ot8 (individually) x fem!reader || headcanons || est. relationships
ateez masterlist
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Kim Hongjoong
Angel, Babe, Lovey
"Babe could you pass me my headphones?" Hongjoong's voice drifted into your bedroom. You looked up from your book to the doorway, seeing him poke his head in with that dorky smile.
You nodded, reaching to the other side of the mattress to where he threw his headphones that morning. You stretched as you handed them to him, making a show at how far away he was.
He laughed, coming in further to the room and grabbing them.
"Thank you Angel," before he could pull away you grabbed his wrist, yanking his arm. He yelped, letting himself be pulled until he landed over you. Your laughter filled the air around you both as he huffed and pushed himself up.
"Oh Joongie if you wanted to cuddle you could've just said so," you teased, cupping his cheeks as he looked down at you. He sighed, lowering himself just enough to brush his nose with yours.
"Lovey, you don't know what you've started," he said in a low voice, your eyes widening as his hands grabbed your sides. Your laughter rang out louder this time as he tickled your sides.
You begged him to stop but he just shook his head.
"You started this, grabby hands."
Park Seonghwa
Honey, Sweetheart, Love
"I don't know," you sighed, looking around at yourself in the mirror. You smoothed down the fabric, making a face at the cut.
"What don't you know Love?" he asked, smiling at you as you twirled around again.
"Doesn't the seam look weird? Or is it the color?" you groaned, clicking your tongue and going for the zipper.
You flailed for a second, fighting to even find it behind you.
"You pull everything off Honey," he laughed, getting up from his spot to graze a hand over your back. You felt his hand stop on the small of your back and the other pinch the zipper.
You rolled your eyes at his smile.
"You're bias is showing. I need Park Seonghwa the model, not mushy boyfriend," you whined, hands dropping to let him unzip you.
"Bias or not, I'm being honest," he kissed your cheek, pulling down on the metal. "Try the blue one next," he smiled against you.
"I already put on the blue one," you smiled at him through the mirror. His smile turned cheeky.
"I know," he moved back to grab the dress off the hook. "But you should put it on again."
"You really don't even try to be sly anymore, do you?" you laughed. He winked at you.
"No, no I don't Sweetheart."
Jeong Yunho
Baby, Honey, Sweetpea
"Hi Honey," Yunho whispered, hand sliding over your back as he leaned down to kiss you. You smiled, looking up from the menu to receive it. "Sorry I'm late, practice ran a bit long."
You waved him off.
"It's ok, I haven't been waiting long," you watched as he shrugged off his coat, glancing over the open menu in front of him.
You couldn't tear your attention off him, seemingly mesmerized as he rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and picked up the book. He hummed as he read, only glancing up after he seemed to find something.
"What do you want to --" he stopped when he caught you staring, smiling at how you tried to play it off. "What's on your mind Baby?"
You smiled, Yunho seeing the way your cheeks flushed that shade of pink that he loved.
"You act so casual like you don't look like some k-drama lead," you shook your head.
He laughed.
"Well technically I am Sweetpea," he laughed harder at the glare you shot at him.
"Smartass," you made a face at him, smiling and going back to your menu.
"So you think I'm handsome?" he smiled teasingly, menu forgotten in his hand. He leaned over the table, candlelight defining his face even more.
"I think you're annoying," you rolled your eyes. "I take it back, you're more like the comedic relief than a lead," he put a hand to his chest, acting offended.
"You know I'm still a fan favorite."
Kang Yeosang
Angel, Honey, Darling
"Darling," Yeosang's voice was low and husk as his whispered in your ear. You let out a quiet hum, turning over on your side without opening your eyes.
He pushed you onto your back again, wrapping himself around you and tucking his face into your neck.
"Honey, we need to get up," he slowly kissed up your neck, pecking behind your ear before moving to your cheek.
You groaned, sliding the covers higher up on yourself.
"No~," you whined, arms wrapping around him as he slid on top of you. "You're warm," you sighed as his kisses slowed to a stop at the corner of your mouth.
"We have things to do today," you felt him smile as he lifted up just a bit.
"It's your vacation, we don't have anything to do," you groaned, eyes barely opening to look at him. His hair was a mess, a lazy smile on his face as he stared at you.
Sunlight streamed in through the window, bouncing off his skin with a halo like glow.
You could stay looking at him like this forever and it wouldn't be long enough. You raised a hand, running it through his hair a bit.
He leaned into the contact as you slid down to his cheek.
"Exactly, vacation means I finally have time to take you on that brunch date," he laughed, moving back down to your lips. You smiled against him, pulling him even closer as he gave you quick pecks.
"Come on Angel, let me take you out today."
Choi San
Baby, Honey, Sweet girl
"Come on Honey," San stepped into the bathroom, adjusting his sleeves. "We're gunna be late if we don't leave soo-"He dragged the word out, slowly turning it to a whistle. You looked at him through the mirror, seeing him slowly smile as his eyes ran over you.
"Pulled out all the stops tonight hm?" he dragged his eyes back to yours and you recognized the look in them.
"Don't even think about it, I've been in this bathroom for too long for you to mess it up," you warned, glaring at him through the mirror as you adjusted your dress.
His face fell into a pout.
"I didn't even say anything yet," he whined. You rolled your eyes with a laugh.
"Don't even try playing innocent I know that look," your eyes went back to your reflection, running a hand through your hair before smiling satisfied. "Now, were gunna be late remember?"
"Do you truly think so little of me Baby?" he put on that innocent face again, like he wasn't just looking at you like you were a slice of his favorite cake.
"Is that an honest question?" you shuffled past him, moving to the closet to find your shoes.
"Meanie," he huffed, motioning for you to sit on the bed as he grabbed your favorite heels. You smiled at him as he slid them on, fastening the strap around your ankles like it was muscle memory.
"You do that faster than I can," you commented, rolling your ankle around to try and slow him down. It didn't work, his hands sliding down to still the movement.
"Because Sweetgirl," he stood and took your hands, pulling you up and into his chest. You splayed a hand to it, the other staying in his as he leaned down a ghosted a kiss over your glossed lips. "I haven't let you put them on yourself in months."
"And why is that exactly," you asked, eyes fluttering as he put his forehead to yours.
"Hopefully you'll forget how eventually, so even when I mess up that pretty make up you can't leave me," he joked, laughing as you slapped his chest. You smiled and moved away, grabbing your purse and heading to the door.
"You're insufferable," you complained with no real annoyance behind it, your voice full of amusement. His eyes trailed down you again as you walked away.
"You know, we don't have to go to this award show," he debated.
"Come on Mr. Choi, don't even start."
Song Mingi
Babe, Cutey, Doll
"Why hello there Doll," he pulled you into him by the waist, kissing your cheek with a crooked smile. "And what is someone looking so good doing here hmm?"
Your brows raised at him, looking at him surprised.
"Well, she might be looking for her boyfriend, but it looks like all she found was some guy that looks like him but with worse lines," you gave him a cheeky smile.
He pouted.
"Oh, come on Babe, my lines are great," he huffed.
"No, she's right. They suck," Wooyoung threw over his shoulder as he walked out of the practice room.
"Yeah, that one was pretty bad," Hongjoong laughed, following him out.
"Honestly horrible," Yunho laughed, stopping to pat your shoulder. "Don't know how you put up with him," he whispered with a smile.
Mingi flicked his head, shooing him out the door with the rest of them.
"Was it really that bad?" Mingi looked back down to you. You put your hands to his chest, patting him with a smile.
"Just a little, it was nice though," you laughed, reaching up to ruffle his hair a bit.
"I knew it," he kissed your cheek again, this time moving down to your mouth. You laughed into it, arms wrapping around his neck. "I knew you would love it."
"Love is a strong word," you rolled your eyes.
"Keep that up and I'll make those pretty eyes roll for another reason Cutey."
Jung Wooyoung
Baby, Babe, Sunshine
There was one thing you were sure of.
There was nothing more attractive than a man walking in with a bouquet of flowers that you knew were meant for you.
Wooyoung pushed up his sunglasses, pushing his hair back with them as he looked around the cafe before spotting you. You saw his face brighten when he found you.
"Babe!" he smiled widely as he came up to the table, planting a heavy kiss on your forehead before sitting down across from you. "You'll never guess what San told me about his manager and a reporter," he set the flowers down, sliding them over to you.
You looked down at them with a smile, laughing a little as you picked them up to smell them. They were your favorites, wrapped in newspaper and a little string.
"What's the occasion?" you looked back up to him, ignoring his prompt for gossip. He looked at you confused.
"I just got of work and have a good gossip story?" you rolled your eyes, shaking the flowers a little.
"Not that dummy, these," you looked back down to the flowers to emphasize them. His brows raised as he nodded.
"Nothing, I just saw them on my way over here and knew you'd like them," he smiled as your cheeks flushed pink. "Plus, I hadn't got you any in a while," he shrugged.
"I do like them," you set them back down, smoothing the paper down a bit. "Thank you."
"Anytime Sunshine," his hand found yours over the table, thumb running gently over your skin at the sweet smile you gave him.
"So, San's manager and a reporter?" you asked, resting your chin in your palm. His face perked up.
"Oh my god Baby it's an insane story so--"
Choi Jongho
Sweetheart, Honey, Bunny
"Sweetheart~," Jongho practically sung the nickname through the apartment, followed by the sound of his steps sliding on the hardwood.
You could hear his happy hum as he found you in the kitchen, turning to see a bright smile on his face.
He came home ready to surprise you with that he got a few days off. Both of you had been on completely opposite schedules lately, so this total stroke of luck was the best news he had gotten in months.
But as he stepped into the kitchen you turned around, hair falling out its tie and his shirt covered in what he hoped was just flour, he forgot everything on his brain.
"Hi Bunny," his voice melted as he leaned into the door frame. You smiled, leaving your dough on the counter and coming up to him. You cupped his face, squishing them until his lips puckered for you to kiss.
You giggled as you backed away, leaving flour handprints against his cheeks.
"Sorry," you laughed, wiping at the flour only making it worse. That goofy smile stayed on his lips as he looked at you, head tilting into your hand.
"Cookies?" he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You nodded, turning back to where the cookie dough waited for you.
"I'm worried they'll be too sweet," you sighed, looking at the damn sugar jar you knocked over right into the dough earlier. "We really need to change this jar set up," you grumbled.
He laughed, wiping his cheeks as he came up behind you. His chin rested on your shoulder.
"Nothing you make can be too sweet Honey."
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I was going to add some more cheesy ones, but secondhand embarrassment kicked in lol
Also why is San's so long compared to everyone elses? I don't know how that happened
You weren’t supposed to see what you saw that night in the alley.
He wasn’t supposed to let you live.
But somehow, a glance turned into a warning…
A warning into a conversation…
And a conversation into something that neither of you could walk away from.
Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Female Reader
Tropes: Mafia AU, Grumpy x quiet resilience, Witness-to-lovers, He fell first, he fell harder, Overprotective but respectful, “Touch her and I’ll kill you” energy
Genre: Romance, Suspense, Slow Burn, Angst with a (hard-earned) Soft Ending, Smut
Featuring: The entire Ateez gang as loyal, chaotic criminals, Exes who don’t know when to stay gone
Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2
The city at night was never truly quiet.
Even this late, the air was alive with distant hums — traffic murmurs two streets over, a muffled bass thumping from some half-empty club, the occasional staccato of heels against wet pavement. But here, on this narrow side street, the sounds were softer, almost hesitant.
I tugged my scarf tighter, my breath clouding in the cold air as I made my way home from the café. My shift had ended just after midnight, leaving my fingers aching from the constant rhythm of brewing coffee, wiping counters, and punching orders into the register. Normally I’d stick to the main road — well-lit, full of late-night stragglers, the safety-in-numbers route.
But tonight… I just wanted to get home. Quickly.
The shortcut wasn’t dangerous, not exactly. It was just quieter. And I didn’t mind quiet.
I turned left down the alley, my boots tapping against slick concrete. The smell of rain lingered, fresh and metallic, though the sky was dry now. My footsteps echoed — too loud in the stillness — and I realized I hadn’t passed anyone in the last block.
Halfway through, the sound reached me.
Low voices.
At first, I thought it was just a couple of drunk friends cutting through to the next street, but as I slowed, the tone sharpened — clipped words, something between an argument and a warning.
I should’ve turned around. I knew I should have.
Instead, I pressed closer to the shadow of a building, following the curve of the alley until it widened slightly into a narrow lot between two brick walls.
That’s when I saw them.
Five men. Four standing in a loose half-circle, and one at the center — his back partially to me, but his posture straight, commanding. Even from here, there was something deliberate in the way he moved — not hurried, not aggressive, just… controlled.
The man facing him was speaking too fast, gesturing with sharp, jerky movements. His voice carried, the words spitting through the cold air: “—you can’t keep cutting us out—”
The central figure — tall, broad-shouldered, a dark coat falling perfectly to his knees — didn’t interrupt. He waited. Let the words die out.
And then, without warning, he stepped forward, closing the space between them. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw the flash of something metallic in the faint light — not a threat, not yet, but enough to make the other man flinch.
The argument wasn’t going to resolve itself.
The smaller man’s hand darted toward his jacket.
It happened fast.
One motion. One muted pop.
The smaller man crumpled like his strings had been cut, the gun he’d been reaching for clattering uselessly to the ground.
I sucked in a sharp breath — too loud, too sudden — and the heel of my boot knocked against something glass. A bottle tipped over with a hollow clink, rolling a few inches before coming to rest.
The man in the coat turned.
The light caught his face for half a second — sharp lines, dark eyes, unreadable expression, the most handsome i had ever seen— and in that frozen moment, our eyes met.
I didn’t think. I ran.
My breath burned by the second corner. The alley dog-legged right, then fed into a narrower cut between a shuttered print shop and a brick wall someone had painted with a mural of cranes and clouds. My boots slid on damp grit; my palm skinned against brick when I caught myself.
Behind me—nothing. No footsteps. No shout. The silence didn’t feel like safety; it felt like someone had pressed pause.
I ducked behind a stack of flattened boxes and held still, counting my heartbeat like it might be loud enough to betray me. A car hissed past on the main road beyond the alley mouth. A distant siren dopplered into somewhere that wasn’t here.
I risked a look back.
The lot where the men had stood was now a stage being struck between scenes. Two of them had vanished into shadow. The other two were moving with the efficiency of people who’d done this before—picking up the fallen gun with a gloved hand, lifting the dead man by elbows and knees, nothing sloppy, nothing wasted. The tall one in the coat—him—stood slightly apart, angled toward where I’d been, head tilted in that listening way predators have when they don’t need to pretend to be anything else.
He didn’t move.
If he’d seen me—if he cared—there was no sign of it in his posture. No jerk of command, no sent-hound. He just watched the mouth of the alley like he had all the time in the world to decide.
A bottle clinked somewhere nearer to me; I flinched. It was just the wind nudging trash. I forced my breathing quieter, counting backward from twenty.
When I looked again, they were gone. The lot was empty except for a scuffed arc of damp where a body had been and a dark bloom that wasn’t rain.
I didn’t wait to see if they came back.
The main street felt almost obnoxiously normal. Neon hummed. A convenience store door dinged cheerfully as someone went in for cigarettes or instant noodles or both. The crosswalk changed without drama.
I walked like I hadn’t been running, which is a skill you don’t realize you have until you need it. Hands in pockets. Shoulders down. Head up. Normal. Fine.
By the time I reached my block, the adrenaline had curdled into something colder. My building rose above the kimbap place like a stack of square jaws. The smell of sesame oil drifted up the stairwell; a comforting detail that made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
Up the stairs. Key in. Turn. Inside.
Shoes off, door locked, chain slid, deadbolt turned. I stood with my forehead against the wood and listened.
My apartment breathed back at me—fridge hum, heater cough, the neighbor’s TV murmuring a talk show through the wall. Everything exactly where I’d left it that morning: jacket slumped on the chair, mug in the sink, plant leaning toward the window like hope.
I moved like I was cataloguing evidence: curtains drawn, latch checked, bathroom window locked. It wasn’t fear so much as habit. Fear is messy; habits are clean.
My hands didn’t stop shaking until I was in the shower, water turned up too hot, forehead against tile. The sound of it covered the echo of the shot. The image of him—dark coat, steady hands—kept trying to push itself to the front of my eyelids. I rinsed my hair like I was washing a frame out of a negative.
By the time I toweled off and found clean pajamas, my heartbeat had agreed to stop pretending it was a trapped bird. I boiled water. I stared at the steam without pouring it into anything. I put the kettle back on the unlit burner and laughed once, quietly, because I’d made tea for shock and then forgotten the cup.
“Okay,” I told the kitchen. “Okay.”
On my counter was a pen I’d left next to a grocery list. I wrote milk, eggs, dish soap, and for no reason I could explain, don’t take the alley underneath, like future-me would need the reminder.
The window over the sink looked down on the street. I lifted the curtain an inch. Night had softened the edges of everything into a manageable lie. A couple in matching coats walked their dog. A cyclist glided through a yellow light like he had immunity. A black car idled two doors down where the curb dipped—lights off, engine a low animal.
It could have been any car. It could have been waiting for anyone.
I let the curtain fall.
Sleep wasn’t obedient. It came in fits, like a radio station you could only get when you stood in exactly the right spot and held your breath. Every time I started to drift, his face knifed through—clean lines, a look like math. Not cruel. Not kind. A decision wearing a person.
I told myself what people tell themselves after they’ve seen a thing they shouldn’t: you’re no one, you’re nothing, you don’t matter to that story. It wasn’t reassuring. Not mattering to people like that can be safer. It can also make you easy to erase.
At some point the city thinned down to ist skeleton—garbage trucks, a lone bus, the low chuff of the heater deciding to do ist job. I let go.
I woke just after six, the sky an ugly, earnest gray. My body felt like someone had set me at a slightly wrong angle in my sleep. I did the things you do to convince the day you’re allowed to be in it: wash face, brush teeth, tie hair, check pockets for keys and wallet. The mirror gave me a face that didn’t look like it had watched a man die in a throwaway lot. Good. Useful.
At the door, I hesitated and opened it a crack to listen.
The hallway smelled like detergent and old wood. A flyer for a yoga class had slithered under someone’s door and died there. No footsteps. No breath that wasn’t mine.
By the time I hit the sidewalk, people were already arguing with their mornings—coffee, kids, coats, keys. I folded into the current and let it carry me toward the café like it had any right to decide where I went.
The café existed in that space between trying and not bothering. We had a chalkboard menu and succulents that someone remembered to water every third Tuesday. The machine steamed and hissed like an irritable dragon; tourists took photos of their lattes like they’d never seen milk before. It was honest work. It was also good cover for a brain that, if left alone, would rewind alleys until they were holes.
“Morning,” Tom said, flipping the door sign. “You look like you fought the night and it won.”
“Night cheated,” I said, tying my apron.
Minhee—different Minhee; the universe had at least two—peeked around the pastry case. “Glitter Girl is back. She says the glitter was medicinal.”
“Is it?” I asked, pouring two shots like my hands hadn’t shaken six hours ago.
“Spiritually,” she said solemnly.
The first rush of commuters came and went in a blur of keep-cups and deadlines. The second wave arrived late, ashamed, and tipped to absolve themselves. The third wave was students with laptops and the stamina to order one Americano and stay until our descendants took over the lease.
I found my rhythm the way you find a familiar song on a bad day. Grind. Tamp. Pull. Steam. Wipe. Smile, but not in a way that invited conversation from men who thought their flat white came with your number.
At 10:17, I glanced up from a drip tray that would never love me back and froze.
Across the street, in the seam of two buildings where shadow lingered even when the sun tried, a car I recognized by silhouette alone idled with a kind of polite confidence.
Same deep color. Same quiet posture. Lights off. Nothing about it said look at me, which was exactly what made it visible.
The door opened.
He stepped out like the city had asked him to.
Dark coat.He didn’t head for our door immediately. He stood and looked, not scanning in that sloppy, nervous way, but taking in exits, angles, reflection in glass. Then he crossed, the light catching on him like it would have asked first if it had better manners.
He came in. He did not belong in our chalk dust and croissants, and somehow he didn’t disturb any of it. The bell over the door chimed like it had to.
Tom straightened like his posture had been insulted. Minhee arranged muffins with the fierce concentration of someone who was hyper-aware of graceful danger within ten feet.
The last time I’d seen him, he’d been standing over a body.
Now, he was standing at my counter.
“Morning,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep — the kind you felt in your chest as much as you heard.
“Morning,” I echoed, because apparently my survival instincts wanted to play customer service.
He rested one gloved hand on the counter. “Coffee.”
“What kind?” I asked, reaching automatically for a cup.
“Black. No sugar.”
Of course.
As the espresso machine hissed to life, I couldn’t help stealing glances. In daylight, there was nothing overtly threatening about him. He looked like the kind of man who could own a law firm or a gallery — or both — if you didn’t know what he’d done in the shadows.
When I set the cup down in front of him, he didn’t pick it up right away. Instead, his gaze flicked to my eyes, lingering a second too long.
“Y/N,” he said, as if testing the sound.
Hearing my name in that voice was unsettling in a way I didn’t like. “That’s me.”
“You work here often?”
The question was casual, but there was a precision to it — like each word was placed with intent.
“Often enough,” I said lightly, keeping my tone neutral. “Why? Thinking of becoming a regular?”
His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Maybe.”
I leaned one elbow on the counter, mostly to keep myself from fidgeting. “Well, we open at seven and close at nine. You can have all the black coffee you want in between.”
For a moment, he just looked at me, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t seeing the café at all — just me, like I was some puzzle piece he was deciding whether to keep or toss.
Finally, he picked up the cup, took a sip, and set it down again. “Good coffee.”
“Glad you approve,” I said, reaching for a cloth to wipe a perfectly clean spot on the counter.
He left the cup mostly full, sliding a bill under the saucer before standing. As he turned toward the door, he glanced back at me. “See you around, Y/N.”
The bell over the door chimed as he left, and I stood there staring at the empty spot where he’d been, my pulse a little too quick for comfort.
He knew my name.
But I didn’t remember giving it to him.
The rest of the morning slid by in fragments, each one separated by the hiss of the espresso machine or the scrape of ceramic cups.
Y/N took orders, steamed milk, and smiled where it was expected, but the image of the man in the black coat stayed lodged in her thoughts.
The way he’d said her name without asking for it.
The way he’d barely touched the coffee, as if he hadn’t come for the drink at all.
She caught herself scanning the door more than once, half-expecting him to return before her shift was over.
By midday, Minhee had noticed the difference.
“You’re distracted,” Minhee said, leaning a hip against the counter while the grinder roared in the background.
“I’m fine,” Y/N replied automatically, which only made her coworker’s grin widen.
“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”
Y/N didn’t look up from wiping down the counter. “Who?”
“Tall, dark, and expensive coat from this morning,” Minhee said with certainty. “Y/N, that man was hot hot. Not just hot—hot hot. Like ‘owns-a-private-jet-and-a-criminal-record’ hot.”
Y/N nearly choked on her own breath. “Minhee—”
“What? You can’t tell me you didn’t notice. He had that… dangerous thing going on. You know, the kind that makes you wonder if you should run away or ask him to ruin your life a little.”
Y/N snorted, partly to mask the uneasy twist in her stomach about how right she was. “Not my type.”
Minhee narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Didn’t even ask for his name?”
“Didn’t seem like the small talk type,” Y/N said, glancing toward the door again before catching herself.
“Shame,” Minhee said with a sigh, but the bell above the door chimed and pulled her away.
By the time her shift ended, the winter light had thinned into a pale, exhausted gold that stretched shadows long across the pavement.
Y/N wrapped her scarf tight and stepped outside, scanning the street before heading toward home.
Every parked car, every figure crossing in the distance, every shape in the corner of her vision seemed worth watching.
She kept to the main road, ignoring the temptation to cut through quieter streets. Her boots clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that felt louder than it should.
At every alley she passed, she glanced sideways without slowing.
But there was no sign of him.
By the time she reached her building, the street was quiet except for a delivery rider locking up his bike. The normalcy of it all made her almost laugh — as if she’d spent the day imagining a threat that didn’t exist.
She climbed the stairs, her breath clouding faintly in the cooler air of the hallway.
The lock turned without resistance. She stepped inside.
And stopped.
He was there.
Sitting in her armchair as if he’d been invited, one ankle resting over the other knee, a porcelain mug in hand. Steam curled from the tea as though it belonged here.
For a heartbeat, Y/N’s mind refused to make sense of the scene. The man from the alley — in her home — calm, composed, and utterly at ease.
“How—” She had to clear her throat to steady her voice. “How did you get in?”
He took a slow sip before answering. “Your lock isn’t very good.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he replied, setting the mug on the side table. “You buy decent tea, by the way. Or maybe you just store it well.”
Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. “You broke into my apartment to critique my tea?”
“I came to talk,” he said evenly. “But I thought you’d be more inclined to listen if you weren’t worried about being dragged into another alley.”
“That’s… not making me feel safer.”
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes — amusement, maybe, or the absence of it. “You saw something last night. I need to know what you plan to do about it.”
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “And if I say nothing?”
“Then we’ll both sleep easier,” he said after a pause. “For now.”
The for now sat between them like a second shadow.
Y/N’s mind was running, weighing her options — not for the first time since last night. She could lie. Play it cool. Tell him she hadn’t seen anything.
But he was watching her the way people watch a chessboard — calm, patient, calculating ten moves ahead.
“I told you,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “I didn’t see much.”
One eyebrow lifted the faintest fraction. “That’s not true.”
Her pulse jumped. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“Because people who see nothing don’t spend the day checking over their shoulder.”
The fact that he knew she had done exactly that made the room feel smaller.
She crossed her arms. “If you’re here to scare me into silence, you’re wasting your time.”
He leaned back slightly in the chair, as if the conversation amused him. “You think I’m here to threaten you?”
“You broke into my apartment and are currently sitting in my armchair drinking my tea,” she said flatly. “So… yes. Threatening feels like a safe guess.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t have made it home tonight.”
Her stomach tightened, but she didn’t flinch. “Comforting.”
He gave the faintest hint of a smirk — the kind that wasn’t meant to soften anything, just acknowledge the game being played. “I prefer honest over comforting.”
She took a slow breath, letting the words settle before asking the question that had been pushing against her since the moment she’d seen him in the doorway of the café. “So… who are you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up the mug again, took a sip, and set it down with deliberate care. “Someone you shouldn’t have seen.”
“Yeah,” she said, “I got that much.”
A moment of quiet stretched between them. The muted hum of the fridge filled it, too loud in the silence.
“Tell me, Y/N,” he said, voice almost casual now. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
She hesitated. “Would it have done any good?”
His mouth curved — just slightly — and she got the sense that she’d given the answer he’d expected.
“You’re smarter than most,” he said. “That’s… useful.”
“I’m not trying to be useful to you.”
“You might not have a choice.”
The words weren’t a threat in tone, but they carried the weight of inevitability.
Y/N stepped toward the door, partly to put distance between them, partly to make it clear the conversation was over. “Are we done?”
“For now,” he said again, rising smoothly to his feet. He was taller than she’d realized in the café, his presence seeming to fill more space than it should.
At the door, he paused and glanced back. “Lock your windows, too. That tea wasn’t the only thing I noticed.”
And then he was gone — as silently as he’d arrived.
Y/N stood in the middle of her living room, the faint scent of tea still in the air, and wondered if she’d just agreed to something without saying a word.
The sound had been small — small enough that most people would have missed it.
A shoe scuff against damp concrete.
Seonghwa didn’t turn his head immediately. That was the trick — never look too soon, never betray that you’ve heard something you shouldn’t have. Instead, he let the conversation in front of him play out, his eyes still on the man who was speaking too fast, moving his hands too much.
Only when the words began to fray into stammering did Seonghwa glance toward the edge of the alley.
There. Just inside the shadow.
A woman.
The distance was enough to blur some detailes, but not enough to hide the way she froze when his gaze brushed her. The faint rise and fall of her shoulders told him her breathing had quickened. She didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She turned and ran. And for a short moment the moonlight lit her features. He had to admit she was pretty.
He could have given the signal. Mingi and San were close enough to intercept her before she reached the street.
But she wasn’t a cop. Not a lookout. Just someone who’d stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.
More importantly, she had kept her mouth shut.
That alone made her more interesting than most.
Morning light was less forgiving than streetlamps, but when he saw her again hours later, there was no mistaking her.
The café was bright in a way the alley had never been. She stood behind the counter, hair pulled back, moving with the quick efficiency of someone used to being on their feet for hours.
Her eyes flicked toward the door as he stepped inside. The recognition was instant — he saw it in the way her fingers paused for a fraction of a second before continuing whatever task they’d been doing.
He ordered coffee he didn’t need. Watched the way she kept her tone polite but not friendly, professional but not meek. Most people cracked under silence; she seemed to understand ist weight.
Her name tag gave her away — Y/N.
The name suited her.
When she slid the cup toward him, he didn’t drink right away. Instead, he let the pause stretch until she glanced up at him again. Her eyes were steady, but her shoulders had that faint stiffness of someone trying not to react.
It was… intriguing.
He left the cup nearly full, sliding a bill beneath the saucer. As he walked out, he looked back just long enough to say her name.
Breaking into her apartment that evening was almost laughably easy.
The lock on the front door had taken less than fifteen seconds to bypass. The windows would have been even simpler.
He hadn’t touched anything but the armchair. Sat there. Waited.
When she arrived, the shock registered in her eyes, but again — no screaming. Just questions, sharp-edged and quick.
They talked. She pushed back more than most would. There was fear there, yes, but tempered with control. She was measuring him just as carefully as he was measuring her.
By the time he left, he’d decided she wasn’t reckless. But she was unpredictable, and unpredictability was dangerous in ist own way.
The headquarters was quieter than usual when he arrived. The top floors of the old office building smelled faintly of smoke from whatever San had been burning earlier. Maps and ledgers covered one wall; another was lined with locked cabinets.
San noticed him first. “Well, if it isn’t our ghost,” he said, grinning. “Where’ve you been, hyung?”
“Working,” Seonghwa replied, shrugging out of his coat.
Wooyoung glanced up from the couch, swirling a drink in his hand. “Working? Or visiting your little café friend?”
Seonghwa looked at him evenly. “She’s not my friend.”
“That’s not what Mingi said,” San cut in. “He said you let her go. Didn’t even send me after her. I would’ve made it quick.”
“She didn’t need to be chased,” Seonghwa said, his tone final.
Hongjoong emerged from the back, flipping through a folder. “If Seonghwa says she’s not a problem, she’s not a problem. For now.” His gaze lingered just long enough to make the point.
Wooyoung smirked. “So you broke into her apartment—”
“I was making sure she wouldn’t act impulsively,” Seonghwa interrupted, his voice even.
“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said. “Over tea.”
San leaned back in his chair, laughter in his eyes. “Hot tea. Cozy.”
Seonghwa ignored them both, pulling a ledger toward himself. But Mingi, coming in from the balcony, shook his head with a grin. “You’re gonna watch her again, aren’t you? People like that… you don’t just leave them alone.”
Seonghwa closed the ledger. He didn’t answer.
Some things didn’t need confirmation.
He went back the next morning.
It wasn’t planned, at least not in the way most of his movements were planned. He simply found himself walking down the street where the café sat, the pale winter light catching in the glass door, the faint hum of the espresso machine audible even from outside.
She was there.
Her hair was different — tied low this time — but the quick, practiced movements behind the counter were the same. She didn’t startle when she saw him, didn’t stiffen. If anything, there was only the faintest flicker of recognition before she went back to her work.
“Black. No sugar,” he said when he reached the counter.
She gave a small nod and reached for a cup alresdy making it. “Your persistent.“
He let the corner of his mouth shift — not quite a smile. “I tend to.”
She didn’t answer, just set the cup down and moved on to the next customer.
It became a pattern.
Over the next week, he stopped by each morning. Sometimes she was the one to take his order, sometimes Minhee. On the days it was her, she was polite but brisk, her attention split between him and the stream of people coming through the door.
He watched for signs of strain — a glance toward the street after he left, a whisper to her coworker — but there was nothing.
By the fifth day, he started testing the edges.
Leaning a little closer when she passed him his coffee.
Letting his gaze linger a fraction too long.
Dropping small, seemingly harmless remarks.
“You make better coffee than your coworker,” he said once, his tone casual.
She glanced up from the register. “I’ll let her know you said that,” she replied, the faintest thread of dry humor in her voice.
Another day, he asked, “Do you ever take breaks?”
“When I have time,” she said, handing him his cup. “And when customers aren’t asking questions they don’t need the answers to.”
He found himself almost amused.
By the start of the second week, the subtle tension she’d carried that first day was gone. She still watched him, but not with the same wary edge. It was more… observational, as if she were trying to figure him out without letting him know.
Most importantly, she hadn’t gone to the police.
No detectives waiting outside the café. No sudden visits from people who asked too many questions.
Either she’d decided to keep quiet — or she’d already understood that reporting him would accomplish nothing.
He liked that she seemed to understand the latter.
On the twelfth day, the café was quiet enough that there was no one behind him in line.
She handed him his coffee — smooth, practiced, without hesitation now — and moved to turn away.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small folded slip of paper, setting it on the counter between them. “In case you ever feel like getting better coffee than this,” he said, voice low enough for only her to hear.
Her eyes flicked to his, then down to the paper. “And why would I need to?”
He let the faintest smirk touch his mouth. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll want to.”
She exhaled through her nose, an almost-laugh that she tried to turn into a scoff. “I think I’ll survive without it.”
But as she pushed the paper closer to her side of the counter, he caught it — the tiniest flush at the tops of her cheeks. She didn’t meet his gaze as she rang up the next order.
It was the first crack in her composure he’d seen.
And though Seonghwa didn’t make a habit of finding people attractive, he could admit — at least to himself — that something about her restraint made him want to test ist limits.
He took his coffee and stepped aside without another word. He didn’t need to look back to know she’d keep the number.
He left the café with the taste of burnt espresso he hadn’t actually drunk and the color in her cheeks lodged, unexpectedly, in his mind.
Not a full blush—she would never give him that. Just a quick, disloyal warmth rising beneath the skin as she slid his number off the counter like it was any customer’s receipt. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed it. But he had been looking. And he didn’t miss things.
Outside, winter light washed the street flat. Seonghwa paused at the corner long enough to watch her silhouette move through the window—efficient, precise, a quick half-smile for an old man who tipped in coins, an arched brow for Minhee when the grinder misbehaved. She’d settled since the first week. The fear was mostly gone. The wariness remained, sharpened into something that looked a lot like discernment.
Good, he thought. Fear makes people stupid. Discernment keeps them alive.
He didn’t pocket the observation as much as place it carefully with the others he’d collected about her: keeps her back to a wall when she can; watches reflections instead of faces; ties her hair differently depending on how little sleep she’s had. Small things that, together, suggested an interior life that wasn’t easily borrowed or broken.
By the time he reached headquarters, the building’s old elevator had decided it would only function if coaxed; he took the stairs instead. The second floor landing smelled faintly of paint thinner and citrus—someone, probably Yeosang, had decided the map wall needed “order.”
San clocked Seonghwa’s expression the instant he stepped into the main room. “Uh-oh,” he said, straightening from a sprawled position on the couch. “He’s got the thinking about a girl face.”
Wooyoung, never one to let a cue die, swung his boots off the table. “Impossible. Park Seonghwa doesn’t think about girls. He thinks about schedules and exits.”
“Sometimes both,” Mingi added, dropping into a chair and pushing a stack of empty takeout boxes toward Wooyoung with his foot. “But today… yeah. You look like you’ve discovered a new species, hyung.”
Seonghwa shrugged out of his coat and hung it carefully. “I look like someone who’s been outside.”
Yeosang didn’t look up from the map, but his mouth twitched. “Outside happens to contain a café. The café happens to contain a barista. The barista happens to have eyes.” He placed a red pin with surgical accuracy. “Cause and effect are fascinating.”
Hongjoong emerged from the back room with a tablet tucked under his arm. “Are we working or are we gossiping?” He looked around, saw Seonghwa, and arched a brow. “Ah. Both.”
Wooyoung propped his chin on his hand, stage-whisper dramatic. “For the record, I think it’s very modern of you to be interested in someone who watched you drop a man in an alley. It’s giving… enemies to lovers. Tragic operetta. Expensive suits and poor choices.”
San snorted. “It’s giving are you insane, actually. She saw him.” He pointed at Seonghwa with the kind of fond disrespect only San could get away with. “You know—” he flattened his hand and let it fall, the universal sign for one shot, done. “—that.”
“She saw a mistake corrected,” Seonghwa said, voice even. “There’s a difference.”
Mingi tipped his chair back two inches past comfort. “There’s also a legal difference. As in: witnesses are bad for business.”
“She isn’t talking,” Seonghwa said. He slid into a chair at the long table and opened a folder, as if the conversation were occurring in another room. “And she won’t.”
“And how can you be so sure?” Hongjoong asked, not unkindly.
“Because she understands cost,” Seonghwa said. “She weighed calling the police and decided it wouldn’t buy her safety. She weighed leaving the city and decided she didn’t want to live like prey. She’s pragmatic.” He glanced up. “Pragmatic people don’t run to institutions that can’t protect them.”
“That almost sounded admiring,” Yeosang murmured, selecting another pin.
Wooyoung grinned. “It almost sounded interested.”
San leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Let me get this straight. You’re curious about a woman who could point at you in a lineup.”
“She won’t,” Seonghwa said. Then, after a beat, with the kind of honesty that always landed heavier because it was rare: “And yes.”
The room did what it always did with admissions: turned them into toys. Wooyoung clutched his chest. “Park Seonghwa, developing feelings—”
“Curiosity,” Seonghwa corrected.
“—for a witness.” Wooyoung finished, triumphant. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”
Mingi let the chair legs thump down. “Just keep it clean,” he said, the lightness shading into warning. “Rivals smell leverage like sharks smell blood. If they clock her as something to you—”
“They won’t,” Seonghwa said. “Because she isn’t.”
San’s grin thinned. “You sure?”
Seonghwa considered and chose the narrowest true thing. “I’m sure enough to control it.”
That, finally, satisfied Hongjoong. He tapped the tablet awake. “Good. Because we have other things to control.” He slid a list across to Seonghwa. “Shipments. A meeting on Thursday. And the man who thought he could misplace our money.”
Wooyoung sighed theatrically. “Romance and revenge in one morning. You’re really spoiling us.”
“Clean that table,” Yeosang said mildly, pointing at the takeout graveyard.
As the banter ricocheted elsewhere, Seonghwa’s thoughts drifted—untidy, for once. He placed the morning in order: the way she’d ignored his remark until a traitorous flush betrayed her, the way her hand had moved the number without hesitation and without fanfare, like a person who keeps a fire extinguisher not because she plans to use it but because she refuses to burn.
Attraction had never been the point of anything he did. It complicated more than it solved. But there it was, threaded through curiosity like a darker thread in a clean weave. He didn’t need to tug it to know it would hold.
He closed the folder. “I’ll be out this afternoon.”
Hongjoong didn’t look up. “Shadowing our new statistic?”
“Maintaining a pattern,” Seonghwa said.
“Mm.” Hongjoong’s mouth pursed. “Patterns are how we win. They’re also how we die. Don’t make one anyone else can read.”
“I won’t,” Seonghwa said, and meant it.
He shrugged back into his coat and glanced once, briefly, at his phone. No messages. He didn’t expect any.
He was, however, very interested in whether she kept the number in a drawer or her wallet.
That would tell him something, too.
She didn’t look at the paper until she was home. Not really.
At the café she’d palmed it without thinking, slipped it where she kept stray receipts, and pushed through the afternoon rush like a person who hadn’t just been handed a fuse wrapped to look like a calling card. By close, the entire exchange had compacted into a handful of flashes: the way he’d said maybe I’m hoping you’ll want to, the way the air had felt thinner between them for a beat, the way Minhee had very deliberately not elbowed her in the ribs while very obviously wanting to.
Now, in the soft mess of her kitchen—plant reaching toward the window, two mugs by the sink like a failed duet—she unfolded the slip.
No name. Just a number. The handwriting was neat, angular, the kind that avoided flourishes on principle.
She set it on the counter and stared at it like it might change if she showed it too much attention.
Throw it away, said the sensible part of her. Put it in the trash, take the trash out, never think about it again. That was how you starved a problem.
Keep it, said another voice, quieter and more annoying because it wasn’t wrong. Keep it because if something worse than him finds you, this is a faster lifeline than 911. Keep it because the world you accidentally saw doesn’t care about your principles.
She washed the mugs. She wiped the counter. She dried her hands and then dried them again because they didn’t feel dry enough.
The number continued to exist.
She carried it to the bedroom and opened the top drawer of her dresser. The usual jumble: spare hair ties, a pack of travel tissues, a photo strip from three summers ago with people she didn’t see anymore. She hovered over the mess like a person undecided about which life to choose.
Wallet or drawer? That was the question. Wallet meant accessibility. Drawer meant denial dressed as tidiness.
She slid the number into a small, zippered pocket in the wallet she only took out when she needed ID. Not the cash pocket, not the card sleeve—the hidden one. Accessible if she had to dig. Forgettable if she didn’t.
“There,” she told no one. “Compromise.”
Her reflection in the hall mirror looked skeptical but conceded the point.
She ate standing up—toast, apple slices, cheese in unflattering squares—because sitting felt too much like admitting she needed comfort. After, she opened the window just far enough to let in a thin scrape of cold air. The street below was doing ist evening impression of peace: dog-walkers negotiating with beagles, the kimbap place clattering trays, a courier double-parking like a man with a vendetta against lines.
She scanned faces without seeming to. No black coats. No familiar stillness. No car idling with ist lights off the way it had in her head a dozen times.
There was, however, a man she didn’t recognize leaning against the corner mailbox, smoking. He was athletic the way men get when their job is moving other people’s furniture without breaking it. He wasn’t looking at her building. He was looking at nothing with commitment. But when a woman with groceries passed him, he glanced at the reflection in the shop window instead of turning his head.
Reflections. Not faces.
It could be coincidence. Lots of people checked themselves in glass when they thought no one was watching. Lots of people smoked. Lots of people leaned.
Still, her shoulders made a small adjustment—an inch higher, an inch back.
She pulled the window down quietly and let the latch fall into place.
Her phone buzzed on the counter with a message from Minhee: pls confirm your tall dark regular is actually human because I think he blinked wrong followed by a series of catastrophically chosen emojis.
Y/N sent back: he tips in exact change and existential dread and added a photo of a latte-swan gone very wrong. Minhee replied with a stream of crying-laughing faces and a single skull. The ordinary silliness peeled some of the edge off the evening.
She showered, let the hot water stripe the last of the day off her skin, and pulled on soft clothes she would never wear outside. When she came back to the living room, the number was not on the counter where her brain kept putting it in memory. It was in her wallet, in the zippered pocket, not burning a hole in anything.
She turned the TV on to something with cheerful colors and kind people baking. The comfort of rules, she thought. Follow the recipe, get the cake. Do the steps in order, and the thing holds.
Halfway through a segment about butter laminations, her buzzer rasped.
She startled hard enough to slosh tea down her wrist. No one buzzed her without warning. Delivery mistakes happened, sure, but those came with a sheepish voice on the intercom asking for apartment 3B or 5C.
She went to the panel, thumb hovering over talk and then not pressing it. Silence hummed in the wire like a held breath.
Another buzz. Longer this time, less polite.
She pressed talk. “Yes?”
Static. Then a pause, the kind that felt like someone becoming aware of their own breathing. No voice. No explanation.
She didn’t answer the silence. She held hers like a shield.
Whoever was downstairs let the button go. The building returned to ist usual old-bones creak. Somewhere, a door opened and closed. A dog barked twice and then decided it hadn’t been important.
She locked the deadbolt again because ritual calms animals. She was an animal. Calm was the goal.
A few minutes later, she checked the hallway through the peephole. Empty. The bulb at the far end flickered once, theater, then remembered ist job.
At her door, someone had left a flyer: a cheap print for a pizza place she already knew she would never call. She bent to pick it up and saw, beneath it, a narrower slip of paper she hadn’t noticed from the fish-eye warping of the peephole.
No logo. No words. Just a white rectangle with a small black dot, dead center.
Not a chess piece. Not a flower. A mark.
Her mouth went dry. She turned it over. Blank. The paper was good—too good for pizza.
She carried it to the table and set it next to her mug, the two objects domestic and ridiculous together.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up: she unzipped the pocket in her wallet and took out the number. The digits looked exactly the same as they had an hour ago, which was both obvious and annoying.
She stared at the phone. She didn’t dial. She told herself she didn’t because there was no emergency, because calling him would change a line she wasn’t ready to redraw, because she could take care of herself.
All true. Also true: the dot on the paper was a finger on her boundary.
She slid the number back into ist pocket and closed the zip with a small, decisive sound.
Not tonight.
But she moved the wallet from the dresser to the entry table, next to the keys.
And that, she admitted, was a redraw.
When she finally lay down, the room clicked into ist gentle nighttime choreography—pipes clearing their throats, someone’s radio a floor below, a late bus taking a corner too wide.
Sleep didn’t come quickly, but when it did, it was honest.
On the street outside, the mailbox smoker had vanished. Two buildings down, a black coat paused in a doorway, glanced up at a line of windows, and kept walking at the same unremarkable pace as everyone else.
Patterns were forming. Lines were moving.
And tomorrow would be another cup of coffee, another look through the glass, another decision she could pretend was small.
She didn’t knew it yet, but she would soon get a visit from her past.
She woke like someone had pulled a thread straight through her dream and out into the room.
At first it was just shape and sound—darkness, the thin blue of the streetlamp cutting a crooked rectangle across the floor, the hum of the fridge steady as breath. Then the other noise separated out from the background: a low murmur, followed by the soft thud of something bumped against a table.
Voices.
In her living room.
Adrenaline brought everything into focus at once. Y/N eased upright, bare feet finding the floor, and listened with the kind of stillness that turns a person into a sensor. Male voices. Three, maybe. One she knew like a bad song that refuses to leave the radio.
Him.
Her heartbeat tried to make itself known in her throat. She slid open the closet, slow enough that the hanger didn’t clack, and wrapped her fingers around the taped handle of the bat propped in the corner. It grounded her. Weight. Purpose.
The voices came sharper as she approached the bedroom doorway—words punching through walls. She could pick out laughter that wasn’t laughter. A scrape of chair legs across her floor.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the hall.
The living room lights were on—too bright, like the apartment was trying to pretend this was normal. On her rug, three men stood as if they’d been invited. Two she didn’t know: broad-shouldered, in dark jackets, that loose, coiled way of standing men get when they’re ready to move from talk to something else. The third turned at the sound of her step, smile cutting across his face like it had learned to sharpen itself where charm used to live.
“Y/N,” her ex said, drawing her name out like a taunt. Prison had turned his cheekbones into edges; his eyes were the same—hungry, mean. “Miss me?”
She lifted the bat, bringing it up to a ready line between them. “Get out.”
He laughed, glanced at the other two like she’d made a joke for their benefit. “It’s cute you think you run things now.”
“You broke into my home,” she said, voice steady in a way that felt like holding a plank over a river. “I told you to leave. That means leave.”
One of the men to his left—shaved head, scar across the eyebrow—tilted his chin toward her. “We just have questions. Then we’re gone.”
Her ex’s mouth thinned. “Word is you’ve been seen with people you shouldn’t. Specifically… the ones who dropped Jin-soo in an alley last week.” His gaze flicked over her, searching for the flinch. “You out here cozying up to Ateez now?”
Something cold threaded through her spine. So that was the name they were using for what she’d witnessed—a rival clan’s mess, an account settled. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter in this room.
“I don’t know anything about any of that,” she said. “And I don’t know you anymore.”
He took a step forward, and she adjusted the bat a fraction, enough to remind him of ist presence. The two men behind him shifted, a quiet corralling.
“Come on,” her ex said, smile gone, voice flattening. “You expect me to believe you just happened to be around when someone from us got killed? You think I don’t hear things? Guy in a good coat, looks like money and trouble, keeps showing up where you work.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You fucking a gangster now, Y/N?”
The bat didn’t waver. “Leave.”
“Answer the question.”
“I said—leave.”
His eyes flashed, that old ugly crease appearing between his brows. “You always thought you were better than me.” He moved fast, shoulders bunching, hand lashing out in a practiced grab—wrist, throat, whatever he could get.
She was already moving. Not toward him—past. She sidestepped the reach, the bat coming down in a short, controlled arc that cracked against his forearm. He snarled, recoiling, and the two behind him surged forward with a pair of curses.
Y/N didn’t try to stand the room off. She’d already mapped the apartment; she’d left the entry table where she could reach it. In the instant their weight shifted toward her, she pivoted, drove her shoulder into the nearest man’s chest—just enough to jolt him off his line—and slipped along the wall toward the hallway.
“Get her,” her ex barked, fury tearing through the word.
She didn’t run blind. Two strides and her hand closed over what she’d placed there hours ago because some part of her had known: wallet, phone. Both off the entry table, both into her pocket in a single motion that felt like pulling a ripcord.
Then the bathroom door. She shoved it shut, twisted the lock, and dropped the weight of her body behind it just as a palm slammed into the other side.
“Open the door!” A fist hit hard enough to make the frame shudder. “Open it or I’ll break it down!”
She backed away from the door as another hit landed—this one a boot. The hollow sound vibrated through the tile. They were angry. Angry could be sloppy. Sloppy could be used.
Her hands were steady now. She set the bat against the sink within reach, dragged the small laundry basket in front of the door as a wedge—not much, but weight is weight—and fumbled the phone open. Not 911. She’d made that calculation already and filed it under doesn’t buy safety.
Wallet. Zipper. The number slid out into her palm—neat, angular handwriting that had felt like a dare at the kitchen counter and felt like a lifeline now.
Another kick. The lock held, but wood complained in a language that promised it wouldn’t forever.
She pressed call.
The ring sounded too loud in the small room. She turned the phone to speaker, set it on the counter, and crouched low so her voice wouldn’t carry straight through the door.
One ring. Two.
He answered on the third, voice even as a metronome. “Yes.”
“It’s me,” she whispered. “Y/N. I—”
A thunder of weight against the door cut her off. “Open the fucking door!” Her ex’s voice, too close. “You think a flimsy lock is going to save you?”
She didn’t flinch. “I have company,” she said into the phone, words tight. “Three. One you know.”
Through the speaker came silence so focused it felt like a presence in the room. Then his voice, lower. “Are you hurt?”
“Not yet.”
“Location is the apartment,” he said, not asking. “Bathroom.”
“Yes.”
Another boot to the door. A hairline crack raced down the frame.
Y/N’s eyes flicked to the small frosted window above the toilet — the one she normally cursed for letting in cold drafts. Now it looked like an exit.
“Listen,” she said quickly into the phone, already dragging the step stool closer. “I’m not staying in here.”
“What—”
“I’m climbing out the window.”
There was the smallest pause, then his voice dropped into a register that meant he was already moving. “Where will you land?”
“Fire escape, back alley. Leads toward 8th.”
“Go,” he said. “I’ll find you.”
She shoved the window open, the hinges squealing against years of neglect. Cold night air slapped her skin. Another crash against the door jolted her forward — the stool rocked, but she steadied it, gripped the edge, and hauled herself up. Her phone stayed clamped between her shoulder and ear, his breathing steady on the other end.
“Y/N,” he said, low and precise, “don’t stop moving.”
Her feet found the metal grate of the fire escape. She swung down, boots clanging against the ladder’s first rung, and ran.
The alley was half in shadow, littered with broken bottles and the rust smell of wet iron. She didn’t look back until she was halfway to the street. That’s when she heard it — the bathroom door giving way with a splintering crack, followed by her ex’s shout.
“There! She’s out back!”
Her lungs tightened. She hit the street running, the phone still pressed to her ear.
“They’re following,” she said between breaths. “Two behind, one faster than the others.”
“Keep to the left side of the street,” Seonghwa’s voice came, sharper now, threaded with command. “There’s an intersection ahead. Don’t turn until I tell you.”
Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in. Her ex’s voice carried, furious and ragged: “You can’t run from me, Y/N!”
She pushed harder, every muscle screaming, the slap of her shoes against wet pavement marking the seconds between her and their reach.
“Two blocks,” Seonghwa said in her ear, each word a rung on a ladder she could climb. “Don’t look back.”
She didn’t — but she could feel them closing, could hear the raw edge in their breath, could sense the moment the night stopped being quiet and became a hunt.
Her feet pounded the wet pavement, the air cutting into her lungs like glass. The streetlamps blurred into streaks, and behind her, the footsteps grew louder.
„You can’t run from me, Y/N!“
His voice ripped through the night, and suddenly she was eighteen again.
She’d met him on a humid summer evening at a friend’s party — all swagger and easy smiles, the kind of guy who made you feel seen in a room full of louder people. She’d thought that was confidence. Later, she’d understand it was possession wearing charm’s clothes.
Back then, she liked the attention. He liked that she liked it.
“Two blocks,” Seonghwa’s voice said in her ear, grounding her for a second. “Don’t look back.”
She didn’t — but she couldn’t stop the next memory from hitting.
A winter later, the charm had curdled into control. He decided who her friends were, what she wore when they went out, how long she stayed at work. It wasn’t loud. It was subtle — a steady trimming away of her world until he filled all of it.
When she pushed back, his hands got faster than his voice.
The sidewalk tilted into a shallow downhill. Her legs wanted to stumble; she forced them steady, her grip on the phone slick with sweat.
By twenty, he was running with people she didn’t recognize — men with eyes like shut doors and laughter that didn’t match the stories they told. He’d joined a crew that thrived on fear, and the first time she saw a gun in his apartment, he told her not to ask questions if she wanted to keep what they had.
Then came the bank job. The news called it “armed robbery”; she called it murder. She’d seen the blood on his jacket before he stuffed it in a trash bag.
“Left at the next corner,” Seonghwa said. His tone didn’t change, but there was an edge to it now, like he’d shifted from listening to hunting.
The night she told him she was leaving, he laughed. Then he hit her hard enough to leave a mark she couldn’t hide with makeup. That was the night the police came for him — not for what he’d done to her, but for the bank and the body. She’d stood in the doorway as they cuffed him, her cheek aching, and felt something like relief for the first time in months.
She’d told herself he was gone for good. That prison would keep him far from her life.
The present slammed back in with the echo of his boots on the asphalt, closer now, too close. Her breath came in ragged pulls; her thighs burned.
“They’re right behind me,” she panted into the phone.
“I see you,” Seonghwa’s voice came through, low and steady. “Keep going. Thirty more seconds.”
The van rolled through the wet streets like a shadow that knew exactly where it was going. Inside, the air was tense, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was loaded.
Yunho’s hands were steady on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors. San rode shotgun, leaning forward just enough to scan both sidewalks. Wooyoung sat behind him, restless energy contained but ready. Mingi and Jongho flanked the middle seats, both with the stillness of men who could move hard and fast the second they had to.
Seonghwa sat at the back, gaze fixed out the side window, tracking the blur of neon and shadow. His phone was in his palm, unlocked. The line was still open. He could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, every uneven footstep.
“She’s running,” he said quietly.
Yunho didn’t ask how he knew. “Where?”
“Close,” Seonghwa said, already leaning forward.
“Left side, two blocks ahead,” San called, eyes narrowing as he spotted movement under the dim spill of a streetlamp. “That her?”
Seonghwa didn’t answer immediately — he was too busy confirming. Jacket half-zipped, hair loose, phone clamped to her ear. Even from here, he saw the exhaustion in her stride, and beneath it, stubborn will.
“Yes,” he said.
Then his gaze shifted past her. Three men, closing in fast. The one in front had the particular forward lean of a predator who thought the kill was inevitable. The faint gleam of metal in his hand made Seonghwa’s muscles coil.
“Gun,” Seonghwa clipped out.
Mingi was already reaching for the sliding door handle. Wooyoung shifted forward, muscles primed.
Yunho eased the van just enough to match her pace. “We get her in, then deal with them?”
“Exactly,” Seonghwa said. His pulse stayed even, but his focus locked on her — the distance between them shrinking with every stride.
She looked up then — saw the van, saw them — and for a heartbeat, their eyes met through the cold night air. She didn’t hesitate. She pushed harder, every movement now sheer survival.
The man with the gun shouted, raising his arm, but she didn’t look back. The van’s side door slid open in a smooth, practiced motion, Mingi bracing himself at the edge.
She didn’t wait for help. She launched herself inside in one clean leap — and straight into Seonghwa’s chest.
His arms went around her automatically, pulling her in tight, shielding her with his body. He felt the tremor in her frame, the rapid beat of her heart against his ribs.
Outside, the gun’s muzzle flashed — and the rest of the world narrowed down to calculation.
The gun’s flash lit the wet pavement in a quick, ugly burst. Yunho was already moving — jerking the wheel into a sharp swerve that put the van between the shooters and the nearest cover.
“Go,” Seonghwa ordered without looking away from Y/N.
Mingi was out the side door in one smooth drop, boots hitting asphalt with a thud. Wooyoung followed, low and fast, peeling left to cut off their angle. San swung wide to the right, a blur of black coat in the dark.
The three pursuers skidded to a stop as the shapes came for them — not yelling, not wild, just deliberate. The kind of deliberate that makes your stomach remember instincts your brain wants to ignore.
The man with the gun barely had time to reset his grip before Mingi’s hand closed around his wrist, twisting sharply until the weapon clattered to the ground. Mingi kicked it away without breaking stride and shoved him back against the wall, forearm pressing hard enough to make his teeth grit.
One of the others lunged toward Wooyoung. Mistake. Wooyoung sidestepped, caught the man’s arm, and used his own momentum to send him sprawling across the wet street. A knee on his spine kept him there, the sharp hiss of his breath fogging against the asphalt.
The last one — bigger than the rest — tried to make a break for it. San was faster. He intercepted him in three long strides, sweeping his legs out from under him and planting a boot against his chest before he could get up.
Inside the van, Y/N twisted in Seonghwa’s arms, eyes wide. “They—”
“Don’t,” he said quietly, not loosening his hold. “They won’t touch you again.”
Mingi leaned close to the man pinned against the wall, voice low but carrying just enough to reach the others. “You get one chance. This is it. Next time, you don’t walk away.”
Wooyoung’s grip tightened on his own target, adding, “And you don’t run your mouth about who you saw. Not if you like keeping your teeth.”
San didn’t bother speaking. His look alone made the bigger man nod frantically.
Yunho tapped the horn twice — the signal to wrap it. In seconds, Mingi released the gunman with a hard shove, Wooyoung stepped back from his prone man, and San eased his boot off the last one’s chest. None of them needed to be told to run; all three bolted into the dark, disappearing down the nearest alley.
The sliding door slammed shut behind Mingi and Wooyoung as they climbed back in, breath even, movements precise. San slid in last, shaking a few drops of rain from his sleeve.
“They’re not coming back tonight,” Mingi said simply, settling into his seat.
Seonghwa finally loosened his hold on Y/N, just enough to look down at her. “You hurt?”
She shook her head, still catching her breath. “No. Just—”
“Good.” His tone left no room for argument, but his hand lingered a moment at her shoulder before he pulled back.
Yunho eased the van back into motion, melting into the city’s wet streets as if they’d never been there at all.
The van wove through the streets in silence, the hum of the engine the only steady sound. Y/N sat wedged between Seonghwa and the sliding door, knees drawn up, still barefoot. Her pajama pants — light blue with tiny white clouds — looked wildly out of place against the black leather seats and the quiet, dangerous men surrounding her.
She wasn’t shaking anymore. That had stopped two blocks after they’d pulled away. Now it was something else — a jittery edge under her skin, half adrenaline, half the bizarre reality of the situation.
“They could’ve at least let me change,” she muttered.
Seonghwa didn’t look at her. “Didn’t seem like you had time.”
She glanced at him sideways. “So this is normal for you? Scooping half-asleep women off the street?”
Wooyoung snorted from across the van. “Depends on the woman.”
“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned, without raising his voice.
The van slowed as Yunho took a turn down a narrow alley, the kind of street that made the city’s map look like it was hiding secrets. The tires bumped once over uneven pavement before rolling to a stop.
The back doors opened, and cold air rushed in. They filed out with the same efficient silence as before, Seonghwa motioning for her to follow. She did, partly because she didn’t see an alternative, partly because the idea of walking home alone now felt laughable.
The building looked like nothing from the outside — brick, faded signage from some long-gone business. Inside was a different world. Warm light pooled over worn leather sofas, a long polished table, and the quiet movement of people who belonged there.
It smelled faintly of coffee and gun oil.
She was still taking it in when a man stepped forward from the far end of the room. Shorter than Seonghwa, hair pushed back neatly, eyes sharp but assessing. The kind of presence that didn’t need to raise ist voice to be heard.
“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said, a note of respect in the way he spoke the name.
So this was their leader.
His gaze skimmed over her — from her mussed hair to the pajama pants — and stopped at her bare feet. “You were in the middle of sleeping?”
“Was,” she said. “Then I got interrupted by some charming company.”
Something almost like amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not hurt?”
“No.” She crossed her arms. “Which is surprising, considering you’re all supposed to be criminals. Why didn’t you just kill me when I saw… whatever I saw?”
The room went quieter, but Hongjoong didn’t bristle. Instead, his expression shifted — softened, in a way she didn’t expect. “Because we don’t like killing innocent people. And you didn’t seem likely to reveal us.”
She blinked at him, caught between disbelief and something she couldn’t quite name. “That’s… oddly noble. For a bunch of guys who apparently carry guns as part of the dress code.”
He let the comment slide, but his next words landed with more weight. “Also… my vice seems to have a soft spot for you.” His eyes slid briefly toward Seonghwa, who remained unreadable beside her. “And I can see why.”
Y/N’s mouth opened — to say what soft spot?, to ask what is that supposed to mean? — but the words tangled. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or worried.”
“Both,” Wooyoung said from somewhere behind her.
She shot him a look, then glanced back at Hongjoong. “Well, since I’m apparently not getting killed tonight, do you mind if I at least get a pair of socks? Or is that considered too much hospitality for a hostage?”
That drew the first genuine smile from him. “We’ll see what we can do.”
It was only then that Seonghwa really looked at her. The cloud-printed pajama pants, the thin cotton shirt clinging to her shoulders, the faint tremor she was trying to hide. She’d been out in the night air, barefoot, for longer than anyone should be. Her hair was damp with the mist still clinging to the streets.
“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he shrugged off his coat — black, heavy, still warm from his body — and settled it over her shoulders before she could protest. The weight of it was immediate, the lining catching her residual shivers and dampening them.
Her feet were another matter. The ache had started as a dull throb during the ride; now that she was standing still, it was sharper, pulsing up through her calves. She must have shifted her weight, because his gaze dropped to her bare toes.
“Come with me,” he said.
She hesitated. “And if I say no?”
“Then you keep standing here shivering while your feet get worse.” His tone left no room for further debate.
He led her down a side hallway to a small, tiled room with a clean, functional shower. “Use this. There’s soap and towels. Leave your clothes outside the door.”
She arched a brow. “Why? So you can burn them?”
“So I can get you something dry to wear.”
Before she could come up with a retort, he was gone.
In which, Choi San gets way too drunk during a drinking show with ATEEZ, starts acting up, and just wants his girlfriend by the end of it. 𐙚⋆.˚
˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊ drunk!san x gf!reader
⋮ ⌗ ┆short story. fluff. golden retriever bf. small gestures of love. mentions of alcohol. random confessions. cute. cute domestic life. soft loving. 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
masterlist ౨ৎ˚₊
The set was warm and full of laughter, a low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. Ateez was filming a casual drinking show, the kind where they relaxed, told stories, and teased each other between rounds. San sat at the end of the table, cheeks already pink from his second glass of soju, his eyes droopy.
“Yah, San-ah,” Hongjoong warned playfully, pouring him another shot. “You sure you can handle more? You look like you’re already flying.”
San shook his head stubbornly, hair flopping over his eyes. “I’m fine! Totally fine. It’s my turn to toast anyway.” He raised his glass high, slurring slightly. “To Ateez, to our fans, and to my girlfriend—”
The members groaned immediately.
“There it is,” Yunho laughed, clapping him on the back. “He lasted what, twenty minutes before mentioning her?”
he turned to the members, face flushed and voice low. “Please. I just wanna go home.”
“Home?” Mingi asked, amused. “You mean to your girlfriend?”
San nodded pitifully. “Yeah cause she actually appreciates me. You guys don’t do that.” He snapped, standing up, ready to leave. “Just say you’re jealous, Mingi.” San smirked as Mingi muttered swears, clearly insulted.
“Okay okay, drink and sit down, Romeo,” Seonghwa interrupted, rolling his eyes but smiling.
San drank. And that was where it started to go downhill.
By the third round, he was slumped against Wooyoung’s shoulder, giggling at nothing. By the fourth, he was talking too loud, smacking the table, and arguing with the staff about when the show should end.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” he said, pointing dramatically at the camera director. “I need to go home.”
The staff tried to explain they were still rolling. The manager laughed awkwardly, trying to guide him back to his seat. But San shook his head like a stubborn child.
“I miss her,” he said, almost pouting now. “You don’t get it, hyung. I miss her so much. Why are we filming for so long? You guys are mean.”
“San!” Seonghwa called sharply, sensing the tension.
But San just turned to him with glassy eyes. “Hyung, you don’t understand either.”
The members were torn between amusement and horror. Jongho was trying not to laugh, biting his lip. Wooyoung whispered something like, “He’s gone,” while Mingi muttered, “We warned him about that last shot.”
Then came the rudeness — not cruel, but tipsy and blunt in that way only drunk people could manage.
When a staff member tried to take his empty glass away, San snatched it back, saying, “Hey! That’s mine, don’t touch it. You don’t even know me.”
When the lighting director told him to sit down, he blinked blearily and said, “Why are the lights so bright? Are you trying to blind me? Turn them off!”
Wooyoung leaned over, whispering urgently, “San-ah, you’re being rude.”
“I’m not!” he protested loudly, standing up. “I’m honest! And honestly, I wanna go home!”
Yunho reached out to steady him before he tripped. “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Let’s get him out of here.”
The staff nodded, chuckling awkwardly, and the camera crew decided to cut early. The other members apologized on his behalf as they helped San toward the waiting van.
He was mumbling under his breath the whole way out. “Why is everyone so serious… this is a bunch of bullshit… it’s not that hard to take me home.” San muttered bitterly under his breath.
When they finally got him into the van, he slumped against the window, eyes half-closed. “Can someone call her?” he mumbled. “Please? Tell her I love her. No, wait—don’t tell her. I’ll tell her myself.”
By the time they arrived at the dorm, San was fully clingy and miserable. He refused to go inside.
“I’m not going in until she comes,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Call her.”
Wooyoung sighed and pulled out his phone. “You’re impossible.” He sent you a quick text: Hey, San’s really drunk. He’s being difficult. Can you come over or at least FaceTime him?
A few minutes later, your voice came through the screen. “San-ah?”
His head shot up instantly, eyes lighting up. “Baby!”
The members laughed as he grabbed the phone from Wooyoung, holding it too close to his face. “You’re so pretty,” he said earnestly, voice slurred. “I told everyone about you. They don’t believe me but you’re real.”
You tried not to laugh. “I believe you, love. You should go rest, okay?”
He shook his head violently. “No! I’m coming to see you.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Seonghwa interjected, taking the phone gently. “He’s fine, don’t worry. We’ll take care of him.”
San was already half-asleep against Yunho’s shoulder, mumbling, “Love you, love you, love you…”
Later, when he finally sobered up, he woke up with a pounding headache — and a dozen missed messages teasing him about his “romantic meltdown.”
He groaned, burying his face in his pillow as Wooyoung smirked from across the room. “You told the lighting guy he had no soul,” Wooyoung said, laughing.
“I what?!”
“Oh, and you begged to be taken to your girlfriend like it was a K-drama finale.”
San groaned louder. “Please tell me it’s not on camera.”
“Don’t worry,” Hongjoong said dryly, walking past. “We made sure they cut it. But we’ll never let you live it down.”
Later that night, you called him, and he immediately apologized, cheeks red. “I didn’t embarrass you, did I?”
You laughed softly. “No, San. You just missed me too much.”
He smiled sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “I always do.”
taglist ₊⊹ @loveeviaa @hoonings @f1-lh44
(Ask to be added!)
Okay please shoot me now is this cringe..
I promised the soft san will come soon and it will be a longer story!
You couldn't help but live with only one purpose. To please Mr Park Seonghwa. He was a ruthless killer and a lavish lover. He spent most nights at his brother's nightclub, waiting for his next prey to satisfy himself. But when he laid eyes on you. The most beautiful and elegant little flower. He knew he needed to have you.
You were just too perfect. A young girl looking for a fresh start, so why did you stumble upon a bar filled with drunken mistakes and drugged-up nobodies? But the truth is simple. You were looking for excitement. Looking for trouble.
Needing to prove to your father that you weren't an inconsequential girl anymore. You could take charge, leave a room breathless at your presence, and take what you wanted. But alas, when you crawled into Seonghwa's lap. You both knew your oh-so-perfect image came crumbling down...
"P-please S-sir I, I wanna come so bad." Seonghwa has held you tightly down on his bed for the past hour, edging you until your pussy was puffy and sensitive. He wanted to see the tears rolling down your face before he would let you come. And every time you were close to the edge, his cock would slip out of your soaked cunt and he'd give it a slap, making you scream so loud you were sure his bodyguards heard how pathetic you sounded for him.
Tsk. He clicked his tongue, smirking sadistically from above you. His face was mere inches from yours, but when you tried to reach for a kiss, he'd pull back, making you whimper even more. "Come on, darling. I wanna see those tears. Can't you do that for me?"
He knew you were close to tears. You just needed one more push. So he sank his thick cock back into you with a sharp snap making you gasp out, gripping the silk sheets below you.
"SEONG!"
"My, my. Look at you dove. Imagine what your father would think, knowing you were so cock drunk off his enemy."
Yes, that's right, Seonghwa was not only trouble but the trouble your father warned you about. If you were going to be your father's successor, his enemies would become yours but here you were letting his number one adversary fuck the living shit out of you until you were nothing but a crying, pleading mess.
"Sir please I've been a good girl, let me cum." Tears finally broke down your face making Seonghwa snap his hips harder into you. You could feel his balls slap against your ass, as his cock drives deeper into you.
"You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight. Fuck you swore I'd never fuck you before." His words were pure vulgarity and you loved every second of it. "Are you gonna cum now baby? Come on, make a mess on your cock. It's yours, isn't it? Just like I'm yours and you are mine."
You cried in response, feeling more tears fall, beginning to wet the bed.
"Say it, doll. Who owns you? Who owns this fucking delicious cunt of yours?" His hot breath pooled against your wet cheek, making you finally open your eyes to meet his. They were dark, blown out with an inhuman nature mixing with lust. He was going to be the death of you—literally—. But deep down you knew he would protect you the moment you met him. You had to pick sides and prove to not only others but yourself that you were just as capable of being in this line of work as Seonghwa or your father. You were just as much trouble as anyone else.
"Yours..." You spoke clearly for the first time tonight.
ceo!seonghwa x secretary!wooyoung x secretary!reader
summary: why would a CEO need two secretaries?
genre/trope/au: fluff, polycouple, office!au
warnings: none! take a shot every time you see the word office !
a/n: not really in the mood to write smut lately or well just write...at all, so have this lil poly woohwa office blurb
dividers by @cursed-carmine
ceo!seonghwa who hires you without a second thought when you come into his office for the interview, you left him feeling love-struck looking all cute but professional in your black pencil skirt and satin polka-doted white blouse, you kitten heels clicking as you walked away in a almost coquettish way.
secretary!wooyoung who shows you around while keeping his hand around your waist, his playful smile and flirty remarks don't go unnoticed. He shamelessly shows his interest for you and compliments you before dropping you off to your new office "you look gorgeous in that tight skirt by the way." he throws a wink at you before he leaves to take care of some paperwork. At least that's what he told you.
Lilttle did you know he was headed to ceo!seonghwa's office to discuss their shared adoration for their new lilttle office siren. It's not like they were looking for a third, not until you showed up, now they have to do whatever it takes to make you theirs.
ceo!seonghwa who is a complete gentleman, opening doors for you, always reminding you how much of a better secretary you are (sorry woo 💔), offering to carry your work bag, walking you to your office despite your protests, never making you work overtime, driving you home when it's pouring down with rain (despite your protests again lol)
secretary!wooyoung who is a complete flirt, buying you coffee every morning and asking for a cheek kiss in return, messaging your shoulders after a long day of working, lingering touches, teasing remarks, constant winking oh and don't forget calling you "babe".
ceo!seonghwa and secretary!wooyoung who are completely whipped for you, calling you to hwa's office to declare their affections for you offering you to be part of their relationship and promising to never stop treating you like a princess, you're their little office siren after all.
