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19 multifan

[melis-writes]

The Other Woman [Michael Corleone x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter Masterlist.

A masterlist of all currently posted chapters both up on AO3 (Archive of Our Own) and here on Tumblr. Like/save the post to stay updated!

18+, explicit smut read. All specific warnings available on AO3. Sexy Michael Corleone gifs only available on Tumblr chapter uploads.

Hired by the Corleone family as a governness, you relocate to the Lake Tahoe family compound, looking forward to your future in Nevada until you meet your employer—Michael Corleone. Your future is then ensnared only in lust and forbidden love for Michael since the beginning, and you find yourself yearning for a married man you can never have. Desire and passion clash with one another as Michael takes you to be his mistress—only having an exclusive sexual relationship with you while his sex life with Kay dies out. Knowing from the beginning you’ll never truly be with Michael and that your place in his life is worlds apart from Kay’s as the other woman, the love you have for him consumes you until it threatens to burn out everything you’ve ever had with Michael.

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[ohfreshlinen]

𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · pussy so good, sukuna taps in (longer ver.)

Loving Yūji comes with a package deal you don't necessarily know how to deal with. Granted, you've known and loved him first before this entire ordeal even happened — it still is a matter of when and never an if, per se, when it comes to his special situation.

However, that doesn't truly stop either of you from being intimate around each other. Where Yūji excels with his control against what's residing in him, it seems that the majority of that said will, if not everything, is thrown out the door the second you beg to be fucked.

And fucked real good. Or badly. Whichever way one wishes to put it.

Maybe that's partly on you, or him, or even both of your asses to blame. But, really? Can you blame yourself when Yūji looks stupidly hot all the damn time? Stupidly, massively hot and bothered?

Especially when he wears a simple white shirt where it accentuates how broad he is everywhere, when he looks like his brain stops functioning and he's looking at you with only the thought of fucking you bone-dry, and his dick decides to run on autopilot and take him to a blissful place right between your thighs.

Yes, can you really blame anyone with how immaculate he is before you?

"So tight, baby," Yūji says between clenched teeth.

A vein appears in the middle of his forehead, contemplating whether he should start moving and ram his cock all the way in or give you a chance to adjust to his girth first.

"Ah, Yūji," you whine, "just go in. Stop teasing."

"T-Teasing? I'm not teasing, sweetheart." He manages to choke an incredulous and breathy laugh at your whining. "You think this is easy for me, too?"

You playfully slap his muscled arm. "Shut up! You know what I mean!"

"Damn, even after all that," Yūji grits. "Even after all the sex we had every night, you're still tight."

With a shuddering exhale, Yūji grinds forward, pressing himself deeper into your petaled hole until you whine and drag your nails up and down his back and coax him closer.

"Oh, yes, baby. Shit —yes, yes, — yes," he incessantly babbles. "You're sucking me in completely. I could come right here — ooohhhh,"

His lips head for yours and capture you in a heartbeat. Your nails drag to the front, then you lift his shirt to feel his toned stomach. A languid moan erupts from your throat, and Yūji relishes swallowing your sounds.

His name echoes past your lips when he breaks contact; each drawl of the consonant is like a song of reverent praise that effectively shuts him up from keeping things slow.

"You're taking me so well." He whispers. "Such a good girl you are for me."

The smell of sex and sweat permeates around the room, despite the window being cracked open. When Yūji leans down and noses his way around the hickeys he's given you littered across your body, you catch the whiff of his musky scent, and it sends you into a ripple of arousal — because why is everything he is doing to you just so fucking hot?

Everything about Yūji is too much for you. It's borderline unfair.

"Baby," you whine again, locking your legs around his waist.

"I know, I know." Yūji moans at the feeling, even when he feels your teeth teasing the crook of his neck.

It's so intoxicating; it leaves his already fogged brain even more fogged that he has to fight through your horniness to keep a steady, level pace. Otherwise, you'd probably not be walking for days, probably even resort to crawling to get to point B. Hell, that doesn't sound bad at all.

"Oh, baby, please don't do that. You know I'm sensitive there." He lightly scolds you, pulling at your hair in warning.

"But you taste so good, though."

He supposes if he's going to fuck you the way he wants to, how long he intends to, and the way you let him, then he's not going to deny you what you want to do with him, too.

In fact, if he isn't so gung-ho with you and your immaculate pussy that's still sucking him in greedily as he continues to stretch you, and if he didn't let his dick dictate his decisions, he will most definitely relish the prospect of you dominating him.

Oh, Yūji will submit. Maybe you doubt he would, given how he always wishes to be inside of you and tell you to do this or that for him. But honest to God, if you tell him to be on his hands and knees for you, he will get that shit done pronto. Put a collar on him or something — he doesn't care. Everything screams sexy and a lot of sex for him. So, who is he to refuse that?

"Harder," you find yourself begging for him, "please. Yes — yes, right there!"

Yūji's arms that are propped against both of your sides buckle before he rebalances and takes most of his weight off of you. "Shh, Fushiguro might hear you. You don't want him to hear us, don't you?"

"Then he should cover his ears!" You rebuke teasingly. "He knows better. Isn't he the smartest? He should put his brain to work. Chop, chop, Megumi!"

"S-Stop! Don't make me laugh right now." Yūji bites his lips. "I'm really horny, and I don't want to be un-horny because I'm thinking about other stuff that isn't you."

"Sorry, I'm sorry," You apologize, but it turns into a chuckle because you didn't think you'd be thinking about it, too.

"Relax for me," Yūji attempts to bring the mood back, salvaging what's left from your silly antics. "That's it, baby. Ease into me again."

Yūji's hold around your thighs changes until your legs rest upon his shoulders, and he pounds against you like an animal in heat. From your new position, his cock sinks further. Skin slaps against skin. While your breathing becomes coarse and ragged, Yūji sounds the same except for minuscule groans of pleasure now and then.

Then, he folds you in half, situates himself a little higher, and pistons his cock back into you. You don't realize you are drooling until he licks the side of your face and kisses you.

"Open your mouth." He says, and when you do, he spits twice. "Swallow."

There's a trail of saliva connecting you two when he pulls back. His eyes are transfixed heavily upon the bulge that's appeared at the base of your stomach.

"Remind me to buy a mirror next time. I want you looking at yourself like this. It's so hot, I swear." Yūji drools. "You're so good, baby. So, so, good. Oh — fuck!"

Just when he spills inside of you, and you're about to come down with your first orgasm, another voice pierces through the solidity of the room and breaks your release easily as if he had done this countless times before.

"Enchain."

Suddenly the ceiling becomes the bed sheets as you are flipped onto your hands and knees. Your muffled confusion doesn't go unheard, but other pressing matters come first. Your hair has been forcibly fisted and yanked until your head is pulled back enough to see your lover covered in tattoos, and a vitriol laugh teases the shell of your ears.

"Yū —?"

"Brat's not here," Sukuna's voice rumbles deeply against your skin.

This is the first time he's ever graced you with his presence. You have heard stories of how Sukuna would frequently pop on Yūji's cheek or his hands whenever he's got something atrocious to say (especially towards your sensei and Megumi), but not once has he ever manifested and broken through Yūji like this before — and right in the middle of fucking, too.

"Heh," he yanks you closer, forcing you to look at his hungry eyes. They look at you as if you owe him pleasure after refusing him for so long. "My vessel lost control. I want to know why."

Before you could have swung a cursed tool at him, to trap him within your cursed energy, enough to stall and ask Megumi for help or anybody else should he decline, Sukuna slams your head against the pillow and fucks you senseless.

Is it to your imagination, or did Yūji's cock grow bigger? For some reason, when Sukuna thrusts into your hole, it's fuller. He is far more brutal and ornery with his movements, too.

"Take it all like you are meant to do."

This is wrong. This is terribly, insanely wrong. Here you are in the mercy of the sadistic curse, cackling like the bastard that he is that he found something to entice himself with, and yet . . . it's wrong to feel how good you're being fucked.

Sukuna nudges your legs with his knees to spread wider for him. His hands busy themselves by mockingly kneading your ass before slapping each cheek hard.

You yelp and bite the corner of the pillow hard. Unfortunately for you, Sukuna notices. He pulls you by the hair again, and tosses everything that would muffle your voice aside. There is a buzz of mischief you can feel swirling around his energy, but you can't decipher it all too well as he shoves you down to the mattress.

"Y-Yūji —"

"My name, brat —"

"—Y-Yūji, Y-Yū—"

"— I said my name." He slaps your sloppily wet clit.

Your back arches unknowingly to the sensation, and before you think twice about it, your body yields and your mouth muddles the name, "S-Sukuna!"

"Good, little one." He mutters sadistically, inhaling the scent of pheromones pumping out from you.

His hands are everywhere that he can touch you, and even when he couldn't reach parts of your body, Sukuna merely bends you to his will and lets himself have you any way he pleases. Since the brat's been constantly denying him of you, it's only right that Sukuna gets to have fun with you now.

He fondles your breasts. He pinches your clit. Your thighs are scraped in a thin line of blood that brings him more arousal. Your asshole is gaping at each tense movement he makes out of you. His canines sink to the thin skin of your neck so deeply, he can taste your blood, fueling him into a messy plethora of moans and pleasure like he's drunk on his own aphrodisiac.

"Again." He orders.

"W-What?"

"My name. Only."

"Su-ku-na,"

"Louder. I won't tolerate what you refuse to give me. Say my name again, little one."

"Sukuna. Sukuna. Sukuna! Sukuna! Sukuna!"

"That's it. Keep calling my name as you come."

Your orgasm comes to you like a torrent — harsh and unforgiving. Still, Sukuna doesn't stop fucking you even as you try your best to squirm away.

When you barely manage to make him pull out of you, and you start crawling, he easily drags you back.

"Where do you think you're going, hm?" He lifts your ass and flicks your clit hard as punishment. "You do not run away from me, unless you want me to kill you."

"But, I need —"

"No."

"Sukuna, please!" You push his body away from you once more, desperately trying to get out of his strong grip. But damn, because of his strength and that it's also Yūji's body, and you know how sturdy he is, Sukuna doesn't budge. Not even a little. "Please, give me a moment."

"And what did I say?" He raises his brow questioningly.

He's fascinated by the way you react to him. When he lazily drawls his fingers around your inner thighs, you shake. When he lets his tongue graze the cup of your ass, you whine. And when he sniffs your cunt, and it smells promiscuously sour and preposterously sweaty, you sound like you're about to come again.

"N-Not there, not yet,"

"What did I say?" He challenges.

"I —" you sound close to weeping.

He pulls your hair. "What. Did. I. Say?"

"No!" You wail, moving restlessly. "You said, no!"

"You're close. I can tell."

And you are — were. You let yourself go with your orgasm. From your blurred vision, you can see the outline of Sukuna smirking at your writhing figure and how entranced he is by your submission. He taps your hips as if you have served him well, before you feel his hold around your body slackening.

There's an abrupt change between you and Sukuna. Once you've regained a better part of your vision and allow yourself to breathe better, you realize that it's because you've been flipped on your back and your legs are locked around his waist again.

"S-Sukuna?"

"No," Yūji breathlessly says. He leans his face closer until his lips brush yours. "I-It's me, baby. It's me. I'm sorry. I-I lost control. Are you hurt?"

You shake your head with a smile. "N-No, I'm fine. I'm more than fine."

"Yeah?" Yūji perks up. You feel his cock hardening by your entrance.

"Yeah, baby." You laugh dumbly. "That was . . . quite exhilarating."

Yūji presses his forehead against yours. The heat is visible in his eyes, but it is nowhere near as intense as the other pair you were forced to look at before.

"That was hot," Yūji admits. "Watching you . . . like that."

"It was," you breathe out.

There, beneath Yūji's hollowed eyes, your gaze lingers towards the triumphant gleam squinting at you in reds and blacks. It tells you exactly what is going through Sukuna's mind: that he's nowhere near finished with you yet.

You swallow dryly.

"Are you tired?" Yūji brushes your hair tenderly.

You shake your head. "I'll be fine."

"Let me fuck you next, then."

Yūji grabs your hips and plunges into you. He folds you in half, telling you to wrap your legs around his neck, and then proceeds to pound you as he promised.

"Come for me this time." He begs you. He places his hands flat on your stomach, feeling the bulge he caused. "For me. Come for me."

"Yūji — fuckfuckfuck — Yūji!" Something uncontrollable breaks out from you, and you realize a second sooner that you've squirted all over him. Your juices drip from his bare chest and down to his untrimmed bush. "I'm sorry, I —"

"Enchain."

"What the fuck, Sukuna!"

"Oh my God, Yūji, come back! Give Yūji back for the love of God!"

"Do that again. Squirt for me, little one." Sukuna growls.

"That was an accident. I — I — I didn't mean for that to happen." You admit, trying to regain proper breathing because, goddamn it, you won't be able to with this one in the front. "Just give me Yūji back!"

"Let me bring it out of you then."

It's obvious to you now that both of them have their preferences in terms of fucking you. While Yūji prefers that both of you are staring at one another and lose each other together in the art of fuckery, Sukuna does anything but.

He switches the position wherein he's lying down, and he angles you to his face. You grip the headboard for support before you realize Sukuna's hold on you is gentle yet strong. You aren't swaying, even when you feel him blow a warm bubble of air directly to your dripping mound.

Then, his hold tightens, and he buckles you down to his mouth and eats you out.

"Ah, Sukuna!" You squawk. You hear the wet squelches you make from his tongue.

"You're learning." He commends. The deep gravel of his voice vibrates past your pubic hairs and sends you a jolt of pleasure that goes straight to your spine.

And just as when you are once again teetering on the edge of another orgasm, he unexpectedly stops with a loud popping sound and watches your reaction.

You move, yet he keeps you at bay.

Of course, King of Curses be damned, when you're this high in being so aroused and utterly fucked by not one but two of them, the consequences of your actions are the least of your concerns. And not even someone who's feared by all is going to stop you.

You swat his hands that are holding you away and rock yourself against his mouth. Your hair hits his nose and grazes the top of his lips — but you hardly care. If Yūji doesn't care that you're growing your own little forest down there, surely Sukuna wouldn't either. And if he does, then that isn't your problem.

You're in a fit of moans, as you ride your pleasure away. With your palms braced against his pecs, you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It appears that Sukuna is granting you power to do as you please, as both of you know he can so easily pluck it from you like a candy from a child.

"Open yourself wider for me." He speaks quietly.

Your fingers spread your labia open. He sniffs you loudly, then he seizes your pearl between his teeth, rolls it around torturously, and licks you hard. Instinctively, you buck your hips down on him.

Sukuna pulls a few strands of your pubic hair; it's painful, but it does the trick when you finally squirt all over his face.

"Fuck! Please, I'm coming, Sukuna! SukunaSukuna!"

He slaps your ass in delight. "Good, little one."

Sukuna's control weakens again, and you realize Yūji's coming back. You laugh deliriously, because any person would be wondering what on earth is happening. Never have you thought that both of them would —

"Aw, baby," Yūji coos. "You taste so good."

"Yūji," you call out tiredly.

"Are you tired? We can stop, baby. It's okay."

"No, I want you to fuck me. Please, baby? I want you."

"I've been trying to all night, but someone just keeps —"

"Lift her, brat."

Your eyes widen when you see Sukuna smirking at you from Yūji's left cheek.

"Shut up!" Yūji slaps himself.

"She will love it. Lift her. Or I will."

Yūji growls, but obeys nonetheless. He hasn't had his own share of fill with you yet, thanks to some bastard.

He hefts you up with your back pressed securely against his chest, his arms cage you so that even if you move, squirm, or wiggle your ass against his throbbing, veiny cock, Yūji promises you within his hold that you will not be dropped.

"Fold her and raise her legs."

"Baby, I just want to ask if that's all right." He grinds himself to your ass.

"Yes! Fuck yes, Yūji! Just do it! Hurry up and fuck me already before he comes again!"

Yūji groans. He lifts both of your legs until his head is placed between them, and then his dick slides back into your entrance.

You become a sobbing mess for him.

"Did I ever tell you how glad I am that you're so flexible?" Yūji kisses your collarbone. "You're so hot, being folded like this."

In and out. In and out does the motion go. Regardless of whether you're exhausted or not, Yūji's stamina is unbecoming.

Your eyes roll back, your tongue lolls out, and all you can respond to Yūji or Sukuna or even both at this point — you don't care anymore who is fucking you — are all the jumbled slurs of their names, of you begging, of you wanting more, and more, and so much more.

"Enchain."

"Sukuna —"

"Submit to me, little one. Submit."

"I submit. I submit! I submit!"

"Heh, let that shadow brat hear you against the walls. I bet he's enjoying hearing you right now, too. My vessel is pretty turned on by what's happening. He’s not even complaining about the switch."

"Ah! Mpmh! Ah!"

"What is the matter? Where are your words?"

"Mmmh,"

"Oh? Are you enticed by the mere idea that somebody else, who is neither me nor your brat, is hearing you being fucked too good?"

"Nng — mphm — I —"

Sukuna pinches your cheeks and angles you enough to look at him.

"Speak."

"Y-Yes! I love this!"

"Well done. Rub yourself. The brat won't stop talking my fucking ear out, so do it for him. But I intend to make you come before he takes control again."

You nod numbly.

"Do not stop until you have come, you have squirted, or you have fainted. I care little what comes first or if all comes together.”

Sukuna licks the spot where he's marked you. "If you had been born in the era that I was, I would've taken you as my —"

"I-I'm coming!" You pull hard at his pink hair for support.

"Then come, little one. Come as much as you want."

For the last time tonight, Sukuna's control wanes. However, before he returns to his realm, you swear you feel the ghost of his lips caressing the side of your face like a lover he didn't mean to find.

"I got you," Yūji whispers comfortingly, "I got you. Just keep coming, baby. That's it. You're my good girl. You did so well. You're so perfect."

Yūji, with his dick still inside of you, slowly lowers you to the bed, tucks a stray strand of loose hair behind your ear, and nuzzles you comfortingly. "How are you feeling?"

"Baby," you try to speak, "too full."

After several pumps and his own release, Yūji pulls himself out from you. "I'm glad."

Cringing, you ask. "Sorry, was it . . . too weird for you?"

Scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, he admits, "I was surprised that it wasn't . . ."

"C-Can we do it again another time?"

"Baby, I thought you'd never ask." Yūji teases. "Although, maybe we need to set ground rules. Wouldn't want to complicate things, y'know."

With what's left of your energy, you manage to kiss the tip of his nose before nuzzling yourself into his warm embrace.

"We need to do laundry tomorrow. It smells."

"This is all from you, I hope you know." He pauses. "Wait, I like it. Can't I keep it for one more day?"

"Ew. No."

"Didn't hurt to ask . . ."

"Okay," you tap his arm to let you go, "gotta pee before I get an infection."

"Hmm,"

The calm silence between you two — or three — doesn't last long when someone bangs against the door angrily, and you hear Megumi's voice calling out to you and Yūji.

And Sukuna. You might as well drag him with you, too.

Megumi also must've summoned his dog because you hear a couple of growls and something scratching the bottom of the door.

"Whatever orgy you all are doing in there, take it elsewhere next time!"

"And he could've said that shit sooner?"

© ohfreshlinen — all rights reserved. do not modify, edit, steal, or plagiarize my content.

for the premise of this fic, "enchain" is not going to be a one-time used deal between sukuna and yūji — i need it to be used multiple times just for the plot 😗

taglist: @asian-woody, @tynaisjoiningthegame, @dum-dumshitposts, @seekingnirvana12, @lem-hhn, @keanureevessmile, @jesuschristofficialforreal, @ch1yukii, @iheartkentonanami, @urbbyfacedangel, @sweeetlottie, @fartimagines

[businesscasualtits]

˙⋆✮ Awake // Alive ✮⋆˙

part one here

pairing: assassin!Sukuna x girlfriend!reader

info: I wrote a part two because we love to see a big man grovel ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ idk, let me live, luv u all (i entered a flow state at one point, idk if it's good, but fuck I liked it)

warnings: violence mentioned, but not really on the page. This is all just hurt and angst and eventual comfort...

wc: 4.5k

You’re surprised when you wake up. 

That you wake up. 

At first, you think you’ve given in to death, that the light seeping through your eyelids is the light. It’s warm, a sunset orange where you expected blinding white, and you’re glad for it. Glad and desperate to feel its embrace, but when you try to reach for it, try to pull yourself through the portal from life to death, you hear it. 

… beep… beep… beep… 

Then, you feel it. 

All of it. 

Every breath sends a fresh spasm of agony cracking through your chest, as if you’re one inhale away from shattering your ribcage. Even with your breathing as shallow as it is, you feel how tight your belly is, like you’ve swallowed a balloon that’s expanded far past its limits. And your head… fuck, your head… It’s like the pain can’t decide where it wants to locate, the front or the base, so it radiates between each spot, pounding so hard you just want your skull to split open and your gray matter to spill out like slush.

You open your eyes before you’re ready, not even realizing you’re doing it until you’re blinking against the blinding fluorescents overhead—which, of course, makes your headache a thousand times worse. Your vision seems to warp, like you’re looking in the reflection of a funhouse mirror, and bile starts to claw its way up your throat.

You hiss out a curse word, a fuck so jagged it’s like it’s been dragged through razor wire, and as your gaze sharpens, he’s the first thing that comes into focus. 

Ryomen Sukuna. 

He’s not facing you, and his sweatshirt hood is up over his head, but you know it’s him as certainly as you know your nose is broken. And when he whirls around, activated by your broken groan, your whole being goes weightless, like you’re made up of helium and nothing else. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stare at each other, how long you examine every millimeter of his appearance, looking for a flaw, a clue that he’s not real. That none of this is real. That he’s still dead and gone, and all you have is this hallucination from a very, very bad concussion. 

But he looks so like himself, his light pink hair pushed back from his forehead, revealing those angular features you’d spent night after night memorizing while he’d slept. If anything, he looks even more built than before that night in the alley, like a broken bone that healed stronger from its injury. Sukuna is right there. 

And suddenly, you’re terrified, because if he vanishes again, blowing away like loose sand… you can’t even imagine the agony… how can you shatter when you’re already in pieces? How can… You can’t… He isn’t—

“Hey, hey, hey!”

The hallucination lurches around the side of the bed, grabbing your IV hand in his familiar, calloused grip. At your side, your heart monitor screeches too fast, an urgent underscore as you realize you’re hyperventilating. Your breath seems to trap in your throat, backing up into your lungs, and all you can do is gawk at the ghost of Sukuna, too petrified to be comforted by his presence. 

“You’re n-n-not real,” you stammer, your voice sandpaper hoarse. “I saw—blood, I—”

“I’m real,” he insists, but you can’t understand him. He shouldn’t be able to touch you, and you try to pull away. Try to force your skin to forget how his feels. 

“No, no, no,” you groan, the heart monitor screaming next to you. “No, no, no.”

Hallucination Sukuna calls your name like he’s begging, and you shake your head too violently. The room around you spins and pulses, lights flaring like gasps, and you think you choke on something—air, spit, vomit—but your body, mercifully, sends you spiraling in the dark before you can feel anything else. 

The second time you wake up, floating up through the sludge of oblivion, Sukuna’s sitting next to your bed, crimson eyes glued to your face. The moment your eyelids open, he takes your IV hand with urgent softness and holds it up to his throat. Before you have a chance to process, to panic, you feel it. 

His pulse, steady and strong beneath your fingertips. 

Your hand trembles beneath his, but Sukuna holds you there, forcing you to comprehend that he’s not a ghost or a hallucination or a manifestation. He’s alive, and somehow, your already-annihilated heart breaks further, vaporizes into dust that you’ll never be able to recollect. 

You open your mouth, try to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp of a sound, and you realize you’re desperate for water. 

Sukuna sees it in your eyes, like he always has. Almost every night before bed, without you even asking, he used to fill up your favorite water bottle, a pink Owala covered in the stupidest meme stickers you could find. 

Slowly, carefully, he places your hand back in your lap and pours water out of a beige pitcher into a plastic cup with a straw. Then, he holds it up to your lips and watches intensely as you suck down the cool liquid faster than you thought possible. It’s a balm to your aching throat, and a break in an otherwise suffocating moment. You try, you really do, to understand, but you can’t. 

Insurmountable blood loss.  No security cameras.  Already cremated. Gone. 

Uraume’s voice, steady in their sorrow, echoes in your ears, as it has every day—every hour—since that night. Since Sukuna died. 

You’d soaked in his blood, pressed against his gunshot wound, grasped at his too-still body. 

Sukuna had died, he’d—he’d…

The cup falls from your hand, clattering lightly against the floor as you grab at him, at his clothes, his hands, anything you can touch. Is he truly solid? Is he truly here? For a moment, Sukuna’s eyes widen in confused panic, but only for a moment. Then, he understands.

His tattooed jaw clenches, and then he’s tugging his black hoodie off and climbing into your hospital bed, tucking you into his side and guiding your ear to his chest. Now, through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, his heartbeat thrums into your ear, a soundtrack you never thought you’d hear again. Before, you’d fall asleep every night draped across his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat like your favorite lullaby while his fingers tangled and twirled in the ends of your hair. 

As you curl into him, slowly letting yourself slide back into unconsciousness, you feel Sukuna’s body beneath yours. More specifically, the way his muscles tense like a dam straining against the power of a roaring river. You think about picking up your hand, of placing it on his side and running your fingers up and down his ribs like you know he likes. But you’re too tired. 

Far too tired.

When you wake again, Sukuna is no longer in the hospital bed. Instead, he paces back and forth along your bedside, eyes cast down and the hinge of his jaw clenched tightly. His lips twist in a deeply carved scowl, and his fingers flex, as if debating whether he wants to hit something or not. You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep, but clearly, it’s been long enough for him to spiral down a black hole of thinking. One that’s left him shrouded in an air of violence so thick you can see the way it drapes around his shoulders like an imperial cloak. 

You blink once, twice, and on the third time, he notices you’re awake. He stops in his tracks as if suddenly made of stone, his fingers mid-curl, and his crimson eyes regard you as if you’re a fawn seconds away from fleeing. Which, you can’t blame him for. The last two times you were conscious, you could barely handle that the dead man was in front of you, decidedly not dead. 

You don’t know what to say, how to even begin to process that Sukuna’s here, really here, now that the mere sight of him isn’t sending you spiraling into a delirious panic attack. During all those months alone, wrapped in the freezing cold of isolation, you’d dreamt about what you’d say to Sukuna the moment you saw him again, but you’d always assumed that reunion would only occur in death. You imagined yourself running out of a gray miasmus of pain and desolation and into the arms of the man you loved. He’d kiss your tears away as you inhaled his trademark scent of gunsmoke and spice, and you’d slip your hands up under his shirt and dig your nails into his skin so he couldn’t leave you again. 

And you’d apologize, over and over, for getting him killed. 

Because, really, you knew it was your fault. You’d distracted him that night, had dragged him into the alley where he’d lost his life, had been utterly useless when that pack of men had you both cornered. You’d as good as killed him with your own two hands. 

At least, you’d thought you had. 

You’d grieved like you had. 

Punished yourself like you had. 

But here he was, alive and angry. 

You know the men who’d attacked you are dead. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if Sukuna hadn’t cut up their bodies and littered the streets with their limbs—he had a flair for the dramatic when he had a message to send. So who was there left to be mad at?

“What the fuck were you doing in that bar?”

Oh.

Sukuna glares at you as if he can see inside you, as if he can find the answer he’s looking for just by scaring away every layer of you until he’s satisfied. Beneath his fury, you see the fear, though. You see the desperation in his eyes like burgeoning tears, the tremor to his fingers as he digs his hands into a tuft of blankets at the end of the bed. 

He thought you were going to die, you realize. 

Which, yes, that had been the goal at the time, but only because Sukuna was dead. Because you’d tortured yourself for almost a year, grieving the other half of your heart and soul, and dying at the hands of violence was the only way you could think to truly and finally atone for what you’d done. 

Except, Sukuna had never been dead. 

“You’re mad at me.”

You barely have a voice, but the statement still hangs in the air between you, as if giving Sukuna a chance to reconsider what he’s about to say. Of course, he doesn’t. Whatever flashing warning lights he sees exploding around your head, he ignores, and for the first time in almost a year, your heart begins to burn with something other than self-hatred. 

“How could you be so careless?” Sukuna demands, words sharp as needles. “How could you be so reckless?”

The chuckle that tumbles from your lips is broken and sour. 

“You watched me,” you say, the puzzle pieces of the last eight months clicking into place. “I always thought it was Uraume, but it was you, wasn’t it?”

Sukuna freezes like an animal under a floodlight, and you think you might be sick. 

All of that pain, all of those moments spent tearing yourself apart from the inside out, thinking you deserved misery… Not only was he alive, but he witnessed it all. He let it happen because… because… 

“Why?” you ask, the question dripping in venom you didn’t realize was pooling in your mouth.  You don’t clarify—you don’t need to. From the guilt that flashes across his face, Sukuna knows exactly what you’re asking. 

“It was too dangerous,” he states, but despite himself, he doesn’t sound as convicted as you know he wants to. “So I did what I had to do.”

Fuck, you could slap him. 

But fine, if he was going to be obtuse, so would you. 

“So did I,” you retort, and Sukuna growls like a frustrated dog. 

“You could’ve been killed!”

“That was the intention, yes.”

“How can you be that fucking stupid?”

The flames inside your heart flare into an inferno, consuming every bit of pain in your body and transforming it into fuel. 

“You died, Sukuna! Whether or not you stopped breathing. To me, you were gone. No—no, not gone. You were murdered right in front of me because of me! Because of me!”

In all these months, it’s the first time you’ve truly said the words out loud, and distantly, in another world maybe, you find it disturbingly hysterical that you’re saying them to Sukuna himself. 

“I hated myself, you fucking bastard!” You’re screaming now, shrill and thin and awful. “Every day, I just wanted to hurt because I thought I deserved it. I thought I’d gotten the love of my life killed, and I couldn’t stand myself. I couldn’t stand being alive, and I thought maybe, maybe, I could finally put an end to it all. I could finally be fucking selfish and just die!”

Sukuna seems to shrink with every word you spit, as if finally, finally, he’s realizing just how far you’ve ruined yourself. How far he’s let you ruin yourself. 

“I wanted to die like you, Sukuna,” you say, your voice suddenly flat. Suddenly too tired to hold emotion. “I wanted to die in pain because I didn’t deserve mercy, but now…” You gesture a hand weakly at him, at his body that’s stronger than it was the night you went out to that god forsaken bar. He’d healed while you’d rotted.

Sukuna whispers your name, his voice steeped in so much sorrow that you have no choice but to ignore it. 

“You let me think you were dead.”

You let the statement settle there, in the chasm between you, so wide and deep it seems bottomless. Insurmountable. Sukuna opens his mouth and then closes it, and you just shake your head. 

“Don’t ask me why the fuck I was at that bar,” you say finally, “Ask yourself.”

You see it all in his eyes, see the spiral of thoughts that bring him down to just how low you were. He’ll never understand it, not truly, but now he’ll suffer like you did, and that’s all you’ll get. 

Suddenly, you want to kiss him. You haven’t since that night, and your body craves him. Craves his lips against yours, his arms around your body. You crave his comfort because it’s one of the few places you’ve always felt safe. But now, now you know what it feels like to have that comfort ripped away because of him. Because he chose for the both of you, and in doing so, destroyed you. 

“I’m glad you’re alive,” you murmur, “But I need you to get out.”

And he does, leaving you alone once again. 

The sounds of your hospital room are strangely comforting—the consistent beep of your heart monitor, the wheeze of your oxygen tube, the delicate drip of your IV… It welcomes you when you float into consciousness, and it lulls you back into unconsciousness just as kindly.

Shoko had visited a few times, bringing you your favorite fuzzy blanket and one of Sukuna’s old hoodies that you’d used as an emotional crutch for the best eight months—it was his favorite, the one he got most pissed at you for stealing. You’d thought about telling her that he’d been alive this whole time, but something kept you from telling her the truth. A protective something that knew she’d hate him for it, that knew Shoko would go on a diatribe about how selfish and horrible Sukuna was for putting you through that. And she was right, but also, you couldn’t hear it. 

You should hate him, but you just… can’t. Beneath it all—the fury and the hurt—you’re just so fucking happy he’s alive. There’s a relief so extreme that you can barely comprehend it, knowing that you still exist in a world with him. 

You love him, you don’t think you’re capable of not loving him, but that doesn’t mean you forgive him. And you’re not sure you ever can. 

As happy as you are that he’s still here, you can’t ignore that he let you go eight months thinking he was dead. For what? For the vague reason that it was too dangerous? What did that even mean? You’d known about Sukuna’s world since the night you found him in your bathtub, had woven yourself into that same world over the course of four years, and then suddenly he decided to just rip you out? Not because you’d asked him to, but because he decided he knew what was best for you? No conversation, no choice, and no more Sukuna. 

And then he let you self-destruct. 

No, you’re not sure you can forgive him for that.

It doesn’t take long for you to slip into Sukuna’s hoodie. You tell yourself it’s because you’re cold and the hospital’s freezing (it really actually is), but there’s something about the familiar black hoodie that brings you comfort like nothing else. When you’d thought Sukuna dead, you’d don this hoodie while trying to sleep, and you’d pretend the perfectly worn fabric was his embrace. You’d gotten so good at pretending he was the one keeping you warm that you could sometimes feel his arms tightening around you, as if scared to let you go. 

You hate that the hoodie still comforts you now, but more than that, you hate that you crave the real thing now that you know you can have it. 

You’ll never admit it, but wearing Sukuna’s hoodie does help you sleep better. 

Before you open your eyes, you know Sukuna’s back in your room. 

It’s been two days since you sent him away, but according to the nurses, he’s never actually left the hospital. He’d just camped out in different hallways, eating vending machine snacks and chugging cup after cup of crappy cafeteria coffee. Whenever he saw your doctor, he’d ask for an update, but the doctor had refused to give him answers other than vague she’s stables and she’s healings. It gives you a sick satisfaction knowing he’s being choked out of information, knowing he’s dealing with a fraction of what you had. 

But also, you knew that sooner or later, he’d end up back in your room, the volatile mixture of frustration, anger, and desperation pumping through his veins finally getting too much for him to suppress. You knew it was never a question of if, just a question of when. So, when you blink into consciousness to find him sitting in the chair next to your bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, you don’t so much as jump. 

“Have the nurses seen you yet?”

Sukuna does jump at the sound of your voice, his head snapping up so quickly you hear a distinct crack. His swollen eyes find yours… he looks utter shit. The flesh beneath his eyes is sunken and purple, and the rest of his face seems sallow and gaunt. His bottom lip is split in the middle, as if he’s been gnawing on it nonstop. When your gaze drops to his hands, you find the knuckles bloody and raw, and you’re sure there’s a wall in some stairwell somewhere that served as his punching bag. 

“No,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “They’re all busy right after the shift change, so I managed to sneak by.”

“Ah.” You nod, then wince at the way your concussion has you completely destabilized, and Sukuna jumps to his feet. 

“What do you need?”

You wave him off, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. 

“I’m okay,” you mutter, “Just brain-damaged.”

It’s a joke, you think, but neither of you laugh. If anything, Sukuna seems to sink under the weight of your words. He’s in the same clothes from the last time you saw him, and his pale pink hair hangs limply on his head, falling into his eyes.

You don’t like the silence between you two because you don’t know what it means. For the last two days, you’ve been drifting in the currents of oblivion, but clearly, Sukuna hasn’t. His mouth twists in a grimace, like he can’t stand sitting with his own thoughts, and you almost reach out to him, but he’s too far away. 

“My love.”

Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline at those two words. 

My love. 

He’s never called you that before, not even in those fragile moments where he’d been at his softest, letting you hold him in bed while the moon spilled through the window and your nails skated across his scalp. He’d called you plenty of other names, teasing names and precious names, but never that. 

Never my love. 

Whatever is happening now is delicate, and you don’t know who’s more terrified to break it. 

“My love,” he repeats, inhaling as he rubs his palms on his thighs. “I… I betrayed you.”

You breathe in sharply, but Sukuna keeps going like a runaway train. His crimson eyes lock onto yours, and you’ve never seen him so scared. 

“I betrayed you that night. I always thought I’d be able to protect you from my enemies, but that night, I was proved wrong. Seeing you hurt like that… It was my fault. I wasn’t alert enough, I wasn’t strong enough, I wasn’t fast enough… I wasn’t enough to keep you safe.”

He pauses, his fingers trembling against his jeans. 

“I saw you in the hospital,” he says softly. “You looked so broken, and I hated myself—I still do, hate myself—for what I’d gotten you into. I thought the only way to protect you was to remove myself, so I did, and I did it in the only way I knew would keep you from looking for me.”

You almost smile at that, despite the way it feels like a serrated knife to the stomach, because he’s right. If you hadn’t thought him dead, you would’ve torn the world apart looking for him. 

“I stayed close, though,” he continues, and his expression darkens. “You’re right. I did watch you. I watched you every day, waiting for the morning where you’d wake up and realize I wasn’t worth crying over, but you never did. You just got… smaller, and that’s my fault. I did that to you.”

Violence flashes through his eyes, violence in a dance with hatred, and his nails dig into his jeans now, as if he wants to hurt himself at the memories replaying in his mind. Memories of you starving and slipping further into yourself. 

You want to make him feel better, want to soothe the storm inside him, but you don’t. He needs to feel it. You need him to feel it. 

“I thought it was my fault,” you whisper, “I thought I got you killed.”

Sukuna lets out an animalistic sound, something between a growl and a moan, and then he’s at your side, hands grasping yours like a lifeline. 

“You abandoned me, Sukuna.” Fuck, your voice is so small, so brittle. You don’t know how to explain it to him, how to choose the right words to let him know exactly how you hurt because how can you describe something so deep? “You took away my power, my choice in my life.”

“Because you would’ve chosen me!” 

Thwap!

You don’t realize you’ve slapped him until your palm is stinging and his head is jerking left. Your fury from two days ago returns, white hot and all consuming, and it churns with the hurt pounding beneath your rips, causing you to explode like a volcano. 

“Yes!” you hiss, leaning forward, “I would’ve chosen you, you fucking asshole! Because I get to choose you if I want to. If you don’t want to choose me back for whatever pseudohonorable reason, then don’t, but don’t be a god damn coward and just disappear!” Your throat is too raw for this kind of anger, and you know you’re on the cusp of losing your voice, but you just need to finish. To say it all now, while you can. “You made me powerless, Sukuna,” you say, emotion leaking into your words, “and I never thought you would do that to me.”

Slowly, he looks back at you, and the utter devastation written plainly across his features—features you once through too hard, too sharp for such emotion—takes your breath away. He reaches for you, but instead of cradling your face like you expect, he brushes his thumb against your cheek. It comes back wet, and immediately, your own hands go to your face. Sure enough, salt-slick trails descend down to your chin—you didn’t realize you were crying, but at the sight of your tears, a sob wrenches from your lips. 

“Kuna…”

“You were at that bar because of me,” Sukuna says roughly, like the words are scraping the inside of his throat as they come out. “Because I wasn’t there. Because I chose wrong. Because I was wrong. Please—” He stops abruptly, like he’s scared, like he has to force the words out because he’s almost too terrified of what you’ll say. 

“Please,” he repeats, looking at you with a desperation you’ve never seen before. “Please, choose me, because I’m begging for you.” It’s as if whatever you decide, it’s a decision between life and death. And, yeah… it is. 

But you don’t know what to say. You can’t explain it—how much you want to forgive him right now, but how you know that you can’t. You know It can’t be that easy. You deserve your forgiveness to mean something, to be something hard-fought-for. You need to know it's valuable, and you need Sukuna to know, too.

“I don’t—” Your voice breaks, so you stop and take a second to breathe. You’re one misstep away from sobbing, and you can’t right now, not when what you need to say requires a steady voice. “I don’t know how to forgive you.”

He takes your hand and holds it against his face, pressing his reddened cheek into your palm. For a moment, he closes his eyes, and you can’t stop yourself—you let your pointer finger trace the obsidian black lines at the crest of his cheekbone, and Sukuna sighs at the touch. Slowly, his hand comes up to completely cover yours, his rough calluses aligning with your knuckles. 

“Then don’t,” he says finally, opening his eyes. “Don’t forgive me right now. Just… let me try to earn it. Let me try to prove that you can trust me, that I’ll never do anything to hurt you again.” He tilts his chin up and carefully kisses your pointer finger. “Please?”

Before you can answer, there’s a brusque knock on your hospital room door before the nurse rushes in, her gray hair pulled back in a claw clip that matches her matcha green, dinosaur-adorned scrubs. She’s halfway through smiling at you when she sees Sukuna at your bedside, and her beautiful, wrinkled face immediately turns hostile. 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she growls, jabbing a finger towards him. 

Despite being an absolute beast of a man, panic flashes across Sukuna’s face, and you can’t help yourself: you laugh. 

Then, because he was right, you choose him. Because you can. Because despite everything, you want to.

“It’s okay,” you say, brushing Sukuna’s hair back from his face. “He can stay.”

I s2g, that slap came to me in a dream HIT HIM, BITCH!

I have a fluff fic I might write next

@taocee

[sugurusbeloved]

⠀⠀୭ ˖ nerd!jo keeps using your sex toys !⠀ˎˊ˗

the concept of "personal property" is foreign to your roommate. what belongs to him and what belongs to you simply does not exist in the vocabulary of his.

so when you enter your shared apartment after a grueling nine-hour shift, you already recognize the rhythmic buzz echoing down the hallway. it’s the exact same sound you’ve confronted him about three times this month.

you march down the carpeted hallway and throw the bedroom door wide, not even bothered to knock because he certainly didn’t ask permission to breach your space.

and there he is, your thoroughly infuriating, completely shameless roommate, sprawled across your duvet with those absurdly long, pale legs monopolizing the entire mattress. his glasses are askew on his face, the lenses clouded from his own ragged gasps as he rubs your favourite wand's head against his sensitive cockhead—smearing his sticky pre-cum all over.

“gojo!” you snap, your delivery flat and dripping with unadulterated irritation. "you are doing it again?!"

he lacks even the basic decency to look up from his own groin, refusing to acknowledge your presence at the foot of your bed. his chest heaves under an oversized anime t-shirt, hips giving a pathetic, needy little twitch against the mattress as the rattle of the motor continues to pleasure his nerve endings. he rolls his head back into your pillows, letting out a shaky, wet moan that sounds nearly pornographic.

“shh… wait a sec,” he pants, his voice thick and raspy; a world apart from his typically fast-talking cadence that usually annoys the shit out of you. “i'm almost there. don’t be mad, it just… it feels so much better than my hands…”

you’ve had the boundary talks. you’ve threatened to lock your door (which he can bypass anyway). you’re tired, your feet hurt, and the audacity of him sitting in your room, treating your personal drawer like his own candy shop without an ounce of shame, makes your blood boil.

you stride over to the bed, and before his overstimulated brain can register the sudden movement, you reach down and wrench his hand away from his crotch, sending the toy clattering onto the floorboards.

“hey!” he whines, a petulant, spoiled-brat pout instantly forming on his lips as his eyes finally dart up to yours. “i was literally right there! c’mon, that’s just cruel—”

unable to tolerate his dumb whining a second longer, you drop to your knees beside the mattress and clamp your hand around the bottom of his cock with intentional force. before he can even puff at the sudden restriction of his blood flow, you raise your other hand to land a stinging slap directly across the pink flesh of his angry cockhead with a loud smack!

satoru gasps, his spine arching off beautifully as his body spasms from the impact. his vivid blue eyes are now blown wide, blinking rapidly behind his spectacles while a miserable whimper spills from his plush lips. "do you think you can just use my things because you are too lazy to buy your own?"

​to penalize his arrogance further, ensuring the lesson sinks into his imbecile brain, you squeeze your thumb and forefinger around the tender skin beneath the swollen mushroom tip and pinch, using enough force to guarantee a lasting red mark.

the reaction is instantaneous. the agony of the nip, combined with another slap across his aching cock, pushes his nervous system into overload. satoru releases a startled shriek, his hips thrashing desperately as he tries to wrench his hips away from your horrific grip, thighs jerking against the sheets in a futile attempt to escape the blinding pain.

​but your hands are unrelenting, and the torment only accelerates the climax. his cock throbs spastically as if its trying to communicate something using morse code before he erupts.

thick, pearly ropes of cum shoot straight up, splattering across his own flat stomach and the hem of his shirt, dripping down the pale skin of his abs.

“oh god—” he groans, voice cracking as his upper body collapses back into the pillows, the sudden impact knocking his spectacles off his nose to land sideways on the mattress. he looks like a total wreck; his mouth hanging open, a thin strand of saliva bridging his lips as he stares up at you with dazed, dilated pupils that consume his baby blue irises.

even as the intense peak subsides, his hips give one final, weak throb against your hand, and he possesses the sheer nerve to smile—a lazy, unrepentant smirk forming on his stupidly handsome face.

“do… do that again,” he whispers, breathless and shameless as ever, cocking his head like an overly enthusiastic bunny. “slap it again for me...?”

[bibisbia]

— 𝓣𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

main masterlist

𐙚⋆.˚ idol! minho x foreigner staff! fem! reader [ request ]

korean is still extremely hard for you, even after one year being stray kids' staff, and minho is determined to help you

⤷ a/n : one more request for my list >////< i have to admit this one was kinda tricky because i had to test so many apps to translate my thoughts ;□; it was meant to be a headcanon but i got carried away and turned out to be a lil one shot ;) anyway i might have to revise this again later

⤷ contains : + 18 alcohol dirty talking p in v sex cunningulus safe sex (yay use condoms!!) ⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc [ 3.8k ] — tags : @jisungml + @smiileflower

⤷ now playing : stateside by pink pantheress + zara larsson

The studio speakers finally went dead, leaving nothing but the sound of heavy breathing fogging the mirrors on the dance room. Minho didn't drop to the floor like the others, he still stood in the center of the room, pulling the collar of his soaked shirt away from his chest and staring intensely at his own reflection. In the background, Changbin and I.N were already talking about getting food, but his eyes continued fixed on the mirror, tracking the exact second his foot slipped during the bridge.

“민호씨 (Minho-ssi)!” The choreographer called out, waving a tablet.

Before he could take a step, the studio door clicked open. You slipped in, face mostly hidden under a beige cap, keeping your back almost pressed to the wall as you moved toward one of the senior trainers. You bent into a quick, tense bow and whispered something that wasn't korean, the vowels were too soft and the rhythm was completely different.

The trainer didn't look up from her clipboard. She just let out a sharp sigh, rolled her eyes, and barked a dry “그래 (Sure).”

You bit your lip, your fingers twitching against the strap of your hoodie. Without another word, you turned and practically bolted out the door. Minho watched the door click shut, his brows knitting together.

By midnight, the building was mostly dark as Minho finally gathered his gym bag, sneakers squeaking loudly in the desert hallway. Near the exit, one last group of female staff members passed him, their tired faces lighting up while they offered quick bows.

“수고하셨습니다, 민호씨 (Good work, Minho-ssi).”

“조심히 들어가세요. 수고하셨습니다. (Please be careful on your way out. Thank you for your hard work.),” he replied, giving them a small nod.

As their giggles faded down the street, probably towards the nearest bar, the lobby went quiet again. When he noticed a silent shadow tucked near the vending machines.

It was the same beige cap from earlier, but this time you were sitting on a low stool, face buried behind a black mask, staring so hard at your phone that you didn't hear him approach. Minho stopped a step away, tilting his head to look over your shoulder. On the screen, a picture of a blue coastline flashed next to a text cursor of some korean-learning app, where your thumb hovered over the keyboard a bit hesitant.

“해안 (coastline),” Minho said into the quiet space.

You jumped on your seat, the phone nearly slipping through your fingers before you caught it against your chest.

“The word,” Minho pointed a nonchalant finger at the screen, completely unbothered by startling you. “You are new here? Never saw you.”

“Ah…” You pulled your mask down slightly, your voice a little shaky. “I am... stylist assistant. One year. Just small gigs.”

“Stylist assistant?” Minho tilted his head, absorbing the foreign language he also didn’t feel quite used to after all those years. “Cool. One year is... a long time.”

“네 (Yes),” you muttered, looking down at your hands. “하지만 한국어는 (But korean)… still very hard for me.”

“Oh, Felix too,” Minho shrugged, his sharp features softening into a casual smirk and a light chuckle. “He makes mistakes every day. It's okay.”

Headlights cut through the glass doors of the lobby, painting the walls white. A black cab pulled up to the curb outside, you glanced at your phone, hastily grabbing your clothes’ bag from the floor.

“I need to go. 수고하셨습니다 (Thank you for your hard work),” you said in a rush with a shy smile, throwing a clumsy bow before jogging out into the night.

Minho stood in the empty lobby for a moment, the heavy glass doors swinging shut as he let out a quiet breath, an amused smile spreading over his face at the sound of your adorable accent that still lingered inside his head.

—

With the release of a new comeback, over the next few weeks, Stray Kids operated in a clocked schedule of photo shoots, dance practices, and clothing fittings. But even through the hectic pace that took over the days ahead, he could always find you on the sidelines, working hard but lingering your eyes a bit too long on him before another staff called you out.

Whenever the last member wrapped up the day or the staff organized the few remaining equipment, you’d be there, untangling wardrobe racks or waiting on late-night shipments, and Minho would still be waiting for you under the fluorescent lights every night.

He didn't really like doing small talk, but he couldn’t deny how much he felt delighted by your cute reactions towards his presence, when he'd just walk up, tap something with his foot or finger, and wait for your response.

“목걸이 (Necklace),” he said one night, flicking the silver chain dangling from his neck.

“Moggeoli,” you tried a bit hesitant, your tongue tripping over the double consonant.

For a moment Minho stared at the shape of your mouth, licking his own lips to the thought of it against his. “목. 걸. 이. Again.”

“Mok... geol... i?”

“그치 (That’s it),” he would mutter as his eyes crinkled at the corners with a proud smile.

When your korean hit a wall, you'd shove your translator app in his face and Minho would read the overly formal text, make a disgusted face, then say some short english words and explain to you how people actually talked in Korea. He could be a bit blunt, not care much about grammar rules, but he never ran out of patience with you.

By the end of the month, the entire JYP building felt like a rush to finish up the last adjustments for the showcase that was less than twenty four hours away. It was past midnight again when you dropped onto a metal bench in the hallway, completely spent after packing away dozens of heavy boot boxes. Your brain felt completely fried from a solid twelve hours of trying to decode so many korean styling directions and tasks.

“Ah!” You flinched as a freezing water bottle pressed against your cheek.

Minho was standing over you, swallowed up by a black hoodie a few sizes bigger than him, his hair still slightly damp from the last practice. He looked completely wired, his eyes bright with that restless energy as he slid onto the bench next to you, keeping a bit of space between you, but close enough that you could feel his intoxicating scent wrapping around you.

“Today... very hard work,” Minho said with his voice a bit husky from fatigue, tilting his head toward you. “괜찮아 (All right)?”

“괜찮아요 (All right),” you sighed, letting your shoulders drop as you offered a tired smile. “Just... my brain is…” you mimicked a small explosion with your hands.

Minho let out a breathless laugh. “Me too. Choreo today... crazy.” He leaned his head back against the concrete wall, staring blankly at the hallway ceiling. Neither of you spoke for a few minutes, the silence didn't feel awkward anymore, it was just the quiet of two people who had survived the same long day.

When his stomach suddenly let out a loud growl, getting you to turn and look at him with a worried expression. But Minho didn't even look embarrassed, he just tilted his head with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Ah, I’m so hungry,” he muttered, shifting his weight and turning his body fully toward you and resting his elbow on the back of the bench. “You free tonight?” He spoke slowly, using his hand to emphasize the words. “Members at home, so…” He pointed a finger at you, then at himself. “Me. You. Ramyeon.”

You blinked. “Are you asking me out for dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner.” He nodded firmly, sensing the language barrier might need a bridge, he pulled his phone out, thumbs typing quickly across the screen before turning it toward you where the translator read: I know a really good place near here where the staff won't bother us. I can teach you the food vocabulary.

Your heart gave a sudden and unexpected flutter when you looked up from the screen, his usual playful smirk was gone, replaced by a surprisingly soft and genuine expression.

—

The restaurant was mostly empty, tucked away on a dark corner where you didn't have to worry about anyone recognizing him. Minho picked a table in the furthest booth, away from the small crowd near the counter. Over steaming bowls of ramyeon and a few drinks, the constant pull to check your phone translator faded, somehow with enough patience and fragmented phrases, the words just made sense.

Outside, the heavy and humid air from the past few days started to shift, low thunders rumbled across the sky and the imminence of a storm settled in Seoul. Rain started lashing against the restaurant’s glass windows, but inside, under the low yellow lights of the booth, the only thing keeping your attention was the relaxed smile on Minho’s face.

After each shared giggle, the heat of the burning soup and the kick of the alcohol began to catch up with you, loosening your tongue when his piercing eyes landed on you.

“You know… your voice is so cute in korean,” you smirked, twirling some noodles on your chopsticks. “It feels almost easy when you speak.”

“그래 (Really)?” Minho murmured, his voice dropped into a velvety, playful tone. He didn't reach for his phone this time, letting the foreign, melodic syllables just hang in the warm space between you.

“네 (Yes).” You bit your lower lip, trying to press down the growing smile curling on your mouth as your pulse started to hammer harder against your ribs.

“너 한국어 할 때 진짜 귀여워. 가끔 연습할 때 너 보느라 집중 안 돼 (You're also really cute when you speak korean. Sometimes when I'm practicing, I can't concentrate because I'm watching you).” He leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto your lips before rising to meet your gaze. He reached across the small table, his long fingers gently playing with the sensitive skin just below your ear to tuck a strand of hair behind it.

“That’s not fair,” you blinked confused at the shift you couldn’t decode. “You're cheating. Translate it.”

Minho let out a low chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. Instead of reaching for his phone, he slid along the booth, closing the distance between you until his lips slightly brushed the shell of your ear. His hot breath sent a dizzy spike of heat straight down your spine.

“우리 집으로 가자. 내가 너한테 뭘 하고 싶은지 직접 보여줄게 (Let's go to my place. I'll show you exactly what I want to do to you).”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a possessive heat that left absolutely no doubt about his intentions, even without the translation.

“What did you say?” Your voice came out in a quiet, uneven breath. “Translate. Now.”

Minho’s boyish, teasing smirk returned, he leaned in and pressed a faint kiss right to the corner of your mouth.

“I said,” Minho murmured in english, his voice returning to that polite cadence, though the fire in his eyes didn't waver for a second, “that the weather is weird and we should go to my house.”

—

The front door had barely clicked shut behind you before the skies were torn open outside, the sound of torrential rain hammering the windows in Minho’s apartment. You were both utterly drenched, water dripping from your hair and pooling around your sneakers. Without a word, he disappeared for a second, returning to drape a plush towel over your head and pointing down the short hallway.

“Bathroom. Warm shower. Go.”

He left a neat pile of clothes on the counter for you. When you finally stepped out of the fogged bathroom, his already oversized black t-shirt draped all the way down to your thighs, while the sweatpants hung far too low onto your hips, the drawstring pulled as tight as it could go.

The living room was quiet, save for the low murmur of the TV broadcasting a weather warning about the storm. You sat on the floor, waiting for your damp hair to dry, awkwardly feeling the heavy buzz of the alcohol wash away as you drank a large glass of water, that left you intensely aware of the kiss at the restaurant and the fact you were currently wearing his clothes in his apartment.

The soft padding of bare feet broke the quiet. Minho walked into the room, his own hair damp and messy, and slid down onto the floor beside you, resting his back against the base of the couch.

You stared down at your fingers, suddenly unsure of what to say. “Thanks,” you mumbled under your breath, keeping your eyes on your lap. “For the clothes... and the dinner... and everything you did for me.”

Minho offered a quick glance, sitting with his legs slightly spread, one knee pulled up closer to his chest, the other leg extended as his thigh almost brushed against yours. Scratching the back of his neck, a rare, genuinely shy smile touched his mouth.

“It's okay,” he said softly.

Silence stretched through the apartment, making the space feel entirely isolated from the storm outside, he shifted again and his body heat pressed closer as he leaned closer to you.

“I can... teach other things too,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave, “나 지금 너 진짜 필요해 (I really need you right now).” His warm breath fanned directly over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a sharp shiver down your spine. “Try it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart instantly pounding against your ribs even faster than before. “What does it mean, Minho?”

“Say it,” he countered, his dark eyes locking onto yours with unblinking focus. “And I will tell.”

“Na jigeum neo jinjja… pilyohae,” you repeated. The syllables felt stiff on your tongue, completely unattached to any meaning in your brain, but you forced them out anyway.

“It means,” Minho’s large hand reached up, his fingers cradling the back of your head and tilting it slightly to the side. “I really need you right now.”

Before the translation could fully register, he leaned across the small gap between you. His lips planted a soft, lingering kiss just under your ear, tracing a slow line down your jawline until he reached your parted lips. The kiss started slow and hesitant, almost as if he were trying to find a way to translate how good it felt to touch you without using words at all.

But the hesitation didn't last, it deepened rapidly, turning into a breathless rhythm as your tongues tangled in a wet embrace of pure need. Your hands went up to his broad shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie as you pulled him closer, sinking entirely into him. At that moment, you didn't want to pull apart and risk hearing any more of the foreign language that had isolated you for the past year, not when it finally made perfect sense.

Minho was the one to break the kiss, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. He was panting, lips already twitching to press back against yours, but he stopped himself, holding your face firmly between his palms.

“계속 키스해줘 (Keep kissing me),” he breathed out raggedly against your swollen lips, his thumb wiping away a trace of moist from your chin. “Say it.”

“Gyesog kiseuhaejwo,” you whispered instantly.

“Keep kissing me.”

His palms slid to the sides of your face, angling your head as he bruised your lips again. The pace was urgent, sucking and biting at your lower lip, drawing a needy moan from the back of your throat. He pulled back again just far enough to look down at you, his pupils completely dilated and dark with heat.

“Want more?”

“Uhm,” you breathed, unable to form any coherent word or thought.

“Say 더 해줘 (Do more).”

“Deo haejwo,” you promptly repeated, your hands tugging him back down to you.

Minho let out a rough chuckle, hands sliding down to your waist as he pulled you directly onto his lap. The hard line of his growing manhood pressed firmly against you through the soft fabric of his sweatpants as he dragged his lips across your flushed cheek, his voice a soft murmur against your skin.

“더 해줄까 (Should I do more)?” He chuckled.

You didn't understand a single syllable, but the friction felt so good you didn't even care. You just leaned into his touch, your mouth seeking his as he captured your lips in another bruising kiss.

“느낌 너무 좋아 (This feels too good),” he muttered against your mouth. The casual and cute tone he used with the other staff members was entirely gone, replaced by a low rumble that vibrated deep in his chest and sent a wave of shivers down your spine as he ground his hips up against yours.

With a swift movement, his large hands wrapped under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly into his arms before laying your back down onto the soft cushions of the sofa. He let out a ragged exhale, his gaze completely focused on you as he gave a light tap to the inside of your bent knees.

“다리 벌려봐. 힘 빼고 (Spread your legs. Relax).”

You instinctively followed his order, spreading your legs open for him. A satisfied smile touched his lips, his fingers hooked into the waistband of the oversized sweatpants, slowly pulling them down over your hips along with your underwear, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. With a gentle but unyielding tug, he slid the hem of the shirt up your torso, exposing your perked up nipples underneath the fabric.

A sudden wave of shyness hit you and you started to close your legs again, Minho paused, a single eyebrow arching as he looked down at you. He brushed the tip of his finger against your jaw, silently commanding you to look into his eyes, before trailing that single finger down the center of your breasts, past your stomach, and directly over your damp core.

“잘하네, 착하지 (You’re doing well, good girl),” he mumbled against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You could see the heavy distortion of his bulge in his gray sweatpants, but he took his time, sliding his fingers over your slick skin before easily pushing two digits deep inside you. A few pumps later and a breathy moan escaped your throat, your hips instinctively arching into his touch.

But Minho pulled his hand back, the sudden loss of friction making you whimper wanting more. He reached up, pulling his own hoodie over his head in one fluid motion to reveal the toned lines of his chest and shoulders. With an impatient push, he stripped out of his pants, finally freeing his hard length that now hung stiffly in front of him. Completely uncovered, he loomed over you, his member giving a slight throb as his eyes tracked the way your thighs clutched at the air.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which lay discarded on the floor beside the couch, and tore open a condom wrapper, rolling it on quickly over his veiny shaft. Leaning back over your chest, he settled his weight between your thighs, aligning his round tip right at your entrance.

A small, anxious whimper left your lips, desperate to feel him inside you as he dragged his length with a stretch through your folds, your brain scrambled through the few korean phrases you actually knew, trying to patch together something from your previous lessons.

“Ah... 느낌 좋아요 (it feels good),” you whispered, voice trembling at the overwhelming sensations under your skin.

He let out a soft chuckle, the heavy tension in his shoulders melting as he pulled you flush against his bare chest, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, slowly sinking all the way inside you.

“Why so polite?” he murmured, his breath hot against your collarbone as your warm, gummy walls opened to accommodate him. “Just say 좋아 (It's good).”

“좋아,” you gasped out, a breathless moan tearing from your throat as he began to move, his full girth making you fully aware of just how strong and manly he actually was beneath his usual baggy clothes. “더 해줘 (Do it more).”

“귀엽다 (so cute)... you learn so fast,” he murmured against your skin, a praise that felt like a caress, before blocking out the rest of the world by pressing another wet kiss over your parted lips.

“너 정말 꽉 조이네 (You’re so tight),” Minho groaned, his voice dropping into a ragged, low groan.

You had absolutely no idea what he’d been mumbling for the past few minutes, but the way his hips stuttered told you everything you needed to know. Your walls were clamping down impossibly tight around his length, catching every heavy friction of his thrusts.

“정말 미치게 하네 (You’re seriously driving me crazy).”

Another helpless moan broke from your lips when he suddenly lifted his torso, his large hands anchoring firmly onto your hips to angle himself deeper. He bit his lower lip hard, his eyelids fluttering shut as a violent shudder rolled through his entire body, sending the heat straight into yours.

“나 더는 못 참겠어. 너 진짜... 너무 좋아. (I can't take it anymore. You really... so good).”

With a dominant grip on your waist, he delivered a few more perfectly angled thrusts, his length throbbing maddeningly against your most sensitive spots until a sudden, burning tension struck both of your bodies at once. You cried out, a high-pitched yelp escaping your throat as your core tightly convulsed around him.

With one final, deep thrust, Minho buried his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was burning against your skin, panting more unintelligible groans until his entire body went rigid, a wave of intense pleasure taking over as he shot all of his warm load inside the latex.

The frantic pace slowly ground to a halt, leaving only the sound of your uneven breathing as Minho wrapped his arms around your waist and shifted his weight, pulling you along with him as he rolled onto his back on the couch. You collapsed directly onto his chest, your skin slick with a thin coat of shared sweat, his heartbeat was a wild, erratic thumping against your cheek.

Slowly, his fingers began to thread through your damp hair, the gentle, constant motion letting you drift toward a heavy slumber after such an exhausting day. But just as your eyes started to flutter shut, he hooked two fingers under your chin and tilted your face up to force you to look at him again.

A wide and teasing smirk spread across his face, his eyes crinkling with that familiar, playful malice. Before you could even blink, he reached down and gave your bare ass a light pinch on the soft flesh.

“Ah!” You flinched, instantly awake.

“아직 안 끝났어, 바보야 (It's not over yet, dummy),” Minho chuckled, his voice still husky but dripping with mischief. He tapped your chin playfully, switching back to his accented english. “Tutoring only finishes when the teacher says finish.”

the images aren't mine! all rights reserved to © bibisbia, 2026. please do not claim, translate, copy or modify any of my works as your own. reblogs are appreciated! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[drkbl00d]

⧼ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ʙʀᴇᴇᴢᴇ⧽ ─── 西村 力

while you're on holiday, your boyfriend finds you in the pool, not next to him in bed.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: 𝓷ishimura riki x 𝓯!reader

⤷ drabble (0.5k) fluff, established relationship, skinship, mention of nudity, little suggestive towards the end, not proofread ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ

ʟɪɴ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: a little something for you while i'm absent <3 i wrote this on my way back home from studying, my dollie and i are going crazy over these pictures (that woman always got my back im so blessed)

the soft breeze brushes over riki, causing a waking chill to spread over his arms. blindly, he reaches for you — soft pillows leaving him empty handed. 

creaking one eye open, he scans the room. but there's only a neatly made bed staring back him. he grumbles, slowly turned onto his back, hands rubbing his sleep filled eyes. 

the low morning sun tells him it's still early, most of the world still asleep. he props himself up, looking out the big window. the blue sea sparkles right back at him, but so does something else. 

you, floating on your back of the pool surface. 

for a moment he just looks at you, the way your hair moves in the water, the slow rise and fall of your chest. 

quietly, he makes his way outside.  

"what are you doing up so early, pretty?"

your eyes open, instantly locking with his. you spin in the water, swimming over the edge. 

"dunno, just didn't wanna sleep anymore. and you snore." 

riki scoffs, dipping his foot into the water to splash you. he bends down and you meet him halfway, pushing yourself up by the arms. 

you both stop millimetres before each others lips.

"hi." you whisper.

"hi, pretty." 

with one soft motion he captures your lips, hand landing to the usual spot on your cheek.

"aren't you scared someone's gonna see you swim naked out here?" he mumbles out between little pecks.

"no ones awake yet and they can't really see me floating here anyways. come join me."

you take his hands, softly leaning back in the water. and of course he complies.

the second he's in the water his long arms find your waist, pressing you against him. your head lulls against his collarbone, body growing limb in his arms. a soft sigh escapes you and he chuckles.

"comfy?"

you nod, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. little goosebumps spread and you giggle, tracing his soft skin. 

"i'm so glad we could do this."

you lift your head, locking eyes with him again. 

"you mean the holiday?"

"yea," he hums. "been dying to spend some time with you, just you."

his confession so simple, yet your heart swells. 

you thread your fingers through his hair, blonde strands soft to the touch. at the feeling of your nails on his scalp he lets out the purrs you love oh so dearly. 

"feels nice?" 

a purr of response. his hands on your waist moving softly up and down your side.

it's such a simple moment, so domestic and pure. the soft sound water lapping over the edge and his purrs the only thing you hear.

"is this a bad moment to mention that i think i'm getting hard?"

"riki!" you scoff, splashing him in the face. 

he gives you an apologetic look, "i'm sorry baby, i really didn't mean to but i just woke up and were in this pool naked."

you roll your eyes, escaping his firm grip, but still reaching for his hands. 

"come on then, i'll help you out."

he tugs you back with a small shake of his head. 

"no, you stay right here."

you tilt your head in confusion, but he only gives you a wicked grin before diving underwater.

ᴇɴʜʏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @saeivra @shawnyle @kookiesnkim @itsnotawrongnumber @shaiimuraaa @yelihusband @chaebbys @feedrinplz @twerkispeak @noirellee @wonscapes @tamedhoon @enlov3vampxo @simplyangelixa (comment or send me an ask if you want to be tagged or removed <33)

[rikiiholic]

Ruined - n.rk

if I fall in love with you then this love will destroy me

pairings: mafia leader riki! x reader

synopsis: Riki wasn't the type to fall in love. He knew better—it was a distraction, a danger, a straight line to his own ruin. But never say never. after he came across his enemies daughter, he knew he was completely undone.

Genre: dark romance, mafia au, fluff, suggestive

warnings: trauma, bloodshed, guns, very suggestive, very typical mafia story, smoking, kissing, drinking, the boys are at a strip club for a mission in the beginning, mentions of losing someone dear, I think that's all! Lmk if I missed anything.

wc: 18.2k

"I'm scanning the area now," Sunoo’s voice crackled through the earpiece. "He looks like he’s in one of the private rooms." A sharp pause followed, followed by a theatrical groan. "Ugh, never mind. He’s undressing her. Disgusting." Across the comms, the other five boys winced at his collective gag.

"Count me out," Jake muttered, leaning back. "I’m not watching a live show." Riki shot the rest of the room a look of pure exasperation. "Grow up. You're all acting like virgins. No one is sitting out—we all go in."

The club was choked with cheap neon, loud bass, and drunk, married men—cowards who preferred paying for attention to facing their failing lives at home. Slipping through the crowd, the boys readied their weapons, keeping them concealed as they neared the private hallway.

With a single, heavy strike, Riki kicked the door open.

Ryan and the dancer jolted, freezing in terror. The girl scrambled back, suddenly painfully aware of the armed men crowding the doorway. "Are you done?" Riki asked, his voice deadpan and icy.

"Who the hell are you?" Ryan stammered.

Before he could even finish the sentence, Riki lunged forward, fist bunching into Ryan's loose shirt. He dragged him off the bed and slammed him against the floor. "Someone who is going to end your life right here if you don't tell me where your boss took my sister."

Ryan’s eyes went wide as the color drained from his face. He knew this day would come. "I don't know where she is! I swear, I promise!"

Riki let out a harsh, humorless scoff. "Your promise doesn't mean shit to me." Tightening his grip on Ryan's collar, he leaned in, his voice dropping an octave—low, lethal, and entirely devoid of patience. "Where is he?"

Ryan shook his head violently, tears of panic brimming in his eyes. "I don't know! But—but I know he has a daughter. She means the world to him. If... if you take her, he'll surrender. He'll give you your sister back just to keep her safe."

Riki froze. The fury in his eyes shifted, hardening into something cold, calculating, and infinitely more dangerous.

"Where is this daughter of his?" Riki asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Ryan hesitated, his jaw locked in terror. Before he could even think about staying silent, the sharp, metallic click of a gun echoed through the room. Sunghoon stepped forward, pressing the cold barrel directly against Ryan’s temple.

"Where is she, little boy?" Sunghoon murmured, his eyes empty of mercy.

Ryan gulped, the hard steel biting into his skin as all his resolve evaporated.

"She—she goes to a university campus on the north side," Ryan stammered, the metal of Sunghoon’s gun leaving a red indent against his skin. "She lives in an off-campus apartment. Alone. Security is light during the week."

Sunghoon didn't lower the weapon. He looked over at Riki, waiting for the word.

Riki stood up slowly, wiping Ryan's sweat off his hands onto his jeans. The initial blind fury that had driven him into the club was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating focus. If this man took his sister, he would take his most prized possession in return.

"Get the address from him," Riki ordered, turning his back on Ryan as if the man were already dead. He looked at the rest of the boys crowded in the doorway. "Jake, get the car ready. Sunoo, I want eyes on that apartment complex before we even touch the perimeter."

"On it," Sunoo replied, already tapping away at his phone to pull up the campus blueprints.

Riki stepped out of the suffocating, neon-lit room and into the dim hallway of the club. His chest tightened at the thought of his sister, but a new, dark resolve took over. He didn't care who this girl was, what she looked like, or how innocent she might be in her father's war.

She was his leverage now.

The soft lo-fi beat playing from your laptop was the only thing keeping you awake. Your desk was a chaotic battlefield of highlighters, sticky notes, and half-empty coffee mugs. Outside, the night was perfectly still, the quiet streets of the north-side campus completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding across town.

You rubbed your tired eyes, leaning back in your chair and staring at the textbook open in front of you.

Just two more chapters, you promised yourself, glancing at the clock on your phone. It was past midnight. If I pass this midterm tomorrow, I can sleep for a week.

Your dad had called earlier in the evening—a short, tense conversation where he reminded you, for the hundredth time, to keep your doors locked. You had laughed it off, teasing him about being overly protective. You were safe here. The apartment complex was quiet, your neighbors were mostly sleepy design students, and nothing ever happened on this side of town.

Unbeknownst to you, miles away, a black SUV was already tearing down the highway, cutting through the dark toward your building.

You stood up to stretch, padding over to your small kitchen to pour another glass of water. As you passed the window, you caught your reflection in the glass. You looked exhausted, completely consumed by the mundane stress of a college exam.

You had no idea that a girl you had never met was missing. You had no idea who Riki was. And you certainly didn't know that right now, your name was being whispered in the dark by five men who were about to shatter your quiet world forever.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside your front door.

You paused, glass halfway to your mouth, and listened.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You held your breath, eyes locked on the deadbolt of your front door.

It’s just an old building, you told yourself, a nervous chuckle catching in your throat. The pipes click. The wood expands. It's fine.

You forced your feet to move, setting the water glass down on the counter with a soft clink. But as you turned back toward your desk, the soft lo-fi music coming from your laptop abruptly cut out. The screen flickered, a strange line of code flashing across the display before the entire device went completely black.

Then, the overhead lights died.

The sudden darkness was absolute, leaving only the weak moonlight filtering through your sheer curtains. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your chest. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs. You lunged for your phone on the desk, but the screen wouldn't light up. The battery was full, yet it was completely dead.

They had cut the power.

Before you could even scream, the heavy wood of your front door didn't just open—it splintered.

The sound of the deadbolt snapping echoed like a gunshot in the small apartment. Shadows flooded into your entryway, tall, imposing, and moving with terrifying coordination. You scrambled backward, knocking over your desk chair as you tried to find a weapon, a hiding place, anything.

"Clear the rooms," a low, smooth voice commanded from the dark.

"She's right there," another voice murmured.

A flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, blinding you. You blocked your eyes with your arm, backing up until your spine hit the kitchen counter. "Who are you? What do you want? I have money, just—"

"We don't want your money," a third voice interrupted. It was deeper, colder, and sent a shiver straight down your spine.

As your eyes adjusted to the glare of the flashlight, you could make out the silhouettes of five men closing in on you. One of them stepped forward, stepping directly into the moonlight.

It was Riki.

His eyes were completely devoid of warmth as they swept over your terrified form, taking in your oversized sweater, your trembling hands, and the sheer confusion on your face. For a fraction of a second, his gaze lingered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his sharp features.

But just as quickly, his expression hardened back into ice.

You tried to push past him, but your hands only met the solid, unyielding wall of his chest.

"What— No! Do you know who my dad—"

Riki cut you off rudely, his hand instantly clamping around your wrist with a grip like steel. "I know exactly who your dad is, and frankly, I don't give a fuck."

The sheer malice in his voice made you freeze. He stepped closer, crowding you against the kitchen counter until you could feel the dangerous warmth radiating off him, completely contrasting his icy stare.

"Sunghoon, grab her coat," Riki ordered, not taking his eyes off you for a single second. "It’s freezing outside, and I don’t need her dying of hypothermia before we get what we want."

"Please," you choked out, terror finally loosening your vocal cords as tears stung the corners of your eyes. "You're making a mistake. I don't have anything to do with whatever my dad did."

A dark, humorless smile touched Riki's lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're his daughter. That makes you his greatest asset—and my perfect leverage."

Before you could scream for help, a heavy jacket was thrown over your shoulders, and Riki yanked you forward, forcing you to move with him toward the splintered doorway. The other four boys formed a tight perimeter around you, their silent, lethal presence making it explicitly clear that running was not an option.

The backseat of the SUV was suffocatingly quiet. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal as Jake navigated the dark, winding roads away from your campus.

They hadn't blindfolded you. They hadn't tied your wrists or held you down. In a strange way, that made it worse—it meant they weren't afraid of what you saw, because they knew you had absolutely nowhere to run.

Instead, you were trapped in the crushing weight of Riki’s gaze.

He sat directly across from you, leaning back against the leather seat with a terrifyingly casual posture. But his eyes were doing all the work. He examined you slowly, deliberately—from the nervous way you bit your lip to the slight tremble in your hands hidden beneath the oversized coat. Every time your eyes met his, he sent you a threatening, heavy glare. It was a silent promise of violence, a warning drilled into your head so you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was not someone to mess with.

"She's quiet," Sunoo remarked from the front passenger seat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. "Expected her to scream more."

"She's smart enough to know it wouldn't change anything," Riki replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet car. He didn't break eye contact with you as he spoke. "Right?"

You swallowed hard, pressing your back deeper into the seat, unable to look away from the lethal boy who now held your life in his hands.

You didn't answer. You just squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the suffocating intensity of his stare, but you could still feel his eyes burning into you.

The SUV finally slowed down, turning off the paved road onto a gravel path. The tires crunched loudly in the quiet night before the car came to a smooth halt. Through the tinted window, you could see the dark silhouette of a massive, secluded estate hidden deep within the trees. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.

"We're here," Jake announced, killing the engine.

The heavy silence of the car shattered as the doors opened. Sunghoon got out first, scanning the perimeter out of pure habit, while Riki slid closer to you. He grabbed your upper arm—not enough to bruise, but firm enough to let you know he wasn't letting go—and pulled you out into the biting night air.

Your knees wobbled the second your sneakers hit the gravel, the adrenaline finally wearing off and leaving you weak. Riki caught you before you could fall, his grip tightening.

"Walk," he muttered against your ear, his breath warm against the cold skin of your neck.

He guided you through the side entrance of the estate, down a flight of concrete stairs that led into a heavily reinforced basement. It wasn't a dungeon, but it was far from comfortable. The room was large, containing a single bed, a chair, and a heavy iron door with a digital keypad lock on the outside.

Riki gently but firmly pushed you inside. The other boys lingered in the hallway, watching the exchange in silence.

"This is your home until your father decides to give back what he stole from me," Riki said, stepping backward toward the threshold.

You finally found your courage, taking a step toward him. "How long is that going to take?" your voice cracked, desperate and small. "What if he doesn't—"

"He will," Riki interrupted, his expression turning completely unreadable as he stared at you under the harsh fluorescent light. For a brief second, his eyes softened as he took in your disheveled, terrified state, but the wall went right back up. "And if he doesn't... well, let's hope he cares about you as much as Ryan said he does."

Before you could say another word, he stepped out, and the heavy iron door slammed shut, the electronic lock clicking into place with a definitive, terrifying snap.

You stood there for a moment, listening to the echo of his footsteps fade down the concrete hallway. Once the silence returned, you let out a sharp, disbelief-filled scoff, violently brushing a layer of basement dust off your sleeves.

"Rude bastard," you muttered to the empty room. "Could've at least had some manners."

Your fear was still there, a tight knot in the pit of your stomach, but your initial panic was fast being replaced by a strange, fiery spark of irritation. And beneath that irritation, a completely unexpected feeling started to take root: intrigue.

Your entire life, people had looked at you with a mix of fear and forced politeness. Everyone knew who your father was. Men twice your age trembled at the mere mention of his name, and anyone who ever approached you did so with extreme caution, terrified of the consequences.

But Riki? Riki had looked at you like you were nothing more than an inconvenience. He had cut you off, dragged you out of your apartment, and openly admitted he didn't give a single fuck about your dad’s reputation.

For the first time in your life, you were dealing with someone who wasn't afraid of the monster that ruled your world.

A slow, cynical smile touched your lips as you turned to look at the sparse bed. Well, you thought, walking over and tossing your borrowed coat onto the mattress, this is definitely going to be interesting.

The relentless glare of the fluorescent light overhead made it impossible to tell when night turned into day. You had managed to drift into a fitful, restless sleep, curling up on the sparse mattress with Riki’s heavy jacket draped over you for warmth. It smelled faintly of expensive cologne, rain, and leather—a scent that had completely filled your senses until you finally passed out.

The loud, metallic clank of the electronic keypad clearing woke you with a start.

You bolted upright, kicking the jacket aside as the heavy iron door swung open.

Riki stepped into the room. The cold, dangerous aura from the night before hadn't faded, but he looked different in the morning light filtering down from the hallway. He had changed into a clean black sweater, his dark hair slightly damp, and in his hands, he carried a porcelain mug and a small paper bag.

He stopped a few feet from the bed, his sharp eyes instantly tracking your movement as you scrambled back against the wall, fixing him with a glare.

"You're awake," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that suggested he hadn't slept much either.

"Hard to sleep when you've been kidnapped by a giant jerk," you snapped back, your voice laced with all the morning attitude you could muster.

Riki paused, one eyebrow arching in slight surprise at your tone. Most people in your position would be begging or crying. He took a slow step closer, setting the mug and the bag down on the small table next to the bed. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries instantly filled the damp room.

"Keep that attitude up and I'll skip the breakfast next time," Riki replied smoothly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. He looked down at you, that same intense, calculating gaze from the car ride returning. "Your dad hasn't answered my calls yet. He's playing dumb."

You scoffed, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, refusing to let him intimidate you today. "Of course he is. He thinks he's untouchable. Everyone treats him like a god." You looked up, locking eyes with him, a challenging spark in your expression. "But you don't care about that, do you?"

Riki didn't answer right away. He just stared at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were trying to figure out if you were genuinely brave or just incredibly stupid. The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded, until a dark, slow smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

"Treat him like a god?" Riki repeated, taking a step away from the wall. He walked closer, stopping just inches from where you sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned down, bringing himself to your eye level, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes. "Gods can bleed. And your dad is about to find out how easily he bleeds if he doesn't give me back what's mine."

You swallowed hard, the proximity making your heart do a strange, treacherous flip. Up close, you could see the sharp, lethal perfection of his features, the dangerous intensity that made him feel less like a captor and more like a storm you couldn't escape.

"You're confident," you murmured, refusing to back down, your voice a challenge despite the racing of your pulse.

"I'm impatient," Riki corrected coldly, straightening back up to his full, imposing height. He kicked the small table closer to you with the toe of his boot. "Eat. I don't need you starving on my watch. We're moving you upstairs in an hour—the boys think the basement is too depressing for a princess."

He turned on his heel, his long strides taking him back toward the heavy iron door.

"Hey," you called out before you could stop yourself.

Riki paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder, his dark silhouette cutting off the light from the hallway. "What?"

"The coffee," you said, gesturing to the steaming mug. "Is it poisoned?"

Riki let out a low, dry chuckle—the first real sound of amusement you'd heard from him. "If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, I wouldn't waste the caffeine."

With that, he stepped out, and the door slammed shut behind him.

His response made you smile a bit, a small, genuine huff of laughter escaping your lips. You shook your head, reaching for the steaming mug. This may have been a high-stakes, life-or-death hostage situation, but you couldn't deny it—the guy was funny. In a dark, twisted, incredibly aggravating sort of way.

The coffee was surprisingly good, hot and rich, and the pastry was still warm. As you ate, you found your eyes wandering back to the heavy black jacket he’d left behind on the bed. You reached out, running your fingers over the smooth leather. He was a criminal, a kidnapper, and your father's sworn enemy... but he was also the most fascinating thing to ever crash into your structured, suffocating life.

An hour passed quicker than you expected. You had just finished the last bite of the pastry when the electronic lock chimed again.

This time, the door swung open to reveal Sunoo leaning casually against the frame, a bright, almost playful grin on his face that entirely mismatched the fact that he was guarding a prisoner.

"Alright, princess," Sunoo said, tilting his head toward the hallway. "Time's up. Riki said to bring you upstairs, and trust me, the living room has a way better view than this dungeon."

"I'd hope so, my back was hurting while I was sleeping, i'm too young to have back pain you know?"

Sunoo let out a dramatic gasp, his hand flying to his chest in mock offense. "Oh, absolutely not. We cannot have the hostage getting back pain. Riki would kill us if you broke before your dad even called back."

He stepped aside, gesturing for you to lead the way out of the cell. "Come on. Let’s get you to a couch before you start complaining about arthritis."

You grabbed Riki’s heavy leather jacket, throwing it over your shoulders as you walked past Sunoo into the hallway. He didn't try to grab you or push you; instead, he just walked a step behind, escorting you up a grand, winding staircase that led out of the concrete basement and into the main floor of the estate.

The moment you stepped into the living room, your eyes widened.

The space was massive, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over miles of thick, secluded forest. It was minimalist, expensive, and drenched in morning sunlight. Sitting on a massive plush sofa in the center of the room were Jake and Sunghoon, both looking up the moment you walked in.

Riki was standing by a marble kitchen island, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. He watched you enter, his eyes instantly dropping to his own jacket draped over your shoulders before snapping back up to your face.

"Look who decided to join us," Sunghoon muttered dryly, though his eyes held a flicker of curiosity as he took in your completely unbothered demeanor.

"She’s complaining about back pain," Sunoo announced to the room, practically pushing you toward the softest-looking armchair. "So, please, let’s accommodate the lady."

Riki set his coffee down with a soft clink, leaning against the counter as he fixed you with that familiar, intense stare. "Back pain? You were down there for eight hours."

"Eight hours too long," you countered smoothly, sinking into the expensive leather chair and looking right back at him. "If you're going to keep me here, the least you can do is provide better lumbar support."

A heavy silence fell over the room as the other boys looked between you and Riki, clearly waiting for him to snap or lose his temper at your audacity. Instead, Riki just stared at you, his jaw tightening slightly before that slow, dangerous smirk crept back onto his face.

"You've got a lot of nerve for someone in a cage," Riki murmured, his voice low and dangerous as he took a slow step toward your chair.

"and you're so rude for someone who has so much boyfriend potential" you bite back, the comment catching him off guard

A collective, stunned silence dropped over the room like an anvil.

Jake choked on whatever he was drinking, letting out a violent cough, while Sunoo’s jaw practically hit the floor. Sunghoon just stared at you, his eyes darting between you and Riki as if waiting for a bomb to go off.

Riki froze mid-stride. The cold, calculated mask he’d been wearing since the moment he broke down your door completely shattered. For a fraction of a second, his brain seemed to short-circuit. A dark flush of color crept up his neck, and his sharp eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.

The comment had caught him entirely off guard.

"What did you just say?" Riki asked, his voice dropping an octave, though this time it wasn't out of malice—it was pure disbelief.

"You heard me," you said, crossing your legs and leaning back into the leather chair, entirely aware of the power dynamic shifting in the room. "You bring me breakfast, you make sure I'm not cold, you move me upstairs because the basement is too depressing... I'm just saying. Lose the attitude, and you’d actually be pretty good at this."

"Oh my god," Sunoo whispered, covering his mouth to hide a massive, delighted grin. "Riki, she's got you there. You did buy her the expensive pastries from down the street."

"Shut up, Sunoo," Riki snapped, though his eyes never left yours. He took the remaining steps toward your chair, leaning down until his shadow completely eclipsed you. The initial shock was gone, replaced by a dangerous, intense heat that made the air between you feel thick and heavy.

"You think this is a joke?" he murmured, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "I kidnapped you. I can end your father's entire empire, and I hold your life in my hands. I am not your boyfriend."

"Not with that attitude, you aren't," you replied smoothly, refusing to blink.

Riki’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared at you, completely baffled by how a girl in an oversized sweater and his own jacket was successfully making him lose his composure.

"what did my dad do anyway?"

The playful tension in the room vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, heavy coldness.

Jake stopped coughing, and Sunoo’s amused smile dropped instantly. Riki slowly straightened up to his full height, the lingering flush on his neck fading as his expression hardened back into unyielding ice.

"You really don't know?" Riki asked, his voice flat and devoid of the banter from a moment ago.

You shook your head, looking around at the boys, who were all suddenly avoiding your gaze. "He keeps me completely separate from his business. He always has. I just thought he was a strict, overprotective businessman."

Riki let out a harsh, humorless laugh that sent a chill down your spine. He walked back to the kitchen island, picking up his coffee, though he didn't drink it.

"Your 'businessman' father runs the largest smuggling ring on the coast," Riki said, his eyes cutting back to you, sharp and unforgiving. "And three days ago, his men ambushed a transport route that belonged to my family. They slaughtered four of my guys, took a shipment worth millions, and took my younger sister."

He set the mug down with a sharp crack against the marble.

"He's keeping her somewhere, and he's refusing to negotiate because he thinks he's a god who answers to no one," Riki stepped closer to you again, his voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. "So I took you. Because if he won't listen to reason, he'll listen to the sound of his only daughter's life hanging in the balance."

"I always knew he was up to something," you muttered, staring down at your hands, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his oversized jacket. A dark, cynical laugh escaped your lips, though it sounded entirely hollow. "That motherfucker killed my mom. His own wife. Can you believe that? They called it a 'car accident,' but I found the files before he shipped me off to that campus. He had her erased because she threatened to go to the police about his 'investments'."

The room went completely, devastatingly quiet.

Jake, who had been leaning back on the sofa, sat up straight. Sunoo’s eyes widened, any trace of his earlier playfulness instantly vanishing as he looked at you with a mixture of shock and sudden sympathy. Sunghoon simply stared, his calculating expression faltering for the first time.

Riki froze. The furious, vengeful speech he had been preparing died in his throat. He looked down at you, his sharp eyes searching your face for any sign of a lie, any sign that this was a tactical play to get him to lower his guard.

But all he found was raw, bitter truth.

"What?" Riki asked, his voice losing its lethal edge, replaced by a stunned, low rumble.

You looked up, locking your eyes directly with Riki’s. The fear was entirely gone from your expression, replaced by a cold, burning resentment that mirrored his own.

"If you think threatening my life is going to make him break," you said softly, your voice steady despite the weight of the words, "you might want a backup plan. Because a man who kills his wife for his business isn't going to give up his empire for his daughter."

Riki didn't move. He stood completely still, his jaw tight as he processed the information. He had taken you expecting a spoiled, protected mafia princess who would cry for her daddy. Instead, he was looking at another casualty of the exact same monster he was trying to destroy.

A heavy shift passed through the room. The boys looked at Riki, silently waiting for his lead. Riki ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling a slow, heavy breath as he stared at you, the dangerous hostility in his eyes shifting into something much deeper, darker, and infinitely more complicated.

"why are you all stunned? didn't you know he was evil?"

"We knew he was a monster," Jake said softly from the couch, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "But turning on his own blood? That's a different kind of sick."

Riki didn't say anything at first. He just kept his eyes locked on yours, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. The cold, calculated barrier he usually kept between himself and his targets was completely disintegrating. He took a slow step toward your chair, his hands sliding casually into his pockets, though his shoulders remained tense.

"There's a line," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register. "Even in our world, you don't touch family. You protect them at all costs."

He looked down at you, his sharp gaze taking in the defiant set of your jaw, the anger still burning in your eyes. He realized then that you weren't his enemy. You were just another piece of collateral damage left in your father's wake.

Sunoo leaned against the back of your chair, his tone unusually quiet. "If he doesn't care about getting you back... then our leverage is gone. What do we do now, Riki?"

All eyes in the room turned to Riki. He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling forest for a long moment before his eyes snapped back to yours. A dark, dangerous spark ignited in his eyes—but this time, it wasn't directed at you.

"If he won't trade for you," Riki said, a slow, lethal smirk creeping onto his lips, "then we use what you know. You want revenge for your mother, right?" He leaned down, bringing himself to your eye level, his presence completely consuming. "Help me take down his empire from the inside. Show me where he hides his assets, and I promise you, he will pay for what he did to your family. And what he did to mine."

A slow, sharp smile curved your lips, the fear completely gone from your eyes as you met his intense gaze.

"Like an alliance?" you asked softly.

Riki’s smirk widened just a fraction, a flash of genuine appreciation crossing his sharp features. He liked that you didn't flinch. He liked that instead of begging for mercy, you were negotiating terms.

"Exactly like an alliance," Riki murmured, holding your gaze. He straightened up and extended a hand toward you, his long fingers open in an invitation. "You give us the keys to his kingdom, and we give you the head of the man who ruined your life."

Behind him, Sunoo let out a low whistle. "Well, this took a turn. From hostage to business partner in less than twenty-four hours."

"Shut up, Sunoo," Riki said, though there was no real heat in it this time. His focus remained entirely on you, waiting to see if you would take his hand.

You looked at his open palm, then back up to his dark, lethal eyes. The monster who raised you had spent your entire life keeping you in the dark, treating you like a piece of property to be hidden away. But Riki was offering you a seat at the table. He was offering you a chance to fight back.

You reached out, your hand looking small against his as your fingers brushed against his skin. The moment your hand slid into his, Riki’s grip closed firmly around yours—a solid, unyielding pact sealed in the morning light.

"Deal," you said smoothly, your smile turning cold and dangerous. "Let's burn his empire to the ground."

Riki’s grip tightened on your hand for a beat before he let go, a dark satisfaction settling over his face. He stepped back, gesturing toward the large dining table at the edge of the living room.

"Sunghoon, get the blueprints of the city sectors. Jake, pull up the financial logs we intercepted last night," Riki commanded, his voice immediately shifting into the tone of a leader who meant business. The boys moved instantly, the playful atmosphere from earlier completely replaced by sharp, professional focus.

Sunghoon laid out a massive digital tablet on the glass table, flickering images of building layouts and secure warehouses illuminating the dark wood.

"If we're doing this, we start from the bottom up," Riki said, looking at you as you walked over to the table, still wrapped in his heavy leather jacket. "He has three main distribution hubs in the city. None of our contacts can get close to them without triggering an alarm. Which one is his favorite?"

You leaned over the table, your eyes scanning the map. Your fingers traced a path toward a secluded dock on the east side of the river.

"This one," you said, pointing to a non-descript warehouse labeled under a dummy corporation. "He always told me he was investing in shipping imports there. But every time he came back from 'inspecting the docks,' he smelled like heavy industrial grease and cigars. He only goes there when he's personally overseeing something high-value."

Riki leaned in next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The scent of his cologne wafted up again, a sharp contrast to the cold tactical data on the screen. He studied the point you marked, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"The docks," Riki murmured, his voice low. "That’s likely where he's keeping my sister. Or at least the records of where they moved her." He looked up, his face only inches from yours. "You're useful, princess."

"I told you," you replied, looking right back at him with a smirk. "Lose the attitude, and we make a great team."

Jake let out a stifled snort from across the table, quickly coughing to cover it up when Riki shot him a warning glare.

"Alright," Riki said, straightening up and tapping the screen to lock in the coordinates. "We move tonight. You're coming with us."

"Wait, she's coming with us?" Sunghoon asked, his eyebrows snapping together as he looked up from the screen. "Riki, it’s a live-fire zone. If things go sideways—"

"If things go sideways, she knows the layout better than any blueprint we have," Riki interrupted smoothly, his voice cutting off any further argument. He kept his eyes locked on you, analyzing your reaction. "Besides, she stays close to me. She’ll be fine."

The casual way he said she stays close to me sent a strange, sudden jolt through your chest. You covered it quickly, crossing your arms and tilting your head. "Don't worry about me, Sunghoon. I can handle myself. Just make sure your boss here keeps up his end of the bargain."

Riki let out a low, dark chuckle, stepping closer until the heat radiating from him completely enveloped you. "I always keep my word, princess. Now, let's get you prepared."

He led you down a side corridor to a heavily secured armory. The walls were lined with tactical gear, matte-black weapons, and rows of sleek tech. Riki walked over to a rack, pulling down a lightweight, bulletproof tactical vest and a pair of dark cargo pants. He tossed them onto a bench next to you, along with a small, sleek Glock.

"Put these on," he ordered, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

You picked up the vest, inspecting it before looking back at him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to stand there and watch, or do you actually have some of those manners we talked about?"

A faint, amused smirk tugged at his lips, though he didn't move right away. He took a slow step backward into the hallway, his eyes dropping down your frame one last time before he pulled the door shut. "You have ten minutes. Don't make me come back in there."

When the door clicked shut, you quickly changed out of your oversized campus clothes and into the tactical gear. The vest fit snugly, making you feel instantly grounded, dangerous, and ready. You strapped the holster to your thigh, checking the weight of the firearm just like you'd seen your father's guards do a thousand times.

When you stepped out into the hallway, Riki was leaning against the opposite wall, tossing a pocket knife casually in one hand. He stopped when he saw you. His gaze swept over you, starting from your boots, up your tightly fitted gear, to the defiant expression on your face.

For a second, his composure faltered again, his eyes darkening with something intense and entirely unreadable.

"Not bad," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rough register as he straightened up and closed the distance between you. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against your collarbone as he adjusted the strap of your tactical vest, pulling it just a bit tighter. His breath was warm against your cheek. "You actually look like one of us now."

"I told you," you whispered, looking right into his sharp eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs from the proximity. "I'm full of surprises."

"Good," Riki said, his smirk returning as his hand lingered on your shoulder for a split second before dropping away. "Because tonight, we're going to need all of them. Let's go."

The heavy, suffocating silence returned, but this time it felt twice as thick. The hum of the SUV’s engine was the only thing anchoring you to reality as the city skyline faded into the dark, jagged outline of the docks.

You couldn't handle it. The quiet always let the ghosts in.

"There's only six of you?"

The sudden question cut through the dark interior like glass. In the rearview mirror, Jake’s eyes closed tightly for a split second. Sunoo, who had been staring out the window, completely froze. Next to you, Riki tensed so violently his knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white against his weapon. He didn't look at you. He just stared out at the passing streetlights, his jaw tight enough to shatter.

"Yeah," Riki finally rasped. His voice sounded hollowed out, entirely stripped of the arrogant, dangerous confidence he'd carried all morning.

You hesitated, but the quiet was threatening to swallow you whole again. "I saw a picture in the foyer before we left. There were seven in it. Who's the seventh one?"

A sharp, ragged breath echoed from the front seat. Jake’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his hands shook.

"His name was Heeseung," Sunoo murmured, his voice cracking so badly he had to stop and swallow hard. He couldn't even bring himself to turn around. "He was our older brother. The one who actually looked out for us when everything else went to hell."

"It’s been three months," Riki whispered, his voice dropping into a low, devastating register. He finally turned his head, and the sheer, raw agony in his eyes hit you like a physical blow. The cold mafia boss vanished; in his place was a boy bleeding out from a wound that wouldn't heal.

"Your dad’s men ambushed us," Riki said, his words coming out slow and painful. "We were cornered. I made a reckless call... I thought I could outsmart them. I got trapped in the crossfire. I was a second away from taking a bullet to the chest."

Riki stopped, taking a shaky, uneven breath as he looked down at his own hands.

"Heeseung didn't even hesitate," Riki continued, his voice trembling with a dark, bitter fury. "He threw himself in front of me. He took three rounds to the torso so I could keep breathing. He died in my arms on that concrete floor, bleeding out while your father's guys laughed and retreated with our shipment."

The car was dead silent now, save for the faint, stifled sound of Sunoo wiping his eyes in the front seat. Riki leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as a single, bitter tear slipped down his cheek, though his expression remained hard as stone.

"For ninety days, I’ve had to look in the mirror and know that the only reason I’m alive is because he’s in the ground," Riki whispered, opening his eyes to lock them onto yours, burning with a mix of profound grief and terrifying resolve. "Your father didn't just kill our leader. He made me live with the guilt of his death. Tonight, I’m giving that pain back to him."

"Is that why you're the leader now?"

Riki didn't answer immediately. He just stared out the window, the passing streetlights casting long, sharp shadows across his face. The silence in the car grew so heavy you could almost hear the weight of the unspoken words pressing down on everyone.

"I didn't want it," Riki said finally, his voice barely louder than the hum of the tires against the asphalt. He didn't look at you, but his jaw was wound so tight the muscle was practically twitching. "None of us wanted this. But when Heeseung died... everything fell apart. The guys were bleeding, the business was compromised, and your father was already moving in to take the rest of our territory."

He slowly turned his head back to look at you. The grief in his eyes hadn't disappeared, but a terrifying, icy layer of resolve had hardened over it.

"Heeseung spent his whole life protecting us," Riki whispered, leaning slightly closer so his words were meant for your ears alone. "When he died saving me, he left me with his jacket, his gun, and his crew. If I didn't step up, if I didn't take the heat, his sacrifice would have been for nothing. I became the leader because I’m the one who owes him a life."

From the front seat, Jake let out a low, rough breath. "He’s doing a good job," Jake muttered, his eyes fixed firmly on the dark road ahead. "Heeseung would be proud of him. We all are."

Riki swallowed hard, looking away from you and fixing his gaze back on his weapon. He didn't acknowledge Jake's words, but you could see the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he took a stabilizing breath.

"We're five minutes out," Riki announced, his voice instantly snapping back into that cold, authoritative tone, burying the pain back down where it belonged. He looked at you one last time, his eyes searching yours. "When we hit those docks, you stay behind me. No exceptions. We're finishing this tonight."

You nodded silently, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back the prickle of tears threatening to blur your vision. You kept your eyes fixed on the dark floor of the SUV, wrapping Riki's heavy leather jacket a little tighter around yourself.

The name Heeseung was now permanently etched into your mind. He wasn't just a face in a photo anymore; he was a brother, a protector, a young man who had so much to live for, whose life was violently stolen away because of your father’s bottomless selfishness and greed. The weight of it settled heavily in your chest, a crushing mix of second-hand grief and a fierce, burning anger. Your father hadn't just destroyed your family—he was actively destroying others.

"Hey," a low voice murmured, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You looked up to find Riki watching you. The cold, unyielding mask of a mafia leader was still firmly in place, but as his eyes scanned your face, taking in the slight shine of tears you were desperately trying to hide, his expression softened just a fraction. He didn't say anything comforting—that wasn't who he was—but he reached over, his large, warm hand briefly gripping your shoulder, a grounding weight that told you he understood.

"Get ready," Riki said, his grip tightening for a split second before he pulled his hand away and racked the slide of his weapon with a sharp, lethal clack.

The SUV slowed to a crawl, the headlights cutting out as Jake pulled the vehicle into the deep, pitch-black shadows of an abandoned warehouse overlooking the east side docks. Outside, the fog was rolling in thick off the water, obscuring the towering shipping containers ahead.

"We're on site," Jake whispered, switching the comms on. "No mistakes tonight, boys."

The heavy iron doors of the SUV slid open with a faint, metallic hiss, and the freezing, salt-laced air of the docks immediately rushed in to fill the cabin. The fog was dense, rolling off the black water like smoke, swallowing the base of the towering shipping containers.

You followed Riki’s shadow. Every step felt heavy, the lightweight tactical vest pressing against your chest, matching the frantic, irregular rhythm of your heart. Ahead of you, the boys moved like ghosts. Sunghoon and Jake split off to the left, melting into the darkness of the crane towers, while Sunoo stayed low, checking the perimeter with his weapon drawn.

Riki didn't look back, but he kept his pace deliberately measured, ensuring you were right behind him as you navigated the maze of rusted metal and wooden crates.

As you neared Pier 4, the muffled sound of voices cut through the lapping of the waves. Riki held up a hand, and you instantly pressed your back against a cold shipping container, holding your breath.

Through the gap between two crates, the scene unfolded.

Under the harsh, flickering glare of a single halogen work light stood your father. He looked exactly as he always did—immaculate, wearing an expensive wool coat that entirely masked the monster underneath, a half-burned cigar clipped between his fingers. He was looking down at a map laid out on a wooden crate, flanked by six heavily armed guards.

And tied to a rusted iron pipe just a few feet away was a young girl. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, her face bruised, her dark hair matted with sweat. Riki's sister.

"We move the remaining cargo to the northern border by midnight," your father’s voice rang out, cold, clinical, and completely devoid of humanity. "And as for the boy, Riki... let him keep playing his little games. Once we have the docks fully locked down, I’m going to bleed his remaining crew dry. I want him to watch every single one of his pathetic friends die before I put a bullet in his head, just like I did with that idiot Heeseung."

Next to you, Riki went entirely rigid. A low, terrifying sound—halfway between a gasp and a growl—escaped his throat. The mention of Heeseung’s name was the final spark in a powder keg that had been building for three months.

"Now," Riki hissed into his comms.

The silence of the night was instantly shattered by a deafening, high-caliber crack. One of your father’s guards dropped instantly, a clean shot from Sunghoon’s sniper rifle taking him out.

"Ambush!" someone screamed.

Then, hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted from all sides, the muzzle flashes illuminating the thick fog in jagged, violent bursts of orange light. The sound was overwhelming—the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of automatic weapons, the shattering of glass, the metallic ping of stray bullets ricocheting off the shipping containers.

Riki moved with a lethal, terrifying grace. He stepped out of cover, his weapon raised, firing with absolute, unyielding precision. Two guards rushed toward him; Riki dropped the first with a shot to the chest, dodging behind a stack of pallets as the second guard’s bullets tore through the wood, sending splinters flying into the air. Sunoo flanked from the right, taking the second guard down, but the air was thick with the smell of copper and sulfur.

It was messy. It was bloody. You watched as one of your father's men caught Jake in the shoulder; Jake stumbled back, swearing loudly as he fired back blindly, painting the concrete with dark crimson.

Your father didn't panic. He was a coward who let others die for him, and the moment the chaos started, he drew a heavy chrome revolver from his coat and grabbed Riki’s sister by the hair, using her as a human shield as he began backing away toward the edge of the pier.

"Riki!" you shouted over the deafening noise, pointing toward the water.

Riki’s eyes snapped to his sister. Blinded by fury and desperation, he broke cover, sprinting across the open concrete toward your father.

"Stop right there, you little bastard!" your father roared. With a brutal shove, he threw Riki’s sister onto the wet wood of the dock, freeing up his hand.

Riki raised his gun, but a sudden burst of gunfire from a hidden guard clipped his leg. Riki grunted, collapsing to one knee, his weapon slipping from his grip and clattering across the concrete, sliding just out of reach.

Your father smiled. It was that same, patronizing, hollow smile he used to give you across the dinner table before telling you everything was fine. He stepped forward, raising the chrome revolver, lining the barrel up directly between Riki’s eyes.

"You should have stayed in the dirt with your brother," your father sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. You looked at Riki, pinned to the ground, his eyes wide as he stared death in the face—the exact same death Heeseung had taken for him three months ago. You saw the exhaustion in Riki's shoulders, the phantom weight of the brother he couldn't save, the sheer, devastating unfairness of a world where monsters always won.

And suddenly, the fear inside you burned away, leaving nothing but a vast, icy void.

You didn't think. You didn't hesitate. You stepped out into the open, raising the sleek black Glock with both hands, your arms locked tight, just like you'd practiced in the mirror hours before.

The image of your mother's pale, lifeless face in the casket flashed before your eyes. The sound of Sunoo’s voice cracking when he spoke about Heeseung echoed in your ears. All the stolen futures, all the bleeding hearts, all the greed—it all condensed into the heavy iron weight of the trigger beneath your index finger.

"Hey!" you screamed, your voice tearing through the foggy night.

Your father’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in complete, genuine shock as he recognized his own daughter standing in tactical gear, a gun pointed directly at him. "What are you—"

A tear slipped down your cheek, hot and bitter, cutting through the dirt on your face.

This is for Mom, your mind whispered. This is for Heeseung.

You pulled the trigger.

A single, deafening bang echoed off the water.

The recoil shuddered up your arms, but your grip never wavered. The bullet tore through the air, clean and true, striking your father squarely in the center of his forehead.

His eyes rolled back, the shock freezing on his face forever. The chrome revolver slipped from his lifeless fingers, clattering loudly against the wood before he collapsed backward, tumbling over the edge of the pier and disappearing into the dark, icy depths of the black water with a heavy splash.

The silence that followed was absolute.

The remaining guards, seeing their leader dead, immediately threw down their weapons or fled into the dark. The gunfire died out, leaving only the sound of the lapping waves and the heavy, ragged breathing of the boys.

Your arms slowly dropped to your sides. The gun felt incredibly heavy now. The tears were free-flowing, hot and silent, washing over your face as the reality of what you had just done settled into your bones. You had killed the monster. But the ghosts were still there.

A pair of boots crunched on the gravel, approaching you slowly.

You didn't look up until a warm, trembling hand gently gripped your wrist, pulling your fingers away from the weapon. Riki stood in front of you, limping slightly, his face pale and smeared with soot. He didn't look at the water where your father had fallen. He just looked at you.

For the first time since you met him, the dangerous mafia leader completely vanished. His dark eyes were wide, soft, and filled with a profound, overwhelming reverence. He looked at you not as a hostage, not as an ally, but as the person who had just pulled him back from the edge of the grave.

Without a word, Riki reached out, his long arms wrapping firmly around your shoulders. He pulled you into his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his grip so tight it almost hurt. You could feel the rapid, violent pounding of his heart against your ribs.

Wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by the remnants of the smoke and the sea, you finally let out a shaky, broken sob, your fingers tightly gripping the back of his tactical vest as you wept for the past, for the dead, and for the bloody, uncertain future you had just chosen.

The sharp, frantic sound of rubber soles slapping against wet wood suddenly cut through your tears.

"Riki!"

The small, broken voice fractured the heavy silence of the pier. Riki went rigid against you for a fraction of a second before his arms loosened, and he turned around just in time for a small whirlwind to throw itself directly into his torso.

His little sister sobbed violently, her face burying into his tactical vest, her small hands bunching into the fabric as if she were trying to crawl inside his skin just to feel safe again. Riki dropped heavily to his knees, his injured leg giving out entirely, but he didn't seem to care. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest, his head dropping onto her shoulder as a ragged, trembling breath escaped his lips.

"I've got you," Riki choked out, his voice completely cracking, stripped of every ounce of the fierce leader he had been pretending to be. "I've got you, Sora. You're okay. You're safe."

You stood frozen a step back, the smoking Glock still heavy in your hand, watching the two of them. The fog swirled around their small, huddled figures on the concrete. For three months, this boy had carried the crushing guilt of Heeseung's death, surviving on nothing but the desperate, burning need to ensure he didn't lose his sister too. And now, the war was over.

Sunoo and Sunghoon limped over, Jake leaning heavily on Sunghoon’s good shoulder as they approached. None of them looked at the dark water where your father had vanished. Instead, their eyes drifted from the reunited siblings straight to you.

There was no judgment in their stares. No fear. Just a deep, silent understanding.

Sora’s quiet sobs began to quiet down, her small frame still shaking against Riki. Slowly, Riki lifted his head. His eyes, rimmed with red and fierce with an entirely new kind of emotion, found yours through the mist.

He didn't say thank you. He didn't have to. The profound, unyielding look in his eyes told you everything. He reached out one hand, keeping his sister securely tucked against his side with the other, and offered his palm to you once again.

Not as a captor. Not just as an ally. But as family.

The reality of what you had just done crashed over you like a tidal wave, heavy and suffocating. The gun slipped from your numb fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete, but the phantom weight of the trigger pull still burned in your palms.

"I-I killed him," you sobbed out, your voice small, trembling, and utterly broken. "I killed my dad."

The word dad tasted bitter, like poison on your tongue, but the biological truth of it anchored the horror deep in your chest. No matter what a monster he was, you had just taken a life. You had crossed a line you could never step back over.

Riki’s eyes snapped up from his sister. Seeing the sheer panic taking over your face, he didn't hesitate. He gave Sora a soft, reassuring squeeze, whispering, "Stay with Sunoo for a second, okay?"

Sora nodded quickly, wiping her eyes as Sunoo stepped forward, gently pulling her into a protective embrace.

Riki pushed himself up from the ground, ignoring the sharp flare of pain in his injured leg, and closed the distance between you in two strides. He didn't let you spiral. Before you could look down at your hands, his large, warm palms cupped your face, forcing you to look up at him. His thumbs swept across your cheekbones, brushing away the hot, fast-falling tears.

"Look at me," Riki commanded, his voice raw but fiercely steady, cutting through the ringing in your ears. "Look at me, princess."

You blinked through the blur, locking onto his intense, dark eyes.

"You didn't just kill a father," Riki said, his words low and heavy with absolute conviction. "You ended a monster. You saved my sister. You saved me. He was going to put a bullet in my head, and you stopped him." He leaned down slightly, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. "He took your mother, and he took Heeseung. Tonight, you took back your freedom."

Behind him, Jay stepped closer, his hand gripping his bleeding shoulder but his expression softer than you'd ever seen it. "He's right," Jay muttered quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "You did what had to be done. You're one of us now. We don't leave our own behind."

Riki slid his hands down from your face, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and pulling you tight against his chest again, shielding you from the blood-soaked pier and the dark, empty water.

"It's over," Riki whispered into your hair, his grip unyielding, offering you the one thing your father never could: a safe place to fall apart. "I've got you. We've got you. Let's go home."

The silence of the estate was different now. It wasn't the dangerous, tense quiet of a hostage situation, nor was it the heavy, mourning silence that had followed Heeseung’s death. It was a gentle, protective quiet, wrapping around the upstairs bedroom they had given you.

True to his word, Riki had told the boys to fix up the space. They had brought in plush blankets, warm lighting, and things in your favorite colors, trying to create a sanctuary. But no amount of soft fabric could shield you from what was happening inside your own mind.

You didn't leave the room for three days.

Every time you closed your eyes, you were back on that wet, foggy pier. You heard the deafening crack of the Glock echoing off the water. You felt the sharp, violent recoil shuddering up your arms. But worst of all, you kept seeing the life violently draining from your father's eyes—the exact moment his pupils dilated, his arrogant smirk froze, and his body tumbled backward into the pitch-black abyss.

It was destroying you. You couldn't eat. You barely slept, waking up drenched in cold sweat, the phantom smell of gunpowder clogging your throat. You had wanted revenge, you had wanted justice for your mother, but no one prepares you for the hollow, rotting guilt that comes with actually pulling the trigger.

On the fourth evening, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at your door.

Before you could answer, the door creaked open a few inches. Riki stood in the hallway, carrying a tray with a bowl of warm soup and a glass of water. His leg was heavily bandaged under his dark sweatpants, making him lean slightly against the doorframe.

He didn't have his usual cold mask on. He looked tired, his dark hair messy, his eyes searching yours with a quiet, profound worry.

"I brought you something to eat," he said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He stepped inside, setting the tray down on the nightstand before turning to look at you, curled tightly under the blankets. He didn't force you to sit up. Instead, he carefully sat on the very edge of the mattress, leaving a respectful distance between you.

He looked down at your pale face, taking in the dark circles under your eyes.

"The first time is the hardest," Riki murmured, his voice laced with a raw, heavy understanding. He stared at his own hands, his knuckles still scraped from the fight. "The mind doesn't know how to process taking a life, even when it's a monster who deserved it. I still see the face of the first man I killed. He haunts me every time it gets dark."

He looked back up, his intense gaze locking onto yours, filled with a gentle sincerity you hadn't known he was capable of.

"But you aren't alone in the dark anymore," he whispered, reaching out to gently trace the edge of the blanket near your shoulder. "You carried a heavy burden for your mom, and you carried one for Heeseung. Let us help you carry this one."

A broken, watery smile finally cracked through your exhaustion, the faint glimmer of your old spirit cutting through the heavy grief in the room.

"See," you whispered, your voice raspy from days of silence and crying. "When you fix your attitude, you actually have potential."

Riki froze for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. Then, the tense line of his shoulders dropped, and a low, genuine chuckle escaped his lips—the first real laugh you’d heard from him since you were brought here. It was a beautiful, rough sound that seemed to chase away some of the oppressive shadows clinging to the corners of the bedroom.

"Even when you're falling apart, you're still a brat," he murmured, a fond, amused glint returning to his dark eyes.

He reached over and grabbed the glass of water from the tray, handing it to you. "Drink. You look like a ghost, princess. And I didn't save you from your father just to let you starve to death in my house."

You sat up slowly, wrapping the plush blanket around your shoulders like a shield as you took the glass. The water cooled your parched throat, grounding you in the present moment. The memory of the pier was still there, a heavy ache in your chest, but looking at Riki sitting on the edge of your bed, the crushing weight of the guilt didn't feel entirely unbearable anymore.

"The guys are worried about you," Riki said softly, watching you pull the bowl of soup closer. "Sunoo tried to bake something yesterday to cheer you up. It burnt, and Sunghoon almost threw him out the window, but... the thought was there."

You let out a small, breathless laugh, the image easing the tight knot in your stomach.

you watched as he got up to leave, you took his wrist to stop him "thank you" you muttered "I wouldn't have been able to do this for my mom if it weren't for you"

Riki stopped in his tracks, his back pausing for a beat before he slowly turned around. Your fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse beneath his skin.

He looked down at your hand, then up to your eyes. The moonlight filtered through the window, catching the soft, sincere curve of your lips. The fierce, untouchable mafia leader was entirely gone, replaced by a young man who looked deeply moved by your words.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand over, sliding his long fingers between yours to give your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.

"You did the hard part," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that always made your heart skip a beat. "We just gave you the map. You had the courage to finish it."

He stepped a fraction closer to the bed, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burned away the remaining chills in the room.

"Your mother got her justice tonight," he whispered, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand. "And Heeseung got his peace. Don't ever forget that."

He gave your hand one last, lingering squeeze before gently letting go. He walked toward the door, but just before stepping out into the hallway, he paused, looking back over his shoulder with a faint, genuine smile—the kind he usually hid from the world.

"Eat the soup before it gets cold, princess," he said softly.

With a quiet click, the door shut, leaving you alone in the warm room. But for the first time in days, the silence didn't feel suffocating. The ghosts of the pier were still there, but as you took a warm spoonful of soup, you knew you had a pack of wolves downstairs ready to help you fight them off.

The cool water of the pool lapped gently against your ankles, a soothing contrast to the warm summer air. You leaned back on your hands, staring up at the sprawling canopy of stars blanketing the night sky. For the first time in what felt like forever, the flashing imagery of the pier was quieted, replaced by the vast, peaceful emptiness of the universe.

You were so lost in the silver light that you didn't even hear the soft padding of footsteps across the concrete.

"The stars are pretty today, aren't they?"

You blinked, snapping out of your daze to find Sora sitting right next to you on the edge of the pool. Her small legs dangled over the water, splashing slightly. She looked so much smaller out here, stripped of the terrifying shadows of the docks, wearing an oversized hoodie that probably belonged to Riki.

Before you could answer, she reached over and slid her small hand into yours, squeezing it tight. She didn't look at you right away; she just kept her eyes fixed on the sky, a soft, resilient smile on her face.

"You saved my brother's life," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight that no sixteen-year-old should ever have to understand. "Heck, you saved mine. Thank you."

The sincerity in her voice caught in your throat. You looked down at your intertwined hands. You had spent the last few days drowning in the guilt of what you had taken, but looking at Sora—whole, safe, and breathing right next to you—the reality of what you had saved finally began to break through the armor of your grief.

"You don't have to thank me, Sora," you murmured, your voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. You squeezed her hand back. "I... I just did what I had to do."

"No, you did what nobody else could," she corrected gently, finally turning her head to look at you. Her eyes looked exactly like Riki's, but without the sharp, dangerous edge. They were just warm. "Riki pretends he’s made of stone because he thinks he has to be Heeseung now. But he’s not. He was going to let himself die on that pier if it meant keeping me safe. If it weren't for you, I’d be alone."

She leaned her head against your shoulder, a gesture of pure, unprompted trust that made your heart swell.

"You gave me my brother back," Sora whispered against your sleeve. "And you gave this house a chance to actually be a home again. I think... I think Heeseung sent you to us."

A single, quiet tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, it didn't feel bitter. As the two of you sat there with your feet in the water under the watch of a thousand stars, the cold, hollow void inside you finally started to fill with something new: a sense of belonging.

"My brother's really nice, actually," she continued, her voice drifting like the ripples in the water beneath your feet. "He just finds it difficult to love someone, because being in such a dangerous world means you can't trust anyone."

She pulled her head back from your shoulder, turning to look at you fully. The silver starlight caught the genuine, knowing look in her eyes—an expression that seemed far too wise for her age.

"You're the first girl I've seen him go soft for," Sora said, her smile widening just a fraction, a teasing but incredibly sweet edge to her tone. "And in such a short time, too."

A sudden, intense warmth flooded your cheeks, completely unrelated to the summer air. You looked away, staring down at where your feet disturbed the reflection of the stars in the pool. Go soft? Riki? The boy who had threatened you in an alley, who masked his grief in cold authority, who commanded a room with a single glance?

But then you remembered the way he had adjusted your tactical vest, the lingering touch of his hand on your shoulder, and the raw, unyielding way he had held your face in his hands just days ago, forcing the panic out of your mind.

"I don't know about that," you managed to mutter, a small, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "He still calls me a brat."

"Because he doesn't know what else to do with himself," Sora countered instantly with a soft giggle. She squeezed your hand one last time before pulling her feet out of the water, shaking the droplets off. "He’s been a shield for everyone else for three months. With you... I think he finally feels like he can just be Riki."

She stood up, smoothing down her oversized hoodie. "Don't stay out here too long, okay? The boys are making a terrible mess of dinner downstairs, and Riki’s already yelled at Sunghoon twice for burning the garlic bread."

With a playful wave, she padded back across the concrete, leaving you alone with the stars once more. You looked back up at the sky, your fingers touching your lips where a real, genuine smile was finally forming. The guilt of the past few days hadn't vanished completely, but for the first time, the future ahead of you didn't look dark. It looked bright, fierce, and undeniably intertwined with a certain young leader who was waiting for you downstairs.

The heavy glass door slid shut behind you, cutting off the cool night air and plunging you instantly into a chaotic wave of warmth, laughter, and the rich scent of burning garlic.

It was exactly the disaster Sora had promised.

Over by the island, Jungwon and Jay were completely covered in white dust, playfully tossing fistfuls of flour at each other while laughing so hard Jungwon was practically doubled over. Sunoo was aggressively tapping his phone screen, muttering about recipes, while Jake stood entirely frozen in the center of the kitchen, looking like a confused golden retriever caught in a crossfire. Near the oven, Sunghoon was gesturing wildly with a spatula, passionately mansplaining to Riki that he was following the instructions perfectly—despite the faint trail of black smoke curling out of the toaster oven.

But the moment your feet crossed the threshold, the noise faded into a dull, distant hum.

The frantic clatter of pans and the boys' shouting seemed to drift away as your eyes locked onto Riki. It felt as if a sudden, heavy weight had shifted the room, slowing everything down into a breathtaking, cinematic crawl.

You watched him. He had his dark sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms. A faint smudge of flour was dusted across his jawline, and his brow was furrowed in sheer, exasperated stress as he rubbed the bridge of his nose at Sunghoon's antics. He looked entirely human. Not the untouchable mob boss who ruled the city’s underground, and not the grieving boy bleeding out on a foggy pier. Just Riki.

The overhead kitchen lights caught the sharp angles of his face, casting a soft, golden glow around him. In that split second, as you watched the subtle rise and fall of his chest, a strange, profound quiet settled over your entire soul. The violent, crashing images of your father, the blood, and the smoking gun that had been torturing your mind for days suddenly withered away into nothingness.

Maybe it was love. Maybe it was the sudden, shattering realization of what you had saved. Or maybe it was just the simple fact that in a world full of monsters and ghosts, he was the only thing that made you feel alive. Whatever it was, the truth struck you with the force of a physical blow: you didn't ever want to leave his side.

As if feeling the weight of your gaze, Riki abruptly stopped listening to Sunghoon. His head turned, his dark, intense eyes cutting through the chaotic kitchen until they landed squarely on you standing by the door.

The exasperated, stressed look on his face instantly vanished. The corners of his lips twitched upward into that quiet, private smirk meant only for you, and the intense warmth in his eyes made your heart do a violent, erratic flip.

"Look who finally decided to join the living," Riki murmured, his voice cutting through the noise of the room effortlessly as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. "Come here, princess. Help me before Sunghoon burns the entire estate down."

That single word hung in the air between you, slicing right through the kitchen's chaotic noise. Your heart skipped a violent, erratic beat, a sudden jolt of electricity waking up your chest for the first time all day.

You tried to keep your face completely neutral, but the sudden heat rushing to your cheeks gave you away instantly.

"I'm not a princess," you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite as you finally crossed the room, stepping into the warm light of the kitchen.

"Could've fooled me," Riki teased, his voice dropping into a lower, private register as you came to a stop beside him. He didn't move away. In fact, he leaned just a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing against yours—a small, grounding touch that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. "You spent four days hiding out upstairs like royalty."

"Hey! Don't let her distract you, Riki!" Sunghoon interrupted, completely oblivious to the shift in the air as he aggressively waved his spatula again. "I am telling you, the garlic bread is supposed to have a rustic char. It's French."

"It's burnt, Sunghoon," Riki sighed, though he didn't take his eyes off you. The sharp, guarded look he usually wore was completely gone, replaced by a soft, relaxed ease that made him look younger, happier.

Jungwon suddenly let out a loud laugh as a stray handful of flour from Jay caught Jake square in the face. Jake blinked through the white dust, looking completely betrayed, which only made Sunoo join in on the giggling.

Standing there in the middle of the mess, surrounded by the loud, ridiculous warmth of the boys, you felt the last lingering chill of the docks finally melt away. You glanced up at Riki, catching the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he watched his friends.

You didn't know what the future held, or how long it would take for the nightmares to stop completely. But looking at him, you knew you were exactly where you belonged.

The next few months were a blur of golden light and quiet healing. The boys took you far away from the city, traveling down the coastline to an isolated villa where the air smelled of salt and pine, not smoke and gunpowder. There were long, lazy afternoons by the water, midnight runs for junk food with Jake and Sunoo, and quiet mornings on the porch where Jungwon and Jay would argue over who made the better coffee.

For the first time in your life, you breathed. And through it all, there was Riki.

He was always just there—a steady, silent shadow at your perimeter. It was the way he’d silently slide his jacket over your shoulders when the ocean breeze picked up, or how his hand would instinctively find the small of your back to guide you through crowded markets. You didn't talk about the pier. You didn't have to. The way his dark eyes followed you around every room whispered everything his lips wouldn't. By the time the autumn leaves started to fall, you didn’t have to guess anymore: you were deeply, irrevocably in love with him.

But peace in their world is always borrowed time.

Eventually, the burner phones started ringing again. The calm, domestic bubble shattered the morning Jay walked into the kitchen, his expression deadpan as he dropped a thick manila folder onto the table. The syndicate your father had left behind was fracturing, and new enemies were rising to claim the vacuum. The missions were starting up again.

The atmosphere in the estate shifted overnight. The laughter died down, replaced by the clean, rhythmic sound of weapons being stripped and reassembled.

Watching Riki slide back into his tailored black suits and strap a holster to his shoulder broke something inside you. The soft, relaxed boy who had laughed with you under the stars was locked away again, replaced by the cold, unyielding leader who had to carry the lives of six people on his back.

One evening, you found him in the study, illuminated only by the green glow of a desk lamp as he went over blueprints for a high-risk warehouse raid scheduled for the morning.

The urge to tell him rose up in your throat so violently it almost choked you. You wanted to cross the room, wrap your arms around his neck, and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him that you loved him, that he didn't have to be stone, that you needed him to come back alive because your heart was entirely in his hands.

But you froze at the edge of the desk.

The brutal reality of their world crashed back over you. In a life where a single second of distraction meant a bullet to the brain, love wasn't a sanctuary—it was a liability. If you told him now, would he hesitate on the battlefield? Would he make a reckless call to protect you instead of his crew, just like he had three months ago before Heeseung saved him?

"You're staring," Riki murmured, not lifting his eyes from the map. He circled a perimeter point with a red marker, his jaw tight. "If you're here to tell me I'm stressing out, save your breath, princess."

You forced a small, hollow laugh, swallowing down the confession that tasted like lead in your mouth.

"Just making sure you aren't planning on burning anything down like Sunghoon's garlic bread," you whispered, keeping your voice light despite the ache in your chest.

Riki paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto yours. For a fleeting second, the cold mask cracked, and you saw the profound, exhausted longing hiding underneath. He looked like he wanted to say something—like he could read the unspoken words hanging heavily in the space between you.

But he just shook his head, a ghost of a smirk appearing on his face. "Go to sleep. It’s going to be a long night."

"how am i supposed to sleep if you're on my mind all the time?" you say suddenly, making him freeze

The words left your lips before your brain could stop them. They hung in the heavy, shadowed air of the study, loud and undeniable.

Riki froze. The red marker in his hand stopped a millimeter above the blueprint, his entire body locking up as if he had just been hit by a sniper’s laser. The quiet in the room became so absolute you could hear the frantic, uneven thud of your own pulse.

For three long seconds, he didn't move. He didn't breathe.

Then, slowly, he set the marker down. He didn't look up at you right away. He kept his eyes on the map, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a deep, shaky breath that seemed to tear through his chest. When he finally lifted his head, the cold, calculating mafia leader was completely shattered. His dark eyes were wide, burning with a mixture of raw shock, intense longing, and a profound, terrifying vulnerability.

"What did you just say?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low, rough around the edges.

You swallowed hard, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edge of the doorframe. The fear of his world was still screaming at you to run, to take it back, to laugh it off as a joke. But looking at the sheer intensity in his gaze, you knew you couldn't lie to him anymore. Not after everything.

"You heard me," you said, your voice trembling but resolute. You stepped back into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft, definitive click. "You tell me to go to sleep like it's that easy. But every time I close my eyes, I'm worried about tomorrow. I'm worried about you. How am I supposed to sleep when you're all I think about, Riki?"

Riki pushed himself up from the desk so fast his chair rolled backward, slamming against the bookshelf. In three long, predatory strides, he crossed the room, completely erasing the distance between you.

Before you could even gasp, his large, warm hands clamped onto your waist, his grip fierce and desperate as he pressed you back against the closed door. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" Riki growled softly, his voice thick with a dark, suffocating emotion. His dark eyes searched yours, frantic and wild. "I have spent months trying to keep my distance. I have spent every single night reminding myself that I'm dangerous, that my life is a curse, and that the best thing I can do for you is keep you out of it."

He leaned closer, his forehead dropping heavily against yours, his grip on your waist tightening until it almost hurt—but you didn't care. You could feel the violent, chaotic hammering of his heart against your chest.

"But I can't do it anymore," he whispered, a broken, breathless confession spilling into the space between your lips. "You think you're the only one? I sit at that desk for hours staring at these maps, and all I see is your face. I go into these fights, and the only target I care about is making it back to this house alive because you're in it."

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye, his thumbs digging into your hips with an overwhelming, possessive reverence.

"If you tell me this now," Riki whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifyingly beautiful certainty, "I am never letting you go. Dangerous or not, you're mine. Do you understand?"

"I've been yours since I decided to take my dad's life just to save yours," you whisper.

The words leave your lips in a breathless rush, and for a fraction of a second, the entire universe seems to grind to a halt. Riki goes utterly rigid. The cold, calculating composure he wears like armor shatters into pieces, leaving his dark eyes wide, frantic, and completely undone. The sheer weight of what you’ve confessed—the raw, bleeding truth of it—hangs heavily in the space between you.

Then, a low, rough growl escapes his throat, and the fuse is lit.

Riki doesn’t hesitate. He closes the final fraction of an inch between you, his large hands clamping onto your waist with a fierce, possessive grip. Before you can even gasp, he lifts you effortlessly, pressing your back firmly against the heavy wood of the study door. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips to stay anchored, the sudden friction sending a sharp jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he mutters, his voice a gravelly, breathless whisper against your skin.

His lips travel up your jawline, trailing a path of pure fire until they find yours. This time, the kiss isn't just a promise—it’s an all-consuming demand. It is deep, heavy, and thick with months of starved, suffocating desire. His tongue parts your lips with a slow, agonizing precision, tasting you completely, destroying any remaining thoughts of the dangerous world outside this room.

You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, pulling him closer until there isn't a single millimeter of air left between your chests. You can feel the hard, rigid muscles of his torso pressing against you, his intense heat seeping right through your clothes.

Riki groans, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he slides one hand down your thigh. His long, warm fingers grip your skin, shifting you slightly higher against the door, anchoring you to him. Every touch is deliberate, heavy with a raw, unspoken hunger that makes your head spin. He kisses you harder, as if he’s trying to pour his entire soul into you, replacing every nightmare you've ever had with the feeling of his mouth on yours.

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, his hand migrates from your thigh up to the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms slipping underneath to find your bare skin. The contrast of his burning, rough hands against your soft waist makes your back arch against the door, a quiet whimpering sigh escaping your throat. He drinks the sound in greedily, his thumb tracing the curve of your ribs, memorizing the frantic, erratic beat of your heart beneath his palm.

He pulls back just an inch, his lips swollen and his breath coming in ragged hitches against yours. His dark eyes sweep over your flushed face, his gaze dripping with a fierce, heavy intensity. "I'm going to make sure you forget every single thing in this world but me."

He doesn't wait for your answer. He eases you down just enough to let your feet touch the floor, but before you can lose the warmth of his body, he takes your hand, his fingers locking tightly with yours. He guides you out of the shadows of the study and toward his bedroom, his gaze never leaving yours, promising a night where the only thing that matters is the two of you.

The heavy door to his bedroom clicks shut, and the rest of the world instantly ceases to exist.

Riki doesn’t waste another second. He presses you back against the wood, his body crowding over yours with a desperate, heavy heat that leaves you completely breathless. The moonlight filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in silver shadows and illuminating the raw, unbridled desire burning in his eyes.

"You're mine," he growls softly against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that shudders straight through you. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you breathe out, the confession melting into a gasp as his mouth comes down on yours again.

This time, the kiss is intoxicatingly deep, thick with a possessive rhythm that makes your knees go weak. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your waist, tangling into your hair, gripping your hips to pull you impossibly closer until you can feel the hard, unyielding line of his thighs pressing against yours. The heat between you builds rapidly, heavy and undeniable.

Slowly, his calloused hands find the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath the fabric to map the bare skin of your waist. You shiver as his rough palms slide upward, his thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs and brushing against the soft skin just beneath your bra. A soft, needy whimper escapes your throat, and Riki groans into your mouth at the sound, the last vestige of his restraint snapping.

He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged and hot as his lips trail down your jawline, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He sucks gently at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone, marking you, making you arch into him as your fingers grip the fabric of his shirt to stay grounded.

"Riki..." your voice is a breathless plea, your head tilting back against the door as his hands slide lower, pulling your hips flush against his.

He responds by hooking his hands under the back of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, anchoring yourself to his heat as he carries you across the room, never breaking the searing contact of his lips against your skin. When your back hits the plush mattress, he follows you down, his heavy frame pinning you into the soft sheets, shadowing you completely.

Hovering over you, Riki slides his hands to the hem of your shirt again, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear beneath his dark, burning gaze. His eyes darken significantly as he takes you in, his chest rising and falling heavily.

He reaches down, his fingers unbuttoning his own shirt and discarding it, exposing the lean, muscled lines of his torso. When he settles back down between your thighs, the friction of his bare skin against yours sends a violent rush of heat straight to your core.

"Every nightmare you've had," Riki whispers, his voice dropping into a dangerously soft, velvety register as his fingers slide down to your hips, his thumbs dipping beneath the waistband of your underwear with a slow, agonizing promise. "Let me take them away. Tonight, there is only this."

He leans down, capturing your lips again, his body pressing heavily, intimately into yours as he drags you under a wave of pure, exquisite sensation that makes everything else fade to black.

The soft, rhythmic hiss of the shower running against the tile is what finally wakes you.

Sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the messy bedsheets. As you shift to sit up, a subtle, deep ache blossoms through your lower back and thighs—a sweet, heavy reminder of exactly how thoroughly Riki kept his promise last night. A small smile tugs at your lips as you pull his discarded button-down shirt off the floor, slipping it over your shoulders. It hangs halfway down your thighs, smelling purely of him—rich cedar, rain, and a lingering trace of warmth.

Your bare feet pad quietly across the cold hardwood toward the bathroom. Steam pours out of the cracked door, carrying the scent of his cologne.

Pushing the door open, you find the glass shower stall completely fogged up. Through the blurred glass, you can see the sharp, muscular silhouette of his back under the cascading water. Without a word, you slide the glass door open, stepping inside the spacious stall. The sudden wave of hot water and steam envelops you instantly.

Riki turns around, pushing his wet, dark hair back from his forehead. Water droplets track down the sharp lines of his face, chest, and the lean muscles of his stomach.

The moment his dark eyes land on you—wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, your skin still flushed from sleep—the usual cold, guarded wall he keeps up for the world vanishes completely. A soft, breathtakingly genuine smile breaks across his face, lighting up his eyes in a way very few people ever get to see.

"Look who finally woke up," he murmurs, his voice deep and raspy from the morning.

Before you can answer, he reaches out, his large, wet hand wrapping gently around your waist to pull you directly into his space under the warm spray. The soaked fabric of his shirt clings instantly to your skin, making you gasp softly against his chest. He cradles the back of your head, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your wet lips, tasting of clean water and mint.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers against your mouth, his thumb gently caressing your hip, his gaze dropping to notice the faint, dark marks he left on your skin the night before. "Did I break you, princess?"

"Shut up" you say, lifting your hand to smack him

Riki lets out a low, rough laugh, the sound vibrating deeply against your chest as he catches your wrist mid-air. He doesn't pull away; instead, he wraps his long fingers gently around your hand, bringing it up to his lips to press a soft kiss right against your knuckles.

"Make me," he murmurs, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with a playful, dangerous spark that makes your stomach do a familiar, violent flip.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a witty comeback. Instead, you hook your fingers into his wet hair, pull his head down, and kiss him.

The sound of his teasing laugh is instantly swallowed into your mouth. Riki goes entirely rigid for a fraction of a second, caught completely off guard by your sudden boldness, before a low, deep groan rumbles in his chest. His restraint shatters all over again.

His large, wet hands slam against the tile on either side of your head, pinning you against the wall as he takes control of the kiss, deepening it with a fierce, possessive hunger. The hot shower water cascades over both of you, completely soaking the oversized shirt you’re wearing until it clings to every curve like a second skin, but neither of you cares.

You arch your back against the warm tile, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair as you drink him in. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting of clean water and a desperate, intoxicating devotion.

Slowly, Riki breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting heavily against yours. His breath comes in ragged hitches, his eyes burning with a dark, intense heat as he looks down at your flushed face and swollen lips.

"God, princess," he whispers, his voice rough and breathless against your skin as his hands slide down the wall to grip your waist, pulling your hips flush against his bare, burning skin. "You really don't know how to play nice, do you?"

"I assumed thats what you like about me hm?"

A slow, wicked smirk pulls at the corner of Riki's lips, his dark eyes darkening until they look almost black beneath the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

"Smart mouth," he growls softly, the vibration traveling straight through his chest into yours.

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he slides his large, calloused hands down from your waist, his palms tracing the smooth curve of your hips before hooking firmly under the back of your thighs. With a single, effortless lift, he hoists you up against the wet tile wall. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, anchoring you to him as the soaked fabric of his shirt bunches up between your bodies, leaving your bare skin pressing directly against his burning heat.

You let out a breathless gasp, your hands flying to his slick shoulders to stabilize yourself as he crowds impossibly closer, pinning you securely.

"I like everything about you," Riki whispers, his voice dangerously low, rough with an intensity that makes your head spin. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sending a violent rush of electricity straight to your core. "Especially when you think you're in control."

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a maddeningly slow tease, his breath hot against your mouth.

"But let me remind you who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips before burying his face in your neck, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive skin just below your ear. A soft, helpless whine escapes your throat, and Riki drinks it in greedily, his grip tightening on your thighs as he deepens the kiss, thoroughly erasing the rest of the world once again.

By the time you and Riki finally head downstairs, the heavy, high-stakes tension of the upcoming mission has completely settled over the kitchen. But the second your feet hit the bottom step, the atmosphere shifts into something much more familiar.

The boys are scattered around the space, looking entirely exhausted. Sunoo is nursing a mug of coffee like his life depends on it, Sunghoon is aggressively rubbing his temples over a map, and Jay is quietly cleaning a blade at the island.

Jungwon is the first to look up. His eyes dart from you—wearing one of Riki's clean, oversized hoodies—to Riki, who looks remarkably relaxed, a faint, rare trace of a smirk still lingering on his lips.

"The lovebirds finally decided to make it down?" Jungwon says, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a slow sip from his mug.

"Shut up, Jungwon," Riki mutters, though there's absolutely no weight behind it. He instinctively slides a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as if declaring his territory to the entire room.

Across the table, Jake suddenly drops his head flat onto the wood with a dramatic, echoing thud.

"How the fuck did the youngest get a girlfriend before we did?" Jake whines into the table, his voice muffled and full of pure, unadulterated betrayal. "I'm older. I'm nicer. I don't threaten people for a living! It's statistically incorrect."

"Because you act like a golden retriever, Jake," Sunghoon chimes in without looking up from his blueprints, a dry smirk playing on his lips. "Women don't want a puppy, they want someone who can actually carry the groceries without getting distracted by a squirrel."

"Hey! I am incredibly focused!" Jake snaps, lifting his head to glare at Sunghoon, though a stray piece of hair sticking straight up ruins the effect entirely.

Riki just lets out a low, quiet chuckle, his grip tightening protectively around your hip. The warmth of his body beside you is a solid, grounding anchor, and despite the heavy mission looming over them, the ridiculous, loud bickering of the boys makes the estate feel exactly like what it has become.

Home.

Jake pauses, his dramatic pout freezing on his face as he actually processes your advice. He sits up straight, running a hand through his messy hair, his eyes widening as if you’ve just handed him the secret blueprints to the universe.

"Mysterious..." Jake echoes, his voice dropping an octave as he tries to narrow his eyes in what he clearly thinks is a smoldering, enigmatic look. "Like... 'I have secrets, but I'll only tell you if you survive the night' mysterious?"

"You look like you're having an allergic reaction, Jake," Sunoo chimes in from behind his coffee mug, not even blinking.

The entire kitchen erupts into chuckles, and you can't help but laugh against Riki’s chest. Even Jay looks up from his blade, a rare, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Don't encourage him, princess," Riki murmurs over your head. His voice is a low, rumbling purr, and you feel his arm tighten around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear so only you can hear him. "The last thing we need is Jake trying to corner a girl at a bar looking like he forgot his own name."

You stifle another laugh, nudging Riki playfully with your elbow, but he just traps your hand in his, his long fingers locking securely with yours.

"Hey, I could be mysterious!" Jake defends himself, pointing a finger at Riki. "Just because you have the whole 'brooding, silent assassin' thing down naturally doesn't mean I can't adapt. Watch me."

Jake grabs a piece of toast, takes a bite while staring intensely at a blank spot on the wall, and tries to slowly back out of the kitchen. Except he immediately stumbles over a stray chair legs, nearly dropping his food.

"Very mysterious," Jungwon sighs, shaking his head and sliding a fresh plate of breakfast toward you and Riki. "Sit down and eat before Sunghoon loses his patience."

The entire kitchen drops into a dead, ringing silence as there's a knock on the door. The easy laughter evaporates instantly, replaced by the rigid, hyper-vigilant instincts of seven trained killers.

Jay’s hand subtly slides over his blade, concealing it beneath a dish towel. Jungwon gently nudges you behind his shoulder, while Riki’s grip on your waist tightens to a vice-like hold, his body shifting seamlessly to shield yours from the line of sight.

Jake doesn't hesitate. His playful golden-retriever energy vanishes, replaced by a cold, cautious gravity as he glides silently toward the grand front foyer. The rest of the boys follow in a loose, coordinated sweep, weapons concealed but ready, keeping you safely in the center of the perimeter.

Jake reaches the massive oak door. He rests his hand on the handle, takes a breath, and quietly pulls it open.

Standing on the porch isn't a hitman or a rival syndicate enforcer.

It’s a girl.

She's wearing a slightly oversized denim jacket, her hair a bit messy from the coastal breeze, and she looks thoroughly intimidated by the sheer size of the estate.

"Um... does a Jake Sim live here?" she asks, her voice a little breathless as she holds up a small, plastic rectangle.

It's Jake's driver's license. He must have dropped it at the local convenience store during one of his midnight junk-food runs.

The entire universe seems to laugh at the timing. Jake stares at her, his jaw slightly slack. The lethal mafia soldier who could take down three men in a dark alley completely evaporates. His brain shorts out, all his social skills flying right out the window as he looks from his ID to her face, utterly struck dumb.

Sunghoon, standing just a step behind him, takes one look at Jake’s frozen, useless expression and can’t help but seize the opportunity. He steps forward with a smooth, effortless charm, flashing a dazzling smile.

"Yes! Sorry, he's a little shy," Sunghoon says, his voice dripping with playful warmth as he gently nudges Jake out of the way with his elbow.

Behind them, in the hallway, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from bursting into a loud laugh. Riki relaxes his posture just a fraction, a dark, highly amused glint returning to his eyes as he leans down, his breath tickling your ear.

"Look at that," Riki whispers, his lips brushing your hair as he watches Jake turn a vivid shade of crimson. "Your advice worked sooner than you thought, princess."

The girl offers a small, slightly awkward smile, adjusting her grip on her purse strap. "I saw it on the floor when I left the convenience store," she explains, her voice soft against the quiet morning air. "The address on the back led me here."

Jake is still completely paralyzed. The world around him has slowed to an absolute crawl, the tough mafia enforcer entirely replaced by a guy experiencing love at first sight. He’s staring at her like she just handed him a winning lottery ticket, his cheeks a brilliant, burning shade of red.

Sensing the lingering, heavy silence from the massive house behind Sunghoon, the girl clears her throat nervously. "Anyway... I'll uh... head out now. Glad I could get it back to you."

She shifts on her feet, turning to take a step down the grand stone porch.

That movement finally shocks Jake's brain back online. Panic flaring in his eyes, he blurts out, "Wait!"

He steps right past Sunghoon, his hand reaching out instinctively before he catches himself. The girl stops, blinking in surprise as she turns back to look at him.

Jake swallows hard, trying to channel every single ounce of the "mysterious, intriguing" energy you had just been teasing him about inside. He squares his shoulders, but the sheer nervousness in his eyes gives him away completely.

"Could I maybe... get your number?" Jake asks, his voice cracking just a tiny bit before he clears his throat to deepen it. "It'd be nice to take you out somewhere. As a thank you. For, you know, not identity-theft-ing me."

Behind him in the foyer, a collective, silent gasp ripples through the boys. Sunoo quickly covers his mouth to muffle a squeal, Jungwon closes his eyes in mock prayer, and Riki hides his face directly in the crook of your neck, his shoulders shaking with silent, breathless laughter.

The girl stares at Jake for one agonizing second, two seconds—and then a genuinely pretty, amused smile breaks across her face.

"Sure," she says softly, pulling her phone from her jacket pocket. "I guess a thank-you coffee wouldn't hurt."

Jake types his number into her phone with hands that are visibly shaking, handing it back to her like it’s a fragile piece of glass. She gives him one last sweet, lingering smile before turning to walk down the driveway, leaving him standing on the porch like a man who has just seen a vision.

He watches her until she clears the gates, then slowly turns around, closing the heavy oak door behind him. The moment the lock clicks, Jake slides his back down the wood until he’s sitting flat on the floor, a completely dazed, goofy grin plastered across his face.

He holds his phone up to his chest like a prized trophy.

The boys immediately swarm him, dropping the tactical guard completely. Sunoo is the first to cross his arms, a brilliant, teasing smirk on his face as he looks down at Jake’s pathetic, love-struck form.

"Wow, Jake," Sunoo says, his voice dripping with playful mockery. "Maybe you'll also get a girlfriend sooner or later."

"Shut up, Sunoo, I'm having a moment," Jake groans from the floor, hiding his burning red face in his hands. "She smelled like vanilla. Did you guys smell that? She’s an angel."

"She’s a civilian who almost saw Jay's combat knife, you idiot," Jungwon sighs, though a fond smile cracks through his leader persona.

Riki guides you back toward the kitchen island, his arm still firmly hooked around your waist. He looks down at you, his dark eyes brimming with amusement as he leans his chin right on your shoulder.

"you gave him hope" Riki says, as he caresses your hip

"Well no—I gave him a little nudge of confidence, there's a difference," you correct him, leaning back slightly into his solid frame to watch the chaos unfold.

Riki hums, a low, vibrating sound that rumbles pleasantly against your spine. His long fingers trace lazy, possessive circles against your hip bone, the heat of his touch bleeding right through the thick fabric of the hoodie.

"A nudge," Riki repeats, his voice laced with a dark, velvet amusement. "Princess, the guy looked like he was about to propose right there on the porch. He's practically planning the wedding."

As if on cue, Jake suddenly scrambles up from the floor, clutching his phone like it's a live grenade. "I should text her. I need to text her right now so she has my number. Wait—what do I say? Is 'Hey' too eager? Should I use a period to look serious? An exclamation mark?!"

Sunghoon groans loudly, stepping forward to snatch the phone right out of Jake's trembling hands. "Give me that before you ruin it. If you use a period, she's going to think you're a serial killer."

"Give it back!" Jake yelps, lunging for the device while Sunoo happily steps in to block him, laughing hysterically as the three of them start wrestling for the phone in the middle of the grand foyer.

Jay just sighs, rubbing his temples as he heads back toward the kitchen to pour himself a much-needed cup of coffee, muttering under his breath about dealing with children.

Through it all, Riki simply shakes his head. He turns his attention entirely back to you, completely unfazed by the noise of his syndicate brothers turning into a bunch of high schoolers. He drops his forehead against your shoulder, his nose brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

"Let them deal with that," Riki murmurs, his tone dropping back into that heavy, intoxicating register meant only for you. His hand slides from your hip to wrap securely around your waist, slowly turning you in his arms until you're facing him.

His dark eyes sweep over your face, the playful amusement fading into something much hungrier, much more deliberate.

"I have much better things to do with my morning than watch Jake forget how to speak English," he whispers, his thumb gently tilting your chin up as he backs you slowly into the edge of the kitchen counter. "Now... where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

End

maybe jakes little crush is the next part.. hope you liked it, i rushed a little and didn't know what to do halfway so it's a little fast paced. This wasn't proofread so please call out any mistakes!

@flowermoonmay

[rikiiholic]

The heart wants what it wants - n.rk

there's a million reasons why I should give you up, but the heart wants what it wants

synopsis: you figured after Riki got a girlfriend you could easily get over your feelings for him that you've always ultimately denied, turns out, forgetting about your first love is harder than you think.

genre: angst, fluff, friends to lovers, suggestive

warnings: angst obv, Riki is a yearner, both are down bad for one another, a bit suggestive (not smut but it's very... suggestive), kissing, maybe a little more than kissing.. riki has been WAITING

pt 1 back to friends

The theory was simple: Riki had a girlfriend, which meant the boundary was no longer invisible. It was concrete. It was undeniable. You were a pre-med student; you understood logic, cause and effect, and lines that shouldn't be crossed. You genuinely figured that seeing him with Maya would be the final, painful push you needed to snap out of it and bury your feelings for good.

Turns out, forgetting your first love doesn’t follow a logical formula.

And what you didn't realize was that while you were trying to forget him, Riki was quietly drowning in his own regret.

"Mimi, you're doing that thing again," your friend whispered, nudging your shoulder across the library table.

"What thing?" you mumbled, keeping your eyes glued to your biology textbook.

"The thing where you stare at the same page for twenty minutes without blinking. You're thinking about him."

You let out a heavy sigh, closing the book with a muted thud. It had been three weeks since the frat party, three weeks of convincing yourself you were fine. You and Riki had slowly dialed things back to a strictly "safe" distance. No more sharing a bed. No more late-night movie binges in his room.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a familiar buzz on the wooden table.

Riki: hey mimi. u at the library? maya and i are grabbing smoothies nearby. want us to drop one off for u?

Your heart did that familiar, frustrating little flip before plunging into a dull ache. Maya and I. It was always the two of them now.

You: Thanks, Ki, but I'm actually wrapping up and heading back to my dorm to sleep. Next time!

It was a lie. You had at least three more hours of studying to do, but you couldn't bear the thought of sitting across from him, watching him slide his hand into hers. You hit send and shoved your phone into your bag.

Across campus, sitting at a metal table outside the juice bar, Riki stared at his phone screen. His jaw clenched as he read your reply, a profound, heavy disappointment settling over him.

"Is she coming?" Maya asked, smiling as she set a green smoothie down in front of him.

"No," Riki said softly, his voice devoid of its usual energy. He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket, his thumb brushing against his palm, right where your hand used to rest when you walked across campus together. "She's tired. Studying."

"Oh, bummer," Maya murmured, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "You've been missing her lately, haven't you?"

Riki looked down at Maya’s hand over his. She was sweet, she was talented, and she liked him. She was everything a guy was supposed to want. But as he looked at her fingers intertwined with his, he felt absolutely nothing. A hollow, terrifying emptiness expanded in his chest.

"Yeah," Riki whispered, his throat tight as he looked past Maya, his eyes scanning the campus path toward the library. He was yearning. He was starving for the sight of you, for the sound of your laugh, for the way you would push your glasses up your nose when you were frustrated. "I miss her a lot."

maya smiles at him, squeezing his hand "She'll eventually come around"

A week later, the summer heat broke into a sudden, torrential downpour. You were caught completely unprepared, rushing out of the science building with a stack of research papers clutched to your chest, trying to shield them from the rain.

"Mimi!"

You blinked through the downpour, wiping water from your eyes. Running across the flooded quad toward you was Riki. He didn't have an umbrella, his oversized hoodie already soaked through, but he was sprinting like his life depended on it. Before you could say anything, he reached you, instantly taking off his heavy jacket and holding it over your head to shield your papers.

"Are you crazy? You're going to get soaked," you gasped, looking up at him.

Riki didn't care about the rain. He was breathing heavily, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his sharp jawline. But his eyes, intense, wide, and filled with a desperate kind of relief, were completely locked onto yours. He hadn't been this close to you in a month.

"I saw you from the studio window," Riki said, his voice a low, rough rumble over the sound of the thunder. He stepped closer, crowding you against the brick wall of the building to block the wind, his body heat radiating through the damp air. "You don't check your weather app? You're going to catch a cold."

"I was busy," you whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of how his gaze dropped to your lips for a agonizing second before snapping back to your eyes. The memory of that denied kiss rushed back, making the air between you scorching hot despite the freezing rain.

Riki reached out, his hand hovering in the air for a fraction of a second, trembling slightly, before he finally allowed his fingers to brush a wet strand of hair away from your cheek. His touch was so light, so achingly tender, it felt like a silent plea.

"You're always busy now," he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet, hidden grief. "You're always avoiding me, Mimi."

"I'm not avoiding you, Riki. I'm just... letting you have your space. With Maya," you said, forcing the words out even though they felt like glass in your throat.

Riki’s hand dropped from your face, his fist clenching at his side. He let out a breathless, bitter laugh, looking away for a moment before staring back at you with a raw vulnerability that terrified you.

"Right," he whispered, the carefree persona completely shattered. "Maya."

I He looked like he wanted to scream. He looked like he wanted to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he was losing his mind, that every routine he choreographed was about you, that every night he spent with his girlfriend was just a hollow attempt to build a wall high enough to keep his feelings for you from spilling over.

But he couldn't. He had chosen the "easy" way out, and now he was trapped in it.

"Come on," Riki said, his voice dropping to a forced, quiet calm as he adjusted the jacket over your head, his arm lingering just inches from your shoulder. "Let's get you back to your dorm."

"I'm fine Riki I can go on my own" you say, he was always stubborn there was no way he'd possibly let you avoid him any further. "It's not okay, come on I'm taking you" he takes your hand, a habit of his since you've known him.

The walk to your dorm was quiet, not like the other times you would chase each other or laugh when the other fell down, it didn't feel like it used too and it made your chest ache.

Your fingers felt incredibly small inside his grip. His hand was warm, damp from the rain, and wrapped tightly around yours with a desperate, unyielding strength—as if he knew that the moment he let go, the distance between you would become permanent.

You stared down at your joined hands as you walked, your feet splashing into puddles. It was a gesture that used to mean safety. Now, it felt like an anchor dragging you down into a sea of things you weren’t allowed to feel.

When you finally reached the awning of your dorm building, the sudden lack of rain was jarring. You stepped under the concrete roof, pulling your hand from his grip to adjust your wet books against your chest. Your hand felt instantly freezing without his warmth.

Riki stood just on the edge of the shelter, the rain still pouring down behind him, framing him in a gray, blurred curtain. He didn't put his jacket back on; he just stood there in his soaked t-shirt, his chest rising and falling with heavy, quiet breaths.

"You should get inside and change," he said softly, his voice cutting through the steady roar of the storm. He didn't move to leave. He just watched you, his dark eyes tracing the damp contours of your face, looking completely miserable.

"You need to go back and dry off too, Ki," you replied, keeping your tone as even as possible. "Maya’s going to worry if you catch a cold."

The mention of her name hit him like a physical blow. Riki’s jaw clenched, and for a second, a flash of pure, agonizing frustration crossed his face. He took a half-step forward, his boots clicking sharply against the concrete, closing the distance between you until you had to tilt your head up to look at him.

"Stop doing that," he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough, breathless whisper.

"Doing what?"

"Bringing her up. Acting like you don't care," he said, stepping even closer. The scent of rain and his familiar cologne enveloped you, making your head spin. He reached out, his hand hovering over your arm, his fingers trembling with a restraint that looked exhausting. "Act like you used to, Mimi. Please. Just yell at me, or laugh at me, or... do anything but look at me like I'm a stranger."

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The yearning in his voice was so loud, so raw, it stripped away all your defenses.

"We can't go back to how we used to be, Riki," you whispered, a tear slipping out, disguised by the rainwater on your cheek. "You drew the line. You’re the one who said that night didn't mean anything."

Riki closed his eyes, letting out a fractured sigh that brushed against your forehead. When he opened them, the intense, agonizing depth of his feelings was completely exposed. He looked at you the way a starving man looks at a feast, full of a desperate, quiet hunger that he had no right to satisfy.

"I lied," he breathed, his voice barely audible over the rain. His hand finally dropped, resting heavily against the brick wall right next to your head, effectively trapping you in his space. "Mimi, I lied."

"Lied? That's not like you"

A bitter, breathless laugh escaped his lips, sounding completely devoid of humor. He leaned his forehead forward, stopping just inches from yours, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

"It’s not like me," he whispered, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register. "You’re right. I don’t lie about how I feel. I’ve never had to. But with you... Mimi, I panicked."

Your fingers tightened around your books, the cardboard edges cutting into your skin, but you barely felt it. "Why would you panic, Ki?"

"Because you were talking about the bubble bursting," he breathed, his gaze dropping to your lips for an agonizing second before snapping back up. "You were talking about after graduation, about hospitals, and stars, and how we wouldn't be able to do this anymore. I realized... I realized that if I let myself have what I actually wanted, if I let myself love you the way I’ve been secretly loving you for years, losing you when the bubble burst would actually kill me."

The admission hung in the damp air between you, heavy and devastating.

"So you got a girlfriend?" your voice cracked, the hurt finally bleeding through the cracks of your composure. "To protect yourself?"

"To try and force myself to snap out of it," Riki admitted softly, a tear finally escaping his eye and tracking down his wet cheek. He looked completely defeated, the powerful, confident dancer entirely stripped away. "I thought if I put a wall between us, I could go back to just being your best friend. I thought I could preserve some version of us. But it’s not working. Seeing you look at me like I’m just some guy from your classes... it's tearing me apart from the inside out."

He reached out, his hand finally defying the boundaries he had built, his damp fingers gently cupping the side of your neck. His thumb brushed your jawline, trembling.

"I'm sorry, Mimi," he whispered, leaning in until his breath fanned across your lips. "I'm so sorry I was a coward."

Somehow, you found yourself letting him into your dorm again. The two of you sat tucked beneath the blankets, your favorite show playing quietly in the background, though neither of you was really watching. His confession lingered in your mind, replaying over and over until it drowned out everything else.

“Riki…” you called softly.

He didn’t even have to look at you for you to know he was listening. His attention had always been on you.

“What now?” You asked

Riki didn’t answer right away. The only sound in the small room was the low hum of the television and the rhythmic patter of the rain outside, but the air between you had shifted entirely. It was no longer cold or sterile. It was heavy, thick with a sudden, intoxicating heat that made the space beneath the blanket feel entirely too small.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you. His dark hair was still slightly damp, a few stray pieces clinging to his forehead, but his eyes were wide awake, burning with an intensity that sent a sudden, electric shiver straight down your spine.

He shifted his weight, turning his body toward you. The movement caused his thigh to flush completely against yours under the blanket. Even through the fabric of your clothes, his body heat was scorching.

"What now?" Riki echoed, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly murmur that felt dangerously intimate in the quiet room.

He didn't pull away this time. Instead, he reached out, his large hand sliding beneath the blanket to find yours. His fingers didn't just hold your hand, they moved slowly, tracing the sensitive skin of your wrist before tangling deeply with yours, pressing your palms together. His grip was tight, possessive, and entirely devoid of the platonic carelessness he usually wore like armor.

"I don't know, Mimi," he whispered, his gaze dropping deliberately to your lips, lingering there until your breath hitched. He hitched himself closer, crawling slightly over the space between you until he was hovering just inches away. The scent of rain, damp cotton, and his distinct, musky cologne enveloped you completely, making your head spin. "But I know I'm tired of pretending."

"Riki, Maya—" you started, your voice trembling as you tried to find a shred of your usual logic, but the word died in your throat as his free hand came up to touch your face.

His fingers slid into the hair at the nape of your neck, his thumb resting right against the pulse point on your jaw. You could feel his own heart hammering through his chest, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours, his lips so close that every time he breathed, his warm air fanned across your mouth.

"Don't say her name," he breathed against your lips, his voice tight with a dark, suffocating desire he had suppressed for entirely too long. "Not right now. Not when I'm finally touching you."

His thumb applied a fraction of pressure, tilting your chin up just a hair. The casual, playful frat boy was entirely gone. In his place was someone completely consumed, his gaze burning into yours with a silent, heavy promise. He slid his hand from your neck down to your shoulder, his fingers digging in slightly through your shirt, pulling you flush against his chest.

"If you want me to stop, Mimi, you have to tell me right now," he murmured, his voice a rough, desperate plea as his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, testing your resolve. "Because if you don't... I'm not letting you go tonight."

Your breath caught, trapped in your throat as the sheer weight of his proximity pinned you in place. You looked into his eyes–dark, blown-out, and completely stripped of the casual armor he usually wore. The logic that had always governed your life, the rules that dictated your future, all of it seemed to evaporate under the heat of his touch.

You didn't tell him to stop. You couldn't.

Instead, your hands found the hem of his damp t-shirt, your fingers curling into the fabric as you pulled him that final, agonizing fraction of an inch closer.

Taking that as the only permission he needed, Riki let out a low, ragged breath against your skin and closed the distance.

This kiss wasn't like the desperate collision from a month ago. It was slower, deliberate, and thick with the heavy yearning that had been quietly suffocating him for years. His lips parted yours with a smooth, commanding possessiveness that made your knees weak even while sitting down. He tasted like the rain and a dangerous, addictive sweetness that ruined any chance you ever had of getting over him.

A soft gasp escaped you, and Riki used the moment to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing yours in a rhythm that felt entirely too natural, entirely too right. He shifted his weight, shifting fully over you, his heavy frame pressing you down into the mattress. The blanket tangled around your legs as he settled into the space between your thighs, the solid, unyielding heat of his body pressing flush against yours.

"Mimi..." he groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down from your face to grip your waist, his long fingers digging into your hips through your shirt. He pulled you up against him, leaving no space, no air, no room for doubt.

Every touch was electric. His lips left yours, tracing a path of scorching kisses down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck. When his teeth lightly grazed your pulse point, a sharp, involuntary shiver ran through your entire body, and your hands instinctively slid up his chest, tangling deeply into his hair to hold him there.

"Riki," you whispered, your voice a breathless, unraveled sound that only seemed to drive him crazier.

He moved back up, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before resting his forehead against yours. He was breathing heavily, his chest expanding hard against yours, his eyes dark with a raw, intoxicating hunger as he looked down at you. His hands remained firmly locked onto your hips, anchoring you to him.

"Tell me this is real," he breathed, his voice rough and uneven as his thumb stroked the bare skin of your waist where his shirt had ridden up. "Tell me you're not going to wake up tomorrow and pretend it was another fluke."

You smile tenderly and give him a little pinch "it's real"

A low, ragged sound escaped the back of Riki’s throat when you confirmed it was real. The soft smile on his lips faded, replaced by a dark, intense hunger that made your stomach do a sudden, nervous flip.

"Good," he growled softly against your skin. "Because I don’t think I could stop even if you told me to now."

He didn't give you a chance to reply. His mouth came back down on yours, no longer hesitant or testing, but entirely consuming. He kissed you with a heavy, rhythmic pressure that made your head swim, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding everything you had to give. You arched into him, your hands moving desperately from his hair down to his shoulders, feeling the hard, lean muscle of a dancer shifting beneath his shirt.

Riki shifted his weight, sliding one of his knees higher between your thighs, pinning you fully beneath him. The friction of his body against yours through your clothes sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to your core. Your breath hitched, a soft, helpless whine breaking into the kiss, which only seemed to drive him crazier.

His hands, still tucked beneath your shirt, slid up from your waist. His palms were hot, a little rough, and utterly possessive as they traced the curve of your ribs, moving higher until they were brushing against the bare skin just beneath your bra. Every spot he touched felt like it was catching fire.

"Mimi..." he breathed, breaking the kiss for just a second to pull the wet, heavy hoodie over his head and toss it blindly onto the floor.

When he came back down, he was only in a thin tank top, and the feel of his bare chest pressing flush against you was intoxicating. He buried his face in your neck, his lips biting gently at the sensitive skin right where your shoulder met your collarbone. You gasped, your fingers digging into his back as he left a hot, bruising mark there, a deliberate, unplatonic claim that you wouldn't be able to hide tomorrow.

He slid his hands down to the button of your shorts, his fingers brushing against your stomach, making your muscles coill tightly. He paused there, his breathing heavy and ragged against your ear, his body heavy and warm between your legs.

He closed the distance again, his mouth crashing onto yours with a fierce, intoxicating heat. His hands didn't hesitate anymore; his fingers deftly unbuttoned your shorts, sliding them down over your hips with an urgency that made your breath catch. Every touch of his bare skin against yours felt hyper-sensitized, a beautiful torture that left you completely helpless beneath him.

Riki shifted, sliding his hands down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you up and pinning you flush against his hips. The solid, heavy heat of him pressing directly against your center made your head tilt back into the pillow, a soft, broken sound slipping from your throat. He caught the sound with his own lips, drinking it in as if it were air.

His hands tracked back up, sliding underneath your top to undo your bra, discarding it into the tangled blankets. When his bare chest finally met yours, the friction of skin against skin was electric. Riki let out a low, shuddering breath, his lips leaving yours to trace a burning path down your throat, over your collarbone, down to the heavy swell of your chest. He kissed his way down, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peaks until you were arching off the mattress, your fingers tangling so tightly in his hair it must have hurt.

"You're beautiful," he breathed against your skin, his voice a gravelly, reverent whisper. He looked up at you, his eyes completely dark, blown-out with desire, his face flushed. "You're mine, Mimi. Say it."

"I'm yours," you gasped, your hips instinctively shifting against his, a silent plea for him to close the agonizingly small distance left between you. "Riki, please..."

He let out a ragged laugh, a dark, possessive sound, as his hand slid down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your underwear. He leaned down, his lips resting right against your ear, his breath hot and uneven.

"I've waited so long for this," he murmured, his fingers sliding beneath the lace, finding you completely ready for him. You cried out, your hands gripping his shoulders as he began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm that had your vision blurring. "I'm not going to rush a single second of it."

When you woke the next morning, Riki was still there. His arm remained draped around your waist, holding you close as if you’d been molded perfectly against him. He looked so peaceful, as though this was exactly where he was always meant to be, right beside you.

The heavy storm from the night before had passed, leaving behind a soft, muted morning light that filtered through your window. For the first time in months, the air in your room didn’t feel thick with tension or heavy with unspoken rules. It felt warm. It felt quiet.

You shifted slightly, the soft friction of the sheets reminding you of the bare skin beneath them. As you moved, Riki let out a low, subconscious grunt, his grip on your waist instantly tightening. He pulled you back against his chest without even opening his eyes, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, puffing softly against your skin, right over the faint, bruising mark he had left there hours ago.

You couldn't help the tender smile that tugged at your lips.

This morning was nothing like the painful, awkward awakening from a month ago. There was no rush to leave, no defensive walls slamming down, and no forced, casual nicknames. He was just here. Completely, entirely yours.

Slowly, you turned around in his embrace so you were facing him. Up close, the fierce, possessive dancer from last night was gone, replaced by the soft, boyish expression he only ever showed you. Your fingertips traced the smooth line of his jaw, completely marveling at how easily the lines had blurred when you finally stopped running.

As if sensing your touch, Riki’s eyelashes fluttered open. His dark eyes were still hazy with sleep, but the moment they focused on your face, a soft, incredibly lazy smile spread across his lips.

"Morning," he rasped, his voice deeper and rougher than usual from sleep. He didn't pull back. Instead, he slid his hand up from your waist, his long fingers gently cupping your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin. "You're still here."

"Of course I am," you whispered, leaning into his palm. "It's my dorm, Ki."

He let out a soft chuckle, the vibration rumbling against your chest as he leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally against your lips. It wasn't the frantic, consuming heat of last night, but something slow, sweet, and profoundly reassuring.

"Good," Riki murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, unyielding intensity that told you everything you needed to know. "Because I'm not going anywhere either."

“What about Maya?” you asked quietly. Guilt tugged at your chest. She had been nothing but kind to you, and the last thing you ever wanted was for her to get hurt.

Riki buried his face in the crook of your neck, a soft laugh escaping him. You could feel the smile against your skin.

“I told her the truth,” he murmured. “About how I feel about you. We broke up yesterday… before I saw you from the studio.”

The words hung in the quiet room, instantly dissolving the last lingering bit of anxiety in your chest. You stared at him, your eyes wide as the reality of what he had just said fully sunk in.

"Yesterday?" you echoed, your voice barely a whisper. "Before the rain?"

Riki pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression softening into something incredibly tender. "Yesterday," he confirmed, his thumb gently tracing your lower lip. "I couldn't keep doing it to her, Mimi. And I couldn't keep doing it to myself. She's a great girl, and she deserved someone who was actually present. Not someone whose mind was always across campus, wondering if a certain pre-med student had remembered to eat lunch."

A watery laugh slipped past your lips, and you reached up, tangling your fingers into his messy bedhead. "You're an idiot, Nishimura Riki."

"Yeah, but I'm your idiot," he murmured, a beautiful, unbothered smirk spreading across his face.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of absolute relief. There were no more lies to hide behind, no more safety nets or defensive walls. Maya was safe, the truth was out, and for the first time since you could remember, the bubble wasn't something you had to fear. It was a space the two of you had finally built together, completely on your own terms.

As Riki pulled you closer, shifting his weight to press you back into the mattress, you realized that the long, agonizing burn of the past few semesters had been worth every single second.

End

I might've went a bit overboard with the suggestive part lol, I invested myself in this part way too much but as much as I enjoyed writing it, I hope you enjoyed reading it!

@the8hao @enhypenholic

[jsongprk]

keep it on the downlow 𑣲.

ss count: 17

𑣲.- niki and jake had been bestfriends forever, meaning naturally, you came along as a package deal. after years and years you finally gave in and kissed him, and when he leans away, you fear the worst. but it may not be as drastic as you thought...

genre/warnings: bsfs older brother au, smoking, suggestive photo, slight angst,

part 2 maybe....??

:: sorry for poor quality/poor cuts, laptop acting up 😞

[rikiiholic]

Treat you better - n.rk

I just want to give you the loving that you're missing

synopsis: For months, Ni-ki stood on the sidelines, watching you wither away in a toxic relationship with Jungwon. He always knew you deserved a love that didn't make you feel like an afterthought. Now that you're finally free, Ni-ki is stepping out of the shadows. He’s determined to show you exactly how you deserve to be loved, and just maybe, the guy who always put you first will finally get his own happy ending.

genre: fluff, angst, unrequited love (at first), ni-ki is a yearner

Warnings: nothing just kissing

note: yes this is part two of "you broke me first" if you're reading this before, click here for part 1!

The heavy, final thud of the door closing seems to echo through the apartment, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. For a second, you just stand there, staring at the blank wood. Then, your knees simply give out.

You collapse onto the floor, your hands covering your face as the first sob tears through your chest. Breaking up with Jungwon was the right choice, you knew that, but knowing it doesn't make the pain any less agonizing. It feels like tearing away a piece of yourself, a brutal end to months of hoping, waiting, and hurting. It is easily the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.

Ni-ki watches you from the hallway, his heart aching at the sound of your crying. He doesn't rush you, and he doesn't tell you to cheer up. Instead, he walks over quietly and drops to his knees right beside you on the hardwood floor.

Without a word, he wraps his long arms around your trembling shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest. He holds you tight, letting you bury your face into his hoodie, offering a silent, steady anchor in the middle of your wreckage. He doesn't say "I told you so," and he doesn't mention Jungwon's name. He just holds you while you break, silently promising himself that he's going to be the one to help you put the pieces back together.

A few days later, the apartment is quiet again, but the heavy, suffocating weight has lifted just a fraction. You’re sitting on the couch, staring blankly at your phone screen. Your thumb hovers over the photo gallery, specifically, the folder filled with months of memories of Jungwon. Photos from when things were good, before the distance, before Hana, before everything fell apart. Tears blur your vision as you stare at his smiling face, your finger frozen. You know you need to let go, but you just can't bring yourself to press delete.

Ni-ki walks into the living room carrying two mugs of hot cocoa, but he stops when he sees the tense line of your shoulders and the quiet tears slipping down your face.

He sets the mugs down on the coffee table without a sound. He doesn't lecture you, and he doesn't ask you what's wrong, he already knows.

Sitting down beside you, Ni-ki gently but firmly slides his fingers under yours, lifting the phone right out of your hands. You look up, startled, but he doesn't look angry. His expression is incredibly soft, filled with a quiet, protective determination.

Without saying a single word, his thumb moves across the screen. He selects the folder. He hits the trash icon. And then, he empties the recently deleted folder, wiping the digital ghosts of Jungwon out of your life for good.

He locks the phone and sets it face down on the table, finally turning his dark eyes back to yours.

"You don't have to be strong enough to do it yourself yet," Ni-ki says softly, handing you one of the warm mugs. "Let me handle the hard parts for a while."

Ni-ki hadn't forgotten the previous afternoon. He had been over at your place, helping you reorganize your space to get a fresh start, when that frantic, desperate knocking started. When you opened the door to reveal a soaked, sobbing Jungwon dropping to his knees, Ni-ki had quietly stepped back into your bedroom, closing the door just enough to give you privacy but keeping it cracked enough to ensure you were safe.

Standing in the shadows of your room, his chest had ached with a terrifying, suffocating pain.

Listening to Jungwon beg, Ni-ki had clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. His heart hammered against his ribs, terrified that you would yield to the tears, that you would take Jungwon back out of habit or pity. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he could treat you infinitely better than Jungwon ever could. He would never make you feel like an afterthought. He would never make you compete for his attention.

When you finally closed the door and turned the lock on Jungwon, Ni-ki had let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for months.

Now, sitting next to you on the couch after deleting those photos, he looks at your exhausted profile. The memory of his fear from yesterday still lingers in his chest, making his voice a little thicker, a little more vulnerable than usual.

"Yesterday..." Ni-ki starts quietly, breaking the silence as he stares at his own mug. "When he was on his knees out there... I was terrified you were going to let him back in." He finally turns his head to look at you, his eyes intense and fiercely honest. "Because you deserve someone who stands up for you, Y/N. Not someone who only gets on their knees when they've already lost you."

You smile weakly at him, the warmth from the mug in your hands seeping into your palms as you look into his intensely honest eyes.

"You're too good to me, Ni-ki," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of everything he’s done for you. You look down at the floor, a familiar wave of guilt washing over you. "You don't deserve this. You shouldn't have to clean up the mess someone else made."

Ni-ki doesn't hesitate. He sets his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink and reaches over, gently placing his hand over yours, stopping your fingers from nervously tracing the ceramic.

"Don't do that," he says softly, his voice firm but incredibly tender. "Don't talk like you're a burden. I’m here because I want to be. I’ve wanted to be here for a long time."

He waits until you finally look back up at him, making sure you see the absolute sincerity in his eyes.

"You didn't ask for any of this to happen to you, Y/N," he continues, a gentle smile finally breaking through his serious expression. "So stop worrying about what I deserve, and let me focus on what you deserve for once. Deal?"

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that he shouldn't waste his time on someone whose heart is still recovering, but the look in his eyes stops you completely. There is no pity in his gaze, just an unwavering, steady devotion that you haven't felt in a very long time. Fighting his words is entirely useless; Ni-ki has always been stubborn when it comes to taking care of you.

You hesitate for a long beat, looking down at his hand resting securely over yours. The warmth of it feels grounding.

Slowly, the tension leaves your shoulders, and you nod. "Deal," you whisper.

A genuine, brilliant smile breaks across Ni-ki's face, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle and completely changes the energy in the room. He gives your hand a reassuring, gentle squeeze before leaning back against the couch cushions, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Good," he says, his tone shifting back to his usual playful self. "Now drink your cocoa before it gets cold, and then we're picking a movie. No sad ones allowed."

For the first time in months, as you sit next to him in the quiet apartment, the future doesn't look so dark. You're still hurting, but looking at Ni-ki, you realize you don't have to heal all on your own.

Weeks quickly melt into a completely different kind of normal.

Ni-ki doesn't just talk about treating you better; he actually does it, every single day. He takes you out on dates that feel entirely focused on making you smile, whether it's driving out to see the city lights, hunting down the best late-night street food, or just walking through a bookstore for hours.

But it’s the little things that truly shift something inside you. For months with Jungwon, you had grown used to waiting hours for a text, constantly guessing where you stood. Ni-ki completely shatters that habit. Even if he's busy, even if he's out with the rest of the guys, your phone lights up with a reply within seconds. He never makes you feel like an interruption; he makes you feel like the priority.

Slowly, you start to notice the shift in yourself. You appreciate every single ounce of effort he pours into you, but lately, it's becoming harder to deny the sudden, erratic skipping of your pulse whenever he's around.

When he leans across the table to wipe a bit of sauce from your face, or when his hand naturally finds yours to pull you through a crowded sidewalk, your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with sadness.

It feels like you are finally seeing him clearly for the very first time. The protective, attentive, and incredibly charming side of him had always been there, you were just too blinded by the heartbreak of trying to fix Jungwon to notice it. But now, the fog has completely cleared, and every time Ni-ki looks at you, you realize your heart is beating for someone else entirely.

"Hey, Y/N!"

The front door swings open, and Ni-ki walks into your apartment, his arms completely full of rustling shopping bags. He uses his elbow to nudge the door shut behind him, a massive, bright grin lighting up his face as he balances the load.

"I got you some stuff," he says, practically vibrating with excitement to show you what’s inside.

You look at the sheer amount of bags, a wave of familiar fondness and slight guilt washing over you. "Ni-ki, you really didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," he cuts you off instantly, not even letting you finish the sentence.

He marches over to the living room and dumps the bags onto the coffee table with a satisfied flourish. Turning to you, he crosses his arms, looking incredibly proud of himself.

"No protests allowed, remember? We made a deal," he reminds you, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Now come over here. I found a few things that practically had your name written all over them, and I wasn't about to leave the store without them."

You walk over to the table, looking from the pile of bags up to his face. "Did you even buy anything for yourself, Ki? You shouldn't just focus on me all the time."

Ni-ki immediately shakes his head, reaching into one of the bags to pull out a beautifully wrapped box.

"Don't worry about me," he says, his voice softening as he steps a little closer, handing the box to you. "Your birthday is soon. This is about you."

Your heart does that familiar, erratic skip at his words. For so long, your birthday had been something you dreaded, remembering how Jungwon had brushed it off the year before as just another day. But Ni-ki had clearly been counting down the days, planning for it before the week had even started.

"I wanted to make sure you had everything you could possibly want," he adds, his eyes locked onto yours, completely sincere. "So don't even think about trying to feel guilty. Just open it."

You nod, the guilt melting away into pure excitement as you sit down on the floor by the coffee table. Carefully, you untie the ribbon on the first box and peel back the tissue paper.

Inside lies a beautiful, vibrant yellow sundress. Your breath catches in your throat, it is the exact dress you had paused to look at in a storefront window weeks ago, a piece you'd been secretly eyeing ever since summer started but never bought for yourself.

"Ni-ki, what..." You lift the soft fabric, looking up at him with wide, genuinely touched eyes. "How did you even know?"

He leans against the edge of the couch, folding his arms with a soft, knowing smile. "I saw you looking at it when we walked past that boutique three weeks ago," he says, his tone entirely casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to remember a fleeting glance from nearly a month ago. "Figured you wanted it, so I went back for it."

A warm, heavy ache blossoms in your chest, but this time, it's entirely full of happiness. Jungwon used to ask you for a literal list of gifts and still forget to buy them; Ni-ki just paid attention. He noticed the tiny details you didn't even realize you were giving away.

"Go on," he urges gently, nodding toward the remaining bags, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "There's more."

You reach for the next box. It's much smaller, fitting perfectly in the palm of your hand. Your fingers tremble slightly as you lift the lid, and your breath hitches.

Resting on a velvet cushion is a delicate, stunning silver necklace, its fine chain holding a beautifully scripted pendant of your name. It catches the living room light, gleaming perfectly.

"Ni-ki... oh my god," you whisper, staring at it in disbelief.

You look up at him, your chest swelling with so much emotion it almost hurts. It’s elegant, thoughtful, and completely personal.

Ni-ki pushes himself off the couch and kneels down on the floor right in front of you. The playful, teasing smirk he usually wears is entirely gone, replaced by a gaze so soft and intense it makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Do you like it?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching yours.

"I love it," you say, your voice a little breathless. "It’s beautiful, Ki. Seriously, you’ve done so much for me already..."

"Hey," he murmurs, gently taking the small box from your hands and setting it down. He reaches out, his warm fingers brushing against your cheek, tilting your face up slightly so you can't look away. "I told you, you don't have to feel guilty. You deserve to be celebrated, Y/N. Especially on your birthday. I wanted you to have something you could wear every day, just to remind you..." He pauses, his thumb lightly tracing your cheekbone. "...to remind you that you're precious. To me."

You reach out for the final, medium-sized box sitting at the bottom of the pile, but before your fingers can even brush the wrapping paper, Ni-ki darts forward and snatches it away with lightning-fast reflexes.

"Hey!" you laugh, your hands left hovering in the air.

"This one..." he says, pulling the bag behind his back and holding it out of your reach like a protective guard, "...is for later."

You look at him, completely confused, your brows furrowing as you try to peek behind his shoulder. "What do you mean later? They’re all birthday gifts!"

Ni-ki just lets out a soft, melodic laugh, his eyes crinkling into that bright, boyish shape you’ve grown so fond of. He reaches out with his free hand and gently taps the tip of your nose.

"For your actual birthday, silly," he teases, his smile widening at your pouting expression. "A guy's got to keep some secrets. If I let you open everything today, what am I supposed to give you when the midnight clock strikes?"

He stands up, safely hiding the mystery gift in his jacket pocket, but his eyes never leave yours. Looking at him standing there, proud, attentive, and completely dedicated to making you happy, the last lingering shadows of your past officially fade away. You finally have someone who wants to celebrate you, and for the first time in a long time, you can't wait for the clock to strike midnight.

The cool night air brushes against your skin as Ni-ki carefully guides you forward, his large, warm hands securely wrapped around your waist to make sure you don't trip over your own feet.

"Ni-ki, seriously, where are you taking me?" you ask, a helpless laugh escaping your lips. The soft fabric of the blindfold covers your eyes completely, leaving you entirely dependent on him.

"Shhh, just trust me," he murmurs near your ear, his deep voice sending a sudden, electric shiver straight down your spine. His grip on your waist tightens just a fraction, pulling you securely against his side as you take a few more steps. "Almost there. Don't look yet."

"I can't look, Ki, you have my eyes covered," you point out, giggling as you blindly reach out, your fingers instantly finding the soft fabric of his jacket.

"Exactly. Perfect design," he teases, and you can practically hear the smug, excited grin on his face.

He guides you to a sudden stop, the ambient sounds around you opening up into a wide, quiet space. The faint, soothing rustle of leaves and the distant, twinkling hum of the city tell you that you're somewhere high up.

Ni-ki steps behind you, his chest brushing against your back. You feel his fingers gently reaching for the knot of the blindfold at the back of your head.

"Alright," he whispers, his breath warm against your neck, making your heart do a violent flip. "On three. One... two... three."

When the blindfold drops, you blink against the sudden light, and your breath completely catches in your throat.

The entire rooftop is transformed into a glowing, fairy-tale escape. String lights hang in delicate, golden canopies overhead, casting a warm, flickering glow across the space, complemented by dozens of soft candles placed safely along the perimeter. In the center sits a beautifully set table, arranged with your absolute favorite takeout containers and a single, elegant flower in a vase. Off to the side, giant metallic balloons bob gently in the night breeze, proudly displaying your new age.

"Surprise," Ni-ki says softly from behind you.

You turn around to look at him, your hands flying to your mouth as tears of pure, overwhelming happiness prick the corners of your eyes. He’s standing there, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, looking a little nervous but incredibly proud of his handiwork.

"Ni-ki... you did all this?" you whisper, looking around the rooftop before locking your eyes back onto him. "How long did this take you?"

"Doesn't matter," he says, stepping closer, a soft, relieved smile breaking across his face when he sees how happy you are. "I wanted your midnight to be perfect. Happy birthday, Y/N."

You are so entranced by the glowing lights and the sheer effort he put into everything that you don't even hear him step back. You’re spinning around, trying to take in every single detail, until his deep voice cuts through the quiet night air.

"Y/N L/N."

You turn around suddenly, the words dying on your lips. Your breath hitches, and tears instantly pool in your eyes at the sight before you.

Ni-ki is down on one knee on the rooftop floor.

The playful, teasing boy you’ve known for years is gone, replaced by someone looking up at you with absolute reverence, his gaze unwavering and fiercely sincere.

"I've known you for years," he begins, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "Way before your relationship, and way before I even realized what the word 'love' meant. But upon being with you all these years as your best friend, I realized that love was you."

Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, a beautiful, overwhelming warmth flooding your chest as a tear finally spills over your lashes.

Ni-ki pauses, his hands trembling just a fraction as he reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out the mystery box from earlier—the one he wouldn't let you open—and clicks it open. Resting inside is a stunning, delicate promise ring, catching the golden glow of the candlelight perfectly.

"So on this special day, I want to ask..." He looks up at you, his dark eyes holding a lifetime of devotion, offering you the happy ending he had only ever dared to dream of. "...will you be my girlfriend?"

A single tear finally slips down your cheek, catching the golden light of the candles as you look down at him. The weight of the past weeks, the healing, the laughter, and the steady, unwavering safety he brought back into your life, all comes rushing to the surface.

You smile through the tears, nodding slowly. "I would love to be."

The tension instantly evaporates from Ni-ki’s shoulders, and a brilliant, breathless smile breaks across his face. He lets out a laugh that sounds entirely relieved, standing up quickly and closing the small distance between you.

Before he even puts the ring on your finger, he wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you right off your feet, spinning you around once under the canopy of string lights. You laugh, burying your face in his shoulder, holding onto him tight as the last pieces of your heart finally click right back into place.

He sets you down gently, keeping his hands on your waist for a second just to look at you, his eyes incredibly dark and filled with a happiness you haven't seen in him before.

"I've been waiting to hear you say that for a really long time," he whispers, his thumb reaching up to gently brush the tear from your cheek. He takes your left hand, sliding the delicate promise ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly. "Happy birthday, Y/N. I promise you're never going to have to doubt how much you're loved ever again."

And if the night couldn't get any more perfect, it did, sealed with a kiss under the glowing lights that you knew you would cherish for the rest of your days. It wasn't just a moment of celebration; it was a quiet, breathtaking promise of the future. Standing there in his arms, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, any lingering shadows of the past completely dissolved. For the first time in a long time, you looked ahead and saw a beautiful, clear path, a life you knew, without a single doubt, you wanted to build entirely with him.

I wasn't originally going to make a version for ni-ki but I figured the story needed to end happily, let me know if you want another one based on who Jungwon meets and if he changed at all! This was Lwk rushed, it's 11 pm here and I have an event to attend tmr but hope you enjoyed!

[youngheejay]

Burden of the Vow - a heavy weight

Jay x fem!reader [married] Synopsis: Every marriage has its ups and downs. But will they be able to protect their marriage from this burden? Previous <- -> Next of Burden of the Vow

This is the second part of Burden of the Vow. Contains: smut, (family)loss, pregnancy, bullying

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One minute you were talking to your baby inside your swollen belly. The next minute you were staring at the white hospital ceiling, your vision blurred.

Tears streamed down both sides of your temple. But no noises left your mouth. Just silent streams of tears wetting the white cotton pillow underneath your head.

The weight of your swollen belly felt heavier than ever before.

You didn’t register the loud voices approaching your hospital room.

Your hazy eyes looked at the clock ticking on the wall. 5:43 pm. It happened at 9:26 am. That’s the only thing you've been keeping track of.

The door was teared open. But you continued to stare at the clock. Counting every passing minute since it had been pronounced.

“Oh my lord!” Your mother-in-law screamed.

“My baby! What did you do to my precious baby-boy! My wonderful baby! My precious son!”

Your tears dried. Expressionlessly, you turned your head towards the door.

“How could you do this to me?!” She sobbed loudly. Your father-in-law held her shoulders, stabilising her:

“We should have never allowed their marriage!” He shouted with a raspy voice.

Your mother-in-law collapsed dramatically on the floor.

“Mom!” It was the voice of your sister-in-law.

You hadn’t noticed that more people had entered the hospital room.

Your sister-in-law had perched up her own son on her hip as she helped her mother to sit on a chair.

And suddenly, the whole attention had been shifted towards your mother-in-law as she was bawling and screaming.

Which was a good thing. Now you could continue counting the by-going minutes.

“You’re a witch!” Jiae, your sister-in-law had stepped in front of your vision. She looked angry, one vein was visibly popping on her forehead. Her eyes squinted, filled with hatred and disgust.

“How could you do this to us?! We gave you everything! And that’s how you repay us?! You’re ungrateful, useless and should’ve never married my little brother!”

She clasped her hand on her mouth, sobbing and hiccuping.

Your eyes wandered towards the baby she was holding. Would’ve he looked like him?

“You’re a filthy witch! And so irresponsible! How can you be so stupid?! But that’s all part of your sneaky plan. You just want to destroy the life of my little brother! I always knew it!” She threw her body into her husband’s arms. He was throwing the same eyebrows-furrowed expression at you as your father-in-law.

The room was filled with noises. So many fucking loud noises.

Your three aunts-in-law were weeping and roaring alongside your mother-in-law.

“She killed my baby-boy! My son!” Your mother-in-law clasped her chest.

The aunties cried out expressions to affirm your her:

“I always told you she’s evil, Eunji!”

“Cunning people are not meant to be mothers.”

“Your son deserves someone better!”

The eldest aunt agreed: “Right. Someone who is able to give him children. A fertile woman who can birth sons! They’re already married for 5 years! It took her so long to get pregnant!”

“And then she killed our baby-boy which took them 5 years to make!” Your sister-in-law joined in, venomously.

The aunts gasped loudly.

“See, Eunji. That only happens if the woman is a true evil bitch. You should’ve listened to me when I told you what the psychic said back then!”

“What did she say?!” Jiae snapped angrily.

“That y/n is not a good match for our Jay. She told me they will be childless. She won’t be able to give us a son.” She whispered loudly, pointing at you ‘discreetly’, as if you wouldn’t be able to hear or see them.

A loud shrill scream followed. Both by your mother-in-law and by your sister-in-law.

Then the 8 month old baby started crying. Immediately, everyone’s attention shifted to the baby-boy, hushing him and cooing at him.

The husband of your sister-in-law chimed in proudly: “That’s how strong, wonderful sons look like in this family.” He presented his still wailing baby to the elders as if he was a prize. And he probably was. A prize to get his name written on the Will of his father-in-law and mother-in-law.

Your hazy eyes wandered towards their other children. Their four young daughters had been quietly standing in the corner of the hospital room. That’s what they had been taught: stand quietly and don’t talk unless you are allowed to.

Your four nieces were 7, 5, 4 and 2 years old. Meaning that your sister-in-law had gotten pregnant at the very beginning of her marriage. She always had bragged in front of you how they conceived their first child during their honeymoon, knowing very well that you were struggling to get pregnant.

You always had wondered whether your sister-in-law was tired from constantly being pregnant and giving birth. Whether her body was well rested, and whether she was physically or mentally drained. You heard a lot of stories about postpartum depression. After all, she had been pregnant for more than 7 consecutive years and had been giving birth without any breaks in between.

She probably was. Who wouldn’t be? But her ultimate goal was to have a baby-boy. She was determined and would’ve tried her whole life to birth a son.

After the gender reveal of her first daughter she was so disappointed that the entire party was cancelled. You were there and remembered how much she was crying. Of course you didn’t understand a thing back then, you had just recently begun to date Jay.

At first, you had hidden your relationship as per your request. You had a sharp mind. You knew how the world works and how people are. Thus, it didn’t take you long to figure that you definitely did not meet his family’s standards. Jay on the other hand was in complete denial.

“Of course they will love you. Why wouldn’t they? You’re perfect.” He said one time you were feeling brave enough to share this particular insecurity with him.

Your mother had left you and your father when you were a newborn. The only family you had growing up was your father. Since he was also an only child you never got to experience a grand family, your father’s parents had died when you were just a toddler.

Unfortunately, your father had passed away in your last year of Highschool. It was a very dark period of your life. You had struggled to graduate from Highschool and the college entrance was tougher for you than for most people, definitely. But you had managed.

And then life had rewarded you with Jay. He was the epitome of husband. Always so caring, loving and so patient. He was your better half. And you knew it was fate that connected you both.

Because how else would you explain that two different people from two different worlds met and fell in love?

Of course you were suspicious and shy at first. Why would a rich, handsome, young man who had literally everything a man could wish for be interested in someone like you?

You were 22 when you two met. Four years had passed since the passing of your father and you were struggling as a broke student. You were drowning in debts and were living paycheque to paycheque.

There had been many occasions where you were on the verge of dropping out and just wanted earn money. But your stamina was made out of steel. Getting a higher education had always been your dream—and you wanted to make your father proud of you. So you had been pushing through. Your part time job at the convenience store drained you but you had to keep it to stay alive. Every rent had been a struggle, you were surviving on cheap store ramen—you were sure that you were lacking some crucial nutrients—but you were managing.

Somehow.

You had to.

You remember when you first met Jay at the library in the presence of mutual friends.

Life had taught you to be cautious. To take a step back and observe things. Not to trust quickly and build a wall around your precious, fragile heart. You had heard the rumours circulating around Jay. Who hadn’t?

He apparently was the heir of one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the whole country. Women fell on their knees for him and he enjoyed every bit of it. The whole campus was befriended with him and he had been throwing parties every weekend.

That’s why you didn’t say much at the library as your and his friends were laughing and solving problems— while you were hiding shyly behind your textbooks, wondering how you’re gonna pay rent next month.

But somehow, you had caught Jay’s attention.

Your relationship had developed steadily and slowly.

He was your rock in the storm in every aspect of life. Step by step he took off the burden that laid heavily on your shoulders and after years of suffering you felt like you could finally breathe. Mentally, physically, financially, and most importantly, emotionally. Jay supported you with everything he could give you.

And if he couldn’t give you something he made sure to become a better man and provide it for you. Like after the first fight you had, where you told him you need a man who can talk openly about his emotions and demanded him not to hide the struggles he had been personally facing. After that fight, he made sure to give you that better version of himself you requested.

In his eyes, you deserved the whole universe.

And he’d go through hell to give it to you.

And that’s how your love developed. Steadily and softly.

Jay had invited you to his sister’s gender reveal of her first born after you had been dating for about five months. You were hesitant at first:

“Are you sure, Jay?”

“Of course, baby! You’ll get to meet my family and friends! It will be so fun!” He encircled his arms around your waist as he pulled your body closer to his.

“The location is beautiful, we’ll get to spend the whole weekend there,” he leaned down to your ear and whispered gently, “and I’ll have you all for myself.”

You giggled softly, your hand reaching up to caress his cheek softly—he immediately closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like a cat. “I’ll come but under one condition.”

His eyes snapped upon, his eyes glistened as he pressed you firmer against his body, “anything you want, my love.”

“I want us to hide our relationship at first.”

His face fell: “What?! No! Baby, are you insane?!-“

You gently rested your fingers on his lips to stop his frustrated exclaims: “please listen to me. I know it’s weird but look at it from a rational perspective: I’m probably not someone your family expects you to be with. I’ve lived a different life than you, Jay. You have a big family, you have an entire business waiting for you to take over. Do you understand? I don’t know such things. I don’t even have a family,” your voice cracked a little at the last statement, “I just think we should take it step by step—slowly and steadily,” your hands wandered to his chest, resting them gently above his heart, “that way we’re giving both sides time to adjust.”

Jay sighed softly, “I hate the idea of pretending we’re just friends but okey. You’re right. But not for my family. No. I’m not agreeing because I’m giving my family time to adjust—I’m doing it so that you can adjust.” He wrapped one arm around your shoulder as he nestled his face in the crook of your neck.

After pressing a gentle kiss on the spot, he softly swung both of your bodies in a soft rhythm: “you’re so smart, you know? Always thinking ahead and so abstractly.”

Your heart fluttered at his compliment. He always praised you and made sure to build your rather fragile confidence.

“But about one thing you were wrong,” he lifted his head to look in your eyes, his thumb gently caressed your cheek.

“You do have a family. I’m your family, love.”

Despite the gender-reveal party being a fail for your sister-in-law due to the news of her having a girl, you and Jay had lots of fun at their beach house.

Back then you couldn't have possibly imagined that his family would be a problem later on. But you should've been alarmed at his sister's reaction to the gender of her baby. But then again: you were just a naive, innocent, soft-hearted young woman who was blissfully in love.

At your second anniversary, Jay had proposed to you during your vacation at the Maledives.

It was a wonderful, intimate proposal. And your ring was filled with so much detail and love.

8 months after the proposal, the bells of your wedding were ringing and you became Mrs. Park.

The most beautiful wedding, just like you had always dreamed of as a child.

And of course the wedding night was magical—full of promises and raw intimacy.

You felt like your honeymoon phase never really ended. Of course it had gotten calmer, but never vanished. As the years went on the spark between you and your husband got softer, familiar, more like home.

And you never wanted to risk losing it.

That is why you never told Jay anything about the comments made by his family—whether it be his mother, sister, or aunts, even by his cousins who you only saw occasionly. They were sneaky—only made snarky comments when Jay wasn't there to hear it. When he had just stepped aside to take a phone call or to fill up your empty champagne-glasses.

Of course, he had noticed it when his wife became suddenly quiet, your smile not reaching your eyes or when you brushed off his touch after he had stepped back to your side. But you always assured him that everything was fine and that you were just tired, maybe sensitive, a headache or your period approaching. You knew a lot of ways to distract him.

You didn't want the bond you shared with your husband to be destroyed by anything or anyone. He was everything you had, how could you risk losing him?

The thought alone made your stomach churn and your thoughts began to spiral.

Hiding his family's mistreatment was the better option. And it's not like you saw them everyday, at most every couple of months.

You were truly happy with the life you had built with Jay. You lived in a penthouse with the most beautiful view of the city and its lake, Jay was thriving as the CEO of a subsidiary of his family and you enjoyed your life as a house-wife.

After graduating, you had thought a lot about your options. Having Jay in your life made it possible for you to even have multiple options, otherwise you would've started working immediatly full time in order to make ends meet. That's why you made the decision that after years of working and studying tiredlessly that you were allowed to finally relax. You deserved it after all those stressful years.

Jay had supported you no matter your decision. Even though, he never said it out loud—him telling you 'whatever makes my baby happy, will make me also happy’—you saw it in the way his eyes lit up every evening you greeted him at the door, what his hidden wish was all along.

But your blissful fairytale life was soon taking a rougher path.

When you two began to date, it was for both of you clear that you wanted your relationship to develop into something serious. Hence, talks of marriage and children were a normal part of your relationship.

You both agreed that you would abandon any form of protection as soon as you tied the knot.

As much as you enjoyed the daily love- and baby-making, it soon began to feel like a huge burden.

The hope that was crushed every time you got your period, the many pregnancy tests that landed in the bin, the disappointed ‘aw’s that escaped Jay’s mouth in a lighthearted chuckle after looking at the negative results.

At first you had made it a ritual to only do tests when Jay was with you. But you quickly started to do them without him as you couldn’t bear the pressure of disappointing him.

Of course, he didn’t say anything that would even resemble words like disappointment. In fact, he didn’t even indicate any form of frustration that you were feeling. But you couldn’t help but feel responsible, like you were the problem. Maybe there was something wrong with you. The thought crushed you internally.

You often times caught yourself imagining being pregnant. You caressed your stomach absentmindedly as you stood in front of the stove or when you were lying in bed. You even had dreams of being pregnant.

How would it feel like being pregnant?

You imagined how Jay would caress your swollen baby, laughing when the baby kicks, counting down days, decorating the nursery.

The topic clouded your mind.

It followed you everywhere.

Especially when you were with your family in-law.

You’ve had been married for just a little over one year when his whole family was gathered for Jay’s cousin’s wedding at one of their summer mansions at an isolated resort in Italy:

You were watching Jay play with his first born niece, who was almost 3 year old at that time, in the yard. The sight made your heart swell. He would make such a great dad.

Suddenly, his teenager cousin had pushed his niece off the swing and ran quickly away. The little girl cried loudly but Jay quickly scooped up his niece and held her with a secure grip. His niece melted into his hold, her head resting on his shoulder. You observed him whispering in her ear hushed tones, assuring her he’d talk to his cousin and scold him real good, promising her two scoops of ice cream.

A small smile spread across your face. He’d be an absolute amazing girl-dad. He’d treat your future baby girl like a princess.

You saw some of your family members joining you in the balcony in the second floor where you were sitting. Jiae was pregnant for the third time, and she sure as hell didn’t let a minute pass in which she didn’t talk about it.

“Oh my god! My feet, they’re so swollen, Mom.”

Your mother in law caressed her daughter’s head, “that’s what happens to women who make beautiful children.”

You felt a pit in your stomach as you couldn’t help but feel a little jealous—she had a mother and two healthy children, now pregnant with her third.

“Though you should’ve given me a boy by now. I don’t know what you do wrong every time. You have to try again as soon as this baby is born, you hear me?”

Your eyebrows furrowed—that’s so messed up. She should be grateful that her daughter is having children, no matter the gender.

“Yes, mom,” your sister in law answered in annoyance as she rolled her eyes. But she quickly knew how to get her annoying mother off her back.

“Y/n! How are you, darling?” She chirped with a pretentious smile. “I’m good…” you gave her small smile.

“And? Do you wanna share any big news with us?”

“What?!” Your mother in law snapped her head at you. “Are you pregnant??” She looked at you like she was about to scold you.

“What?! Y/n is pregnant??” A family friend, Sangmi, screeched.

You were speechless as you didn’t expect them to ask you this so suddenly. “I- no- no, I’m not pregnant.” Panicked, you looked at Jay in the yard to make sure he didn’t hear anything—not wanting him to get excited by a misunderstanding.

Eunji scoffed, “of course not! By now, I think you’re too stupid to know how to get pregnant. But poor people like you should know how to make babies. That’s all you can do after all.” She crossed her arms as she continued to let her anger out on you. “When I was your age, Jay was already in kindergarten! I had my first born when I was 19!”

“And I’m sure my baby brother wants to have children as desperately as my husband did. How can you even look him in the eyes when you know that you can’t get pregnant? You probably knew before you even met him and didn’t tell him on purpose so he would marry you.”

"Of course not!" you exclaimed, offended.

You weren't able to handle their cruel words well. It made your heart race, your voice became small and your hands always shook uncontrollably. And afterwards you overthought everything you had said and couldn't stop thinking about it.

When your sister and mother in law attacked you like this, it always resulted in you crawling into the nearest bathroom and bawling your eyes out.

Hearing you talk back, made your mother-in-law snap: "listen, young lady. You don't have any right to talk to us in a voice like. It's due to our kindness that you were allowed to marry my son and were allowed into this family. We gave you everything. And we're kind enough to let you stay here. So you should be grateful and should be kissing our feet for our grace. If I ever hear you talk like that to us, I will tell Jay to divorce you immediatly. And you don't know how much he loves his mother. He would do anything for me. There's no other woman as precious for him as I am." She starred down at you with an anger filled scowl. Your eyes filled up with tears, your head hanging lowly as you mumbled a quiet apology.

"Now leave." You quickly left the balcony as you blinked harshly to stop your tears from falling.

"Oh my god!" You heard Sangmi cackle, "she's seriously crying!" Their laughter faded away as you entered the bathroom furthest from the balcony on the second floor.

Just as you had locked the bathroom door, Jay had entered the balcony, his skin glistening with his sweat and his hair dishevled from all the playing.

"oh my handsome son!" his mother exclaimed excitedly as she soon as she saw him.

"Hi, mom." He sat next to her on the balcony couch.

“Hello, Jay~” Sangmi twirled a strand of her hair in her hand, batting her eyelashes at him. He nodded at her politely, oblivious to her flirty smile.

"Where's y/n?" He looked at his sister.

His mother rolled her eyes behind his back, grimacing at him mentioning her name.

"Why do you care?" His sister answered dismissivly as she rested on the deckchair, enjoying her sunbath.

Jay tilted his head in confusion, his eyebrows furrowed: "Because she's my wife? And I wanna know where she is?"

"How would I know?" She glanced at him through above her sunglasses.

"She was literally here just now! I saw you talking?!"

"Son, calm down." His mother rested her hand on his back but it somehow only made his irritation grow. "She just left right now. I don't know why or where to," she lied through her teeth.

He grumbled a little as he stood up, now on the way to search for his wife in the mansion. He had checked every room in the floor, until he reached the last one. He softly knocked at the door after he couldn’t open it, "Baby?", he called.

Inside you were startled. You had been sitting on the bathroom tiles and were crying as quietly as possible. When you heard your husband's calls you snapped your head. He repeated the knocking motion, "baby, are you there?"

"ye-," you cleared your raspy throat, "yes- yes!"

"Hurry up!" He shouted from the other side.

"I-I need a minute. You can go outside already!" You hurriedly stood up, the suddeness making you dizzy as you propped yourself up against the wall. In the process you had accidently knocked down a frame. Fortunately, it didn't break but the noise was loud enough to worry your husband.

"Baby?! Everything alright in there?" He was rattling the door knob, panicked.

"Yes, Jay! I'm coming!" Your voice sounded annoyed. You took a deep breath. When you saw your reflection in the mirrow, you were startled. Your whole make up was ruined, your eyes bloodshot and nose tinted red. You tried your best to make yourself presentable and after awhile you were sure that Jay wouldn't notice anything.

As you stepped outside, you felt a little relief that Jay wasn't there anymore.

"Boo!" Jay breathed in your ear.

Your body jolted as you yelped, "ah!"

He had hidden behind the door to scare you.

Jay let out a joyful laughter, his snicker echoing in the hallway as he threw his head back.

"Ha-ha, so funny," you smacked his chest light-heartedly as you smiled to yourself. His laughter continued on while he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. He laid his head on your shoulder, his body shaking gleefully. "You should've seen your face!" he snickered.

"Yes, yes, you got me good," you grumbled softly, your smile naturally spreading across your face at his silliness. You tried to break free from the back hug he had caged you in, "ugh! Let go of me, you're stinking. Take a shower."

He pressed his lips on your shoulder, trailing his little kisses along your neck, wandering up until he reached your ear. "Let's shower together," he murmered in a low, seductive tone.

Blush crept up your neck at the sudden switch up, "what? No..." You surpressed a soft sigh as his breath and kisses left goosebumps all over your skin.

"Come on, baby," his hand that had been wrapped around your waist snaked up your chest, cupping and squeezing your boob.

"Jay..." You sighed softly, throwing your head back on his shoulder with shut eyes and granting him full access to your neck. He immediately leaned down, sucking and biting along your sensitive neck. His hands caressed your whole upper body while he was silently loving you with his mouth.

But when you closed your eyes to enjoy Jay’s love and attention, all you could see in your mind was your mother in law. Scolding you, judging you for not being pregnant, making fun of your appearance, criticising your relationship with Jay, belittling you and your past.

He loves his mother more than me. Why wouldn’t he? He gives me everything and I give him nothing back.

Your heart felt heavy. Your body stiffened. Jay thought you’re just nervous getting caught by someone at the house, “let’s go to our room,” he murmured in your ear so you would relax. When he took your hand to lead you to your room, you hesitated. You shouldn’t be doing it when his mother is right there.

His head turned to you, giving you a questioning look.

But then a thought crossed your mind—if you were to get pregnant then his family will accept you. They definitely will. They will have to.

You squeezed his hand, signalling him to move.

That evening, where he loved you with everything he could give you, the only thing that you could think of was your mother in law and her words. Back then you should’ve realised that this wasn’t normal. That it wasn’t normal that the words of your mother in law are spiralling in your mind as your husband is making love to you. That your tears are not forming because of the overwhelming pleasure provided by your husband, but rather caused by the burning pain inside your heart.

Does he even love me? You thought as he kissed you passionately and gently rocked his hips against yours.

If I get pregnant he will never leave me even if his mother tells him to. A tear fell down your temple, a sob slipping from your mouth.

Jay halted his movements, his eyes widened in panics: “What’s wrong, baby? Did I hurt you?” He asked alarmed. You turned your head to avoid his eyes meeting yours, shaking your head but your tears continued to fall. “Baby… talk to me…” he whispered gently, his right hand softly cradling your flushed, wet cheek as his other arm propped beside your head, his left hand patting your hair.

His worry continued to grow by the second. When he slowly moved to pull his body out of yours, you couldn’t help but whine a frustrated cry. Your arms caged his neck and your legs wrapped around his torso, pulling him towards your body, “no!” you cried.

His eyebrows furrowed. His fingers wandered to your chin, grasping it to force you to look at him, his worried eyes demanded answers: “Baby, tell me what’s wrong. Why are you crying?”

Lying wasn’t an option—he would see right through you. Your lips angled down, the sadness taking over: “I wanna get pregnant.” You confessed half of the truth.

Your eyes glistened, lips formed in a pout as you looked him in the eyes. His heart broke but at the same time he was relieved that you weren’t in pain. “Baby…” he kissed your forehead, your nose, then your pouty lips, “we’ve only been trying for one year. It just takes a while. Don’t worry, it’s going to happen eventually.” He tried to soothe your worries as his thumb glided over your cheek.

“Other people get pregnant immediately.”

Jay knew who you were talking about—his sister. “Maybe others do. But we don’t care about them others, baby. Our baby is just taking a while.” He tried his best to soothe you, but when he noticed your mind was still occupied he tried again: “after this trip, let’s consult a doctor, alright?” Your eyes lit up at the idea as you nodded your head frequently. Jay let out a sigh of relief.

He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, “now let me put a baby inside you,” he murmured against them as he began to move his hips again.

After that trip Jay sticked true to his words and took you both to the most reputable specialists. Every single one of them took various tests of both of you only to be told by them that everything was fine.

“Maybe it’s the stress that’s preventing you from getting pregnant,” one of them told you as you sat in her office—your hands fumbling nervously. Jay furrowed his eyebrows, his eyes followed the doctor’s look on your fidgity hands on your lap. His eyes softened as he sighed internally. He softly put his larger, veiny hand over your fidgeting ones, his warm touch soothing you.

“We should work on that,” Jay concluded in agreement.

What Jay didn’t know though was that the stress was caused by his family.

“Baby I’ve been thinking about something lately,” Jay started as he found you cooking in the kitchen. “Hm,” you hummed, indicating you were listening. He wrapped his arms around your waist, nestling his chin on your shoulder.

“What if you… would start working again?” He cautiously asked. You paused your stirring movements in the pot.

“Why should I?”

“I’ve been thinking about what the doctor said last week, you know? It made me think maybe the thought of having a baby occupies you more than you realise.” He absentmindedly caressed your stomach underneath your shirt, completely oblivious to the emotions that bubbled inside you at this gesture.

“And it causes maybe… well, stress in your mind?” His statement sounded more like a question as he was scared of pushing the wrong buttons.

You put the wooded stirring spoon to the side. “And how exactly would a job be helpful?”

“It would help you to not think about this topic as much. You know, take your mind off elsewhere. You’d be too busy to think about this whole pregnancy stuff and it would help you to be less stressed.”

You rolled your eyes as you turned in his embrace. Fuck, Jay thought as he registered your angry face.

“You really think I’m just a bored housewife who has nothing to do and sits at home all day and just stresses about being pregnant because I have no other things to do? Wow, Jay. A real original thought.” You pushed his arms off your body as you turned back to the stove, now stirring fiercely.

Jay scratched his neck, “baby, that’s not what I-“

“And I really can’t believe you. You of all people know how much I detested working. It-“ you paused as you blinked multiple times, a lump formed in your throat, “I worked so much. And it ate me alive. Because I didn't work just for fun or a little pocket money or because I wanted to make my CV look all fancy and long. I worked because I needed to survive. And now you want me to work again for a boss who’s gonna be jerk and traumatise the shit out of me just because it would help my stress. No, Jay, work would stress me out. You should know me better than this now.”

“Exactly. I’m suggesting it because I know you, baby.” He rested his hand gently on your shoulder, testing the waters. You shrugged it off, making Jay scrunch his face regretfully as if he was hit in the guts.

He continued on desperately: “Baby, please listen to me. What were the reasons you hated work? You just said it yourself: you worked because you needed to survive on every penny and your boss was a bastard. But your life isn’t like that anymore, baby. You don’t have to work anywhere you don’t want to. You can choose whatever you wanna do. You have the choice now. And your boss—trust me if that man ever crosses my way you’ll have to visit me in jail.”

He stepped to your side this time, trying to take a look at your face. When he saw a faint smile spread across your face, his heart felt lighter. Knowing he just cracked your defensive wall and that you weren't mad at him anymore, he boldly hugged you from the side. His arms wrapped around your waist as he buried his face in your neck, planting a soft kiss there as he knew all too well that this was your soft spot.

“You won’t be forced to ever work again for a bastard.”

His arms tightened around you protectively. “I’ll be making sure you’ll never be surrounded by people who make you uncomfortable or make you feel worthless. I promise I’ll protect you from people like that.”

Your mind flashed to his mother—a tight feeling spread across your chest. Would he protect me even from his own family that he loves so much?

“Hm? Whatta you think?” He again pressed a kiss on your shoulder and rested his cheek on the spot as he moved around to stand behind you, waiting for your answer. His arms never loosened their embrace around you.

“I-“ you bit your lips, “how would I know whether I chose a good workplace? You usually realise the fact that your boss is an asshole and the coworkers are toxic after you signed the contract, babe.”

“You could always breach the contract. You wouldn’t have to worry about any lawsuits, baby. I told you I got you, I’ll deal with everything.”

You laughed, “that’s crazy, Jay. You can’t just waste so much money on lawsuits because your wife is breaching contracts.”

“Yes I can. For you, I’d burn every single dollar we own, if it means you’re happy.” Your heart melted at his words. You turned off the stove and turned around in his embrace, this time with a pleased look on your face.

“You’re such a dork.” You pouted with a melted heart.

“I’m your dork.” He smirked as he leaned down to kiss your plushy lips.

“But you know a trick on how to know if your boss is nice?” his eyes sparkled mischievously. You shook your head, your big, curious eyes lightened up his heart. He rested his hand on your hip to move you to the side, away from the hot stove. His thumb pressed against the front corner of your pelvis, as his other arm went to hold the counter behind you, ultimately caging you in.

“When that boss is a sexy man but he’s happily married—that’s your sign, babe. That means he’s gonna be the best boss on earth.” His smirk never left his face.

Your eyes widened in shock, “babe!” You gasped, scolding, “that’s your tip? Are you serious?”

He licked his lips, amusement spread all over his face, “yeah well, you just gotta flirt with him. You know. Show a little ass and tits,” his hand wandered to your ass to give it a firm squeeze, “with an ass like that, he’ll kiss the ground you walk on.”

“No babe!” You slapped his chest, furious at him for giving such nonsense advice, “I’m not gonna flirt with anyone. I’m married to you!”

“Oh really?“

“Yes! Believe it or not I’m loyal to you!”

Jay chuckled.

“That’s not funny, Jay.” You deadpanned.

“But if that sexy CEO is me then you won’t have to worry about cheating on your husband with your boss.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “what?”

“You can work with me babe. I’ll be your sexy, happily married boss. You can flirt with your boss as much as you want, I’ll allow it.”

“Ohh…”

“Hmm,” he hummed, eyes glistened at his brilliant idea.

“What kind of job do you want me to do?”

He bit his lips as a goofy grin spread across his face, “you could be my personal hooker.”

You rolled your eyes as you began to walk away from him, “be serious, Jay.” Though you couldn’t help but be amused by his joke.

“Just kiddin’! Just kiddin’, babe.” He pulled you back in his arms. In response you embraced his neck.

“Jane terminated her contract and is gonna leave in a month.”

“What?! I love Jane! Why’s she leaving? Since when do you know? Is everything okay?” You bombarded him with questions. He squeezed your waist lovingly. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he responded vaguely. You squinted your eyes: “Jay.”

“Ehm- she- it’s been a month since she handed me the resignation letter.” He stuttered.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell me anything?! Is she okey?”

“Yeah… she’s just moving to another city. Said the commute will be too long and… well yeah.”

“But why is she moving?”

He hesitated, “well, uh- she's kinda pregnant.”

Jay watched your face fall for a split second but you caught yourself, “kinda?” you raised an eyebrow.

"Well, not kinda- kinda surely, you know?" He stammered. He hated how your face fell.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Jay! That’s good news. Great even! I’ll catch up with her before she leaves. So who’s taking her place?” You asked curiously since you knew how picky Jay was with the staff, especially the ones who worked close with him.

He sighed, exhausted: “You know, I’ve seen hundreds of CVs since then and there are none that really appealed to me. I loved Jane’s work—she knew how to work with me. Probably because she was Sunghoon’s assistant before and was used to his working style. I just wanna find someone who understands what I need and what’s important in every kind of situation.”

“Oh so that’s why you’ve been sighing so much lately. I was already wondering what’s wrong…” you mumbled as you rubbed his chest, worried at your husband's stress. “Why don’t you ask Sunghoon again maybe he can recommend someone like he did before?”

Jay smiled softly, “that’s what I also thought. I called him and he,” he paused for moment, “he suggested you.”

“Me?” You were utterly confused.

“He said ever since his wife works as his assistant everything’s been going a lot smoother. He said it was the best decision he could’ve made for the company. So he told me to do the same. At first I dismissed his suggestion because I knew you’re happy at home. But what the doctor said last week stuck with me. Maybe we’re too stressed about wanting to get pregnant. Maybe working together will be fun and it will help us to think about other things, hm?” The way he used ‘we’ made you roll your eyes at him, you knew exactly he meant to say ‘you’.

“I’m not stressed maybe you are, I’m not,” you pouted in denial, your eyebrows furrowed cutely, your hands resting against his firm chest, “but to be honest I also thought about working again. It can get quite boring when you’re not here. It’s just…this whole working culture makes me very anxious. I get too nervous to even apply for jobs, not to mention interviews,” you laughed a bit to mask your anxiousness.

“That’s why it’d be perfect if you just worked at our company.” He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, “I promise this job won’t make you anxious. You will have fun.”

“But what if I won’t do a good job like sunghoon’s wife does for him? Maybe she has the degree for that job or already had experience. I lack the experience and my degree is not in the field that’s required,” you shared your worries.

“No, babe, you don’t understand.” He shook his head, his hand pulling you in closer as the other grasped your cheek, “I don’t need someone who’s has the most suitable degree or has already worked for a major company. That’s stuff you can learn. But what I need is someone who understands me and my work, who can give good feedback, who’s reliable, who I don’t have to correct even though I already told them a thousand times. And who knows me better than anyone else? You. You don’t have to worry about the technical stuff. Jane will teach you everything until she leaves and after that I’ll be there to help you.”

You bit your lips as you looked at him, worried. “What’s on your mind, baby? Tell me.” He demanded.

“If I worked for you,” you began, he nodded, “what if it would… you know… make us sick of each other?”

“What?” He laughed, his eyebrows furrowed, confused.

“We’d be at the office the whole day together. During the commute. Then at home. Wouldn’t it be too much? And what if you don’t like how I work? Or if you do have to tell me something a thousand times then you’ll think I’m dumb and fire me.”

Jay let out a boyish, loud laugh, his chest vibrating underneath your hands. “Babe…” he shook his head, amused, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you: you are the only person on this planet who I can’t get angry at. And that’s exactly why I need you. You can ask me everything and anything for a thousand- a million times and I’d still get on my knees and explain it to you. And yes we’d be around each other way more but I’d love it to be honest. I always miss you when I’m at work anyway. I could never get sick of you. But if you think you’d get sick of me,” he chuckled, “don’t worry. I’m often times in meetings the whole day or at Dad or Mom’s office, so there would be days in the week where we wouldn’t see each other at all. Sometimes, I don’t see Jane for the whole day even though we’re both at work in the office.”

“Oh… right…” you replied, remembering how Jane loved this aspect of the job.

He kissed your forehead tenderly, your eyes closed automatically in response, “if you don’t want to you don’t have to. We can find something else for you. I know plenty of people who'd hire you. But just think about it.”

Your eyes blinked softly at him, “I’ll think about it. Oh! I should do a pro and con’s list.” You nodded eagerly.

He smiled at you with love sick eyes, “that’s exactly what my assistant would do~” he sang in a sing-sang voice. You giggled as you entangled yourself from his embrace. “Wait. Now?!” He protested by grabbing your wrist, spinning you right back into his chest.

“First, you need to pass the interview, babes. We need to play fair, right? We can’t allow you an advantage just because you’re my wife.” His arms snaked over your back, caging you.

“Oh, of course,” you nodded innocently, “when do you have time for the interview?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

He nodded, eyebrows raised, smirking, “but instead of the traditional way, we should do it a little differently.” His hand wandered down to your ass, squeezing it. You quickly realised his intentions, your eyes narrowing: “What do you wanna do then?” Your arms snaked around his neck as you looked up to him, pressing your chest against him. His eyes wandered down to your exposed cleavage, “you see—I’m more of a visual learner,” he stated as he stared at your boobs, hypnotised.

You whispered, aroused, “yeah I know, boss. Why don’t I show you in the bedroom of what I’m capable of?” Your words went straight to his cock, his bulge grew harder, pressing against your stomach. “Yeah, show me why I should hire you.” You couldn’t help but giggle at the sudden role-play, his eyes glistening with amusement.

Suddenly, he bent down to grab your thighs and threw you over his shoulder. You screamed, “babe! Put me down,” your laughter echoed in the kitchen as you dangled upside down against his back. He slapped your ass in response, his smile never leaving his face as he made his way to your bedroom, “Nope. You gotta learn how to obey your boss from now on, honey.”

When Jay woke up from his after-sex slumber, he found you sitting up against the bed headboard, his work tablet resting on your lap as you held the pen in your hand. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” His raspy, deep voice startled you. “Oh, you’re awake, baby,” you put the pen on the bed to caress his hair, “I couldn’t sleep.” His eyes fluttered shut at your soothing touch when all of the sudden you grabbed his Apple-pen again and scribbled something down. He sleepily shuffled next to you, his upper body laying sideways so he could wrap his arms around your waist and rest his head on your lap as his face nuzzled against your stomach. He reached blindly for your free hand and put it on his head. When you began to gently massage his head, he sighed contentedly.

“What are you doing?” He mumbled sleepily after a few minutes against your bare abdomen as he had pushed your—or his—shirt up in order to feel your bare skin. “I’m writing down the pros and cons.”

“And?”

“I only just started. So far I’ve written down for cons: waking up early; no experience in that field, meaning I will feel dumb; may effect our relationship and our dynamic negatively when we’re together 24/7; husband as my boss.

For pros: meeting new people; having new challenges; no job hunting; no real interview; husband as the boss.” His laugh vibrated against your stomach, “what do you mean? We just had a very real and thorough interview.”

“And husband as the boss is both con and pro?”

“Yeah, I could get as many days off as I want and I’d feel comfortable at work. But I couldn’t show you any attitude if you’re getting on my nerves—at work at least,” you felt his grin against your stomach, “and I’d had to work way more and harder because otherwise people will think I’m getting special treatment-“

“You will be getting special treatment.” He interrupted, voice still horse and laced with sleep.

“No babe, no special treatment.”

“Yes baby, yes special treatment.” He mocked your scolding tone.

“Jay…” you warned.

“Y/n~” he teased.

He heard you scribble on your iPad. Curious, he unwrapped his arms and turned around, his head still nestled on your lap, squinting at the bright screen.

His heart melted fondly as he read the title in the notes app, ‘working for my husband ❤️ pros and cons’ written in your neat handwriting. He read the last line under the cons category, ‘will receive special treatment’.

“What do you expect me to do? Yell at my wife or what?”

“Maybe don’t yell, but just treat me like your other employees. At work, we should be professional.”

“Alright, alright…” he murmured, but you knew he wasn’t listening, “give me the iPad, your list is shit.” You rolled your eyes as you handed it to him. “Don’t look,” he said as he started to write his own list.

After a while, he gave you the iPad back, “tell me if I forgot something,” he kissed your lips and left for the bathroom.

The first thing you noticed was that he had put a big, red X on the cons side. He had added only notes underneath your points on the pros side:

- super smart

- great ass to look at

You couldn’t help but smile, amused.

- very very organised

- the most disciplined person I know

- works harder than anyone on this planet

How did he manage to write so much in such a short time?

- can work very well under pressure

- radiates great energy wherever she goes

At this point your cheeks were hurting from how hard you were grinning.

- learns super quickly

- works very efficiently and thoroughly

- sexy in professional attire

- great dynamic between husband and wife -> great dynamic at work

- bonus: juicy, soft tits (great as stress balls)

“Oh my god…” you whispered, flustered by your husband.

- extra bonus: office sex

“Jay…” you called your husband with a stern tone.

- minus point (not really): will be hard all the time seeing hot wife

- super bonus: hot wife will be there to help out

“Jay!” You screeched.

Your work was going great. You had learned a lot and were met with new challenges every day. Your marriage was also perfect. Well, except for the fact that your wish of getting pregnant was yet to be fulfilled.

And as much as you didn’t want to stress over it, sometimes, there were occasions where you just couldn’t help but feel utterly helpless and sad.

Like today.

Since a couple of days, you had been feeling unwell. You had told Jay that you couldn’t go to the office and of course he told you to rest. Three days had past and Jay got worried, telling you to visit the doctor—you were very exhausted even though you had been sleeping all day, you had a little fever and this morning you even vomited.

“Your blood pressure is low.” The doctor noted as she checked your pulse.

“When was the last time you had your menstruation?” Your doctor asked suddenly.

“Two weeks ago,” you were confused.

“Is there a chance you might be pregnant?”

Your heart pounded faster. “Well… my husband and I are trying.”

“It’s seems like your symptoms are caused by your low blood pressure. However, these symptoms often times show up because of stress or hormonal changes. Let’s take a blood test to check if you’re pregnant in order to take appropriate measures. If that’s not the case we can cross it out.”

When you sat in the waiting room, waiting for the results of the blood tests, you suddenly got so excited.

Oh my god, I’m really pregnant this time?

How will I tell Jay?

Should I make a big surprise or just tell him directly?

I hope these symptoms won’t worsen. Otherwise going to work will be tough.

Will Jay even allow me to work if my symptoms get worse?

You almost texted him—that’s how excited you were.

“Mrs. Park?” You stood up as your name was called, entering the doctor’s office.

Your hands were shaking from the excitement. Oh my god, I’m going to be a mom-

“The blood test shows that you’re not pregnant.” Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Your low bp is not alarming, however…” you weren’t really listening what the doctor was talking about.

My cute hubby ❤️: What did the doc say?

You ignored his message as you sat in your car, blinking your tears away.

When you entered the office and sat at your desk in front of Jay’s office, he immediately called at your desk. “What are you doing here? What did the doctor say?" You opened your mouth to answer him through phone, but your words got caught in your throat. He was looking at you worryingly through the glass wall: "Come to my office.”

“What did the doctor say?” He asked yet again, concern overflowing as you entered his office. He immediately clicked at the remote for the glass wall, setting it up to be opaque.

“Nothing really. She just checked my blood pressure, said it’s low and gave me some medicine.” You shrugged, trying not to show your misery.

“That’s it?”

You hesitated, “she also checked my blood to see if I’m pregnant, said my symptoms sound like I might be.”

His eyebrows raised, hope glimmering in his eyes—that’s what crushed you internally. “And?”

You just shook your head, the corners of your mouth angled down.

“Come here,” he mumbled. He pulled you in a tight embrace.

“I’m just so… sad. At this point, I think the universe doesn’t want me to be pregnant.” You mumbled curled into his chest. Your tears slowly left a wet spot on his dress-shirt.

“You’re overthinking it, baby,” Jay murmured against your temple as he pressed a kiss on it. “It’s going to happen sooner or later. Stop worrying about it,” he said gently yet sternly as he hated the gloomy look on your face. Your downhearted, sad face made his heart ache in pain.

That’s all it took for you to start sobbing in his arms. “I can’t help it,” you hiccuped, “every time I think it’s happening, my hopes get crushed. It drains me so much. And I don’t want to disappoint you anymore. I hate disappointing you.” Your body was shaking in his embrace.

His arms tightened around you, “you could never disappoint me, baby. I don’t care if you aren’t pregnant. I’m truly happy with having you by my side, I couldn’t ask for more.“

“But I wanna get pregnant!” You snapped at him, frustrated. His eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m sorry…” you mumbled in a pout, “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

He sighed softly as he kissed your forehead, “it’s okey. Just don’t stress so much, alright?”

“I don’t stress about it...! Ugh- Jay!” You whined as you stepped away from his embrace. You were so frustrated that he didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand you. “Is it wrong for a woman to wish to have children with her husband?”

“Of course not, baby, but I just don’t want you to worry-“

“You don’t get it!”

“I do get it. Babe. But what are we supposed to do? We consulted many doctors. And we already decided against IVF, right?“ you nodded, sniffling and wiping your tears, even though they stubbornly continued to flow. “So what do you want me to do? Please, tell me. I’ll do anything to see you smile again, princess.” He stepped towards you and wiped your teary face with his thumbs, tilting your head towards him.

He leaned down to you, planting a soft kiss on your lips. “Tell me what you want me to do so you stop crying. It breaks my heart,” he whispered against them.

“Can we please try again?“ you looked at him with tear filled eyes.

His heart melted, “of course, baby. We’ll try as many times as you’d like.” He squished your cheeks lovingly.

When you suddenly moved to pull the zipper of your skirt down, his eyes widened, startled. “Wai- what-?”

He quickly checked the glass wall, making sure that it was still opaque like he had adjusted it earlier.

“Now?!” His voice high-pitched, your skirt now pooled around your ankles.

You nodded desperately, giving him your doe eyes. “You don’t want to give me a baby?”

“Of course I do but not now.” His eyebrows were furrowed in a desperate look.

“Why not?” You asked dumbly as you stood there with bare legs, head tilting.

“Baby, anyone could walk in now.”

“Then lock the door.”

He quickly went to lock the door, panicked that anyone could walk in and see his wife standing in her underwear.

“Baby, listen. We still can’t do it here,” he turned to you with pleading eyes.

“Why not?” You replied, anger lacing in your voice. “You were the one who was talking about office sex. You were the one who was talking about boners and what not. You were the one who suggested it and now that I wanna do it all of the sudden you don’t want it?!” You snapped like a venomous snake. You knew that you were being irrationally rude and angry, but the words were just slipping out of your mouth.

“I was just joking around,” his eyes were all round and desperate.

Then you started to cry again.

“You don’t love me anymore, right?” You sobbed in your hands.

“Baby- no- of course I love you!” He instantly went to you and hugged you, pulling your head to his chest.

“If-if you truly love me then make this go away.” You hiccuped.

“Make what go away?” He stroked your hair, holding you closer to him.

“The pain.” At this point you were shaking again from how hard you were crying.

“What pain?” His voice panicked as he leaned back to search for any injuries.

You shook your head, frustrated that he didn’t get it. You silently took his hand in yours and pressed it against your chest, right above your heart. “It hurts so much here,” you whimpered.

Jay's heart clenched so tightly, it felt like he forgot how to breathe.

Your tears fell on his hand. Your fingers curled into two of his, “please.”

“Please, make me feel good, Jay. Make me forget this pain.” You sobbed quietly.

He couldn’t bear any more seconds seeing you in so much grief and pain.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Alright,” he repeated, softly.

As if he talked any louder, you might break right in his arms.

You laid on his neat desk, careful not to sit on anything. His pulled out his cock out of his briefs, his pants pushed down just enough. While he pumped his cock, he pushed your panties to the side to massage your clit in order to get you wet.

Your tears hadn’t subsided yet, “just put it in,” you demanded.

“It will hurt,” Jay argued.

“I’ll get wet when you put it in.”

He didn’t want to argue with you further. Slowly, he pushed his now hard cock inside your pussy, hissing at the resistance and dry contact with your pussy. You bit your lips, a whimper leaving your mouth.

Eventually, your pussy started to leak from arousal, making the sliding easier.

You sighed, contented. You loved the feeling of your husband filling you up. It made you forget every stress.

Slowly, he started to rock his hip, helping you adjust to his size. The tingles that spread from your pussy helped you relax.

“Faster~,” you whined.

“Shh,” he leaned down as he sped his pace, “don’t make any sounds, alright?” He pecked your lips. You nodded, hazed. You just wanted to forget everything.

You stretched your arms out for your husband. He scooped you up and hold you close, cradling you in his strong arms. Your arms wrapped around his broad, dress-shirt clothed shoulders.

His thrusts became faster and harder, hitting your sweet spot. “Yes! Right here! Don’t stop!” You moaned in his ear, forgetting your environment.

The slaps of his skin hitting yours alongside with the squelching sounds of your wetness became louder.

“Do you love me Jay?” You whimpered in his ear.

“Shh,” he hushed you again, sweat dripping from his forehead as he pushed your face against his neck, “I love you so much, baby.”

Your pussy clenched at his words, your eyes filled with tears as the pain flashbacked in your heart.

“Harder, Jay. Make me forget the pain.” You whined quietly, careful not to be loud.

He grunted as he went harder and faster—pounding right into your cervix. Your mouth shaped into an O, a silent moan at how good he was pounding into you. You bit the spot on his neck where his butterfly birthmark was, eyes rolling back into your skull.

You shook in his arms as you came hard, your arms tightening around his broad shoulders.

You tried your best to keep quiet, so you harshly bit into his neck. “Fuck,” he moaned as your tightness brought him closer to the edge.

His movement stuttered as he came inside you, filling you up with his seeds. “Fuck.” He repeated lowly, voice raspy.

The feeling of his cum inside you made you insane. “Please cum again inside me. Breed me.” You pleaded. “Fuck me harder. Please. I need this.”

Jay felt obliged to give you whatever you wanted. “Ok, I’ll fill you up,” he obeyed, panting, “fuck a baby inside you finally. So my wife won’t be sad anymore, right?”

You nodded with your doe, misty eyes. You needed this. You needed him to wreck you so hard in order to forget the reason of your sorrow.

He gently laid you down again on the desk, not caring about anything getting ruined. The new angle made it possible for him to hit deeper inside you. Then he started to pound into you again. You gasped as you were still sensitive. But you loved it. You loved the numbing feeling. You loved how he was able to make you dumb on his cock. Dumb enough to make you forget everything.

“F- OH- uck-!” You moaned.

Jay quickly put his hand on your mouth. “Be quiet.” He ordered.

You nodded dumbly. Eyes filling with tears from the overstimulation. You took his hand away and instead intertwined your hands together, holding it tightly as you kissed the back of his hand. Jay’s heart melted. Your free hand found the wrist of his other hand that held your thigh, you gripped his firm wrist tightly.

The desk began to move alongside with Jay’s harsh thrusts. He pounded so hard that something fell off his desk. But neither of you cared.

The hand that was holding your thigh went to your pussy. His fingers massaged your clit faintly, just like you liked it. The wet slippery feeling sent you to heaven. You never wanted this to end.

“Cum with me,” he rasped lowly. After two harsh thrusts you came—your toes curling in your heels, back arching, your eyes and head rolled behind. You clenched around him so tightly that you pushed him out. Jay’s eyes fluttered shut, as he forced himself back inside your tight, wet hole. When he started to pound into you again, chasing his own release, your mouth opened to scream silently. Your hand tightened around his—nails digging into his skin, just like your other hand dug into his clothed forearm. After a couple of thrust, he finally came inside you for the second time. He growled lowly, “f-fuck.”

He stayed inside you for a couple of seconds, regaining his energy. He reached for a tissue on his desk before he slid carefully out. You winced, “shh, I got you,” he murmured as he caressed your thigh. When he pulled his softened dick out, he quickly put the tissue on your leaking hole, making sure his release didn’t fall out.

Carefully, he cleaned you up and then put your panties back to place, tossing the tissue in the bin under his desk. You were still catching your breath and coming back to reality, when Jay had already adjusted himself back into his briefs and pants, pulling his fly up.

“Baby,” he softly called you out of your daze.

“Hm?”

“You good?” He reached for your arms to pull you up, “stand up,” he ordered with a gentle tone so that he could pull your skirt to your waist.

Wobbly, you stood on your heels but lost your balance for a moment. Jay put his strong arm around your waist to stabilise you, his other hand holding onto your skirt.

“Are you okey?” He asked again, his hand that held your waist caressed it worryingly.

You just nodded.

He quickly adjusted your skirt. Then, his hands brushed through your hair, “you look like a mess,” he commented with a chuckle. Tiredly, you leaned into his broad chest and closed your eyes. “Tired?” You nodded without a word.

“Go home and rest,” he pressed a kiss on your forehead.

“And you?” You held onto his shirt tightly.

“I’ll wrap this up quickly and come earlier today, okey?” He caressed your hair.

You wanted to protest and tell him he should come with you. That you didn’t want to be alone right now. That you were too sad, too depressed to be left alone. But you didn’t say a word, you were too drained to talk.

That day, Jay didn’t hold onto his promise of coming home earlier. In fact, he was so busy that when he came home, it was almost midnight and you were sleeping already.

When he entered your bedroom, his exhaustion vanished as he saw his precious wife resting properly.

What he didn’t know though was that you cried yourself to sleep.

Maybe you should’ve told him that you didn’t want to be alone—that you needed him to be with you at home. Maybe he should’ve realised that your clinginess at the office wasn’t normal. Maybe he should’ve been more concerned about you.

Maybe this had been the start of your failing marriage all along.

“You want what?”

You didn’t look at him. Your frown faced the window of Jay's office, glaring at the city outside as if it had offended you personally.

“Y/n.” Jay repeated with a slightly raised voice. His tone indicated frustration.

You shook your foot as your leg overlapped the other, an annoyed click escaped your mouth. “I thought about this for a long time. I already made my decision.” Your voice neutral as you sat elegantly on the leather-sofa infront of his desk.

“You- you thought about this for a long time?!” His face scrunched into an angry scowl. He stood up in a hasty movement, his chair clanking against the wall as his hands hit his desk.

You flinched a little. But you covered it up with faux confidence, arms crossing your chest as you straightened your posture.

"Y/n."

You didn't reply.

That was his last straw.

"Are you fucking kidding me??!!"

Papers, pens, files, keyboard, the mouse of his computer, a glass, a frame—everything shattered on the ground after Jay had knocked them down in an angry outburst. Your eyes lingered on one specific shattered item.

"Fucking answer me, will you??!!!" The vein on his forehead became prominent. Just like his sister. You scoffed internally. But on the outside, you were calm.

"I think I made myself very clear. If the papers aren't signed by Monday, you will be hearing from my lawyer."

With that you stood up and left his office. Ignoring the nosy looks of the workers and the lump in your throat, your heels echoed through the building.

Jay's glassy eyes glanced at the big envelope on the coffee table across the room where you had left them. His tremulant hand rubbed his face. He groaned as if he was in physical pain.

With firm strides, he went to grab the envelope containing the thick stack of papers and tossed it in the bin beside his desk. The words that decorated the envelope made his stomach churn when he looked at it in the trash. Divorce agreement. In bold, red letters. As if its sole purpose was to mock him: You always thought you would never be in this situation. Look at you now, your wife hates you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his neck was stiff, his migraine eating him up. He then was about to take the papers out of the bin in order to put them through the shredding machine.

That's when he saw it. The shattered frame on the ground.

His breath hitched.

Jay fell on his knee as tears formed in his eyes. His shaky hand reached for the frame. His grip clenched onto it, his other hand was balled into a tight fist as his nails dug into his palm.

A single teardrop fell on the splintered glass. He quickly cleaned the teardrop with his thumb, then wiped the whole broken glass with the sleeve of his dress-shirt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He let out a broken cry. With tears pouring down his face, his hands pressed the frame firmly against his chest as his body shook from his sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He continued to repeat the words like a broken clock.

His tears continued to fall on the frame.

And his arms continued to hold tightly onto it.

The picture of his family. The family he once thought he would have.

The picture which displayed himself sitting beside his wife on the hospital bed, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. His other hand was stretched out to support her arms, which held the weight of their Angel baby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Third part is coming… 🚧

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[bywons]

ME AND MY HUSBAND | PJS

SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.

OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer

GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish

PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )

WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use

WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words

AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3

FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

[darkbluenostalgia]

"We want complex female characters." but they can't even handle Chu Zhao not knowing how to handle her grief after finding out her father is dying again in her second life and doubting her own judgement and who to trust after being betrayed and killed by a lover in her first life mind you she was 21.

[liahcharms]

under your spell 🗝

The Victorian-style house looked a bit creepy, but rather cute. Very pinkish. Perfectly serene for your remote job and longing for silence. And everything would be wonderful if not for this little weird doll that looks like you and a small door in the living room, leading to... nowhere? And what about those two guys who lived here sixty years ago?

˖𖦹 ݁˖ pairing: Satosugu x F!Reader

˖𖦹 ݁˖ content/warnigs for this chapter: ꒰ Coraline AU :: reader is a horror writer :: dark and eerie atmosphere :: victorian house :: mentions of Sukuna :: Shoko is ofc our friend :: weird neighbours :: introduction of Satoru and Suguru :: mentions of cheating :: small town mystery :: 5.4k words ꒱

˖𖦹 ݁˖ notes: Happy summerween everyone! Omg, so excited! I hope you'll enjoy it <3 I decided to post it a day earlier, since I planned to publish a full summerween collection tomorrow.

masterlist ˖𖦹 ݁˖

──── chapter one 🗝

The woodsy smell slipped into your car through the slightly open window. Heavy droplets of rain tapped on the glass as Shoko took another turn along the forest road. It was the middle of the day, yet the darkness spilt over the crying sky, raising a gentle fog that hid the winding road ahead.

It was the beginning of summer, yet the sky ripped apart the moment you entered your new city. The deep, dark forest loomed over the little houses, bending and curving into wicked shapes, and you couldn't count how many times Shoko cursed under her breath when the thin branches scratched her window.

Passing the little town centre, you turned deeper into the woods. The GPS was going crazy, yet there was only one road leading to your new house. After a while, with rain pattering on your foggy window, a tall building finally loomed among the ghastly trees.

"Pink Palace Apartments," Shoko read the wooden sign hanging in front of the house, before letting out a giggle. "It really is pink."

You looked up and saw an old Victorian house painted pastel pink. The wooden planks looked as if they had been freshly repainted, with white decorative elements curling like flowers on the porch and around the windowsills. Your gaze immediately fell on the two turrets with pointed metal roofs.

Long stairs twisted near the porch, leading to another section of the house occupied by a neighbour. On the opposite side, you've spotted stairs descending to the basement – likely belonging to other neighbours.

A dark forest spread behind the house, and in front – a little, withered garden waited for someone to put a bit of work into making the flowers bloom again. It seemed no one had cared for it for a long time, and something tugged at your heart.

Maybe it was time to get back into your long-forgotten passion for gardening?

"Pretty," you whispered, slowly opening the passenger’s door. 

"Rather creepy," Shoko snorted, glancing over her shoulder at the moving truck carrying all your belongings. "But I guess it suits a freak like you."

You laughed, slipping under her big umbrella and heading towards the porch. "Not everyone who writes horror is a freak," you murmured, wiping your muddy shoes on the welcome mat, which seemed as old as the house itself. Cute.

"No, but everyone who moves to the place in the middle of the forest and without any signal..." She looked at her phone. "...only to move into a haunted house, certainly is."

"It’s not haunted!" You giggled, opening the white, wooden door. "Oh!"

The inside was as beautiful as you expected. Warmth spilled over the old desks and dark walls, giving the interior an antique soul. The Persian-style carpet under your feet looked as if freshly washed, drawing you towards the centre of the house. Long, dark stairs led to the second floor, while two corridors welcomed you further inside.

Shoko followed you into the kitchen – old and slightly rusty, with rain tapping against the large windows. You hurried to explore other rooms – the living room, a small basement that Shoko refused to enter, and a cosy office with beautiful mosaic windows overlooking the garden. Eventually, your feet carried you upstairs.

The big bedroom, with a baldachin bed and a wide windowsill, seemed an ideal spot for reading in the evening. Shoko grimaced at the old, flowery tapestry covering the walls and the crimson carpet on the floor. 

"Has no one redecorated this house since the nineteenth century?" she murmured, and then her eyes fell on the bedside table. "Oh my gosh, is that a paraffin lamp? Are you kidding me?"

Your eyes fell on the little, yellow lamp and twinkled like little stars. It was indeed a paraffin lamp, and you would surely check whether it was still working.

"Oh, come on, it has a soul!" You tapped your finger against a crying window before turning back to sighing Shoko. "I love it. Just imagine how beautiful it’ll be when the garden blooms again."

Your friend walked to your side, looking out the window. The sky was torn apart over the withered trees and flowers, but she had to admit it indeed had potential. With just a bit of care and patience, the whole place could be turned into a fine summer house, with her and Utahime coming over for the weekends.

"I saw a lake nearby. I guess… we could have a BBQ or something," she muttered, and you bounced on your feet with a squeak. 

Your arms wrapped around her shoulders, and cheek nuzzled against hers. "I told you! I’ll make sure you love this place. And since Utahime also likes gardening, just bring her over at the weekend."

The moving company brought all your things inside, and when you went downstairs, heavy boxes loomed like wicked trees over the living room. The old crimson sofa seemed a bit dusty, so you both sat on a carpet and began to unpack slowly. 

Wind and rain hit the windows, letting the faint tap-tap-tap fill the house. After an hour, you ordered a pizza and stuffed yourself, enjoying the dark, rainy day from the porch. The air smelt earthy, tickling your skin with a gentle chill. A light jumper warmed your goose-bumped arms, and you laughed, thinking how delirious the weather was. 

"So does it look like the place to give you an idea for another story?" Shoko asked, taking another slice. 

A low hum slipped past your lips as the crispness wrapped around your nostrils. "I can already sense another best-selling murder in a little, eerie town. Or a haunted house, maybe?"

She giggled, nodding slowly. "A haunted house would work," she said, her eyes looking up the long stairs to the attic. "I guess you can ask neighbours about any freaky accidents. Aren’t they like a hundred years old?"

"I don’t know, the listing only mentioned that they’re quiet."

"So maybe they’re dead."

A low tsk escaped your lips, and Shoko chuckled. "I’m just joking. But if they really have been living that long, you should ask them some questions." She wrapped a loose jumper around her arms a bit tighter as a chill wind smooched her cheeks. "This place is so fucking old I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had been murdered here."

A minute of comfortable silence stretched between you before Shoko turned your way, a slight frown on her forehead. "I’m serious. This place was crazy cheap, so what if someone died here? In, you know, the most wicked and horrible way."

Shivers washed over your spine at the sheer thought of someone dying in the same living room where you had just unpacked your things. But at the same time, something exciting bubbled in your belly. Something telling you that the writer’s block that had haunted you for the past few months would finally dissolve into thin air.

That, after all, was the whole point of moving hours away from your previous town. Leave family and friends behind, only to get yourself cosy somewhere, nowhere, in the middle of a forest. In a small, unknown town, living in a centuries-old Victorian house that kept the secrets of the most unknown and dreadful kind.

It’s been a while since you wrote something good. Winning the global charts, an immediate bestseller-type of good.

The past few months had truly been nothing but hellish, with a nasty break-up topping it all. You still tried to kick Sukuna’s body, hunched over some blonde slut, on your shared sofa in your shared apartment out of your mind. His pathetic attempts to coax you up, because he’s been a bit too lonely, simply overly drunk, and he absolutely didn’t mean it. 

Three years of relationship ended just like that and a week later, with all the money saved on the previous two bestsellers, you bought this house. 

Old and very pinkish, waiting for its owner for a very long time. You didn’t ask much about why. Didn’t ask whether someone had died here or if it was haunted. At that point in your life, it simply didn’t matter. The only thing you were thinking about was how to get away from Sukuna’s begging to bring you back and cut yourself off from your editor’s constant prying about the newest text.

Shoko glanced at your furrowed forehead and sighed. "Here," she said, fiddling with her jeans’ pocket and placing something on the table. "I found it in the drawer of your night table. Maybe you could start by asking about them?"

You looked at the piece of paper before noticing it was, in fact, a picture. Old and a bit crumpled, it showed two young men. The first, closer to the camera, had a loose strand of black hair brushing his cheek. Eyes slightly lidded, looking down at his hands. He looked rather handsome, with a sharp jaw and a straight nose, no more than in his late twenties. 

The other man behind him seemed almost ghastly. With white hair and crystal eyes, he looked straight into the camera. Two raised fingers covered his lips, but with only such a bit of detail, you noticed that the beauty of his face was indeed unmatched.

You flipped the photo to see if it had a description. There was something, a few letters, but someone blanked them out with a black marker.

"Previous owners?" You asked, squinting eyes and trying to read what was written under the heavy marker. Unfortunately, to no avail. 

Shoko shrugged, chewing another slice of pizza. "A bit young for the owners, no?" You shot her a look, and she chuckled. "Right, sorry. They do look our age. But I don’t think they make cameras like that anymore. It must’ve been taken a long time ago."

Your brows suddenly furrowed, as if you had just remembered something. "You said you found it in the bedside table?" Shoko nodded. "I checked it before, but there was nothing inside."

She stopped chewing, chestnut eyes suddenly bulging. If the plate wasn’t already on her thighs, she would drop a slice of pizza, sauce-side down, dirtying her jeans. 

"Don’t joke," she murmured, seeing the wicked smile turning your lips. "Oh my god, stop! I really think there’s something wrong with this house!"

But the thing was – you did not, in fact, joke. After coming into the bedroom and opening all the furniture with handles, you truly didn’t see this photo. It may have slipped to the bottom of the drawer or stuck to one of its sides. You may also have missed one of the three drawers the table had, and indeed didn’t notice it.

Your thumb brushed the old photo. And only then did you notice a yellow, slightly hazy date in the corner. 

1966.

Shoko looked at the point your thumb just brushed over and pretended the goosebumps washed over her spine. 

"Sixty years ago," she muttered, staring at it with wide eyes. "If your neighbours are that old, surely they will know something about them."

Two hours later, after Shoko helped you unpack most of your belongings and returned to your city – though not before repeatedly assuring you, just call me if anything happens; I’ll get here as fast as I can – you finally found yourself in front of a neighbour's door.

The short stairs led to the ground floor, and you noticed they lived just beneath your kitchen. Thick wooden doors featured a small window in the centre, mostly covered by a curtain. You knocked once, twice, and before deciding to ring the doorbell, you thankfully looked down at the old mat with a don’t ring the doorbell or whistle sign.

"So what am I supposed to do?" You wondered, trying to peek through the blinds.

The inside looked a bit empty, dark, as if no life had graced it for a long, long time. But with a squint of your eyes, you noticed a gentle flicker of the lamp, shining somewhere deep within the house. 

"Hello?" You knocked again. "I’m your new neighbour! Just wanted to drop by and say hi!"

But the long silence that stretched between you and the wooden door was broken only by the soft pattering of rain. 

And so, with a photo in the back pocket of your jeans and gaze lowered, you turned away and walked up the stairs.

Not a second later, someone fiddled with the handle. You heard a whisper, and the door opened with a loud bang. "Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Next time, try to knock a bit louder!"

You looked over your shoulder and saw a tall, old woman. With a strange waist-to-breast ratio, you wondered how her back handled the weight of such size. Blond hair, neatly brushed into a bob, and blue eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids.

You tried to suppress a giggle at the pink fur she wore, which made her look more like an old dancer than a senior lady.

"Oh, hello. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just moved in and wanted to say—"

"Of course, sweetie, come in, come in," she turned back to look at someone. "Darling, please boil the water for tea! We have a guest."

And so you slipped inside the dark house, only then noticing that the long corridor stretched further into the place. The woman led you right to the velvet curtain covering the rest of the home, and as she lifted it, a large, dimly lit living room spread before you. 

With multiple flickering candles scattered all over the place – decorating the chimney, shelves, and a low wooden table set right out from the sofa. Red cushions swallowed you whole as you plumped down. 

Only then did you notice at least five dogs running around the room. Barking, sniffing your slightly wet shoes, jumping on the sofa and trying to lick your cheek. You pushed them away with a low giggle before a blond woman took them all down to the old carpet and joined you on the couch.

"Call me Miss Forcible, sweetie," she said, looking towards the chimney. At the large picture showing two slim women dressed in tight gymnastic suits. "For I was unmatched for a whole life!"

A short gasp slipped past your lips as you looked closer. Both women looked as if they were in their late twenties, with beaming smiles and circus-like decorations stretching behind them. A waterfall of colours, ribbons and lights, and you could almost smell the familiar scent of burnt popcorn and the cheesy melody that mingled with children’s laughter. 

You recognised the tall lady with long, blond hair, but the other one, with an arm wrapped around her waist…

"And me, Miss Pink!" A slightly pitched voice filled the dimmed living room, turning your head towards a room that seemed to be a kitchen. 

A short, older woman walked out, carrying three cups of tea. A bit curvier than her friend, much, much smaller, she reminded you of an apple. Pink hair curled under her eyes, making her plump face look even plumper.  

Three cups of tea were set on the low table, while Miss Pink slouched in the soft chair next to the couch. Dressed in a green bathrobe braided with plastic feathers. Her rosy face smooched with a round, crimson blush, reminding you of those vintage china dolls with cheeks plump like peaches and a round bloom coating their pale skin.

"Oh, our new neighbour?" She asked, looking at her friend. 

Miss Forcible nodded, placing a cup in front of you. "Yes, darling, this is…"

You introduced yourself with a giggle, feeling a slightly intimate manner stretch between the two women.

"Such a beautiful name!" Miss Pink gasped, pushing a plate of buttery cookies towards you. "And what a beautiful owner!"

A shy thank you slipped past your lips as you bit into a cookie. Buttery creaminess spilled over your tongue, with a few sugary droplets moving under your teeth. 

Miss Forcible nodded and picked up her cup of tea. "So why here, sweetie? Isn’t Pink Palace a bit too… vintage for a young bird like you?"

You swallowed the cookie and took a sip of black, bitter tea. Miss Pink watched you with a gentle smile, like a sweet, caressing auntie. 

"I think the house is beautiful. And I just needed a little break from the city’s rush," you half-lied, not mentioning the break-up. "Oh, I’m also a horror writer and thought a Victorian house would be a perfect place to get a few fresh ideas."

A few dogs sat patiently by your legs, waiting for a few crumbs to drop onto the carpet. Something sweet lingered in the air, and the room was much warmer than your house. More cosy, homey, so you let yourself sink deeper into the couch.

"This house is full of ghastly stories!" Miss Pink gasped. "And if you visit a nearby town, I’m sure you’ll find some spooky tales. I think you can still visit the place where they burned witches," she giggled, and you followed. A minute later, a thought clouded her forehead, and thin, pale eyebrows lifted. "Actually, why won’t you ask the boys? They know everything about that stuff."

Your head tilted, and your hand froze over the second cookie. Miss Pink nodded, as if to herself, and Miss Forcible sighed. 

"Darling, they moved out a long time ago," she said, adding a sugar cube to her tea. The third one already. "She’s too young to know them."

Miss Pink hummed under her breath, chubby fingers fiddling with a bathrobe. "Ah, right, indeed. I seem to forget how much time has passed," she muttered, taking a sip of tea. "I wonder how they’re doing."

Now your ears pricked up and eyes shone with curiosity. It was a pity you didn’t have a notebook to write down this brief chit-chat, but your brain was already working at full speed to memorise every detail. 

"Who knows?" Miss Forcible waved her hand. "Moved out, went missing… They just disappeared one day. It was for the best; enough problems had been caused by their presence."

And then, you remembered. The thing you came here for. 

The picture felt like a burn on your skin, as if reminding you of a hidden mystery within its thin, paper-like form. You pulled it from your back pocket and placed it on the low table. A few candles cast a warm glow over the old photo, making it shimmer faintly.

"Are you talking about these two?"

Miss Pink and Forcible leaned in, squinting at the photo. One of the dogs leapt onto the sofa, nuzzling its furry head against your shoulder and waiting to be stroked. You scratched it with a giggle, as it bounced in place. Miss Pink gasped, pointing at the men with her long nail. 

"Darling, we made this photo!" She exclaimed, glancing up at Miss Forcible. 

"Mhm," the other woman hummed, still squinting her blue eyes. "I remember. On the day you broke your ankle."

"And they needed to take me all the way to the town’s hospital," Miss Pink said, turning your way. "We were fifteen then, just before a local acrobatic competition."

Your head tilted as a few questions began to bubble beneath your chest. "So it was…"

"Sixty years ago," Miss Forcible sighed, setting down her cup of tea. "They lived here for four years before their sudden disappearance."

Candles on the table flickered, though the air stayed still and sweet. Sugary, with a buttery scent clinging to your clothes. But you didn’t mind, taking another cookie from the plate. 

"Can you tell me a bit more about them?" You asked, swallowing the sweetness with warm tea.

But Miss Forcible only frowned, her gaze fixed on the low table. Blonde locks were neatly tucked behind her ears, and blue eyeshadow smudged across the eyelids and along the waterline. She looked young for a seventy-five-year-old, though wrinkles did indeed bend and curve across her slim face. 

"They were real gentlemen…"

"Only because they were nice to us doesn't mean they may be called gentlemen, darling."

Miss Pink pouted, shaking her head. "Well, they were quite nice indeed. And funny, especially this one," she said, her finger pointing at the white-haired man. "Although I don't seem to remember his name. He always gave me sweets and dolls," she added, this time her wrinkled finger moving to the black-haired man. "Made by him. Oh, and he always spent all day in the garden! It was so beautiful, I tell you, sweetie. I lived in the attic apartment back then, and we always had so much fun!"

A smile tugged at your lips as the image of such a vast space in full bloom suddenly popped into your mind. If only the rain stopped for a moment, you could go and take care of it. Ignore the book you haven't even started yet and your phone, which glimmered with a dickhead nickname at least five times a day.

"But the townspeople never liked them," Miss Forcible added, pulling a heavy sigh from her darling. "Outcasts, you may say."

"Why?" You asked, taking a sip of still-warm tea. 

It pooled in your stomach, rising as a fluttering, tender feeling.

But it seemed your question carried a sort of mouth-shutting spell. Both women looked at each other, a sense of something obscure clouding their foreheads in the same manner. A thought, a memory, long forgotten in the corners of their minds, was pulled back with a single question of yours. 

And, from their expressions, the memory seemed to be of no pleasant sort. But rather a nightmare that plagued their wrinkled heads, with gazes crossing and reddened lips sighing lowly. 

A long minute stretched between you, with warm candles flickering over a single buttery cookie left on the plate, and an old clock ticking tick-tock tick-tock, filling the room with its steady tune. 

Then, suddenly, Miss Pink’s eyes glimmered, and a life turned to her flushed cheeks once again. Wrinkled hand petted one of the dogs as she giggled under her nose and glanced at the blonde woman. 

"Darling, why won’t you invite the boys over? I haven’t seen them in a long time."

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Five minutes later, you were standing under the long stairs leading to another neighbour. 

The words all of them are old and crazy said by your real estate agent, still lingered in your mind, and thus you simply deduced that Miss Pink simply had a sort of dementia. 

Miss Forcible, on the other hand, seemed to know something. Remember, of the two men, whose picture once again burned through the back pocket of your jeans. 

After finishing the tea, you decided to excuse yourself, as it seemed your questions were only making one, if not both, of the elderly women uncomfortable. Although it was a pity, as they truly seemed to be the only ones who could tell you as much about those two young men. 

The rain was pitter-pattering on your yellow coat draped over the loose jumper. A low huff slipped past your lips, seeing the sky still showing no trace of the warmth you longed for. Although the weather indeed looked rather perfect for indulging yourself in a story. 

Or at least its outline. 

Or maybe simply opening the draft.

You walked up the stairs, its old, rusty metal chattering under your steps. 

You knew nothing of the other neighbour, aside from the fact that he used to work in a circus. A tall man with a certain accent, as Miss Forcible said. Rather weird, smelling of radish and with little footprints following him all around. 

So when you knocked on the white door, you expected to hear another wave of barks. Or maybe a low meow, slipping from the endless darkness spilling behind the small window. 

This time, you didn’t have to wait long, as the door opened with a creak. If not for your rather quick reflexes, the man, at least two metres tall, would surely have hit your nose. 

"Excuse me?" You gasped, quickly jumping back. 

Your eyes followed up, and up, through the tight shirt hugging his torso, with a few stains on its white material. Through the long arms and wide chest, till fixing on a thick moustache and eyes squinted like a cat. Sandy irises looking up and down your drenched body, with a yellow hood of a raincoat protecting your head.

"Excuse you indeed, young lady," his voice was low and lined with a sort of bitterness. "Who are you, if I may ask?"

You took another step back, feeling a strong smell of radish emanating from his body. So the weird ladies were saying the truth.

"I’m your new neighbour," you pointed downstairs at the porch. "Just wanted to say hi, and–"

"Hello," he said and a second later, the door closed. 

Simply, just like that, leaving your mouth open and fingers digging into the wet palms. The darkness spilt behind the little glass window, with a white curtain covering the inside of his attic apartment. 

It’s not like you desperately wanted to come in, but… well. You did want that. 

To see the inside of his house, ask about the previous owners from sixty years ago. Although considering the timeline, there was a chance he wouldn’t even know them. And a man looked a bit younger, too, of no more than sixty years.

With a low, irritated sigh and dickhead slipping past your lips, you started walking downstairs.

Stairs felt slippery under your shoes, rain hit your cheeks, and the photo weighed almost a ton. Filling the inside of your pocket like little stones, till you felt each scratch and crumple of the paper. 

The hood obscured your vision, forcing you to focus on the metal stairs. Crystal droplets hit your ears, also making you rather deaf to anything else around you.

And thus you didn’t hear, didn’t feel the footsteps following you, until a heavy hand landed on your shoulder. 

You turned with a shock, twisting your face and letting a muffled gasp escape throat. 

The man who closed the door in front of your nose stood mere millimetres from you. With face eerily close to yours, finger pressed to lips and gaze fixed somewhere. Over your shoulder, down the stairs, towards the porch and the crying windows. 

"What–"

"My mice say, young lady cannot open the door," he whispered, still looking anywhere but into your eyes.

As if whatever he said was of the utmost secret.

Your forehead furrowed, and nose squirmed, feeling the strong smell.

"The door? What door?" You asked in an equally whispering tone. 

He, finally, looked at your face. A low hum filled his throat and moustache moved with a parting of his lips. 

"The small door. Don’t open them."

You didn’t check each corner of the house yet, but did not see any sort of the small door he was talking about.

Old and crazy, you remembered the agent’s enigmatic voice.

But the man… did not look crazy at all. Rather, something flickered behind his gaze, as if the little door he talked about was the centre of his recurring nightmares. The way his fearful gaze slipped between you and the porch of your house quickly spiked your interest.

And it also sent a shiver down your spine as he once again pressed a finger to his lips. 

"Don’t talk," bulging eyes quickly glanced to one of the big windows. "They hear everything."

"They?"

He nodded before finally pulling away. His tall, lean body straightened, with a few joints popping here and there. Only then did you notice he was wearing sports shorts. A little too tight, a bit too short.  

A face, twisted in fear just a few minutes before, now slipped again into this stony, a bit indifferent expression. As if whatever was plaguing his mind just now, simply withered.

"That’s what the mice say. Sometimes they are…" His finger swirled around his temple, lips whistled. "… a bit crazy. But never wrong. Don’t open those little doors, young lady."

And with that, he once again went back to his attic apartment. Leaving you shocked and cold, with a gentle wind brushing your lips and rain tapping faintly, tap-tap-tap, on your yellow coat.

The moment you slipped back into your house, the first thing you did, as a devilishly curious woman, was to search high and low for the little door the man had been talking about. 

With the afternoon long gone, the sun slowly hid below the horizon, bathing the grey sky in dark, purplish hues of the evening hour. A light rain still hit your windows, nevertheless letting a low melody of crickets fill the chilly air. 

And when the night fell, the house seemed to change too. Into something more wicked, lined with an eerie sensation, scratching the centuries-old walls. With the scent of all the people who lived here before still lingering in the air. The warm light of the old lamps twinkled dimly, lingering over your body that looked frenetically for the little doors. 

Head slipping into the bathroom, bedroom, or even down into the basement, though this time going down the wooden stairs took a bit more courage. The fireplace in the living room crackled and popped weakly, pop-pop-pop, filling the house with a cosy, woody smell.

"Where are you?" You muttered to yourself, standing in the kitchen and listening to the tapping sink. 

You would need to call someone to fix it, but your main goal now was to uncover the thing your neighbour forbade you from finding. 

And then, while looking through the kitchen drawers – you found it.

A key, black and lean, ending in a small, button-like shape. It felt heavy in your palm and looked quite old, as if it were meant for doors long gone, with a lock forgotten by the time.

A low hum slipped past your lips as you fiddled with it. The doors of the house were already rather old, yet this one seemed not to fit either of them.

Returning to the living room, you plumped down on a sofa with a sigh, eyes still fixed on the key. The black paint coated its long barrel, and it was slightly larger than what you were accustomed to.

The doors must’ve been somewhere – close, at the fingertips, as you could almost feel their presence nearby.

Somewhere… in this room.

The flickering of the flame bathed one of the walls in a gentle glow. The flowery tapestry was rather dark, with multiple ornaments twisting and bending across its surface.

And yet, something piqued your interest. 

The small bulge seemed to arrange itself into a low square. Your head tilted, and eyes followed the swollen lines just above floor level. 

You slipped off the couch and crawled towards the eerie shape, a key still clutched in your fingers. 

The palm pressed against the wall, and you knocked it once, twice, hearing the echo ring somewhere on the other side. 

The door.

But it seemed that, for some reason, they were covered by the tapestry. So with the sharper end of the key, you gently traced their outline, peeling the coating from their surface. 

A low gasp slipped past your lips, seeing the eerie, faded blue wooden doors in all their fullness. With no handle to pull them and only a big lock awaiting the key gripped in your fingers. 

Excitement bubbled in your chest, eyes gleamed, and fingers trembled as a key slipped into the lock. You turned it with a soft click, and dust swirled in the air, rising from the cracks that had been sealed for the past few hundred years. 

Your heart galloped, beating against your chest in low thumps until you felt the tremble wash over your body. 

Using the fingers, you pulled the old surface – slowly, slowly, till the door opened fully and…

And presented you a miserable sight of a brick wall. 

Old and dusty, with red bricks stacked one on top of another, filling the cosy living room with a musty smell. 

"You must be joking," you groaned, a low sound escaping your throat as you hit the wall with a fist. "I can’t believe it!"

Because, as you already thought, a new idea for a story would finally slip easily into your mind, all the dreams were shattered in a single second. 

And thus your head hung between your shoulders. After a few deep breaths, you took the key from the door and slammed it shut with a furious thud. The wooden surface bounced off the wall, leaving a small gap. 

Small enough to allow something, someone, to see you walk away with heavy, disappointed footsteps.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

No worries, we will meet the boys SOON!

art by by K05062688 - twitter button divider by @saradika-graphics

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[headoverharrington]

how i feel reading smut in the morning like it’s the newspaper

[inukiiexe]

swinging through you.

CH 1┆spiderman!yuji itadori x f!reader CH 1 ⇒ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3

ʚ⁺˖ » synopsis: your roommate and childhood best friend, yuji itadori, has two grave secrets: 1) he has a crush on you. 2) he's spider-man. spoiler: he's awful at keeping either.

ʚ⁺˖ » w.c: 18k, art cred: ig@/baaoozhe〃fluff, angst, smut, spiderman au, college au, living together, childhood friends, domestic fluff, cuddling, dogs, cooking together, kissing, tooth-rotting fluff, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), implied domestic abuse, happy ending.

ʚ⁺˖ » songs: playlist〃notes: i love spider-man and yuji so much like this actually feels like a proposal omg... ps: the playlist is like vibes i think this spider!yuji fic would have- hope you guys enjoy!!

Yuji Itadori has never wanted to be the centre of attention. Not even when he lands the biggest home run of the decade, or when he crosses another finish line first, smashing records that the campus won’t stop bragging about.

As soon as the clock strikes seven, he’s gone. 

No frats, no parties, no messy drama. In the kindest, nicest phrasing possible, he’s a dud. He’ll even disappear mid-conversation, too, sprinting off with some sorry excuse of a “study session.” And if you’ve ever seen his grades, you’d wonder how these “study sessions” even happen at all.

Well, he is a jock—and he is reciting his script for tomorrow’s anthropology presentation... Just with someone else hanging upside down beside him, cocooned in sticky white web on some cityside rooftop.

...Hold up. Rewind one hour.

Gunshots echoed, bullets ricocheting, and in the midst of this circus of a firework show, there Yuji was—dodging clattering cans, cartons, and cereal boxes he was trying to save.

“Okay, think, think—don’t die, don’t die.”

The robber, in his ridiculous ski mask, barreled through the aisles in his frantic craze with his crowbar. 

“Out of my way!” he shouted, knocking over another pyramid of canned chickpeas.

Yuji smirked.

Suddenly, a web shot out from his wrist, and the robber yelped as the strand snagged his ankle, tripping him into innocent chips. It’s almost pitiful as his arms flailed helplessly, packs crashing at the spectacle. With a grin, Yuji shot another string of white around the man’s torso.

“Relax! I’m the friendly neighbourhood jock—wait, superhero! Friendly neighbourhood superhero!”

Though the robber still spun in place, tumbling like a washing machine on spin cycle, “You little—”

Yuji fired again, webbing his arms and yanking him upright, “Ohhh, you like being dramatic? We can do dramatic.”

Another around the legs, another around the torso, and suddenly the man found himself dangling midair like a piñata—arms pinned to his sides, legs stiff as broomsticks. A jar of olives bounced off his head for emphasis.

“PUT ME DOWN! WHAT IS THIS—?!”

With a swing from the shelf, Yuji landed with flair, crouching on a layered stack of cereal boxes as he grinned in amusement. “Relax, dude. You’re… uh… artfully suspended. Also, please stop moving, you’re making me dizzy.”

To his dismay, the robber still gyrated, knocking over carts and cans skittering across like tiny rockets. Thankfully, Yuji ducked just in time. With a sigh, he simply shot another web again.

“Hold still! Or I swear, I’ll—wait, nope, I’m not threatening you. I’m… just trying to help! With style!”

So, fast-forward to now, and really, it’s just another Tuesday in 2010s New York.

“The main cultural differences shape America in—”

“Hey! Can you let me down already?!”

Yuji, eyes squinted, snaps his head toward the man, coins jingling from his pockets. But he isn’t frowning at the robber… He just can’t read his notebook properly, especially with the thin fabric over his eyes. Each word is blurred into hazy smudges of grey.

Sometimes, Yuji Itadori doesn’t mind being the centre of attention.

Not when he's wearing the tight red-and-blue jumpsuit Nobara had stitched for him, seams puckered in all her nagging perfection.

Not when Megumi’s tech—definitely not borrowed, not stolen from his lab—glimmers faintly at his wrists.

And not when local news crews are scrambling to post grainy cellphone footage online, captions labelled with ridiculous, corny hashtags like #NYCSpidey, #OvercaffeinatedAcrobat, and #UnmaskThisGuy.

As soon as his last lecture of the day ends, he pulls down the mask, slips into the famous suit, and swings through the empire city that never sleeps.

He’s not Yuji Itadori anymore. He’s Spider-Man.

But tonight, though, he has an even greater problem than petty robberies and saving cats in trees. He has college.

“Dude, can you keep it down? I have an assignment due tomorrow, and I’m stuck here babysitting you—" Police sirens wail in the distance, cutting him off. And underneath his mask, he simply smirks, snapping his notebook shut as red and blue sweep across the graffiti‑scrawled walls. “Aaand that’s my cue.”

With a flick of his wrist, the man is left gaping, flailing uselessly as Yuji leaps from the ledge. 

The moon hangs low and full tonight. In the midst of its glow, he arcs over streets, headlights glinting like glass, weaving in between scaffolding poles. Trash swirls in the gusts around him, while faint damp concrete lingers as he glides past flickering streetlamps. The grids of blocks lie dark, the breeze sharp, yet every window glimmers with golden light; they’re constellations scattered across the city that guide him home.

Even if what he does is nowhere near world-changing, he’s always reminded that the city is full of life and narratives. Every window, every golden light that spills through each pane of glass, hides a story—a heartbeat—and that fact alone is enough to lessen the weight of his double life just a bit.

As always, while swinging past, his gaze skims the streets, searching through the blur of headlights and shadows. He finds you like clockwork. Trudging home, arms full of groceries: a paper bag with lettuce, a baguette tucked under your arm, and vegetables brimming atop. You’re humming a song from your dangling earbuds, oblivious to the world around you.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but when you live in the same flat, coming home at the same time he clocks out from patrol… well, it’s only natural he makes sure his crush roommate gets home safe, too, right?

“I wonder what she’s making tonight…” he mutters.

With one soft push, he slips his window open and dives back inside.

The wooden floor doesn’t even creak under his landing, and the globe lamp atop his desk glows like a dim moon over scattered paper. He passes sticky notes plastered across his wall, zipping out his suit and tossing his book onto the bed. Stepping out, he flicks on the hallway lights—and it isn’t long before he hears the usual. 

Your keys, the gentle click of the lock, and the first step you take inside, wrapped in the flat’s cosy warmth.

“Welcome back!” Yuji beams, hair tousled.

You nod back with a smile, shutting the door behind as you toe off your shoes. As you set the bag of groceries onto the kitchen island, you give him a smug smirk. “Did you just wake up?”

His eyes dart away, guilty, all while he rubs the back of his neck. A sheepish chuckle escapes. “...Maybe?”

You raise an eyebrow, sighing as he pulls a chair from the island. 

Ever since you moved in together with your childhood friend, you’ve learned three things about him: he eats terribly, naps like a cat, and will stare at you from the corner of the room with glassy, desperate eyes if he ever smells food.

And whether he admits it or not, you know when to drag him by the wrist, plop him down in front of a bowl, and pour him something warm. You’ve done it since high school. You’re still doing it now.

Sure, he’s stubborn, but so are you, and tonight is no different.

“I’m just making some simple tomato soup,” you say, spreading the groceries across the counter.

The city skyline glitters faintly from behind him, setting aglow the twinkling fascination in his golden eyes.

“Because you—” you tap his forehead with a finger, nudging him back, “are finishing your presentation script tonight. And I’m helping you with it.”

His eyes widen. “What?! How do you know about that?”

“If I have to hear Megumi complain one more time about you cramming your share of the load,” you groan, washing the vegetables, “I might start seeing both of you in my dreams.”

“Oops…” Yuji whistles, caught red-handed.

In the corner of your eye, you see him drift over as you slice the tomatoes.

“Can I help you cook then? Y’know… as repayment?” 

You nearly slice the tip of your finger at the audacity, but his hands, as usual, catch your wrist before anything disastrous happens. “You?”

You turn to look at him, his smile as bright as ever. “The last time you offered, everything tasted bland.”

He pouts under your gaze—lips pursed, brows scrunched. “I’ll never learn if I don’t try...”

A beat passes.

You sigh in resignation, and that’s all he needs. Yuji’s already pumping his fists triumphantly in the air, snatching the spare apron hanging off the oven handle.

“Let’s goooo!” he cheers.

On the other hand, you giggle at his flippant victory cry, but you don’t notice how his gaze lingers on you in the soft golden kitchen light—the curve of your eyes, the bloom of your cheeks. He’s taller than you, so it goes unnoticed, hidden in the shadow between you.

“And this time, don’t forget the salt,” you tease, stepping toward the pot.

“Yeah, yeah—oh! Put on that Cowboy Bebop opening. It’s been stuck in my head all day.”

You frown, eyeing the tiny apron stretched ridiculously over his frame. Your thumb’s already swiping across your battered iPhone 4, searching. When the first chord blasts, Yuji just stares.

“Based on how you’re holding that knife,” you chortle, “this feels more fitting.”

“…You think I’m gonna break into kung-fu fighting?!”

You shrug mockingly, moving to boil the water as he sputters just beside you. And it isn’t long before the kitchen settles into a cosy rhythm—the chop of vegetables, the hiss of butter, the soft swirl of simmering broth—and of course, your constant two-minute interval scoldings.

“Why are the tomatoes diced like… that?”

“I-I swear someone did this on Hell’s Kitchen last night—”

“I told you a little oil. Why is the pan half full?!”

“Uh…”

“I’m monitoring what kind of weird cooking shows you’re watching from now on.”

Soon enough, all that’s left is the soup’s fragrance wafting throughout the room—sun-ripe tomatoes, roasted garlic, and basil blooming bright with butter. It smells like warmth, like home, and the little life you’ve carved out together. Even Yuji stops mid-chop, knife still hovering in the air, just to inhale.

“Here you go,” you say, sliding the bowl toward him. On cue, he drops into his chair—shoulders rolling, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips. He thinks you don’t notice, but his fingers are still faintly red around the knuckles. The moment his eyes land on the bowl, something bright flickers in him.

The soup glows a deep orange-red, thick and velvety, droplets of olive oil shimmering across its sheen like tiny flecks of gold. Steam curls upward, brushing his cheeks, and in the dead of winter, the warmth blooms against him like late summer. Softening the night sky, brightening it like morning light.

When he takes the first spoonful, his eyes go wide.

Silence hangs in the room, but he just sets the spoon down gently, shoulders dropping another inch. He takes another bite, slower, and holds it in on his tongue. Under the table, his foot taps out its usual restless beat to a steady rhythm.

You have no idea what kind of day he’s had to be this hungry.

You don’t see the scuff on the side of his shoe, from where he landed too fast on the rooftop across the street. Or the tiny tear at the hem of his sleeve, where something sharp grazed him. Or the way he’d winced when you turned away earlier, instantly straightening as if nothing had happened.

All you see is Yuji—sunshine, sweetness—devouring the soup as if it’s literally saving him. You quietly rest your chin in your hands, grinning while he inhales spoonful after spoonful, like it’s the single greatest thing he’s tasted all week.

“Is it good?” you coo, and he nods so fast his hair bounces.

With all his enthusiasm, a smear of soup somehow ends up on the corner of his lip. He doesn’t notice, but you do, and you’re giggling before you can stop yourself.

You turn toward the window, watching the city smear into streaks of gold and red, and in that split second, he lifts his gaze, eyes catching on you. His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, suspended in midair, forgotten for the still of a heartbeat as his own breath stumbles, chest rising too quickly in the quiet. Goosebumps prick along his arms, and this time, it isn’t from the danger his sixth sense is warning him of. It’s from the way the skyline burns in your eyes, as if every light in New York decided to gather just to admire you with him.

He catches the soft amber strokes on your cheeks as your small smile curls like cotton-soft warmth—and underneath the dim neon glow, you look too gentle for the shadows, too bright for the night. For a breathless moment, he wants to steal you away.

To borrow you from the world, and keep this evening tucked somewhere only for the two of you.

“...Let’s go see something.” The words slip out before he can catch them.

You blink up at him, and the room instantly falls away, softened to all but a hush of the world. “What?”

He’s already getting up from his seat, draping his jacket over your shoulders as he takes your bowl. Without a word, he just reaches out for your hand, urging you to take his lead. Following him to the window, you watch as he pushes it open to the rushing cold air.

“What are you—”

“Trust me.”

He steps onto the fire escape’s metal platform. You hesitate for only a heartbeat, then follow, fingertips brushing the cold iron railing. Halfway up, he glances back at you, and his smile spills across the dim rooftop glow. Brighter than Manhattan’s windows, brighter than the neon signs, and even more so than the giddiness in your chest.

Your heart stutters for a bit.

The hum of traffic drifts up from below, weaving through the gaps in the grating, and when you reach the rooftop, the wind tugs at your clothes, ruffling hair and jacket alike. Stretched beneath you is the entire glitter of New York ahead, a glowing chaos of gold veins and shadows.

You suck in a breath, clutching Yuji’s jacket tighter around your shoulders.

“...It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at the shimmering skyline, but only at you. The spark in your eyes catching the glint of distant lights. Sitting down, he pats away the dust beside him, pulling you down to follow him. You plop yourself down, knees brushing.

“Right? When things are heavy, I like to sit and just watch the lights from above.”

Giggling, you take the warm bowl from his hands, the heat spreading through your fingers and mingling with the steam curling like tiny ghosts between you. “I didn’t know you were also a rooftop climber.”

He flinches slightly, but you don’t notice, lost as you are in the flickering tapestry of lights and the comforting weight of his jacket draped around your shoulders.

“...Thanks,” you murmur.

He tilts his head to your voice, and his smile blooms like a lantern in the cold fluorescent glow of the city. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the slump of your shoulders while cooking, and the faint, heavy sighs. Time hangs between you, quiet. 

“Is it because of your mother?” He doesn’t mean to pry. He simply waits, patient and quiet.

Years ago, when he was eleven and the weight of the world had abandoned him to debt and despair, it was you who had pulled him into the light.

You, who had brought him home, were pleading with your parents to let him stay, working alongside him through three jobs, shielding him from bullies, and carving out space for him in a world that had none.

And it wasn't because of pity—it was simply because it was right.

That small, steady truth had been more than enough for him to realise, walking home together one evening at fourteen, that life without you was unthinkable. Impossible.

But ever since that incident, Yuji spends his nights differently now, wondering if he even still has the right to be sitting next to you. Perhaps that’s why he’s swinging across buildings now, a distraction to the ache he can’t name. The tugging knot of fear that writhes from his core.

“Mm… same old,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the golden veins of streets below, lids heavy.

“You know I’m always here for you, right?” 

You shift your gaze toward him. His brows crease, jaw tight, lips parted, as if he’s waiting for a question you’ve buried too deep to speak. Yet your hands move betrayingly, fingers brushing against his, seeking him out over the coarse, cold brick beneath you.

He threads his fingers through yours with an ease so natural, it terrifies you. A knot coils low in your stomach, tightening with every heartbeat, your hand trembling beneath the gentle heat of his.

The wind tugs at your hair, lights flickering beyond the skyline like tiny stars. Amidst the faint hum of traffic and the electric scent of the city, each glow pulses, just like the racing of your heart.

You can feel it, the quiet certainty in his touch. You know he means it. You really do.

But even so, your lips betray you. They tremble against a single word, from the weight of too many nights spent replaying every thought, every fear.

“...Thanks.” A fragile whisper, soft as paper, heavy as stone.

Somewhere far below, a taxi honks. Somewhere far above, a neon sign blinks. But in between both, it’s just the two of you. And even with all the uncertainty, the nights, and the unspoken truths that linger between breaths, you settle.

This litany of quiet is enough.

It’s eleven o'clock out, the sun is stupidly bright, and you want to die. Like—crawl six feet under and stay burrowed in there—die. 

“See you tomorrow!” the woman calls as you leave, a paper bag of tangerines digging into your fingers.

You flash her a beaming smile, hiding your soul-rotting exhaustion. The door’s jingle follows you onto the bustling sidewalk.

New York is already in full chaos mode. Yellow cabs are barking at each other, crowds are shoving downstream like human traffic jams, and tourists are wrestling with crumpled city maps like they’re cursed.

When you glance up, you see the usual pigeons parading shop awnings, lined like entitled landlords. Scaffolding poles crisscross above you, towering between skyscrapers, and your earphones dangle uselessly around your neck.

No song is strong enough to fight the throbbing migraine pulsing behind your eyes, and it’s probably because you were up until 5:00 a.m. helping Yuji.

The memory punches you in the brain.

“Why the hell is it blank?” you’d blurted—because how else were you supposed to react to that monstrosity? You were both on the living room carpet, his laptop glowing tragically atop the coffee table.

Yuji jerked his head toward you, scandalised. “Um, no? There’s the title slide, the body slide, and the bullet points. It’s got everything it needs.”

You didn’t need a degree to see all the ways that was a crime, and maybe you’re just a saint—that’s what he thinks—but you were already storming into your room, grabbing your laptop.

“Okay, you—” you pointed at him, “write your script. I’m fixing your slides.”

His eyes widened, watching as you flipped open your laptop, copied the link, and sent it over.

“We’ll revise the whole thing on four, and—”

Bla bla bla… your words were already blurring into the mindless static of Yuji’s head. In that deserted hollowness of a brain, there was just awe.

The way your focus sharpened, the way your brows pinched, the way you sank into a task like the world around you melted away… it was the same look you’d had four years prior.

When both of you still worked for some cramped, greasy kitchen in Queens—and then, he’d been elbow‑deep in suds, wrist aching, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead.

Suddenly, you burst through the door.

“What the—” Yuji had jumped, nearly dropping a plate. But you didn’t even flinch at his shock. You were already rolling up your sleeves, sweeping half his stack of dirty dishes into your arms.

“No wonder you’re coming home late every day,” you muttered, scrubbing. “I asked the manager how many extra shifts you took. Care to explain?”

Yuji immediately paused. Your eyes still stayed focused on your side of the sink, though. The plate in his hand, the steam, and the music drifting faintly from the restaurant’s old radio all seemed to stop.

“We need the money,” he said gently, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a hopeful smile. He reached to take the plate from you, “Come on—hand it back. It’s my responsibility.”

Your grip didn’t budge. You just glared at him from under your lashes. “We promised not to keep secrets from each other,” you murmured.

Silence fell. Only the muted hum of jazz seeped in from the dining area, trembling throughout the fragile string in the air.

Then you whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear. “...It's not like I want to stay home either."

His stomach tightened.

You weren’t supposed to say—even, feel that kind of hurt. Hell, he didn't want you to think of uttering those words... At least when he was by your side.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. But after a few moments of still silence, he dug his fingers into his palms. His chest paused mid-rise. “We’re moving out as soon as I get paid.”

Your head snapped toward him. And there it was—that boyish grin. The same one he’d given you at six years old on the playground, when he offered you half his juice box just after you scraped your knee.

“I checked our savings,” he said softly. “We’ll have enough by this month.”

Your lips parted. Your eyes widened. And when the realisation hit you, Yuji quickly stripped off his gloves and ruffled your hair with a warm, shaking laugh. “New York, angel. New life.”

Your throat tightened. Your heart stopped.

And before you knew it, your vision was blurring up like fog. His hair still spun rose-gold, soft and shimmering through the garble—and somehow, even through the haze, he was still the brightest thing in the room.

He had prayed to every God he knew to do anything, to never see you cry again. That if sadness ever had to choose, it would pick him, and not you.

So when your tears finally spilt under the cheap fluorescent lights, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in, firm arms wrapping around you as you clung to the back of his hoodie, shoulders shaking.

You choked on your own soft sniffles, finally surrendering to the dam of emotions you’d bottled all these years. All the while, he quietly kept his hold on you, whispering it again, breath warm against your ear.

New York. New life.

Flash forward four years—after the spider bite, after the powers, after the secrets that clawed at his nights—and some things never changed.

“Angel…” he murmured, stunned all over again. Because sure, he saved cats, strangers and entire banks on his better days, but it came at the cost of everything else.

His friends all think he’s unreliable, a dud, and weirdly bad at showing up—college deadlines slipped, plans fell apart, and every time the hairs on his arms stood up, that electric buzz tingling in his bones—he had to go. He just had to.

He knew what happened when he ignored it, and even in the darkest of nights, he still hears the crackle of fire from the apartment next door.

But you stayed.

You always stayed.

He wanted to hug you.

To kiss you.

To press his forehead to yours and promise that he’d protect you from everything—even himself.

But he swallowed it down, locked it away where it couldn’t slip out too easily.

And he just… smiled.

That boyish, earnest smile he never realises has the power to crumble all your walls.

Enough to also keep your whole world from collapsing. Enough to make you brave. Enough to make you trust him even when everything else in your life feels like it’s slipping between your fingers.

For as long as you can remember, it’s always felt like you and him against the world.

You know how he disappears every night, how he’s never on time for anything, how he comes back scraped or breathless or exhausted—but you never ask. You don’t pry. You don’t push.

Because Yuji is the one person you’d bend your whole life around if it meant easing his burdens. You trust him—you trust him in a way that terrifies you. You’ve known him long enough to understand the softness of his heart, the way he tries to carry everything alone, the way he refuses to let people worry for him.

And you know, deep down, that he’d never hurt anyone.

He’d never hurt you.

So you keep your silence with that one line he’s unknowingly drawn between you. 

Even when you feel his gaze lingering on you longer than it should.

Even when goosebumps rise along your arms in the soft, living warmth of the room.

Even when you ache to reach out, to cup his face, to ask him why it feels like something is always slipping away.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you steps forward.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, all while his clench slightly at his thighs.

Even when this fragile string you’re threading so carefully on is the very thing hurting you both.

You’re slipping through the afternoon crowd like a loose page torn from a book, shoving past another tourist whose camera strap is swinging wildly. The air today smells faintly of burnt bagels, exhaust, and wet asphalt from last night’s rain, the earth’s sigh as it drinks the sky’s frigid tears. Metal trash cans clatter in the wind, lids rattling against their rims, and somewhere above, the faint screech of the subway reverberates from the tracks below.

Footsteps echo around you, tyres hiss against the wet asphalt, yet even in this city that never sleeps, your thoughts drift as you shuffle through the bustle.

I wonder how Yuji’s presentation went?

Hopefully well. Otherwise, you’ll have to suffer through the hell of Megumi’s complaints for at least another month. God, anything but that.

You yawn, squinting as your vision blurs slightly against the harsh reflection of the rising sun on glass skyscrapers. The traffic light clicks, the pedestrians’ signal flipping to red, but suddenly, your eyes catch something else entirely.

Something small, trembling, utterly out of place in the chaos. A golden-furred bundle curled in the middle of the crossing. 

A puppy.

Your heart stutters.

Everyone sees it, yet no one moves. Cars keep rolling, and the pup curls in on itself, shaking so violently you can feel it even from the curb.

What the hell?

Your mind scatters in ten directions at once, tripping over every worst-case scenario. Logic screams, “don’t run into traffic”, so you're forced to stand there—foot tapping, throat tight, breath trapped—waiting. As soon as the pedestrian light turns green, your legs run before you can even think.

You sprint.

Your sneakers slap against the asphalt, the city blurring around you in a rush of horns and exhaust. With a quick drop of a crouch, breath heaving, you slowly stick out a hand for it to sniff, but it shrinks back, paws skittering against the cold pavement. 

It’s terrified. Of everything. The honks, the stomps, the chatter—New York’s roar is swallowing the tiny thing whole.

The pedestrian countdown crackles overhead, each tick like a punch to your ribs, and your heartbeat syncs with it—frantic, stuttering, racing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” you whisper.

But it’s not. Not even close.

You glance up.

Ten seconds left.

Fuck it.

You drop the paper bag. Tangerines scatter across the crosswalk, bumping under shoes, rolling into gutters as you sweep the trembling puppy into your arms. Its ribs flutter against your palms frantically. You whisper whatever calming nonsense you can manage—

HOOOONK.

The blare is so loud it splits your thoughts in half.

Before you even fully straighten, the world explodes into white behind your eyes. You snap your head toward the sound.

A truck is barreling toward you.

Too close.

Too fast.

Your entire body locks. There’s no time to run, no time to scream. The world narrows to the shadow swallowing you—

An arm suddenly clamps around your waist.

The ground vanishes, wind knifes past your ears. In the blink of an eye, you’re off the asphalt and slammed into the blur of motion. 

The city snaps back into focus just as your feet touch down on solid pavement, and right behind you, “Whoa there—careful!”

You freeze, heart slamming into your ribs. You know that voice. You’d know it in a thunderstorm, a blackout, a dream.

“Yu—” But when you whirl around, ready to scream at him, you freeze. The person holding you isn’t Yuji.

It’s Spider-Man.

The spandex, the mask, and the red and blue in all its stupid glory—standing right in front of you, fingers still trembling slightly where they had been gripping your waist. He slowly lets go of it, watching as you spin to face him, face shaken. 

As more and more people start to crowd the two of you, they’re lifting phones, shouting.

It’s his voice. You know it.

But there’s also absolutely no way that Yuji Itadori—your perpetually late, starving, ghost of a roommate—is the same Spider-Man plastered all over the Daily Bugle every day, busy saving lives.

You swallow hard. “…Thank you.”

He glances down, raising his knuckle for the shaking pup—and after a few sniffs, he boops its nose, its tail giving a tiny, shy wag. 

“What a cutie,” he says softly. “Is this yours?”

He knows the answer. He shouldn’t even be talking this much. But when you look up at him—stunned, scared, and shocked—he stays.

You pause for a moment, brain short-circuiting before shaking your head. He gestures gently. “I can take him to a local shelter, if you want.”

What?

Your arms instinctively tighten around the pup, but after a few beats, the tension in your shoulders eases. With a hesitant nod, you slowly pass it over—and to your surprise, he holds the little thing way too gently, cradling it close to his chest.

Then, he asks, “Do you want to come with us?”

Your head instantly perks up to him. 

He wants you… to come with him.

You feel your own heart thudding against your ribs, the cluster of crowds sending your brain into cartwheels now. Your fists are still against his chest, clenched. Finally, after a few seconds, you nod once.

“...Please?” you add, voice barely above a whisper.

Something in him melts.

“Alright,” he murmurs, hooking an arm around your waist with the pup. “No tall skyscrapers this time, though. Gotta make sure I don’t scare the pup.”

Before you can even process what he’s saying, a white web shoots out from his wrist—

And you’re fucking airborne.

“AAAAAAAAA—!!” You’re screaming as the wind whips across your face, the ground blurring beneath your feet.

One awning leads to another, gilding just above the traffic—and somehow, that makes it even more terrifying; you can see the cars, the flashing lights, the stunned pedestrians filming you as you pass.

You cling to him like your life depends on it, (because really, it does) your yell trembling amidst the racing wind as your arms stay wrapped tight around his neck. Meanwhile, this idiot is laughing. Laughing. And even the puppy is having fun, tail wagging like a metronome of betrayal.

You swear you can even see his tail wagging as well, burrowing your face even deeper into his neck as you shut your eyes.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” you shout, voice cracking. The idiot of a vigilante only laughs harder, grip still strong on your waist.

He doesn’t know how his heart nearly stopped when he saw you kneeling in front of the barreling truck. He doesn’t know how close he came to losing his mind. And he doesn’t know how many Gods he’d prayed for the shortest split second.

Every God, to reach you in time.

But he knows one thing:

You’re here, screaming—scared shitless, sure—but alive.

“Put me down, put me down, put me down!” You’re sobbing into his neck, eyes glued shut as the wind smacks the hair into your face. 

Finally, the world slows to a stop. He lands softly on the asphalt, and everything stills—all but your trembling breaths. Shallow, shaky, and way too embarrassingly loud in your own ears.

He leans in, voice low enough that only you can hear it through the muffled city noise.

“We’re here,” he whispers.

You refuse to move. Absolutely not.

Your face stays buried in the crook of his neck, arms locked tight, fingers curled stubbornly. He chuckles softly.

Cute.

The pup wiggles out from between you two, popping its head out. It yaps once, twice, and you slowly crack open one eye, hands weakly releasing their grip on his suit. A shaky breath leaves your lips as you finally peel yourself off him, stumbling back—only for him to catch you again by the elbow.

“And we haven’t even reached forty feet yet,” he teases, head tilted.

You glare weakly, voice hoarse. “I am never doing that again.”

He doesn’t even need to say anything; you can feel the smug grin through the mask. 

With a soft spin on his heel, he steps past you toward a storefront wedged between two towering brick buildings. The sign above it is faded, chipped around the edges, and the door’s chime jingles as he slips inside with the puppy nestled in one arm.

You stand there in the midst of the pavement, though, heart still thundering, sneakers planted on solid ground, and even if you’ve touched the ground for at least a few minutes now, it feels like you’re still up there mid-swing.

The city moves like normal around you. Horns, footsteps, conversations—it all feels muted, stuffed cotton in your ears. You’re floating.

Absolutely floating.

A few moments later, the chime rings again. He steps out… with the same puppy still in his arms. You blink as he gives a tiny shrug.

“Sooo… turns out they’re totally out of vacant spots right now," he glances at the pup, the critter innocently tilting its head. “I can swing to another one, maybe—”

“I’ll take him.” The words leave your mouth before you even think them through, cutting through the fragile string of silence.

He looks at you, stunned. You’re taking it in?

Before he can say anything, you crouch immediately, scratching the puppy under the chin as it whines into your palm, tail flailing like a fuzzy little helicopter.

Sure, why not? Maybe Yuji will finally start showing up more often. Maybe he’ll actually help take care of it. Maybe—

“Uh—you sure?”

All the while, Yuji, as mentioned above, is panicking to death in his head. He’s not even there for half the night, how the hell is he gonna take care of it? But there’s you, of course, so it can’t be that bad, right?

“Mhm,” you nod, scooping the warm ball of golden fluff against your chest. “Look, it loves me already!”

You giggle as it barks happily, tiny paws scrambling at your collar as it leans up to lick your jaw. Warm little breaths puff against your skin, sunlight breaking through the thinning clouds overhead, catching on its fur and turning it into a tiny halo of honey-gold—soft enough to melt winter, blithe enough to quiet the city. 

He goes still. 

Of course, it loves you.

The breeze rolls by, threading through the loose strands of your hair, and he watches the sunlight kiss them the same way it kisses the dog’s fur, as if the two of you were made of the same warmth.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The tilt of his head, the stillness of his hands, the way he forgets about the crowd, the noise, the city—all of it betrays him.

You’re shining underneath the bleeding sun, laughing even with the trembling puppy in your arms, and for one still second, the weight of what almost happened hits him harder than any fall he’s taken tonight.

Harder than any punch, any rooftop landing, any sprint through the freezing wind.

And he knows it. He knows exactly what that ache is.

“Where do you live?” he asks, voice lower than before, too casual even to be casual.

Your gaze snaps to him. And the second you see the curve of his masked grin—smug, obvious, and entirely too proud of himself—your stomach sinks.

“So…” he drawls, head tilting. “Round two?”

You groan, clutching the dog a little tighter like it might suddenly save you. “God, save me.”

“Roger that, Ma’am.”

You smack his arm. He laughs. 

And the sun, traitorous as ever, lights you up like something worth falling for.

The metal railing trembles as he steps onto your balcony, but unlike it, you don’t steady—not even after your sneakers touch the concrete. Your knees are still jelly, your stomach is still somewhere midair, and you’re pretty sure you’ll never get used to this.

Frankly, you’re praying you won’t ever have to.

Behind you, the sun melts into winter’s edge, streaking the clouds with bleeding crimson.

“Welcome home!”

“Thank you,” you breathe.

The golden pup squirms in your arms, and the moment you crack open the balcony door, it launches inside. You can’t help but laugh as it bounds across the living room, sniffing corners, trotting in frantic circles, all while its tail wags with a delirious joy only pure innocence can have. 

You’re tired—he can see it. The slope of your shoulders, the soft drag of your steps, the yawns you pretend are subtle. Even your laughter sounds like it’s holding up the walls of a crumbling day.

He leans against the railing behind you, watching with a chuckle, and he knows he shouldn’t linger, shouldn’t risk even this much, but it’s you. And tonight, for reasons he can’t name out loud, he wants to show you something special.

“Hey,” he calls softly, “ever wondered what it’s like sixty feet up?”

You turn. He stands there with his arms crossed, head tilted, grin smug enough to see even beneath the mask.

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. “You look like you need a pick‑me‑up. And I think I know just the thing.”

Before you can argue, his hands are slipped around your waist already, like he’s done this a million times before. And somehow, like your body recognises him from somewhere you can’t name, you don’t pull away. You only lift a brow, smirking. “Literally?”

He huffs a boyish laugh and reaches past you to slide the balcony door shut. His gaze flickers to the puppy already curled on a cushion, drifting into a soft nap after its chaotic afternoon.

“The vet said he’s trained and vaccinated. So…” His voice dips, playful. “It wouldn’t hurt if I steal you for a few minutes, right?”

You pretend to think about it. “Maybe.”

Maybe.

Damn, if he didn’t have his stupid mask on, you’d see the way his whole face breaks into the most hopeless grin ever. God really does send his hardest missions to his strongest soldiers.

“Hang on tight.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. Your arms loop around his neck, and just as quickly as you can breathe, you’re suddenly up in the air—you still can’t help but scream at the sudden jump in height.

A strangled cry rips out of your throat as the city drops away beneath your feet. He’s still laughing at the ridiculousness of your reaction, and for once in both your lives, you’re screaming with the sort of freedom that only comes with the wish of a shooting star.

You definitely feel like one, too. 

Skyscrapers streak past, wind clawing at your clothes. Your face is buried in his shoulder—because looking down might as well kill you—but even through your terror, a traitorous warmth swells in your chest.

He hears every sound you make, every breathless scream, and he’s stupidly amused. Even when your eyes are screwed shut from how fucking terrifying this is.

Finally, he lands on what sounds like concrete with a soft thud, steadying you before your knees can give out. Your fingers are still clutched to his suit, but he pries them off gently, turning you around. 

You crack open one eye.

Then both.

And instantly, your breath catches.

The horizon is on fire.

The wild, bright yellow flame burns in the centre of the molten gold, every skyscraper splinting it in fractured sheets of amber and rose. And as it dips right across the water, your heart skips a beat, the sky bleeding with streaks of orange and bruised violet. Light scatters from the heavens, a gorgeous shower that shimmers just across the horizon’s sea—a ramp of falling stars just for the two of you. 

“…It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

The same words you told him the first time he brought you to the rooftop. He remembers. God, he remembers everything. He turns his head.

The horizon is burning in the distance, but he doesn’t glance up. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the way the light brushes your hair, the tilt of your jaw, the slow inhale of your awe—and in that moment, the city, the sunset, the wind, nothing else exists.

You outshine every single drop of light in the bleeding sky, and he hates that he can’t even tell you.

Something in your chest loosens, then gives. For one strange, impossible moment, the pressure of everything—your deadlines, your rent, your exhaustion, the heaviness of simply existing—feels lighter.

You turn to him, smiling. “Thank you.”

The sun flares behind you, painting you in gold, and he thinks helplessly that even this sunset pales beside you.

His heart punches against his ribs, hammering hard enough to bruise.

He keeps his hands in fists so you won’t see them shake, nails digging into his palms, trying to anchor himself.

Because if he doesn’t, he’ll do something reckless.

…Like pull his mask up and kiss you under a dying sun.

He jabs a gloved knuckle against the glass of Nobara’s bedroom window—once, twice, thrice—fast. Even muffled behind the mask, Nobara can recognise it anywhere. Especially when it’s coming from her window on the tenth fucking floor.

“Knock, knock! House of fabulous engineers and fashion icons! Hellooooo?”

A muffled groan leaks from the glass.

The window slides open with a wet creak, and Nobara leans out—hair damp from a shower, hoodie half-zipped, face frowning. She’s literally one inconvenience away from shutting it on his fingers.

“What,” she deadpans, “the hell do you want?”

Yuji straightens proudly, chest puffing out. “Guess who just saved someone from a truck, carried them to a view that’d make Van Gogh rise from the grave, and completely turned their day around! And they don’t even know it was me!”

His words are tumbling over like runaway marbles, tripping out of his mouth in the sudden rush of excitement. Each breath fogs the inside of his mask, tiny clouds drifting up as he gestures wildly, eyes sparkling even behind the webbed veil.

From behind her, Megumi’s voice drifts, monotonous as ever. “You look like a five-year-old who drank too much espresso.”

Yuji spins halfway, giving him a thumbs-up. “And you built the tech that made that possible! So technically, I am a caffeinated genius who saves people, sooooo—you’re the genius behind the genius!”

“Obviously it’s about her,” Nobara says, arms crossed, one brow arched. “Why else knock on my window like some homicidal pigeon?”

Yuji grins boyishly beneath the mask, tilting his head. “Because someone had to tell the people who made me this awesome that I did something awesome!”

He hops back onto the slick rooftop, landing with barely a splash. Rain glazes over the red and blue of his suit, gloves leaving faint smudges of rain, but he doesn’t care. He crouches—knees loose, fingers tapping, eyes flicking between Nobara and Megumi—and he rambles.

“You’d be so proud. I got her out of danger—like, barely-saw-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes danger—and she held onto me and we just… we ended up on this roof where the whole skyline looked like it was melting gold. And she laughed! And I—”

His hand stills over his heart.

Nobara squints at him, expression softening for half a second before she ruins it deliberately. “You’re ridiculous. Just confess already.”

Yuji crouches lower, fists on his knees, eyes practically sparkling. The rain slides off his mask in thin streams, glossing over like small scattered stars. All the while, the skyline stretches behind him, windows blinking like constellations.

He’s glowing too, like he can’t hold all his giddiness inside. 

Behind her, Megumi doesn’t move, but there’s a faint, reluctant curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. They’ve both seen this a million times.

Yuji, hopelessly in love. Yuji, trying not to be obvious. Yuji, failing.

But then, he thinks of you, back in your apartment, probably waiting for him with that puppy curled on your lap—probably wondering why he’s coming back late again.

His heart kicks.

Without warning, he shoots a web to the edge of the rooftop. “Okay—gotta go—BYE!”

Before Nobara can yell, he launches himself into the storm-soaked night, flipping once, twice, and vanishing into the wind.

“YOU’LL HEAR ABOUT THIS TOMORROW, I SWEAR!” he hollers back, voice bouncing between the buildings.

Nobara sighs dramatically and shuts the window, all the while Megumi’s smirk survives exactly three seconds before he wipes it off.

As he disappears into the glittering darkness, the city continues to shine. But it’s obvious who he’s rushing home for, and somewhere below, the night hums with the secret only three people know:

Spider-Man Yuji Itadori is swinging through New York like a boy in love.

When Yuji comes back, he’s yelping in surprise when the little rascal of a pup rushes over to him. Its paws are already scattered across the wooden floor for a launched attack. “What the—?!” 

He picks up the pup in his arms, snuggling into it as you appear from the corner of the hallway, snickering at the scene. “Kiniro likes you already.”

It takes everything in him to bite back his laughter and act surprised. After all, he can’t quite literally tell you he was the one saving you both just earlier today, right?

“I didn’t know you brought back this little pup,” he giggles, letting it lick his face. “You even named him?”

You sigh, plopping yourself onto the carpet. “He was in the middle of a pedestrian street. Thankfully, Spider-Man saved him.”

You pat your lap, Kiniro eagerly running straight back to you, “The animal shelter was full, though, but I think we’re stable enough to afford just another pet, don’t you think?” 

Yuji’s already walking over to you, slinging his bag across the couch as he ruffles your hair. “I can just pick up another job if you really want to.”

He doesn’t miss that you don’t include yourself in being saved, but he doesn’t nag. All that matters is you’re safe and sound, and with the arrival of little Kiniro, your grin seems just a tiny bit wider. 

“Ugh, you’re not even home half the time,” you groan, tugging him down to sit next to you. “Don’t.”

He smirks at your comment, simply shrugging. “You would not believe my day, though,” he starts, running a hand through his hair.

“Coach made us do sprints at 8 a.m. Eight. A. M. The sun was barely awake. I was barely awake,” he plops himself down beside you. “Then I had to do that boring presentation for Anthropology.”

You snort. “What about it? Did you actually, I don’t know—not screw it up?”

“Ohhh, the presentation? Killed it. Destroyed it. Megumi totally knew you helped, too.”

You shake your head, smiling as he continues. With a soft sigh, you raise both hands behind you as you stretch out your sore arms. “Thank God. We still need to go grocery shopping, though… We don’t have food for either him or us.”

“Do you want me to go?” 

You’re already getting up, though. “Nah, let’s go together, like usual.”

He smiles. Yeah. Like usual.

So flash forward now, one hour later—

He’s tossing all sorts of odd combinations into your trolley, and when he’s the one pushing it, that means you’re going to be barely stopping him from picking yet another pack of chips in the aisle beside.

Because, seriously, what kind of trolley has fruits, meat, chips and dog food all at once? Any other college student, he says. Well, you don’t complain further, because you’re already busy thinking about what to cook for dinner.

Metal shelves press together like metro train commuters, all the while humming coolers whisper across aisles—stacked with the classic 99¢ ramen, chips, and plastic-wrapped bagels. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly amidst the static hiss of the radio’s pop song, always a little too bright, and it cuts through the shuffle of tired locals grabbing dinner after work.

Both of you pass each aisle, and when he reaches up just one more time, he says, for the latest bag of chips, you slap his hands away. He gives you a pout, but you shoot it back down, eyes still peeled ahead, while the trolley miserably follows behind now.

“So what’s on the menu, Chef?” Yuji asks, arms on the handle. 

“Japanese curry,” you hum back, already tossing the small sticks of chives into the trolley behind.

His eyes glisten at the thought of it, his mouth watering already. “You always make the best dinners.”

With a mere huff and the slightest curl of your lips, you refuse to turn back to face him. You can already feel the piercing stare of awe on your back, but it does little to keep the budding brim of pride at bay.

Because honestly speaking, that’s all you need.

When the tiny 2010s New York apartment smells like onions sizzling in butter—warm, sweet, it seeps both into the walls and your mind that you’re actually home.

The window above the stove rattles a little every time a subway roars somewhere underground, but inside, it’s just the two of you, moving around the cramped kitchen like you both have a hundred times.

“You’re cutting them too big,” you tease, nudging his elbow as he chops another carrot chunk.

“They’ll shrink in the pot!” he fires back, puffing his cheeks. “Plus, big pieces are funner to chew.”

“That’s not how carrots work.”

“Sure it is.”

You break into laughter, and he falters into the same grin behind his ever-so-bravado. 

Before you can turn back to the stove, his hands slip around your waist from behind, pulling you just close enough that your back warms against his chest. It’s second nature to him by now—but somehow, this time, his touch reminds you of someone else just earlier this afternoon.

“Hey—hey,” you giggle, trying to stir the pot while he sways you side to side, “I’m gonna spill the roux.”

“That’s the plan,” he murmurs, chin gently resting on your shoulder as he watches the stew bubble. 

“Teamwork, right? I’m moral support.”

“Moral support doesn’t usually involve hugging me every five seconds.”

He gives a soft, guilty hum. “Hmm. Guess I’m extra supportive.”

Outside the window, the streetlights of early-night Manhattan cast a warm orange glow across the counter, mixing with the flicker of your old fluorescent kitchen light, and somewhere below, a taxi honks, someone yells. Your radio’s playing the classic pop songs on repeat rotation this week, and inside, tucked within the mellow warmth, there’s just the soft simmer of curry and the occasional clatter of utensils. Yuji leans forward to peek into the pot, arms tightening around you as if he can’t help it.

“That smells so good,” he says, voice a little softer now.

You feel your cheeks warm more than the stove ever could, but you still shove him with your hip anyway. “Then set the table, you sap.”

He laughs boyishly before finally letting go. Grabbing bowls, he’s humming off-key to the radio, and when you glance back at him, his sleeves are already rolled up. He plates the curry bubbling behind you, and the two of you settle snuggishly into the couch, blanket tossed over both of your legs.

As usual, Yuji sits close, stretching his arm along the backrest so that he can tug you closer whenever he feels like it. He’s already rambling off into the darkness, and long before you know it, you’re both talking over the show more than actually watching it.

“But, uh… lunch was good,” he adds quietly. “Ate outside. The weather felt nice. I kinda wished you were there, though.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it; Yuji seldom does things like this. He just rubs the back of his neck, cheeks burning pink.

“Y’know… campus stuff is better when you’re around,” he murmurs. “Feels less like I’m just running around all day and more like…” He pauses, searching for the word. “…I’m just living day-to-day.”

You snort. “You’re such a dork.”

“A dork who had a rough day,” he huffs, nudging your knee with his. 

You card your fingers through his soft pink hair despite yourself, and he melts instantly, like he’s been waiting all day for this. At some point, the warmth of the curry settles into your stomach, the weight of his arm drapes heavier against your shoulders, and your eyelids grow heavier with each second.

His heartbeat is steady, right under your ear, and beneath the warmth, you don’t even notice when your bowls slide onto the coffee table. You just fall asleep tucked into his side, wrapped in his hoodie and the low hum of the city outside the window.

He simply watches, and somewhere, underneath the warmth of the quiet, his hand stops just a beat from tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You don’t know how long you’ve slept, but when the sudden, distant siren of an ambulance cuts through the silence, you wake. The apartment’s dark except for the TV’s dim blue, and your head’s still snuggled against the couch cushion, but Yuji isn’t there.

His spot is still warm, yet the empty bowls are already in the sink.

“Yuji?” you whisper, sitting up as the floor creaks softly beneath your bare feet. Silence echoes, and only the faint late-night wail follows through the room, the ticking of your clock.

It's dead midnight.

Outside your window, a breeze seeps softly from the fire escape. The curtains shift, and you turn to read the single sticky note pasted on the coffee table, scribbled in his ever-so messy handwriting:

“Sorry. Something came up. Didn’t wanna wake you.

Be back soon :)”

You run your thumb over the smiley face, feeling the echo of warmth where he’d been.

You don’t know why he disappears every night.

But for now, all you know is the apartment still smells like curry and him—and the couch feels just a little too big without his arms around your waist.

Dawn breaks as gold washes over the pavement, daylight spilling into the still-waking streets. You’re shuffling along beside Yuji, shoulders brushing now and then. In both your hands are cups of cocoa from the corner cart, each crowned with a swirl of whipped cream he swears is just “the best in the city.”

Steam lifts from the paper cup, curling into the damp morning air, all the while streets still glisten from last night’s rain, passing headlights shimmering in fractured streaks. Inhaling, the air smells of salt and roasted peanuts, tinged with the sweet bite of chestnuts toasting somewhere behind you.

“You’re going to burn your tongue if you sip that too fast,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

He sticks his tongue out at you, laughing even harder when you snort back at him. You simply shake your head as he bumps your shoulder, grinning.

The crowd hums around you, a river of people rushing with purpose, but you walk slower than usual, matching his pace. His hair catches the sunlight in golden highlights, and as he turns to glance over at you, the corners of his mouth tilt when he notices you staring.

“And you’re gonna spill your drink if you keep staring,” he laughs, holding out his hand. 

You giggle, letting him grab your wrist gently, tugging you just slightly forward as you step over a puddle. His warmth lingers a second too long, and as the sun rises a little higher, he watches you sip from your cup—eyes soft and warm.

Kiniro’s barking as well, his leash wrapped just around Yuji’s knuckles. The boy gives it a little tug, but for a split second, his shoulders tense. He’s distracted for a moment, silent. 

There’s a siren somewhere uptown. A horn blast. Something sharp flickers across his expression before he smooths it away.

You pretend not to notice. Instead, you just nudge your shoulder into his again. “You okay?”

He grins. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But his fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist.

You tilt your cocoa toward him. “Trade?”

He huffs a relieved laugh. “Fine, but only because I know mine has more whipped cream.”

You swap cups, and his shoulders loosen, the tension in his jaw melting away. Somehow, the warmth of the moment softens the city around you—right up until your phone buzzes. You glance down, frowning.

“Did you eat yet?” “Are you really out with him again?”

Your chest tightens. No matter how far you’ve moved, her messages still slice like winter wind. Instead, you shove the phone deeper into your pocket, just as Yuji starts rambling about some comic he swears he didn’t dream up. 

“Everything okay?” It’s his turn this time, unaware of the text buzzing under your coat.

You nod in response, though, forcing a smile. “Yeah… just distracted.”

He doesn’t probe, and you just follow him down a narrow side street, fire escapes shadowing over cracked sidewalks. The city hums with distant trains, honking taxis, and the usual rumble of early traffic. He twirls you once in the crosswalk, and for a brief moment, your worries fade. Laughter bubbles up easily, sunlight spilling through breaks in the buildings.

Everything is gold.

You don’t even pass five blocks before you hear the sudden strum of a guitar, faint from a musician tucked just beside a subway entrance, tin cup right at his feet. 

Yuji’s eyes sparkle instantly like a kid spotting magic.

“Dance battle?” he asks, grin stretching mischievously.

You nearly choke on your cocoa. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He’s already bending his knees, taking a fighting stance. “You. Me. Right here. Winner gets bragging rights for life.”

You groan, trying to pull him away, but the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, the laughter in his voice, makes it impossible to resist.

And before you know it, both your cups are set on the window ledge just beside, and he’s twirling you gently in the middle of the sidewalk, weaving through the small cluster of pedestrians staring in a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Yuji! Stop, I’ll—” you squeal, laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

He only snorts harder, spinning you until your hair whips across your face and you bury your head against his shoulder. “You’ve got moves,” he teases, voice softening. “Better than I thought.”

When the music shifts to a slower melody, he doesn’t let go. His grip on your waist pulls you closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours, eyes half-closed. The rest of the city fades, and in the midst of it, there’s only the pulse of your laughter, the warmth, and the soft brush of his breath against your cheek.

For a second, it feels like the world stopped just to let him hold you. Everything melts away, and time stills.

Then… he freezes. The sparkle in his eyes dims.

“I—I gotta—” he starts, pulling back slightly, fingers brushing yours.

You frown, confused. This isn’t the first time he’s bailing midway, and suddenly, the warmth’s twisting with the usual tension.

“What?” Your voice cracks. “Where are you going?”

He bites his lip, hesitating. “Something came up… I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.”

Before you can argue, he’s already turning, weaving through the crowd and quickly disappearing like he’s done so a hundred times. You watch, heart sinking, as the tide of bodies swallows him.

Your phone buzzes then—again—in your pocket.

Your stomach knots, all the while the sweetness of the morning is turning brittle at the edges. 

You frown at the screen, fingers trembling slightly… another message. 

This time, you take a deep breath, lukewarm cocoa in your hand, and look back down the street where Yuji vanished.

For a heartbeat, the world was quiet.

Almost enough to drown out the buzzing phone. The crawling ache.

Almost.

The campus is loud as usual, and your bag is slung lazily over your shoulder. It’s field day, and Nobara’s perched by your side like a hawk.

Field day always turns the campus into a festive frenzy—music blasting, banners everywhere, and the smell of grass and sunscreen wafting with the crispy fry of food from student stalls. The sun’s golden light is just enough to dust everything with a warm edge, shedding the tiniest bit of warmth amidst the early winter, but your chest still feels tight, and every cheer from the bleachers is merely another headache pulsing beneath the last.

Your fingers curl around your bag strap. 

“You better scream your lungs out for him,” she says, flipping her hair as the two of you shuffle through clusters of crazed students. “He made me promise I’d drag you here even if you tried to run.”

You roll your eyes with a huff of disbelief, but still, your chest warms at the mention of him. In the midst of it, Nobara pauses.

“Hey, you okay, though?” she asks, nudging your side. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. 

The football field is already swarmed by the time you reach it. Voices rise and fall like crashing waves, bleachers trembling under stampeding students trying to get good seats. You spot Megumi standing near the edge in all his emo glory, stretching like he’s prepping for a battlefield instead of just another friendly match.

He sighs when he spots you and Nobara, but you don’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitches just a bit upward.

“Told you she’d come,” Nobara smirks.

He mutters something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” but his eyes flick briefly toward the locker tunnel—where Yuji should be…

And right on cue, the man himself bursts out.

Yuji comes sprinting with his helmet in hand, hair ruffled, grin stretched wide enough to split galaxies. His jersey clings to his shoulders, the number glowing against the sunlight. He’s sprinting across the grass like his body was built for this—shining, bright, unstoppable. His hair catches the morning light like rose-gold flames, the soft pink of it glowing warm against his skin.

But he’s late again, and not just a little—ten minutes behind schedule. Yet no one seems to mind except you.

Your chest twists. The familiar pang rises again. 

The moment he notices you, he practically trips over his own feet from how fast his attention snaps your way.

“There you are!” he calls, waving the helmet wildly above his head.

Nobara snorts. “Lord, he’s so lovesick it physically hurts.”

You pretend not to hear her.

Yuji jogs up to the fence separating players from spectators, leaning against it with both forearms as if he can’t stop himself from getting closer. His breath comes out quickly from the run, but his grin is wide and bright.

“You made it,” he says too eagerly.

“We always make it,” you scoff, nudging your bag up your shoulder. “Don’t disappoint us.”

“Yes—yes, Ma’am,” he salutes, cheeks pink. “I’m gonna win extra hard now.”

Behind him, the team captain shouts his name. Megumi barks at him, “If you miss the huddle again, I’m making you run laps.”

Yuji jumps, jolting upright. “Coming!”

But before he turns, he reaches out—fingers brushing yours through the fence. Just a fleeting drag of warmth, but enough to leave your pulse scrambling.

“I’ll look for you after every play,” he says sheepishly. “So… don’t leave, okay?”

Nobara rolls her eyes so dramatically that she might strain something. “He’s going to combust.”

You’re definitely not telling her you just might too.

But even then, Yuji still runs back to his team, helmet tucked under his arm, shouting something stupidly upbeat that gets the whole bench laughing. The field hums with energy, sunlight bouncing off jerseys, the grass almost glittering.

Finally, the game commences.

And Yuji—it’s like he was born for this.

He’s fast. Focused. And ridiculously competent.

Every time he steals the ball, the crowd roars. Every time he dodges someone twice his size, Nobara shrieks. And when he scores—an impossible curve just inside the goalpost—he swings both arms up, searching the stands until he locks eyes with you.

He beams like you just handed him the universe.

And the whole world feels golden—sunlight, victory, thrill. Megumi is yelling instructions, Nobara’s screaming insults at the opponents, and Yuji’s just there in all of his radiant glory—shining without even trying.

It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s alive.

You’re cheering too, but your smile still falters, tight around the edges. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your bag strap.

But for now… Yuji wins.

And he looks at you like you’re the reason he did. Truly, he does. He barely hears the final whistle over the roar of the crowd. One second, he’s sprinting across the field, cleats kicking up dust, teammates shouting his name—

And the next, he’s tearing off his helmet and running straight for you.

You barely get a sound out before he crashes into you, arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground in a dizzying spin. His laugh bursts warm against your neck, almost boyish in how free it is.

“You saw that, right? You saw that, right?” he breathes, grin blinding, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs proof—needs you—to make it real.

Nobara’s whooping behind you. Megumi’s pretending not to stare, and he’s shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn’t just sabotage two passes solely so Yuji could score. The field is a riot of noise—whistles, cheers, the brass band warming up again—but all of it blurs around him.

Yuji’s still holding you there, thumbs brushing your ribs. The pink of his hair, the warm brown of his eyes, the soft grin that always pulls at the corner of his mouth. His hair brushes your forehead when he leans in.

A voice cuts through the crowd. “Congratulations, you all! What a play!”

It’s a senior guy from another team—someone charming, loud, the type Yuji knows people tend to gravitate to. He jogs past, tossing you a quick smile like it’s nothing.

“You were cheering SO loud,” he tells you, laughing. “Honestly, I think you were louder than the team.”

Yuji’s smile twitches.

The guy just continues, leaning in a bit too close, “You coming to the afterparty? Nobara said you might—”

Yuji steps in without thinking, placing a hand on your back.

“Oh,” the guy says, blinking. “Hey, Itadori. Great game, man.”

“Thanks,” Yuji answers—but something in his eyes dims.

Nobara simply smirks with a cross of her arms.

His eyes flick back to you. Quick. Searching.

Did you smile back? Did you think the guy was cool? Did you—

Suddenly, the team crowds around him—slapping his back, grabbing his shoulders, shouting over each other, and you’re both separated from the wave of intrusion.

“You’re coming with us tonight, right?”

“Yo, we’re buying you dinner!”

“We’re gonna replay that touchdown like a hundred times—”

Yuji’s flustered, overwhelmed. His chest is heaving, and sweat trickles down his forehead. He doesn’t like the sudden attention, and he keeps looking back at you over their heads—checking, making sure you haven’t drifted away in the crowd, but he loses you just as quickly as they came.

Megumi sighs, nudging him. “Go,” he mutters. “We’ll catch up.”

And that’s all he needs.

He practically breaks out of the huddle just to run over to you—soft murmurs of apologies as he bumps into someone else’s shoulder. 

Everything else is noise to him, and it isn’t long until he catches the familiar sight of the back of your head again.

He settles beside you, still breathless. His fingers hover, then hook lightly around your wrist, tugging you closer.

“You’re walking with me, right?” His voice drops. “Please?”

Nobara wiggles her eyebrows. “You two are disgusting,” she groans, then pats your shoulder. “I’m getting drinks. Don’t do anything gross while I’m gone.”

She disappears. Megumi drifts off too, yelling something at a teammate.

And suddenly, it’s just you and him again.

The air is warm from the sun, the grass glittering with confetti. His hand is still curled around yours. “I’m really glad you came, y’know.”

You smile softly. “Of course I did.”

“And… that guy earlier,” he adds too casually, “Do you… know him?”

There it is—the tiny crack in his voice.

And something sinks in your stomach. You’re exhausted—raw beneath the skin. And you’re way too tired to explain the history he’s scarred you. Not today. Not after this win. Not when he’s glowing like a sun you don’t want to dim.

So you answer gently, “Not really. Don’t worry about it.”

Yuji’s silent.

But you can feel the tension humming beneath his ribs as he tries to read your face. After a few steps, he murmurs, barely audible underneath his breath. “Hey, so… did you really cheer that loud?”

You grin. “Yeah. For you.”

“Then why do you look so tired?” he asks.

Your steps falter. “I’m fine.”

His brows pinch. He looks at you closely.

“You don’t have to say ‘fine’ just because you think it’s easier,” he says. “I can handle it. Whatever it is.”

But your mind is still tangled from the morning, from the noise, from everything you haven’t wanted to burden anyone with. You look away.

It should’ve been easy—Yuji’s arms around you, the campus buzzing with leftover cheers, Megumi shouting something smug in the distance, Nobara somewhere in the corner of your eye. Everything is loud, and warm, and safe.

But Yuji doesn’t see the phone screen still lighting up in your pocket.

He doesn’t notice how your fingers have been curling in on themselves, and suddenly, the sunlight feels too bright. Your pulse crawls up the back of your throat. Softly, without meaning to, you’re muttering under your breath.

“You’re not even here half the time. How are you gonna ‘handle it’?”

He catches it too, but he doesn’t say anything. You don’t even know he heard it… because you aren’t entirely wrong. He’s been either late or disappeared midway through the last three times you hung out. Last weekend, he ditched you mid-dance, and you told him it was fine—of course it was fine—it just stung more than you want to admit, and today, he barely made it to field day on time.

Something about helping someone, getting caught up, you weren’t even sure.

He’s always trying, always running. Always tired.

You don’t want to be another thing that drags him down.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about me today. You’ve got more important people to celebrate with.”

Yuji stops walking altogether. The shift is small—barely a misstep on the pavement—but it feels like the ground trembles.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Everyone’s congratulating you. You should enjoy it. You don’t need to be glued to me.”

His face falls in slow motion. “Is that… what you think? That I’m only here because I feel like I should be?”

You don’t answer fast enough, and your silence hurts him more than any shouted insult could have. The tension that holds in the air now is unbearable.

His face contorts into a frown.

“Seriously?” he murmurs. “I just ran straight to you after the biggest game of the semester, and you think I wouldn’t choose you?”

His voice wavers, and you quickly shake your head, tilting your head to look at him. “Yuji, that’s not—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, stepping back, eyes darting everywhere except your face. 

“Yuji—” His expression ruins you, and now, you wish more than anything but to take back your words.

He swallows hard. “I get it."

There it is.

The crack in the glass. The place where he breaks. You reach out for him, but all he does is step away.

“You know I didn’t mean that, I was just tired—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the cheering behind you erupts, but the world between you stills.

The stadium burst into cheers for the next round of the competition, and his teammates are shouting his name, waving him over for the afterparty. “Yuji! Let’s go!”

He hesitates.

Because he wants to stay. You can see that. But still, he pulls his hand back.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, smiling the way he always does—the one that makes your chest warm and ache and twist all at once. “Promise.”

You just… nod. It’s easier than saying you’re not sure you believe it anymore.

And even in the blinding afternoon sun, the warmth he leaves you with still feels cold.

The bleachers, the crowd, the pats on his back—they all drift into nothing.

Nothing matters.

Not when guilt claws at him with each step he takes further from you. He can’t stop himself, though.

He doesn’t deserve you, and even when he sees the faltering pain in your eyes, when it seems like he’s ripped your whole heart out, even when he didn’t mean to—

He should walk away from you.

You deserve better.

But when the hair on his skin stands, the jolt of every nerve in his system sparking up, the dread of what he’s always feared crawls back up into him.

He runs straight back to you.

You slowly step away from the crowd, letting the chatter fade into the background. The noise of the campus stadium and cheering grows distant, muffled, yet every step feels heavier than the last. Your bag drags against your shoulder, but truthfully, that’s not even what’s weighing you down.

Each breath catches in your chest as you walk through the shortcut through the science wing. Home. You just want to go home now.

The afternoon sun glares against the metal supports of the demo tents. You barely notice them. Instead, your mind is wrapped up in everything, and you hate that you even feel this way. Hate that even until now, every time you think you’ve grown to be logical enough, your heart always gets the better of you.

Your steps echo softly within the hollow of your mind, seconds stretching into minutes, minutes into hours. You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking. How far you’ve wandered. All you know is that you’re all alone—both literally and in your head.

A loud metallic groan rips through the air.

Suddenly, the metal pole just above the building snaps. There’s no thought, and only the sudden, sickening realisation that it’s coming down.

Oh.

You just stand there, memories flashing through your eyes in replay.

Yuji flashes through your eyes.

This is it—

But suddenly… in the blink of an eye, all you see is a blur of red and blue.

Your chest slams against a familiar chest, and the world flips upside down for a heartbeat. Air screams past your ears. The pole crashes behind you, scattering debris, a deafening clatter that reverberates in your bones.

You gasp, clutching him, every nerve ending on fire. Pain lances through your arm where the pole grazed you, and your knee scrapes against the pavement as he manoeuvres you away. 

The wind tears at your hair, and even in the chaos, your mind reels. 

“You… you okay?” His voice is low, urgent, but behind the mask, it trembles.

It’s Spider-Man.

But you can’t answer. Your body shakes, each blink glowing hotter and hotter as the weight of everything finally crashes.

“I—I—” You can’t finish.

Your throat tightens, and you simply break in his arms. His grip tightens, swinging you back toward a safer alleyway, ignoring the chatter, the noise, and everything else.

“It’s okay… you’re okay. I’ve got you,” he whispers, and somewhere in the midst of it, his voice cracks.

“Hey, look at me. Just—just look at me,” he lowers himself beside you, knees hitting the cold concrete, his hands closing around yours with a trembling gentleness. 

You choke on a breath, shaking your head furiously, face buried in your arms. “I can’t… I can’t—”

His voice softens, frays at the edges. “Please. Breathe. Just breathe.”

The tears spill faster, hot and relentless. You’re folding in on yourself, small and shaken, and the words slip out in pieces you can’t hold back.

“I—Yuji… I can’t… I just…” Your voice quivers. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to—”

“You’re not!” he almost shouts, but it cracks, breaking down into a whisper.

“Do you hear me? Your life matters. It matters.” His breath trembles. His hands cup your face now, fingers digging into the sides of your jaw as he kneels beside you. “And if no one else can keep you safe, then I will. I will. So don’t ever—ever say that again.”

Your sobs shake all the way through you, and he pulls you into him, arms banding around your body, holding you. Even then, the panic still claws at your ribs. He presses his forehead to yours, his voice barely holding itself together. “I’ve got you. Just… just trust me. Do you want to go home?”

You’re sobbing into his chest now. Your ribs are aching, your shoulders throbbing, and you’re stuttering in shallow gasps, yet somehow, with the last tiniest bit of strength left in you, you manage a nod.

His arms wrap around you again, lifting you gently. The wind roars past as he swings, your body cradled against his chest. The city blurs into streaks of silver and orange, but none of it grounds you. Everything still bites.

By the time he lands on your balcony, your legs buckle, and he sets you down with a quick turn away. Like he thinks he should leave. Like he thinks he’s the problem.

Your chest caves in.

“I can’t… I don’t—” you whisper, and then, with trembling fingers, you grasp his wrists.

He freezes, panic flashing behind the mask.

You tug him down to your level, breath shaky, heart ricocheting against your ribs.

You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can barely hear the storm around you—and for the first time, Yuji wants nothing more than to rip off his mask. Right here. Right now.

Because trust has always felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have… yet here you are, the one constant in the chaos of his double life, holding onto him like he’s the only steady thing in your world.

The home he was never sure Yuji Itadori deserves, not when Spider-Man’s saving lives, all the while Yuji is running late for another hangout somewhere else.

The slope of his jaw beneath the mask, the shape of his shoulders beneath the soaked suit, the faint scent of detergent he always uses at home. You’re exhausted—tired of the uncertainty, tired of the guessing—everything about him feels almost too familiar.

It breaks something loose inside you. “Yuji…?” 

Your voice is barely more than a breath, but to him, it lands even harder than lightning.

He freezes.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even move a muscle.

Not even when your fingers slide to the edge of his mask, and in a heartbeat of terror and clarity, you pull it up. 

Your world stops.

The way his voice cracks in the exact shape of Yuji’s kindness, the way he whispers comfort with words only Yuji has ever spoken to you. The way he knows exactly how to hold you, just like Yuji did when you both danced in that one street.

And now, seeing him—wet-faced, trembling, eyes glassy with fear and relief—it hits you like a punch straight through the ribs.

“Y–You…” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry—I was going to tell you, I swear, I just—”

You don’t let him finish.

You just lean in and kiss him. Desperate, shaking. Relief, anger, and love all at once. Fear—that you could’ve lost him before you ever got to say any of it.

It’s right there and then he goes stiff with shock… before he finally melts with a shaky exhale, pulling you so close your feet practically leave the ground.

“You… you’re alive,” he whispers into your hair as he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought—God, I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks as he buries himself in the crook of your neck, arms still locked around you.

Your fingers curl into the back of his suit. “...Don’t go.”

He lifts his head, tears dripping down his cheeks. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering.

“Stay. Please.”

You’re whispering, shaking. He looks at you for a second—and it doesn’t take another until his lips crash into yours again.

The floorboards creak. The air is heavy. Kiniro’s sleeping somewhere in the kitchen, but your legs are wrapped tight around Yuji’s waist now. He’s holding you up, fingers digging into your thighs.

“Wait—” He cuts you off with another kiss as he stumbles into the living room, lights still off.

Your hands gently clutch the back of his suit even tighter. Your kisses are sloppy, frantic, and desperate. He quickly yanks his mask off, throwing it straight at the couch while he lifts you like nothing with one hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but he’s already back to nibbling your bottom lip, working his way up to your breathless gasps.

“Mm… Yuji,” Your fingers lace through the pink threads of his hair, ruffling through them as something pools just beneath your stomach. 

The door rattles behind you as he pushes it open with your back against it, a creak rattling across, and when he does pull away, a drool lingers just between the two of you, and he looks up at you, lifted, like the most gorgeous angel ever. You pant, hand grasping his clothed bicep, as he presses a thumb under your chin, tipping your head further back. 

He’s wanted this for the last five years of his life, and now here you are—lost in it and in his arms—he just might explode into a million pieces.

“I love you,” he peppers even more kisses, agonisingly dragging a trail from your chin, all the way up to your drooped eyelids, hazy, muzzy even as your breath heaves with each gasp. “So fucking much.”

Your heart’s also pounding loudly, and even when he plops you down on his bed, you refuse to let go. You watch as he fumbles the unbuttoning of your clothes, and you tilt your head back as he trails even more wet kisses on your face. His knee slides right between your legs.

Goosebumps trail each time his lips meet your skin, and his fingers are still gripped tight onto the flesh of your thighs. His bed, his taste, your head is so intoxicated with him, it’s driving you insane. Even inhaling the fresh lemon detergent of his sheets makes you nuzzle against it, whining as he plants yet another kiss on your neck.

“Slow down,” you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair as he trails down to your stomach, nails scratching his scalp as he nuzzles into your touch, kissing the thin fabric separating you from his desperate mouth.

But as drunk as he is, lost in the whirlwind of your moans driving him insanely, unbearably hot amidst the cold air, he pauses for a second.

Just above your stomach, he slowly turns to look up at you. “...Are you okay with this?”

He looks up at you like he’s worshipping a goddess, because even in all your dazedness, you’re drop-dead gorgeous—eyes glossy, lips curled, breath panting.

“Mhm…” He instantly snuggles his face into your stomach, making you giggle, “What the—Yuji!”

Every kiss feels like worship, his mouth tracing shakingly down the insides of your thighs until he reaches the heat between them. With a gentle press of his hands, he nudges your legs apart and slips your pants down your hips, letting them fall away completely.

He goes utterly still.

God, he thinks, it’s so fucking pretty. And even though he’s never done this before, not really, he’s seen enough, learned enough, to know what to do.

His thumbs glide through your slickness and gently spread you open, baring every trembling part of you to his stare. The cold whisper of air makes you shift and whimper, embarrassment warming your cheeks. You don’t see it, though—the way his gaze drops, dark with want, his breath nearly catching at the sight of you.

Slowly, he leans in, breath warm against you before his tongue draws a long, deliberate lick through your folds. He can’t help but utter a low, hungry groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck… taste so sweet,” he mutters against you, hips pressing hard into the mattress as if he can’t help himself.

“Yuji—” Your back bows off the sheets in an instant, a startled cry slipping out as your thighs snap around his head.

But he only growls softly in response, arms locking around your legs to hold you open for him. He doesn’t stop—not for a second—as he devours you, messy yet greedy, drinking down every drop of your sweet slick.

His throaty groan vibrates straight through you, sending shivers up your spine. Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering shut as you melt back into the mattress. "You're so beautiful— so..."

He can’t help it—can’t help melting into your taste.

His mouth grows sloppier, jaw loosening so he can slurp louder, tongue moving with sprouting confidence. He circles your clit again and again, then dips lower, pushing his tongue clumsily but tenderly into your heat. His lashes brush his cheeks as he moves, muddled and klutzy—yet careful, and worshipping you with every greedy stroke.

Your fingers glide down your stomach, trembling as you reach for him, burying your hand in his hair. At the same time, your nails drag lightly across the nape of his neck as you tug him closer, guiding him deeper between your thighs. He groans into you, then pulls back only long enough to slick his fingers with his tongue before rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Silently, he watches your slick drip down, following the trail with dark, dilated eyes.

Your tongue slips out, thumb brushing your lower lip as you look down at him. The sight alone makes him shudder.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs.

Heat flares over your cheeks, but you nod with a soft, breathy hum, lips parted as he lowers his mouth again. He laps at your folds slowly, savouring you, sweet warmth spilling over his tongue while he keeps his gaze on you.

“Mhm… Yu…” you breathe, a small moan escaping as your lids grow heavy again.

Something warm blooms in his chest at the sight of you weakly squirming, voice all soft and sweet, and he dives back to your clit. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud until your moans climb higher, your hips jerking. He’s rutting subtly into the mattress.

“Yu—ahh, I’m gonna—gonna cum—” Your legs tremble, thighs trying to snap shut on instinct, but he only tightens his arms around them, holding you open as his mouth works you through it—pushing you right to the edge.

And then you’re falling.

Your jaw drops slack, tongue lolling slightly as stars burst behind your eyelids. You gasp out a broken “Haagh—” all the while, soft, desperate moans spill from your lips.

The sound you make has him tensing all over again, breath catching as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, watching the way your lashes flutter, and how your body trembles with the aftershocks he pulled out of you.

He stares like he’s mesmerised.

And in the heat of it, he just can’t stop himself.

His thumb finds your clit again, pressing lightly, and your words dissolve into breathy whines. He's talking you through it. Watching as your pretty lashes kiss your cheeks as your hips lift, chasing more, and he gives it to you—sliding a finger inside with a low, desperate sound.

“Your voice… fuck—” he groans, the sound almost a plea.

You yelp, grip tightening—one hand buried in his hair, the other fisting the sheets.

Then he adds a second finger, humming as your walls stretch around him, giving you barely a heartbeat before he’s thrusting them in and out, building pace. Your eyes go wide, back arching sharply, nails sinking into his bicep as he peppers kisses up your neck.

“I—Y-Yuji—ahh, please—I just came—” Your voice breaks so sweetly it nearly kills him, and maybe he should give you a second to breathe—but he’s already kissing down your chest, already pulling your top up without you noticing, clumsily unclasping your bra with unsteady fingers.

He’s dreamed of tasting you like this for years. God, you can’t even imagine.

His tongue drags over your nipple, lips closing around it as his fingers keep working you open, and all he can think—watching you squeeze his arm, bury your face in his shoulder, thighs trembling around his wrist—is how heartbreakingly cute you are, and how intoxicatingly soft your breasts feel.

Your legs shake as he finally pulls his fingers out, and he pops them into his mouth, sucking them clean while staring right at you in all his dazed hunger. You feel yourself grow embarrassed at the obscene sight, your lips part in silent awe, chest rising and falling as you watch him.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he reaches for his suit, unzipping it and letting it fall to the floor. His hands fumble with his boxers—slow, torturous—and you can’t tear your gaze from the dark shape straining against the fabric.

When it slips free, your breath catches. Your heart lurches into your throat.

It’s fucking huge. Your pupils blow wide, a tiny sound catching in your throat. He gathers the pre-cum on his thumb, spreading it over the swollen head before settling beside you on the bed.

“'Kay, angel…” he exhales, voice shaking, “think we’re… good…”

Your face burns, dizzy with need. His lips find yours again as he rocks his cock through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing you both. You grind up instinctively, but he pulls back with sudden panic in his eyes. “Shit—condom—”

You cut him off. “I’m safe.”

He freezes. Looks at you once, and his fingers tremble. Both of you are flushed, breathless, then he kisses you again—harder, desperate. 

“I fuckin—“ he’s gasping through each clumsy kiss, “fuck—I love you—so fuckin’ much.”

The words—messy, breathless, dripping with sincerity—turn your mind to nothing but mush. By the time he settles back between your thighs, lifting your legs high around his waist, you’re already trembling. A slow, burning stretch blossoms inside you as he presses just the head of his cock in.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

“Ngh—Yuj—” you start, but he kisses you before the rest can leave your lips, fingers threading through your hair with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.

“You’re, urgh, doing so well… Yeah…” He watches in fascination at the lewd scene of your cunt taking in his cock. “Fuck—so fuckin’ good—“

He's panting, eyes fixed on where your body’s parting around him. He’s only seen stuff like this on his phone, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing, and the sight alone makes him choke on a groan.

Your moan breaks loose, higher and needier as he rocks his hips, inching in deeper. You’re tight—so tight—and the mix of pressure and pleasure has you clinging to him, whining when his hand squeezes your thigh.

“I-It’s okay, angel—fuck, b-breathe,” he huffs, eyes squeezing shut as a low groan rumbles out of him. “I’m not gonna last like this, baby.”

The name hits you like a spark—your body involuntarily clenches around him, and he notices instantly. He lifts his head despite the sweat trailing down his temple, a breathless, smug little smile tugging at his lips.

“You l-like that, baby?” he teases, voice cracked and warm. His hand cups your chin, guiding your gaze back to him as he pants through the ache.

“Y-Yuj…” you whisper, gasping as he sinks in deeper. You nuzzle instinctively into his palm, stroking your cheek.

And fuck—you can’t expect him to hold back when you’re kissing the rough heel of his hand like that.

He can’t doesn’t wait for you to adjust fully. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue greedy and eager as he kisses you like he’s drowning. Because really, he is, with how his knees shake as he digs into the mattress, all before he slowly thrusts forward—each controlled drag burying more of his thick length deeper inside you.

You cling to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders, into the hard cut of muscle beneath his skin, and he grunts at the sting, hips rutting deeper, each movement slow and heavy enough to make your breath stutter.

You feel everything—every ridge, every pulse, every maddening inch of him, and your moans twist into soft, breathy cries, mixing with his low, guttural groans against your lips.

You don’t even hear how the room’s engulfed with nothing but the lewd squelches echoing through the quiet now, his hips softly plapping against you, grunting in your ear whenever you unintentionally clench around him.

Your soft whines turn into sweet cries, and his eyes dilate in awe, cheeks flushed as your vision blurs. Your wet lips part, crying his name over and over, and with each cry, you can feel him somehow grow even larger as he kisses your cervix like he’s addicted.

“Angh—wait!” you whine, grasping his nape, back arching as he continues his torturous pace, the burning yet filling stretch leaving you breathless.

Your mind is scrambled, completely lost to the pleasure as you try to adjust, but he’s already slowly picking up his pace. And it didn’t matter how pathetic your whines got, or how much you came, because he's just kissing you with worship, peppering every part of you like you’re heaven itself, tongue peeking into your mouth again.

And he’s hooked. Hooked with how every time he tries to pull, you’re sucking him back in.

“It’s too much—Yuj—Please—“ and he’s also whimpering right above you.

“Haah—Fuck, fuck, I’m close, baby—“ his lips part, groaning when you instinctually clench around him again.

He swallows each pathetic whine of yours and vice versa, grunting into you with every thrust, both of you panting against each other.

Your mouth’s dangling open with trails of drool, and each time he whispers sweet praises of how gorgeous you are, you can’t help but string out moans and whimpers, filling the thick air of his bedroom. “You’re taking me… so well… ”

You can hardly squeeze any comprehensible thoughts out of you, and your head falls back against him, strength slipping away, hips quivering as quiet whimpers escape you. “Hnngh, Y-Yujiii..."

“Can I cum inside?”

“M-Mhmm,” you agree instantly, breath catching as your body betrays you. You’ve forgotten long ago, anyway, how to resist him.

A certain shiver ripples through you, and Yuji’s pace picks up even more, breath even heavier for the release he's been saving just for you, his whole life.

“Baby,” He pleads. “Fuck, baby, please—Look at me,”

The same strong hand on your jaw softly tilts your head to turn, and your eyes meet his dilated pupils. “Can you feel that? Feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me, baby? Ngh—”

You feel him rolling the rest of his cock deeper inside you while he’s whimpering, and all at once, the air seems to leave your lungs as he slides his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Before you can even register what’s happening, he’s standing with you in his arms, the weight and closeness leaving your heart racing.

"Does this feel better for you?”

As if. Your legs go weak in his arms, trembling as your body twitches now with every subtle movement he makes. You’re completely at his mercy, breath catching and chest rising and falling faster than you can control. Tiny, messy traces fall from your lips, dripping out onto the floor with soft splatters down below.

He spreads you out wider, aims sliding beneath your thighs, and fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. You feel like you’re simply floating, all whilst he hauls you up and down his cock, leaving you helpless as you sink back into everything he’s sliding desperately into you.

“N-Ngh, Yuj—!” Your voice catches, eyes misting as he burrows closer into the crook of your neck.

A deep, almost dizzying warmth pulses through you, and suddenly, it all bursts. Your hands claw at his back, squirming and desperate for the grounding presence of him. He huffs against your skin as well, breath ragged. His voice drops eager, and you feel it shiver straight through you. “Haah… I’m so close.”

All you can do is tremble around him, giving a slow, lazy nod, lost in the crazed intensity between you.

He’s spilling every rope of cum inside you, and even through it, he doesn’t stop. He keeps a slower, gentler pace, thrusts kissing your cervix even more like he’s thanking you, same as how he’s peppering your face with kisses now.

"Yuji…"

He pants softly in your ear, plopping his cock out tiredly from your hole and onto your bed below. Both of you are still heaving; your bodies stay pressed tightly together.

You murmur from underneath his weight, voice muffled against his shoulder, and it makes him melt as he still holds you close.

“I love you so much... Fuck, I’m sorry I acted like a jerk,” he whispers, gazing into your tired, adoring eyes. “I’ll jump off a cliff if I ever make you cry again.”

You laugh, playfully punching his arm. With a quick peck to his nose, you’re already readjusting so you can straddle him again.

He traces a finger gently along your lips, a little grin on his face.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Can we um—“ he leans in for a quick kiss, “Can we try doggy style now?”

Okay, cross his weird cooking shows—you’re monitoring his weird porn stash too.

Everything aches when you wake up.

Your arms are stiff, and your legs are all sore, peppered with bite marks and faint crescents from last night. Sunlight filters through the peeping blinds, painting golden stripes across the bed, but that’s not the only weight you’re feeling on top of you.

Yuji’s arm is draped over yours now, warm and comfortably heavy. He’s sprawled on his stomach beside you, hair a chaotic mess, eyelids shut, face practically buried in the pillow. You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness, and his eyes snap open like he’s sensed you awake.

Under his breath, a groan escapes him, followed by a tilt of the head as he glances at you, face squished adorably into the pillow. The memories of last night hit you like a freight train, and your face instantly blooms scarlet.

“Good morning,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile.

“…Morning,” you croak, voice hoarse.

He instantly breaks into laughter, rolling lazily onto his back beside you while you frown at him, still too self-conscious.

Your gaze drifts over him unconsciously, eyes tracing over last night’s scratches on his broad back. The little ridges where his elbows pressed into you, his chest rising and falling from sleep and… other marks. His ears are pink, warm under the sunlight, and he buries his face into your hair, all snuggled with you. Both of you stay like that for a few heartbeats, breathing each other in, disbelief lingering like the soft haze after fireworks.

Eventually, you reach for your phone, which you’d carelessly tossed on the bedside table yesterday. But when the lock screen lights up, your heart nearly jumps out of your throat.

“What—” Yuji murmurs, groggy and confused.

“I have class in thirty minutes!” you gasp, scrambling off the bed despite the soreness. “I cannot miss this one!”

His eyes instantly widen, and before you can blink, he’s already on his feet. He rushes over to your side, scooping you into his arms as he carries you bridal-style to the shower.

“I’ll get your clothes, uh— hold on!” he calls, and just like that, he’s darting to your room, leaving you blinking and flustered. 

The shower’s warmth does little to soothe the ache of your limbs, but you linger just long enough to pull the towel tight around yourself. When you finally do open the bathroom door, you freeze.

Spider-Man. In. The. Flesh.

He’s standing there, folded clothes in hand, looking every bit like the superhero he is. Though the awkward, nervous smile beneath it? 100% Yuji. You pause, staring, and when you finally reach for your clothes, you whisper a hurried thanks, cheeks burning.

He gives a little wave back at you.

You’re not telling him thanks, this time, though—when fast-forward five minutes, you’re in the air, soaring past skyscrapers, strapped in some ridiculous ghost mask he bought last Halloween.

Your stomach flips every time the wind picks up, hair whipping across your face, and the city below blurs into dizzying streaks of light. When you eventually land in a quiet alleyway, you’re gasping for breath, legs trembling, and he finally lets go of your waist. You glance at your watch.

Ten minutes left—cue panic.

You start to turn and dash, but can’t resist sneaking one last glance over your shoulder. Yuji simply stands there, chest heaving, mask slightly crooked, head tilted. He's waving you to get moving already.

But you can’t leave it at that, so quickly, you run back, grab his clenched fists gently in one hand, and lift his mask just slightly to plant a brief peck on his lips.

“Thanks,” you whisper. And before he can say a word, you’re off—rushing back into the bustle, heart hammering, adrenaline still sending quivers through your shaky legs.

"Oh my god...." He dramatically leans back against the cold alley wall, sliding down slowly while clutching at his own head beneath his zipped get-up.

His suit definitely needs an upgrade from Megumi, he thinks, because you’d left him totally knocked out.

And right now, his brain is half-filled with how easily you just slipped away—the other half overclocking on how he's so, so down bad for you.

A pigeon coos from above, judgmental in its stare.

Class has barely ended when your phone buzzes. The hallway is in its usual chaos—sneakers squeaking across scuffed linoleum, laughter ricocheting, backpacks slung over shoulders. You’re juggling your bag, your water bottle, and an overdue sense of exhaustion as you pull out your phone, fully expecting a group chat notification or a calendar reminder.

But then you see the name on the screen. Yuji.

Yuji: look at the manhattan bridge :))

Your brows knit, confused, but curiosity wins still, and you turn toward the tall window overlooking the city, breath fogging faintly against the cold glass. The sky is rinsed in a soft apricot glow today, dripping over the skyline like spilt honey. Its golden hour tints with warmth, enough to melt even the sharpest edges of steel and glass.

And that’s when you see it.

Strung between the beams like frost, shimmering in the golden, like it’s snared a wandering cloud amidst the bleeding sky—three words are strung across the Manhattan Bridge in enormous, gleaming webs.

Each letter is woven thick, looped around half a dozen times so they won’t blow away in the wind.

Your eyes widen. There is absolutely no way.

I LOVE YOU.

Your heart skips violently, and your breath stumbles out of your chest in a gasp.

A stupid, giddy laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, and your hand flies to your mouth as if you can physically push your stunned smile back in.

“Idiot…” you whisper.

Around you, other students press against the windows, whispering, pointing. Someone mutters,

“Brother did a whole Hollywood sign…”

“Is Spider-Man in love?? With who??”

Your phone buzzes again.

Yuji: empty classroom, east wing. the one w the broken light. hurry! :(

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight off the warmth spreading through your chest as you practically float down the hallway. Your steps are light, your face is on fire, and your heart's busy doing backflips inside.

By the time you reach the forgotten old classroom in the east wing, your pulse is sprinting. The door sits slightly open, the flickering ceiling light casting lazy pulses of brightness across the desks like it’s trying, yet failing, to stay conscious.

You push the door open.

And there he is. Yuji stands near one of the desks, mask pulled back and tucked into his hood, pink-peach curls mussed from the wind.

His cheeks are flushed, hoodie slightly crooked, and even though he’s leaning like he’s been waiting forever, he probably swung here mere seconds just before you arrived.

How do you know that? Because the flowers in his hands look like they've just gone through hell and back.

When he sees you, something in him softens so completely it makes your breath catch.

“Hey,” he says, smile tugging gently at the corners of his mouth.

It’s so pure, so bright, it almost tricks you into thinking he didn’t just do something as insane as webbing a literal confession across a whole bridge.

You let out a breathy laugh as you approach him. “Yuji… you webbed the entire Manhattan Bridge.”

He rubs the back of his neck, practically glowing.

“I—uh—wanted to make sure you saw it?” He winces. “And that you didn’t think I was joking.”

His voice gentles. “I mean it.”

Before your brain can even catch up with your racing heart, he reaches out. His hands slip like usual to your waist.

He looks at you like sunlight through glass, stars folding into themselves—unfathomable heaven of devotion graced into every line of his expression.

“You ready to go home?” he asks softly. 

You wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and his forehead drops to your shoulder in the tiniest, softest surrender.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as you giggle and ruffle his hair.

“I love you too, silly.”

Outside, the sun sinks slowly behind the skyline, ember light scattered across the room as it catches on a stray fleck of web on Yuji’s sleeve. It glows like silver fire as he lifts you effortlessly, stepping toward the window. You simply cling to him, heart soaring as he pushes the pane open and the cool wind rushes in.

With a soft laugh, Yuji leaps, both of you cutting through the evening breeze as the city roars beneath.

Taxis honk, trains rattle, pedestrians shout, but everything muffles the moment his arm curls tighter around you.

With him, flying feels safe.

With him, the city feels small.

With him, the skyline with I LOVE YOU strung across it feels like the only world that matters.

He steals a glance at you mid-swing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

New York watches as he swings past skyscrapers—and this time, he isn't alone. He holds you like he has nowhere else to be but by your side, basking in the afterglow of a love he had written across the skyline just for you. 

Petals float below from the two of you, and you say his words back. Barely louder than the wind, but just enough for him, and only him, to hear.

It's what you’ve found between this litany of quiet you’ve both settled into:

“Home.”

CH 1 ⇐ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3 જ⁀➴

CH 2┆with great power comes great responsibility; and a thousand reasons to run. his father left him grief, your mother gave him rules. you gave him a reason to stay.

[inukiiexe]

swinging through you.

CH 1┆spiderman!yuji itadori x f!reader CH 1 ⇒ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3

ʚ⁺˖ » synopsis: your roommate and childhood best friend, yuji itadori, has two grave secrets: 1) he has a crush on you. 2) he's spider-man. spoiler: he's awful at keeping either.

ʚ⁺˖ » w.c: 18k, art cred: ig@/baaoozhe〃fluff, angst, smut, spiderman au, college au, living together, childhood friends, domestic fluff, cuddling, dogs, cooking together, kissing, tooth-rotting fluff, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), implied domestic abuse, happy ending.

ʚ⁺˖ » songs: playlist〃notes: i love spider-man and yuji so much like this actually feels like a proposal omg... ps: the playlist is like vibes i think this spider!yuji fic would have- hope you guys enjoy!!

Yuji Itadori has never wanted to be the centre of attention. Not even when he lands the biggest home run of the decade, or when he crosses another finish line first, smashing records that the campus won’t stop bragging about.

As soon as the clock strikes seven, he’s gone. 

No frats, no parties, no messy drama. In the kindest, nicest phrasing possible, he’s a dud. He’ll even disappear mid-conversation, too, sprinting off with some sorry excuse of a “study session.” And if you’ve ever seen his grades, you’d wonder how these “study sessions” even happen at all.

Well, he is a jock—and he is reciting his script for tomorrow’s anthropology presentation... Just with someone else hanging upside down beside him, cocooned in sticky white web on some cityside rooftop.

...Hold up. Rewind one hour.

Gunshots echoed, bullets ricocheting, and in the midst of this circus of a firework show, there Yuji was—dodging clattering cans, cartons, and cereal boxes he was trying to save.

“Okay, think, think—don’t die, don’t die.”

The robber, in his ridiculous ski mask, barreled through the aisles in his frantic craze with his crowbar. 

“Out of my way!” he shouted, knocking over another pyramid of canned chickpeas.

Yuji smirked.

Suddenly, a web shot out from his wrist, and the robber yelped as the strand snagged his ankle, tripping him into innocent chips. It’s almost pitiful as his arms flailed helplessly, packs crashing at the spectacle. With a grin, Yuji shot another string of white around the man’s torso.

“Relax! I’m the friendly neighbourhood jock—wait, superhero! Friendly neighbourhood superhero!”

Though the robber still spun in place, tumbling like a washing machine on spin cycle, “You little—”

Yuji fired again, webbing his arms and yanking him upright, “Ohhh, you like being dramatic? We can do dramatic.”

Another around the legs, another around the torso, and suddenly the man found himself dangling midair like a piñata—arms pinned to his sides, legs stiff as broomsticks. A jar of olives bounced off his head for emphasis.

“PUT ME DOWN! WHAT IS THIS—?!”

With a swing from the shelf, Yuji landed with flair, crouching on a layered stack of cereal boxes as he grinned in amusement. “Relax, dude. You’re… uh… artfully suspended. Also, please stop moving, you’re making me dizzy.”

To his dismay, the robber still gyrated, knocking over carts and cans skittering across like tiny rockets. Thankfully, Yuji ducked just in time. With a sigh, he simply shot another web again.

“Hold still! Or I swear, I’ll—wait, nope, I’m not threatening you. I’m… just trying to help! With style!”

So, fast-forward to now, and really, it’s just another Tuesday in 2010s New York.

“The main cultural differences shape America in—”

“Hey! Can you let me down already?!”

Yuji, eyes squinted, snaps his head toward the man, coins jingling from his pockets. But he isn’t frowning at the robber… He just can’t read his notebook properly, especially with the thin fabric over his eyes. Each word is blurred into hazy smudges of grey.

Sometimes, Yuji Itadori doesn’t mind being the centre of attention.

Not when he's wearing the tight red-and-blue jumpsuit Nobara had stitched for him, seams puckered in all her nagging perfection.

Not when Megumi’s tech—definitely not borrowed, not stolen from his lab—glimmers faintly at his wrists.

And not when local news crews are scrambling to post grainy cellphone footage online, captions labelled with ridiculous, corny hashtags like #NYCSpidey, #OvercaffeinatedAcrobat, and #UnmaskThisGuy.

As soon as his last lecture of the day ends, he pulls down the mask, slips into the famous suit, and swings through the empire city that never sleeps.

He’s not Yuji Itadori anymore. He’s Spider-Man.

But tonight, though, he has an even greater problem than petty robberies and saving cats in trees. He has college.

“Dude, can you keep it down? I have an assignment due tomorrow, and I’m stuck here babysitting you—" Police sirens wail in the distance, cutting him off. And underneath his mask, he simply smirks, snapping his notebook shut as red and blue sweep across the graffiti‑scrawled walls. “Aaand that’s my cue.”

With a flick of his wrist, the man is left gaping, flailing uselessly as Yuji leaps from the ledge. 

The moon hangs low and full tonight. In the midst of its glow, he arcs over streets, headlights glinting like glass, weaving in between scaffolding poles. Trash swirls in the gusts around him, while faint damp concrete lingers as he glides past flickering streetlamps. The grids of blocks lie dark, the breeze sharp, yet every window glimmers with golden light; they’re constellations scattered across the city that guide him home.

Even if what he does is nowhere near world-changing, he’s always reminded that the city is full of life and narratives. Every window, every golden light that spills through each pane of glass, hides a story—a heartbeat—and that fact alone is enough to lessen the weight of his double life just a bit.

As always, while swinging past, his gaze skims the streets, searching through the blur of headlights and shadows. He finds you like clockwork. Trudging home, arms full of groceries: a paper bag with lettuce, a baguette tucked under your arm, and vegetables brimming atop. You’re humming a song from your dangling earbuds, oblivious to the world around you.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but when you live in the same flat, coming home at the same time he clocks out from patrol… well, it’s only natural he makes sure his crush roommate gets home safe, too, right?

“I wonder what she’s making tonight…” he mutters.

With one soft push, he slips his window open and dives back inside.

The wooden floor doesn’t even creak under his landing, and the globe lamp atop his desk glows like a dim moon over scattered paper. He passes sticky notes plastered across his wall, zipping out his suit and tossing his book onto the bed. Stepping out, he flicks on the hallway lights—and it isn’t long before he hears the usual. 

Your keys, the gentle click of the lock, and the first step you take inside, wrapped in the flat’s cosy warmth.

“Welcome back!” Yuji beams, hair tousled.

You nod back with a smile, shutting the door behind as you toe off your shoes. As you set the bag of groceries onto the kitchen island, you give him a smug smirk. “Did you just wake up?”

His eyes dart away, guilty, all while he rubs the back of his neck. A sheepish chuckle escapes. “...Maybe?”

You raise an eyebrow, sighing as he pulls a chair from the island. 

Ever since you moved in together with your childhood friend, you’ve learned three things about him: he eats terribly, naps like a cat, and will stare at you from the corner of the room with glassy, desperate eyes if he ever smells food.

And whether he admits it or not, you know when to drag him by the wrist, plop him down in front of a bowl, and pour him something warm. You’ve done it since high school. You’re still doing it now.

Sure, he’s stubborn, but so are you, and tonight is no different.

“I’m just making some simple tomato soup,” you say, spreading the groceries across the counter.

The city skyline glitters faintly from behind him, setting aglow the twinkling fascination in his golden eyes.

“Because you—” you tap his forehead with a finger, nudging him back, “are finishing your presentation script tonight. And I’m helping you with it.”

His eyes widen. “What?! How do you know about that?”

“If I have to hear Megumi complain one more time about you cramming your share of the load,” you groan, washing the vegetables, “I might start seeing both of you in my dreams.”

“Oops…” Yuji whistles, caught red-handed.

In the corner of your eye, you see him drift over as you slice the tomatoes.

“Can I help you cook then? Y’know… as repayment?” 

You nearly slice the tip of your finger at the audacity, but his hands, as usual, catch your wrist before anything disastrous happens. “You?”

You turn to look at him, his smile as bright as ever. “The last time you offered, everything tasted bland.”

He pouts under your gaze—lips pursed, brows scrunched. “I’ll never learn if I don’t try...”

A beat passes.

You sigh in resignation, and that’s all he needs. Yuji’s already pumping his fists triumphantly in the air, snatching the spare apron hanging off the oven handle.

“Let’s goooo!” he cheers.

On the other hand, you giggle at his flippant victory cry, but you don’t notice how his gaze lingers on you in the soft golden kitchen light—the curve of your eyes, the bloom of your cheeks. He’s taller than you, so it goes unnoticed, hidden in the shadow between you.

“And this time, don’t forget the salt,” you tease, stepping toward the pot.

“Yeah, yeah—oh! Put on that Cowboy Bebop opening. It’s been stuck in my head all day.”

You frown, eyeing the tiny apron stretched ridiculously over his frame. Your thumb’s already swiping across your battered iPhone 4, searching. When the first chord blasts, Yuji just stares.

“Based on how you’re holding that knife,” you chortle, “this feels more fitting.”

“…You think I’m gonna break into kung-fu fighting?!”

You shrug mockingly, moving to boil the water as he sputters just beside you. And it isn’t long before the kitchen settles into a cosy rhythm—the chop of vegetables, the hiss of butter, the soft swirl of simmering broth—and of course, your constant two-minute interval scoldings.

“Why are the tomatoes diced like… that?”

“I-I swear someone did this on Hell’s Kitchen last night—”

“I told you a little oil. Why is the pan half full?!”

“Uh…”

“I’m monitoring what kind of weird cooking shows you’re watching from now on.”

Soon enough, all that’s left is the soup’s fragrance wafting throughout the room—sun-ripe tomatoes, roasted garlic, and basil blooming bright with butter. It smells like warmth, like home, and the little life you’ve carved out together. Even Yuji stops mid-chop, knife still hovering in the air, just to inhale.

“Here you go,” you say, sliding the bowl toward him. On cue, he drops into his chair—shoulders rolling, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips. He thinks you don’t notice, but his fingers are still faintly red around the knuckles. The moment his eyes land on the bowl, something bright flickers in him.

The soup glows a deep orange-red, thick and velvety, droplets of olive oil shimmering across its sheen like tiny flecks of gold. Steam curls upward, brushing his cheeks, and in the dead of winter, the warmth blooms against him like late summer. Softening the night sky, brightening it like morning light.

When he takes the first spoonful, his eyes go wide.

Silence hangs in the room, but he just sets the spoon down gently, shoulders dropping another inch. He takes another bite, slower, and holds it in on his tongue. Under the table, his foot taps out its usual restless beat to a steady rhythm.

You have no idea what kind of day he’s had to be this hungry.

You don’t see the scuff on the side of his shoe, from where he landed too fast on the rooftop across the street. Or the tiny tear at the hem of his sleeve, where something sharp grazed him. Or the way he’d winced when you turned away earlier, instantly straightening as if nothing had happened.

All you see is Yuji—sunshine, sweetness—devouring the soup as if it’s literally saving him. You quietly rest your chin in your hands, grinning while he inhales spoonful after spoonful, like it’s the single greatest thing he’s tasted all week.

“Is it good?” you coo, and he nods so fast his hair bounces.

With all his enthusiasm, a smear of soup somehow ends up on the corner of his lip. He doesn’t notice, but you do, and you’re giggling before you can stop yourself.

You turn toward the window, watching the city smear into streaks of gold and red, and in that split second, he lifts his gaze, eyes catching on you. His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, suspended in midair, forgotten for the still of a heartbeat as his own breath stumbles, chest rising too quickly in the quiet. Goosebumps prick along his arms, and this time, it isn’t from the danger his sixth sense is warning him of. It’s from the way the skyline burns in your eyes, as if every light in New York decided to gather just to admire you with him.

He catches the soft amber strokes on your cheeks as your small smile curls like cotton-soft warmth—and underneath the dim neon glow, you look too gentle for the shadows, too bright for the night. For a breathless moment, he wants to steal you away.

To borrow you from the world, and keep this evening tucked somewhere only for the two of you.

“...Let’s go see something.” The words slip out before he can catch them.

You blink up at him, and the room instantly falls away, softened to all but a hush of the world. “What?”

He’s already getting up from his seat, draping his jacket over your shoulders as he takes your bowl. Without a word, he just reaches out for your hand, urging you to take his lead. Following him to the window, you watch as he pushes it open to the rushing cold air.

“What are you—”

“Trust me.”

He steps onto the fire escape’s metal platform. You hesitate for only a heartbeat, then follow, fingertips brushing the cold iron railing. Halfway up, he glances back at you, and his smile spills across the dim rooftop glow. Brighter than Manhattan’s windows, brighter than the neon signs, and even more so than the giddiness in your chest.

Your heart stutters for a bit.

The hum of traffic drifts up from below, weaving through the gaps in the grating, and when you reach the rooftop, the wind tugs at your clothes, ruffling hair and jacket alike. Stretched beneath you is the entire glitter of New York ahead, a glowing chaos of gold veins and shadows.

You suck in a breath, clutching Yuji’s jacket tighter around your shoulders.

“...It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at the shimmering skyline, but only at you. The spark in your eyes catching the glint of distant lights. Sitting down, he pats away the dust beside him, pulling you down to follow him. You plop yourself down, knees brushing.

“Right? When things are heavy, I like to sit and just watch the lights from above.”

Giggling, you take the warm bowl from his hands, the heat spreading through your fingers and mingling with the steam curling like tiny ghosts between you. “I didn’t know you were also a rooftop climber.”

He flinches slightly, but you don’t notice, lost as you are in the flickering tapestry of lights and the comforting weight of his jacket draped around your shoulders.

“...Thanks,” you murmur.

He tilts his head to your voice, and his smile blooms like a lantern in the cold fluorescent glow of the city. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the slump of your shoulders while cooking, and the faint, heavy sighs. Time hangs between you, quiet. 

“Is it because of your mother?” He doesn’t mean to pry. He simply waits, patient and quiet.

Years ago, when he was eleven and the weight of the world had abandoned him to debt and despair, it was you who had pulled him into the light.

You, who had brought him home, were pleading with your parents to let him stay, working alongside him through three jobs, shielding him from bullies, and carving out space for him in a world that had none.

And it wasn't because of pity—it was simply because it was right.

That small, steady truth had been more than enough for him to realise, walking home together one evening at fourteen, that life without you was unthinkable. Impossible.

But ever since that incident, Yuji spends his nights differently now, wondering if he even still has the right to be sitting next to you. Perhaps that’s why he’s swinging across buildings now, a distraction to the ache he can’t name. The tugging knot of fear that writhes from his core.

“Mm… same old,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the golden veins of streets below, lids heavy.

“You know I’m always here for you, right?” 

You shift your gaze toward him. His brows crease, jaw tight, lips parted, as if he’s waiting for a question you’ve buried too deep to speak. Yet your hands move betrayingly, fingers brushing against his, seeking him out over the coarse, cold brick beneath you.

He threads his fingers through yours with an ease so natural, it terrifies you. A knot coils low in your stomach, tightening with every heartbeat, your hand trembling beneath the gentle heat of his.

The wind tugs at your hair, lights flickering beyond the skyline like tiny stars. Amidst the faint hum of traffic and the electric scent of the city, each glow pulses, just like the racing of your heart.

You can feel it, the quiet certainty in his touch. You know he means it. You really do.

But even so, your lips betray you. They tremble against a single word, from the weight of too many nights spent replaying every thought, every fear.

“...Thanks.” A fragile whisper, soft as paper, heavy as stone.

Somewhere far below, a taxi honks. Somewhere far above, a neon sign blinks. But in between both, it’s just the two of you. And even with all the uncertainty, the nights, and the unspoken truths that linger between breaths, you settle.

This litany of quiet is enough.

It’s eleven o'clock out, the sun is stupidly bright, and you want to die. Like—crawl six feet under and stay burrowed in there—die. 

“See you tomorrow!” the woman calls as you leave, a paper bag of tangerines digging into your fingers.

You flash her a beaming smile, hiding your soul-rotting exhaustion. The door’s jingle follows you onto the bustling sidewalk.

New York is already in full chaos mode. Yellow cabs are barking at each other, crowds are shoving downstream like human traffic jams, and tourists are wrestling with crumpled city maps like they’re cursed.

When you glance up, you see the usual pigeons parading shop awnings, lined like entitled landlords. Scaffolding poles crisscross above you, towering between skyscrapers, and your earphones dangle uselessly around your neck.

No song is strong enough to fight the throbbing migraine pulsing behind your eyes, and it’s probably because you were up until 5:00 a.m. helping Yuji.

The memory punches you in the brain.

“Why the hell is it blank?” you’d blurted—because how else were you supposed to react to that monstrosity? You were both on the living room carpet, his laptop glowing tragically atop the coffee table.

Yuji jerked his head toward you, scandalised. “Um, no? There’s the title slide, the body slide, and the bullet points. It’s got everything it needs.”

You didn’t need a degree to see all the ways that was a crime, and maybe you’re just a saint—that’s what he thinks—but you were already storming into your room, grabbing your laptop.

“Okay, you—” you pointed at him, “write your script. I’m fixing your slides.”

His eyes widened, watching as you flipped open your laptop, copied the link, and sent it over.

“We’ll revise the whole thing on four, and—”

Bla bla bla… your words were already blurring into the mindless static of Yuji’s head. In that deserted hollowness of a brain, there was just awe.

The way your focus sharpened, the way your brows pinched, the way you sank into a task like the world around you melted away… it was the same look you’d had four years prior.

When both of you still worked for some cramped, greasy kitchen in Queens—and then, he’d been elbow‑deep in suds, wrist aching, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead.

Suddenly, you burst through the door.

“What the—” Yuji had jumped, nearly dropping a plate. But you didn’t even flinch at his shock. You were already rolling up your sleeves, sweeping half his stack of dirty dishes into your arms.

“No wonder you’re coming home late every day,” you muttered, scrubbing. “I asked the manager how many extra shifts you took. Care to explain?”

Yuji immediately paused. Your eyes still stayed focused on your side of the sink, though. The plate in his hand, the steam, and the music drifting faintly from the restaurant’s old radio all seemed to stop.

“We need the money,” he said gently, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a hopeful smile. He reached to take the plate from you, “Come on—hand it back. It’s my responsibility.”

Your grip didn’t budge. You just glared at him from under your lashes. “We promised not to keep secrets from each other,” you murmured.

Silence fell. Only the muted hum of jazz seeped in from the dining area, trembling throughout the fragile string in the air.

Then you whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear. “...It's not like I want to stay home either."

His stomach tightened.

You weren’t supposed to say—even, feel that kind of hurt. Hell, he didn't want you to think of uttering those words... At least when he was by your side.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. But after a few moments of still silence, he dug his fingers into his palms. His chest paused mid-rise. “We’re moving out as soon as I get paid.”

Your head snapped toward him. And there it was—that boyish grin. The same one he’d given you at six years old on the playground, when he offered you half his juice box just after you scraped your knee.

“I checked our savings,” he said softly. “We’ll have enough by this month.”

Your lips parted. Your eyes widened. And when the realisation hit you, Yuji quickly stripped off his gloves and ruffled your hair with a warm, shaking laugh. “New York, angel. New life.”

Your throat tightened. Your heart stopped.

And before you knew it, your vision was blurring up like fog. His hair still spun rose-gold, soft and shimmering through the garble—and somehow, even through the haze, he was still the brightest thing in the room.

He had prayed to every God he knew to do anything, to never see you cry again. That if sadness ever had to choose, it would pick him, and not you.

So when your tears finally spilt under the cheap fluorescent lights, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in, firm arms wrapping around you as you clung to the back of his hoodie, shoulders shaking.

You choked on your own soft sniffles, finally surrendering to the dam of emotions you’d bottled all these years. All the while, he quietly kept his hold on you, whispering it again, breath warm against your ear.

New York. New life.

Flash forward four years—after the spider bite, after the powers, after the secrets that clawed at his nights—and some things never changed.

“Angel…” he murmured, stunned all over again. Because sure, he saved cats, strangers and entire banks on his better days, but it came at the cost of everything else.

His friends all think he’s unreliable, a dud, and weirdly bad at showing up—college deadlines slipped, plans fell apart, and every time the hairs on his arms stood up, that electric buzz tingling in his bones—he had to go. He just had to.

He knew what happened when he ignored it, and even in the darkest of nights, he still hears the crackle of fire from the apartment next door.

But you stayed.

You always stayed.

He wanted to hug you.

To kiss you.

To press his forehead to yours and promise that he’d protect you from everything—even himself.

But he swallowed it down, locked it away where it couldn’t slip out too easily.

And he just… smiled.

That boyish, earnest smile he never realises has the power to crumble all your walls.

Enough to also keep your whole world from collapsing. Enough to make you brave. Enough to make you trust him even when everything else in your life feels like it’s slipping between your fingers.

For as long as you can remember, it’s always felt like you and him against the world.

You know how he disappears every night, how he’s never on time for anything, how he comes back scraped or breathless or exhausted—but you never ask. You don’t pry. You don’t push.

Because Yuji is the one person you’d bend your whole life around if it meant easing his burdens. You trust him—you trust him in a way that terrifies you. You’ve known him long enough to understand the softness of his heart, the way he tries to carry everything alone, the way he refuses to let people worry for him.

And you know, deep down, that he’d never hurt anyone.

He’d never hurt you.

So you keep your silence with that one line he’s unknowingly drawn between you. 

Even when you feel his gaze lingering on you longer than it should.

Even when goosebumps rise along your arms in the soft, living warmth of the room.

Even when you ache to reach out, to cup his face, to ask him why it feels like something is always slipping away.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you steps forward.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, all while his clench slightly at his thighs.

Even when this fragile string you’re threading so carefully on is the very thing hurting you both.

You’re slipping through the afternoon crowd like a loose page torn from a book, shoving past another tourist whose camera strap is swinging wildly. The air today smells faintly of burnt bagels, exhaust, and wet asphalt from last night’s rain, the earth’s sigh as it drinks the sky’s frigid tears. Metal trash cans clatter in the wind, lids rattling against their rims, and somewhere above, the faint screech of the subway reverberates from the tracks below.

Footsteps echo around you, tyres hiss against the wet asphalt, yet even in this city that never sleeps, your thoughts drift as you shuffle through the bustle.

I wonder how Yuji’s presentation went?

Hopefully well. Otherwise, you’ll have to suffer through the hell of Megumi’s complaints for at least another month. God, anything but that.

You yawn, squinting as your vision blurs slightly against the harsh reflection of the rising sun on glass skyscrapers. The traffic light clicks, the pedestrians’ signal flipping to red, but suddenly, your eyes catch something else entirely.

Something small, trembling, utterly out of place in the chaos. A golden-furred bundle curled in the middle of the crossing. 

A puppy.

Your heart stutters.

Everyone sees it, yet no one moves. Cars keep rolling, and the pup curls in on itself, shaking so violently you can feel it even from the curb.

What the hell?

Your mind scatters in ten directions at once, tripping over every worst-case scenario. Logic screams, “don’t run into traffic”, so you're forced to stand there—foot tapping, throat tight, breath trapped—waiting. As soon as the pedestrian light turns green, your legs run before you can even think.

You sprint.

Your sneakers slap against the asphalt, the city blurring around you in a rush of horns and exhaust. With a quick drop of a crouch, breath heaving, you slowly stick out a hand for it to sniff, but it shrinks back, paws skittering against the cold pavement. 

It’s terrified. Of everything. The honks, the stomps, the chatter—New York’s roar is swallowing the tiny thing whole.

The pedestrian countdown crackles overhead, each tick like a punch to your ribs, and your heartbeat syncs with it—frantic, stuttering, racing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” you whisper.

But it’s not. Not even close.

You glance up.

Ten seconds left.

Fuck it.

You drop the paper bag. Tangerines scatter across the crosswalk, bumping under shoes, rolling into gutters as you sweep the trembling puppy into your arms. Its ribs flutter against your palms frantically. You whisper whatever calming nonsense you can manage—

HOOOONK.

The blare is so loud it splits your thoughts in half.

Before you even fully straighten, the world explodes into white behind your eyes. You snap your head toward the sound.

A truck is barreling toward you.

Too close.

Too fast.

Your entire body locks. There’s no time to run, no time to scream. The world narrows to the shadow swallowing you—

An arm suddenly clamps around your waist.

The ground vanishes, wind knifes past your ears. In the blink of an eye, you’re off the asphalt and slammed into the blur of motion. 

The city snaps back into focus just as your feet touch down on solid pavement, and right behind you, “Whoa there—careful!”

You freeze, heart slamming into your ribs. You know that voice. You’d know it in a thunderstorm, a blackout, a dream.

“Yu—” But when you whirl around, ready to scream at him, you freeze. The person holding you isn’t Yuji.

It’s Spider-Man.

The spandex, the mask, and the red and blue in all its stupid glory—standing right in front of you, fingers still trembling slightly where they had been gripping your waist. He slowly lets go of it, watching as you spin to face him, face shaken. 

As more and more people start to crowd the two of you, they’re lifting phones, shouting.

It’s his voice. You know it.

But there’s also absolutely no way that Yuji Itadori—your perpetually late, starving, ghost of a roommate—is the same Spider-Man plastered all over the Daily Bugle every day, busy saving lives.

You swallow hard. “…Thank you.”

He glances down, raising his knuckle for the shaking pup—and after a few sniffs, he boops its nose, its tail giving a tiny, shy wag. 

“What a cutie,” he says softly. “Is this yours?”

He knows the answer. He shouldn’t even be talking this much. But when you look up at him—stunned, scared, and shocked—he stays.

You pause for a moment, brain short-circuiting before shaking your head. He gestures gently. “I can take him to a local shelter, if you want.”

What?

Your arms instinctively tighten around the pup, but after a few beats, the tension in your shoulders eases. With a hesitant nod, you slowly pass it over—and to your surprise, he holds the little thing way too gently, cradling it close to his chest.

Then, he asks, “Do you want to come with us?”

Your head instantly perks up to him. 

He wants you… to come with him.

You feel your own heart thudding against your ribs, the cluster of crowds sending your brain into cartwheels now. Your fists are still against his chest, clenched. Finally, after a few seconds, you nod once.

“...Please?” you add, voice barely above a whisper.

Something in him melts.

“Alright,” he murmurs, hooking an arm around your waist with the pup. “No tall skyscrapers this time, though. Gotta make sure I don’t scare the pup.”

Before you can even process what he’s saying, a white web shoots out from his wrist—

And you’re fucking airborne.

“AAAAAAAAA—!!” You’re screaming as the wind whips across your face, the ground blurring beneath your feet.

One awning leads to another, gilding just above the traffic—and somehow, that makes it even more terrifying; you can see the cars, the flashing lights, the stunned pedestrians filming you as you pass.

You cling to him like your life depends on it, (because really, it does) your yell trembling amidst the racing wind as your arms stay wrapped tight around his neck. Meanwhile, this idiot is laughing. Laughing. And even the puppy is having fun, tail wagging like a metronome of betrayal.

You swear you can even see his tail wagging as well, burrowing your face even deeper into his neck as you shut your eyes.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” you shout, voice cracking. The idiot of a vigilante only laughs harder, grip still strong on your waist.

He doesn’t know how his heart nearly stopped when he saw you kneeling in front of the barreling truck. He doesn’t know how close he came to losing his mind. And he doesn’t know how many Gods he’d prayed for the shortest split second.

Every God, to reach you in time.

But he knows one thing:

You’re here, screaming—scared shitless, sure—but alive.

“Put me down, put me down, put me down!” You’re sobbing into his neck, eyes glued shut as the wind smacks the hair into your face. 

Finally, the world slows to a stop. He lands softly on the asphalt, and everything stills—all but your trembling breaths. Shallow, shaky, and way too embarrassingly loud in your own ears.

He leans in, voice low enough that only you can hear it through the muffled city noise.

“We’re here,” he whispers.

You refuse to move. Absolutely not.

Your face stays buried in the crook of his neck, arms locked tight, fingers curled stubbornly. He chuckles softly.

Cute.

The pup wiggles out from between you two, popping its head out. It yaps once, twice, and you slowly crack open one eye, hands weakly releasing their grip on his suit. A shaky breath leaves your lips as you finally peel yourself off him, stumbling back—only for him to catch you again by the elbow.

“And we haven’t even reached forty feet yet,” he teases, head tilted.

You glare weakly, voice hoarse. “I am never doing that again.”

He doesn’t even need to say anything; you can feel the smug grin through the mask. 

With a soft spin on his heel, he steps past you toward a storefront wedged between two towering brick buildings. The sign above it is faded, chipped around the edges, and the door’s chime jingles as he slips inside with the puppy nestled in one arm.

You stand there in the midst of the pavement, though, heart still thundering, sneakers planted on solid ground, and even if you’ve touched the ground for at least a few minutes now, it feels like you’re still up there mid-swing.

The city moves like normal around you. Horns, footsteps, conversations—it all feels muted, stuffed cotton in your ears. You’re floating.

Absolutely floating.

A few moments later, the chime rings again. He steps out… with the same puppy still in his arms. You blink as he gives a tiny shrug.

“Sooo… turns out they’re totally out of vacant spots right now," he glances at the pup, the critter innocently tilting its head. “I can swing to another one, maybe—”

“I’ll take him.” The words leave your mouth before you even think them through, cutting through the fragile string of silence.

He looks at you, stunned. You’re taking it in?

Before he can say anything, you crouch immediately, scratching the puppy under the chin as it whines into your palm, tail flailing like a fuzzy little helicopter.

Sure, why not? Maybe Yuji will finally start showing up more often. Maybe he’ll actually help take care of it. Maybe—

“Uh—you sure?”

All the while, Yuji, as mentioned above, is panicking to death in his head. He’s not even there for half the night, how the hell is he gonna take care of it? But there’s you, of course, so it can’t be that bad, right?

“Mhm,” you nod, scooping the warm ball of golden fluff against your chest. “Look, it loves me already!”

You giggle as it barks happily, tiny paws scrambling at your collar as it leans up to lick your jaw. Warm little breaths puff against your skin, sunlight breaking through the thinning clouds overhead, catching on its fur and turning it into a tiny halo of honey-gold—soft enough to melt winter, blithe enough to quiet the city. 

He goes still. 

Of course, it loves you.

The breeze rolls by, threading through the loose strands of your hair, and he watches the sunlight kiss them the same way it kisses the dog’s fur, as if the two of you were made of the same warmth.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The tilt of his head, the stillness of his hands, the way he forgets about the crowd, the noise, the city—all of it betrays him.

You’re shining underneath the bleeding sun, laughing even with the trembling puppy in your arms, and for one still second, the weight of what almost happened hits him harder than any fall he’s taken tonight.

Harder than any punch, any rooftop landing, any sprint through the freezing wind.

And he knows it. He knows exactly what that ache is.

“Where do you live?” he asks, voice lower than before, too casual even to be casual.

Your gaze snaps to him. And the second you see the curve of his masked grin—smug, obvious, and entirely too proud of himself—your stomach sinks.

“So…” he drawls, head tilting. “Round two?”

You groan, clutching the dog a little tighter like it might suddenly save you. “God, save me.”

“Roger that, Ma’am.”

You smack his arm. He laughs. 

And the sun, traitorous as ever, lights you up like something worth falling for.

The metal railing trembles as he steps onto your balcony, but unlike it, you don’t steady—not even after your sneakers touch the concrete. Your knees are still jelly, your stomach is still somewhere midair, and you’re pretty sure you’ll never get used to this.

Frankly, you’re praying you won’t ever have to.

Behind you, the sun melts into winter’s edge, streaking the clouds with bleeding crimson.

“Welcome home!”

“Thank you,” you breathe.

The golden pup squirms in your arms, and the moment you crack open the balcony door, it launches inside. You can’t help but laugh as it bounds across the living room, sniffing corners, trotting in frantic circles, all while its tail wags with a delirious joy only pure innocence can have. 

You’re tired—he can see it. The slope of your shoulders, the soft drag of your steps, the yawns you pretend are subtle. Even your laughter sounds like it’s holding up the walls of a crumbling day.

He leans against the railing behind you, watching with a chuckle, and he knows he shouldn’t linger, shouldn’t risk even this much, but it’s you. And tonight, for reasons he can’t name out loud, he wants to show you something special.

“Hey,” he calls softly, “ever wondered what it’s like sixty feet up?”

You turn. He stands there with his arms crossed, head tilted, grin smug enough to see even beneath the mask.

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. “You look like you need a pick‑me‑up. And I think I know just the thing.”

Before you can argue, his hands are slipped around your waist already, like he’s done this a million times before. And somehow, like your body recognises him from somewhere you can’t name, you don’t pull away. You only lift a brow, smirking. “Literally?”

He huffs a boyish laugh and reaches past you to slide the balcony door shut. His gaze flickers to the puppy already curled on a cushion, drifting into a soft nap after its chaotic afternoon.

“The vet said he’s trained and vaccinated. So…” His voice dips, playful. “It wouldn’t hurt if I steal you for a few minutes, right?”

You pretend to think about it. “Maybe.”

Maybe.

Damn, if he didn’t have his stupid mask on, you’d see the way his whole face breaks into the most hopeless grin ever. God really does send his hardest missions to his strongest soldiers.

“Hang on tight.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. Your arms loop around his neck, and just as quickly as you can breathe, you’re suddenly up in the air—you still can’t help but scream at the sudden jump in height.

A strangled cry rips out of your throat as the city drops away beneath your feet. He’s still laughing at the ridiculousness of your reaction, and for once in both your lives, you’re screaming with the sort of freedom that only comes with the wish of a shooting star.

You definitely feel like one, too. 

Skyscrapers streak past, wind clawing at your clothes. Your face is buried in his shoulder—because looking down might as well kill you—but even through your terror, a traitorous warmth swells in your chest.

He hears every sound you make, every breathless scream, and he’s stupidly amused. Even when your eyes are screwed shut from how fucking terrifying this is.

Finally, he lands on what sounds like concrete with a soft thud, steadying you before your knees can give out. Your fingers are still clutched to his suit, but he pries them off gently, turning you around. 

You crack open one eye.

Then both.

And instantly, your breath catches.

The horizon is on fire.

The wild, bright yellow flame burns in the centre of the molten gold, every skyscraper splinting it in fractured sheets of amber and rose. And as it dips right across the water, your heart skips a beat, the sky bleeding with streaks of orange and bruised violet. Light scatters from the heavens, a gorgeous shower that shimmers just across the horizon’s sea—a ramp of falling stars just for the two of you. 

“…It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

The same words you told him the first time he brought you to the rooftop. He remembers. God, he remembers everything. He turns his head.

The horizon is burning in the distance, but he doesn’t glance up. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the way the light brushes your hair, the tilt of your jaw, the slow inhale of your awe—and in that moment, the city, the sunset, the wind, nothing else exists.

You outshine every single drop of light in the bleeding sky, and he hates that he can’t even tell you.

Something in your chest loosens, then gives. For one strange, impossible moment, the pressure of everything—your deadlines, your rent, your exhaustion, the heaviness of simply existing—feels lighter.

You turn to him, smiling. “Thank you.”

The sun flares behind you, painting you in gold, and he thinks helplessly that even this sunset pales beside you.

His heart punches against his ribs, hammering hard enough to bruise.

He keeps his hands in fists so you won’t see them shake, nails digging into his palms, trying to anchor himself.

Because if he doesn’t, he’ll do something reckless.

…Like pull his mask up and kiss you under a dying sun.

He jabs a gloved knuckle against the glass of Nobara’s bedroom window—once, twice, thrice—fast. Even muffled behind the mask, Nobara can recognise it anywhere. Especially when it’s coming from her window on the tenth fucking floor.

“Knock, knock! House of fabulous engineers and fashion icons! Hellooooo?”

A muffled groan leaks from the glass.

The window slides open with a wet creak, and Nobara leans out—hair damp from a shower, hoodie half-zipped, face frowning. She’s literally one inconvenience away from shutting it on his fingers.

“What,” she deadpans, “the hell do you want?”

Yuji straightens proudly, chest puffing out. “Guess who just saved someone from a truck, carried them to a view that’d make Van Gogh rise from the grave, and completely turned their day around! And they don’t even know it was me!”

His words are tumbling over like runaway marbles, tripping out of his mouth in the sudden rush of excitement. Each breath fogs the inside of his mask, tiny clouds drifting up as he gestures wildly, eyes sparkling even behind the webbed veil.

From behind her, Megumi’s voice drifts, monotonous as ever. “You look like a five-year-old who drank too much espresso.”

Yuji spins halfway, giving him a thumbs-up. “And you built the tech that made that possible! So technically, I am a caffeinated genius who saves people, sooooo—you’re the genius behind the genius!”

“Obviously it’s about her,” Nobara says, arms crossed, one brow arched. “Why else knock on my window like some homicidal pigeon?”

Yuji grins boyishly beneath the mask, tilting his head. “Because someone had to tell the people who made me this awesome that I did something awesome!”

He hops back onto the slick rooftop, landing with barely a splash. Rain glazes over the red and blue of his suit, gloves leaving faint smudges of rain, but he doesn’t care. He crouches—knees loose, fingers tapping, eyes flicking between Nobara and Megumi—and he rambles.

“You’d be so proud. I got her out of danger—like, barely-saw-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes danger—and she held onto me and we just… we ended up on this roof where the whole skyline looked like it was melting gold. And she laughed! And I—”

His hand stills over his heart.

Nobara squints at him, expression softening for half a second before she ruins it deliberately. “You’re ridiculous. Just confess already.”

Yuji crouches lower, fists on his knees, eyes practically sparkling. The rain slides off his mask in thin streams, glossing over like small scattered stars. All the while, the skyline stretches behind him, windows blinking like constellations.

He’s glowing too, like he can’t hold all his giddiness inside. 

Behind her, Megumi doesn’t move, but there’s a faint, reluctant curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. They’ve both seen this a million times.

Yuji, hopelessly in love. Yuji, trying not to be obvious. Yuji, failing.

But then, he thinks of you, back in your apartment, probably waiting for him with that puppy curled on your lap—probably wondering why he’s coming back late again.

His heart kicks.

Without warning, he shoots a web to the edge of the rooftop. “Okay—gotta go—BYE!”

Before Nobara can yell, he launches himself into the storm-soaked night, flipping once, twice, and vanishing into the wind.

“YOU’LL HEAR ABOUT THIS TOMORROW, I SWEAR!” he hollers back, voice bouncing between the buildings.

Nobara sighs dramatically and shuts the window, all the while Megumi’s smirk survives exactly three seconds before he wipes it off.

As he disappears into the glittering darkness, the city continues to shine. But it’s obvious who he’s rushing home for, and somewhere below, the night hums with the secret only three people know:

Spider-Man Yuji Itadori is swinging through New York like a boy in love.

When Yuji comes back, he’s yelping in surprise when the little rascal of a pup rushes over to him. Its paws are already scattered across the wooden floor for a launched attack. “What the—?!” 

He picks up the pup in his arms, snuggling into it as you appear from the corner of the hallway, snickering at the scene. “Kiniro likes you already.”

It takes everything in him to bite back his laughter and act surprised. After all, he can’t quite literally tell you he was the one saving you both just earlier today, right?

“I didn’t know you brought back this little pup,” he giggles, letting it lick his face. “You even named him?”

You sigh, plopping yourself onto the carpet. “He was in the middle of a pedestrian street. Thankfully, Spider-Man saved him.”

You pat your lap, Kiniro eagerly running straight back to you, “The animal shelter was full, though, but I think we’re stable enough to afford just another pet, don’t you think?” 

Yuji’s already walking over to you, slinging his bag across the couch as he ruffles your hair. “I can just pick up another job if you really want to.”

He doesn’t miss that you don’t include yourself in being saved, but he doesn’t nag. All that matters is you’re safe and sound, and with the arrival of little Kiniro, your grin seems just a tiny bit wider. 

“Ugh, you’re not even home half the time,” you groan, tugging him down to sit next to you. “Don’t.”

He smirks at your comment, simply shrugging. “You would not believe my day, though,” he starts, running a hand through his hair.

“Coach made us do sprints at 8 a.m. Eight. A. M. The sun was barely awake. I was barely awake,” he plops himself down beside you. “Then I had to do that boring presentation for Anthropology.”

You snort. “What about it? Did you actually, I don’t know—not screw it up?”

“Ohhh, the presentation? Killed it. Destroyed it. Megumi totally knew you helped, too.”

You shake your head, smiling as he continues. With a soft sigh, you raise both hands behind you as you stretch out your sore arms. “Thank God. We still need to go grocery shopping, though… We don’t have food for either him or us.”

“Do you want me to go?” 

You’re already getting up, though. “Nah, let’s go together, like usual.”

He smiles. Yeah. Like usual.

So flash forward now, one hour later—

He’s tossing all sorts of odd combinations into your trolley, and when he’s the one pushing it, that means you’re going to be barely stopping him from picking yet another pack of chips in the aisle beside.

Because, seriously, what kind of trolley has fruits, meat, chips and dog food all at once? Any other college student, he says. Well, you don’t complain further, because you’re already busy thinking about what to cook for dinner.

Metal shelves press together like metro train commuters, all the while humming coolers whisper across aisles—stacked with the classic 99¢ ramen, chips, and plastic-wrapped bagels. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly amidst the static hiss of the radio’s pop song, always a little too bright, and it cuts through the shuffle of tired locals grabbing dinner after work.

Both of you pass each aisle, and when he reaches up just one more time, he says, for the latest bag of chips, you slap his hands away. He gives you a pout, but you shoot it back down, eyes still peeled ahead, while the trolley miserably follows behind now.

“So what’s on the menu, Chef?” Yuji asks, arms on the handle. 

“Japanese curry,” you hum back, already tossing the small sticks of chives into the trolley behind.

His eyes glisten at the thought of it, his mouth watering already. “You always make the best dinners.”

With a mere huff and the slightest curl of your lips, you refuse to turn back to face him. You can already feel the piercing stare of awe on your back, but it does little to keep the budding brim of pride at bay.

Because honestly speaking, that’s all you need.

When the tiny 2010s New York apartment smells like onions sizzling in butter—warm, sweet, it seeps both into the walls and your mind that you’re actually home.

The window above the stove rattles a little every time a subway roars somewhere underground, but inside, it’s just the two of you, moving around the cramped kitchen like you both have a hundred times.

“You’re cutting them too big,” you tease, nudging his elbow as he chops another carrot chunk.

“They’ll shrink in the pot!” he fires back, puffing his cheeks. “Plus, big pieces are funner to chew.”

“That’s not how carrots work.”

“Sure it is.”

You break into laughter, and he falters into the same grin behind his ever-so-bravado. 

Before you can turn back to the stove, his hands slip around your waist from behind, pulling you just close enough that your back warms against his chest. It’s second nature to him by now—but somehow, this time, his touch reminds you of someone else just earlier this afternoon.

“Hey—hey,” you giggle, trying to stir the pot while he sways you side to side, “I’m gonna spill the roux.”

“That’s the plan,” he murmurs, chin gently resting on your shoulder as he watches the stew bubble. 

“Teamwork, right? I’m moral support.”

“Moral support doesn’t usually involve hugging me every five seconds.”

He gives a soft, guilty hum. “Hmm. Guess I’m extra supportive.”

Outside the window, the streetlights of early-night Manhattan cast a warm orange glow across the counter, mixing with the flicker of your old fluorescent kitchen light, and somewhere below, a taxi honks, someone yells. Your radio’s playing the classic pop songs on repeat rotation this week, and inside, tucked within the mellow warmth, there’s just the soft simmer of curry and the occasional clatter of utensils. Yuji leans forward to peek into the pot, arms tightening around you as if he can’t help it.

“That smells so good,” he says, voice a little softer now.

You feel your cheeks warm more than the stove ever could, but you still shove him with your hip anyway. “Then set the table, you sap.”

He laughs boyishly before finally letting go. Grabbing bowls, he’s humming off-key to the radio, and when you glance back at him, his sleeves are already rolled up. He plates the curry bubbling behind you, and the two of you settle snuggishly into the couch, blanket tossed over both of your legs.

As usual, Yuji sits close, stretching his arm along the backrest so that he can tug you closer whenever he feels like it. He’s already rambling off into the darkness, and long before you know it, you’re both talking over the show more than actually watching it.

“But, uh… lunch was good,” he adds quietly. “Ate outside. The weather felt nice. I kinda wished you were there, though.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it; Yuji seldom does things like this. He just rubs the back of his neck, cheeks burning pink.

“Y’know… campus stuff is better when you’re around,” he murmurs. “Feels less like I’m just running around all day and more like…” He pauses, searching for the word. “…I’m just living day-to-day.”

You snort. “You’re such a dork.”

“A dork who had a rough day,” he huffs, nudging your knee with his. 

You card your fingers through his soft pink hair despite yourself, and he melts instantly, like he’s been waiting all day for this. At some point, the warmth of the curry settles into your stomach, the weight of his arm drapes heavier against your shoulders, and your eyelids grow heavier with each second.

His heartbeat is steady, right under your ear, and beneath the warmth, you don’t even notice when your bowls slide onto the coffee table. You just fall asleep tucked into his side, wrapped in his hoodie and the low hum of the city outside the window.

He simply watches, and somewhere, underneath the warmth of the quiet, his hand stops just a beat from tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You don’t know how long you’ve slept, but when the sudden, distant siren of an ambulance cuts through the silence, you wake. The apartment’s dark except for the TV’s dim blue, and your head’s still snuggled against the couch cushion, but Yuji isn’t there.

His spot is still warm, yet the empty bowls are already in the sink.

“Yuji?” you whisper, sitting up as the floor creaks softly beneath your bare feet. Silence echoes, and only the faint late-night wail follows through the room, the ticking of your clock.

It's dead midnight.

Outside your window, a breeze seeps softly from the fire escape. The curtains shift, and you turn to read the single sticky note pasted on the coffee table, scribbled in his ever-so messy handwriting:

“Sorry. Something came up. Didn’t wanna wake you.

Be back soon :)”

You run your thumb over the smiley face, feeling the echo of warmth where he’d been.

You don’t know why he disappears every night.

But for now, all you know is the apartment still smells like curry and him—and the couch feels just a little too big without his arms around your waist.

Dawn breaks as gold washes over the pavement, daylight spilling into the still-waking streets. You’re shuffling along beside Yuji, shoulders brushing now and then. In both your hands are cups of cocoa from the corner cart, each crowned with a swirl of whipped cream he swears is just “the best in the city.”

Steam lifts from the paper cup, curling into the damp morning air, all the while streets still glisten from last night’s rain, passing headlights shimmering in fractured streaks. Inhaling, the air smells of salt and roasted peanuts, tinged with the sweet bite of chestnuts toasting somewhere behind you.

“You’re going to burn your tongue if you sip that too fast,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

He sticks his tongue out at you, laughing even harder when you snort back at him. You simply shake your head as he bumps your shoulder, grinning.

The crowd hums around you, a river of people rushing with purpose, but you walk slower than usual, matching his pace. His hair catches the sunlight in golden highlights, and as he turns to glance over at you, the corners of his mouth tilt when he notices you staring.

“And you’re gonna spill your drink if you keep staring,” he laughs, holding out his hand. 

You giggle, letting him grab your wrist gently, tugging you just slightly forward as you step over a puddle. His warmth lingers a second too long, and as the sun rises a little higher, he watches you sip from your cup—eyes soft and warm.

Kiniro’s barking as well, his leash wrapped just around Yuji’s knuckles. The boy gives it a little tug, but for a split second, his shoulders tense. He’s distracted for a moment, silent. 

There’s a siren somewhere uptown. A horn blast. Something sharp flickers across his expression before he smooths it away.

You pretend not to notice. Instead, you just nudge your shoulder into his again. “You okay?”

He grins. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But his fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist.

You tilt your cocoa toward him. “Trade?”

He huffs a relieved laugh. “Fine, but only because I know mine has more whipped cream.”

You swap cups, and his shoulders loosen, the tension in his jaw melting away. Somehow, the warmth of the moment softens the city around you—right up until your phone buzzes. You glance down, frowning.

“Did you eat yet?” “Are you really out with him again?”

Your chest tightens. No matter how far you’ve moved, her messages still slice like winter wind. Instead, you shove the phone deeper into your pocket, just as Yuji starts rambling about some comic he swears he didn’t dream up. 

“Everything okay?” It’s his turn this time, unaware of the text buzzing under your coat.

You nod in response, though, forcing a smile. “Yeah… just distracted.”

He doesn’t probe, and you just follow him down a narrow side street, fire escapes shadowing over cracked sidewalks. The city hums with distant trains, honking taxis, and the usual rumble of early traffic. He twirls you once in the crosswalk, and for a brief moment, your worries fade. Laughter bubbles up easily, sunlight spilling through breaks in the buildings.

Everything is gold.

You don’t even pass five blocks before you hear the sudden strum of a guitar, faint from a musician tucked just beside a subway entrance, tin cup right at his feet. 

Yuji’s eyes sparkle instantly like a kid spotting magic.

“Dance battle?” he asks, grin stretching mischievously.

You nearly choke on your cocoa. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He’s already bending his knees, taking a fighting stance. “You. Me. Right here. Winner gets bragging rights for life.”

You groan, trying to pull him away, but the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, the laughter in his voice, makes it impossible to resist.

And before you know it, both your cups are set on the window ledge just beside, and he’s twirling you gently in the middle of the sidewalk, weaving through the small cluster of pedestrians staring in a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Yuji! Stop, I’ll—” you squeal, laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

He only snorts harder, spinning you until your hair whips across your face and you bury your head against his shoulder. “You’ve got moves,” he teases, voice softening. “Better than I thought.”

When the music shifts to a slower melody, he doesn’t let go. His grip on your waist pulls you closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours, eyes half-closed. The rest of the city fades, and in the midst of it, there’s only the pulse of your laughter, the warmth, and the soft brush of his breath against your cheek.

For a second, it feels like the world stopped just to let him hold you. Everything melts away, and time stills.

Then… he freezes. The sparkle in his eyes dims.

“I—I gotta—” he starts, pulling back slightly, fingers brushing yours.

You frown, confused. This isn’t the first time he’s bailing midway, and suddenly, the warmth’s twisting with the usual tension.

“What?” Your voice cracks. “Where are you going?”

He bites his lip, hesitating. “Something came up… I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.”

Before you can argue, he’s already turning, weaving through the crowd and quickly disappearing like he’s done so a hundred times. You watch, heart sinking, as the tide of bodies swallows him.

Your phone buzzes then—again—in your pocket.

Your stomach knots, all the while the sweetness of the morning is turning brittle at the edges. 

You frown at the screen, fingers trembling slightly… another message. 

This time, you take a deep breath, lukewarm cocoa in your hand, and look back down the street where Yuji vanished.

For a heartbeat, the world was quiet.

Almost enough to drown out the buzzing phone. The crawling ache.

Almost.

The campus is loud as usual, and your bag is slung lazily over your shoulder. It’s field day, and Nobara’s perched by your side like a hawk.

Field day always turns the campus into a festive frenzy—music blasting, banners everywhere, and the smell of grass and sunscreen wafting with the crispy fry of food from student stalls. The sun’s golden light is just enough to dust everything with a warm edge, shedding the tiniest bit of warmth amidst the early winter, but your chest still feels tight, and every cheer from the bleachers is merely another headache pulsing beneath the last.

Your fingers curl around your bag strap. 

“You better scream your lungs out for him,” she says, flipping her hair as the two of you shuffle through clusters of crazed students. “He made me promise I’d drag you here even if you tried to run.”

You roll your eyes with a huff of disbelief, but still, your chest warms at the mention of him. In the midst of it, Nobara pauses.

“Hey, you okay, though?” she asks, nudging your side. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. 

The football field is already swarmed by the time you reach it. Voices rise and fall like crashing waves, bleachers trembling under stampeding students trying to get good seats. You spot Megumi standing near the edge in all his emo glory, stretching like he’s prepping for a battlefield instead of just another friendly match.

He sighs when he spots you and Nobara, but you don’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitches just a bit upward.

“Told you she’d come,” Nobara smirks.

He mutters something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” but his eyes flick briefly toward the locker tunnel—where Yuji should be…

And right on cue, the man himself bursts out.

Yuji comes sprinting with his helmet in hand, hair ruffled, grin stretched wide enough to split galaxies. His jersey clings to his shoulders, the number glowing against the sunlight. He’s sprinting across the grass like his body was built for this—shining, bright, unstoppable. His hair catches the morning light like rose-gold flames, the soft pink of it glowing warm against his skin.

But he’s late again, and not just a little—ten minutes behind schedule. Yet no one seems to mind except you.

Your chest twists. The familiar pang rises again. 

The moment he notices you, he practically trips over his own feet from how fast his attention snaps your way.

“There you are!” he calls, waving the helmet wildly above his head.

Nobara snorts. “Lord, he’s so lovesick it physically hurts.”

You pretend not to hear her.

Yuji jogs up to the fence separating players from spectators, leaning against it with both forearms as if he can’t stop himself from getting closer. His breath comes out quickly from the run, but his grin is wide and bright.

“You made it,” he says too eagerly.

“We always make it,” you scoff, nudging your bag up your shoulder. “Don’t disappoint us.”

“Yes—yes, Ma’am,” he salutes, cheeks pink. “I’m gonna win extra hard now.”

Behind him, the team captain shouts his name. Megumi barks at him, “If you miss the huddle again, I’m making you run laps.”

Yuji jumps, jolting upright. “Coming!”

But before he turns, he reaches out—fingers brushing yours through the fence. Just a fleeting drag of warmth, but enough to leave your pulse scrambling.

“I’ll look for you after every play,” he says sheepishly. “So… don’t leave, okay?”

Nobara rolls her eyes so dramatically that she might strain something. “He’s going to combust.”

You’re definitely not telling her you just might too.

But even then, Yuji still runs back to his team, helmet tucked under his arm, shouting something stupidly upbeat that gets the whole bench laughing. The field hums with energy, sunlight bouncing off jerseys, the grass almost glittering.

Finally, the game commences.

And Yuji—it’s like he was born for this.

He’s fast. Focused. And ridiculously competent.

Every time he steals the ball, the crowd roars. Every time he dodges someone twice his size, Nobara shrieks. And when he scores—an impossible curve just inside the goalpost—he swings both arms up, searching the stands until he locks eyes with you.

He beams like you just handed him the universe.

And the whole world feels golden—sunlight, victory, thrill. Megumi is yelling instructions, Nobara’s screaming insults at the opponents, and Yuji’s just there in all of his radiant glory—shining without even trying.

It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s alive.

You’re cheering too, but your smile still falters, tight around the edges. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your bag strap.

But for now… Yuji wins.

And he looks at you like you’re the reason he did. Truly, he does. He barely hears the final whistle over the roar of the crowd. One second, he’s sprinting across the field, cleats kicking up dust, teammates shouting his name—

And the next, he’s tearing off his helmet and running straight for you.

You barely get a sound out before he crashes into you, arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground in a dizzying spin. His laugh bursts warm against your neck, almost boyish in how free it is.

“You saw that, right? You saw that, right?” he breathes, grin blinding, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs proof—needs you—to make it real.

Nobara’s whooping behind you. Megumi’s pretending not to stare, and he’s shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn’t just sabotage two passes solely so Yuji could score. The field is a riot of noise—whistles, cheers, the brass band warming up again—but all of it blurs around him.

Yuji’s still holding you there, thumbs brushing your ribs. The pink of his hair, the warm brown of his eyes, the soft grin that always pulls at the corner of his mouth. His hair brushes your forehead when he leans in.

A voice cuts through the crowd. “Congratulations, you all! What a play!”

It’s a senior guy from another team—someone charming, loud, the type Yuji knows people tend to gravitate to. He jogs past, tossing you a quick smile like it’s nothing.

“You were cheering SO loud,” he tells you, laughing. “Honestly, I think you were louder than the team.”

Yuji’s smile twitches.

The guy just continues, leaning in a bit too close, “You coming to the afterparty? Nobara said you might—”

Yuji steps in without thinking, placing a hand on your back.

“Oh,” the guy says, blinking. “Hey, Itadori. Great game, man.”

“Thanks,” Yuji answers—but something in his eyes dims.

Nobara simply smirks with a cross of her arms.

His eyes flick back to you. Quick. Searching.

Did you smile back? Did you think the guy was cool? Did you—

Suddenly, the team crowds around him—slapping his back, grabbing his shoulders, shouting over each other, and you’re both separated from the wave of intrusion.

“You’re coming with us tonight, right?”

“Yo, we’re buying you dinner!”

“We’re gonna replay that touchdown like a hundred times—”

Yuji’s flustered, overwhelmed. His chest is heaving, and sweat trickles down his forehead. He doesn’t like the sudden attention, and he keeps looking back at you over their heads—checking, making sure you haven’t drifted away in the crowd, but he loses you just as quickly as they came.

Megumi sighs, nudging him. “Go,” he mutters. “We’ll catch up.”

And that’s all he needs.

He practically breaks out of the huddle just to run over to you—soft murmurs of apologies as he bumps into someone else’s shoulder. 

Everything else is noise to him, and it isn’t long until he catches the familiar sight of the back of your head again.

He settles beside you, still breathless. His fingers hover, then hook lightly around your wrist, tugging you closer.

“You’re walking with me, right?” His voice drops. “Please?”

Nobara wiggles her eyebrows. “You two are disgusting,” she groans, then pats your shoulder. “I’m getting drinks. Don’t do anything gross while I’m gone.”

She disappears. Megumi drifts off too, yelling something at a teammate.

And suddenly, it’s just you and him again.

The air is warm from the sun, the grass glittering with confetti. His hand is still curled around yours. “I’m really glad you came, y’know.”

You smile softly. “Of course I did.”

“And… that guy earlier,” he adds too casually, “Do you… know him?”

There it is—the tiny crack in his voice.

And something sinks in your stomach. You’re exhausted—raw beneath the skin. And you’re way too tired to explain the history he’s scarred you. Not today. Not after this win. Not when he’s glowing like a sun you don’t want to dim.

So you answer gently, “Not really. Don’t worry about it.”

Yuji’s silent.

But you can feel the tension humming beneath his ribs as he tries to read your face. After a few steps, he murmurs, barely audible underneath his breath. “Hey, so… did you really cheer that loud?”

You grin. “Yeah. For you.”

“Then why do you look so tired?” he asks.

Your steps falter. “I’m fine.”

His brows pinch. He looks at you closely.

“You don’t have to say ‘fine’ just because you think it’s easier,” he says. “I can handle it. Whatever it is.”

But your mind is still tangled from the morning, from the noise, from everything you haven’t wanted to burden anyone with. You look away.

It should’ve been easy—Yuji’s arms around you, the campus buzzing with leftover cheers, Megumi shouting something smug in the distance, Nobara somewhere in the corner of your eye. Everything is loud, and warm, and safe.

But Yuji doesn’t see the phone screen still lighting up in your pocket.

He doesn’t notice how your fingers have been curling in on themselves, and suddenly, the sunlight feels too bright. Your pulse crawls up the back of your throat. Softly, without meaning to, you’re muttering under your breath.

“You’re not even here half the time. How are you gonna ‘handle it’?”

He catches it too, but he doesn’t say anything. You don’t even know he heard it… because you aren’t entirely wrong. He’s been either late or disappeared midway through the last three times you hung out. Last weekend, he ditched you mid-dance, and you told him it was fine—of course it was fine—it just stung more than you want to admit, and today, he barely made it to field day on time.

Something about helping someone, getting caught up, you weren’t even sure.

He’s always trying, always running. Always tired.

You don’t want to be another thing that drags him down.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about me today. You’ve got more important people to celebrate with.”

Yuji stops walking altogether. The shift is small—barely a misstep on the pavement—but it feels like the ground trembles.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Everyone’s congratulating you. You should enjoy it. You don’t need to be glued to me.”

His face falls in slow motion. “Is that… what you think? That I’m only here because I feel like I should be?”

You don’t answer fast enough, and your silence hurts him more than any shouted insult could have. The tension that holds in the air now is unbearable.

His face contorts into a frown.

“Seriously?” he murmurs. “I just ran straight to you after the biggest game of the semester, and you think I wouldn’t choose you?”

His voice wavers, and you quickly shake your head, tilting your head to look at him. “Yuji, that’s not—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, stepping back, eyes darting everywhere except your face. 

“Yuji—” His expression ruins you, and now, you wish more than anything but to take back your words.

He swallows hard. “I get it."

There it is.

The crack in the glass. The place where he breaks. You reach out for him, but all he does is step away.

“You know I didn’t mean that, I was just tired—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the cheering behind you erupts, but the world between you stills.

The stadium burst into cheers for the next round of the competition, and his teammates are shouting his name, waving him over for the afterparty. “Yuji! Let’s go!”

He hesitates.

Because he wants to stay. You can see that. But still, he pulls his hand back.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, smiling the way he always does—the one that makes your chest warm and ache and twist all at once. “Promise.”

You just… nod. It’s easier than saying you’re not sure you believe it anymore.

And even in the blinding afternoon sun, the warmth he leaves you with still feels cold.

The bleachers, the crowd, the pats on his back—they all drift into nothing.

Nothing matters.

Not when guilt claws at him with each step he takes further from you. He can’t stop himself, though.

He doesn’t deserve you, and even when he sees the faltering pain in your eyes, when it seems like he’s ripped your whole heart out, even when he didn’t mean to—

He should walk away from you.

You deserve better.

But when the hair on his skin stands, the jolt of every nerve in his system sparking up, the dread of what he’s always feared crawls back up into him.

He runs straight back to you.

You slowly step away from the crowd, letting the chatter fade into the background. The noise of the campus stadium and cheering grows distant, muffled, yet every step feels heavier than the last. Your bag drags against your shoulder, but truthfully, that’s not even what’s weighing you down.

Each breath catches in your chest as you walk through the shortcut through the science wing. Home. You just want to go home now.

The afternoon sun glares against the metal supports of the demo tents. You barely notice them. Instead, your mind is wrapped up in everything, and you hate that you even feel this way. Hate that even until now, every time you think you’ve grown to be logical enough, your heart always gets the better of you.

Your steps echo softly within the hollow of your mind, seconds stretching into minutes, minutes into hours. You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking. How far you’ve wandered. All you know is that you’re all alone—both literally and in your head.

A loud metallic groan rips through the air.

Suddenly, the metal pole just above the building snaps. There’s no thought, and only the sudden, sickening realisation that it’s coming down.

Oh.

You just stand there, memories flashing through your eyes in replay.

Yuji flashes through your eyes.

This is it—

But suddenly… in the blink of an eye, all you see is a blur of red and blue.

Your chest slams against a familiar chest, and the world flips upside down for a heartbeat. Air screams past your ears. The pole crashes behind you, scattering debris, a deafening clatter that reverberates in your bones.

You gasp, clutching him, every nerve ending on fire. Pain lances through your arm where the pole grazed you, and your knee scrapes against the pavement as he manoeuvres you away. 

The wind tears at your hair, and even in the chaos, your mind reels. 

“You… you okay?” His voice is low, urgent, but behind the mask, it trembles.

It’s Spider-Man.

But you can’t answer. Your body shakes, each blink glowing hotter and hotter as the weight of everything finally crashes.

“I—I—” You can’t finish.

Your throat tightens, and you simply break in his arms. His grip tightens, swinging you back toward a safer alleyway, ignoring the chatter, the noise, and everything else.

“It’s okay… you’re okay. I’ve got you,” he whispers, and somewhere in the midst of it, his voice cracks.

“Hey, look at me. Just—just look at me,” he lowers himself beside you, knees hitting the cold concrete, his hands closing around yours with a trembling gentleness. 

You choke on a breath, shaking your head furiously, face buried in your arms. “I can’t… I can’t—”

His voice softens, frays at the edges. “Please. Breathe. Just breathe.”

The tears spill faster, hot and relentless. You’re folding in on yourself, small and shaken, and the words slip out in pieces you can’t hold back.

“I—Yuji… I can’t… I just…” Your voice quivers. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to—”

“You’re not!” he almost shouts, but it cracks, breaking down into a whisper.

“Do you hear me? Your life matters. It matters.” His breath trembles. His hands cup your face now, fingers digging into the sides of your jaw as he kneels beside you. “And if no one else can keep you safe, then I will. I will. So don’t ever—ever say that again.”

Your sobs shake all the way through you, and he pulls you into him, arms banding around your body, holding you. Even then, the panic still claws at your ribs. He presses his forehead to yours, his voice barely holding itself together. “I’ve got you. Just… just trust me. Do you want to go home?”

You’re sobbing into his chest now. Your ribs are aching, your shoulders throbbing, and you’re stuttering in shallow gasps, yet somehow, with the last tiniest bit of strength left in you, you manage a nod.

His arms wrap around you again, lifting you gently. The wind roars past as he swings, your body cradled against his chest. The city blurs into streaks of silver and orange, but none of it grounds you. Everything still bites.

By the time he lands on your balcony, your legs buckle, and he sets you down with a quick turn away. Like he thinks he should leave. Like he thinks he’s the problem.

Your chest caves in.

“I can’t… I don’t—” you whisper, and then, with trembling fingers, you grasp his wrists.

He freezes, panic flashing behind the mask.

You tug him down to your level, breath shaky, heart ricocheting against your ribs.

You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can barely hear the storm around you—and for the first time, Yuji wants nothing more than to rip off his mask. Right here. Right now.

Because trust has always felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have… yet here you are, the one constant in the chaos of his double life, holding onto him like he’s the only steady thing in your world.

The home he was never sure Yuji Itadori deserves, not when Spider-Man’s saving lives, all the while Yuji is running late for another hangout somewhere else.

The slope of his jaw beneath the mask, the shape of his shoulders beneath the soaked suit, the faint scent of detergent he always uses at home. You’re exhausted—tired of the uncertainty, tired of the guessing—everything about him feels almost too familiar.

It breaks something loose inside you. “Yuji…?” 

Your voice is barely more than a breath, but to him, it lands even harder than lightning.

He freezes.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even move a muscle.

Not even when your fingers slide to the edge of his mask, and in a heartbeat of terror and clarity, you pull it up. 

Your world stops.

The way his voice cracks in the exact shape of Yuji’s kindness, the way he whispers comfort with words only Yuji has ever spoken to you. The way he knows exactly how to hold you, just like Yuji did when you both danced in that one street.

And now, seeing him—wet-faced, trembling, eyes glassy with fear and relief—it hits you like a punch straight through the ribs.

“Y–You…” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry—I was going to tell you, I swear, I just—”

You don’t let him finish.

You just lean in and kiss him. Desperate, shaking. Relief, anger, and love all at once. Fear—that you could’ve lost him before you ever got to say any of it.

It’s right there and then he goes stiff with shock… before he finally melts with a shaky exhale, pulling you so close your feet practically leave the ground.

“You… you’re alive,” he whispers into your hair as he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought—God, I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks as he buries himself in the crook of your neck, arms still locked around you.

Your fingers curl into the back of his suit. “...Don’t go.”

He lifts his head, tears dripping down his cheeks. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering.

“Stay. Please.”

You’re whispering, shaking. He looks at you for a second—and it doesn’t take another until his lips crash into yours again.

The floorboards creak. The air is heavy. Kiniro’s sleeping somewhere in the kitchen, but your legs are wrapped tight around Yuji’s waist now. He’s holding you up, fingers digging into your thighs.

“Wait—” He cuts you off with another kiss as he stumbles into the living room, lights still off.

Your hands gently clutch the back of his suit even tighter. Your kisses are sloppy, frantic, and desperate. He quickly yanks his mask off, throwing it straight at the couch while he lifts you like nothing with one hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but he’s already back to nibbling your bottom lip, working his way up to your breathless gasps.

“Mm… Yuji,” Your fingers lace through the pink threads of his hair, ruffling through them as something pools just beneath your stomach. 

The door rattles behind you as he pushes it open with your back against it, a creak rattling across, and when he does pull away, a drool lingers just between the two of you, and he looks up at you, lifted, like the most gorgeous angel ever. You pant, hand grasping his clothed bicep, as he presses a thumb under your chin, tipping your head further back. 

He’s wanted this for the last five years of his life, and now here you are—lost in it and in his arms—he just might explode into a million pieces.

“I love you,” he peppers even more kisses, agonisingly dragging a trail from your chin, all the way up to your drooped eyelids, hazy, muzzy even as your breath heaves with each gasp. “So fucking much.”

Your heart’s also pounding loudly, and even when he plops you down on his bed, you refuse to let go. You watch as he fumbles the unbuttoning of your clothes, and you tilt your head back as he trails even more wet kisses on your face. His knee slides right between your legs.

Goosebumps trail each time his lips meet your skin, and his fingers are still gripped tight onto the flesh of your thighs. His bed, his taste, your head is so intoxicated with him, it’s driving you insane. Even inhaling the fresh lemon detergent of his sheets makes you nuzzle against it, whining as he plants yet another kiss on your neck.

“Slow down,” you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair as he trails down to your stomach, nails scratching his scalp as he nuzzles into your touch, kissing the thin fabric separating you from his desperate mouth.

But as drunk as he is, lost in the whirlwind of your moans driving him insanely, unbearably hot amidst the cold air, he pauses for a second.

Just above your stomach, he slowly turns to look up at you. “...Are you okay with this?”

He looks up at you like he’s worshipping a goddess, because even in all your dazedness, you’re drop-dead gorgeous—eyes glossy, lips curled, breath panting.

“Mhm…” He instantly snuggles his face into your stomach, making you giggle, “What the—Yuji!”

Every kiss feels like worship, his mouth tracing shakingly down the insides of your thighs until he reaches the heat between them. With a gentle press of his hands, he nudges your legs apart and slips your pants down your hips, letting them fall away completely.

He goes utterly still.

God, he thinks, it’s so fucking pretty. And even though he’s never done this before, not really, he’s seen enough, learned enough, to know what to do.

His thumbs glide through your slickness and gently spread you open, baring every trembling part of you to his stare. The cold whisper of air makes you shift and whimper, embarrassment warming your cheeks. You don’t see it, though—the way his gaze drops, dark with want, his breath nearly catching at the sight of you.

Slowly, he leans in, breath warm against you before his tongue draws a long, deliberate lick through your folds. He can’t help but utter a low, hungry groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck… taste so sweet,” he mutters against you, hips pressing hard into the mattress as if he can’t help himself.

“Yuji—” Your back bows off the sheets in an instant, a startled cry slipping out as your thighs snap around his head.

But he only growls softly in response, arms locking around your legs to hold you open for him. He doesn’t stop—not for a second—as he devours you, messy yet greedy, drinking down every drop of your sweet slick.

His throaty groan vibrates straight through you, sending shivers up your spine. Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering shut as you melt back into the mattress. "You're so beautiful— so..."

He can’t help it—can’t help melting into your taste.

His mouth grows sloppier, jaw loosening so he can slurp louder, tongue moving with sprouting confidence. He circles your clit again and again, then dips lower, pushing his tongue clumsily but tenderly into your heat. His lashes brush his cheeks as he moves, muddled and klutzy—yet careful, and worshipping you with every greedy stroke.

Your fingers glide down your stomach, trembling as you reach for him, burying your hand in his hair. At the same time, your nails drag lightly across the nape of his neck as you tug him closer, guiding him deeper between your thighs. He groans into you, then pulls back only long enough to slick his fingers with his tongue before rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Silently, he watches your slick drip down, following the trail with dark, dilated eyes.

Your tongue slips out, thumb brushing your lower lip as you look down at him. The sight alone makes him shudder.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs.

Heat flares over your cheeks, but you nod with a soft, breathy hum, lips parted as he lowers his mouth again. He laps at your folds slowly, savouring you, sweet warmth spilling over his tongue while he keeps his gaze on you.

“Mhm… Yu…” you breathe, a small moan escaping as your lids grow heavy again.

Something warm blooms in his chest at the sight of you weakly squirming, voice all soft and sweet, and he dives back to your clit. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud until your moans climb higher, your hips jerking. He’s rutting subtly into the mattress.

“Yu—ahh, I’m gonna—gonna cum—” Your legs tremble, thighs trying to snap shut on instinct, but he only tightens his arms around them, holding you open as his mouth works you through it—pushing you right to the edge.

And then you’re falling.

Your jaw drops slack, tongue lolling slightly as stars burst behind your eyelids. You gasp out a broken “Haagh—” all the while, soft, desperate moans spill from your lips.

The sound you make has him tensing all over again, breath catching as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, watching the way your lashes flutter, and how your body trembles with the aftershocks he pulled out of you.

He stares like he’s mesmerised.

And in the heat of it, he just can’t stop himself.

His thumb finds your clit again, pressing lightly, and your words dissolve into breathy whines. He's talking you through it. Watching as your pretty lashes kiss your cheeks as your hips lift, chasing more, and he gives it to you—sliding a finger inside with a low, desperate sound.

“Your voice… fuck—” he groans, the sound almost a plea.

You yelp, grip tightening—one hand buried in his hair, the other fisting the sheets.

Then he adds a second finger, humming as your walls stretch around him, giving you barely a heartbeat before he’s thrusting them in and out, building pace. Your eyes go wide, back arching sharply, nails sinking into his bicep as he peppers kisses up your neck.

“I—Y-Yuji—ahh, please—I just came—” Your voice breaks so sweetly it nearly kills him, and maybe he should give you a second to breathe—but he’s already kissing down your chest, already pulling your top up without you noticing, clumsily unclasping your bra with unsteady fingers.

He’s dreamed of tasting you like this for years. God, you can’t even imagine.

His tongue drags over your nipple, lips closing around it as his fingers keep working you open, and all he can think—watching you squeeze his arm, bury your face in his shoulder, thighs trembling around his wrist—is how heartbreakingly cute you are, and how intoxicatingly soft your breasts feel.

Your legs shake as he finally pulls his fingers out, and he pops them into his mouth, sucking them clean while staring right at you in all his dazed hunger. You feel yourself grow embarrassed at the obscene sight, your lips part in silent awe, chest rising and falling as you watch him.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he reaches for his suit, unzipping it and letting it fall to the floor. His hands fumble with his boxers—slow, torturous—and you can’t tear your gaze from the dark shape straining against the fabric.

When it slips free, your breath catches. Your heart lurches into your throat.

It’s fucking huge. Your pupils blow wide, a tiny sound catching in your throat. He gathers the pre-cum on his thumb, spreading it over the swollen head before settling beside you on the bed.

“'Kay, angel…” he exhales, voice shaking, “think we’re… good…”

Your face burns, dizzy with need. His lips find yours again as he rocks his cock through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing you both. You grind up instinctively, but he pulls back with sudden panic in his eyes. “Shit—condom—”

You cut him off. “I’m safe.”

He freezes. Looks at you once, and his fingers tremble. Both of you are flushed, breathless, then he kisses you again—harder, desperate. 

“I fuckin—“ he’s gasping through each clumsy kiss, “fuck—I love you—so fuckin’ much.”

The words—messy, breathless, dripping with sincerity—turn your mind to nothing but mush. By the time he settles back between your thighs, lifting your legs high around his waist, you’re already trembling. A slow, burning stretch blossoms inside you as he presses just the head of his cock in.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

“Ngh—Yuj—” you start, but he kisses you before the rest can leave your lips, fingers threading through your hair with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.

“You’re, urgh, doing so well… Yeah…” He watches in fascination at the lewd scene of your cunt taking in his cock. “Fuck—so fuckin’ good—“

He's panting, eyes fixed on where your body’s parting around him. He’s only seen stuff like this on his phone, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing, and the sight alone makes him choke on a groan.

Your moan breaks loose, higher and needier as he rocks his hips, inching in deeper. You’re tight—so tight—and the mix of pressure and pleasure has you clinging to him, whining when his hand squeezes your thigh.

“I-It’s okay, angel—fuck, b-breathe,” he huffs, eyes squeezing shut as a low groan rumbles out of him. “I’m not gonna last like this, baby.”

The name hits you like a spark—your body involuntarily clenches around him, and he notices instantly. He lifts his head despite the sweat trailing down his temple, a breathless, smug little smile tugging at his lips.

“You l-like that, baby?” he teases, voice cracked and warm. His hand cups your chin, guiding your gaze back to him as he pants through the ache.

“Y-Yuj…” you whisper, gasping as he sinks in deeper. You nuzzle instinctively into his palm, stroking your cheek.

And fuck—you can’t expect him to hold back when you’re kissing the rough heel of his hand like that.

He can’t doesn’t wait for you to adjust fully. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue greedy and eager as he kisses you like he’s drowning. Because really, he is, with how his knees shake as he digs into the mattress, all before he slowly thrusts forward—each controlled drag burying more of his thick length deeper inside you.

You cling to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders, into the hard cut of muscle beneath his skin, and he grunts at the sting, hips rutting deeper, each movement slow and heavy enough to make your breath stutter.

You feel everything—every ridge, every pulse, every maddening inch of him, and your moans twist into soft, breathy cries, mixing with his low, guttural groans against your lips.

You don’t even hear how the room’s engulfed with nothing but the lewd squelches echoing through the quiet now, his hips softly plapping against you, grunting in your ear whenever you unintentionally clench around him.

Your soft whines turn into sweet cries, and his eyes dilate in awe, cheeks flushed as your vision blurs. Your wet lips part, crying his name over and over, and with each cry, you can feel him somehow grow even larger as he kisses your cervix like he’s addicted.

“Angh—wait!” you whine, grasping his nape, back arching as he continues his torturous pace, the burning yet filling stretch leaving you breathless.

Your mind is scrambled, completely lost to the pleasure as you try to adjust, but he’s already slowly picking up his pace. And it didn’t matter how pathetic your whines got, or how much you came, because he's just kissing you with worship, peppering every part of you like you’re heaven itself, tongue peeking into your mouth again.

And he’s hooked. Hooked with how every time he tries to pull, you’re sucking him back in.

“It’s too much—Yuj—Please—“ and he’s also whimpering right above you.

“Haah—Fuck, fuck, I’m close, baby—“ his lips part, groaning when you instinctually clench around him again.

He swallows each pathetic whine of yours and vice versa, grunting into you with every thrust, both of you panting against each other.

Your mouth’s dangling open with trails of drool, and each time he whispers sweet praises of how gorgeous you are, you can’t help but string out moans and whimpers, filling the thick air of his bedroom. “You’re taking me… so well… ”

You can hardly squeeze any comprehensible thoughts out of you, and your head falls back against him, strength slipping away, hips quivering as quiet whimpers escape you. “Hnngh, Y-Yujiii..."

“Can I cum inside?”

“M-Mhmm,” you agree instantly, breath catching as your body betrays you. You’ve forgotten long ago, anyway, how to resist him.

A certain shiver ripples through you, and Yuji’s pace picks up even more, breath even heavier for the release he's been saving just for you, his whole life.

“Baby,” He pleads. “Fuck, baby, please—Look at me,”

The same strong hand on your jaw softly tilts your head to turn, and your eyes meet his dilated pupils. “Can you feel that? Feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me, baby? Ngh—”

You feel him rolling the rest of his cock deeper inside you while he’s whimpering, and all at once, the air seems to leave your lungs as he slides his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Before you can even register what’s happening, he’s standing with you in his arms, the weight and closeness leaving your heart racing.

"Does this feel better for you?”

As if. Your legs go weak in his arms, trembling as your body twitches now with every subtle movement he makes. You’re completely at his mercy, breath catching and chest rising and falling faster than you can control. Tiny, messy traces fall from your lips, dripping out onto the floor with soft splatters down below.

He spreads you out wider, aims sliding beneath your thighs, and fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. You feel like you’re simply floating, all whilst he hauls you up and down his cock, leaving you helpless as you sink back into everything he’s sliding desperately into you.

“N-Ngh, Yuj—!” Your voice catches, eyes misting as he burrows closer into the crook of your neck.

A deep, almost dizzying warmth pulses through you, and suddenly, it all bursts. Your hands claw at his back, squirming and desperate for the grounding presence of him. He huffs against your skin as well, breath ragged. His voice drops eager, and you feel it shiver straight through you. “Haah… I’m so close.”

All you can do is tremble around him, giving a slow, lazy nod, lost in the crazed intensity between you.

He’s spilling every rope of cum inside you, and even through it, he doesn’t stop. He keeps a slower, gentler pace, thrusts kissing your cervix even more like he’s thanking you, same as how he’s peppering your face with kisses now.

"Yuji…"

He pants softly in your ear, plopping his cock out tiredly from your hole and onto your bed below. Both of you are still heaving; your bodies stay pressed tightly together.

You murmur from underneath his weight, voice muffled against his shoulder, and it makes him melt as he still holds you close.

“I love you so much... Fuck, I’m sorry I acted like a jerk,” he whispers, gazing into your tired, adoring eyes. “I’ll jump off a cliff if I ever make you cry again.”

You laugh, playfully punching his arm. With a quick peck to his nose, you’re already readjusting so you can straddle him again.

He traces a finger gently along your lips, a little grin on his face.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Can we um—“ he leans in for a quick kiss, “Can we try doggy style now?”

Okay, cross his weird cooking shows—you’re monitoring his weird porn stash too.

Everything aches when you wake up.

Your arms are stiff, and your legs are all sore, peppered with bite marks and faint crescents from last night. Sunlight filters through the peeping blinds, painting golden stripes across the bed, but that’s not the only weight you’re feeling on top of you.

Yuji’s arm is draped over yours now, warm and comfortably heavy. He’s sprawled on his stomach beside you, hair a chaotic mess, eyelids shut, face practically buried in the pillow. You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness, and his eyes snap open like he’s sensed you awake.

Under his breath, a groan escapes him, followed by a tilt of the head as he glances at you, face squished adorably into the pillow. The memories of last night hit you like a freight train, and your face instantly blooms scarlet.

“Good morning,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile.

“…Morning,” you croak, voice hoarse.

He instantly breaks into laughter, rolling lazily onto his back beside you while you frown at him, still too self-conscious.

Your gaze drifts over him unconsciously, eyes tracing over last night’s scratches on his broad back. The little ridges where his elbows pressed into you, his chest rising and falling from sleep and… other marks. His ears are pink, warm under the sunlight, and he buries his face into your hair, all snuggled with you. Both of you stay like that for a few heartbeats, breathing each other in, disbelief lingering like the soft haze after fireworks.

Eventually, you reach for your phone, which you’d carelessly tossed on the bedside table yesterday. But when the lock screen lights up, your heart nearly jumps out of your throat.

“What—” Yuji murmurs, groggy and confused.

“I have class in thirty minutes!” you gasp, scrambling off the bed despite the soreness. “I cannot miss this one!”

His eyes instantly widen, and before you can blink, he’s already on his feet. He rushes over to your side, scooping you into his arms as he carries you bridal-style to the shower.

“I’ll get your clothes, uh— hold on!” he calls, and just like that, he’s darting to your room, leaving you blinking and flustered. 

The shower’s warmth does little to soothe the ache of your limbs, but you linger just long enough to pull the towel tight around yourself. When you finally do open the bathroom door, you freeze.

Spider-Man. In. The. Flesh.

He’s standing there, folded clothes in hand, looking every bit like the superhero he is. Though the awkward, nervous smile beneath it? 100% Yuji. You pause, staring, and when you finally reach for your clothes, you whisper a hurried thanks, cheeks burning.

He gives a little wave back at you.

You’re not telling him thanks, this time, though—when fast-forward five minutes, you’re in the air, soaring past skyscrapers, strapped in some ridiculous ghost mask he bought last Halloween.

Your stomach flips every time the wind picks up, hair whipping across your face, and the city below blurs into dizzying streaks of light. When you eventually land in a quiet alleyway, you’re gasping for breath, legs trembling, and he finally lets go of your waist. You glance at your watch.

Ten minutes left—cue panic.

You start to turn and dash, but can’t resist sneaking one last glance over your shoulder. Yuji simply stands there, chest heaving, mask slightly crooked, head tilted. He's waving you to get moving already.

But you can’t leave it at that, so quickly, you run back, grab his clenched fists gently in one hand, and lift his mask just slightly to plant a brief peck on his lips.

“Thanks,” you whisper. And before he can say a word, you’re off—rushing back into the bustle, heart hammering, adrenaline still sending quivers through your shaky legs.

"Oh my god...." He dramatically leans back against the cold alley wall, sliding down slowly while clutching at his own head beneath his zipped get-up.

His suit definitely needs an upgrade from Megumi, he thinks, because you’d left him totally knocked out.

And right now, his brain is half-filled with how easily you just slipped away—the other half overclocking on how he's so, so down bad for you.

A pigeon coos from above, judgmental in its stare.

Class has barely ended when your phone buzzes. The hallway is in its usual chaos—sneakers squeaking across scuffed linoleum, laughter ricocheting, backpacks slung over shoulders. You’re juggling your bag, your water bottle, and an overdue sense of exhaustion as you pull out your phone, fully expecting a group chat notification or a calendar reminder.

But then you see the name on the screen. Yuji.

Yuji: look at the manhattan bridge :))

Your brows knit, confused, but curiosity wins still, and you turn toward the tall window overlooking the city, breath fogging faintly against the cold glass. The sky is rinsed in a soft apricot glow today, dripping over the skyline like spilt honey. Its golden hour tints with warmth, enough to melt even the sharpest edges of steel and glass.

And that’s when you see it.

Strung between the beams like frost, shimmering in the golden, like it’s snared a wandering cloud amidst the bleeding sky—three words are strung across the Manhattan Bridge in enormous, gleaming webs.

Each letter is woven thick, looped around half a dozen times so they won’t blow away in the wind.

Your eyes widen. There is absolutely no way.

I LOVE YOU.

Your heart skips violently, and your breath stumbles out of your chest in a gasp.

A stupid, giddy laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, and your hand flies to your mouth as if you can physically push your stunned smile back in.

“Idiot…” you whisper.

Around you, other students press against the windows, whispering, pointing. Someone mutters,

“Brother did a whole Hollywood sign…”

“Is Spider-Man in love?? With who??”

Your phone buzzes again.

Yuji: empty classroom, east wing. the one w the broken light. hurry! :(

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight off the warmth spreading through your chest as you practically float down the hallway. Your steps are light, your face is on fire, and your heart's busy doing backflips inside.

By the time you reach the forgotten old classroom in the east wing, your pulse is sprinting. The door sits slightly open, the flickering ceiling light casting lazy pulses of brightness across the desks like it’s trying, yet failing, to stay conscious.

You push the door open.

And there he is. Yuji stands near one of the desks, mask pulled back and tucked into his hood, pink-peach curls mussed from the wind.

His cheeks are flushed, hoodie slightly crooked, and even though he’s leaning like he’s been waiting forever, he probably swung here mere seconds just before you arrived.

How do you know that? Because the flowers in his hands look like they've just gone through hell and back.

When he sees you, something in him softens so completely it makes your breath catch.

“Hey,” he says, smile tugging gently at the corners of his mouth.

It’s so pure, so bright, it almost tricks you into thinking he didn’t just do something as insane as webbing a literal confession across a whole bridge.

You let out a breathy laugh as you approach him. “Yuji… you webbed the entire Manhattan Bridge.”

He rubs the back of his neck, practically glowing.

“I—uh—wanted to make sure you saw it?” He winces. “And that you didn’t think I was joking.”

His voice gentles. “I mean it.”

Before your brain can even catch up with your racing heart, he reaches out. His hands slip like usual to your waist.

He looks at you like sunlight through glass, stars folding into themselves—unfathomable heaven of devotion graced into every line of his expression.

“You ready to go home?” he asks softly. 

You wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and his forehead drops to your shoulder in the tiniest, softest surrender.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as you giggle and ruffle his hair.

“I love you too, silly.”

Outside, the sun sinks slowly behind the skyline, ember light scattered across the room as it catches on a stray fleck of web on Yuji’s sleeve. It glows like silver fire as he lifts you effortlessly, stepping toward the window. You simply cling to him, heart soaring as he pushes the pane open and the cool wind rushes in.

With a soft laugh, Yuji leaps, both of you cutting through the evening breeze as the city roars beneath.

Taxis honk, trains rattle, pedestrians shout, but everything muffles the moment his arm curls tighter around you.

With him, flying feels safe.

With him, the city feels small.

With him, the skyline with I LOVE YOU strung across it feels like the only world that matters.

He steals a glance at you mid-swing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

New York watches as he swings past skyscrapers—and this time, he isn't alone. He holds you like he has nowhere else to be but by your side, basking in the afterglow of a love he had written across the skyline just for you. 

Petals float below from the two of you, and you say his words back. Barely louder than the wind, but just enough for him, and only him, to hear.

It's what you’ve found between this litany of quiet you’ve both settled into:

“Home.”

CH 1 ⇐ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3 જ⁀➴

CH 2┆with great power comes great responsibility; and a thousand reasons to run. his father left him grief, your mother gave him rules. you gave him a reason to stay.