Epione

| 𝗦𝗼𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗻, 19, INFJ | “ There is only one thing I could possibly come to regret, not being able to experience love like ‘PERCABETH’. “

[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

[silenterosionn]

This is like cocaine OHMAGAD

[dangermousie]

This man has just committed so much murder.

I am in love.

[jongst4r]

don't regret what you do (s. hanbin)

you just love your best friend's tattoos

pairing: bff!hanbin x fem!reader || wc: 1.9k || cw: smut! mentions of alcohol, both are tipsy (not drunk, everything is consensual), they flirt so much, kissing, making out, grinding, fingering, oral (f rec.), clit play, p in v, protected sex, marking, light biting and hair pulling, use of petnames, dirty talk, praise, a tiny bit of teasing, strong language || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: this man’s tattoos are the hottest thing ever

the room is warm. you’re sprawled across hanbin’s couch like you own it, legs thrown over the armrest, head lolling against a cushion that smells exactly like him — clean laundry, faint cedar cologne, and something warmer that’s just his. the peach soju bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty, a thin ring of liquid glowing amber under the lamp. your cheeks are flushed, your limbs loose, everything soft and hazy around the edges.

hanbin’s on the floor, back pressed to the couch, one knee drawn up. he’s in that black tank top that should be illegal in this heat, sleeves cut just enough to show the full spread of ink on his arms. the overhead light keeps sliding across the lines like it’s showing off for you. you’ve seen those tattoos a thousand times — traced them with lazy fingers during movie nights, fallen asleep with your cheek against the sun-star-moon on his collarbone — but tonight the alcohol has stripped away every polite pretense. you can’t stop staring.

“you’re doing it again,” he says, not even looking up from his phone.

“doing what?”

“staring at my arms like you want to sink your teeth in.”

you snort, nudge his shoulder with your bare foot. “maybe i do.”

he finally tips his head back, upside-down smile lazy and dangerous. “you’re so fucking obvious when you’re tipsy.”

“shut up.” you flick his forehead. “i’m appreciating art.”

he laughs low, sets his phone aside, and turns to face you properly. the movement makes the tank ride up, just enough to flash the sharp v of his hipbone disappearing into low-slung shorts. you swallow. hard.

“which one is your favorite tonight?” he asks, voice dipped in honey and teasing. he flexes his right arm slow, deliberate, letting the thin script curl around the muscle. 'don’t regret what you do'. the ink looks alive when he moves.

you push yourself up on your elbows, knees knocking together. “that one,” you say, pointing. “always that one.”

“yeah?” he lifts the arm higher, turns it so the light licks every letter. “tell me why.”

“because it’s hot,” you say, too honest, the soju burning away your filter. “and because it’s you. you really don’t regret anything. not even the stupid shit. not even—” you wave a hand between you, “this, probably.”

his eyes go half-lidded. something shifts in the air, heavy and electric.

“and the other one?” his voice is quieter now. "do you like it?"

your gaze drifts to the delicate line of sun, star, moon just under his collarbone. you’ve kissed that spot before. once. more than a year ago. cheap vodka. a dare you both pretended was funny afterward. you remember the way he’d gone perfectly still, breath caught, like the world had narrowed to your mouth on his skin.

“yeah, that one’s pretty,” you whisper. “makes me think of you when i can’t sleep. like you’re all three at once. bright and far and quiet.”

the teasing melts off his face. he looks at you like you just handed him something fragile and priceless.

“come here,” he says.

you slide off the couch without hesitation, knees hitting the carpet between his. you’re close enough now to taste the peach on his breath, to see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. your hands find his shoulders like they’ve always belonged there.

“you’re really drunk,” he murmurs, but his thumbs are already slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing the skin just above your waistband.

“tipsy,” you correct, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his. “big difference.”

“is there?”

you nod. “tipsy means i still know exactly what i want.”

his hands settle fully on your waist now, warm and sure. “and what do you want, baby?”

you don’t answer with words. you close the last inch and press your lips to the sun on his collarbone — soft, then open-mouthed when he exhales like you punched him. you drag your mouth to the star, then the moon, tasting salt and summer and him. his grip tightens, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you smile against his skin, teeth grazing the curve where neck meets shoulder. “good.”

that’s all it takes.

he surges up, hands sliding to your thighs to yank you into his lap. you go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, and the second you settle you both groan — he’s hard, thick against you, only two thin layers of cotton between you. you roll your hips once, slow, just to hear him curse.

“you’ve been thinking about this,” he says, voice wrecked. “please, tell me you have.”

“every time you wear one of those stupid tank tops,” you admit, tugging at the hem. “take it off?”

he yanks it over his head in one motion and then he’s bare-chested and the tattoos are right there. you can’t help it — you lean down and lick a long stripe up his bicep, right over the words you love. the muscle jumps under your tongue.

he shudders hard. “you don't know what you're doing to me.”

“don’t regret what you do,” you whisper against the ink, then bite down gently.

that breaks him completely.

he flips you so fast the room spins — your back hits the couch cushions, cushions that still smell like him, and then he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours. it’s not soft. it’s years of "almosts" and "maybes" and what if poured into teeth and tongue and desperate hands. you arch up, nails raking down his back, and he growls into your mouth.

“bedroom,” he mutters, but neither of you move. too far. instead he shoves your shirt up, mouth closing over your breast through the thin lace of your bra. you whine, high and needy, fingers twisting in his hair.

“hanbin—”

“i know, baby,” he says, voice shredded. “fuck, i know.”

clothes come off in frantic pieces — your shirt caught on your elbow, his shorts kicked somewhere towards the kitchen, your panties snagging on his wrist when he tugs too hard. you end up naked beneath him, legs spread wide, and he just stops. looks. eyes black.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” he says, like it hurts. then he drops between your thighs without another word.

his mouth is hot, wet, perfect. he licks into you like he’s starving, tongue curling just right, two fingers sliding in alongside and crooking immediately. you cry out, hips bucking, but he pins you down with one hand splayed over your stomach.

“stay still, baby,” he murmurs against your clit, and the vibration makes you sob.

you come the first time embarrassingly fast, thighs clamped around his head, his name cracked in half in your throat. he doesn’t stop — keeps licking softly through it until you’re twitching and begging. only then does he crawl back up, kissing you slow and filthy so you taste yourself on his tongue.

“condom,” you manage, reaching blindly toward the coffee table.

he laughs, breathless, nearly knocks over the wine bottle fumbling for his wallet. you watch him roll it on with shaking hands, and the sight of him — head tipped back, throat working, cock flushed and heavy — makes you throb all over again.

“look at you,” you whisper.

he glances down, smirks crooked. “like what you see?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

and that's what he does.

he pushes in slow, eyes locked on yours, watching every inch disappear. you’re tight, wet, still trembling from your orgasm, and he groans like it hurts. when he bottoms out you both stay still for a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

“move, please, binnie,” you beg, legs wrapping around his waist.

he moves.

hard. deep. the couch creaks beneath you, springs protesting. his hand braces beside your head so he can watch your face fall apart. you reach up, trembling fingers tracing the bicep tattoo again.

“say it,” he pants.

“don’t regret—” your voice cracks as he hits that spot inside you, “what you do—”

he snarls and fucks you harder, like the words are gasoline. the angle’s perfect, every thrust dragging over your g-spot until your eyes roll back. you come again clenching around him, sobbing his name into his shoulder, nails leaving half-moon marks on his back.

he follows seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep and spilling with your name on his tongue. you feel him pulse inside you, moaning your name.

after, you stay tangled, sweaty and sticky and perfect. he’s half-hard still, and neither of you move to separate. his face is pressed into your neck, lips brushing your skin.

“so,” he says eventually, hoarse, “still just tipsy?”

you laugh, shaky and wrecked, and bite the moon on his collarbone just because you can.

“shut up, hanbin.”

he hums, content, and rolls his hips lazily. the drag makes you both gasp.

“round two in my bed?” he asks against your skin. “bigger surface area. more room to make you scream.”

you clench around him involuntarily and he groans.

“yes,” you breathe. “god, yes.”

he pulls out slow, ties off the condom, and then scoops you up like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms around his neck. he carries you down the hallway, mouth on yours the whole way, bumping into walls because neither of you can stop kissing.

his bedroom is darker, just the city glow through half-open blinds striping the bed in silver. he drops you onto the sheets and follows immediately, crawling over you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

this time is slower.

he kisses every inch of you — collarbone, breasts, the soft skin under them, down your stomach, the crease where thigh meets hip. he spends forever between your legs again, licking you open until you’re writhing and begging, until you come on his tongue a third time with his fingers buried inside you and his name a prayer.

when he finally slides back in — after putting another condom this time — he groans like he’s coming home.

“fuck, you feel even better in this angle,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep. “i’m never letting you leave this bed.”

you laugh breathlessly, arching up to meet him. “we’ll die of dehydration.”

“worth it.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours — slow, then fast, then slow again, drawing it out until you’re both trembling. you lose track of how many times you come. at some point he flips you over, pulls your hips up, and takes you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other rubbing tight circles on your clit until you’re screaming into the pillow.

when he finally comes again, it’s with his chest pressed to your back, your name muffled against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you so tight you can barely breathe.

you collapse together, his weight a perfect blanket. he doesn’t pull out. just stays inside you, softening slowly, lips brushing lazy kisses over every tattoo you praised earlier.

“still no regrets?” you mumble into the pillow, voice shot.

he laughs, low and wrecked, and bites the shell of your ear.

“never,” he says. “told you the ink doesn’t lie.”

outside, the summer night keeps humming, warm and sticky and endless. inside, you fall asleep tangled with him, hearts racing in tandem, skin marked by his mouth and his hands and the quiet promise that tomorrow you’ll do it all again.

you don’t regret a thing.

© jongst4r, 2026

taglist: @redessertired, @pinkdazed, @strwberrylhs, @vanillakirstein, @enhypenlvrsstuff, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @unnatrual, @moonchild-31, @cortised, @wondiary

[hoonstrology]

💬 RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP .ᐟ  ✩  YJW.

bsf!jungwon × fem!reader.⠀⠀⠀ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⠀⠀⠀you're jungwon's favorite headache—a fact that he can't bring himself to admit, and you can't bring your dense self to realize.

MASTERLIST.  ┆ CONTAINS ➤ SMAU. college!au. to be loved is to be known type shi. ACTS-OF-SERVICE!WON!!!!! he's a lil dry and nonchalant but still pathetic and down BADDDD. reader's a bit oblivious and dumb. slowburn. fluff. angst. two idiots in love. profanity. miscommunication. comedy, maybe. petnames (princess, baby, etc.) ignore timestamps & typos. ✮ cameos from enhypen's ni-ki, riize's anton, &team's maki, illit, and other idols.

FROM YAN 🐰 ➤ posted part one and on a whim decided to make this into a mini-smau instead (yes, it's going to have more than 3 parts.) because i have so much love for bestfriend!jungwon. Don't Even Play, Lad.

  𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨.ᐟ  ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 ♡

𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗦  ──  ON-GOING.

𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗗 05/21/2026 ┆  𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗗 XX/XX/XXXX

PART O1  ──  dubai chewy cookies.

PART O2  ──  the cuck chair.

PART O3  ──  threat or flirtation?

PART O4  ──  he wants that cookie Bad.

PART O5   ──  #Noticing.

PART O6   ──  the 🐺 in maki.

PART O7   ──  riki death postponed ‼️

PART O8   ──  

PART O9   ──  

PART 1O   ──  

RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP TAGLIST 1  [CLOSED] ➤  @gatowon @sisakoekiee @satorus-slut @kluvswon @tessa365 @ddolleri @asaapjwons @mouldyvoldysworld @pshrosie @jakeyyyjakexoxo @loveydoveyez @boundlesselixirflux @buttersoob @jungwonsrealwife1 @i-peachesandstrawberries @thewonnie23 @iloveenhaaapaglu @irisesand @hoonstruck-7 @eliisannieee @katalior @scarredbytheworld @iilyri @herslhs @burnthewindows @xoheedeung @glizzab3ll @xoxojisu @rikidaze @cokewithcameron @justalittle-hee @won1yoiz @yangw0ni3 @xolaufeyberry @marianaconta123 @woninlove @dina-10s-blog @envil @honeymoonave777 @ilovepsh @wonsitosworld @niksri @engene12z @iiunique @jahashii @coerwz @xowonat @shaiimuraaa @rafa3835 @sojunini

RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP TAGLIST 2  [OPEN 9/50] ➤  @vampimura @erehkinnie30 @yangwonie55 @ziziwonwon @jayhoonvroom @cumtrov3rsy @deluluscenarios @svtenfate @kaiserlvr @pawsytif

© hoonstrology 2026. please don't translate, plagiarize, steal, or repost any of my works across any platform.

[lysarion]

╰ MY FIANCÉ ／ LOHEN ⟢

SYNOPSIS: after numerous failed arranged marriages set up by your parents, you thought the one with the vice-captain would follow the same pattern. you're proven wrong when he subverts what an expected greeting should be given.

𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k (pls give it a chance...) ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @millurie @axolotsofluv @tragedy-of-commons @al97649 @bisouyuo @aritsukemo -> come join the taglist here!

𖥔 WARNINGS: mentions of beer and drinking, reader is from snezhnaya and has a dendro vision, reader also has lowkey/implied mommy issues, mentions blood and a wound, arrange marriages obv, cameo for varka, ragbros, jean, lisa, and albedo; not fully proofread; expect mistakes!

♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ this one is for my fav lohen kissers ari and yuomi 🤍🤍i genuinely didn't expect for this to b this long but oh well. art credits: @.su3ka_ on x!

"you are to be wedded to the vice-captain of the fifth company."

that's how it all began — a simple dinner with your parents as they dropped the bomb of your new marriage candidate. you tried your best not to appear vexed. keyword: tried. but unlike you're ever admirable cousin, jean, your face gave away more than your words ever could.

your brow twitched, the small fork in your hand clattered to the porcelain plate. your mother threw a disapproving glare, while your father coughed into his fist. "now, [name], my dear—"

"don't "my dear" me, father." you bark out, "what happened to giving up on setting me up for another failing marriage."

"you haven't even met the vice-captain," he argued.

you rolled your eyes in bemusement, "and you have? what happened to not involving yourself with 'pitiful, mongering barbarian?""

"your marriage has been decided," he stated sternly. he set his utensils with force enough to rattle the entire table as he raised his head like he always did when someone challenged his authority as a duke. "you are to be wed to vice-captain lohen." a tired sigh escaped him, a gloved hand pinched between his brows as he heard you stand from your seat and dash out the dining room. "arranged marriages aren't all so bad, [name]!"

"not all bad, you say?!" you shouted from across the corridor. "take a look at your relationship with mother before you say that!"

your family arrived in mondstadt at dawn. the trip to dorman port was as you expected—humid, and all too bright in comparison to the snow of snezhnaya. the people smiled often, too, you noticed. well, you supposed this was the land of freedom after all. you're quite tempted to see where the winds would take you when all you've grown up with are the blizzards and snowstorms that knock at your windows like an incessant friend who can't take no for an answer.

still, despite your curiosity about what the wild berries in the bushes would taste like, you willed your feet to stay rooted at the docks. your father greeted everyone as usual; your mother hid half her face in disdain behind her fan. like you, she had a lot to say about the weather, but you doubt she'd sugarcoat any unpleasant comments she had. people have told you that you took after her the most — too straightforward, too quippy, too wild to be a duke's heir.

"and you must be the duke's heir," a voice commented. you snapped your head up to the noise and realized, in mortification, that you had to crane your neck to even meet his eyes. you grip the silk of your apparel in alarm. "i'm varka. knight of boreas, grandmaster of the knight of favonious!"

the grandmaster pressed a closed fist to his chest, a grin plastered on his face as he bowed his head. "from now on, you will be in our care. if you encounter any problems, please don't hesitate to inform me. or lohen."

lohen.

you wondered what he's like.

as varka stood back to his full height, he offered you a hand to guide you to the horse you'll be riding to the city. "the roads are treacherous here, your grace. using a carriage will only lengthen the time to get to the city." he had explained earlier when your mother had complained at the lack of proper transportation. you sighed in dismay when she threw another hissy fit, your father right behind her as he guided her onto the horse, gathering the many layers of her gown. he was probably chastising her for not heeding his warnings. you turned around and let varka lift you to the saddle (and when i say lift, i mean lift. the man even had the audacity to laugh and ask if you were eating properly.)

you tuned out the rest of mother's tantrum in favor of soaking in the sights of your new home. it was… starkly different. you could actually see the path, albeit it was… unrecognizable; wild flowers bloomed from the soil, and small critters would gather atop rock formations to tilt their heads at you. when you thought no one was looking, you gave them a small wave. a smile bloomed on your face when the small squirrel jumped in delight before scurrying away with its friend.

"you're quite the charmer, your highness." you turned to your left and watched as varka reign his horse slow it's pace and match yours. his sky-lit eyes eventually fell on the mount you had been riding, a low whistle escaping his lips. "that horse you're riding is infamous for throwing off any rider that touches his saddle."

you feel your anxiety spike, quickly looked down to your horse before you calmed down. "you should've said that earlier, grandmaster…"

he laughed, hearty and whole. like the feeling of joy existed in the air that wafted in the surroundings and encompassed the space of his lungs. "ha, ha, ha! i heard rumors about you being blessed by mother nature herself, your highness! ah, forgive me. i know i shouldn't indulge in such rumors but the moment you had stepped off that boat, i had a feeling you were special."

you blinked up at him (cursing the very obvious gap in your heights in your mind) and couldn't stop yourself from asking, "why is vice-captain lohen here?"

there's a shift in the air. subtle, almost as if it never happened to begin with. but you saw it. the way varka's eyes widened for just a fraction, how they looked at anything but you, and how he changed the subject faster than any warning of an avalanche you've heard.

the trip to the main gates was spent in silence after that. you didn't dare to ask the question again, or even bring up your fiancé's name. afraid of the suffocation the knights would have to endure as the words fell from your lips.

lohen. you trialed in your mind. it was short enough to remember, but unique in a way you've only ever heard it once. lohen. you looked up to the sky, the day had barely passed despite it feeling like you've travelled through half of teyvat already. when the sun peeked around it's shield of clouds, you wondered where your fiancé was.

mondstadt was welcoming. welcoming enough for your father — all up-tight, and no funny business — to indulge in a few rounds of beer in a quaint bar in a corner. "it's angel's share," you're mother informed, already half-way through her glass of champagne when she found you in a dark corner on the second floor. "owned by the most sought after bachelor in mondstadt — diluc ragnvindr."

"if he's so sought after, why wasn't he a candidate?" you asked, swirling the apple cider in your glass.

"naive child, i've told you numerous times already. he could have been, if you hadn't burned his letter in the fireplace like a fool."

ah, now you remembered. you were high on emotions that night and the thought of leaving home with a man you didn't know sent you into a spiralling tantrum that ended with you burning the stacks of marriage proposals on your father's desk. you distinctively remembered a burgundy envelope and an owl seal amongst them.

you took a careful peek at your mother who had dropped herself on the seat in front of you, much to your disdain. when she clicked her tongue, you took it as your cue to let your gaze fall like it always had in her presence.

"because of your foolish mistake, you're stuck with this half-witted, war-mongering vice-captain."

"'warn mongering'?" you asked.

she rolled her eyes at you, drinking the remaining champagne and slammed the delicate glass in front of you. "the boy is a monster, [name]." she said, "that lohen is unbecoming. i can't wrap my mind around how he, of all people was accepted into the knights."

the way she said lohen's name — as if the very letters seared her tongue and offended her existence — made something churn in your stomach. you didn't know him, you reminded yourself, there's no point in defending him. in fact, with varka's prior reaction to you questioning his whereabouts, you're left with little but too much all the same; lohen was someone distasteful to be around.

"are you even listening to me, [name]?!" your mother rattled, "listen to me, dear archons above what have i done to deserve such a disobedient child—"

you stood from your seat, the legs of your chair dragging across the floors before it dropped with a painfully loud thud. chatter paused, songs finished abruptly, and you simply smiled. "i'm tired, i'll be retiring for the day." you excused yourself from the others, bolting to the stairs, only to be stopped when the grandmaster weaved himself between you and the exit.

"now, your highness, you can't leave yet!" he said, one hand still holding a wooden mug of beer.

you raised a brow at him, your patience growing thin when he continues to block your path regardless of what step you took. "grandmaster," you warned. "please, step aside."

but he only shook his head, a finger scratched his chin while his eyes darted across the many faces in the bar. "y-you can't!"

"and why not?"

"because… um… you see, we were, um…"

while he was busy thinking fo an excuse, you sent out a silent prayer to the tsaritsa that barbatos doesn't smite you for landing a blow on one of his knights (though calling it a blow would be an exaggeration when the grandmaster was double, if not triple your body mass). at best, you had landed a strong enough blow to his side to tickle, tickle, him to drop his guard and wheeze out of your way.

finally! you thought. you were almost free from this stuffy, beer-stinking room!

but as you opened the door, a force from the other side pulled it forward, taking you along with it. everyone gasped, and you shut your eyes to brace for the impact, already imagining the scolding you were about to receive if even a single scratch were to grace your face. but it never came.

instead, heavy and dirtied hands caught you by the forearms as your face planted into someone's uniform stained with blood. you stayed there for a moment longer than what would be considered necessary.

"well, ain't this a lovely first meeting, your highness!"

you felt the blood drain from your face as you realized who you had just fallen into. with a heavy sigh and grumbled curses, you lift your head enough to catch a glimpse of a face that did not match the tone of his voice. his eyes were something straight out of a fairytale, but it's not what you'd describe as "princely" or even a "knight" — they had no light, like never-ending, encompassing pool of carmine that bleeds into the sky.

your mother was right, lohen was a monster.

"what? do i have something on my face?" he asked, and you're mortified to realize that you had been caught staring right into a rabbit hole of his gaze. the pads of his gloves dragged from your forearms down to cup your palms — gentle, sure. you think you can feel the callouses from how he uses his weapons, and yet… "you okay there? i'm starting to think i'm not the only delusional one here." he joked with a chuckle under his breath.

"excuse me?"

"just a joke! no need to be offended, your highness," he assured you, but it did little to quell the somersaults that your stomach continued to perform. his skin was pale, maybe as pale as the snow back at home, and there's a single guiding star beneath the right of his eye. his mouth moved, and you thought what he said was funny when the other patrons laughed. but you didn't hear it. not when your hand, the one your father swore would never know the feeling of blood, dragged a thumb over the bleeding scratch that etched his cheekbone down to the side of his chin.

"what a wound. it must be painful," you muttered before a familiar condensation of dendro energy pooled at where the blood continued to stain his cheeks. "hold still," you asked, and against everyone's expectations, lohen did as you asked. he stood still, very still. when half of the wound had closed, you began to wonder if he was even breathing.

when his cheek was fully healed, only then did you finally breathe out a sigh of relief. noticing how the room had gone quiet, you became acutely aware how little distance was left between you and the vice-captain. with reddening cheeks, you let out a cough into your first, and stepped back. the warmth of his hold left a scalding trail on your skin that raised the hairs yet left you wanting for more, all the same.

lohen stumbled back, too. a hand clumsily tugging at the collar of his uniform, before both hands dusted down his shirt, cursing when he realized blood had managed to stain the spot you had planted your face in. when your eyes met again, you noticed the obvious flustering of his cheeks. it contrasted nicely against his pale, snow-stricken complexion. and it made the blush that crept up his ears all the more obvious.

your staring context was broken when you hear a snort from behind you. your head whipped to see the culprit, only to find varka ducking his head down just as you glared at him. he waved a hand in apology, setting his cup of beer down the counter, and going past you just to stand besides lohen.

"your highness, allow me to introduce to you the vice-captain of the knight's fifth company." a heavy hand was placed on his shoulders, and your eyes met again. this time, he didn't look away, nor did you think he cared much for the obvious red on his cheeks. "lohen, this is their highness, [name]. proud heir to snezhnaya's dukedom, who also happens to be your fiancé."

lohen rolled his eyes, shrugged off varka's hand on his shoulder before reaching for something behind him. "can you tell me something i don't know, grandmaster? i do more than just fighting, you know."

"that's rather hard to believe, but sure! whatever you say!"

annoyed by his superior, lohen swiftly delivered an undamaging kick to the grandmaster's shin. the latter only laughed at his attempt, before shoving him forward, nearly sending you both toppling over if you had not caught him by the shoulders as he did with you.

"stupid grandmaster, i don't need your help," he grumbled under his breath.

you tilted your head curiously, slotting you perfectly in his visage that he stumbles over the next few words. "help with what?"

you heard the other knights holler and whistle, the grandmaster behind him laughed even harder as he passed you both, taking up his previous station by the bar and watching with amused eyes. "the same reason why he wasn't there to greet you when you arrived, your highness!" varka explained. "come on lohen, don't get all shy on us now! you we're all fire and spirit when you proposed the idea, where's that spirit gone?"

"drowned by your noise if you don't shut the hell up!" lohen shouted amidst the sea of laughter and cheering. "damned nosy assholes. who even said you were in on the plan in the first place?!"

"i'm… a little lost."

as he finally remembered who he was in proximity with, the blush on his face worsened, and the cheering grew louder. he slipped from your hold, taking a deep breath and continuing his grumbling, throwing a glare at the head that belonged to the grandmaster as he finally fixed his posture.

couhing into his fist, lohen did one final lookover his appearance — fixing the collar of his shirt, dusting down his cape, and brushing the bangs over his eyes. he took one step, then another, until he was only an arm's length away and you had to stop the squeek that nearly slipped from your throat when he took your hand in his, while the hand behind his back revealed a bouquet of local flowers in mondstadt.

"i apologize, for not greeting you first. i know it's not exactly very "knightly" of me," lohen paused, his thumb rubbing mindless circles on your knuckles as his gaze flickered from your face to the flowers in his hold. "and appearing all battered and with a wound on my face is… unbecoming. but i promise, it was for a good cause. that being this." he motioned for you to take the bouquet. when you gingerly accepted them in your hands, he straightened his back again. "welcome to mondstadt, my fiancée. i hope you'll like it here."

"'welcome to mondstadt, my fiance.' now where, pray tell, did you learn to smooth-talk like that, lohen?"

the vice-captain only rolled his eyes. he continued wiping down his spear in jean's office (why it had to be here, lohen didn't know. and fankly, he was too tired to know.). "it was a formal welcome. since all you wanted to act like a stick had stuck up your ass, i decided to be… more me."

"more you, as in revealing your year-long crush on the duke's heir?"

"when have i said that?!"

albedo and kaeya shrugged, but the all-knowing and teasing smiles on their faces had lohen's heart hammering in his chest. when lisa chuckled and closed her book, only then did he realize that he had abruptly stood from his seat, his polearm lay forgotten on the floor along with the cloth he was using to clean it.

"now, now, don't tease him you two. it must have been hard to gather all those flowers in starsnatch cliff with the activity of the abyss."

"thank you—"

"and confessing isn't exactly an easy thing to prepare for! the fact he even showed up is a miracle in and of itself."

"lisa?!"

"enough, you three."

when jean arrived, only then could lohen relax and sit back down on his seat. he picked up his polearm and glared at kaeya when the man snickered at him.

"now that we're all here, we will be discussing the appropriate accomodations to the duke and his family," jean's eyes landed on lohen first. "thankfully, master diluc had agreed to house them for a while until we finish the deal with northland bank." then, she nodded towards lisa and albedo's direction, "the duke's only request is that their highness's studies in alchemy to be continued, so i'll be trusting you both in that regard."

"thank you for trusting us, dear jean."

"yes, we'll do our utmost best."

jean smiled, shoulders finally relaxing, "that leaves kaeya and me with managing their transportation when the duke and duchess return. now lohen," the vice-captain stiffened. a shiver ran down his spine when he met jean's eyes and watched in horror as even her lips tugged into a teasing smile. "it'll be your job to assist them in any and every field. you are their hand-picked knight, ensure that they remain safe until the weeding."

"it offends me that you think i can't even do something as simple as that," lohen complained.

"ah, ah. i'm not finished.

"huh?"

jean smiled, in fact, everyone in the room smiled. and lohen felt cold, ice water was dumped over his head when the next words followed.

"as their fiancé, be sure to woo them now and then. it took a lot of effort from master diluc to get your name on their candidate's list after all."

"how the hell do you know about that?!"

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[ruruumin]

a new way out.

₊˚ෆ weapon!lohen x meister!gn!reader.

⤷ soul eater au! headcanons & drabble with lohen.

˚₊‧꒰ა dynamics & history

⤷ your first meeting with lohen was neither great or horrible. as the golden goose of the dwma and next-in-line shinigami, you anticipated being paired with your close friend, barbara. however, in a strange twist of events, the first person to approach you was none other than lohen himself. he grabbed you by the shoulders and proclaimed an undying partnership between you and him, and before you could even protest, your professor agreed (to be fair: no one else wanted to be lohen’s partner). 

⤷ while this wasn’t your plan, you decided to make the best of it. after all, your time at the dwma was going to be spent studying and following your father’s footsteps. if being the next shinigami meant turning lohen to being a death weapon, then so be it.

⤷ you were on another level compared to the other students. this he knew very well. but your strict, rulebook attitude kept him from feeling truly satisfied with your ability. at the beginning of your relationship, he did everything he could to get under your skin. whether it be random spars or burning your morning pancakes—lohen never failed to keep you on your toes.

⤷ for a little, he started to feel bored of your partnership. he worried that he might have made the wrong choice in choosing you. this only changed when the two of you went on a long expedition in the mountains. trying to track down a powerful soul, lohen ran off without a second notice. he figured that if you weren’t happy with him, he might as well finish the job himself. he was used to being alone, especially on missions. having you around only slowed him down.

⤷ that was his last thought before mindlessly falling off the cliff, having missed his shot on a large, shadow-like beast. before he could close his eyes and embrace death, you shouted out to him. he was shocked to see that you had jumped off the cliff, arm outstretched to catch him. when your hands touched, he felt a cold rush run up his spine. he instinctively transformed into his polearm form. using the sharpened edge, you slammed down on the side of the cliff, effectively slowing the two of you down to a fierce halt. 

⤷ from that day on, he realized one thing: you could be crazy sometimes. other people would have hesitated to jump after him, but you? it was a no brainer. even though you had every chance to abandon him, call him a mangy stray dog undeserving of your title, you held onto him like he was your lifeline.

⤷ with time, the two of you fell into a gentle routine. moving into a shared dorm was common amongst partners, and you quickly learned lohen’s habits. despite being an adrenaline junkie, he had enough patience to wait for the laundry to dry. your shared chore chart was an organized sheet that surprised even barbara. 

⤷ one thing you had to get used to was lohen coming into your room more often than not. instead of sleeping in his own bed, he lingers in your bedroom, excusing it as: “just watching your back.” he keeps trying to convince you that as the next shinigami, you needed someone to be on guard. so the responsibility falls on lohen (not that he minded). 

⤷ you don’t say anything when you wake up that next morning, seeing him at the foot of your bed, asleep like a kitten.

“watch out!” barbara shouts for her meister, causing her to immediately pull back the moment they saw a familiar shadow rush by. their eyes widen as they watch you jump into the heat of the battle, piercing through the ironclad horde of zombies with brute force.

you twist the polearm around your fingers, slicing through the crowd and sliding past their lifeless bodies. before a hand could reach for the fabric of your coat, you pull out a dagger—cutting through their wrist as a strangled cry rings out. 

“if i recall: you said we don’t work on our day offs,” lohen laughs, his maniacal grin reflecting off of the surface of your polearm, “and yet here we are—tracking souls.” 

a huff escapes you, “it was an emergency.”

exactly twelve minutes before your arrival, the two of you were about to grab dinner at a nearby restaurant. at first, lohen felt a little annoyed that his painfully difficult reservation would have to be cancelled. however, the moment the call ended and he saw the serious look in your eyes, he knew it was going to be an exciting fight. although his thirst for blood was satisfied, his growling stomach and desire to spend time with you was not. his eagerness to finish the fight was seen quickly in the way he pulls you around, swinging madly.

barbara described the situation as out of control and endless. zombies were rushing through like a flood, and while you were doing your best to contain most of it from slipping—you knew there had to be a better way. 

“in the back!” lohen barks, “i can see the real mastermind!” 

blinking, your eyes quickly scouts the area. true to his words, in the very back of the crowd, you see a much taller figure swaying back and forth. he functions similarly to a maestro, controlling his wave of mindless puppets in your direction. 

striking the concrete ground with the bottom of your polearm, you vault upwards. lohen, ever so eager, shoots back into your open palm, allowing you to throw him with enough force to mimic lightning. the creature wails as you pierce its heart, its hands clawing at its chest as it slowly disappears into black ash, revealing a crimson soul. it emits a soft, buzzing sound.

the battle ends quickly after your arrival.

“(name)!” barbara smiles, comforted by your presence. transforming back into her human form, she and her meister run to your side.

her partner severely underestimated the amount of work and danger put into this one job. originally, they thought it would be over the moment they killed three zombies, but they kept coming, until it was too much for them to handle. when the two of them made the emergency call, they weren’t sure who would tune in first. her meister had hastily written a set of numbers that were then sent out to everyone in their class. she got lucky, as you and lohen were already in the area.

truth be told, barbara was both relieved and scared of you. even though the two of you were supposed to be partners, lohen swept up and carried you away. and while she has heard many stories of lohen, mostly about his enthusiastic and masochistic tendencies, she was surprised to find out how much in common you had with the man. she would have never thought that the golden goose of their class would house such a beastly soul. perhaps it was best that you and him were partners. she doesn’t think she could handle that type of fighting.

lohen materializes beside you, and without much hurry at all, reaches out to the crimson soul. taking it into his mouth, he swallows the entire thing whole, finishing his meal with a satisfying huff. although it might not be the same as the steak he was about to order previously, this was a lot more rewarding.

“barbara,” you say, “i’m glad the two of you are alright. we came as soon as we got your message.”

“we’re so lucky to have you here,” her partner comments, “we were investigating one of the cases in the city. never could we have imagined they had the power to reanimate corpses…” they look off to the side, seeing the abandoned bodies lying dead (for the second time) on the floor. “we thought it might have been a witch at first.”

the blond haired girl laughs, “i’m glad it wasn’t.”

before you could say anything, lohen wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. your eye twitches when you feel his gloved hand pinch at your skin. “at least everything is taken care of. considering we did some extra work on our day off, are we getting some of this commission as well?”

barbara’s meister awkwardly fidgets under his intense gaze, “yeah. of course.”

“great!” his lips curve into a wide grin, “we were getting dinner right before this call. so we will head out now.” 

barbara and her partner say nothing as lohen grabs you by the hand, dragging you away as you hurriedly tilt your head, waving them a proper goodbye as you mouth apologies to them. this act causes the girl to shake her head, lamenting about lohen’s possessiveness.

[noctisiss]

Dense

A alastor x writer!reader

Summary: Alastor is dense when it comes to flirting.

Masterlist

The fox had never once had an issue with anyone at the Hazbin Hotel.

Not with Charlie Morningstar’s relentless optimism.

Not with Vaggie’s suspicious glares.

Not even with Angel Dust’s… Angel-ness.

Everyone had been respectful. Kind. Or at the very least, tolerable.

Until now.

“Renee… are you seeing what I’m seeing?” the fox whispered, ears twitching flat against her head.

Renee didn’t even blink. “Oh, I’m seeing it.”

Both of them stood near the staircase railing, pretending very poorly to be engaged in casual conversation while very obviously staring across the lobby.

There stood Alastor—mid-tour, cane in hand, posture immaculate, smile razor-sharp.

And beside him—

A tall cat sinner with sleek black fur, dramatic lashes, and a tail swaying in what could only be described as intentional choreography.

The cat leaned in.

Too close.

Laughed at something Alastor said.

Placed a hand on his arm.

The fox’s eye twitched.

“So I’m not delulu then, right??” the fox muttered.

“Girl,” Renee snapped, flailing her hands, “we are both looking at the same shit. She is flirting.”

The fox’s tail bristled.

“Fucking knew it—”

“Who’s flirting?” Angel’s voice chimed in as he appeared beside them like a particularly nosy spider.

The fox pointed.

Angel gasped dramatically, hand to chest.

“OH she’s bold bold. Girl, she’s practically asking for it! And Smiles isn’t even noticing???”

“I KNOW!” Renee and the fox said in unison.

“How is he this dense?” the fox hissed.

Angel tilted his head thoughtfully. “Either he’s dense… or he’s enjoying the attention.”

The fox immediately shook her head. “No. No. You’d have to spell it out for him when it comes to affection or… that.” She gestured vaguely as the cat sinner’s tail deliberately brushed Alastor’s leg.

Angel cackled.

“Go get your man, toots.”

“We are not together,” the fox shot back quickly. Too quickly.

Angel and Renee exchanged a look.

“Denial,” Renee sang, “is a river in Egypt.”

The fox groaned. “I need him for something.”

“Mhm,” Angel smirked. “Sure you do.”

.

.

.

As she approached, Alastor noticed her instantly.

He always did.

His gaze shifted mid-sentence, red eyes softening in a way so subtle most would miss it.

“Mon amour!” he greeted brightly, turning toward her fully—much to the cat sinner’s visible annoyance.

He instinctively reached for her hand, fingers curling around hers without thought.

The fox felt the tension in her chest loosen slightly.

“Why have you graced me with your lovely presence today? Not that I mind, of course.”

“I need you to look over some scripts I finished,” she said smoothly. “There are a few scenes in your… field of expertise.”

His eyes lit up.

Murder scenes.

“Oh?” His smile widened, pleased. “Why of course, mon amour. I would be delighted. After I conclude this little tour.”

She nodded sweetly.

He turned to continue walking—then paused.

“Why don’t you join us?” he offered.

She raised a brow. “Why? Missing me already?”

He scoffed lightly, but the edge of his grin softened.

“Perish the thought.”

She laughed and fell into step beside him.

The cat sinner’s eye twitched.

.

.

.

The rest of the tour was… interesting.

The fox and Alastor bickered as usual.

“Your décor choices are still questionable,” he remarked lightly as they passed through the lounge.

“Oh please, your color palette is literally ‘blood and ego,’” she shot back.

The cat sinner attempted to wedge herself between them at least twice.

She laughed too loudly.

Complimented Alastor’s voice.

“Oh, I just adore a man with power,” she purred.

Alastor blinked.

“Ah. Yes. Power is quite useful.”

The fox nearly choked.

Oblivious.

Completely oblivious.

However—

Alastor did notice something.

Every time the cat spoke, the fox’s ears flattened slightly.

Her tail flicked.

Her smile tightened.

Interesting.

Subtly—very subtly—he adjusted.

He kept hold of her hand as they walked.

When gesturing to a room, he did so while still holding her fingers.

At one point, he placed his free hand at the small of her back to guide her forward.

The cat sinner’s expression darkened.

The fox blinked in surprise.

Alastor continued speaking as if nothing was different.

But his grip never loosened.

.

.

.

Later, when the tour finally ended, the cat sinner sauntered off with a final exaggerated wink.

The fox and Alastor walked toward her room.

“You have been acting quite strange this past hour,” Alastor noted casually.

She blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he mused, “you were staring at our new resident as if you were contemplating a felony.”

She stopped in the hallway.

Then burst out laughing.

“You really didn’t notice?”

He frowned slightly. “Notice what, mon amour?”

“She was flirting with you.”

He tilted his head.

“…Flirting.”

“Yes.”

He considered.

“And?”

She stared at him.

“And?? She was looking at you like she wanted to jump you.”

Silence.

“Asking for what, exactly?” he asked evenly.

She lost it.

“Sex, Alastor! She wanted to have sex with you!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

If radio static had been audible in that hallway, it would have screeched.

His eyes widened a fraction.

“Beg your fu—” he stopped himself, then continued more sharply, “Beg your pardon??”

She collapsed onto the floor laughing.

“I cannot believe you didn’t notice!”

“I most certainly would have noticed had someone propositioned me,” he snapped, flustered in a way that was almost endearing.

“She was eye-fucking you the entire tour!”

He recoiled slightly at the phrasing.

“Language.”

“Oh don’t act scandalized now!”

He adjusted his gloves stiffly.

“She touched my arm.”

“Yes.”

“She complimented my voice.”

“Yep.”

“She implied admiration for power.”

“Yes!”

He went quiet.

Then slowly, realization dawned.

“…Oh.”

The fox wheezed from the floor.

“Oh my god, you are hopeless.”

He bristled. “I am not hopeless.”

“You are so emotionally incompetent it’s almost impressive.”

His eye twitched.

“And you,” he countered smoothly, “were behaving like a territorial little creature.”

She froze mid-laugh.

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I was just annoyed.”

“Mmm.”

“I was protecting your dignity.”

“From what?”

“From her!”

He stepped closer.

“And why,” he asked softly, leaning down slightly, “would that be your responsibility?”

Her ears flattened.

She refused to look at him.

He studied her carefully.

“…Were you jealous?”

Her tail puffed instantly.

“No!”

The lie was immediate.

Obvious.

Amusing.

His smile sharpened slightly—but there was something warmer beneath it.

“….Curius" he murmured. “Because I found myself quite uninterested in her presence.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

He straightened, adjusting his coat.

“I was rather distracted.”

“By what?”

He met her eyes.

“You.”

Her brain short-circuited.

He turned smoothly toward her desk.

“Now then, these scripts.”

She scrambled to her feet, flustered.

“You’re deflecting.”

“Am I?”

“Yes!”

He chuckled lowly.

“Mon amour, if someone wishes to… ‘jump me,’ as you so elegantly phrased it, I assure you it would not be entertained.”

Her heart skipped.

“And why is that?”

He paused at her desk.

Looked at her over his shoulder.

Smile softer.

“Because I am already quite occupied.”

Her breath hitched.

“With what?”

He tapped her manuscript.

“With you.”

And for once—

She was the one left speechless.

A/n : hehe little something so u guys dont froget about me!

Taglist: @sirens-and-moonflowers @er-er-er-er @jaguarthecat @darling-eos @axoluxy

@91062854-ka @fifiyaps @porcelainfawnn @iceviolet11 @policedeer @lmg-stilinski24 @introvertreader20 @sillywormtrixareforkids @frog-fans-unite @zoleea-exultant @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @wonderlandangelsposts @lafy-taffy @dprweganggang03 @maliciousmace @she-yaa @the-astral-librarian @mindyourown77 @anonymousewrites @phoenix666stuff @jazztato @biodegradable-glitter-fest @princessvampxx @bribri27813 @ohnymhis @local-mr-frog @lostgirlinthewoodss @pandaquick

@ilovemymomscooking @mspurpl3 @caroline-the-cat @caizee

@nishayuro @actuallyshard @stxrryvennie @dennsfz @whimsiecat @ivan-bleh @stargirlnevyx @zamadness @deaths-final-dance @uvamay @proudmonsterfucker @apaintersmuse @9kaytor7 @ive-made-so-many-mistakes @shiranai-atsune @sugxryratz @call-me-nyxx @jaymiwrld @theradicalanus @asianfrustration13 @tooreal12-3 @rhiannon0-0 @fantasyhopperhea @sunset-toast @kayanig

[silenterosionn]

Oh I’ve been STARVING

[strawberryys-stuff]

TANGLED CONSTELLATIONS | OP81

summary: You were Hattie’s best friend who had been in love with her older brother since you were nine. He always treated you like a princess, which gave you hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance of him liking you back

angst, fluff, a slow burn, longing if you squint your eyes, oblivious Oscar, age gap (19/24)

disclaimer: i just want to clarify that i have nothing against Lily 🙏 this is purely fictional!

it's also super long, so go grab a snack and prepare yourselves for a bumpy ride!

(def has grammar errors but i can't bear any more editing 🥲)

| masterlist | next part

You used to believe Oscar was your prince charming, your knight in shining armour.

Not because he did anything extravagant—he never rescued you from a dragon, or declared his undying love beneath a balcony.

It was his weirdly captivating charm, his quiet, soft-spoken soul, and voice brimming with tooth-rotting sweetness whenever he spoke to you that had you melting.

But what had the most utter impact on you were his honey-brown eyes that held millions of stars you dreamed of counting up close.

It seemed as if his true purpose on Earth was to simply orbit you—the girl who lived next door.

The girl who loved the swing-set behind their house, where she had lost her last, stubborn baby tooth when she face-planted on the ground. The girl who loved to watch waves dissolve into foam at the crack of dawn.

He never asked for the title, but earned it anyway with the stupid little things he did.

How he refused to leave you out of his sight every time the two of you tagged along with his sisters and some friends to the beach at night.

How he let your body lean against his side while the others continued to tell spooky stories around the campfire, commanding coldness to ease into warmth.

How he and his family came marching down their driveway when you moved next door to introduce themselves with a container filled out by a still-warm apple pie that Oscar was certain came from a store, and not their kitchen.

Your mother greeted them with her slick, unmistakable French accent and leaned in to plant a light kiss to Oscar’s cheeks, leaving him flabbergasted on the threshold.

From that day forward, his lips always grazed the apple of your cheekbones in greeting, claiming that he didn’t want to disrespect your mother and her precious customs.

You found that admirable at first, but then it turned into a weakness.

Every year, on your birthday, he gifted you a small, harmless bouquet of your favourite flowers and pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, muttering a happy birthday into your flushed skin.

It was how he called you in the middle of a cloudy night when he found out your boyfriend broke up with you, visibly out of breath.

You asked, voice rough and laced with sleep, what had happened. Oscar just sighed in response as he raked his fingers through his windswept hair, dodging every questionable glance that was sent his way in the McLaren garage.

“Hattie told me.”

Your breath caught as you sat up straight in your bed, suddenly feeling well-rested even though you hadn’t slept properly in weeks. “How much?”

“Enough.”

Silence fell upon you two, charged with something neither of you dared to acknowledge.

“Listen,” Oscar cleared his throat, turning his back on the roar of the Formula 1 world, on the rumble of awakening engines, on his duties—putting his dream on hold—for you, his sister’s dearest friend.

“Boys should match your yearn. If they can’t, leave. Never settle for less than you truly deserve.”

That scratched an itch your hands couldn’t reach. Your fingers started trembling against the phone case Hattie had customised for you as a waterfall of sobs spilled out of your quivering mouth.

Oscar refused to speak, however, his muted rage was palpable and undeniable as it stirred around him in the garage.

His sister hadn’t told him much, just that you were dealing with a nasty heartbreak. He knew how difficult it was to nurse a broken heart back to health. Hell, he himself had to climb the looming hill of heartache countless times, to rekindle his desire to chase love.

So, he understood what you were experiencing, he was familiar with the suffocating agony.

Shouts of his name thundered in the background, but Oscar shrugged them off, assuring you that he wasn’t needed elsewhere.

He argued with engineers, whose pleas caressed your ears through the screen. His responses shifted from polite and professional to harsh and curt.

“I said I will be there in a second,” he cut off one of the distressed employees with a grunt. “I have to go. Call me if you need anything, okay, sweetheart?”

You hummed softly, taken aback by the term of endearment, tear-stained cheeks warming up in the dark. Before he hung up, you caught him muttering curses under his breath—each one aimed at your ex-boyfriend and the distance between the two of you.

It was how he willingly woke up unhealthily early to spend misty mornings by the sea with you by his side, walking barefoot along the shore.

How he never missed an opportunity to compliment your soft dresses, which were slightly worn at the edges. How he thought his faded band t-shirts clashed with your dazzling allure.

But then his career skyrocketed into oblivion.

You felt your heart sink into the sand beneath your feet when he told you that he was planning to pursue his dream abroad.

Your throat clogged at the thought of him vanishing from your daily routine. He was an essential part of your life and deep down you hoped that would anchor him in Australia.

It didn’t.

All that remained were forgotten pairs of socks in his drawer and a lingering breath of his chocolate-scented deodorant.

You sought fragments of him in everything your hands held, in every whisper your ears captured, in every place your feet took you to.

You prayed to all the Gods for peace and relief—you prayed for an ending. But every attempt fell on deaf ears. No matter how dreadful your sobs were, or how the spark in your gaze gradually dimmed in his absence, your pleas went unheard.

So, your prayers ceased. Your voice faded, but the love you had for him refused to follow suit. It kept growing in your shadow, silently gaining strength to the point where it became unbearable.

To ease the ache, you poured its heaviest parts out on paper, silenced your feelings with thick periods, hid them in a shoebox, and buried it under the bed in their guest room, knowing it wouldn’t see the light of day unless you were there to grant it.

The pastel yellow walls reeked of age and childhood. Posters of sea turtles, curling at the edges, clashed with the fading paint, yet represented your little obsession with unyielding pride.

One in particular, held in place by stubborn old tape near the window, had a single sea turtle gliding through multicoloured coral reefs. Its shell was a mosaic of earth tones, and its flippers moved with the grace of someone who had known many oceans and learned not to rush through any of them.

Leaning in one of the corners by the door was your old acoustic guitar. The strings were probably out of tune, maybe even a little rusted, but the sticker-covered body—decorated with cartoon sea animals and glittery stars—still looked exactly as it had when you last touched it.

The shelves—once packed with trinkets and seashells collected from the beach, and fairytale books with bent spines—hung bare and left space for dust to gather in thin layers. Some housed a collection of polished trophies with Oscar’s name engraved on the bases, each individual letter bathing in the morning sunlight.

The room radiated warmth and familiarity. Every summer you had spent with the Piastri family was imprisoned in that very room—the beach trips soaked in sunscreen and melted ice lollies, the seemingly never-ending road trips, the early morning surfing with Edie, the late night talks about boys and fashion with Hattie, but mostly the silly crush your nine-year-old self had developed for Oscar.

The indescribable feeling only he could awake was rooted in the floorboards, whose creaking announced your tentative steps down the stairs. Your gaze traced a line of picture frames hanging on the wall, each one reflecting a precious memory you shared with the Piastri siblings—from grinning on the beach with sand in your windblown hair to holding degrees in your hands.

But only one stirred a dull ache in your heart and sent your soul searching for a moment that could ever compare. It was slightly tilted when you reached it—you and Oscar, smiling at the edge of a go-kart track, cheeks smeared with grease and joy. It reminded you of the weekends spent in sun-scorched paddocks and long drives back home with fast food wrappers and laughter spilling from the backseat.

“G’morning.” Nicole offered you a bright smile with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. You tried to copy her enthusiasm and flashed a wobbly grin her way as you took a seat at their dinner table across from Edie, who was munching on a piece of toast.

The kitchen smelled of love and softening butter. Mismatched mugs adorned the table, half filled with herbal tea and the other reeking of caffeine. Hattie was enjoying her scrambled eggs while Mae picked on hers, mind occupied with Instagram reels.

“You look rough,” Edie commented as she chewed. “I guess jet-lag does feast on beauty sleep.”

Hattie, who was sitting on your right, pushed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of you. You snorted at the radiant glow she emitted as if she hadn’t travelled across the globe the night before.

“Aren’t you a ball of joy?” you shot back at Edie, with sarcasm dripping out of your mouth, and dug into your breakfast, half-listening to the girls as they chatted and orchestrated an activity-packed plan for the day.

First, a quick trip to the corner store—which was owned by the cheekiest man in the neighbourhood—for some sodas and candies.

Then, walk to the beach, sunbathe, savour the coolness of the sea, and play volleyball as always.

That was your annual tradition—an ineradicable habit if you will—a harmless competition between two teams (Oscar and Hattie versus you and their younger sisters).

You could picture the scene already; the seashore packed with giggling children, forgotten parasols, crumbling sandcastles, pebble structures lining the border between warm sand and boiling asphalt.

Edie and Mae were contemplating on what bikini to wear when a series of abrupt knocks cut through the mellow atmosphere that had settled inside the kitchen, flooding the room with stiff silence.

Nicole downed the rest of her morning coffee in one gulp and scuttled to the front door, sporting an endearing little grin.

The entrance squeaked as it opened, making the hairs on your arms rise and your head throb.

“Osc- oh!” Nicole’s eyes widened when they met a pair of sparkling blue gems that she certainly did not give birth to. “Lily! What a pleasant-”

“Hi, mum!” Her son urgently suppressed her greeting as he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on her temple and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, vividly on edge.

Nicole caught on to the tension radiating from her child, but tamed the hurricane of questions that threatened to spill out of her pursed mouth.

Instead, she ushered them both inside and led them to the kitchen.

Your eyes flicked up briefly when they crossed the threshold and plastered on one of the most fragile smiles Oscar had ever seen on your face, which twisted his into a frown.

You felt like a ghost, a mere blemish, as you watched the girls greet their brother with teasing banter and the gorgeous girl by his side with the kind of warmth that was once yours, just yours.

“And you must be Y/N.” She extended her hand in your direction and you took it, finding yourself captivated by her toothy smile, which seemed to be without fault, scarily so. You forced your lips to curve upward and nodded, giving her fingers a weak squeeze.

“It’s nice to meet you! Officially, I mean.” Even her laugh was polished and harmonious, making you feel strange in your own skin. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you breathed out with a shaky chuckle and glanced over at Oscar, who was observing the interaction with a taut look of discomfort on his face that made your stomach churn.

Lily gave your arm a reassuring rub, which fed you a spoonful of puke that burned your tongue. “Only the best, of course. Oscar speaks highly of you.”

That caught you off guard. You peeped over at the boy—who was determined to hold your gaze with pertinacious stability—and found yourself in a tough position, heart falling into a bottomless pit of wistful longing.

You could’ve sworn heaven itself was nestled in his attentive stare, which terrified you in the way deep, meaningful things did.

“Okay!” Mae clapped her hands, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts, while Hattie slipped her arm through yours in an attempt to ground you. “Let’s get a move on! I want to sunbathe.”

The sound of waves clashing against the shore engulfed you in nostalgia, easing the crease of nerves you had in your brow. The sun shone down on the lively beach, letting its rays caress every inch of skin it could reach.

A soft, pleased sigh rolled off your tongue the moment your toes sank into the bank of hot sand. Shrieks of laughter accompanied you as your group searched for a spot to occupy, preferably near the shoreline with an easy access to the whispering sea.

Mae was jabbering away beside you about her lectures and little-to-none time for hobbies, punctuating her rant with wild gesticulations, which sent you into a fit of genuine laughter.

“And he had the audacity to criticize my essay after his got a D! Can you believe it?”

You tugged at the towel that was draped around your shoulders, mouth breaking into a toothy grin. You leaned closer to her, voice dropping into a playful whisper. “Well, next time he sneers at your French, come get me.”

Mae was Year 7—soon to be Year 8—successfully finishing her first ever year of secondary school. You were about to be Year 12, prepared to complete your education and receive that certificate you were so thoroughly studying for.

You used to feel a twinge of envy for Hattie when she secured a state-sponsored scholarship, back in her 10th Year.

Not because you were jealous—you rarely ever were—but because it reminded you of the time when it was Oscar who moved across the globe.

Hattie caught up to you two just in time before Nicole beckoned everyone to a pretty secluded section of the beach and began laying out towels and handing out chilled bottles of water.

“Thank you.” You took the drink with a tiny smile sitting on your lips while your hand moved to push sunglasses up into your hair.

Most of the girls peeled off their looser tops along with their long skirts, eager to cool down in the ocean.

A fleeting movement caught your eye and redirected your attention to its creator, who appeared to be making themselves comfortable beside you.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Lily asked light-heartedly and stopped pulling out her belongings when she noticed the bewildered look on your face.

You blinked, swallowing the urge to flee. “No, no, of course not. Suit yourself.”

Weird. You thought as you stretched your cramping legs out in front of you on the towel, letting your muscles melt under the burning star. Lily followed suit with a romance novel resting on her thighs and hummed in contentment.

Having her so near was making you uneasy and tense, which was the exact opposite of what you came here for.

You wanted to unwind, forsake your most haunting thoughts within the waves, suck on a sugary ice lolly—hell, maybe even entertain ogling men—yeah, no, scratch that.

“I don’t mean to sound rude-” your head lolled to the side to make eye contact- “but I noticed you have an accent.”

The tips of your ears turned pink fast as you fixed your gaze on the horizon instead of her adorable curiosity, drowning in embarrassment.

You swallowed before speaking, but no spit slid down your parched throat. “Yeah, I am from France, actually.” Lily’s eyes widened, either in utter shock or disappointing realisation—you couldn’t tell. “Moved here after turning nine.”

“Oh.” Her brows fell into a soft-edged frown that, for some reason, turned your stomach inside out. But then the corners of her glossy lips curled up again, untangling the knot she had tied in your belly moments prior. “Did you like living in France?”

You pondered for a minute, digging deep into the hazy memories you had of your former home.

Did you like living in France? Yes, you did.

The spectacular views of the countryside and the cityscape were hard to forget. The range of baked goods also wasn’t something to take for granted.

But did you prefer France over Australia? No, a thousand times no.

In Australia, you didn’t need to perform to be of value. Your existence alone was priceless, worth a king's ransom—which sounded too good to be true at first—but all it took was a family of five welcoming you to the neighbourhood with a store-bought apple pie for you to start thinking otherwise.

Australia hadn’t put your dreams on hold, telling you to wait for a more appropriate space in time—if anything, it had given you the push you needed to chase after what your heart truly desired.

“France is..nice for those who crave strictly defined rules,” you chose to say as you flicked a grain of sand off your thigh, cautiously taking a trip down memory lane. “I hated the restrictions. Mum did, too. So,” you shrugged, “we moved.”

“I see.” The British girl smoothed a rebellious strand of hair above her ear, eyes dropping to the book in her lap, contemplating. She turned to look at your side-profile after her hand found a steady grip on the novel and breathed in through her nose. “Do you read?”

“Sometimes.” You nodded before lying down and pushing the sunglasses on your head back to laze on the bridge of your nose. “When I’m intrigued, nothing can stop me from pulling all-nighters.”

A light chuckle shook through Lily’s shoulders. “I can relate to that.”

The conversation had quieted down after that, giving you space to sunbathe and Lily an opportunity to lose sense of time in the story of her book.

Mae and Edie were splashing water at one another, exchanging mild threats and unrestrained giggles. Hattie had her earphones in, listening to a playlist you had made for her a while ago.

Nicole was watching her youngest children with a content smile on her face, shaking her head at their childish antics from time to time.

And Oscar? He was lying flat on his stomach somewhere above you in a sunny patch, chin propped in the palm of his left hand, gaze stuck on the crown of your head.

You had changed, both mentally and physically—he could taste the muted shift in the salty breeze that swept past. You weren’t his little sister’s best friend that he had fortuitously grown up with any more.

You had matured, and it showed in the way you spoke, as if your words were some kind of a weapon that you weren’t afraid to use—whether to defend or to harm.

“What is troubling you, dear?” Nicole tickled the sole of Oscar’s foot, earning a yelp out of her distracted son. He looked over his shoulder and met his mother’s fond gaze, brows furrowed. “You seem-” she gestured toward your resting figure or was she pointing at Lily? Oscar didn’t know- “out of it. What is it?”

Oscar glanced back at you, then at Lily, and sighed defeatedly. He had a feeling, a very nauseating one. “Just tired.”

Nicole cocked her head to the side, unashamedly letting her suspicion ooze out of her scolding look. But Oscar didn’t budge—he never did when his struggles were in play.

His mother offered him a faint, knowing smile instead. “You may be a grown man now, but you’re still my son, Oscar.” His steady breathing shuddered.

“You can come to me when you need advice.”

The Piastri household was eerily quiet, deceiving passers-by into thinking it was deserted— abandoned to rot away in deafening solitude. The full moon loomed over the slumbering property in a sky brimming with sparkling stars.

The low hum of the television was tip-toeing around the dim-lit living room, lulling some of the residents to sleep with Another Cinderella Story from 2008.

Slumped against the sofa cushions, with a fuzzy blanket draped over your lap, you were tapping in and out of consciousness, mind heavy with unspoken words and forbidden feelings.

On your right sat Hattie, with one of her hands buried in a bowl of popcorn and the other swatting Mae’s greedy fingers away. Edie had retreated upstairs to chase dreamland under her sheets a couple of hours ago.

Oscar was seated on your left, with one of his legs seeking warmth under your blanket—deliberately bumping your knee every now and then—and Lily comfortably nestled against his side, her breath coming out evenly in soft puffs.

Hattie scoffed at the TV around a mouthful of popcorn and nudged your shoulder. Startled, your body jerked forward, partially sliding down on the ground before your mind managed to fully catch up.

“Joey is like- actually blind,” your best friend pointed out, and you just hummed in blunt agreement, too exhausted to muster up something coherent. Oscar’s arm dropped from the headrest to your waist and pulled you back onto the sofa.

An amused smile tugged at his lips as you nuzzled up to him and adjusted slightly to fit under his arm. He was staring at the cosy expression that had popped up on your face when a wave of sharp perception hit him like a truck—you looked like you belonged; right there, by his side, stealing his body heat to warm yourself up.

“You are so whipped,” Hattie whispered fiercely, expression grim. “It’s painful to watch.”

Oscar’s lovesick gaze snapped to his sister and turned stone-cold, making him look abominably cruel.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed back defensively. You stirred but didn’t awake. His heart leaped into his throat.

Hattie shook her head at her brother—who looked like a deer in the headlights when you scooted closer to him—and sighed.

“You must be honest with yourself, brother,” she said in a hushed tone, eyes flicking down to your sleeping figure for a fraction of a second. Worry flashed across her stern yet sympathetic gaze. “Because one way or another, these kind of feelings always have a way of coming to the surface.”

Oscar’s brows knitted together in puzzlement. He didn’t know what his sister was implying. “And what kind of feelings are those?”

“Love, of course.”

You were on a mission—sneak downstairs, pour yourself a tall glass of water, demolish it, steal Mae’s packet of M&M’s for Hattie from one of the kitchen cupboards, and skedaddle afterwards.

You were already halfway there, fishing around for the chocolates, when the shuffle of socks on floorboards resounded through the dark room and unsettled a hellish amount of hairs on your skin, giving you goosebumps.

You froze in your spot, one knee positioned on the edge of the counter for height and vague stability. Swallowing thickly, you peeped over at the intruder, who was standing in the doorway—shirtless, with sweatpants sagging at their hips, and hair tousled from restless sleep.

“Jesus Christ, Osc,” you hissed through clenched teeth, cheeks tinting a shade darker for...various reasons. “You scared the scrap out of me.”

Smiling boyishly, he leaned on the frame with his arms crossed and his sleepy eyes focused solely on you as you began to rummage through the cupboard once more.

“What on earth are you doing? It’s three fifty in the morning, Peach.”

The hand you were supporting yourself with slipped off the counter at the mention of your old nickname and sent you tumbling down, with an alarmed yelp teasing the tip of your tongue.

Your butt landed in a makeshift seat, made out of taunt muscle and inhumanely quick reflexes, before it could collide with the floor.

There, in his arms, you felt a sharp pang of deep-rooted hurt that clawed at your burning lungs. You weren’t breathing, you realized and sucked in a wavering gust of air, trembling like a leaf in his embrace.

He looked older, but the part of him that had wounded you remained unchanged, tangled in his intimidatingly tender gaze.

You had dreamed of this moment a thousand times—in fractured ways, in hollow nights and haunted days— but none of those versions included him looking so fragile and vulnerable like he did now.

In his strident absence, you had realized that he, too, was made entirely of flaws, wore guilt like cologne—heavy, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore.

And yet, he was just a boy—a dreamer—who had no sense of reality when it came to feelings, intricate feelings.

And that was his misfortune.

The dam of unexpressed affection burst, deluging the kitchen with viciousness, as you wiggled out of his arms and scuttled across the fatally quiet room toward the stairs, leaving a tongue-tied Oscar in the rich, taunting dark—alone with his own soul-stirring thoughts.

Neither of you spoke of that night in the slow-moving days that followed, too afraid to confront the madness that had torn open a gaping rift in your friendship.

What’s worth mentioning though, is that Oscar had tried to talk to you. But whenever he drew near, you fled, seeking refuge with either Hattie or Lily. Why her of all people? He didn’t have a clue—neither of you did.

“Jam?” Lily gave the open jar of home-made strawberry marmalade a tiny nudge. You fixed your bloodshot eyes on her warm smile and shook your head, muttering a brief ‘no, thank you’ across the table. She nodded, screwed it shut, and dug into her plate along with the others.

With Hattie engaged in conversation with Nicole on your left, and Oscar engrossed in an article on your right, you were enjoying your morning cup of coffee, reeking of boredom.

“What are you reading?”

Oscar inclined his head in your direction, expression dim and strangely empty. A line appeared between his brows for a split second when he shifted in his chair and tilted his phone toward you to have a peek.

The article wasn’t particularly enthralling—something about an outrageous scandal revolving around Hamilton’s love life—nothing necessarily breathtaking, but what did take your breath away was the language it was written in.

“Since when do you speak French?” you questioned with your heart clogging your throat. The F1 driver just shrugged and scrolled further down, drumming his fingers on the dinner table.

You cocked your head to the side, shooting a perplexed look at his side-profile. But he didn’t elaborate, so you poked him in the ribs.

A hiss rolled off his tongue before he stuck it out playfully, earning an eye-roll in response. He bumped his shoulder into yours. “I’m trying to learn.” You arched a brow, finding that hard to believe. “I am!”

“He is,” Lily chimed in, backing Oscar up. She exchanged her fork for a cup of tea and took a sip. “Has been for quite a while now, too.”

“Why?”

Lily opened her mouth to answer, but Oscar beat her to it, quickly crafting a lie. “It’s an..interesting language, that’s why.”

You mirrored Lily’s profound frown and snorted, tasting deceit in the air. “Sure.”

Unbeknownst to you, a missing puzzle piece had just slid into place behind Lily’s distant stare. She stood up abruptly, excused herself and rushed out of the kitchen, purposely ignoring everyone calling after her.

Somewhere in the middle of Nicole scolding her son and the scraping of a chair, your mind went blank. Muffled arguing could be heard from upstairs, followed by a thunderous slam of the guest room door—everyone at the table grimaced.

“Okay!” Nicole clasped her hands together, diverting attention away from the scene, and flashed a tight-lipped smile at nobody in particular.

“The weather today is perfect for a barbie, isn’t it?” Edie wanted to interject but got shushed by her mother. “You three-” she gestured to her children- “are gonna hop to the store and take Lily with you. And you-” she pointed at you and your breath hitched- “are gonna help me around the kitchen. Understood?”

A chaotic jumble of yeses gushed out, accompanying the scraping of chairs and cautious whispers.

You were standing at the counter, chopping vegetables for a salad, when Oscar gathered enough courage to cross the threshold of their kitchen and faced his mother’s furious gaze with slouched shoulders.

She pinched his cheek and pointed to you with her spatula, probably assigning her son a similar task. Your shoulders tensed when his hand grazed yours on the cutting board.

“Let me.” His breath was warm and inviting. The skin along your cheekbones turned pink as you let him take the knife out of your vaguely trembling hand and inhaled audibly, attracting his hooded eyes.

His stare was chilly, tinged with bitterness. He dedicated his attention to the half-chopped vegetable beneath your palm. “I’m gonna ask you something and I want you to answer me truthfully.”

You hummed, radiating a tremendous amount of fear.

Oscar pressed the blade to the cucumber and pushed it through. “The shoebox under the bed in the guest room-” your face fell into a look of pure horror- “is it yours?”

“How did you-”

“Is it yours?” He chopped off another piece and flicked it aside, unaware of the suffering his inquiry was causing you. It felt like he was reopening a wound that had only just begun to scab.

Your mouth was sealed shut, lips stapled together, as he dragged the blade through the butt of the cucumber. You wanted to dissolve like sugar in tea. “Is it yours, Y/N? Yes or no?”

A weak yes slipped past your lips, halting Oscar’s movements. You hung your head in an attempt to hide the tide of tears that welled up in your eyes, but his finger gave your chin a light nudge.

His sombre gaze softened when he caught sight of the glistening beads and that did it—your composure cracked.

“I didn’t plan on loving you,” you blurted out through a heart-wrenching sob that turned into a mocking chuckle at the end. “But you were just- so sweet and caring, and I succumbed to it all. I promise, I didn’t plan on doing it..”

Realisation twisted Oscar’s face beyond recognition.

The confessions. The tear-stained signatures. The crossed out sentences—love didn’t write them, torment did. Your torment.

You were grieving his absence, which was progressively smothering you. The letters were just an embodiment of your coping, not a confession.

Oscar tugged you closer and wrapped his arms around your shaking shoulders, exhaling a sincere apology into the crown of your head, rocking you both back and forth.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he muttered into your hair and planted a tender kiss on your forehead, feeling you stiffen in his embrace. “I’m sorry, Peach.”

A dreary chuckle erupted in your chest.

How could he be so gentle after everything that had happened? Your secret was out in the open, nude and raw.

And Oscar still acted like you were the only star in the sky that truly mattered. He showered you with kindness and reassurance—with a golden heaviness in his face that was like watching honey drip slowly from a spoon.

“I appreciate your kindness, Oscar, really-” Puzzlement sharpened his relaxed features as you backed away from him and wiped your cheeks with the sleeves of the shabby hoodie that was once his. “But I can’t fucking stomach it right now.”

Your words pierced his deadpan expression and tore it to shreds, stripping him bare. He winced at the sourness in your voice and drew back slightly, with his brows knitting in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Sweat beaded at your throbbing temples as you breathed in sharply through your nose and jammed your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

“That’s okay.” You gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach your glistening eyes. “You aren’t meant to anyway.”

Oscar opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but before he could find his voice, Edie and Mae strolled into the kitchen with groceries, cackling with laughter and startling you both.

They dumped the contents of their shopping bags onto the kitchen island behind you, without commenting on the taut thread that bound you and their brother together.

But you felt it—their awareness of the queasy ambience that enveloped them.

The backyard buzzed with the soft hum of effortless conversation and the crackle of the grill that spiced the crispy air with the smell of buttered corn and roasted sausages.

The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting everything in a golden haze that soothed your nerves. The chirps and whirrs of insects interwove with the creaking of the swing-set that you had retreated to, attempting to dilute your overthinking.

The seat next to you groaned under the weight of another person, who settled down with a long sigh and an open can of coke in their hand.

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. You recognized him by the accelerating beat of your heart.

Oscar glanced at setting sun before he turned to face you as much as he could in the minimum amount of space he had, determined to decipher the fraught silence you two were suffocating in.

But surprisingly, it was you who dared to speak first.

“I used to believe you were my prince charming,” you confessed with a hollow chuckle and folded your arms, trying to shield yourself from the chill in the air that tickled your skin.

Oscar put the can on the ground and began to tug on the neckline of his hoodie, pulling it over his head and handing it to you.

You wanted to decline, but a biting breeze stroked your cheek in protest and urged you to take it. You caught a whiff of chocolate and something minty when you slipped into it and sighed in relief, savouring the temperature change.

“I may not be a prince,” he reached down for his drink and shifted back slightly, adjusting, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be something else to you.”

That made you laugh, as if he had just cracked the silliest joke in history.

“And what exactly do you want to be?” you delivered the question with heavy irony in your voice and caught a glimpse of genuine shock in his widening eyes when you tilted your head. “Enlighten me, please.”

Oscar swallowed his words with a harsh gulp that made his Adam’s apple bob.

You sucked on your teeth in anticipatory disappointment and returned to the darkening sky, where the first set of constellations began to twinkle.

His forehead creased and hid a flicker of repulsion that crossed his squinted eyes. He didn’t like your tone and you could feel it in his sharp stare that refused to abandon your face.

He traced the outline of your profile with utmost precision while he took notes of the way your nose reacted to the cold and passing natural fragrances with light twitches.

You looked ethereal. And Oscar craved something delicate, something liberating that did not involve high speed and the smell of fuel, but he restrained himself from reaching over and angling you just right to-

“Lily found the letters.” Your breath stuttered. “She threw them at me and demanded an explanation, but I couldn’t give her one.”

You refused to meet his firm gaze and kept counting the glowing dots of light that offered comfort overhead, trying to appear unaffected by the dreadful image of Lily finding the box under the bed.

“She accused me of many things and I couldn’t even defend myself because I had no clue what she was talking about.” He leaned the coke against the frame of the creaking swing before standing up and stretching his arms with a grunt. “I didn’t wanna read them at first, but something kept urging me to, so I did.”

You were about to lower your head when he reached for your chin and grasped it roughly, stopping you from concealing your guilty expression.

You gritted your teeth and hissed in discomfort, but his grip didn’t slacken as he bent down to be at eye-level with you, inching closer—close enough to feel your warmth, but far enough to deny he wanted more.

“Don’t do that, Peach,” he lowered his voice into a dangerous whisper, which gave you goosebumps. “Keep your eyes on me."

“Why?” you asked shakily, but complied with his request and interlaced your fearful gaze with his gleaming one.

The corners of his mouth curled upward into a satisfied smile while his free hand cupped your flushed cheek and stroked it tenderly. “I wanna see ‘em sparkle under the stars. You loved when mine did that, so I wanna see yours do it, too.”

“You really did read them..”

Oscar hummed as he scrutinized the reflection of the sky in your glossy eyes, completely engrossed in it. “Thrice, actually.”

You scoffed, hoping he was just teasing. “Are you deadass?”

When he cocked his head to the side, the tip of his nose grazed yours. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Your body stiffened and he felt it under his palm.

To soothe your distress, he planted a soft kiss on your cheek, smiling into it. “Relax, I don’t bite.”

“Huh,” you huffed as you pulled away from him slightly, head tilted back and cheeks deepening in colour. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

With an amused grin, Oscar reduced the gap you had intended to create and attempted to align his face with yours again, but you kept dodging his tries, knowing you would be doomed if you met his gaze.

He caught on to your plan and grabbed hold of your neck, chuckling, “Stop moving so much.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head, pouting like a little kid who had just gotten scolded by their parent. “Nope. Nuh uh.”

You felt a puff of air skim across the bottom half of your face before a foreign pair of lips captured yours in a slow-moving kiss that deprived you of all bodily functions, restraining you from answering until your brain was competent again to embrace the moment.

Heat flooded your body from head to toe when Oscar threaded his fingers through the hair that was coiled at the nape of your neck and tugged on it gently, as if he was telling you to tilt your head back more to give him room.

And you did, letting your hands grab hold of the hem of his t-shirt.

Neither of you heard the approaching footsteps of a worried mother, both absorbed in a newfound feeling that seemed to drown out the noise of your surroundings.

“Children!”

Oscar tore his mouth away from yours with great hurry and backed away, stumbling. Nicole inspected the horrified looks on your red faces with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot impatiently. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“Sorry,” you mumbled ashamedly while Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, both of you too embarrassed to lift your eyes from the ground.

Nicole pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, unsure of what to do with you two, but the relief of finding you unharmed and in one piece overpowered her rage.

“I want you both home in an hour, am I making myself clear?”

After receiving some kind of an acknowledgement, she turned on her heel and began walking back to the house without saying another word, but she was noticeably more at ease.

You groaned into your palms as consuming dread enveloped your hunched shoulders.

“Hey.” Oscar nudged your foot with his own and outstretched his hand toward you.

You peered at him through your fingers and lowered them slowly when you noticed he was holding something. You gave him a perplexed look and asked, “What is it?”

He just motioned you to take it.

It was a USB drive.

“Hattie told me you are flying to France tomorrow,” he gifted you that instead of explaining what exactly you had in your hand and shifted nervously from one foot to the other, avoiding your confused gaze. “I want you to look at what’s inside after you land in Paris.”

“Oscar-”

“Promise me,” he urged with an unnerved look on his face that silenced your inquiry by tying your tongue in a knot.

You glanced at the piece of plastic and caressed its smooth surface with the pad of your thumb before focusing solely on Oscar.

You could still taste his coke in the crevices of your mouth.

“I promise.”

[sayruq]

Donate to Menstrual Care Kits for Women and Girls in Gaza, organized by DIYALA ABDLRASUL

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[abdalazizaziz2]

Hello. My name is Abdul Aziz Aziz. I am 36 years old and have been living in Belgium for a year. I want to tell you my story, along with my family in Gaza. I am married and the father of three children. My family is displaced in Gaza and I became homeless because our house was destroyed above my family, and because of the bombing of my house I lost my mother and sister. My children were injured and psychologically traumatized by this incident, and I now appeal to you to save my family from death. I also have a child who suffers from a brain tumor and has not received treatment since the beginning of the war. I fear that his health condition will deteriorate due to lack of treatment. My son's name is Yahya and he is 12 years old. He can't handle this disease, so I hope for your help. To take my family out of Gaza to Egypt, save my son, and treat him in Egypt. I hope you will look at my children kindly and help me. Thank you very much.

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[prinzessinscloset]

Tbhk 112 theory:

What if the plant represents hanako?

Nene puts a lot of effort into caring for it and getting it to grow and bloom (open up)

And then yako shows up and tells her that no matter how hard she tries it won't grow because it's already rotted (already dead)

And then hands her a grown plant and tells her that it came from the variety of seeds and it's Never had any disease (Amane's illness) and it's managed to grow big and strong (amane in this new timeline being all grown up)

And then he takes away her plant which makes her panic and shout out that no!! It means a lot to me!! (Hanako)

The way she was trying to take a break and tend to her plant (be with hanako) after suffering all the things that happened (her lifespan, Severance etc) just for the clockkeepers to show up and take him away from her and give her a replacement and expect her to be okay with it

[taexoxosgf]

PARK JISUNG FIC REC LIST

s, smut | f, fluff | a, angst

includes most of the fics from my old rec list. not all are on this list because those fics have either been deleted/privated or the account themselves has deactivated.

recommendation masterlist

my masterlist is here if you want to check out my jisung fics!

chasing pavements , part two [ brother’s best friend!jisung x fem!reader ] s,a

let me teach you how to smash [ badminton player!jisung x fem!reader, enemies to friends to lovers ] s,f,a

the quiet boy has a big dick?! [ quiet bad boy!jisung x fem!reader ] s

gooner [ jeno's younger brother!jisung x jeno's fwb fem!reader ] s

more than i should [ idol!jisung x stylist fem!reader ] s

louder [ jealous boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader ] s

8 letters [ baseball player!jisung x fem!reader ] f,a

arcade [ boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader ] s,f

(ask) [ fwb!jisung x fem!reader ]

auralism, part two, part three [ voice actor!jisung x fem!reader ] s

teach me [ established relationship ] s,f

the one that got away [ best friend au, unrequited love au ] f,a

full moon [ werewolf!jisung x fem!reader, established relationship ] s

1:29 AM [ friend’s brother!jisung x fem!reader ] s

testing… [boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader ] s

20cm [ childhood friends au, summer love au ] f,a

first snow [ boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader ] s,f

jealousy [ boyfriend!jisung x performer fem!reader ] s

sweeter than honey [ private prepschool au ] f,a

(ask) [ secret fwb au ] s

too young [ werewolf!jisung x witch fem!reader ] s,a

lollipop [ perv boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader ] s

park jisung x bimbo!reader [ park jisung x bimbo!reader ] s

gameboy [ gamer!jisung x gamer fem!reader, fwb to lovers au ] s

mask off [ boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader, role playing au ] s

no hands [ idol!jisung x fem!reader ] s

untitled [ best friend!jisung x fem!reader ] s

(ask) [ boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader, dreamies thinks he’s a virgin ] s,f

i.l.y. [ boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader, first time ] s,f

[silenterosionn]

By how she’s acting I doubt I’ll be able to get the cats. its okay tho if I don’t get those adorable fluff balls I’ll buy myself one or a few in the future no matter how expensive they are, I’ll make that dream come true on my own. 🥹

(A family friend is giving us two cats for free, the only thing we have to do is pick them up…hah that won’t happen anytime soon)

[redtail-lol]

Stop scrolling if you want to help Palestine

[PT: Stop scrolling if you want to help Palestine. End PT]

I have created a google document that is editable by anyone with resources for helping Palestine for FREE. It will cost you nothing and it will make an impact. You can find it here (link)

I made this document for people like me; minors and the poor, who are unable to donate to Palestine, and may be unable to participate in boycotts. You might think there's nothing you can do but there is. Some links are already on it, however because I made it editable by anyone, it will hopefully be updated regularly by the Free Palestine movement here on Tumblr.

I'll be reblogging with some prominent Palestine blogs tagged for reach. Please share this if you can, on and off Tumblr. It would really help spread the document. I want it to have as much reach as possible thank you.

[stuckinapril]

I am so fucking scared. I feel that... you know it's not about death. I'm not so scared of death. I'm so scared of being displaced. I want to go back to my home--and I'm so near, by the way... Gaza is so small. But I can't go there because the Gaza Strip is cut into pieces, and vehicles and tanks are in the borders between these pieces so I just can't go anywhere inside my homeland. My place. And... it's unacceptable. It's unimaginable. You know I have never imagined before that one day someone would just grab me from my... my homeland. My place. And just throw me away and prevent me to come back.

By the way, we don't know if we could go back. If we could go back again. Ever. And I'm so scared that they could displace us from Gaza Strip to the desert. [Bisan's voice breaks, she breaks into tears] We will die in the desert because of hunger. They displaced us to Egypt. To the north of Egypt, to Sanari desert. People just die. We will die.

[Sob] I don't know why do you guys are watching without doing anything to end this. Just in the... just stop it. Just stop it. Stop it in any price, stop it in any cost. Just stop it for anything. Just stop this. It's a nightmare. I can't continue just thinking about the displacement more and more. It's a nightmare. And I can't-- I can't keep it alive while thinking of being displaced more and more.

I just wanna go back to my home.

-- Bisan in a heartbreaking voice memo on Instagram, 2.14.2024

[sugas6thtooth]

Remember Hind. Remember Reem. Remember all the little boys and girls who are more than mere numbers. They are dreams, humanity's innocence, and most importantly they are not to be forgotten.

[stuckinapril]

guys i actually beg of you to not let palestine become an unpleasant flashback, a transient tumblr trend, a hasbeen subject that just faded away. as an arab—and specifically iraqi—girl, i know what it feels like to have family displaced all over the world as a result of western imperialism. i know what it feels like to not be able to step foot into your homeland because it’s no longer safe. as an american iraqi, raised in the us and insulated from my roots, it wasn’t until last summer that i was able to visit iraq for the first time, and even then my family was worried for my safety—in my own blood country. although nothing like what palestinians are experiencing right now, it might be the tiniest semblance of what it feels like to watch your country disintegrate in front of you.

and this is a universal arab experience. i volunteer weekly at a refugee center that serves middle eastern refugees, and every day i see the longing in their eyes when they speak of where they hail from. it’s safe to say that we will be getting a wave of palestinian refugees very soon: just another generation of arabs who can’t inhabit their own country.

arab culture is so rich, so profound, so beautiful. i am tired of being told by the world—through literal genocide—that it doesn’t mean anything. please never let this be forgotten. free palestine. free palestine. free palestine.