes Max would sit in silence and she would do all the talking, but somehow, she always knew when to stop and just let him exist beside her.

He liked that.

One rainy afternoon, sprawled out on their backs staring at the wooden ceiling, she turned to him and said, “I’m going to be your engineer one day.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your engineer. I’ll be the one building your car. Telling you what to fix. Then we’ll win everything. You and me.”

Max laughed. Not because it was silly, but because it made something flutter in his chest. “You’re serious?”

“Obviously.”

“What if you work for someone else?”

“No way. I’m loyal,” she said, proudly. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Promise?”

She held up her pinky. “Promise.”

He curled his pinky around hers. It felt important, like something more than just a joke. Something real.

That night, she gave him a bracelet. It had a single charm on it, her initial. He wore it every day after that. The next day, he added one for himself too.

He didn’t have a name for how he felt about her. He just knew he always wanted to see her first after a win. He wanted her to see how fast he was. He wanted her to stay.

He didn’t know that wanting someone to stay didn’t mean they would.

A few years later, everything fell apart.

Y/N’s parents told her the news over dinner. Her dad was calm, practical. Her mom looked sorry before the words even left her mouth.

“We’re moving to Japan.”

Y/N stared at her plate. “What?”

Her dad sighed. “They need me there. The company’s expanding. It’s a big opportunity.”

Her mom tried to soften the blow. “We leave this weekend. It’s fast, I know, but we didn’t want to worry you unless it was certain.”

Y/N didn’t cry. She just asked, “Can I say goodbye to Max?”

Her parents exchanged a look, then nodded.

They gave her a small box the next morning.

It was a phone.

“So you two can keep in touch,” her mom said gently. “You’ve been friends a long time.”

Y/N packed a smaller box later that night. It had a new charm for Max’s bracelet, a tiny silver steering wheel, and a long letter. She told him everything. She told him she was sorry. She wrote her number, her new address, everything. She told him she’d be back one day, and that he better not forget her.

The morning of their flight, she begged her dad to stop at Max’s house. She was bouncing on her toes, hands fidgeting and heart pounding, as she approached the door. The house looked the same as always, warm and familiar in the sun, but something about it felt heavier today. Her footsteps slowed. After a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open, not to reveal Max, but his father.

Jos Verstappen’s expression immediately soured.

“You again?” he said flatly. “You’re always looking for Max. No wonder he’s been distracted in his races.”

Y/N lowered her head, gripping the small wrapped box tighter. Her voice came out small, but steady.

“I’m sorry. I just really need to talk to Max… just for a while…” Her voice trailed off, then she mumbled under her breath, “For the last time.”

Jos squinted. “What did you say?”

She looked up at him, eyes earnest. “We’re moving. Today, actually. I just wanted to say goodbye, give him this, and… I left my contact info inside, so we can still keep in touch.”

Jos paused. For a brief second, his eyes lit up, but he quickly masked it with a sigh and a feigned frown.

“I’m sorry for being harsh on your friendship, kid,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I only ever wanted the best for Max.”

Y/N nodded, hesitating. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

“He’s out,” Jos said quickly. “Training.”

Her face fell.

“But maybe I can give it to him for you?” he added, extending his hand with a soft smile.

Y/N stared at him, uncertain. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Of course, kid.”

Something about it felt off, but she pushed it down. With a quiet “thank you,” she hugged him gently, placing the gift in his hand.

“Please make sure he gets it. It’s really important.”

Jos nodded. “Safe travels, Y/N. I’ll give it to him right away.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Verstappen.”

She turned and walked away, holding in tears the entire time. Jos watched her until she turned the corner, then let out a quiet chuckle.

“Finally. No more distractions,” he muttered, stepping back inside. He headed straight to his office, opened a drawer, and carelessly tossed in the gift and envelope, unopened, unread. The letter inside, carefully written, held her contact information, a hand-drawn sketch of their favorite memory, and a heartfelt message she stayed up all night to finish. All of it, hidden.

—

Meanwhile, Y/N returned to the car, where her parents were already waiting inside. Her mother glanced up as she approached.

“Did you get to say goodbye to Max, dear?”

She looked down and shook her head. “No. He wasn’t around. But I gave Mr. Verstappen my gift and letter that had everything inside.”

Her parents exchanged a look.

“You’re sure, honey?” her father asked gently. “Why not give it to someone else? Maybe his mom, or a neighbor?”

“It’s okay, Mommy. I had a backup plan.” Y/N smiled proudly. “I left the same letter and gift in our treehouse. Max always goes there after naps.”

Her father gave a relieved laugh and ruffled her hair. “That’s our girl. Smart as ever.”

She beamed.

None of them knew that as soon as Y/N left, Jos made his way to the treehouse. Right after hiding the box she had asked him to give Max, he took everything else, every drawing, every note, every small thing that might remind Max of her, and hid alongside the box.

—

Max stirred awake after his nap, blinking at the time. The sun was already dipping lower in the sky. He sat up, stretching, then smiled. It was that time again. Y/N always came over after lunch, and they’d spend the afternoon at their treehouse, playing games, eating ice cream, making plans that reached far into the future.

He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and rushed over to the L/N residence. But as soon as he arrived, something felt… wrong.

There were no cars in the driveway.

No sound from inside.

No curtains drawn.

He knocked once. Then twice. He called out.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

His knocking turned louder. “Mrs. L/N? Mr. L/N? Hello?”

Still nothing.

A tightness started forming in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Maybe something happened. Maybe they were just asleep. He began pounding on the door now, calling out Y/N’s name over and over.

Then a voice cut through the silence.

“Hey, kid. Could you calm down a bit?”

Max turned. A neighbor stood on the other side of the fence, frowning.

“Sorry, sir,” Max said quickly. “Do you know where the L/N family is? Are they at the mall or something?”

The man blinked. “The L/Ns? Oh… they left.”

Max’s stomach dropped. “Left?”

“Yeah. Left the country, I heard. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Max stared at him, stunned. “No… no. That’s not possible.”

“Pretty sure they don’t plan on coming back,” the man added casually before going back inside.

Max stood frozen. For several seconds, everything around him went quiet. Then he took off running.

“No, no, no,” he whispered between breaths, feet pounding against the pavement. “This isn’t real, this isn’t happening.”

He didn’t even notice the tears until he reached the treehouse. He climbed up, desperate. His hands shook as he pulled open the wooden hatch.

Erased. Everything about her had been erased.

The drawings they made together. The little gifts. Their shared journals. Even the photo they kept of the day they built the treehouse, all gone. It looked just like it did before she came into his life, like how it was when Max was the only one using it.

Like she had never been there at all.

Like she wanted him to forget her.

His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the floor, tears pouring freely now. His heart felt like it was splitting open. He curled up and sobbed, flashes of memory overwhelming him.

The first time they met in this treehouse.

How she always stood between him and a group of bullies, tiny but fierce, shouting that they were cowards for picking on someone just because he didn’t have a “nice dad.”

The way she cheered for him after every race, even the bad ones.

The way she always knew what to say to make things better.

The time he was sick and afraid to sleep, scared he would wake up and she’d be gone. She stayed beside him all night, pinky-promising she would never leave him.

“Forever,” she had said.

He pulled his bracelet from his pocket. It was silver and a little scratched, with only two charms so far, one with her initials, and one with his.

They were supposed to fill it together.

Max stared at it, eyes red and swollen. He clenched it tightly in his fist and whispered into the empty air.

“She lied to me.”

Then louder.

“You lied to me.”

His voice cracked.

What he didn’t know was that Jos had lied. Didn’t know the letters existed. Didn’t know Y/N had tried.

All he knew was the pain.

And all he had left was the bracelet.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Y/N sat by the window, fiddling with the little charm on her bracelet. Her fingers kept tracing the edge of the tiny silver star until her mom gently nudged her arm.

“Are you nervous?” her mother asked.

Y/N glanced outside, where clouds floated past the plane wing. “Yeah. I didn’t grow up in Japan. I don’t really know anyone.”

Her mom gave her a soft smile. “Honey, even if you didn’t grow up there, you were born there. And besides,” she added, brushing a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, “Yuki will be there.”

Y/N turned her head. “Yuki?”

“Yes. He was your playmate until you two were around five. I was told he’s very excited to see you again.”

Y/N blinked. Her mind scrambled to find a face to match the name. She couldn’t remember much. Just blurry memories of swings, warm afternoons, and someone always running ahead of her.

The thought settled her a little. Not completely, but enough.

Maybe she was nervous because of Max.

What if he was mad at her?

But then again, even if he was, it probably wouldn’t last long. They had phones now. They could talk.

Things would be okay. They had to be.

—

By the time they landed and arrived at their new home in Japan, it was already late afternoon. The street was lined with people, neighbors, family friends, and curious kids with wide eyes. Everyone seemed excited. The warmth in their greetings made Y/N pause. It felt different here. In Belgium, people kept to themselves. Here, it was like the whole street had come to welcome her home.

She stepped out of the car just as someone threw their arms around her.

“Yatta! Omae ga modotte kita! Ore no saisho no tomodachi da!!” (Yay! You're back! My first friend!) the voice shouted with joy.

Y/N blinked in surprise, momentarily frozen. Then she gently returned the hug and pulled back with a polite but confused smile.

“Konnichiwa… tomodachi yo.?” she said cautiously. “Gomen ne, chotto oboete nai no…” (Hello… friend? Sorry, I’m having a hard time remembering…)

The boy laughed, clearly not offended at all. “Is me, Yuki! You… you no remember? We race shopping cart! Down driveway! You crash into mailbox. I laugh so hard, my mama scold me.”

Her eyes widened. “No way. That was you? Oh my god, I thought you were just a dream!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes yes! You cry, but only little. Then we eat snack. You bring chocolate.”

She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. I thought I dreamed that.”

Yuki pointed at himself proudly. “Not dream. Real! I real! You come back. We bestest friend again, okay?”

They laughed, slipping into conversation like no time had passed. When Yuki stumbled over his next sentence, Y/N gently switched to Japanese. She didn’t want him to struggle. His eyes lit up with relief, and from then on, they spoke easily in their shared language.

“I have a feeling we’re going to be the beeeestest of friends,” he said confidently, bumping her shoulder.

Y/N laughed. “We already are.”

That day, one friendship was rekindled.

And somewhere else, without her even knowing, another was quietly breaking.

—

Time passed quickly after Y/N moved back to Japan.

She and Yuki became inseparable, just like when they were little. Every morning, he would wait outside her house with two juice boxes and a huge smile, waving at her like it had been years since they last saw each other. They did everything together. They walked to school, snuck snacks into class, and raced paper boats in the gutters after a storm. If there was a school activity, a family trip, or even just a lazy afternoon, you could count on them being side by side.

It was like they grew up as twins, bonded not by blood but by something even stronger: timing, trust, and the track. They both loved racing. Yuki would talk endlessly about engines and tires, while Y/N would try to predict strategies like a seasoned engineer. Eventually, she stopped just listening and started helping. They made a perfect team. If Yuki had a karting competition, Y/N would be there by the side, clipboard in hand, shouting feedback louder than anyone else. And if Y/N had something on her mind, Yuki would sense it before she even said a word.

Just like during that first week Y/N was back in Japan, before everything had settled, she couldn’t help but feel like something was off.

(Flashback)

She sat on her bed, bracelet clutched tightly in her palm. It had been days, but her phone stayed silent. Max hadn’t contacted her. Not even once.

Yuki noticed her quiet mood during lunch one afternoon and nudged her with a cookie.

“You look sad. Is school too hard?” he asked, mouth full.

Y/N shook her head.

“Then what?” he pressed. “Tell me. I fix it.”

She looked down at her tray. “I just thought someone would’ve messaged me by now.”

“Who?”

“…My best friend. From Belgium. Max.”

Yuki frowned. “No message? Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“A bad friend,” Yuki declared with a pout. “Very bad. He made you cry. You forget him. I be your best friend now. Bestest in the whole wide world.”

Y/N smiled a little at that, leaning her shoulder on his. “Okay. But just so you know… Max is really important to me.”

“I am important now,” Yuki said with a proud nod.

(End)

And he really did try. Over time, Y/N stopped checking her phone so much. She still thought of Max often, especially during races or when the wind reminded her of Belgium, but she let herself grow close to Yuki without guilt. Together, they grew up cheering each other on, yelling advice across karting tracks and making silly bets with ice cream as the prize.

But in Belgium, Max Verstappen’s world had become silent again.

Without Y/N, everything felt dull. He’d always known the sport was hard, but now it felt cold. No one was there to throw their arms around him after a bad race. No one sat next to him on the swing set when the other kids said he was weird. No one brought him mango juice or cheered even when he came in last. He stopped hearing kind words altogether.

Even the treehouse had changed.

The place that once held laughter and secrets now sat in silence. The candy wrappers were gone. The tin lunchbox was empty. The walls, once decorated with stickers and scribbled messages, had faded in the sun. The tree itself started to look different. The leaves grew thinner. The branches drooped. It hadn’t been watered or cared for in years, and it showed. What was once their shared paradise had become Max’s hiding spot when Jos was mad again. It didn’t comfort him the way it used to.

Years passed.

Max’s career began to take off. He was preparing to leave Belgium to chase the big leagues. Teams. Tracks. Pressure. Fame. It was everything he had worked for, but something about it didn’t feel right.

He loaded the last box into the back of the car. Jos slammed the trunk and said, “Ready?”

Max paused. “Wait. I forgot something.”

He jogged back through the overgrown yard and climbed up the creaky steps of the treehouse one last time. Dust danced in the light. The wood groaned under his weight.

He sat down in the same corner he used to sit in as a kid and looked around. His eyes landed on one of the old drawings he had carved into the wall with a pocket knife.

A stickman version of himself stood on a podium, arms raised. Above it, the word champion was scrawled in crooked letters.

Right below it was another tiny stick figure. This one had long hair and was clapping with little stars around her head.

Max reached out and traced the line he had written beneath it.

Max wins the world championship. Y/N is his engineer.

He closed his eyes.

“I really thought we’d do this together,” he whispered.

Then he climbed back down the ladder, looked up at the treehouse, and said softly, “This is it.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Yuki was the first to leave.

It felt strange, the morning he rolled his suitcase to the airport check-in. His usual loud energy was quieter, replaced by a shaky smile and nervous fingers tapping against his hoodie sleeve. Y/N stood beside him, blinking away the weight pressing behind her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he said quickly, voice cracking despite the smile. “You cry, I cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she sniffed, poking his arm. “It’s just the weather.”

“Inside the airport?” he teased.

They stood in silence for a second longer before she hugged him tightly. Neither wanted to let go.

“When we see each other again,” Yuki said, stepping back, “we’ll be big names. You, engineer girl genius. Me, fastest driver.”

She grinned. “Deal.”

“But no goodbye,” he added, wagging a finger. “Only see you soon.”

“See you soon, Yuki.”

With one last wave, he disappeared through the crowd.

—

And then… life moved forward.

Y/N buried herself in her studies. She got into one of the best engineering universities in Tokyo. Her days blurred together: late-night lectures, stacks of notes, greasy cafeteria food, and way too much caffeine. There were moments when it felt like too much, but every time she looked at her worn-out bracelet or passed a go-kart track, she remembered why she started.

She graduated near the top of her class, surrounded by cheering classmates and flashing cameras. Not long after, she aced the licensing exams, officially earning the title she had worked so hard for.

Dream one: complete.

She’s finally an engineer. It still feels a little unreal, but it’s hers.

—

Yuki’s first year abroad wasn’t as easy.

At first, he struggled. English was hard, the food was weird, and no one seemed to get his jokes. He missed Japan. Missed the rhythm of his life back home. Missed Y/N’s easy laughter during long karting weekends.

But he worked. Hard.

Every bad qualifying session, every miscommunication with his team, every lonely hotel night, he turned it into fuel. Slowly, the results came. So did the friends. He learned how to express himself even when the words weren’t perfect. He smiled more. Fought harder.

Years later, sitting on a balcony with his helmet on the table beside him, Yuki stared at the headline on his phone:

Tsunoda Confirmed as F1’s Newest Driver.

His hands trembled. He laughed. Then he called Y/N and shouted, “WE DID IT!”

Dream two: complete.

He was in Formula 1.

—

Max, meanwhile, was clawing his way up on his own.

His F3 days were brutal. He was fast, but raw. Emotional. Other drivers whispered. Some avoided him altogether. He was “the kid with too much fire and no brakes.”

But Max didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.

He carried the weight of everything: the expectations, the lonely nights, the dream that once belonged to two people. There were nights when he’d sit by himself after races, staring at the sky, wondering if she’d be proud. Wondering if she remembered.

Eventually, his talent was undeniable.

F1 came calling.

And even then, it wasn’t easy. He was young. Aggressive. Often misunderstood. The media called him reckless. Teammates didn’t always trust him. Older drivers were cold. But Max kept showing up. Kept proving them wrong. Over time, respect followed.

Now, as he stood on the podium once again, the anthem playing, a crowd roaring below, Max looked down at the bracelet tucked beneath his suit cuff.

two charms still dangled from it.

Dream three: ongoing.

He had made it.

But a piece of him still felt unfinished.

Because the one person who promised to be by his side wasn’t there.

Not yet.

—

Y/N couldn’t figure out why she felt so nervous.

She’d been to races before. But this one felt… heavier.

Yuki had pleaded with her to be there for his debut. “Just this once,” he had said. “It would mean everything.” And of course, she said yes. She always did, especially when it came to him.

But the weight in her chest didn’t feel like nerves for Yuki. Not really. It felt like something else. Like someone else. Someone from back then.

Yuki never asked who Max really was. And she never offered more than a first name.

So naturally, he never really talked about Max in F1 either, because in his mind, Max was just someone from her childhood. A classmate. A neighbor. A boy from another lifetime. It never even crossed his mind that they could be the same person.

He never made the connection.

The moment they landed, Yuki was waiting at the gate, practically bouncing in place. He held a piece of paper that said “FOR MY FAVORITE ENGINEER” in giant block letters, with two messy hearts in the corners.

Y/N laughed and ran into him, nearly knocking the sign out of his hands.

“You’re actually here,” he said, hugging her like he hadn’t seen her in years.

“I told you I would be.”

He toured her around the hotel, pointing out which floors the team was on, where she could sneak snacks, and who to avoid. Then he dropped the bomb.

“I applied for you,” he said. “To F1’s development program. You got in.”

She blinked. “You did what?”

“You’re gonna be trained and mentored by real engineers, and then you can apply to any team you want. This is the start.”

“Yuki—”

“We promised, remember? I’m racing, and you’re beside me. Always.”

The next day was chaos.

It was race day.

Fans screamed from the grandstands. Teams rushed through the paddock like bees in a hive. Yuki looked impossibly small in his suit, helmet under one arm, but his grin stretched ear to ear.

Y/N stayed just outside the restricted zone, watching him get into the car. He pointed at her once before the lights changed, and then he was off.

She barely noticed the rest.

Until something, someone, brushed past her.

A driver, walking quickly. Suit zipped, helmet gripped tight. She only saw him from behind, the dark racing colors streaked with sponsor patches. She didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt tight. Like she should have known him. Like there was something right on the edge of her memory.

But she didn’t see his face.

She didn’t stop him.

He disappeared into the pit lane crowd, swallowed up by noise and motion.

—

Max had already finished the final checks. Helmet under his arm, mind focused, jaw clenched.

But as he made his way through the paddock, something pulled at him. He turned his head slightly, just for a second, eyes scanning the crowd beyond the barricade.

There, a girl.

He couldn’t see her face, only the back of her head, the way her hair caught in the breeze, the way she stood like she belonged but didn’t want to be seen. Her posture. Her stillness.

It wasn’t unusual.

And yet.

Something inside him paused. A flicker of memory he couldn’t name. A dream from long ago.

He stared just long enough for his engineer to call his name again. He blinked it away, shook his head, and kept walking.

Whoever she was, it didn’t matter.

Not today.

END (C.1)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[shibarinu0000]

hi everyone!!! my friend is a new voice actor, and this is their first voice acting project :) please please go boost them and leave a like, its greatly appreciate it

[shibarinu0000]

nvm dont go listen to them lmfao theyre a groomer and overall a horrible person <3

[toasterpancakes]

The 6 + 1 Times Max Verstappen Tells You That He is Going to Marry You

Summary: It started when you were both 6 years old and Max declared that he was going to marry you and continued to do so at various points during your lives. You’re both now 28, and it takes one practice date with Max, and one real date you go on with another guy for him to say it again.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x (female) reader

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of intoxication, Max and reader being generally dumb idiots pining for each other, Max constantly mentioning he is going to marry her, best friends to lovers, F1 inaccuracies, timeline inaccuracies, sudden confessions, crying, arguing, mentions of heartbreak / the end of a previous relationship, mentions of a cheating ex-boyfriend, mentions of not eating during a break up, sudden love confessions, they go from best friends i love you fast, let me know if I should include anything else. Not proofread.

Word count: I wrote this on the tumblr app, so idk unfortunately, but I ran and spiralled with this.

A/N: I’ve half of the first chapter of each of the George and Lando min-series which I’ve wanted to write done (+ a bit of the Epilogue for the George series - why am I jumping around chapters, I’ve no idea), and somehow, Max Verstappen hit my brain like an absolute force to be reckoned with, so here we are. Please engage, like, comment and reblog if you’ve liked this!

DISCLAIMER while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.

Dividers used in this post taken from here and here.

“I’m going to marry you,” 6 year old Max announces to you, his voice confident, loud, sure, and unabashed in the way children tend to be.

“Only adults get married Maxie,” you respond to the boy currently lying on the grass beside you, both of you staring up at the pinkish hues of the evening sky.

“I’m going to marry you when I’m an adult,” Max says again with the same measure of certainty as he first had. It makes you giggle as you hold up one of your hands, sticking it abruptly into the air, a fist with only your pinky finger sticking out.

“Promise?”

You feel Max’s pinky, almost the same size as yours, curl around yours, tight - locking both your hands hanging above you both in a promise.

“Promise.”

You and Max are both lying on the beach. It’s a hot, dry, summer’s day, the kind that was perfect for being belly down on a beach towel, the sun’s rays hammering down on your back. Your face is propped up by your hands, eyes watching the water out in front of you ripple under the sunlight.

“Look at that boat,” you say, extending a hand to point towards the object of your interest - a white yatch, luxurious, huge, with two levels that is floating on the water, “it’s huge.”

Max hums in agreement without looking upwards, his focus trained instead on the magazine in front of him.

“I wish I could have a boat like that one day,” you sigh, as you drop one of your elbows back on the surface of your beach towel, cheek propped up in your upturned palm. It wasn’t so much the boat you were attracted to, but rather the group of you people you could see on the top deck, their strains of laugher floating towards you - people that were happy, carefree, effortless.

“I’ll buy one for you,” says Max who finally glances up from the soccer magazine he has open in front of him to look at the yatch, “when I become world champion”

“And why would you do that,” you say teasingly without glancing towards Max. You can hear him flip a page of the magazine which he is pouring through.

“Because we’ll be married,” Max says it as if it were second nature to him, without a beat of hesitation. You roll your eyes, but feel the heat of a flush creeping up your cheeks. Max had never wavered in his stance - not since you both were 6, but it was something that you had begun to notice since the beginning of spring. You were now 11, almost 12, with puberty well and truly kicking in for you and surging on slightly ahead of Max.

“You don’t know that,” you drop your head, face down on your towel as if to hide your embarrassment.

“I do,” Max says again, without missing a beat, as if it were fact. You feel wandering fingers tugging on your hair, asking silently why you had face planted yourself into your towel.

“They are going to sign me,” Max exclaims as the door of your bedroom flies open with a bang. You stare at him from where you are seated, curled up in an old, soft arm chair in the corner of your room, book open in your lap.

“Wha-” you start to question only for Max to supplement his i initial statement in a rush of excitement. His eyes, blue, striking and dancing wildly with equal parts excitement and equal parts adrenaline as he remains rooted in the doorway of your room.

“Toro Rosso,” the words are tumbling out of his mouth, “they are signing me as a test driver for the remainder of the season, and to drive for them next year.”

You’ve karted a handful of times, casually, the result of Max and his sister Victoria dragging you to the track - as one would expect being friends with Max Verstappen, but despite not being anywhere near as good as Max and Victoria, you’ve been friends with Max long enough to understand the ins and outs of karting, F3, F1. His words make you freeze, your eyes widening, jaw literally dropping open.

“Straight from F3?”

“Straight from F3,” Max voice is quieter this time as he confirms it, but his eyes - his eyes grow even brighter.

“Max,” your voice is shaky as you scramble out of your chair into a stand. Your eyes welling up with tears - of shock, happiness - because god knows how much he has wanted this since you both could remember.

There isn’t a need for anymore words and Max chooses instead to speak with his actions. He crosses the distance of your room in seconds, body slamming into yours, arms winding tight around your body. Max picks you up, lifts you so you are feet off the ground as he crushes you in a bone crushing hug. You laugh, the sound wet with the tears that have now slipped out from the sides of your eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” you say, as Max chuckles, before setting you back on the ground. He pulls apart from you, giving himself enough space to peer at you.

“Don’t cry,” he says, lifting both his hands to cradle your face in his palms, thumbs swiping away at the tears that falling rapidly down your cheeks, “you heard I was getting signed right?”

His tone is gentle, but the smile remains firmly on his face.

“I know, I’m just,” you sniffle, your hands gesturing blindly in the air beside you as you try to finish your sentence.

“I know,” Max says more softly this time as he drops his hands from your face, arms going around your shoulders instead to pull you into him. Your face collides with his shoulder, tears causing the material of his hoodie to go damp. You don’t have to explain yourself, because Max knows - knows just how happy you are for him.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice muffled from being buried against Max, “I shouldn’t be crying. It’s stupid.”

“Well, it’ll be a good story for the wedding,” his joke comes soft, sudden, and teasing but you both feel a hidden weight behind the lightness of his tone. Max’s marriage proclamations had dwindled from the moment his voice started to drop in octave, and became almost non-existent since he started shaving regularly. The weight of the world and words had become heavier as you both grew from tweens to 17 year old teenagers just hanging around the cusp of adulthood.

“Max,” you find yourself laughing against his shoulder. You keep your face buried against the well worn material of his hoodie, not daring to look up as you feel your stomach do a series of somersaults, “is that your attempt to stop me from crying?”

“Yes,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice grow. Max holds you tighter, pressing you even closer into him as if he was afraid you would slip from his fingers, “it worked, didn’t it?”

He tilts his head to rest the side of his cheek against the side of your hair, as he feels your shoulders shake with another laugh. You miss the look that flashes through Max’s eyes, wistful, longing, want - a look that the world didn’t commonly associate with Max Verstappen.

“So, you and him huh?” Max slides into the kitchen in the pretext of getting himself a new bottle of beer while shutting the door quietly behind him. The echos of the celebratory ruckus caused by your joined families, and more, muffled, but still audible from the hall. You are both 19 now, one an F1 driver, the other a University student; a pair of best friends who had seen too little of each other this year.

“Mhm,” you hum as you pull can of diet soda from the fridge. You set it down on the table intending to search for spoon to crack the tab open, but Max reaches for it the moment the can hits the countertop. His fingers make quick work of popping the tab open, before he sets the can down in front of you.

“Fragile nails, I know,” he shrugs. He had seen you chip your nails too many times from wrestling with stubborn drink cans.

“Thanks,” you smile before you lift the can to your lips.

“You guys dating?” Max redirects your conversation, asking his question, straightforward, to the point - Max.

“Something like that,” your tone is non-committal, casual, but Max can tell that there is something bothering you and more behind your words.

“Something like what?” He pushes you with his words, and you know he is. Max sees yours shoulders square with a tension and he takes a step towards you.

“Leave it Max,” you say, brow furrowing at his question. The truth was you wanted to give him, Will, the guy you had brought home for Christmas a name, but each time you had tried to broach the topic of ‘what are we’, left you and and Will hanging, suspended in limbo because of his reluctance to explore the topic further.

Max takes another step towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. Max’s eyes are hard, but unreadable and you tighten your grip around the cool can you still have in your hand.

“Something like what?” He asks again, his voice lower this time, quieter, almost dangerous.

“Max, leave it,” you say again, your tone sharper, voice slightly louder.

“So, I’m around less for one year and you end up forgetting what taste is?” Max’s words manage to be both blunt and cutting at the same time. You glare at him, feeling the tell tale sign of your throat seizing up, as you fight back tears that prick behind your eyelids.

“Around less?” You scoff with an empty, humourless laugh, “you mean weren’t around at all?” Your words come out more accusatory and bitter than you had intended.

You’ve never blamed Max for not being around, but you felt his absence, and you had never asked him, but you were sure that you felt his absence more than he did yours. He was off, around the world, living his dream, and you? You felt like you were still, just you. It wasn’t for a lack of trying to keep up with one another - he tried, you tried but you barely saw each other in person, him a junior driver, already on the rise to dominance but still struggling to prove himself everyday, and you a University student with classes, school work, extra-curricular’s, and a general lack of time and funds to fly yourself from race to race. You both made do with FaceTime, calls, messages, but time zones complicated things, had you and Max missing each other one too many times.

You see Max open his mouth to say something, but you hear the knob on the door turn.

“Everything alright?” Will’s voice accompanied but his head peeking through the door. You manage to take a step to your side, slipping away from Max before he can even react.

“All good, got my soda,” you say with a false cheeriness as you head for the door. Will pushes it open further and offers you a hand. You take it, and follow him out of the kitchen, and back in the hall, leaving Max alone, fist clenched, heart hammering.

Max doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the party, and you don’t seek him out, but his text comes later that night after all your guest had left, your phone lightning up on your nightstand with a buzz.

Max: I’m sorry.

You find yourself exhaling, as if you are letting go of a breathe that you hadn’t even noticed you were holding. He doesn’t tell you exactly what he is apologising for, but he doesn’t need to. You understand.

I’m sorry too. That wasn’t fair.

Max: I wish I got to be around more often.

I wish you did too.

Your reply is simple, truthful. Max knows you aren’t accusing or blaming him for not being around, just telling him in more words than necessary that you missed him.

Max: You will be.

Max: You know, when we’re finally married.

His reply makes you laugh, a sudden sound ringing out in the silence of your bedroom. It is unexpected - but entirely Max.

With our two children?

You find yourself smiling as you type back your reply.

Max: I was thinking three.

Max: Can I come over tomorrow? You know, just to hang out.

The smile on your face softens a the question

I would like that.

Max: Anyone that doesn’t see you are amazing is stupid.

His message comes, sudden, out of the blue and with no link to the previous conversation, but hard hitting - just the way Max is. You don’t respond, you don’t know how, but it means everything to you.

“Max Emilian Verstappen,” you groan as you stagger out of the lift, “are you even trying to walk?”

“M’ trying,” Max mumbles, as you drag him out of the lift and down the hallway towards his apartment. He moves his feet, as if attempting to walk on his own, but only ends up leaning further into you.

“Trying my ass,” you mutter to yourself as you begin the walk towards the door of his apartment.

“Mmm,” Max hums, eyes barely open, “you have a nice ass.”

“Max,” you gasp, half incredulous, half amused.

“I mean it,” he says, raising his arms in a failing motion, before dropping them back to his side.

“How did you get so drunk,” you sigh as you muster your strength to drag him the last few steps towards his door. The question is rhetorical - you had watched his grid friends ply him and themselves with an inhumane amount of alcohol to celebrate the start of the F1 summer break - fourteen blissful days of well deserved rest which Max had cajoled you into taking time off the spend with him in Monaco. He had booked your flights, planned our the two weeks, arranged for your transportation from your home to the airport, and for himself to pick you once you landed in Monaco, cleaned up his guest bedroom for you - giving you absolutely no reason to say no.

“M’happy you’re here,” Max sighs out as he turns his head to nuzzle the side of your hair. It makes you gulp, suddenly nervous, your brain threatening to run itself into overdrive, but you push the feeling away as the movement causes him to lean more of his weight on you, causing you to plant your feet even more firmly onto the ground for balance. You stop mid walk, your focus on keeping Max upright and standing.

“I’m not going to be very happy I’m here if I die from you collapsing on me.”

“Won’t let you die,” Max exhales, his breath tickling the top of your ear. He smells like a mix of tequila, courtesy of Daniel and the last three shots that pushed Max into sleepy drunk mode, and his cologne, “M’gonna marry you, can’t let you die.”

“Max,” you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you even now. You’re both 22 now, but his words from 6 years of age still float in and out of your life.

“S’truth,” he says, planting a soft, careless kiss onto the top of your head. It’s just a brush of his lips against your hair, but it feels intimate - too intimate for a pair who were just best friends. You freeze, for a full three seconds before Max sways in the other direction, reminding you of just how drunk he is. You brush your shock, and his actions aside, refocusing your energy on getting him into his apartment.

“Alright, c’mon Maxie, one foot in front of the other.”

The doorbell rings, and you ignore it, letting the sound sweep over you. You are a mess - hair tangled, in the same clothes you had slept in the night before - clearly not having bothered to change, your eyes tired and red rimmed from crying. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a proper meal. It rings again, this time the sound accompanies by three loud knocks.

You don’t want to answer it, but the person on the other side is persistent, ringing it again and knocking. You get up, feeling wobbly on your feet, while pulling the hood of your jacket over your head in an attempted to hide the state you are in. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself before cracking open the door just an inch.

You expect to see a deliveryman, but the sight on the other side shocks you.

“Max?” You croak, voice scratchy from crying and a lack of use, “what are you doing here.”

“I’m here to see you,” he says simply and you take a step backward, pulling the door open, just wide enough for him and his carry-on to step through. Max shrugs his backpack off his shoulders as you close the door of your apartment behind him. He turns to look at you- he is wearing jeans, a plain black tshirt, with a red bull jacket thrown over the top.

“You look like shit,” he says while opening his arms. He doesn’t need to say another word, and you don’t need to be asked twice. You step into his embrace, winding your arms around him. You shutter your eyes close as Max wraps himself around you. You don’t cry, because you’ve cried enough since the breakup 4 days ago, but your hands shake and you find yourself gripping onto the fabric of Max’s jacket to steady yourself.

“You should be at home,” you say to Max. He was race fresh, having just come off another win - you had texted him to congratulate him through your tears. Max had found out the day the break up happened - you hadn’t wanted to tell him, because it had happened mid week, during the week leading up to the race weekend, but he had sensed something was off from the way you texted. Max had FaceTimed you right away, and your resolved had crumbled, involuntarily, the moment your cameras flickered on. You had apologised, profusely, amidst ugly tears, but Max had brushed it off, stopped your apologies and asked you to tell him what was wrong. His jaw had tensed, shoulders going rigid, eyes darkening with anger as the story tumbled out of your mouth: your boyfriend of almost 4 years had cheated. Not even a drunken one night stand, but worse: a full on 6 month affair that had been going on with a colleague from work.

“I’ll go home once you’re alright,” he says, hands now rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I really thought I was going marry him,” you whisper into Max’s hoodie. The thought had been playing around in your head the past few days, and it was the first time you had said it out loud. You were now 26, thinking that you had your life together, and everything was smooth sailing only for yourself to be proven wrong.

Max tenses for a second, his teeth clenching together, hands pausing their ministrations against your back. You would have noticed normally, but you don’t, not with grief in the forefront of your heart and mind.

“It’s his loss,” Max says after a beat of silence. Those are the words that he wants to say, but he can’t - not now, not with you like this, and more importantly, not with a girlfriend back home.

-

Max doesn’t tell you why, but you hear it from him six months later, a casual text that lands in your phone in the middle of the night: I broke up with her.

“Take me to dinner,” the words tumble out of your mouth as soon as Max opens the door of his apartment.

“Well hello to you too,” Max steps aside to let you in. He takes note of the determined look you have in your eyes as you barrel on, straight into his apartment. Things had changed in the past 2 years since you had become single, you had, with Max’s encouragement, searched for, and found a job in Monaco - something suited to your skillset, with better prospects, a more exciting portfolio, and better pay. You weren’t earning big bucks, but it was enough for you to get by, even in a city like Monaco. Max played a big part, not by giving you money, but by arguing with you until you relented to renting an apartment from him - it wasn’t as big as his, just a small one bedroom in the same building as him, a few floors down. He had set a price, which you were aware was well, well below market rate for the location, and by Monaco standards, but you had been itching for a change, and reluctant to continue arguing. You tried to make up for it in your own ways - cat-sitting when he was off for races, cooking an extra portion for him when he was home, picking up his dry cleaning when you picked yours.

“I need you to take me to dinner Max.”

“Do you want to explain more?”

“I’ve a date,” you say as you throw yourself down onto his couch. A cat, Jimmy, jumps onto your lap and you extend a hand to scratch the feline behind its ears. It purrs happily, rubbing its body against you.

“A date?” Max keeps his voice neutral as he settles down beside you.

“Mhm,” you hum in response as you trail your fingers down Jimmy’s back, the feline settling into a loaf like structure on your lap.

“With?”

“A friend of a friend from work,” you say with a shrug, finally looking up at Max, hands continuing the trail down soft fur, “she invited him for drinks a couple of times. He asked me out. Nice guy, cute.”

“Nice guy, cute,” Max repeats, tone flat, “if he is taking you on a date why do you need me to take you out for dinner?”

“I haven’t,” you start, clearing your throat, feeling suddenly self conscious, a far cry from the determination you had barged into his apartment with, “been on a date in a while.”

You hadn’t - not since you broke up with your previous boyfriend. Flirting with the occasional handsome stranger at the bar, dancing a little too closely with someone with a charming smile at the club, but not a proper date.

“So I’m FP1?” Max arches a brow at you.

“If we must speak in F1 terms, yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

Max doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to extend a hand towards Jimmy’s nose. The cat scrunches its nose to sniff his hand, before closing its eyes with measured indifference. Max scowls lightly at the betrayal of his own pet, before he finally responds.

“Alright, when do you want to do this?”

“The coming Saturday?” You know there no races the coming weekend.

“Fine with me.”

“Where shall we go?”

“He had no ideas, huh?” Max throws you a look, half amusement and half disbelief. It was a guess, inference on his part, but he hadn’t expected to be, had hoped that he wouldn’t be, right.

“He just asked for suggestions,” you say defensively.

Max shakes his head slowly in disapproval. He is playing it cool, calm and collected outwardly, but his heart is hammering against his ribs, thoughts spinning in his brain. He doesn’t want you to go on a date, but he wants this excuse to take you out for dinner. Not just the both of you heading to the Italian place down the road or ordering takeout.

“6pm on Saturday,” Max says as he leans forward. You find yourself holding your breath as you stare into light blue irises that are just inches from your face, “don’t think of coming down here, I’ll pick you from your doorstep.”

You see his eyes dart down for a millisecond, ghosting over the curve of your lips and you can’t help the similar pattern which your gaze traces down his face. You can’t say you haven’t thought of Max’s lips before, wondering how they would feel against your own. You drag your eyes back up to find Max’s again. You see a flicker of light in his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like hope, intrigue, curiosity.

“Why-” you start, mouth acting on instinct, moving faster than your mind - you want to ask him why, why he is looking at you like he wants to kiss you; but a shrill meow breaks through the space between you as Jimmy sinks his claws into the surface of your pants, sick of having his space crowded by his two humans.

“Jimmy,” you yelp as you and Max jump apart, startled as the feline jumps off your lap, leaping onto the coffee table. He turns back to stare at you both with a look that is almost too scathing for a non-human.

“He’s definitely your cat,” you mutter to Max as the sassy feline swivels his head slowly around to pad his way to the corner of the coffee table.

“Can’t even deny that he is.”

-

The knock on your door sounds at 6, sharp.

“Coming,” you call out as you steal one last glance at yourself in the mirror hanging in the hallway by the door. You looked good - date ready, even if you said so yourself - hair done, and light makeup that helped you look fresh but very much still yourself. You smooth the front of your dress down, brow furrowing with a slight uncertainty - Max had refused to tell you the destination for the night and had, only after much pleading, told you in a vaguely unhelpful fashion that “any dress is fine”. You had gone safe with a black dress, straps holding it up on your shoulders, cinched at the waist, skirt flaring out slightly and falling to mid-calf. You inhale deeply and pull open the door.

The sight that greets you stuns you, but in a good way - the kind that has a smile involuntarily creeping onto your face and butterflies filling the pit of your stomach. You see Max, dressed in a dark linen shirt, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, holding flowers - a small bouquet, not ostentatious, but thoughtful.

“Hi,” you breathe out as a sudden shyness washes over you.

“Hey,” Max says as he offers you the flowers, before leaning in to brush his lips against the side of your cheek, barely there and fleeting, not something he hasn’t done before, but it makes your skin burn with a blush.

“Do you always greet your dates like this?” You tease, a poor attempt to cover up the flush you can feel against your skin.

“Only when they look like you,” Max says, his words ghosting against your skin before he pulls away. Max’s gaze doesn’t drift below your below, but you find piercing blue eyes holding yours.

“You’re making me nervous,” your words are soft and honest, you saying them as they come to mind.

“It’s part of the experience. You’re supposed to feel nervous on a first date,” Max says his voice equally soft, his cheeks dimpling - only lightly teasing, with a genuine curve to his smile.

It was meant to be practice, something to warm you up - your very own FP1 courtesy of Max Vertsappen, but it didn’t feel like just practice.

-

Max had chosen perfectly - he hadn’t gone for anything fancy, opting instead for a restaurant slightly out of the city, perched on the edge of a cliff, nice, polished but subtly so and busy but in a pleasant, quiet laid back manner. He had wrangled you both a table tucked in the corner with a view of the evening sun dancing over the water’s surface, reflecting off the boats floating across the deep blue water.

“So, come here often?” Max asks casually, elbows on the table as he pops a piece of calamari into his mouth. He had ordered, but only after asking you what you felt like having, and had topped your order off with other plates of things he knew you like. You arch a brow at his question, a hint of amusement on your face only for him to shrug innocently, “FP1, remember.”

“No one is going to ask that,” you say deadpan before picking up the glass of wine in front of you to take a sip.

“Alright, I’ll try again,” Max dusts his hands off before leaning casually back in his chair, “what brings you to Monaco.”

“Max,” you start only for him to stop you.

“Nu-uh, FP1 remember.”

“My move to Monaco was caused by guy,” you say slowly, fingers tracing the outline of the base of the wine glass which you had placed back on the surface of the table, “and because of the badgering of some other guy.”

“Some other guy huh?” Max’s smile mirrors the faint, amused one on your features, “he must be pretty amazing for you to move to a whole new country for.”

“He’s alright,” you say with feigned carelessness.

“Just alright?” Max’s smile grows, “I think he’ll be a pretty great guy, You know, handsome, pretty good at what he does, thoughtful, caring.”

“You know an awful lot about him without me having mentioned his name.”

“Just a hunch,” Max says as he throws you a wink.

“He is,” you play along, pretending to nod thoughtfully, “handsome, great at what he does, thoughtful, caring, generous.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“I think some other guy is handsome,” you correct.

“So, have you and this some other guy dated?” Max asks his question without missing a beat. You fix Max with a look that borders on exasperated, but he counters, too smoothly and pointedly, “you said you moved here at his badgering.”

“No,” you fiddle with the necklace that hangs around your neck, a habit of yours since the very man across the table had gifted you the necklace on your last birthday. Something which you had insisted was too expensive, only for him to have told that he couldn’t return it either because he has thrown away the receipt.

“Why?” Max remains with his tone light, stance open, eyes gentle, but with just a hint of the same calculated focus he uses when racing.

“We’re friends,” you start, fingers still touching your necklace as you turn your face slightly to the side, letting your gaze dance across the sea which has started to ripple with the evening breeze, “and he doesn’t see me that way. I’m not his type anyway. His girlfriends have always been stunning, put together, not me.”

You end your answer with a soft laugh - not mean, but just honest. You had answered without giving it much thought, letting the same words that came to mind, out. You had been thinking of Max’s last girlfriend - she had been glamorous, put together, polished, and with the natural confidence of someone who had grown up in all the right circles. His previous girlfriends hadn’t been all that different either. It wasn’t surprising to you - after all, you knew him as your Max, but he was, well - the Max Verstappen.

“How do you know you’re not his type,” Max’s voice is steady, the same as before, but you keep your gaze focused on the water, missing the intensity in his gaze which goes a notch up.

“He’s a four time world champion, arguably one of the greatest drivers to hit F1 and I’m just me, we don’t really match,” you tone is teasing but your words reflect the truth of your belief. You had asked yourself before, and throughout the years you had known Max, why not - allowing yourself on one too many occasions to toy with what if, only to always remind yourself that this was Max, and you were just you: his childhood friend.

Max doesn’t say anything in response, and you tear your gaze from the view to turn your attention back to him only to find him with his brow slightly furrowed, eyes looking as though a storm is brewing behind. Your heart catches in your chest as his gaze locks on yours - you can’t place a finger on why exactly, but you feel your pulse quicken.

“Max?” You shake off your silence, quashing any feelings that come bubbling up to the surface down.

“Yeah,” he snaps back to his previous self, reaching out for his own glass.

-

“You really didn’t have to walk me to my door.”

“What, you mean your dates don’t walk you to the door?”

“Well, I don’t really live in the same building as my dates.”

Your response has Max letting out a light chuckle as you both come to a stop outside door. Your keys are already in hand.

“Well, this is me.”

“Mhm,” Max hums in agreement, slight amusement on his face. He doesn’t say anymore.

“Thanks for dinner. I’ll get you for-”

“You will not,” Max cuts you off with a disapproving expression. He doesn’t need you to finish your sentence offering to pay for half of dinner.

“I-” you struggle with your words for a beat, before you sigh, choosing not to fight a battle you can’t win, “thank you for dinner, and also for this, FP1. Next weekend seems less daunting now.”

Max doesn’t say anything, but nods lightly.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” You probe gently.

“Yeah, tomorrow morning. They want to test some upgrades with us in the sim. See what we can do before the race weekend comes around.”

“We’ll see you when you’re back,” you don’t have to explain we. Max knows you mean yourself, Jimmy and Sassy. The found family he comes back to after every race.

“Always,” Max nods again, and you smile, about to turn on your heel to unlock your door when he speaks again, “one more thing.”

“One more thing?” You look at him curiously.

Max steps a step forward, putting himself in your personal space. The scent of his cologne envelops you. Max moves, gently, with purpose, and slow enough for you to move away if you wanted to. His hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb ghosting across your cheek. You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, your stomach flipping - and in a good way.

“Alright?” Max’s voice is low, soft as he checks in on you. His eyes searching yours.

“Alright,” you confirm, barely a whisper.

He leans in, face inches from yours, gaze still locked onto you.

“Still alright,” he murmurs again, and you can only nod. Your confirmation something Max can feel against his palm from the slight motion of your head.

It happens before you have a chance to overthink. You feel Max’s lips against yours, softer than you had imagined, gentle, but decisive - without an ounce of hesitation. It’s innocent enough, one kiss, but the look in Max’s eyes as yours flutter open is what finally sends your mind reeling. One that makes it look like he wants more.

“FP1, right.” you say softly, Max’s hand still against your skin, the warmth of his palm a welcome sensation against your cheek. Max gives you a crooked smile, that is tinted with a hint of amusement, but also wistful and saying so much more.

“Don’t kiss him on the first date,” you find his searching yours, gentle but with something raw behind the blue, something threatening to burst at the seams.

“I won’t,” you both don’t say anything more, but manage to be both sure, while completely unclear on what you’re both agreeing on.

-

The week passes without much fanfare, and as it usually does when Max is away. You let yourself into his apartment twice a day, once before work to check on the cats and feed them and once after, for a longer time to feed them, replenish their water, and to provide a human presence and comfort. You send him pictures, videos of Jimmy and Sassy, peppered in through your usual text conversations. Neither of you mention the last Saturday, or your date on the coming Sunday.

Nothing has changed between you and Max, but there is an undeniable crackle of something more threatening to bubble over.

Max wins, takes 1st, and you watch, eyes glittering, joy surging through your chest as the television shows him stepping onto the podium with ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. You pause the rummage through your closet for a date appropriate outfit to send him a text, something which you always do after each race, podium or no podium, which you know he won’t see till later - after the debrief, his work and media obligations, and the celebrations have taken place.

-

Marc is nice, good looking, sweet, almost without a flaw. He picks you up from your door, holds the doors open for you, is nice to waitstaff, and up takes you to a nice restaurant - fancy, and after for a drink in well selected bar nearby, something that is currently trendy. He doesn’t let you pay for anything, says and does all the right things, compliments you in the sweetest way, which you are sure will have any other girl swooning - but you can’t help the nagging thought running through your brain. The date is perfect but it isn’t Max - it isn’t the both of you sitting amongst a quiet bustling crowd with a sea view, it isn’t Max driving you home with easy conversation and making a detour along the way for ice cream cones at a quaint, but quiet kiosk just before you hit the city.

“Well, this is me,” your words bring about a small smile to your face. One that comes off as being for Marc, but which really is because you had said the same exact words to Max one week before, “thank you for today, it was lovely.”

“Can I see you again?” Your date asks, and you hesitate, visibly, mouth opening briefly before closing again. You had no reason to say no - he was a catch, by anyones standard, but he wasn’t who you wanted, wasn’t Max.

“I’m sorry,” you offer him a weak smile, only for him to nod, understanding even in the face of rejection.

-

Max’s mind is racing at a million miles per second, he hadn’t stopped moving, since he had left you, not at HQ leading up to the race weekend, not during the each segment of race weekend not since he had gotten off that podium, not during media, the debriefs, not since the rushed shower he had before heading for the airport, not since he had boarded his jet, and not since he had ran out and off practically the same moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

Max had channeled his energy into the week, distracting himself from you, from himself, from thinking too much about you. He had flown through the race weekend in a flurry of activity, pushing himself and the team to finish on the top step of the podium, just so he could worm his way home unbothered by anyone else. From experience Max knew, that the surefire way to gain goodwill and a few days of sanctioned silence was to be at the top of the leaderboard.

He tries your apartment straight from the parking garage, suitcase in tow. He rings the bell twice, knocks three times - no answer. He checks the time, it’s late, but still within Sunday, and he hasn’t heard from you since your congratulatory text earlier in the afternoon. Max feels his heart sink, as the realisation sets in that it was likely that you were still on your date and it was going well.

He drags himself back to his apartment, the sinking feeling growing with every step, morphing slowly into something more bitter, into regret. He should have asked you not to go when he had kissed you last Saturday, but Max had been bold enough to kiss you, but too afraid to say more, because while Max wanted you, his greatest fear was losing you.

Max steps in, locking the door behind him and leaving his suitcase and backpack in the hallway. He frowns, ears not picking up the usual sound of claws clicking against the floor that greets him upon entry. Max toes off his shoes, leaving them strew in the hallway as he pads in, eyes darting around in search of the cats.

The sight that greets him as enters his living room has him freeze in mid-step, his attention transfixed on you, lying curled up in a corner of his wide sofa. You’re in tights and a hoodie, arms curled around one of the throw blankets you had left in his apartment with both cats dozing as individual loafs at your feet. Max feels his gaze soften as the bitterness he had been feeling ebbs slowly away. He knows you’ve been out, because Max knows that you would have said something if you had cancelled your date, but seeing you now curled up on his sofa, in his home, his cats dozing at your feet - Max feels like he won more than the Belgian Grand Prix today.

Max flops onto the floor beside you, bringing a hand up to brush your hair behind your ear.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, careful not to startle you. You start to stir, shifting with a soft whine of protest which has Max chuckling softly.

“Welcome home,” your say with a sleepy smile as you bring a hand up to rub your eyes, “I thought you were only going to be back tomorrow.”

“Wasn’t much in Spa,” he shrugs, not bothering to explain the fact that he had in fact, been a whirlwind since he had left you, bothering on a menace for the entire week he had been away, pushing everyone harder than he had in a while simply to keep up with the pace he set for the entire week, prompting even GP to question if this was him making a Mad Max come back.

“Congratulations on the win,” you push yourself up into a seated position, moving to a side and patting the space beside you for Max to settle into. He does, and you let yourself shift closer, mind still foggy with sleep. Max opens an arm, bracketing the back of the sofa, allowing you to curl your body towards his, allowing your head to drop towards his shoulder as your eyelids flutter close again, “you had everyone online questioning if this marks the return of your Mad Max era.”

Max hears the amusement that tints your voice even as you stifle a yawn. Your body is warm against his, the weight of your head against his shoulder, dropping towards his chest a welcome anchor. Max inhales, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time in a week.

“GP asked me that, as well” he admits. Max pauses, before his mouth moves again, words coming out of his mouth faster than they can spin through his mind, “but I just wanted to get home to you.”

“To me?” His words have you cracking open your eyes, pupils clearer, more awake than they were a moment again. Max sees you bite down on your bottom lip as you shift slightly, letting your head tilt up to look towards him. You both stare at each other, and Max searches your face. He’s looked at you thousands of times, memorised every mark you have on your skin - whether a mole or a freckle, but for the first time, Max feels as if he is watching you in daylight because he sees the same expression he has on his face in yours, the same swirling of a storm behind your eyes - fear, hope, anxiousness, longing, the same tell tale sign of someone who has wanted more for a long time. Max watches as your eyes search his, and it emboldens him.

“I keep thinking of Saturday,” the admission comes, raw and honest. Max sees the shift in your expression, micro - with your eyes widening just slightly, but it tells him everything he needs to know.

“What about Saturday?” You are asking him, but you both know the answer to his question.

“I keep thinking,” Max pauses, eyes darting across your features again, “about how I wish I could have kept kissing you.”

Max watches as your lips part, and your eyes widen even more. He sees a light behind your eyes grow, and he keeps talking.

“About how I’ve wanted to kiss you for so fucking long but let every opportunity slip. About how I should have told you not to go on the date after I kissed you. About how I wish you were there in the garage for every single race because you are the only person I care about seeking out after I get out of the car. About how I’ve seen you get your heart broken more times than it should have, and thought to myself that you should have been with me. About the time we were 6 and I promised I would marry you. About the time I broke up with my last girlfriend and walked into a jewellery store on the same day and picked up an engagement ring which I’ve had hidden in my bottom drawer for the last one and half years without wanting to admit to myself that the only person I saw when buying that ring was you.”

You’re now gaping, full on, lips parted, eyes blown wide with the tirade of information which Max had just let out.

“Talk to me,” Max starts again slow, voice almost pleading. You don’t say anything, not yet, but your brain is running at a thousand miles per hour trying to process everything.

“Fuck,” the next word comes again from Max as he moves his arm, leaning forward elbows on his knees. He drags a hand down his face before covering his face with both his hands, “I fucked up didn’t I? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Your body mourns the loss of warmth as he shifts away, and you pull yourself from your shock. You don’t touch him, but you start talking.

“I went on the date today,” you see Max’s shoulders tense visibly, the rounded edges of his shoulder going rigid and square, “he was nice, the date was perfect, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was wrong - because it wasn’t a drive out of town to a sea-side restaurant, it wasn’t comfortable silences and effortless conversations, it wasn’t stopping for ice cream and watching as you struggled you eat the ice cream faster than it melted. It wasn’t right because I kept thinking about you.”

Max drops his hands from his face slowly, as he turns, full body moving, to look at you.

“I think I love you,” you blurt out the sudden confession, and you can feel the heat of a blush prickling against your face immediately, warming cheeks, creating a tingling sensation on the tips of your ears and running down the sides of your neck.

“You love me,” Max echos as he stares at you and you feel yourself cringe internally as he parrots your own words back to you.

“Max I-,” your doubt kicks in as you fumble over your own words.

He doesn’t give you a chance to continue, but he moves like lightning. His lips are against yours, arms winding around you, pulling you onto his lap. Max manoeuvres you with a shocking ease so that each of your knees are bracketing his thighs. You’re kissing, his mouth sliding over yours, your lips meeting his with equal feverance, like you have both waited for this forever. It is desperate, messy, heated - but perfect.

“You love me,” he mumbles again, and this time you can feel his words against your lips. He pulls away, only to rest his forehead against yours, hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie, but still only gripping either side of your hips over the material of your tights. Max holds you as if afraid that if he didn’t, you would slip away. You see blue irises sparkling, brighter than you’ve ever seen them after a race or championship win.

“You bought a ring?” You ask, unable to help the smile that creeps onto your face. Your palms are light, pressed flat against his chest. The confession doesn’t scare you, not when it is you and Max, not when it is this. Not when he has been telling you since you were both 6 what exactly he wanted to do.

“I did,” he doesn’t even attempt to deny it.

“You’re insane,” you breathe out, but you statement is without malice, as Max leans forward to capture your lips with his again. It feels so natural to him, for you both to be here with everything different and yet it being all the same.

“I’m insane but I love you,” Max mumbles once again, against your lips. His confession slips out as easily as yours. You pull back slightly, causing Max to frown at the loss of your lips against his. He squeezes your hips lightly in protest.

“Were you just going to hide it in your drawer forever?” Your curiosity gets the better of you.

“Until you were ready, yes,” the response answers your current question, “and until you are ready, because I am going to marry you.”

He repeats his promise of 22 years ago again, with a smile on his face that manages to straddle mischief and a genuine happiness, and which causes his cheeks to dimple.

You run your hand up his chest, along his shoulder, along the side of his neck letting your fingers hang loosely from the base of his neck.

“You’ve always been presumptuous.”

“Or I’ve just know all along that you’re mine.”

“Am I?” You only mean to tease with the question but it elicits a growl from the back of Max’s throat. He drags you closer to him, pulling you further along his lap, closing the mere inches of space you have left between you.

“Yes,” his voice is low, tone featuring a possessive edge, “you’re mine.”

You don’t reply, because you don’t need to - you know, Max knows, and some part of you has known all along that you are his, have always been his. You opt for tilting your head down to meet Max’s lips again snd you feel his smile against your own.

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

Hi! I love your writing style and I had this in the back of my mind for a bit and I’m hoping you would put this into words if it inspires you but imagine Lando and Daniel wanting to prank Max before a big conference by slipping a little blue pill in his redbull but max has a fall that morning and scrapes his palms, and all of it culminates into him hiding in the locker changing rooms, taunted by his friends, unable to take care of himself because of the injuries and the reader as his PR manager finds him like 20 minutes before the conference and tries to convince him to let her help him out as “professionally” as possible (like a handjob maybe?) and maybe max wants to return the favour at some point?

Blue Pills - Max Verstappen

<word count - 3137>

warnings: badly written smut, technically a drink spiking, not proof read

"Max is too calm, we have to do something big this time." Daniel said, thinking over his time in Red Bull with the Dutchman. It was no secret that Daniel and Lando got up to all sorts of trouble together, and now Max Verstappen was their next victim.

So far, they had kept their pranks relatively harmless. They had stolen Charles' phone and texted Carlos some rather... risque messages, they had replaced Nicholas' Nutella with marmite, and they had stolen Kimi's drink. He wasn't very bothered.

Most of them were funny. Well, Charles didn't find it overly funny but Carlos did, so that was at least half of their goal accomplished. For Max, they needed something that was more than just a bit of a laugh. They needed something that people would remember. 

"We could try and stick something on his back?" Lando suggested, and Daniel shook his head immediately. 

"No. We need something that will actually rattle him. It's hard to get to Max." he said, wracking his brains for something. If only there was a way to- oh, oh. Now that would be good. "I've got it," Daniel beamed, the plan formulating perfectly in his head. 

"We've got to be sneaky about it, but we can definitely pull it off. I need you to be a distraction for me, OK? Then we just let the magic happen," Daniel said, and Lando was curious to know what the Australian had up his sleeve, but he was sure that he'd find out sooner rather than later. 

"OK, sure." Lando nodded, already liking where this was going. The papaya pair planned how they were going to execute their devious plan, trying to keep their voices down so that no one would hear them. 

Meanwhile, Max was in medical. On track, he was careful and clinical beyond belief. He didn't make many mistakes. But when his two feet were firmly, or not so, planted on the ground, he was one of the clumsiest men you could find. 

He was literally just walking through the paddock, when he tripped over his own feet and fell to the tarmac. He held his hands out to break the fall, ending up with his palms getting grazed to hell on the rough surface. Thankfully, there was no one around to witness it apart from you, but he could live with that. 

Being Max's PR manager meant that you spent a lot of time with him weekend in and weekend out, so you had become accustomed to his spells of ditsiness. He should have been glad you were there, since he wouldn't have gone to medical if you hadn't forced him to. 

All they did was clean them and wrap them, but he looked like a boxer walking around with his hands wrapped. At least he could hold things and at least he could still race. He just had to look at the positives.

To add insult to injury, Max had a press conference to go to. But first, you dropped him off to the hospitality centre for him to take a second and relax before he had to go into the worst part of his weekend. Of course, he wouldn't be Max if he didn't have his trusty Red Bull in hand, so you picked an ice cold one up for him on your way. 

"You better be here when I go in or else I'm not going." he said, and you knew he was deadly serious. Max didn't give a shit, if he didn't want to go, then he wouldn't. The only reason that he ever went to any of his menial media obligations was for you. 

Your entire job was making sure he said the right thing and was where he was meant to be on time. He felt bad for giving you the amount of hassle that he did, but every driver did it to their PR manager. He knew how hard you worked, so he wasn't going to ruin it by being too much of a handful for you. 

You left him there while you went to run some quick errands, watching as Daniel and Lando approached him. Once you were gone, they waited for him to put his drink down before springing into action. "Hey Max, did I show you that video I got in Thailand? Of the waterfall in the sunset?" Lando asked, ready for everything to fall into place. 

"No, you didn't. Show me." Max said. He was intrigued.

"My phone's on charge. C'mon, I need a walk." Lando said.

"Sure," the Dutchman nodded. He had taken the bait. Lando and Max walked out of sight and left Daniel to carry out his master plan. Looking around to make sure that no one had their eyes on him, he produced two little blue pills from his pocket. 

They were embarrassing to buy, and he had to send some poor intern to get them so that he wouldn't be recognised. The last thing that he needed was people thinking that he needed viagra to get it up, because he most certainly didn't. 

Daniel wasn't actually sure how many he needed, as the pack stated various amounts for various levels of arousal. So, he opted for the one that he thought meant 'hard enough to be visible, but not so hard that it's impossible to get rid of'. 

He popped them through the top of the Red Bull can, watching the blue dissolve into the energy drink through the hole with a fizz. Just as the tablets had melted down, he heard Max and Lando's voices behind him. This was going to be amazing.

Max sat back down in his seat, holding Lando's phone in his hand as he scrolled through the videos from his trip to Thailand. With the other, he reached out and took a few sips of the Red Bull. Daniel and Lando glanced at each other, trying not to give away the fact that they were up to something. It tasted slightly off, but he didn't think much of it. 

You had gotten a fresh one from the fridge; he had seen you do it. It was probably just the heat making it taste a little weird. 

All of the drivers had been pretty on edge around them, not wanting to fall prey to their predatory pranks. Max didn't seem overly phased, though. Then again, he was used to it from having Daniel as a teammate and Lando as a long time friend. 

After talking for long enough, Max had finished the Red Bull. Daniel was stressing slightly. He was trying not to be too obvious as he looked at Max's crotch, looking for any sort of sign that the pills were actually working. 

Max, on the other hand, was trying to ignore the odd feeling of arousal that he was currently experiencing. For some reason, he was suddenly horny. Glancing down, he saw the slight bulge that was already forming in his jeans .

There wasn't even anything around him that he would find even remotely arousing, and now he was getting a full on hard on out of nowhere? Daniel and Lando both noticed the flush in his cheeks as he fidgeted in his seat, knowing that their plan had worked. 

"Just going to the toilet," Max choked out, wanting to get out of there before the extent of his problem could be realised. He was gone before the McLaren boys could make a comment, and they were going to let him sweat for a few minutes. 

"Did you see his face? Priceless," Daniel laughed.

"That is a genius idea, I like it." Lando giggled back, standing and going to follow Max to the changing rooms. He wanted to see this for himself. 

Daniel followed, both of them walking in to find Max pacing the locker rooms with a massive tent in his jeans. "Damn, Max. Didn't know you enjoyed media day that much." Lando laughed, and Max instantly knew. He had fallen victim to the infamous papaya pranksters.

"What did you do?" he asked, unable to hide the bite in his tone. He was all for harmless pranks, but this was downright humiliating. If people found out that he had gotten an erection in the middle of the paddock, he'd never live it down. Max Verstappen, 4 time world champ and the guy who gets bricked up when he has to do an interview. 

"We didn't do anything-" Daniel started with a smirk before Max cut him off. 

"What the fuck did you two idiots do?!" Max shouted, not caring who heard. 

"We just gave you one or two of those blue things..." Lando trailed off, suddenly thinking that this joke had gone a little too far. 

"Viagra? You gave me fucking viagra?! I've got a press conference!" Max raged, now realising that is all made sense. The sudden arousal, Daniel and Lando being a bit weird all day, the strange taste of his drink. They had spiked him, and now he was hard as a rock and had no way to deal with it. There was half an hour before the press conference, and he knew that this stuff lasted a while if the problem wasn't taken care of. 

That was when another issue cropped up: he couldn't take care of it. His hands were bandaged up and, even in his state, that would not feel good at all. There was no way that he could hide it, either. He was screwed. 

"Only two." Daniel clarified, as if that would make the situation better. Looking between Max, Lando, and Max's dick, Daniel quickly sussed out that this may not have been his brightest idea to date. They'd stick to prank texts next time. Well, if there was a next time if Max didn't murder both of them right then and there. 

"Fuck off, both of you. I'm not dealing with you and this at the same time," he warned, and they took the hint and walked out with their tails between their legs. The pair stayed silent as they left, and they spotted you stood in hospitality. You were looking for Max. 

"Have you two seen Max? He hasn't run off, has he?" you joked, but the looks on their faces told you that now certainly wasn't the time for joking.

"He's in the locker rooms. He's got a small... issue." Lando said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. You didn't know what they meant, so you took it upon yourself to go to the changing rooms. 

"Max? It's me. We've got to go." you called, opening the door and stepping through. 

"No, wait out there-" he started, but you were already in the room. Max was sat there, his jeans on the bench next to him while his lower half was only covered by his boxers. That was when you saw it. Max Verstappen. The man you spent every weekend with. The man that you worked closely with was sat in the locker rooms with a painfully hard dick. 

"What the hell happened to you?" you asked, trying to keep your eyes on his face rather than the obvious elephant in the room. 

"Those fuckers slipped me some viagra..." he mumbled, glad to admit that he wasn't just really horny but also embarrassed that he fell for it. 

You looked at him with sympathy, feeling bad that he was a prank victim. But, you were also thinking practically. There was no way that he could get out of this, but you wouldn't want to go out there and do a conference if you were like this either. 

"Can't you... sort it out?" you said, not wanting to be too crude. 

"Not with these," he scoffed, holding up his bandaged hands. Even if he took them off, it would still be really painful and wouldn't have the desired effect. It would probably just wind him up more.

That was when Max got an idea. It was a horrendous idea that could ruin your entire relationship, but it was an idea nonetheless. He hated the fact that he had even thought of this, let alone that he was actually going to ask it out loud. "Can you?" he asked. 

"Can I what?" you replied. Deep down, you knew what he was asking, but you didn't want to accept it. Even before he asked, you were contemplating your response. Something in your brain told you to do it. This was for both of your careers, so surely it would be worth it? At the end of the day, it was only Max.

The two of you were close, so what was getting him off going to do to your rapport with each other? Right, stupid question. That was going to do a lot to your relationship. It would make it so awkward, knowing that you had been intimate like that.

What excuse would you give for Max not being at the conference if you just left him to let the viagra wear off? He felt sick? His hands hurt too much? No, there wasn't time to formulate a story. "Can you sort this out? Just a handjob will do... like... just to get it over with..." he rambled, hating the words as they left his mouth.

"We never speak of this again, agreed?" you said, tentatively sitting next to him on the bench.

"Never again." he nodded, not fully believing that you were actually following through with this. "You don't even have to look," he gently said, taking the first step and pulling his erection out of his boxers.

Your eyes widened as you saw it. He was bigger than you expected, but you thought that it was probably the viagra helping him out. Precum was already beading at the tip, and you felt quite bad for him. 

"Ok... here goes..." you mumbled, spitting in your hand to create some lubrication. If he was being honest, Max thought it was one of the hottest things that he had ever seen. It was the first lick of genuine arousal that he had had all day, and he wasn't complaining.

You were unsure of whether you should look or if you could cancel out the awkwardness by looking away. But you found yourself looking as you gently took ahold of his hardened length. Max shuddered at the contact, and both of you knew that this wasn't going to take long. It was better that way. 

You rubbed your thumb over his tip, smearing precum over it while Max had to bite back a moan. If people heard from outside, they would be straight in and the two of you would never live that down. 

You started off slow, your hand moving up and down his shaft. You were trying to remove yourself from the situation, but you couldn't help but look at his face as his head was tipped back against the wall with his eyes screwed shut and his bottom lip firmly caught between his teeth. 

He looked damn handsome like this. Max's face was flushed with desire and his hair was perfectly ruffled from running his hands through it a few too many times. He was trying to keep quiet, but the whines he was letting out made heat pool between your legs. 

Picking up the pace, you pumped his dick faster, wanting to find the sweet spot of how fast he wanted you to go. "Fuck... just like that..." he mumbled, his breath stuttering as he let the pleasure consume him. He had to stop himself from bucking his hips up into the contact, revelling in the fact that he was finally relieving some of the pressure. 

As much as you hated to admit it to yourself, you were thoroughly enjoying this. There was a strange part of you that wanted to find out exactly what he liked and how he wanted you to do things. You got a better reaction out of him when you squeezed a bit harder. Just like his racing, Max didn't like things doing by halves. 

The natural reaction was for you to be just as turned on as he was. You had to remind yourself that this wasn't about pleasure, it was simply business. You were fixing the issue that had been caused by Daniel and Lando - even if the issue was jerking off a world champion driver. 

"I... I'm going to..." he trailed off, and you knew precisely what he meant. You sped up for one final time to get him there, Max's hand reaching out and gripping your thigh as if he were grounding himself as he came, spilling out onto your hand. 

You kept your movements up as he rode through the high, before he relaxed back against the wall and you stopped. Letting go, you just sat there and looked at each other. "Thank you..." he softly smiled, glad that you had saved him from definite embarrassment.

"That was... well I'm not going to lie to you and say that you weren't amazing," he chuckled and squeezed your thigh. He noticed how you were clenching your thighs together as if you were also craving some sort of friction. 

Before he could comment, you stood and went to get tissues. You passed him a few, and you went to the sink to wash your hands. You were washing your hands of Max's cum, which was something that you never thought you'd ever do. 

"Ha, thanks." you quietly laughed as you dried them off. Max was cleaning himself up, glad that Daniel and Lando hadn't given him any more pills than they had. One hand job was enough. "Come on, we've got to go."  you said, trying to distract from what the two of you had just done. 

"You'll have to let me return the favour one day, yeah?" he said, and he was being sincere. Max was all for fairness, and he wasn't just going to let this happen without you getting your fair share. He saw how much you wanted it, and he could see the faint hints of arousal still lingering in your eyes. 

"We're never discussing this again," you rushed, walking out of the locker room swiftly in front of him. He knew you wanted it just like he did, and he could feel himself stirring naturally this time. Now wasn't the time, though. 

As the two of you walked through hospitality and towards where the conference was taking place, Daniel and Lando watched on from afar. Max didn't have an erection anymore, and you looked flustered. Their minds were running at a thousand miles a minute, and it was like both of them connected the dots at the same time.

If looks could kill, the two of them would be dead as Max glared at them. They'd have to let sleeping dogs lie. For now. 

A/N - I loved writing this I can't even lie to you, this is one of my favourite requests that I have ever gotten! The smut is awful, I know it is 😂 Leave anymore requests in my inbox!

|masterlist|

[ccupcakqs]

— control and collision ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: makeout, suggestive tension, post-race anger pairing: max verstappen x female reader a/n: erm, what did i write

the door slams so hard it rattles the wall.

you barely have time to look up before max is in front of you — jaw tight, eyes burning, fire still crackling off him like he carried it straight from the track. his suit is half unzipped, arms flushed from the heat, sweat at his temple. he looks like a storm. like something just waiting to split open.

“max—”

“don’t,” he snaps, too sharp, pacing like a fuse already lit. “don’t say it was unlucky. don’t say i did everything i could. i don’t want that right now.”

you close your mouth. watch him pace once more. he runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back, restless, furious with nothing to take it out on. you know this version of him. after a DNF, after the crash — when the car fails or the strategy backfires or someone else’s mistake costs him the race. he’s not mad at you. but he’s boiling, and you’re the only one here he doesn’t have to perform for.

you step closer.

he doesn’t move away.

“then what do you want?” you ask.

his head turns toward you. his gaze lands hard. it slides over your face, your throat, your mouth. something shifts in his expression. still frustrated — but now it’s heat too. heavy. hungry.

“this,” he says.

and then he’s on you.

he kisses you like it’s punishment. like you’re the one who made him crash and he can’t figure out whether to hate you or need you more. his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and pressure, and you meet it head-on, matching him breath for breath. he’s hot under your hands, skin burning through the collar of his race suit, and you grip the front of it just to stay grounded.

his hands are everywhere — your waist, your back, your jaw. he tilts your head with too much force, then softens just slightly, like he remembers you’re not part of the wreckage. but you feel like it — like you’re getting caught up in the same wildfire that’s eating him alive from the inside out.

“you don’t know—” he mutters against your mouth, breaking the kiss for only a second to breathe. “how fucking hard it is to let it go. to get out of that car and pretend it didn’t matter.”

you pull him back in. his hands slide up your spine and bunch the fabric of your shirt.

“then don’t,” you whisper. “don’t let it go.”

something in him snaps. his mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, and your back hits the nearest wall — hard enough that it knocks the breath from you. he doesn’t stop kissing you. his thigh slides between yours, his chest pressing into yours until it feels like there’s nowhere left to go but closer.

you gasp when his teeth graze your lip. he licks into your mouth like he’s tasting adrenaline, like the high of the race is still in him and he needs to burn it off with you.

your fingers slide under the edge of his race suit. his skin is damp and warm. he shivers.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you always—”

he breaks off. kisses you again. slower this time, deeper, like it’s sinking into something less explosive and more inevitable. his hands slide down your hips. linger.

“you always bring me back down.”

your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair there.

“then let me.”

he looks at you, really looks. his chest rises and falls fast. his lips are kiss-bruised and parted. there’s still fire in his eyes, but it’s quieter now — coals instead of flames. no less hot.

he kisses you one more time, softer. but it’s a promise. not a pause.

his hands are already sliding under your shirt, rough palms dragging over the small of your back. the wall at your spine is cold but his body is anything but — pressed tight to yours, breath hot against your neck as he mouths down the side of it like he’s trying to devour the anger still coiled in his chest.

you feel him inhale like he’s still trying to calm down.

but he doesn’t pull away.

“you feel that?” max mutters against your throat, voice low, frayed. “how fast my heart’s going?”

you nod, already breathless. “yeah.”

he kisses just under your jaw, hands gripping your waist like it’s the only anchor he’s got left.

“not from the crash,” he adds. “it’s you.”

your breath catches. he pulls back only long enough to look you over — like he wants to memorize the way you look right now, pinned between him and the wall, lips swollen, pulse skipping under your skin. his thumb drags across your cheek, then down to trace the edge of your mouth.

“you’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

you smirk. “so are you.”

his mouth finds yours again, hotter now, more desperate. your fingers dig into his sides, clinging, grounding — trying to keep pace with the heat building fast between you. max shifts his hips into yours, and you gasp into the kiss, feeling the sharp inhale he takes at your reaction.

he pulls back just an inch. “do that again,” he whispers.

“do what?” your voice is barely there.

“that sound.” his hand skims under your shirt, up your ribs, palm flattening just below your chest. “the one you make when i touch you like this.”

you do — unprompted — when he touches you again, firmer this time. he kisses you immediately after like a reward. you arch into him, chasing more, and he groans into your mouth like he’s the one unraveling now.

the makeout turns messy again. fast. his hands everywhere. your hips moving. the sound of his breath and your gasp and the sharp thud of your shoulder hitting the wall when he deepens the kiss again. it’s chaotic. desperate. but it’s all max — that same stubborn control threaded through every movement, every grip, every kiss like he’s pouring all the energy he didn’t get to use on track into you instead.

he breaks the kiss again — barely.

“tell me to stop,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked. “if it’s too much.”

you don’t say anything.

you just pull him back in.

he groans. his hips press forward, hands bracing the wall on either side of your head like he needs to cage you in just to keep himself from losing control completely.

“fuck,” he mutters, like a prayer and a curse all in one. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“good,” you whisper back. “you started it.”

his mouth finds yours again, and he kisses you like he needs to get every last trace of the crash out of his system. like you’re the only thing fast enough to catch him.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[nanaslutt]

ik i just run a tumblr smut page BUT!!!

FUCK ICE, free palestine, free congo, FUCK trump, FUCK musk, no one is illegal on stolen land, and if u disagree, FUCK YOU TOO!!!

i’ve said this before but if u support that fuckass orange in office, idc if ur a silent follower or ur like is ur only form of interacting with me, just know, i don’t want it!!! and u are a terrible person!!! 😛

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

Hiiii I recently found your account and love your writing.

Would you be able to write something angsty for Levi where the reader gets seriously injured while out on a mission? I’d like it to be really angsty but whatever you want to do I’m good with!

Hi lovely anon, thank you so much for your kind words and this request!! I've dabbled in angst here and there, but this is definitely the darkest I've gone. I was surprised to find I really enjoyed writing it! Maybe there's more angst in my future hm...

Anyways THANK YOU again for sending this, I love hearing from readers and love requests! I'm sorry that it took me so long to get back to you, I hope you still see this and that you enjoy it if you do!

don't fall away from me: Levi x Scout!Reader angst

[tw: hurt/no comfort, heavy angst as requested!, injury/gore, spoilers for No Regrets, mentioned (not actual) vomiting // wc: 2k // ao3 // set before the fall of Shiganshina]

It wasn't often that you and Levi were separated for missions these days. A combination of luck and called-in favors from the Captain meant that most days and nights you were by each other's side, sometimes worse for wear, but together, at least.

But luck didn't last forever, and Levi wasn't all-powerful. You had been sent on a long-term mission beyond the walls, leading a troop of Scouts to establish an outpost farther than the Regiment had ever been able to put down roots. It was risky, but if successful, would pay off immediately, filling in new corners of the Eldian map. Levi stayed behind, part of Erwin's private detail as the Commander lobbied for more funding.

Levi hated it. Hated the pompous bastards he had to deal with, the tasteless displays of wealth in the inner walls, and worst of all, that it kept him from you. But you had reassured him as you always did, strong arms around his neck and soft lips against his. "I'll be home soon, Levi. Wait for me." He saw your squad off, raised his hand in a stern wave, watching until you and your horse disappeared over the horizon.

It wouldn't last forever, he reminded himself. You were tough. So was he- a few weeks away was nothing in the grand scheme of things. And he'd seen you take down enough titans to know that they should be afraid of you. The memory made his chest swell with a quiet pride. You were a damn good soldier, and you were his. He'd make sure to remind you of both when you came home.

That was the hope that kept Levi patient as he waited out the weeks. Once the political posturing was over, he took his stress out on the spiders that had taken up residence in the rafters of the scouts' barracks. Hange was heard laughing quietly to Moblit that HQ was always cleanest when you were away. Luckily for them, Levi didn't overhear, too busy chasing his worry away with a dustrag.

The morning of your squad's return dawned clear, the sun cresting the Walls like it anticipated your arrival as much as Levi did. The Captain had been up before then- fussing over his hair and straightening his cravat needlessly, wanting to appear cool and calm when he rode out to meet you. You were sure to tease him otherwise. It had become something of a game to see who could spot the other first at your homecomings, waiting just inside the gate or, if impatience got the best of you, riding out to meet the other on some pretense.

He sipped from the teacup between his fingers, hiding a smile as he thought about the look on your face. Your eyes always lit up, your grim on-duty expression melting into relief, excitement- love, when you saw him again. He was almost sure it was love. Little as he knew about the subject, anyway. Hoped it was, would've prayed it was if he had any faith. Because Levi loved you. He hadn't admitted it yet, but the weeks of separation had shown him just how much he had grown to rely on you, to cherish your shared moments, the light you shone in the dark corners of his life.

Maybe he didn't need to seem cool and calm, this time. He allowed himself to believe that you'd missed him as much as he missed you. That certainty carried the Captain to his horse, through the gates, out on a hard ride through the outskirts of the walled city, until he saw the blurry forms of your squad through the morning mist. His carefully fixed hair fell back into messy bangs across his forehead as he urged his horse faster, his body taut with both exertion and excitement. You were almost home.

He searched for your face in the crowd of green-cloaked soldiers to no avail. Maybe you were scouting ahead, or keeping watch from the rear. He shook off the icy tendrils of fear that crept down his neck. Surely that was all. Levi looked to the rest of your squad, but they didn't meet his eyes. Some of them limped, some held bandaged limbs, others leaned on their comrades. The tendrils turned into choking vines.

Levi reared his horse in front of the ragged procession and leveled them with a glare. "Where is she?" Silence. He gritted his teeth, his voice a sword. "I won't repeat myself."

A single Scout stepped out from the ranks. Levi recognized her as a young recruit; this would have been one of her first missions. She gestured at a covered wagon hitched to the horse behind her. "She saved us, Captain." The girl's voice wavered, then broke. "We wouldn't be here if she hadn't-"

Levi didn't know if she finished her sentence. He was already off his horse and shoving past her, his mind a wall of white noise. Somehow he was standing beside the wagon, ripping the cover back with shaking hands-

In the days and weeks that followed, every Scout from that ill-fated mission would swear on their lives that the Captain maintained his composure in that moment. Whether in solidarity or out of the fear that came from watching the collapse of something unbreakable. Every last person there that day would deny that they ever heard Levi sob.

The sound tore from him helplessly, choked horror in the back of his throat. Your bloodless lips were parted, your hair strewn across the packs of gear they’d propped you on. Your arms lay limply atop a rough blanket that hid everything below your chest. When Levi reached for your hand, pressing it to his cheek, you were cold. He whispered your name, but you didn’t stir.

With effort, Levi tore his gaze from your body and whirled on the soldier that had revealed you. “Tell me what happened.”

In fits and starts, she managed the story. It had happened so fast, she said, the night watch asleep in the newly constructed outpost, the early sunrise revealing a trio of titans surrounding the camp, all teeth and eager eyes. 15m class and hungry, scrabbling at their tents, waking up to a nightmare.

You had slept in your gear- Levi clenched his fists against a sudden surge of nausea. You always teased him about his habit, sleeping sitting up or fully clothed, ready for anything. But out there, on your own, you had done the same. Did you think of him as you fell asleep? The girl was still speaking, her gaze far away. You had sprung into action, using the titans themselves as anchors to fly at their nape out there in the vast flatness of the wild.

You dispatched two quickly- of course, Levi thought, of course she did- but the third- the girl stopped to drag the back of her hand across her mouth, swallowing a dry heave. Levi had to resist the urge to shake her, to make her keep talking- but she soon continued in a whisper.

"The last titan caught her in it's teeth. It was a blur, we didn't see, only heard a- heard a snap, and a scream... we cut it's Achilles tendons, brought it to it's knees, and she fell..." The scout trailed off, her jaw working soundlessly as she remembered. "The wound, wounds- they weren't clean, sir." Her voice was a strained apology. She wobbled, clearly spent, and Levi turned away.

He stepped back toward the wagon where you lay. Levi took a slow breath, reaching into the depths of himself to find the strength to look at what hid beneath the blanket. He peeled it back, hissing through his teeth when the fabric caught on patches of drying, tacky blood.

It took a moment for Levi to process what he was seeing. Your lower body was a torn mess of crimson, contrasting hideously against the stark white of exposed bone protruding from your mangled calf. He could see the titan's attack written on your flesh- the purpling crush of teeth along your thighs and the shredded aftermath of those jaws tearing down to your ankles. The smears of dirt and gore told him how you were dragged along, out of the titan's clenching jaw, off the battlefield.

This is a dream. A nightmare. Levi told himself, clinging to it with a childish desperation that he thought had been beaten out of him long ago. He tried to swallow but his throat had gone cotton-dry. His tongue cleaved mute to the roof of his mouth. This isn't real.

He blinked, and suddenly it was Furlan in your shredded uniform, or you in his. A dizzy panic clawed up Levi's chest. He shook his head, looked away and back- and the scene changed. The hollowed pallor of your cheeks was that of his mother's corpse, a dim memory of hell. He thought he might be sick, thought wildly that he couldn't vomit in front of the other Scouts, couldn't let them see such filthy weakness- but that was forgotten when you opened your eyes.

You stared blindly at the wide, wide sky, and Levi saw Isabel in your place. Not again. Please, not again. He watched your chest rise and fall like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth, like he was the one willing it to continue. Please.

"Le-vi...?" Your voice shocked him into sanity. He cupped your cheeks in trembling hands.

"I'm here, I'm here," he rasped. "I've got you. Stay with me."

You slowly dragged your fingers through the blood on your uniform, then held them in front of your face. You didn't seem to understand where it came from, what had happened. Levi moved into your sightline. You reached for him, but your head lolled and your arm fell back in the next instant. Levi caught your hand and lifted it the rest of the way, pressing your bloody fingers to his lips.

"I'm here," he repeated, fixated again on the defiant movement of your chest as you slipped back into unconsciousness. "I'll protect you."

The other soldiers were shuffling about, some trying to quiet their nervous horses. Levi forced himself to inject authority into his voice, to project some stability on the surface as he crumbled within, never taking his eyes from your face. "I'm riding back with you. Let's go."

Eager to go home, the camp moved quickly at his order. Someone hitched Levi's horse to the wagon were you lay, seeing that the Captain wasn't about to leave your side.

Your body seemed to shift before Levi's eyes, a mist poured into the shape of the ones he had already failed, already lost. Their corpses laid atop yours, or beside you, or sprawled at your feet until he forced them away, the sight of your breathing like a talisman. Your blood dried and flaked on his cheek, but he hardly felt the itch. His cravat lay abandoned on the filthy floor.

Every jolt of the wheels made him grit his teeth, fighting down a surge of rage at the horses, the stones that made them stumble, the ground itself for not softening for you. He wanted to carry you home himself, wanted to tear off his own legs and offer them up for you. He wanted to wake up.

He spoke to you, the words pouring out, unstoppable. Vows to protect you, spiraling into impossibility- he'd kill every last titan to make sure they never touched you again, he'd give you his blood to replace what you'd lost, he'd burn down the world to keep you warm.

Confessions that had never passed his lips before, spilling into the space between you, overflowing helplessly in a whisper you couldn't hear. "I love you. Did you know that? Could you tell?" He choked on it. "I fucking love you. I didn't want to, but I do, and I need you to come back, so I can tell you to your goddamn face."

He couldn't stop touching you, kneeling at your side, his legs long gone numb. He brushed the stringy hair from your forehead, warmed your hands in his, smoothed the blanket back over your wounds. When there was nothing left to do, he did it all over again, repeating the words until they hung in the air and piled over your body, still breathing, only just.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." Please.