Summary: You and Nam-gyu move into a new house and find a small door that leads to another place where there’s … another Nam-gyu, but this one is different. Based on Coraline.
Warnings: Smut
Word Count: 1k
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You should’ve known there was something wrong with this house. The wallpaper peels back in curling strips if you stare too long. The floors creak when no one’s walking. There’s a smell, sweet and sharp, behind the walls, a ghost of roses, or rot. And always, that little door at the end of the hall, whispering for you at the edge of sleep.
You wait until Nam-gyu’s snoring in bed, one arm slung over his eyes, mouth parted. His phone buzzes with some club group chat. He doesn’t hear you creep out, barefoot, heart racing. You kneel in front of the little door, cold air spilling from the crack. You shouldn’t open it.
You open it.
Inside, everything is almost the same, but more. The lights are too bright. The air is heavy with the smell of clean sheets and something sweeter, deeper. The walls breathe in and out, colors alive.
And him.
He’s in the kitchen, humming, making tea, back to you. He turns, smiles wide. That face, your Nam-gyu, but better, sharper. His skin is flawless. His hair falls just right. His mouth, red as a bite. And his eyes,
Black buttons, stitched through flesh. Unblinking, glossy, impossibly black. They should be horrifying, but they’re mesmerizing.
“Welcome home, beautiful,” he purrs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You freeze.
He comes closer, stalking, eyes fixed on you. He touches your cheek, thumb grazing your jaw.
“God, you look good tonight,” he murmurs, voice slow and smoky. “Didn’t you miss me?”
You try to speak. His thumb presses your lips. “Shhh. No need to talk. Just let me… make you feel better.”
He tugs you closer, lips at your throat, teeth grazing skin. His hands are everywhere, cupping your ass, sliding under your shirt, cold at first, then burning. He pushes you against the table, mouth on your collarbone, button-eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry.
His grip is possessive, almost animal. He pulls your hair back, breathes in your scent, groans, “You’re sweeter here. Everything about you is brighter.”
You gasp, feeling dizzy. The kitchen stretches and melts around you, every color pulsing, every shadow deepening.
He spins you, bends you over the table. “Look at you,” he croons, “letting another man touch you like this. Or maybe you know you’re mine. You always have been.”
You feel him grind against you, hard through his jeans, breath hot on your neck.
“Tell me you want it,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, finding you wet already. “Say it.”
“I want it,” you whisper, voice high and trembling.
He laughs, slow and cruel. “That’s right. Beg for it, baby.”
You whine, desperate, grinding back into his palm. His hand is perfect, fingers long, knuckles pressing just right. He works you open, moaning at every gasp and shiver.
Then he flips you, lifting you onto the table, mouth on your nipples through your shirt, teeth nipping until you gasp. He pins your wrists above your head, mouth sliding down your belly, nose pressed to your skin, humming, “Other fiancé takes care of you. Better than him. Let me show you.”
You arch, shameless, heat crawling up your body. He goes down on you like he’s starving, tongue rough, fast, relentless, lips and teeth grazing just the right spot. You clench, legs shaking, breath coming in ragged sobs as you fall apart, the pleasure edged with fear, with hunger, with the knowledge you might never want to leave.
He doesn’t let you come down. He strips you, tosses your shirt, sucks a bruise into your inner thigh, claiming, marking. His tongue slides up your slick folds, two fingers plunging inside, hitting the spot that makes your back arch off the table.
You look down and see those buttons, reflecting nothing but you, your body, the desperate way you’re grinding against his mouth.
“Fuck..please..” you beg, voice thin, “don’t stop..”
He doesn’t.
He keeps you there, teetering, falling, over and over, until you’re sobbing his name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, brings it to his lips, sucks it clean, smiling.
“Good girl,” he whispers. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”
You nod, boneless, ruined.
He stands, undoes his jeans, pulls his cock free, thick, perfect, almost too much. He rubs the tip against your soaked entrance, pushing in slow, filling you, not blinking, just watching every tiny shudder and whimper.
He fucks you deep, hard, body caging yours, every thrust sending you spiraling, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in. His mouth is everywhere, biting your throat, your jaw, kissing your lips open, stealing your breath.
“Stay here,” he whispers, hips snapping, the table squeaking. “Let me sew those pretty eyes shut, keep you for myself, forever. I’ll take care of you. You’ll never be alone again.”
You moan, clinging to him, needing, craving, letting him drag you down into the bright, unreal world where everything is sweeter, every pleasure sharper.
You come, stars bursting behind your eyes, and he follows, groaning your name, hips stuttering, spilling inside you, holding you so tight it almost hurts.
After, he cradles you against his chest, fingers stroking your face, humming a lullaby you almost recognize. The kitchen melts into a bedroom, the bed swallowing you whole, everything soft and warm and wrong.
“Don’t go back,” he murmurs, voice curling around your heart. “You’re perfect here. Stay with me, baby. I’ll make you happy forever. All you have to do is say yes.”
He strokes your eyelids with his thumbs, gentle but insistent. “Let me make you mine. Really mine.”
You shiver, trembling between fear and the most exquisite pleasure you’ve ever known, wondering, just for a second, how it would feel to stay. To let him sew buttons into your eyes, keep you here in this hot, strange, perfect dream where you’re never lonely, never unloved, always wanted.
And when you wake up, sweaty, aching, half-sure it was all a dream, back in your normal bed next to your normal Nam-gyu, there’s a black button on the pillow next to you.
Summary: You’re Jae-won’s girlfriend and you watch him die on set of Squid Game as Nam-gyu but it feels too real for you and freaks you out
Warnings: Angst, Character death
Word Count: 2.7k
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They wipe the blood off your face, but it still feels like it’s there. Sticky. Warm. In your hairline, under your nails, in the collar of the green tracksuit.
“Good job today,” one of the makeup artists says gently as she pulls off the little squib from your chest. “You died beautifully.”
You laugh because that’s what you’re supposed to do, a breathy, polite sound, but your throat is tight and your ears are still ringing with the phantom echo of gunfire and screaming. Red Light Green Light is over. Your character is dead. You’ve already taken off the number tag from your chest and handed it back like it never belonged to you in the first place.
But you’re still here weeks later.
You don’t go back to the green room. You don’t hop in the van. You tug your jacket tighter around your jumpsuit and wander back toward the monitors, because even though your character’s done, your boyfriend isn’t. Roh Jae-won is still on the call sheet, which means Nam-gyu is still alive, and you’re not ready to let him go.
Not yet.
From behind the cluster of monitors, the Jump Rope set looks unreal, like something out of a fever dream. The high suspended bridge with its metal grate floor. The massive rope swinging in slow rehearsal arcs. The rigging, the wires, the safety crew. It’s all so obviously constructed and controlled until the cameras roll, and then the game becomes real in your head whether you want it to or not.
“Rolling again in ten!” someone shouts.
You hug yourself, fingers buried in the sleeves of your jacket, and find him on the screen.
Nam-gyu. Or Jae-won. Or something in between.
His hair’s a little sweat-damp, falling into his eyes. The harness is hidden under the track jacket, but you know it’s there because you watched the stunt coordinator fit it on him earlier, watched them double-check the wires, watched Jae-won joke with the staff even though his fingers were tapping against his thighs.
You’d offered him a hug.
He’d taken two.
The assistant director leans closer to the monitor, jaw tight. The prop cross necklace, the one that used to hang from Thanos’s neck, dangles from Nam-gyu’s fingers in the shot. You know the beats of this scene already. You listened to the director explain it. You watched Min-su go over his blocking with that easy grin he always has offset.
“Min-su throws the cross,” the director had said. “Nam-gyu hesitates, goes after it, because he thinks the pills are still inside. That distraction, that choice, that addiction is what kills him in the end. Got it?”
Everyone had nodded.
You’d kept your arms wrapped around yourself even then.
Now, you watch it unfold.
“Action!”
On the monitor, Min-su’s face twists in a mix of fear and rage as he clutches the silver cross necklace. His shout echoes off the set walls, the words drowned beneath the thumping, anxious music blaring for atmosphere. Then he hurls the necklace out toward the bridge.
You see it clattering across the metal grate.
The camera whips to Nam-gyu. To Jae-won. To the way his eyes go wide, the way his breath hitches. Even from a distance, even through the monitor, you feel his panic all the way in your chest.
“Don’t,” you whisper under your breath, even though you know he will. He has to. That’s the scene.
Nam-gyu steps forward. He runs out onto the bridge, jumping in time over the swinging arc of the rope. He crouches to grab the necklace, fingers closing around it with desperate tenderness.
You’ve held that prop in your own hands in the green room, laughing while Thanos joked about it being his “holy stash.” You know exactly how cool the metal feels, how the tiny hinge opens, how the fake pills rattle inside.
Except this time, there’s no rattle.
On the monitor, Nam-gyu flicks it open with his thumb.
Empty.
The expression that crumples his face steals your breath. It’s not big, not theatrical. It’s small and broken, a quiet devastation. His whole body sags forward, like the air’s been punched out of him, like the last little piece of hope just dissolved.
You forget to blink.
Maybe he does too, because he doesn’t see the rope.
It swings back in a vicious, perfect arc.
Someone near you inhales sharply as it slams across his chest. You know it’s padded, you know the harness catches him, you know there’s a wire team and crash mats and rehearsals, but your heart still lurches into your mouth as his feet leave the ground.
On the monitor, Nam-gyu flies backwards, arms flailing. The cameras catch the shock in his eyes, the flail of limbs, the glint of the useless cross tumbling after him. Then he disappears off the edge of the bridge, out of frame, swallowed by the implied abyss.
Your stomach drops with him.
“Cut!” the director yells, but the word doesn’t hit you right away. It echoes weird, like you’re underwater.
You know he’s fine, you know he’s fine, you know he’s fine.
You still feel like you just watched your boyfriend die.
You press your knuckles to your mouth, eyes burning. The crew starts moving, resetting, doing what they always do. Voices chatter over comms. Someone jogs past you, laughing, “Good fall, hyung!” toward the bridge where they’re reeling Jae-won back up like a human yo-yo.
You can’t make your legs move.
“You good?” one of the PAs asks as they squeeze by you.
You nod automatically, but your throat closes up, tears blurring your vision. It’s stupid. You’ve died here already. You’ve watched half the cast get “shot,” watched your friends collapse in rehearsed slow motion. You’ve stepped over fake blood. You’ve seen the prop guns up close, bright plugs in the barrels.
This is different.
This is him.
When someone else tries to stand beside you to watch the playback, you mumble a quick apology and step away, heart hammering. The hallway outside the soundstage is dimmer, quieter. Your footsteps echo on the concrete as you head toward the nearest corner, some little nook between stacked set walls where no one’s paying attention.
Your hands are shaking.
You lean back against the cool plywood, tipping your head against it, and squeeze your eyes shut. You can still see it, that split second where Nam-gyu looks down and sees the empty cross, where his lips part in a tiny, shocked “oh,” like he finally realizes nothing’s ever going to save him, not money, not pills, not anything.
You drag in a shaky breath and it just shudders out again.
“Hey.”
His voice finds you before he does. Low, familiar, a little breathless from the stunt.
You open your eyes.
Jae-won is half in costume, half in not. Harness straps peek from under his jacket, clips jangling near his hips. His hair’s even messier now, cheeks flushed from the fall, the residual adrenaline still bright in his eyes. Someone’s already unhooked his wires, but there’s a little smear of fake dirt on his jaw that makes him look even more like Nam-gyu.
It doesn’t help.
You swallow. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
He raises an eyebrow, then gives you that crooked little smile that always makes your chest warm. “I got better.”
You huff out something like a laugh, except it cracks halfway through and turns into a shaky inhale. Your eyes sting traitorously.
His smile drops.
In two strides he’s in front of you, one hand braced on the wall beside your head, the other hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure where yet.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “What’s wrong?”
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing, I’m fine, I’m just, I don’t know, being stupid.”
He frowns. “You’re shaking.”
You realize you are, fingers trembling at your sides, shoulders tight. The moment you notice it, it gets worse. Your throat burns, your vision blurs again, and suddenly you’re furious at yourself for this, for falling apart over a scene when everyone else is just doing their jobs.
“Is it the stunt?” he asks quietly. “Did it look bad from the monitors?”
“Yes,” you blurt, and then the dam cracks. “Jae-won, you just… you just fell. You just, you went over the edge and the necklace and…”
Your voice breaks completely. Tears slip free, hot and embarrassing.
His face softens in a way that makes it worse and better all at once.
“You know it’s safe,” he says gently. “We rehearsed it, baby. We practiced like… ten times? The harness, the mats…”
“I know,” you cut in, frustrated, wiping at your cheeks. “I know that. My brain knows that, but it still feels like I just watched you die. Again. My character’s already dead and Thanos is dead and now Nam-gyu’s dead, and it’s so stupid because they’re just characters, but I feel like I’m losing all of you in there and I…”
You trail off on a helpless little sob.
There’s a beat of silence. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone’s wheeling equipment. A distant laugh echoes.
Then Jae-won closes the distance.
He pulls you into his chest so suddenly you let out a tiny squeak, but his arms are there, solid and warm and real, wrapping all the way around your back, hands spreading between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to cover as much of you as possible.
Your face ends up pressed to the front of his green track jacket. It smells like stage dust, sweat, a faint hint of laundry detergent. Underneath that, that quiet, familiar Jae-won scent that has nothing to do with the character he’s playing.
Something in you unclenches.
“It’s not stupid,” he says into your hair.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “It feels stupid.”
“I cried in my trailer over the script the first time I read this episode,” he says. “Does that make me stupid too?”
You sniff. “A little.”
He laughs under his breath, chest shaking against your cheek.
“Wow. Brutal.” He rubs a slow circle on your back with his palm. “You’re allowed to be upset. You’ve been living in this world for weeks, you know. All the games, the set, the colors. You died out there today. That’s… that’s a lot already. Then you have to stand there and watch me go through it too.”
“Nam-gyu,” you mumble into his chest.
He hums. “Nam-gyu.”
“It’s not just you,” you say, voice small. “It’s him. It’s watching him go. He’s so… messed up, but he’s trying, and then they just… they take everything away, even the stupid pills, and he still goes after them because it’s the only thing he knows how to do, and then…”
You can’t finish. He knows how it ends.
You feel his lips brush the top of your head. “I know.”
“You looked so scared,” you whisper. “When you opened it and it was empty. You looked like someone just ripped your heart out.”
“That’s kind of what’s happening to him,” Jae-won says softly. “That’s the moment he realizes nothing’s left. No more escape, no more help, nothing to numb it. Just… rope.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Sorry.” He squeezes you a little tighter. “Hey. Look at me.”
You don’t want to. You do it anyway.
He lets one arm fall away so he can cup your face in his hand, thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, but his gaze is steady, anchored right on you.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m okay. See? Alive. Very much not splattered on the floor.”
You make a face. “Oh my god.”
“Too graphic?” he asks, wincing.
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” he says again, softer. The apology lingers in his eyes. “It’s my job to make it feel real, you know that. But I never want to make you feel like this.”
“You didn’t,” you argue quietly. “The story did. The writers did. The jump rope did.”
“The jump rope,” he repeats, like it’s personally offended you. “Okay. I’ll fight it later.”
A watery laugh escapes you, unwilling but real.
“I just…” You curl your fingers into his jacket, holding on. “My character died in Red Light Green Light. Everyone was screaming and people were dropping and I kept thinking, ‘At least he’s still there. At least Nam-gyu is still alive.’ And now he’s not. And I know we’ll go home together after wrap and eat something stupid and watch YouTube, but right now it just feels like I lost you in there and I hate it.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“You’re not losing me,” he says. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
“You say that now,” you mutter, “but you just willingly fell off a bridge.”
“For money,” he says. “And art. Mostly for money.”
You snort.
His thumb strokes along your cheekbone again, slow and careful. “Hey. You know what I thought about when I was hanging there?”
“What?”
“You,” he says simply. “I was upside down, staring at the ceiling lights, and all I could think was, ‘She’s watching. I hope she doesn’t freak out.’ So this is partly my fault. I didn’t freak out enough for both of us.”
“I miss him already,” you admit after a moment. “Nam-gyu.”
He nods. “Me too.”
You look up at him, surprised.
“What?” he asks. “You think I can just take him off like this jacket? I’ve been living in his head too, you know. I’ve been carrying around his addiction, his fear, the way he looks at Thanos, the way he walls everyone out.”
He exhales slowly, eyes going distant for a second.
“It’s like… letting go of a friend who drives you crazy,” he says. “You love him, but you also want to shake him all the time. When I opened that empty cross, it hurt.” He taps his chest lightly. “Here.”
You swallow. “Then why are we doing this to ourselves?”
“Because someone out there is going to see him,” he says calmly. “See Nam-gyu lose everything and think, ‘I know what that feels like,’ and maybe not feel so alone. Because stories like this stick. Because you and I get to be the ones who tell it right.”
You blink at him, throat thick again, but not in the same sharp way as before.
“And also,” he adds, lips twitching, “because the director said so.”
You laugh, really laugh this time, shoulders shaking. He smiles like that’s all he wanted.
“What if I never stop crying about him?” you ask. “What if every time I see a jump rope I just burst into tears in the street?”
He pretends to think about it. “Then I, Jae-won, your devoted boyfriend, will bravely take all future jump rope-related responsibilities. I’ll do all the skipping for us. You can just hold the handles and be pretty.”
His hand slips from your cheek to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing the small tense muscles there. “It’s sweet,” he says quietly. “It means you care. It means we’re doing something right.”
You stare at him for a long moment, the noisy blur of the set humming faintly in the background. The distant shouts, the scrape of metal, the crackle of walkie-talkies all feel far away when his eyes are right here.
“Can we just go home after you’re done?” you ask. “No after-party, no drinks, just… home. I want to see you in our ugly pajamas alive, not in a green tracksuit hanging off a bridge.”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Of course. I want that too.”
He lowers his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a second. “I still owe you jjajangmyeon for letting them kill you first, remember?”
You sniff, smiling a little. “You owe me more than noodles for that.”
“I’ll throw in tangsuyuk,” he bargains. “Half sauce, half on the side.”
Summary: Nam-gyu is Romeo and you are the innocent girl next door, Juliet, until Nam-gyu decides to corrupt you.
Warnings: None, discussion of sex but there’s nothing explicit
Word Count: 1.3k
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You’d always known Nam-gyu was trouble.
You saw it in the way mothers whispered his name, half in warning, half in awe. In the way your father shook his head when his name came up over dinner, “That boy from next door, always in some mess, nothing good will come of him.” In the way teachers sighed when they took roll call, already bracing for another fight, another skipped class, another note sent home.
But to you, he was just the boy on the other side of the fence.
The one with the too-long hair and the sharp eyes who smoked behind the garbage bins and drew tattoos on his arms in ballpoint pen. The one who slouched on his porch in the sticky Seoul summer, head tipped back, eyes half closed, always alone.
You’d watched him for years from your window, tucked behind the gauzy curtains, heart fluttering whenever he glanced up and caught your gaze. You’d look away so fast you’d see stars. He’d smirk, just a little, as if he knew something you didn’t.
You’d never spoken, not really. You’d brushed shoulders on the stairs. He’d held the elevator once when your hands were full of grocery bags. You’d mumbled thanks, and he’d just nodded, looking you up and down like he was cataloguing every detail.
That was it. Until the night everything changed.
Your parents were fighting again. Quiet, sharp words leaking under your door, the kind of argument that left you knotted and breathless. You slipped out to the balcony for air, knees pulled to your chest, breathing in the sticky darkness.
You didn’t see him at first.
Then, a soft clink, a lighter flicking, the warm curl of cigarette smoke drifting through the slats between your apartments.
You almost went back inside. You didn’t. Something in you wanted to stay, to see what happened if you didn’t keep running.
He spoke first.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was low, scratchy, edged with something dangerous.
You hesitated. “No. You?”
He snorted. “I never sleep.”
A beat of silence stretched. You heard him exhale, the cherry of his cigarette glowing red in the dark.
“Is it bad?” he asked. You weren’t sure what he meant, the fighting, your parents, your life. You just nodded.
He made a low sound. “Mine too.”
You let out a shaky laugh, surprised. “You don’t seem like the type to care about stuff like that.”
He laughed, quiet and bitter. “That’s the point. Nobody cares what I do. So I do whatever I want.” His eyes met yours in the dim light, reflecting the moon. “But I see you. Every day, all perfect in your little skirts. You ever wish you could break the rules?”
You swallowed, suddenly shy. “Maybe.”
He grinned, wolfish. “Careful, Juliet. You say things like that, and I’ll start thinking you want to play with fire.”
You felt heat rush to your cheeks. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned forward, elbows on the balcony rail. “You ever want something you’re not supposed to have?”
Your breath caught. “Sometimes.”
He held your gaze, unblinking, like he could see straight through you. “What’s your name?”
You told him, quietly.
He repeated it, tasting it, letting it settle in the air between you. “I’m Nam-gyu,” he said, voice almost gentle. “If you want to run away, Juliet, just say the word.”
You smiled, small, secret, reckless.
That was the first night.
After that, it became a ritual, whispers across the balcony, shared secrets under cover of darkness, laughter low and soft so nobody would hear. You learned the stories behind his scars. He listened to your dreams and didn’t laugh, even when you told him you still wanted to see the ocean, to ride a bike with no hands, to kiss someone and mean it.
He started calling you “Juliet” every night. “You look like a princess,” he’d tease, flicking his lighter. “Don’t let me corrupt you.”
You’d roll your eyes, but inside, something would twist with longing.
He taught you how to flick a lighter, how to tell when someone was lying, how to slip out without making a sound. You taught him how to braid your hair, how to make tteokbokki that wouldn’t burn the pan, how to dream bigger than this small street.
One night, you let him climb over the dividing wall, breath held as he balanced, the risk making your heart pound. He landed on your balcony with a soft thud, close enough that you could smell the faint smoke on his hoodie, the peppermint gum on his breath.
You stood toe to toe, knees brushing. He looked at you like you were something precious, something forbidden.
“Tell me to go,” he whispered, voice ragged.
You couldn’t. Instead, you reached out, fingers trembling, touching his jaw, tracing the stubble there.
“Don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t go.”
He kissed you first, soft and questioning, waiting for you to flinch. When you didn’t, when you pressed closer, he deepened the kiss, hands cupping your cheeks like you might break if he held too tight.
You tasted like innocence. He tasted like sin.
After that, nothing could stop you.
You snuck out to meet him at midnight, nerves electric, every footstep a rebellion. You learned how to lie, how to cover for each other, how to hold hands in the dark without ever getting caught.
He was careful at first, never pushing, never demanding, always asking if you were sure. But there were moments when his patience wore thin, when the hunger in his eyes went dark and heavy.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he’d whisper, voice frayed as he pressed you against your bedroom door. “You make me want things I shouldn’t want. Make me want to ruin you.”
You shivered, but you never told him to stop. Sometimes you wanted to see how far he’d go. Sometimes you wanted to push him off the edge.
“You want me to be bad for you, don’t you?” he’d ask, hands skating up your thighs, mouth hot on your neck. “You like it when I make you blush. When I call you mine.”
You’d nod, breathless, clinging to his hoodie, letting him see just how much you wanted to fall.
He never called you “good girl” at first, he called you “innocent,” “sweetheart,” “little one.” It made you burn, made you ache, made you want to prove you weren’t so innocent after all.
And when you finally said, “I want you, Nam-gyu. I want you to teach me everything. Please” he went very still, searching your face for any trace of doubt.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he warned, voice harsh with need. “Because if I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
You looked him in the eye, hands shaking, heart on the line. “Then don’t stop.”
The first time he took you, it was messy and desperate, bodies tangled in the dark, hands everywhere, mouths hungry and searching. He was careful even when he was rough, biting back curses as he pressed his forehead to yours.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m never letting you go.”
Afterward, you curled into his side, feeling wicked and holy all at once.
“You’re mine now,” he said, almost in awe.
“Always,” you promised.
You lived in those stolen nights, those secret touches, the thrill of being caught and the rush of breaking every rule you’d ever known.
He was your ruin, and your salvation. You were his weakness, and his reason to fight.
And if you were star-crossed, if the world tried to pull you apart, at least you knew you’d burned brighter, together, than either of you ever could alone.
