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이희승 — firewatch

𝓣he year is 1989. To escape his messy life, Heeseung Lee takes a job as a fire lookout in the Shoshone National Forest, where his one and only contact for the summer is you - his supervisor - through a small, handheld radio. Your life is no less miserable, and that's what originally brought you here, too, almost a decade ago. But when something external draws Heeseung into the unknown and threatens his and your safety, the veil between you drops, and your psyches begin to warp as you try to uncover the source of the turmoil. The wedding band on his finger is snug at first, but with every day that Heeseung spends in your company, it gradually slips off. And eventually - when all is said and done - he has to decide between honoring his sick wife or destroying the only meaningful relationship he's had in years.

𝓹airing: stranger.ᐟheeseung 𝔁 𝓯.ᐟreader ── ⟢ 𝓬ontains smut ♱ mdni ♱ taboo themes

𝔀ord count: 37k

𝓬ontent: eventual smut, morally gray reader & heeseung, mentioned character with dementia, suggestive comments and implications, very brief mention of suicide, heavy depictions of guilt, mentions of death, climbing accident, forest fires, main characters are being watched, psychological damages

𝓻achel ꨄ︎: i've been working on this since early january, and i will tell you that not one day has gone by that i haven't worked on this. firewatch is one of my favorite all-time games, and if you haven't played it, i strongly recommend - as for this fic, a few plot points have been changed for originality and story purposes to focus more on their relationship. in short, i poured my heart into this, so i hope you all enjoy! 𝓶asterlist

── smut tags below the cut .ᐟ

𝔀arnings: mutual masturbation, soft dom heeseung, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, cumming on pussy, doggy, morning sex °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° WHAT DOES SOMEONE DO when they hike for two days into the middle of nowhere, just to find nothing but a firewatch tower and a bunch of trees? The year is 1989. The forest is peaceful this time of year, not quite warm enough yet for a fire to catch, though the heat slowly approaches. The sun beams onto the forest, no wildlife within sight, and the wind streams through the trees on the wide expanse. It’s tranquil, yet eerie in a way that those inside can’t quite place. Heeseung’s mind plays its memories like a tape as he walks through the grass, climbs loose rocks, and pushes past thick bushes in his path. He married Sooha five years ago. They’d met three years prior, at a small gathering of mutual friends from high school, where they’d connected almost immediately. Before the week ended, they were together. The three years they spent dating were nothing short of lovely, filled with dinners, drinks, dances, and a cheesy movie date that turned out to be one of the worst films they’d ever seen. They moved in together, and no sooner were they married off and living in the quaint house that they called home. It was equipped with a small color television and even had beige carpeted floors that were probably ten years old. But it was theirs. Sooha got sick only two years in. The doctors said it was the early stages of dementia, after her first spell. But she’s only twenty-six, Heeseung had protested, yet they persisted, saying it was rare, and somehow, possible. He took care of her at first, often opting to stay home to make sure she was safe. He would take her out some nights until she could no longer, when her memory began to dissipate, slowly, but surely.

It was just two months ago that her ability to function faltered. She would wake up, forgetting where she was, and toy with the ring on her finger, stare at Heeseung as if she’d never seen him before. And gradually, her condition grew worse, harsher, until finally, she couldn’t live there anymore. Her parents swiftly removed her from the household, despite his protests, and nearly cut contact. Though—even when he could speak with her—she’d completely forgotten who he was.

Heeseung steps into a clearing and notices a tall firewatch tower peeking through the tops of the trees. He knows he’s close and continues, listening to the soft hum of a small stream nearby as he treks up the incline until the dirt beneath his feet turns to grass.

He saw the ad in the paper one morning, just a few days ago. FIREWATCH LOOKOUT NEEDED, the bolded letters read against the warm gray of the page. It didn’t pay much, and truthfully, it seemed like something quite miserable, but Heeseung took it. Because his life lost its direction, and he just needed to step away. Even if just for one summer.

When he finally reaches the tower, standing tall above him, he surveys the surrounding area. An old, dingy outhouse sits just a few yards away from one of the tower’s legs. It’s not large, and the door does not fully close, but it’s enough. Survivable. Beside it is a generator. Not much power, he thinks to himself, but it’s not meant to do more than provide some light.

He adjusts his backpack’s strap and starts for the set of stairs that wrap around the tower’s exterior. Their white paint is mostly chipped away, some of the weaker steps creak under his shoe, and he opts not to grip the railing too tightly (he doesn’t want to obtain a splinter that he will have no time to remove). But he reaches the top soon enough, where a platform no wider than two feet welcomes him, leading him to the tower’s door that hides almost nothing. Every wall is equipped with corner-to-corner windows, and the door isn’t much different, only equipped with a dusty set of blinds that don’t offer much when the rest of the windows have no curtains at all.

Privacy is a myth; then again, no human life resides for miles. Except,

“Hello? Hello?”

Heeseung’s eyes flit towards the startling noise: a female voice coming from the small yellow and black walkie-talkie sitting on top of the work desk. He hangs his backpack on the hook just beside the door and takes the radio in his palm, examining it for no more than a few seconds before pressing on the button on the side and speaking into it.

“Hello?”

“Oh, great—it works,” the unidentified female’s voice rings through the low-quality speaker again, and Heeseung’s brows furrow. “You’re the new lookout, right?”

“I—yeah, that’s me. I’m H—,” he pauses, looking down ashamedly at his feet before clearing his throat. “Evan. My name’s Evan.”

“Well, Evan, it’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Y/N.” You smile from the other end, where you’re perched comfortably inside a tower miles away from him, only able to catch a glimpse of his tower’s silhouette from so far away. You introduce yourself kindly, though Heeseung seems apprehensive, as if being here and taking this whole job is something he shouldn’t even be doing; perhaps, he shouldn’t.

“It looks like we’ll be in pretty close contact for the next few months. I’ll be like your byoss, you know? Sit up here, give you some tasks to do outside, whistle some tunes while you complete them,” you laugh. “But…I know that you’re probably tired. I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions tomorrow. So for now, I’ll let you get settled in and head to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

You don’t spare him a moment to speak before turning the radio off and heading to sleep yourself. Heeseung confusedly sets the radio back on its charging station and turns with his hands on his hips to admire the place he’ll be staying for the foreseeable future.

There is just enough inside to keep living. A furnace rests in the corner next to the desk, a few cabinets sit on its opposite end with a sink attached to one, and a bed occupies the space in another corner. Only a thin sheet and a small blanket sit on top, alongside the pillow that looks anything but soft. Finally, a stand that looks to have a map on top centers the room, but he doesn’t touch it. Not yet, until his brain has enough rest to really study it.

It’s not comfortable. It’s not cozy. It’s barely clean. But again, it’s enough. It’s survivable.

And Heeseung will have to get used to it, because that’s what he’s being paid to do. This is what he chose to pursue instead of getting his life together at home, because it’s turned into such a mess that he doesn’t know what he’ll return to. But that doesn’t matter now. All he needs to focus on is a good night’s sleep and the forest not catching on fire.

Can’t be that hard, right? °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 1 A gentle breeze drifts through the pivot window; the thin piece of paper inside the typewriter flutters. The smell of fresh air wafts into the room, and Heeseung, who just woke up barely ten minutes prior, sits at the desk and presses away at the machine’s keys.

He types his issues to no one. Details the exact pit that has resided in his stomach since Sooha’s memory began to slip. It’s not much—and the grammar is quite poor—but it’s an outlet to put his thoughts into the world without speaking them to someone else. Someone who will know and see his vulnerabilities. Combined with the calm of the forest, it dulls the ache.

“Evan?” Heeseung’s head turns to the radio. “I know you’re awake—pick up when you’re ready.”

He loosens the paper from the typewriter and lays it over a few pencils on the desk. As he looks out the window at the distant mountains, his fingers drift toward the walkie-talkie and press the button.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Morning, sunshine,” you quip into the microphone, your feet crossed over your desk. “Welcome to Two Forks—that’s your lookout. If you take a glance out your north window, you might just see the top of Thorofare. That’s where I am.” You pause to let him look. “I’m waving, but you can’t see me. Anyway, I’m sure the first thing you’d like to do is head outside after the long hike, but it’s good to get acquainted with the area.”

Heeseung nods. “Alright, so…what do I have to do?”

“Good question,” you reply. “I’m sure you’ve already noticed the map in the middle of the room. Sitting on the big pedestal-looking thing? You can use it to scout the area until you’re more familiar with it, and there will be a nice little indicator beside it in the form of a compass! You can take that, too. Y’know, to help with your direction, and all that.”

He stands from the creaky chair beneath him and walks toward the podium in the center. His eyes study the map, which reads Two Forks Region Overview at the top. He notes the landmarks, studies the paths he’ll have to take, and, most importantly, the small compass in the corner to indicate each direction.

“Yeah, I see it,” he finally says to you, grabbing the map from its place and folding it up to store in his pocket. “So, is there anyone else here?”

“Nope.” You lean forward, resting your chin on your palm. “I’ll be your only contact, really just to tell you where to go and what to do. Direct you, for lack of a better term.”

“Great,” he emphasizes the t.

“Love the enthusiasm,” you joke, only to be interrupted as you catch a glimpse of something unfamiliar in the distance. “Hey, Evan—look outside your westward-facing window.”

He glances to his left, “Fireworks?”

“Yeah, fucking fireworks,” you grit. “Looks like some stupid teenagers think they’re cool for lighting them off. God, do they even understand how dangerous that is?” You sigh, taking a sip of lukewarm water from the glass on your desk. No condensation even drips down the side—it’s been warm the whole time. “Well, now we have your first mission. You’re gonna have to head down there and put a stop to it.”

“What am I supposed to do, beat them up?”

“No! God, no,” you deny, “you just need to make sure they leave, not catch a lawsuit.” You assess the smoke and follow the trail down to find the source, grateful that your tower stands much taller than his. “It looks like they’re by the lake. You should see it on your map, it’s not too far. On the path, you should find a cache box marked 306. The passcode for the lock is 1-2-3-4; it’s the same for all of them.”

“Sounds safe.”

“Well, I didn’t make them,” you rebut. “Anyway, there should be some rope inside from the old lookout. You’ll need it to get down the shale slides.”

“Is that even safe?”

You perch a hand on your hip. “I don’t know what you expected from a job like this, Evan, but usually it entails a lot of climbing and being in unsafe areas. Why do you think nobody wants to do it, aside from the total isolation aspect?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I know,” you glare. “So, that being said—head down to the lake, grab the rope on the way, and shoo those teenagers away. Radio me if you need anything.”

Heeseung turns the knob on the old door, listening to the faint scuff of wood against wood, then the sound as it clicks shut. He carefully walks down the long set of stairs, admiring the gentle surroundings until he reaches the ground, where he unfolds the map to locate the lake. He trails a finger along the white pathway mapped out across the paper as he walks, careful not to misstep and send himself flying down an incline.

“So what’s wrong with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Most people don’t take this job for fun. They usually do it to run from something, or to be alone,” you explain. “So—what’s wrong with you?”

Heeseung’s lips part to speak, but he refrains. The wedding band on his finger suddenly feels too heavy. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. “Nothing,” he settles, “just getting some fresh air.”

“Well…Escaping isn’t always a bad thing.” You swallow, toying with your fingers. “Just…try to remember that, or this stay is gonna feel a lot longer.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Sooha’s memory stains his mind when he lowers the radio. Sometimes, he wishes he could forget about the eight years they spent together, about how she declined so fast, about how he’d wasted so much time. But he shouldn’t. He’s not here to leave—he’s here to find direction, an answer that may not even be waiting for him.

But as he walks along the dirt path, pulse throbbing in his ears, he can’t help but wonder what his life will be like without her. Deep down, he knows that her parents will force the ring off his finger. He knows they never approve of him. And he knows that marrying her was comfortable, safe, sweet…only for it to become the nightmare he never expected, nor could he wake up from.

The hike after isn’t too long—only a mile or two—and he is quick to reach the supply cache you had mentioned. His thoughts fizzle out; he has something to focus on, now.

“Okay,” he whispers to himself as he steps in front of the lock and brings it closer to his face. “1…2…3…and…” he mumbles, “4.” The lock clicks; Heeseung pries the top open to reveal the tied-off rope inside, alongside a flashlight, and attached to the door is a small note that marks the shale slides closest to the cache. He copies the information onto his map and shuts the door.

“Hey,” he speaks into the radio as he continues forward along the path, noting the open area ahead. “I just got the rope. I should be coming up on the lake within the next—oh, ten, fifteen?”

“Wonderful,” you cheer, clapping quietly by tapping the edge of the radio, hoping it’s loud enough for him to hear. Heeseung only registers a muffled pang and doesn’t bother to comment on it. “You’re a real trooper, Evan. Keep up the good work.”

“Thanks.”

The first shale slide appears in the distance, and Heeseung, admittedly nervous, swallows as he approaches the fixture sticking out of the ground where he’s supposed to hook the rope. With an unsteady hand, he snaps the rope’s loop into the carabiner clip and tugs to make sure that it’s secure.

It isn’t so bad once the dirt is secure beneath his feet and the tentative steps he takes down the incline feel comfortable. But perhaps he gets too comfortable, and suddenly the rope snaps above him. The departure sends him hurling toward the packed dirt below. His back slams onto the ground and nearly knocks the wind out of him; thankfully, he manages to keep his head up and refrain from hitting it.

“Ow, fuck,” he groans, bracing his lower back with his palm.

“Evan? Are you okay? I thought I heard static, or something.”

“Yeah, but I almost just fucking died,” he complains with a hiss, shaking his head to regain some of his consciousness. “The rope you told me to get snapped right in my hand. I know my grip strength isn’t particularly great, but I know I heard and felt something break.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. Sure, you sent him to the cache box where the faulty rope was, but how would you have even known it was too weak and would snap? Surely, it isn’t your fault. But you guess you feel a little guilty, considering the guy sounds absolutely winded, despite the speaker’s poor quality.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you mutter, scratching the back of your neck. “Hope everything’s okay. You alright?”

“Yeah, just shaken.”

“Great. Let me know if you find anything or have questions.”

The line falls dead for about three seconds.

“Or if you suddenly drop dead from shock, or something.”

Heeseung wonders if someone dropped you on your head as a child. He doesn’t bother to respond.

His eyes catch on a cliff that staggers above a large patch of dirt and gravel. He follows the path straight, the pop of fireworks drawing closer, along with the faint sound of music mixed with teenage yelps. The clearing reveals a small campfire. He notices two backpacks leaning against the bottom of the overhang. Opposite of those is a large rock, where two sets of clothes lay haphazardly overtop.

“Hey, so, I found their camp—I think,” he radios in, at which you cock a brow. “They’ve got a fire going,” he stomps over the wood, “—had a fire going. And, uh…their clothes are…here, too.”

“What?”

“If I had to make a guess, I’d say that they’re skinny dipping out there. And they left their clothes on top of some rock near the fire.”

“Great, but that doesn’t solve our problem. Head towards the lake and stop the fireworks. Worry about the clothes later,” you press, and Heeseung sighs, muttering a begrudging “yep,” before moving forward. “Call me when you’re done.”

The water is closer than he anticipated. A thin pathway is visible through the overgrown vines that he assumes is what leads to the beach, so he steps into it. Upon rounding the corner, he notices a fallen tree branch hanging like an archway over the path. And on it, as he draws closer, is a cream-colored bra; when his eyes fall to the ground, they find the second piece of the set.

His hand shakes a little when he lifts the device to his mouth; what if the girl suddenly appears and finds some man ogling her underwear? “So there is…a pair of, uh,” he sputters, “panties.”

“P-p-panties? Oh, the humanity!”

You let out a shrill gasp that hurts his ears from the other end of the line. “Man up, Evan. Ever seen a pair of those before, or are we still a virgin?”

Heeseung rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he mutters. “I am not a virgin, nor am I scared of a pair of women’s underwear. But you have to admit that when a twenty-eight-year-old man appears out of thin air to talk to a couple of teenage girls, it’s a little bit weird, Y/N.”

“Well…Okay, I suppose you have a point,” you sigh. “But it doesn’t matter, because you are there, and I am here. Therefore, you can figure that out for yourself, while I sit back and relax in my tower—sorta.” You pout, leaning back in your chair. “It’s pretty hot today.”

“You don’t say,” Heeseung grits; you giggle.

“Go toward the lake, Oh Great One! You know what to do.”

Heeseung swears that he’d murder you if you weren’t miles away from him and tucked away behind a mountain range. Instead, he’s forced to follow your command, ducking beneath an arch of connected vines to finally reveal the lake, where his eyes follow the fireworks’ trail down to the silhouettes of two teenage girls, jumping and cheering in the far distance. Bingo.

“Hey! You out there!” he shouts, and the girls turn in his direction. He can’t see their faces, but his gut tells him that they’re already creeped out; he can’t particularly blame them, not yet. “You can’t light fireworks here! You’ve gotta stop, it could start a fire!”

“Ugh, don’t yell at us, weirdo!” one of the girls retorts, and Heeseung sighs.

“I’m not trying to be weird, but I’ve been told to come down and tell you guys to stop lighting these off, so please, could you just stop it and go home?”

“This guy is fucking weird, grown man staring at us from the edge of the lake like a pussy. He probably took our underwear, too!”

“I’m not here to—okay,” he breathes, “look! You’re not allowed to be here, and I’m just doing my job! So I’m going to say it again: Get the fuck out!”

“You know what? This guy is weird. Let’s just leave.”

Heeseung blinks. “That’s what I told—whatever.” He perches a hand on his hip and irritably pulls the talkie out from his pocket. “Taken care of. The girls are…gone, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, they kept calling me weird, and then they just kinda…left. Their clothes and everything.” He steps toward the boombox and promptly shuts off the grating music, releasing a breath of relief. “So I don’t know where they went.”

“Oh,” you blink, “okay. Well, be safe coming back. You’ll have to find another way around.”

Heeseung’s brows furrow, and he eyes his surroundings. As far as he can see, the lake is much too large to trudge through or around, and he took the only way he knew to get here, which isn’t doable now that his rope is useless. “So where the hell am I supposed to go?” He rips the map out and scans it angrily. “I took the only way, right? And now I can’t get back up.”

“No,” you counter. “Look above the path you took. There’s a small stream that branches off the lake.” His eyes follow the stream through the canyon just north of the original pathway he took. “You obviously can’t go through the canyon, so you’ll have to stay along the stream. If I remember correctly, there should be a cave somewhere around cache box 303.”

“I see it.”

“That’ll lead you to a clearing that should take you back to Two Forks. Then you’ll be home free, and you can go ahead and take a nice nap, or—whatever men do after they’ve had a long day.”

“Do I seriously seem that pathetic to you?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

You laugh when he gives no response and peer out at the horizon. Your smile falters; suddenly, loneliness aches in your chest. No amount of friendly banter through a useless walkie-talkie could possibly be enough to cure the feeling that bubbles in your stomach when the isolation kicks in. It’s not fun—it’s punishing. But that’s what you wanted when you took the job half a decade ago. And it’s what you still think you need, now.

So, what’s your story?

Nothing. And as comedic as it may sound, that’s why you’re here. You don’t have a concrete reason, anything to escape from like Evan, or even an explanation for why this even sounded appetizing (it didn’t). You’re just here because you have nowhere else to be. So maybe you aren’t so different from him. Maybe some invisible force pulled you here, and this is all happening for a reason.

Otherwise, the complete isolation and mental turmoil will be for nothing. Which is something you’re far too used to for someone so young.

The sun begins to set along the outline of the landscape, the mountains your tower sits upon, and the ones far, far away. Your eyes drift toward Evan’s empty tower, only a silhouette amidst the setting sun behind it, and wonder. What he looks like, if his hair is short, or if it’s long enough to run a hand through, what clothes he wears, and if he even changes them out here. A clock somewhere behind you ticks; the silence infiltrates your ears like a threat.

Don’t get too close to him, it wants to say. You know what that means.

But something about him is different. You feel it in your chest, in every flash of static in the radio, every soft inflection of his voice through the speaker.

“There’s a cave.” His voice breaks the deafening silence. You sigh.

“A cave?”

“Yeah, it’s,” Heeseung steps closer and draws his map until he pinpoints the location, “near the cache box. It’s the shortest way back. Shouldn’t be long.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, lifting a brow. “It could be dangerous—”

“—oh, oh, god! Oh, god!”

“Evan?”

Heeseung’s laughter drifts out of the radio’s small speaker, and your shoulders slump. Relief washes over you, but irritation bleeds through once your body composes itself, and you scoff.

“That’s not very nice. You could’ve died, you know.”

“Would that really be so bad?” he adds jokingly, stepping cautiously through the old, narrow cave. He notices a light in the distance, just above some loose rocks he can climb to resurface, and moves toward it.

“It was fine down there,” he says once he nears the surface. “There is nothing wrong with this cave.”

“Okay, so just say that next time. Don’t bring me into it.”

“Alright, boss,” he laughs as he climbs up the staggered rocks, grunting softly with each press of his foot into the jagged stone. When his head peeks into the air, his eyes adjust to the gentle light of the dark-blue sky, where the sun has almost completely set since he entered. He huffs out a breath and looks forward, noticing the path leading up the hill beside him and following it carefully.

A flash of light beams into his eyes, and they shoot up to the top, where a figure no different from a human stands, notices his gaze, and clicks the flashlight off before running. Heeseung blinks and continues, weary of his surroundings, a chill running through his body that he doesn’t expect; he hasn’t felt uneasy this entire time, yet now he does.

“Hey, someone, or—something, just shone a flashlight in my face. I think,” he radios in, and you swallow, feeling the same rush of adrenaline shoot through your veins like something ugly.

“Don’t look for them. Head back to your camp as fast as you can,” you instruct monotonously. “You don’t know what or who could be out there with you. It’s best that you don’t try to find out.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that. I’m not fuckin’ curious.”

“Good. Get back, and let me know that you’re safe when you do.”

He spares a quick glance at his surroundings when his feet touch the top of the cliff. Whoever the figure was had left without a trace. Didn’t even spare a misplaced rock or footprint in the thinning grass-turned-dirt near the trees. So he moves up the hill and straight to his tower that stands barely two hundred feet away, and he lets a sign of relief breeze past his lips upon spotting it. Like his body actually feels comfort in the rickety wood structure that he questions the stability of.

But when he finally, finally, reaches the bottom of the stairs, a brick of discomfort lodges itself in his stomach. Just in front of the first step lies his typewriter, somehow still together from the fall he assumes it took, and he curses under his breath, almost forgetting to even grab the machine before he bolts to the top of the tower.

“Alright, motherfucker, who are—” but he freezes.

No one is there. Not a soul, not even a small insect that crawled its way inside. Yet the place is ransacked—blankets tossed across the floor, belongings scattered along the chipped wood, glass shattered near the leg of his desk, and…

The photo of him and Sooha smashed to bits.

“That piece of shit got in here,” he grunts, slicing his finger on a shard that still hangs off the broken frame and hissing sharply as he tries to place it back on the desk. “I don’t know who they are, but they destroyed the whole place. The window is broken, too. Fuck.”

“Oh, my god,” you swallow, blinking as you lean an elbow against your desk. “I…I don’t know anyone who’s out here. Or what they’d have against you, but—I’ll call it in. Alert them that someone’s here with not-so-nice intentions.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung grits, “not fucking nice.”

“I’ll report it. I’m…sorry, Evan.”

“It’s…fine. I’ll board it up in the morning,” he sighs. “I’m too tired, anyway. I’m just gonna hit the hay for tonight.”

“Alright. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Heeseung sighs as his fingers curl around the buttons on his flannel shirt and loosen them until the shirt falls open. He lazily yanks the damp fabric off, followed by his white tank top, and drapes them over the back of the chair at his desk, which is just about as comfortable as sitting on a two-by-four, but he guesses it has to suffice.

He flops onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling, one arm perched between his head and the sheets. An old spider web hangs in the corner, where the walls meet the ceiling. Spots of dust litter the wood like decoration. He wonders how long it’s been since anyone cleaned this place. Months, at least. Maybe years.

His head pivots toward the desk again; the broken picture frame stares back at him like a reminder. The painful memory of what he left and why he’s even here. Not because of her. Because he gave up on her. When her parents took her away, he simply accepted it, threw in the towel, and took the first job he saw in the paper as if he thought he could run away from it. But the photo staring back at him reminds him that he shouldn’t be here, and that? That scares him in a way he can’t put into words.

Whoever was in here trashed everything. But what if they know? What if they’re telling him to leave?

He supposes it’s not their decision. And Heeseung is set in his ways. He wants the escape and the isolation, and goddamnit, he’ll get it, even if he dies out here. It’s not like anyone is waiting for his return.

He turns to the wall and pulls the thin, torn blanket over his frame, letting the gentle gusts of wind brush the exposed skin on his upper back through the hole in the window. Slowly, he drifts off, yet sleep is anything but peaceful for him. Then again, he doesn’t think any of this will be. °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 2 “Rise and shine, camper,” you chirp into the radio at approximately 9:35 in the morning. “The sun is up, the sky is blue, and whatever else John Lennon says.”

Heeseung groans, reaching around the threshold for the radio from outside, where he stands with a plank of wood and a hammer. “Yeah, morning,” he mumbles, on no more than six hours of sleep. “I’m trying to fix this damn window.”

“Jesus,” you mumble, gnawing gently on your bottom lip. “It’s that bad?”

“Well, someone put a typewriter through it, so yeah—pretty fuckin’ bad.”

You sigh, “That sucks. I called it in, though. They’re keeping their eyes out for others, now.”

Heeseung plants the last plank of wood against the window without a response and hammers the nail in until it’s secure. He sighs, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and letting his hand rest at his waist. The other reaches for the radio and presses the button like instinct.

“Got anything for me?”

“Yes, actually,” you reply matter-of-factly and sit back in your chair until its front legs lift, balancing your weight with the tips of your fingers on the desk. “There’s a downed communication line up here. The storm last night must have knocked out the power lines. I tried radioing it in, but…nothing. It means we’re cut off.”

You take a long, theatrical breath, which leads Heeseung to cock a brow and wonder if you’ll finish speaking. “The power lines stretch to the highest cliff here, which isn’t too far from my tower. But I can’t leave, so you’re gonna have to hike up there and check it out.” You let the legs touch the floor again. “Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah, sure.” He grabs his backpack from the hook inside the door and shuts it behind him. “You said near you?”

“Yeah, up by Beartooth Point.”

“Okay,” as he looks at the map, “I’ll head there now.”

He makes his way back into the trees. A chill runs through his spine when he reaches the top of the cliff, where there is still no trace of the man he saw, and he hates it. The feeling of being watched, studied. Like someone knows something. Not even that they might want to hurt him.

He sits on the edge of the rock and jumps down. A cloud of dust rises around his ankles, and some makes it up to his face, forcing a cough from his chest as he tries to wave it off. Moving forward, his steps crunch over the cold ground, rocks lodged into the seams, as if it’s been packed down over the years of lookouts before him. At this hour, a coat of fog fills the air.

“It’s pretty cold out here,” he says as if it matters, and your head turns to the radio, not expecting him to say any more than he has to. To be so outgoing after the last few days, even if you’ve been kind. People don’t warm up to you fast; you assume nothing more from him.

“I’m sure you must be used to it,” you chuckle. “You’re from…”

“Korea,” he interrupts. “But I moved to Boulder when I was a kid, so I grew up here.” He jumps down the hole he climbed out of last night and back into the cave, where the temperature is far colder than it is at the surface.

“Oh, really?” You blink. “I thought you were—”

“—white,” he finishes for you, already knowing what you were going to say. “Yeah,” he laughs, “you wouldn’t be the only one. Not very PC of you, is it? Or—whatever they’re saying, these days.”

Ignoring his comment, you murmur, “It’s…it’s cool, Evan.” You swallow, glancing in the opposite direction, as if he can see you through the tiny screen on the radio. As if technology is that advanced. “So…Do you remember any of it? Home, I mean.”

“Yeah, bits and pieces.” He breathes, using a hand to brace himself when he wearily turns a corner. “But not much. I haven’t really been back. I speak the language and everything, used to with my parents, but…They never went back. And then I met Sooha, so…neither did I.”

His feet take him through the cave without heavy thought, as if they already know the path, despite only taking it once the opposite way. But that’s the thing about this whole place—everything seems too familiar, looks so similar that nothing has distinction. The cave is the only thing that has stood out; perhaps, the unfamiliarity is almost comforting.

“Sooha?” Your voice transcends his clouded thoughts. “Who is she? Ex, girlfriend, friend?”

“She’s uh,” he breathes, “my wife.”

“Like a wife, wife? Or like, ‘leave my clothes in your closet,’ wife?”

“We’re married,” but the words feel stale on his tongue. Like he doesn’t deserve to say them, or at least that he shouldn’t. He steps back into the sunlight, where the surface’s warmth suddenly greets him. It isn’t much like the other end. The sun doesn’t quite reach there. It’s blocked by the mountains surrounding it. He sighs, moves north without looking back.

“Oh, wow,” you blink. “So why come here, then? Pretty long time to leave your wife home alone, and…Well, a weird position to take. Isn’t it?”

“She’s sick,” he gnaws at his lip, “and I shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

You lean forward, releasing a breath that your chest had been secretly withholding. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s fine. But I shouldn’t be here.”

Your fingers toy with a loose pencil on your desk, carving light scratches into the old wood. “Escaping isn’t always bad, Evan,” you whisper into the microphone, repeating the sentiment you gave him yesterday morning, the one that keeps you stabilized amidst the spikes of regret and loneliness. “Really.”

When he doesn’t respond, you close your eyes and draw a long, heavy breath. “Let me know what you find at the top.”

The line falls flat. Heeseung finally finds the start of the power line and follows its path upward. The wind blows harder as the path takes him higher, blocking the sun’s rays and casting a cold shadow over the terrain. He shivers, swallowing down the lump in his throat as his eyes finally find the pole you told him about. And when he approaches it…the line is sliced.

“Those fucking teenagers cut the line.”

You pick up the radio angrily. “What?”

“They left a note. Telling me to go to Hell. Seems like they think it will teach me a lesson,” he says, shaking his head with an expression that could kill if they were here. “I mean, what the fuck?”

“God, I knew something was up. I fucking knew it,” you spit, slamming your hand onto the desk. “Do they not realize that this can get people killed? I mean, fuck, something could’ve happened! One of my lookouts could’ve gotten hurt, I could’ve gotten hurt. You could’ve died, and I wouldn’t even—” you pause, suddenly too aware of your words.

“They’re idiots,” you grit out. “I want you to find them.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Scare them. Trash their camp, or something,” you suggest with anger still laced in your tone. “Just make them regret coming and fucking with us. Screw those girls.”

Heeseung laughs and runs a hand through his hair. A few loose strands stick to the back of his neck, nearly black from the sweat dampening them. “How do you suppose I find them?”

“We know they’re messy,” you point out. “They leave those trails of beer cans everywhere, right? So follow those.”

“Right. Smart,” he nods. “Alright. On it.”

“Be safe.”

As he follows the irregular route that the teenage girls mapped out for him, Heeseung uses the time to think. The weather isn’t too hot, not for the spikes the forest usually gets. Not for a fire to bloom. The job lasts for months—he doesn’t even know what will hit him. But the temperature is just enough not to bother him.

The wind doesn’t whip as sharply here. The sun shines directly overhead, a nice contrast to the cold he’d suffered through trying to reach the end of the power line, only to be unfixable. But even in nature’s kindest conditions, Heeseung can’t shake the thought of your voice, how it faltered when you entertained the idea of him being hurt, or worse.

He shouldn’t dwell on it. It isn’t right—none of it is. Why should you be on his mind this way? He doesn’t know you. Hell, he’s barely held a conversation of real substance or emotional intelligence with you, and it’s only been one measly day. Yet, for some reason that he can’t understand, he feels like he’s known you forever. That, in the moments when the silence becomes deafening, even with the sound of nature coexisting with him, your voice calms him. Keeps him steady and reminds him that he isn’t alone, not fully.

But he isn’t the only person who is afraid of attachment. You know that song and dance far too well; like a rhythm that plays in your head until it’s all you can remember. Until all you know is yourself, and no one else, because no one ever stays long enough to let you in. And deep down, even worse, you know that it’s because of you; it always is.

Heeseung takes a route he hasn’t explored before. It’s calmer on this side of the forest, peaceful in a way that isn’t so uneasy. A few pine trees blow in the distance; the smell of almost-fresh air streams into his nose, and he hums softly, finally feeling a sense of true relaxation for the first time in years. He doesn’t hate it. Not entirely. Not at all, really.

“What does she have?”

Heeseung’s pulse stills; your voice isn’t always a warm reminder. Sometimes, it brings him back to the reality he doesn’t want to face. “What?”

“Your wife…What does she have?”

“Alzheimer’s,” he swallows. “Y’know…Dementia.”

“I—oh. That’s crazy, I mean—how old is she?”

He sighs, slinging his bag further over his shoulder; the fabric burns the skin beneath the shirt. “She’s thirty. She’s home with her parents in Australia. They, uh, took her. Not long ago. They said that I wasn’t fit to take care of her anymore.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He looks up to spot a small backpack hanging from a loose tree branch above. Confused, he pulls the sack down to inspect it. The name Brian Goodwin is scribbled on the inner tab in black ink. “I found a backpack. It belongs to someone named Brian?”

Your chest aches. “Oh, Brian.”

“Who is he? Some ex of yours, or something?”

“No, no,” you sigh. “The lookout before you—Ned—he had a son, Brian. About twelve years old. He was a sweet kid, used to do his homework and read books while his dad worked. I never really liked the guy, and he wasn’t supposed to have a kid out here, but Brian was so well-behaved, so I kept my mouth shut.” A sad smile stretches across your lips as you look down at your hand, gripping the pencil from earlier again, only a little harder now.

“I don’t know what happened to him. Ned kind of disappeared, so he must have sent him home. I guess the home life couldn’t have been much worse than here.”

Heeseung nods, though you can’t see it. “Well, Brian’s good fortune extends to me, too. He had a bunch of ropes stashed in here, so I think I’ll put ‘em to good use. Thanks, Brian.”

You giggle, “Good kid.”

He picks up the only other item from the bag: a small camera with only a few frames left. As he inspects it, the camera flashes in his eyes, and he yelps, blinking away the spots and shoving the device into his pocket. “Jesus, fuck, ow.”

“What happened?”

“His camera happened—in my eye.”

“Ouch.”

He secures the rope and tugs at it, nodding once he’s sure that it’s properly in place. Giving it another go, Heeseung grips the rope tightly and begins to step down the shale—much more carefully this time around—feeling the tension beneath his palms, which brings him comfort, knowing it won’t snap on him again. As he nears the bottom, your muffled voice hits his ears from the radio attached to his side.

“I don’t mean to pry, but what was it like…finding out about her condition?”

Heeseung takes his lip between his teeth as he contemplates the answer. Of every layer the past few years have, he doesn’t know where to start; how to even summarize it. “Scary,” he settles on. “She was smart. She’d gone back to school and worked on a degree. One day, she hadn’t felt well, and…the doctor said it. We didn’t know what to think.”

He sighs, noticing another beer can in the distance and following it. “Neither of us thought everything would be lost so fast, though.”

“That’s…wow,” you swallow, unsure of what to say. “What are you gonna do when you’re out of here? You gonna see her?”

“She doesn’t remember me, Y/N.”

Guilt etches itself into your chest; you wish you hadn’t brought it up. Rehashing grief of any kind is never helpful, but this, here…maybe not the ideal situation. Though you can’t help but feel bad for the guy. Suddenly, his being here makes a lot more sense. And fuck, you can’t imagine what it’s like to have someone so close to you not even remember your name, or that you’re married.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mean to be a downer.”

You shake your head, reassuring him that it isn’t the case, that you want to listen to him. “You shouldn’t be alone in this, Evan,” you add. “It’s good to talk about it. I’m glad that you trust me enough to.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, approaching a downward slope and following it down to what looks like a campsite. “For listening, I mean. And all that.”

As you open your mouth to respond, you hear shuffling on Heeseung’s end—odd, since he must still be pressing down on the button for you to even hear it. You listen closer, trying to make out what’s happening on the other end. Know if he’s found something, a lead, or the source itself.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

You tilt your head. “Good?”

“Alright, well, the good news is that I found their camp,” he begins, waving around a piece of paper in his hand. “The bad news is that it’s already trashed. They left a letter. They thought it was me, and they threatened to report me for it, but…you know I didn’t do this. I wasn’t even here.”

“Fuck. Shit,” you groan, palming your forehead and leaning against the desk as you try to think. “If it wasn’t you, then it has to be whoever else was here. Whoever trashed your lookout tower. They obviously know how to avoid being seen, so…goddamnit.”

“Yeah.”

“You have that camera, right? Snap a few pictures for proof—y’know, that you found it like this—and go back, I guess. For now.”

Heeseung nods, “Good thinking.”

“Did you do anything that would make them think you did this?”

“No!” Heeseung shouts as he snaps a picture of the torn-up tent and disgruntled interior. “All I did was tell them not to shoot off the fireworks. I didn’t even touch their stereo—which was playing horrible music, by the way.”

“God,” you breathe. “Well, obviously someone did it. Maybe there are more of them, and this is all some sort of bad mushroom trip, or something. Or, I dunno.” You sigh, waiting for him to finish taking photos as you add a final comment on the matter. “Just come back, and we’ll take it from there. I’d like to enjoy a peaceful summer, for once.”

“Yeah, me too,” he adds before slipping the camera away and setting sights back for Two Forks. °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 5 The sun rises decently early today, about 6:30 in the morning. The air is crisp at this time, especially with the heat finally picking up after only a few days. It’s relaxing. A soft breeze pricks at Heeseung’s skin, bare again from the waist up as he perches quietly on the small bed in the corner of his lookout and drinks a cup of coffee. It’s a little too bitter for his taste, and there surely isn’t enough milk to ration for a daily coffee, but it’s enough to survive. Or, at least simulate normalcy.

“What do you look like?”

Heeseung’s head piques in the radio’s direction. He wonders how you even know that he is awake. He never turned a light on, and he knows that you can’t see him well. Yet, there you are. So he pads over to the desk and lifts the talkie from its charging stand, resumes his spot on top of the bed, and presses the button.

“Like a Korean Tom Cruise.”

You laugh gently into the microphone, and he hears it—a bit choppy, but easy to make out your voice. Like usual. “Well, that’s unfortunate. I read in People that he’s like five foot nothin’.”

“If he was tall,” Heeseung corrects. “I’m about six feet, give or take.”

You nod, scribbling it down. “That’s decent enough to work with, I guess, but I doubt that you really pass for Tom Cruise. All I can usually see from my scope is a white-lookin’ skinny guy wearing shorts.”

“Well, it’s hot. And for a scrawny guy, I think I carry my own pretty well.”

“I’ll give you that. It isn’t easy to hike out here,” you agree, pursing your lips. “But seriously, if you hadn’t already told me, I would think the opposite. You talk like the whitest man on Earth.”

You smile when he laughs. “So really—what do you look like, Evan?”

Heeseung pauses to think; he’s never really considered too much about what he looks like. He hasn’t always had to—he’s been married for years, and even before that, the only people he knew were in front of him. So now, as his fingers carefully grip his half-empty coffee mug, he wonders how someone would describe him.

“I have brown hair. Dark brown,” he begins, feeling the morning breeze slip into his tower from the cracked window on his left. He instinctively pulls his old blanket a bit closer. “It’s a little long. In my face, kinda, and down my neck.” He taps a finger on the side of the ceramic mug; it would echo in the quiet of the room, if it were somehow any emptier. “My nose is big, I guess?”

“Really?” You laugh at the stupidity of his statement, and he matches it.

“Well, I don’t know how to do this. I’m trying, okay?”

You huff out a sigh and reach for the warm bottle of water sitting at the corner of your desk. You’re not sure how long it’s been there for, but you remember it being somewhat cold when you refilled it last. Then again, the bottle is pretty old, and it rarely keeps your water actually cold these days. Maybe at the end of the summer, you’ll invest in a better one; maybe not.

“Okay, I’ll ask—do you have a beard?”

Heeseung shakes his head as if you can see it. “No, no. Absolutely not,” he denies. “One of the only things I brought here is a pack of razors. That’ll be the day. Let my hair get as long as it wants, but I do not look good with facial hair.”

“Evan, you’re a multiple-mile hike away from any and all civilization,” you point out, narrowing your eyes as you place the water down and pick up the pencil again to scribble no beard on the corner of your sheet of paper. “I don’t think you ‘looking good’ is going to matter to anyone.”

“Can’t hear you over the sound of teenage girls screaming my name.”

“Pfft,” you scoff, “you wish.”

“In another life, Y/N,” he assures you, at which you laugh again at the pure stupidity of his claim.

Sitting back against the wall with only his singular—and essentially rock-hard—pillow used for support, he lets the near-empty mug carefully fall to the floor and rest on the creaky floorboards. His fingers absentmindedly fidget with the gold wedding band on his ring finger; he feels as if he has to keep reminding himself of what’s real. Instead of focusing on you, someone he knows so little about that he thinks you might be a figment of his imagination.

“How about your eyes?”

“Alright, what are you doing?”

“Drawing you,” your voice almost a whisper, and he blinks, deciding if it’s a reasonable enough explanation for the out-of-the-blue questionnaire. “So…I need to know.”

“Oh, uh,” he trails, trying to think. “They’re big and brown, like my hair. And…people sometimes say they’re like, Bambi? I don’t really know what that means.”

“Like…the deer?”

“I think?”

“Okay…” you mumble, sketching a thin interpretation, “perfect. Sounds good.”

“So, what do I do today?” he asks as he stands from the bed and finds the aired-out tank top and flannel hanging on the edge of the wooden chair to change into.

“Me? Wouldn’t you know?”

He pulls the thin white material over his head and tugs it down until it wraps comfortably around his waist. Tucking the shirt into his shorts with one hand, he uses the other to man the talkie. “Well, you’re the one who’s been giving me tasks to complete for the last few days. I figured you’d have something.”

“How about…sit in your chair until September 1st and call me at the first sign of fire?” you tease with a grin you only wish he could see. “Sound good?”

“Great,” he mumbles, pulling the flannel over his shoulders and not bothering to button it. If all he’ll be doing here is sit and watch for imminent danger, he doesn’t see the point; besides, the tower provides the only real source of shade for miles, save for the few cliffs that offer it and the cave that makes him think far more than he wants to. “Sounds fun.”

“Hey, this is the job you signed up for, isn’t it?” you counter with a touch of attitude, sketching your best estimate of your favorite counterpart, despite not admitting it aloud.

“It is, yeah.”

“Sooo, deal with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” as he sits in his rickety chair that you once told him they even provided him with, “okay.”

There are other lookouts—ones you still have to talk to, communicate with, the lot. But you never speak to them so casually. You barely hold a conversation with them. With some, you often have trouble forgetting their names or where they come from. You don’t bother to know their stories, even if it’s been years working alongside them, because they’re different.

You’re learning the little things about Heeseung; Evan, the name that ripples through your mind like a stone in water. Even if you don’t know that it’s only a pseudonym. You know his age, where he was born, about the family he grew up with. You’ve picked up on his tells, how the subtle inflections in his voice work—which, in the same breath, is so gentle. His natural tone is calm, soft, quiet; nothing like when he’s outside, forcing himself to shout to be heard.

You won’t even joke with the others; you’ve seen the job as too serious in the past to become so comfortable with them. But you’ve never clicked with anyone the way you did with Heeseung, and you don’t know how to not let it happen. °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 11 “Man, this feels great!” Heeseung shouts to…absolutely no one?

He can’t bring the talkie near water, and the lake feels far too refreshing to step out of in this weather. So what if it’s been just under two weeks, and he’s already resorted to mindless swimming, alone and yelling like some schizophrenic maniac? In this isolation, any type of activity that doesn’t require sweltering heat is his idea of fun.

Still, although the last thing he wants to do is leave the cooling comfort of the freshwater, he can’t help but want to rub it in a certain other lookout’s face.

“Y’know, you’re missin’ out, sweetheart,” he teases into the microphone as his hair drips with water, careful not to let any touch the already-weak device.

“Ew,” you grimace, “never call me that again. Blegh.”

“It’s fucking beautiful,” he adds fuel to the fire, basking in the sunlight’s warmth as it hits his golden skin, the thin coat of water making it feel more refreshing than ever. “You really should have accepted the offer and come down here. If I can leave my tower for ten to fifteen hours, then you can surely leave yours for a few.”

You sigh, flopping back onto your mattress and staring at the ceiling, holding the radio up to your face like a teenage girl on the phone with her friends. Except, it’s 1989, and you’re not being tied down by a wire. “I’ve told you, Evan—can’t do it. I’d have to take that extremely flimsy-looking cable car to leave my sector, which I’d especially rather not do and chance falling hundreds of feet into a ravine.” You roll onto your side, “And I’m really not supposed to leave. It’s dangerous out there, and I have more than you to focus on, here.”

“Yeah, I know,” Heeseung sighs, shifting uncomfortably as he realizes that he’s standing out in the open in only his boxers, which are now thoroughly soaked enough to show any passerby the exact print of his dick inside. Which is unlikely, but the thought is embarrassing. “Just a thought.”

“Enjoy your swim, Evan,” you chuckle. “Don’t get yourself into too much trouble. I won’t call you in.”

“Thanks,” he replies rather monotonously, “I won’t.”

He tosses the radio safely into the pile of folded clothes he left on the edge of the shore and wades back into the water until he’s submerged up to his chest. His head falls back, and the lake water soaks his hair again, offering a slice of ease to his mind. With his head underwater, the only noise drifting into earshot is that of a distant stream flowing into the large body of water. The sound is murky, loud, and normally unpleasant—but it’s steady, enough to clear his mind momentarily.

His thumb brushes along the polished gold around his finger again, without enough pressure to risk moving it and accidentally slipping it off. Briefly, he wonders about Sooha; how she has been holding up, and if her condition has somehow grown worse. Not that he can find out, aside from his dream last night that seemed too scarily real to be untrue, where she’d somehow been connected to him through the radio and spoke to him as if everything were normal. But, of course, it was only his mind’s sorry creation, and he isn’t sure if it was because it missed her, or if it was a threat; a reminder that he shouldn’t be doing this, wishing you were here, instead of her.

It is then that he submerges his head completely underwater, holding his breath and silencing his thoughts until the sun’s hot rays register on his body, and he has to come up for air.

Still, the thought flashes across his mind—if he’d let his lungs fill up with water, what then? He guesses that if he’s going to stay alive for anyone, it has to be you.

Right? °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 28 Heeseung’s legs dangle loosely over the edge of the canyon’s wall, perched perfectly between the two sides, allowing the picturesque view of the sunset to be seen by his eyes. He’d brought a small container with a sandwich that barely sufficed as dinner with him, and a cup for water—hydration, and whatnot.

“How does it look?” you ask softly, not to disturb him, though something deep down thinks that nothing you can say will have that effect. At least, not anymore.

“It’s gorgeous,” he says gently, taking a small bite of his sandwich and feeling a crumb roll down his chin until it lands on the hem of his top. “It’s a good way to end the day. Really…”

A position you often find yourself in when you talk to him—lying comfortably on the mattress, propped up only by your elbow as it rests over your pillow. Bed a little more comfortable, by Heeseung’s standards. Nearly a decade gets you improved furnishing, it seems.

“It’s nice from up here,” you say quietly, perhaps not loud enough for him to hear. Even if he can, you don’t know that the muffled quality will capture it.

And somehow—whether it’s by the instinct to listen or a not-so-bad transmission—he hears.

“It’s nicer down here,” he adds, even gentler. “I think you’d agree, if you could see it. Maybe…I dunno.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips; part of you does want to see it for yourself, even leave this tower just for a moment. But you know that you can’t, and you won’t, because you’re too afraid.

More of the bond with Heeseung than anything else that could be hiding in the shadows. Those you can fend off, hide from. But you can’t hide from him, and you can’t reverse the truth: that this thing with him—whatever it is—isn’t weak enough to tear with a butter knife. °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 33 Heeseung pulls out his map to pinpoint the path he’ll need to get to the supply drop you informed him of earlier this morning—jerky, rope, small goodies to store in his bag. It’s perched just west of where you’d sent him to check the downed line, a little closer to the cable car that leads to your sector.

As he climbs the shale slide—rope already placed from a few weeks prior—he remembers the day he found the intentionally-sliced line. You’d sounded so angry, nothing like the happy-go-lucky mood you’d maintained since the first time you spoke to him. But it isn’t particularly that part that sticks out like a sore thumb in his memory of you; it never was.

“When you get up there, remember that it isn’t all for you,” you remind Heeseung sternly, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “There are three different sections inside the box, one for each lookout. Two Forks will be marked, and you can take what’s in there. It should have some nice goodies.”

Heeseung sticks a hand into his pocket to grab the radio. “Alright,” he says, catching a glimpse of the supply drop in the distance. “Why do I have to hike all the way out here just to get a few measly goodies? I mean, shit, the least they could do is drop it closer.”

“I get mine straight from the source.”

“Fuck you, Y/N,” he retorts.

“The perks of nearly a decade of service,” you giggle, lifting a pencil into the air. “You get to climb all the way out here for supplies, and I get to sit up here in my comfy tower and do crossword puzzles. Isn’t life miserably unfair?”

“Fuck you, I reiterate.”

“Oh, you wish,” you try to tease, but the words don’t roll off your tongue with the ease they should; when your mind catches up to your mouth, it doesn’t exactly seem funny anymore. Heeseung’s mouth goes dry, his brain racks the few responses he can make without making it inevitably worse, and he ultimately doesn’t settle on anything. “Er,” you stutter, breaking the silence, “well, maybe not the best worded joke. Ha-ha.”

“Yeah,” he adds, masking the hesitance in his voice (and his stride along the gritty dirt below him, which you can’t see). “Imagine if someone were listening to us? Tsk tsk,” he tuts. “Your job would be whoop—snatched.”

“Laugh it up, kid,” you roll your eyes.

“Surely, you can’t be that much older than me.”

“Unless you’re about eighteen, then no,” you sigh, lips pursed as the tip of your pencil taps along the edge of the desk while you try to make out a five-letter word for ‘big’. “I’m thirty.”

As he (finally) approaches the supply drop, Heeseung scoffs, putting the code into the lock to open the box. When it clicks, he parts his lips. “A whole two years, Y/N. Should I throw you a retirement party? Should we invite the President?”

“You’re a dick.”

“Aw,” he pouts, “that’s cute.” He grins at no one, letting his backpack’s strap roll down his arm and hit the ground with a thunk. He empties the contents of the box into the bag, packing everything in safely, as he doesn’t want to crush anything. “Found the drop, by the way. Just put everything in my bag.”

“See? Wasn’t so bad,” you wink, and Heeseung mumbles a low whatever as he slings the backpack over his shoulder again and heads back to base. “Hey…Evan?”

“Yeah?”

Your teeth gnaw at the inside of your cheek, biting with just enough pressure to feel a string of pain shoot into your jaw. “The other night…I heard something come through my radio,” you begin tentatively, digging a nail into the chipped yellow pencil between your fingertips. “I didn’t really know what it was; I was half-asleep. But…It sounded like you.”

You pause to listen for something—a reaction, a breath, even a small noise—but he doesn’t give one; he waits silently, urges you to continue without a cue. “You mumbled something about Sooha. Your wife, right?” You hesitate again, despite knowing the answer; of course, it’s her, you’ve known that. “Are you doing okay…with that? Her?”

Heeseung’s brow twitches. The ring on his finger suddenly feels heavier, straining. Like it will cut off his circulation if he becomes any more painstakingly aware of it. “I am, yeah. As good as I can.”

“Good.”

Taking a breath, you decide to level the playing field; he’s given you miles of himself, and you’ve barely given him an inch. “I was dating this guy, Johnny, about a year ago. Caring, smart, sexy as all hell. Had biceps bigger than my palm,” your voice trails off, softer at the seams as you drift into a trance. “He did martial arts, worked as a driller during the day.”

You sigh theatrically, “We dated for four years. I was doing this program during the winters, at the time. This…art thing, at a smaller university. It was expensive, but it was something that isn’t…this.” Clearing your throat, you stand from your chair and move out to the balcony, where the hot air greets you bitterly; the sun’s rays heat up the wood enough to burn your skin with a touch. “I thought for sure that I’d marry him. I was obsessed with the idea, maybe that was the problem. But we did get engaged, for a little bit.”

Heeseung doesn’t speak; he just listens, pads softly along the old dirt path, and admires the quiet scenery around him as your voice gently streams from the radio’s choppy speaker.

“Anyway,” you breathe, “his brother died when I was away, and I didn’t come back. He said he wanted to be alone for the planning, the service, all of that. Said it would be easier, or whatever. So I let him be.” You swallow. “When I came back, he ended it. It wasn’t like I didn’t expect it…and I don’t know, maybe I deserved it. Whenever people asked, I just told them that he fucked the neighbor, and I kicked him out. It felt…easier.”

Your finger taps the weathered wood once; a loose piece pokes the skin. “But I wanted to lift the weight off of my chest, and…I think you’re the easiest person to tell, someone I wanted to. So, there’s something about me, I guess.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Though you’re miles apart, the air is the same—shared, stale, still. You don’t speak; Heeseung processes the story. It isn’t much, barely a glimpse into the life you haven’t sugarcoated as pleasant to him to make yourself look happier, better, more worthy of something you won’t admit that you want. But it’s something. And that’s all he needs. Someone to know; nothing more.

“We’re both fucked up, then,” he finally says.

“Me, more than you, maybe.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says again, the phrase that replays itself in his head like a broken record every day, no matter the time—when he wakes up, when he toes the line between personal and professional with you, when he just wants to sleep. He thinks, if he’s reminded enough, he might leave.

“Evan, you can’t keep blaming yourself. There is nothing that you can do for her, and even if you could, you’d have a right to want to feel better. To be happier,” you say, as if he’ll listen. “She’d want that for you.”

You’re right; he knows it. He can’t pretend that things are normal; he can’t go back home to find it the same. Her belongings won’t be there. She won’t be there. The only trace of her being a few picture frames and the wedding band on his finger. So he should be here without guilt. He’s spent over a month here, and he feels a little freer, a little calmer, sometimes more at ease than others.

But being here isn’t what he feels guilty about, is it?

It’s the feeling that settles deep in his stomach when you speak to him gently. When your voice drifts from the speaker with some witty remark in response to his own. The pang of something in his chest when he sips on his morning coffee and hears your sleep-ridden whisper for the first time that day. How he’d considered moving the charging stand beside his bed to have easier access when he needs it.

The feelings for you that bloom carefully in his heart as the thought of Sooha fades away with each subtle moment, smile, and meaningful whisper into the forest’s dry air. °༄𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 62 “Looks like you’ve got a front row seat for what might be the fire of the year.”

Heeseung leans over the balcony’s creaky railing, staring at the small fire burning in the distance. A few miles north, just close enough to feel a small warmth wafting towards his tower, though it isn’t enough to be a threat. Controlled, calm. With the moist, summer heat, he found earlier today that it’s more comfortable to omit the tank top and wear only his flannel top, fully unbuttoned by nighttime to expose his midsection.

“Seems likely.”

“I’ll call it in. They’ll get some hotshots out here to monitor it. Keep it controlled, and everything. But…from the looks of it, I think we’ll be stuck with her for the rest of the summer.” You turn to the cup of supplies that rests in the upper right corner of your desk. Scribble some information down on the nearest sheet of paper you can get your hands on.

“She doesn’t have a name, though. Usually, I think of something creative or risqué. Y’know, to keep myself entertained up here, because—as you can see—it’s not so exciting.”

Heeseung thinks, pacing back and forth along the narrow balcony. He treads back into his enclosure, past the threshold, and shuts the door with a quiet click. “What about your name?”

You chuckle gently; he smiles. “As flattering as that sounds, we can’t name the fire after an employee. Kind of a big eyebrow raiser.” You think, tapping the pad of your finger against your chin. “What about you? Do you…have a middle name?”

“Nope,” he hums, lowering himself onto the so-called comfortable desk chair. “We don’t have them in Korea.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, palming your forehead as if you should’ve already known that. “Alright…Mine is June. So, what about that?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, then,” you answer. “We’re now looking at the June fire.”

Heeseung takes a minute to watch the fire, how it frays at the edges as small sparks disappear into the air. “Got any stories to tell? Anything in your head to talk about?”

“Err…” you ponder, pursing your lips. “Well, I have something. Not really anything groundbreaking, but if you want to hear it…it’s something to consider, maybe.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“So there’s this creek, a little ways down from me. And when I’m feeling up for it, I sneak out of here and take a bottle of whatever I’ve got with me. Don’t even bring my radio, just in case,” you tell him softly as he listens, glancing out at the dark silhouette of the forest around him. “I throw it deep into the water, let it sit in there all day, and I’ll slip back around to grab it. And then, on a night when it’s so disgustingly hot that I can feel the humidity in the air…I have something cold to drink.”

“You got alcohol out here?” he points out, and you huff out a breath.

“I give you a nice tip, and you make it about my drink. Ugh,” you scoff. “But I learned it from my sister in Santa Fe. She’ll do it with anything she’s got and make a bunch of mixed drinks, enough to last you a month.” Your eyes focus on the tip of the fire, distant in your field of view, but still visible. “I think you’d like it there.”

“I’m sure I would.” If you’re there.

He looks out the window, quietly, deep in thought. His fingers rest on the edge of the desk. Eyes flicker down to the place where his hand rests; what sits beside it.

His wedding band. Gold, a thin scratch along the outer edge, a glint of light reflecting off of it from a source he can’t place. Cold to the touch, despite the achingly warm weather around it. It lies flat on the wood, threateningly still in its place—where he left it exactly two weeks ago after taking it off to rinse it clean, but never put back on.

The mark it left on his finger doesn’t exist anymore; it wore off with time. Taking barely ten days to fade away, opposed to the five years it took to create it.

“I’m looking at it again,” Heeseung whispers, referring back to the fire. He doesn’t tell you that he hasn’t worn the ring for weeks; that fact shouldn’t hold any value to you.

“It’s…kind of beautiful, in a twisted way,” you whisper in response, voice gentler with each word, the tone you display after a long day that makes him melt into his chair. “During the day, it’s gray smoke polluting the air, too hot to function, gives off that smell of…” you trail off to think of the right word, “burning. Death, in a way.”

“But when the sun is down, and the sky is dark, the smoke disappears. And you can just…get lost in it all. It’s so…perfect.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “it is.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” you murmur, just loud enough for the radio’s microphone to register. Nerves settle in your stomach at the weight of your words, but you don’t regret them, not like you always would.

“Me too,” he says back, and he means it. God, does he mean it.

You move yourself up and over to the small bed opposite your desk. The chair isn’t comfortable anymore, and though the bed isn’t much of an upgrade itself, you know the reason has nothing to do with where your body rests—it’s your mind. You swallow, words swirling around your head like a threat, as if speaking them into existence is…a risk. But you can’t hold them in again; you need to say them.

“I don’t…talk to other people, the way I talk to you, Evan,” you admit abashedly, curling into yourself on top of your mattress, knees bent into your chest. “The other lookouts…I barely know anything about them. A few have been here for years, but still…they’re not…you. And I know that it sounds horrible, and unprofessional, and crazy, but I don’t know, I just…feel the way that I do for a reason. I don’t get close to people, Evan. Not like this.”

Heeseung blinks, looks down at the wedding band, back to the fire; repeats the cycle a couple of times to make sense of what he knows he shouldn’t try to. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I do,” you counter, words harsher than you intend, though he doesn’t see it that way. “Sorry, I don’t mean to drop anything on you like this, but…I don’t know. I just…wish I were there.”

“Me too,” he replies without forethought, and your chest ticks, the balls of your feet shifting uncomfortably over the bedsheets. They’ve turned warm from the heat of your skin.

“We could talk, for real. Without these stupid radios,” you laugh, but it lacks amusement. “We could…” you hesitate, “you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, leaning back against the cold pillow, knees still partly bent.

Heeseung swallows as a pit resonates in his stomach, while an ache forms between his thighs. Beneath his shorts that suddenly feel too tight, too restricting. “What would we do?” he asks—a question he already knows the answer to, yet wants to hear the words come from your mouth; needs to.

“Evan…”

“Please,” he whines, his voice lower as his palm flattens against the strained fabric, “say it.”

“We’d sit, for a few minutes…admire the fire,” you whisper reluctantly, your breath unsteady as your mind jumps ahead—to something it shouldn’t. “And talk, and…” Your heartbeat pulses at your core, forcefully, like your body is sick of your head trying to deflect from what it so desperately wants. You shudder as your fingers ghost over your sleep shorts, a change of clothes you’re suddenly grateful for bringing. “…fuck.”

He hears your sigh, a tremor etched into it that tells him everything. Admits the unspoken without having to part your lips again. “Fuck, are you…” He swallows, another jolt of pain mixed with want shooting to his cock, pressing his palm further down as if it will dull the ache. Does he want to do this here? Not particularly. But will he? Well.

“Yes,” you answer breathily, dipping a finger tentatively into your shorts, over the thin underwear that covers your skin. “Do you not—”

“—No,” he groans, sputtering as he lifts his hand and takes the relief with it. “Or—yes. Fuck, just keep going.”

You close your eyes, using the pads of your index and middle fingers to apply pressure against your clothed clit. You bite back a moan, keeping the radio’s button pressed down hard enough that it might snap in your grasp. “Where are you? What are you,” you breathe, still staring out at the fire as if he’ll stop if you break contact, “doing?”

“In my chair,” he manages in a mumble. His fingers carefully work the tattered button on his shorts and pull the fabric open, then make contact with the constricting waistband of his boxers; you hear the quiet shift of fabric. His shirt still hangs open along the sides of his torso, brushing against his bare skin with every movement of his hand. “Shit,” he hisses, swallowing down a throaty noise that barely registers on your end. “Sorry.”

“Don’t…apologize,” you tell him weakly, gasping for air as your fingers rub circles against your clit, feeling the way the fabric sticks to the skin beneath it like punishment.

Oh god, he’s so fucking hard.

“Talk,” he muses with his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, spit dripping down the side. “C’mon, tell me what we’d do up here.”

“I shouldn’t—do that,” you trip over your words, leaning into the pillow behind you that provides almost no support for the heaviness of your body, tired with want that drips down the inner side of your thigh like a sick reminder. “Someone…What if someone hears? We’re in trouble.”

“Fuck, I don’t care if they all hear it,” he groans, brushing his thumb over the swollen, leaking tip. “What we’d do if you were here, as if it’s some kind of secret.” He tries to clear his throat, but all that surfaces is a breath that struggles to break loose. “You think that if someone was listening, they wouldn’t already know by now that I wanna fuck you? God.”

Your stomach drops at his honesty, filth dripping from the words with a bitterness that’s far worse than any cup of coffee you’ve drank out here could provide. “Ev—”

“—Heeseung,” he finally drawls with frustration. “My name isn’t Evan. Fuck, it’s Heeseung.” His fist tightens around his cock, another drop of pre-cum landing shamelessly onto the side of his thumb. “Just said that because it’s easier for you not to know it.”

Confused, you swallow, willing another response. “So why tell me now?”

“So I can hear it when you come.”

You damn near break the radio and shatter it; the inflection in his voice, the way it frays at the corners, sounds nothing like the easygoing demeanor he always speaks to you with. The words don’t sound like a statement. They sound like a promise, one you might be scared of.

It physically hurts that he isn’t the one touching you. That you’re the one who shoves their fingers hastily into your underwear and pushes them clean into your pussy, evoking a broken moan that slices against the back of your throat. The slide is far too easy, simple from the slickness building up along your walls, only from the boldness of Heeseung’s words and the aching wish that it was him doing this to you. Your fingers don’t reach far enough, can’t provide the relief that your body knows he could.

“Maybe, you will, then,” you whisper, a threat so powerful that he groans at the thought. If he doesn’t hear it, he thinks he’ll take that cable car himself and make damn sure of it.

“Good,” as his fist tightens again, squeezes down on the length of his cock as it pulses angrily in his hand, pretending that his hand is you; your cunt sinking onto him as you moan into his ear with no muffled static accompanying the noise. His eyes shut tightly, head falling back with pleasure because he hasn’t felt so fucking good in months. “Wanna hear your voice, fuck.”

“I’m here,” your voice honey-sweet as your fingers dip into your heat, then out, then brush against your clit in a rhythm that locks your knees in place. “I’m—I’m close,” you whimper, digits pushing back in with a loud squelch.

“God, I can hear it,” he sighs; the noise is barely audible through the speaker, but he knows what it is. He moves his hand faster, collecting the disgustingly slick mess his tip leaves onto his palm, all for a woman whose face he couldn’t pick out in a crowd, while his wedding band sits idly by on the desk in front of him, taunting him. “Fuck, Y/N.”

A bead of sweat cascades down the side of your face until it catches at the corner of your lip; salty and warm as the smell of charred wood begins to waft through the cracked windows. The smell is relaxing and revolting at the same time, a typically pleasant one, if not for the pulsing ache between your thighs that your fingers try so hard to satiate while the thought of Heeseung—hand wrapped around his cock—floats around your head. The moans slipping from his lips and drifting into your ears as the only fuel to your fire.

“Oh, my god,” you whine, inhaling a breath that pierces your chest as the tips of your fingers press into the spongy spot inside of you; a gush of liquid drips down your hand.

“Fuck, lemme hear you,” he pants, at which you don’t hesitate, shamefully lowering your other hand between your legs. Keeping the button pressed firmly down like your life depends on it.

“Hear it, Heeseung?” his real name rolling off your tongue in the most grotesque way you can use it. Your breath leaves in pants as the lewd, wet noises transcend into his ear to make his cock twitch in his hand. A mess of his whimpers bleeding into your earshot.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “I hear it.”

His mind flashes back to the first week he spent here with you, his only contact, as you taught him how to adjust and what to do. Before he felt anything for you, when the only thing burdening him was guilt. When you tried to mask being worried about him getting hurt.

Then, it thinks of now—you, spread out on the other end of the signal with your hand between your legs.

Getting off to each other’s voices, for fuck’s sake.

“S-shit, I’m gonna come,” you stammer, fingers cramping as they pick up their pace, hitting the sensitive spot so harshly that your hips jolt with a shooting pain.

Heeseung groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when he hears the words tumble from your lips. “Do it,” he grits through a clenched jaw, “fuck, please. Wanna hear you.” The coil in his stomach tightens, and he can barely form the words his mind desperately wants to say.

“Come for me.”

An agonizing shock of pleasure tears through your body, sending your heels deep into the thin mattress below you. Your head hits the wall behind you with a firm thunk, but you don’t care; too engulfed by the feeling of release. “Heeseung,” you moan so loudly that you swear the latter syllable echoes off the wall. Your fingers finally slip out, glistening in the gentle moonlight as cum gushes from your entrance and lands on the old, discolored bedsheets, staining them with white.

Followed by Heeseung, who comes at the sheer sound of your breathy gasps. A string of profanities in a low, whiny hum that he doesn’t bother to suppress because part of him wants you to know what you’re doing to him; needs you to.

His fingers finally loosen their grip, pumping himself carefully until spurts of hot, white release drip down his hand, land on his stomach, and reach as far as his lower chest. His chest heaves as the cold metal chain around his neck, hanging loosely in the center, presses into the warm, sweat-slick, and exposed skin. The bottom edge of the golden cross wields the same white residue, smudged along the valley of his chest from its dangling movement.

For a moment, neither of you speaks; you only listen to each other’s recovering breaths, lulling you into a state of jadedness amidst the gentle summer breeze and the fire that perches between your towers.

“I…” you want to apologize, but the words dissolve on your tongue; for once, you don’t want to.

“Don’t,” he whispers, as if he already projected what you were going to say.

A giggle brushes past your parted lips, a little tired, a little breathy, and he matches it gently. His eyes fall shut again as he slumps back into the rickety chair that doesn’t seem as uncomfortable as it once did. Ears focusing on your breathing as it streams through the speaker, while the slew of noises from before replay in his head like a tape reserved just for him.

And suddenly, Heeseung has forgotten all about Sooha. °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 77 “You’re seriously gonna go fishing without a license in a national forest?”

Heeseung rolls his eyes, “It’s one fish. I’m sick of the cheap—and repetitive, might I add—food I’ve got to eat. They’ll live.”

“Well,” you sigh, “I won’t tell anyone that you’re a poacher.”

You haven’t talked about what happened two weeks ago. In fact, neither of you has even mentioned it, thought of it since the morning after. Heeseung woke up still shaken, brewed a shitty cup of coffee that tasted like hell’s creation, and you…You woke with a stain etched into the sheets that you couldn’t bear to clean the night prior. Out of embarrassment, maybe, for instigating the ordeal, yet its lingering presence still haunts you, despite it being gone, for the most part.

Still, neither of you acted as if anything had changed; at least, not physically.

“Speaking of, I’ve been getting a bunch of calls from Fish & Game about some ‘problem bear’ they’re trying to keep tabs on? I dunno,” you shake your head, looking out at the controlled June fire. “If you’re heading to the lake, would you mind checking out the land and letting me know if you see any tracks?”

“Problem bear?” he repeats aloud, a bit skeptical. “What exactly do you mean by problem? Like, a death mission?”

“Pfft,” you scoff, “come on—all you have to do is look for bear tracks. Nothing’s going to eat you, and I promise, I doubt it will think you’re worth taking.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.” He huffs, stepping through the path of bushes where he once found the teenage girls’ underwear hanging from the downed tree-turned-archway. “I can’t believe I’m going to leave this planet as a pile of bear shit.”

“Thaaaank you, Evan,” you coo.

“Yeah, yeah, yep.”

You haven’t called him Heeseung since that night, either; you think it’s best to keep it that way.

He approaches the rock that still sits along the outer edge of the shore, where a clipboard lies across the hot surface, the sheet of lined paper blowing in the gentle breeze. He tosses his fishing rod into the sand and picks up the clipboard, eyes scanning the page until his heart sinks to his stomach.

“Y/N…”

“What’s up?”

“I found a clipboard down here, and I—I think something’s going on, something…something bad,” he stutters, clenching his jaw as he fixates on the paper, unable to tear his eyes away. “Someone’s been listening. Writing down what we say—have said.”

“…What—no, that’s not possible. Are you sure you didn’t eat wild mushrooms, or something? People seem to think that they’re pretty fun these da—”

“—I don’t get close to people, Evan. Not like this,” he reads. “I don’t care if they all hear it; They wouldn’t already know by now that I want to fuck you.” He rambles on, reading aloud the words you tried so hard not to relive, to forget in favor of saving whatever this relationship is. “Hear it, Heeseung. Believe me now?”

The sting of a tear brims at your waterline; you blink it back, and a feeling settles in your stomach that is far less pleasurable than you experienced that night.

“Oh—oh, my god, Ev—Hee—fuck.”

Footsteps rustle in the distance; Heeseung turns toward the sound, scanning the area before deciding which direction it must have originated from. “Someone’s out here.” He walks past the bushes until he reaches the dirt clearing, where the stream that leads through the canyon runs. There, planted in the dirt, rests an old, bright red device. “There’s a radio, Y/N,” as he picks it up, “There’s a fucking—”

Something hits his head, hard; he falls to the ground with a wince, bracing himself with flat palms. But as he tries to lift himself, another bash slams into the back of his head, and his body hits the ground, unconscious.

When his eyes finally flutter open again, he doesn’t know how long it has been.

“…Heeseung? Heeseung!” Your desperate voice rings in his ears, and it’s the most afraid he thinks he’s ever heard you. “Heeseung, please answer me.”

His arm weakly reaches for the dropped radio, holding it up to his mouth as he sits up, blinking in the sunlight. “I’m—here, I’m fine.”

A sigh of relief comes through the line. “Oh, thank god. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, just…” he rubs the back of his head, “someone knocked me out. Punched me, or something. And…” He looks around, noticing the absence of the two extra items. “They took the other radio and the clipboard. Clearly, it was something I wasn’t meant to see.”

“God…Oh, my fucking god, Evan. What the fuck…is going on?”

“What is Wapiti Station?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Nothing? I mean—that doesn’t mean anything to you, after years of working here?”

“Relax, Evan! I don’t—” You sigh, closing your eyes and blinking them back open. “Okay…uhm. Wapiti Meadow, it’s on your map. It must be somewhere around there. Maybe, where you saw that fence a few months ago when you were coming back from the girls’ camp.”

“Okay, I’ll head there.”

You gnaw at your bottom lip, wincing as you nearly draw blood. “You’re sure that you saw…what you saw? I mean, that,” you falter, breath trembling with the will to continue, “night…was two weeks ago.”

“I know what I saw. The paper even had our goddamn initials on it, Y/N. Who’s to say there isn’t more?”

“Oh, god…Fuck, we—we fucked up, Heeseung. We fucked up bad.”

“Did we?”

Your chest aches for just a second. “We can’t talk about this…right now.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I—I know.”

With the oncoming silence, Heeseung treks northward to the meadow marked on the map. He tries not to think about it—you, two weeks ago, how you’d just brushed the topic off so quickly—but he can’t. He isn’t strong, not like you.

Once he passes the canyon, it doesn’t take long to reach the station he’d once passed. The fence stretches for acres and stands far too tall to climb, especially given the barbed wire that stretches along the top. When he reaches the gate, he notices a lock keeping it closed and tries to snap it off with a loose rock from the ground. But after a few useless attempts, he determines that this place—whatever it is—isn’t one he’s supposed to enter.

“I found the station, but,” he rattles the gate, “it won’t budge. I won’t be able to get in. Not without the key.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the roots at his hairline damp with sweat. “It’s protected. Whatever is in there is fucking protected, and I know that it’s about us. I know it.”

“Goddamnit,” you frown, leaning back in your chair as you try to think of an explanation that just doesn’t exist. “I reached out to some of the other lookouts, but…nothing weird has happened to them. Nothing, Evan.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he shakes his head. “The only people’s names on that fucking sheet were ours. They want something. They know something, probably everything.”

His breath leaves in a shudder as he tacks on, “They heard us, that night.”

“Don’t.”

“You can’t pretend that it didn’t fucking happen, Y/N,” he snaps, and you freeze; he’s never spoken to you like this, in all of the days, the countless hours you’ve talked. “They sure as hell won’t.”

“Hees—”

“Save it,” he bites, and you press your lips together silently. “Just—I can’t dick around out here for much longer. Someone’s gonna notice.”

“I…uhm…” you whisper, trying to grasp onto something that could help, reading over your map and glancing at the wad of transcripts you have from past conversations with the other lookouts and staff. “Okay, this—could be a stretch, but the river a little south of your lookout…I remember there being a controlled burn not too long ago. The guys are gone, but maybe they left something lying around that can help you get in.”

“Okay,” he answers, locating it on his map to head down.

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I—” he breathes, “just, forget it.”

You don’t respond.

Getting around begins to feel repetitive. Without your voice, your company—it feels stale, boring. Lifeless, in a way he doesn’t want to describe, and doesn’t think it should feel. For a job centered around isolation, he doesn’t want to feel it anymore.

“Before I was knocked out,” he finally says, too weak to hike the whole path alone, and you perk up. “I found a radio. It was red, it looked like ours. But what if, somehow…whoever it is was intercepting our frequency? Listening in through their radio, or radios, like that?”

“I just…don’t understand why us, you know?” you whisper, watching as the tips of the trees in the distance blow in the breeze, the smell of chilled air seeping through the cracks in your tower’s walls. A refreshing contrast to the humid scent that lingers during the hot days. “There are plenty of lookouts here, so many. What would we have to offer that they don’t? What’s so important?”

Heeseung can think of a few reasons.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. “But whatever they’re doing, and whoever they are, I want to know.”

He finally approaches the clearing just by the river, and the scent of burned wood fills his nose. “I found it,” he says, walking through the remains of charred trees. “I can walk right through it now, to get to wherever it is that I need to go.”

“Yeah…Normally, they don’t burn fires so close to the water, but I think they were worried about another fire spreading all the way up to Two Forks. Y’know, where there is someone stationed there now.” You breathe, “I guess I’d have to be thankful for that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The sound of running water from the river perpetuates in his ears, and a relaxing breeze fans across his face, dusting a refreshing cold on his cheeks. He finds it easier to focus with the water’s noise, rather than nature’s usual quiet, save for the occasional coo of a bird in the distance or the rustle of a tree.

He thinks you’d like this. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Despite the personal nature of your conversations and the intimate moments you shouldn’t have shared, Heeseung has to remind himself that he doesn’t know you.

Two downed trees lay beside each other in the grass just beside the water, and a few scattered items sit beside them as if the men working here had once used them for seating. He steps closer, noticing a few pieces of trash in front of the logs, alongside what appears to be a tattered piece of fabric from a uniform. He finds a heat-resistant glove lodged between a log and the ground, where the tip of a finger is torn and useless.

Then, a glimpse of something red catches his eye from behind the makeshift seat; he steps around to find an axe leaning against the wood. Its handle wields a chip at the edge and two or three small soot stains from the men’s inner gloves. When he picks it up, it feels sturdy to the touch, and he assumes that it hasn’t been left here for too long.

Perched atop the other log is another clipboard that he almost doesn’t notice; momentarily dropping the axe, he rushes toward the paper, rips it out of the clip, and lifts it to his face.

“There’s another note,” he says, eyes scanning over the words.

“What does it say?”

“It’s on behalf of a doctor at…Wapiti Station. For something called Project Scylla.”

“Like, the thing from mythology?”

“Yeah, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Says it’s for some kind of wildlife research…It’s bullshit.” He throws the paper onto the ground. “If all this is about is elk, then what reason would they have to be naming it after some stupid monster? Not even telling anyone on the outside? I mean, fuck, Y/N, we’re in a forest. We work here.”

“Jesus Christ,” you moan, palming your forehead as you try to make sense of what he gives you. “I don’t even—I have no clue, Evan. Someone is listening to and writing down our conversations, and they’re just about as obvious as a soldier wearing neon yellow.”

“But…maybe they’re just studying us, or something, and we’re making too big a deal out of it. I mean, they’ve been pretty damn sloppy about hiding it, haven’t they?”

“I heard someone in those bushes before,” he mutters. “And my tower was trashed. And the girls’ camp was trashed. And I was fucking knocked out by whatever psycho was out there with me, so no, I don’t think they’re just getting some fucking intel on us, and I don’t think that their intentions are harmless.”

“Okay, yeah, you’re right,” you mumble. “So suppose you are being tailed…What would be the point of any of that? Carelessly leaving their ‘confidential’ shit around?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “That’s the problem.”

“Listening to us for this long, for so much time, it doesn’t—it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any fucking sense.” You let your face fall into your hands as you breathe through the cracks between your fingers, willing away the tears of stress that threaten behind your eyes. “Where are you now? Do you see anyone? Did you hear anyone follow you?”

“I’m just walking through trees. It’s one path up to my tower and nothing else, so if someone were to follow me, they wouldn’t be able to take another route,” he says, scanning his surroundings. “But no, I don’t see anyone. I haven’t felt watched since the lake.”

“Okay…” you mumble, biting the corner of your lip, “so, you’re not being followed. At least, not anymore, and—”

Someone coughs. It isn’t you; it isn’t Heeseung. Someone runs behind him, but he stays firm in his spot, fingers tightening into a fist around the plastic in his hand. He doesn’t speak until the frequency falls flat again, a beat of silence passes, and the sound of your breathing registers.

Your mouth is dry; there is no water in sight. You don’t bother to look for any.

“They’re tapped,” he finally states aloud. “And someone was just fucking here.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, lowering your voice to a stern octave that is unfamiliar when it drifts into Heeseung’s ears.

“Go back to your tower. Don’t go anywhere else. Don’t leave, and don’t use your radio,” you command. “Do not fucking use it. I will call you. Understand?”

“Yeah—fuck, yeah,” he sputters, “okay.” °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 78 “Y/N,” Heeseung calls into the radio for the umpteenth time in the past day, having heard nothing but complete silence on your end since last night. He’d become sick of waiting for you to call him, so he finally decided to take matters into his own hands, despite you clearly telling him not to. “Fuck, Y/N, answer the goddamn call. Please.”

Finally, your voice perks up. Finally.

“Hey,” you respond happily, as if nothing is wrong, as if you haven’t seemingly forgotten about him for over twenty-four hours and made him sit idly by until eight o’clock at night for an answer.

“Hey?” he echoes irritably. “Are you serious? It’s been a day, and that’s all you have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry, I—I had…things to do.”

“God, do you hear yourself right now?” he counters, and you wince, inching back into your chair. “Do you know something? Are you a part of this?”

“I—what?” you gasp, brows furrowed in offense, at the fact that after everything, he would accuse you of lying to him.

“This is all some kind of sick joke, it has to be. You wouldn’t just leave me in the dark like this unless I found something I shouldn’t have, right?” he laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better than to trust someone I don’t even know. Or, or, maybe this is all just a figment of my imagination, and I’m so fucked up from everything that has happened to me that I just made you all up, and you don’t even exist at all!”

“I’m not lying to you!” you shout, shocked by the emotion that rises from your throat, hurt aching in your chest, just where your heart lies. “Do you seriously think that I would willingly do all of this with some ulterior motive?”

“All you do is deflect.”

“God, Heeseung do you think that I wanted anyone to hear that?” you finally snap back as a tear wells in your eye, long overdue with the number of times you’ve tried to hold back. “It was personal, and it was weak, and I gave that part of myself to you because I trusted you with it. And you think—just because I don’t have answers for you—that I would purposely do something like that with someone whose face I can’t even picture, knowing that someone else is listening? To what, get leverage?”

You breathe in his silence; it says more than it should. “That hurts. I can’t believe that you would think that of me, after everything.”

“I…”

“I didn’t want to talk about it because I was scared of what it meant. But if it really meant so little to you that you’d go as low as to think that I would ever want someone else to hear myself in that state, then maybe I was the one overthinking it, after all.” You sniff in a stinging breath, using the side of your finger to wipe away the tear that fell, and Heeseung flattens his lips into a line, feeling shameful for accusing you of something so damning.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers apologetically, voice tinged with regret as it returns to normal.

Heeseung doesn’t often lose his temper; in his whole life, he’d barely ever raised his voice. But the pressure of feeling so defenseless in all of this, mixed with the threat of betrayal, leaves him on the brink nowadays. He doesn’t want you to assume this is how he is; most people in his life have always seen him with such high regard.

“Do you still have that flora poster in your tower? The one with all of the different trees on it?” you ask, entirely dodging the argument and the emotions still bubbling in your stomach.

“Wh—”

“Do you?”

“Uhm,” he blinks, standing up and moving to the westward side of the room, where a small poster hangs on the wall, the same one you must be inquiring about. “Yeah, I have it.”

“Great. See the second one from the top?”

“Yeah, the C—”

“—Don’t say it. Keep it to yourself, yeah?” you ask, and he nods, though you can’t see it. You take his silence as a cue to continue. “There should be a place in your sector with those in it, named after them and everything. If you’re up to it, maybe you could swing down there and check around for some of those bear tracks again?”

“Oh,” he whispers. “Yeah—yeah. I’ll head there now.”

“Okay…Radio me when you’re there.”

Heeseung slings his backpack over his shoulder as he slips out of his tower; he wishes that he could put a lock on his door, especially now, and considers swiping one from a cache box on the way back. But for now, his primary focus is heading to the creek just southwest of his tower. The dismissive tone you’d used fuels his itching suspicion that it has nothing to do with bear tracks at all, but it doesn’t absolve the confusion that comes with it.

He takes the easiest route he can find, utilizing the faint moonlight to illuminate his path, not wanting to draw too much attention with the high beam of a flashlight. Quietly, he hikes down the path until he finds a small stream of water whose path matches that of the one on his map. The softer sound of water is calm at this time of night, the sky a dark shade of navy blue as a few clouds inhabit the air, a bright cluster of stars shining through and around them like a painting.

As he admires the sky, he presses the button on his radio to speak. But the words don’t come out. A noise distracts him—the faint sound of static in the near distance, a harsh slice as the noise cuts out. Slowly, his head pivots down until his eyes catch on it: the silhouette of a person, standing a matter of yards away from him. Not close enough to see, make out a face, or even any human feature. Yet something in his chest ticks, like his body knows before he does.

The figure’s arm extends outward, pointing to a supply cache just a few feet to his left. He nods, carefully stepping toward it, applying the code, prying open the cover until he finds what was planted for him.

A radio—gray, sleek, thinner than the one still in his hand. He tosses the old one into the box and takes the new one, pulling up the antenna and examining it carefully. Then, he presses the button; static sounds behind him again; he freezes.

“It took me all day to find it for you,” you speak from behind him, and his body goes numb. Completely fucking numb at the sound of your voice without any static, or cutting noise, or stupid device to separate you. “It shouldn’t be tapped—I hope it isn’t.”

“Y/N—”

“—Don’t turn around. Don’t come closer,” you interrupt firmly, your voice trembling as you try to stress the weight of this to him, that you’ve managed to sneak out of your tower to do this. That you could’ve done it alone, that you risked everything just to hear his voice in front of you. That you can’t bear the thought of seeing him, touching him, feeling him beneath your fingertips, because that’s a barrier that you both know you shouldn’t break. “Just listen to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Your head leans back against the tree, knees pulled into your chest to keep yourself hidden and maintain the distance between you. “I lied to a lot of people to get here, to get that radio,” you swallow. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I—I can’t figure it out alone. I need you to help me, and I can’t…I can’t do this if you don’t trust me.”

Heeseung’s chest swells at your words; he can’t focus on anything but your voice, how soft it sounds even when you’re shouting over the noise, how much smoother it is without the poor frequency that the radios give.

“I trust you, Y/N,” he answers honestly, hand trembling at his side. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear.”

“I know,” you want to whisper, yet the words come out in a yell, lacking the gentleness they should have because of the noise around you. “Please, just—go to the station, and find out what’s going on in there. I’m scared…Heeseung.”

“Okay,” he nods, closing his eyes, “I will.”

He turns slowly on his heel, looking behind him in a weak attempt to cross the boundary that you’d set before. He looks for a sign of you—an arm, a strand of hair, anything—but he doesn’t find a trace. Until his eyes lock on something in the near distance: your knee, poking out from the side of the tree that you hid behind, knowing he would try.

“You’re looking,” you point out, calling his bluff when he said that he wouldn’t; you can feel his eyes on you without even having to check. But can you blame him? You’re only a few feet away, so close to him that if he takes even a few steps forward, he can touch you.

“I am.”

“You know that it’s better this way,” you tell him, chest aching with hurt, guilt, embarrassment, fear—every emotion that has somehow passed through your stupid, weak body for months. “That we don’t see each other. That we don’t know.”

“I know,” he nods, swallowing down a sigh as he remembers the reason he’s here in the first place, why he shouldn’t even be here, why there should be no reason to feel so guilty for knowing you, yet…he does. Because you exchanged the part of yourself to him that you weren’t supposed to, and he did the same, knowing that the one he promised it to was home, with no memory of any of it. All while his wedding ring—the symbol of his love for Sooha—watched. Or maybe—what once was. Maybe that’s the real guilt that he won’t admit.

“This isn’t happening to any of the other lookouts,” you add quietly, fingers pressing into your knees to ground them. “It’s up to us…to figure this out. So please, just—go, tomorrow night, and find out what’s been happening to us. And please…stay safe.”

“I’ll try.”

Heeseung finally steps away, leaving you behind against his wishes, against every nerve ending in his body screaming for him to go back, to see you, to look at you for once, in case anything happens to him. But he won’t, because you don’t want him to, and he can’t upset you. Not now; not ever, really.

As his footsteps slowly become quieter, until they make no sound in your earshot at all, you lean further into the tree’s stable support. A tear burns down your cheek; you don’t try to suppress it, and you don’t want to. For the first time with him, you do feel. If—for any reason—this is all you’ll ever get of him, then you have to savor it. So you accept the pain, letting it soak into the brushed-red skin on your cheeks until the remnants harden on your face and disappear. Until the ache is dull enough for you to stand and tread back to your tower, where you might just condemn yourself for the rest of the season. °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟𖠰˚.° DAY 79 “I’m in,” Heeseung says into the microphone as he finally steps into the gated area, trudging towards the site. “There is…some serious shit going on in here, Y/N.”

“How…serious?”

“Communication equipment—wireless stuff, I—christ, there’s a twenty-foot transmission tower in here. It’s so buried into the valley that no one could possibly see it, even if they tried, and that’s why neither of us saw any of it coming. The size of this thing…They could listen to anyone they damn please.”

“Fuck.”

He moves further down the incline, practically running until he reaches the bottom, where three more contraptions stand on metal legs as wires mesh in and out of one another along the ground. He doesn’t know what any of it does—can only assume that it’s part of whatever bullshit they’re planning around you and him. He snaps a few pictures and turns to the tent that sits a few yards beside the equipment, padding tentatively inside to find whatever their secret is.

“My fucking god, their main tent…There is shit everywhere. Monitoring equipment that I don’t even know the names of,” he says, shaking his head as he walks over to the desk. “Papers, a clipboard, a map, a barometer, some sort of earthquake thing, I—I don’t know, it’s a mess.”

“Barometer…What the hell would they be using that for?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I wasn’t that smart in high school.”

He moves back towards the entrance, where a red light omits from the cracks in what looks to be some kind of storage case resting on an old wooden chair. Opens it to find a wave receiver that makes a sporadic beeping noise when he pulls the antenna up. He rotates in a circle, watching the light map change with each direction until the top turns green, and the beeping’s pace quickens. The signal leads back to the desk.

There—beneath the heap of old papers—rests a small, black box, the one setting off the receiver; he tosses it onto the ground and listens to it snap into pieces. Now uncovered lies a sleek binder, the same shade of black as the electronic box.

Marked with both of your names.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“What?” you ask, but he doesn’t reply. “Evan? What—what’s wrong? What did you find?”

“Y/N, they’re keeping tabs on us,” as his fingers unsteadily grip the edge of the plastic binder, holding it firmly in place to read it. “Odysseus; Charybdis; Manipulation…” His finger traces the page until it reaches your name. “Distraction,” he reads aloud, the letters bolded on the paper like a warning. Nausea floods his head in a wave.

“There’s stuff about Sooha in here. Things I’ve never even told you, how the fuck would they know this?”

“What’s in there about me?” you ask hesitantly, swallowing thickly as your fingers toy with your sleep shirt, heels digging hard into the mattress beneath you.

Heeseung drops his paper to read the one with your name on it, his heart dropping a little as the words process. “It says…that you and your boyfriend are still together.”

“What the,” you breathe, brows twitching with nerves, “we’re not. We haven’t been for over a year.”

“Y/N.”

“We are not together, do you hear me? We aren’t. Don’t try to accuse me again, because I swear to god, I won’t be able to handle this on my own,” you press, masking the fear with anger. “Everything I said to you, everything I risked to do this, and everything I gave you weren’t lies. They’re screwing with us. What I had with him wasn’t—”

You pause, “—this.”

“I’m sick of being fucked with. By everyone,” you whimper. “I just want to burn this whole goddamn place down. Ruin everything they’ve built and never come back.”

“We shouldn’t do anything that we can’t undo,” he mumbles. “The grass is dry here, unhealthy…it will go up in flames within seconds. Maybe they want to prove that one of us can’t be trusted. That this is what we’ll do. Prove ourselves unworthy, or something.”

Your stomach ticks. “You’re…you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he sighs, grabbing the papers—along with the other things he thinks he should take—and haphazardly stuffing them into his backpack. “Just—hold on. I’m leaving the site now.”

He runs out, taking cautious steps up the hill to not draw attention. Something settles in his chest; a deep feeling that something still isn’t right. That this all feels too easy, to get in and out without a soul noticing, all while he snatches half of the tent’s contents for himself. And—when he finally steps out of the pried-open gate and hears an explosion behind him—the feeling is unfortunately confirmed.

“Jesus Christ, there’s smoke coming from the site,” he shouts into the microphone. “The second I get out of here.”

“What happened to not doing something we can’t undo?”

“It wasn’t me! I knew I wasn’t in there alone, I fucking knew it,” he shakes his head. “Something is wrong, Y/N. Seriously fucking wrong. They wanted me to see that bullshit project. They wanted me to see those files. They knew I was there; whoever they are, they know.”

“Okay, so I’ll call it in like any fire. It’ll lift some suspicion off of us for now,” you huff. “And…I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s terrifying. I mean, shit, they’re burning everything down around us! We have to get out of here, Evan.”

“We both know that that’s easier said than done,” he sighs, running a hand through his sweat-ridden hair. “Just stay where you are; it’s my turn to instruct you for once. I’m going back to my tower…and everything will be fine. Just don’t worry, and we’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay?”

You’ve never heard him seem so…genuine. Soft-spoken consciously, rather than naturally. And where it should feel calming, grounding, warm, it instead feels cold and misplaced; undeserved.

“…Okay,” you nod, sinking impossibly deeper into your bed.

Heeseung returns to his tower unscathed, promising you thrice along the way that he isn’t being trailed and taking your quiet, sleepy breaths of relief as responses. He tapes the papers he collected onto the window in front of his desk, alongside the ones he’s snatched from supply caches and random spots throughout the forest. He sits quietly at the desk and admires the silhouette of distant mountains below the navy sky. A few clouds float around sporadically, and the stars shine between the crevices. He keeps the radio close, just in case you need him.

Suddenly, the receiver begins to beep again, just as it had earlier in the tent. Heeseung glances up at the clock; it’s nearly one in the morning. Picking it up, he inspects the device. He lets out a sigh, determining that he should follow it, despite the excruciatingly late hour. It could help end this, or at least, take him a step closer to figuring it all out.

“Hey, you awake?” he buzzes gently into the new radio, awaiting a response.

“Yeah, I—I’m awake,” you reply after a few seconds, yawning at the end of your sentence as your eyes flutter, fighting to stay open. “What’s up?”

“This…receiver thing that I found, it’s beeping again. I’m gonna follow it, see what it’s detecting.”

“Okay…” you hum, nodding slowly as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and plant the balls of your feet on the wood floor, sticky with moisture. “Be careful. It’s late, and we don’t know who or what is really out there anymore.”

Heeseung follows the signal down to a small, grassy area just about half a mile away from his tower, surrounded by rocks and cliffs that stand just shy of a hundred feet tall. Like some sort of enclosure around him, another place that seems like a trap, amidst it all. He pushes through an overgrown cluster of vines, listening to the snap as he pulls them apart and steps through them to reveal what the receiver has been leading him toward.

A key, attached to a rectangular alarm, is duct-taped to the side of one of the rocks. As he swipes the key from its place, the alarm rings, and he smashes it to the ground, silencing it. Its frequency is what the receiver had picked up, meaning it was intentionally put here to be found. At this hour, in this location. And whoever put it there wanted his attention, knew he was awake, because they’re still watching, still lurking.

“It’s a key. Blue and green…Has a piece of paper taped to it with a shitty drawing of a tentacle,” he tells you, hoping you’ve managed to keep awake to hear it.

“What a tacky use of mythology.”

“It’s…for the cave, the one near the canyon. I remember seeing a gated-off area there a couple of times, and I thought it was strange back then, before all of…this. Not surprised that the key does still exist.”

“Why would they give…What?”

“I know, it’s weird,” he breathes. “It’s like they want us—me, I don’t know—to know, like it’s a trap, or something.” He shakes his head, “None of this makes any sense. First, they sneak around and invade my tower for god knows what, and now, they literally hand me the key?”

“Don’t go to the cave tonight,” you whisper, “please.”

He’d run laps if you asked him to in that tone. Hold a gun to his head. If you’re this worried about him, he might never walk into that cave, so long as he proves weak enough to keep bending his own will for you.

“I won’t,” he agrees solemnly, clearing his throat.

“Good. I don’t want you to get hurt,” you breathe. “Well…At least you’re back in your tower. Maybe all either of us needs is a nice, relaxing drink to mellow out.”

“I’m not in my tower.”

You furrow a brow, “I’m looking at a man standing in your lookout. And it’s…not…you?”

“It is not me.”

Your heart sinks deep into a crevice in your stomach that you didn’t even know existed before now.

“Oh my god, go,” you demand harshly, voice turning into a whimper somewhere in the middle as worry seeps into your blood like a virus. He scrambles his shit around and runs. And he hates the way your voice softens with worry and fear; even more that he lets you worry like this.

But the thought of someone appearing in your lookout rather than his own makes him more grateful, because if anything happens to you, he’ll never forgive himself.

Heeseung doesn’t care about you for the right reasons; both of you know that. And you feel like shit for it.

He’d slipped his wedding band into his pocket when he returned just over twenty-four hours ago, after making the switch with the radios. Watching it collect dust on the desk felt too harsh, too careless. He felt that it should be on him. The weight in his pocket should remain a constant remnant of what was, what should remind him that you can be nothing more than acquaintances, coworkers.

But he doesn’t deserve to wear it. That right was stripped away the moment his hand slipped into his pants at the thought of anyone other than his wife. Yet it doesn’t even matter. Because even if she could remember him when he returns, he’d be disgracing her if that ring was on his finger.

His hand palms over the circular print that the gold ring leaves in his pocket, and he breathes out an overdue breath as he stands in the middle of a lush part of the forest. He doesn’t quite recognize it, even with the countless days, weeks, and months he’s spent in nearly every explorable inch. He doesn’t have long to rest or catch his breath, to wallow in his guilt for the nth time.

But perhaps the very instance that has tugged at his heart since the day Sooha was diagnosed is the real source of that guilt. Less than his acceptance of this job and the complicated feelings he’s developed for you combined can provide.

Heeseung loved Sooha, but he wasn’t in love with her. And when she was diagnosed, he realized that “I do” was the most selfish vow he’d ever spoken, because he kept her from experiencing real, true love to its fullest extent. Because they settled. Because her parents didn’t approve, because he wanted to prove something that deep down, he knew was doomed from the start.

And that’s what haunts him, and he thinks will haunt him forever—not you, not any of this bullshit happening in Shoshone. That Heeseung’s marriage has been a lie since the beginning, and he can never reverse that. That Sooha will die thinking he still loves her the way he once did, if any fragment of her memory remains even slightly intact. And it’s the only lie he’s never spoken aloud, not even to you. Because Heeseung has secrets, too; everyone does.

As he approaches the Two Forks clearing, his eyes spot the tower, and he quickens his pace, heading up the stairs and nearly breaking a step in half with a forceful dig of his heel. At the top, no one resides. Where you’d spotted someone standing, no one remains. They left no evidence that anyone had even been there besides Heeseung, except…a Walkman taped to the door. With a frustrated grip, he rips the player off the door and presses play, slipping the headphones over his wind-swept hair.

“I’m sick of being fucked with. By everyone. I just want to burn this whole goddamn place down.”

Static.

“The grass is dry here. It will go up in flames within seconds.”

Heeseung throws the Walkman onto the balcony, nearly shattering it on impact. “There’s a tape. They have a fucking tape of us talking, Y/N.”

“What?”

“It was taped to the door when I got up here,” he shakes his head and tangles a fist into his hair. “Us talking at the site, when you said we should burn this place down. They made it sound like I agreed. They still have access to our radios, and they spliced together fake evidence that we did this.”

“No…No, no, no,” you panic, hands trembling as you try to compose yourself, but fail. “What the fuck is going on?!”

“I don’t—” he sputters, his overwhelming anger stunting his ability to hold his sentence. “We’re fucked. We’re so fucked if someone hears this.”

Grabbing the cracked device, he walks back into his tower and slams the door shut, locking it as if it will somehow help the situation. He tosses the Walkman onto his desk and sheds himself of his top, standing behind his chair and smoothing his hair back with his hands as the air finally hits his chest. The metal cross perched against his chest reflects and casts the moonlight onto the wall beside him. He’s not sure he’s ever been this disgruntled before.

“I need a cigarette.”

“You smoke?”

“I’m trying to quit,” he mumbles, free hand perched on his hip.

“Oh,” you nod. “Well, I think Ned used to smoke. Brian mentioned it, once or twice…Maybe he left a pack somewhere in the room, or something.” Not that you’re for smoking, especially in a national forest, but, well…The visual isn’t not appealing, and right now, you’d probably let Heeseung get away with murder.

Heeseung squints as he scans the room. He’s spent nearly a hundred days confined to this very spot and hasn’t noticed a single thing that even looks like a pack of cigarettes. But, he figures that if he had smoked, Ned would’ve likely kept it fairly hidden. So he checks behind a canister or two, cranes his head around the desk, and…his eyes land on a small box hiding between the desk and the wall.

He drops the radio onto the desk and reaches for the box. Picks up his bag and rummages through it to find a matchbook, messily ripping one out. His other hand works the box open and takes a cigarette with his index and middle fingers, perching it between his lips. The match strikes against the gritted strip and ignites; he brings the flame to the tip of the cigarette and shakes the match out as he inhales, eyes fluttering shut like it’s the best sensation he’s felt in weeks.

It’s almost erotic. The last time he felt this good was the night that the fire caught; the one both of you still dance around as if you’ll just forget something like that. Heeseung thinks he’ll always remember the neediness dripping from your voice, the slick sound of your fingers, and the whimpers…Shit.

Heeseung opens his mouth to tell you, but when he exhales, all that leaves is a moan. The fucker lets out a filthy moan into your ear as if what he’s doing is actually provocative.

“Evan…?”

“I found one,” as the smoke slips through his parted lips and rises into the air. “Fuck, that feels good.”

That stupid ache in your lower belly returns; you don’t mean to be so perverted, but when a man who sounds hot just speaking is moaning in your ear, what is a woman supposed to think? Set aside the cigarette smoking and the thought of him jerking off to your voice.

“Sooo…” you clear your throat, “So much for quitting, hm?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, taking another drag and blowing it up into the ceiling. “Not the best habit, but…Damn, I needed it.”

“Well…I drink a good bit. Maybe more than I should,” you shrug. “The trick I told you about with the creek and the hot night? Usually it’s with alcohol. Helps ease the loneliness sometimes. But I haven’t needed so much of it recently…Not really.”

The corner of his lip twitches, almost into a frown. “So…Were you—”

“—No,” you interrupt firmly, fingers toying absentmindedly with the hem of your shirt. “I wasn’t. I was sober then, and I’m sober now.”

“Now?” he echoes, sitting on the edge of his mattress, elbows nudged against his knees, the burning cigarette between his fingertips as he holds it still in the air. “Why does now matter?”

“Because I’m scared. And I’m tired, and I’m confused, and I’m angry.” The proclamation leaves your mouth in a whisper, not shy, not tentative. With a conviction they don’t typically hold. “And right now, all I can think about is…”

Heeseung’s lips press together.

“…you.”

His chest releases a heavy breath to your ear at the other end of the line, a sign that you cannot determine the connotation of. But what you can’t see is his face, the way his eyes squeeze shut, how his body reacts when a pulse of unwanted desire shoots through him. “Are you sure that that’s a good idea?” he asks, but the roughness in his voice betrays him.

“I don’t know,” you respond carefully, leaning into your pillow, thighs pressed together. “I’m sick of being used like a pawn. I just wanna feel something again.”

“Y/N, we shouldn’t,” he tries to reason; tries to ignore the ache in his pants as he forces another drag from the cigarette. “You have no idea…How much I think about this, about what we did. About you.”

He clears his throat, “But right now, we’re already toeing the line.”

“Right—yeah…I’m sorry,” you swallow. “You’re right, we shouldn’t. Especially not if whoever is listening is still…tapped.”

“Yeah.”

Your end falls dead after his final whisper of agreement, a low hum of static trickling into your ear, lulling your brain into a dazed state. Your body sighs, tired both physically and mentally from the strain that the last few days have brought onto it.

But what pains your muscles more than anything isn’t quite that, though it occupies a thorough chunk of it—it’s the way he speaks to you as if he is trying to spare your feelings, your heart. Perhaps you should have known better than to suggest something so personal, so intimate, to happen again, after it has become an unspoken truth that what you did that night was meant to stay limited to that night only. That—while it wasn’t a mistake—it can’t happen again.

But what blooms in your chest when he speaks to you, when you think of him, isn’t surface-level anymore. It isn’t mere attraction, a result of pent-up frustration from the bitter isolation of the forest like it was then. It feels real, almost tangible, and it scares you. And you think that Heeseung knows that, too.

Maybe he harbors that threatening feeling, too—the same lump in his throat, the same hint of want that strikes—whenever the conversation falls deep. The one you don’t think you’ve ever felt so strongly in your life, not for Johnny—who was nothing more than an idea you were obsessed with—and not for any person who steps into your life.

Heeseung—on the other end—leans into the same position you normally take, perhaps a bit more tense as he stretches his legs in front of him, palm perched over the upper inseam on his shorts. He doesn’t want to do it, even tries to take his mind off the idea, but it sticks—the desperate inflection in your tone as you toyed with the notion.

So, would it be as bad if you aren’t listening? He guesses the answer has to be a resounding ‘yes,’ because he doesn’t think he can sit on the bed for much longer with a growing hard-on that certainly won’t go away on its own. It must be the loneliness and lack of attention; nothing else, no other reason.

He’s shocked that wrapping a hand around his cock can actually feel this good with nothing to accompany it; no sound of someone in particular’s voice emanating from an old speaker, no shitty porno movie playing on a run-down VCR that glitches every 5.38 seconds and pauses for a few frames from film damage.

Just the sheer thought of some girl he’d met a few months prior, the echoing memory of her voice, and a dream. And admittedly, it’s better, feels deeper, pulls a throaty noise from his throat that he can’t deny the weight of. Which—as he breathes out another hefty puff of cigarette smoke into the air above him—renders the wedding ring in his pocket to be completely fucking useless by now, as it did essentially nothing to stop him from doing this.

But, then again, as a droplet of pre-cum cascades down until it reaches the side of his hand, you surely aren’t just sound asleep in your lookout. You were the one who suggested that you essentially have phone sex again, like it’s a viable temporary solution to your problems, so who’s to say that you aren’t in the same filthy position as him now?

He decides not to find out; he thinks he should stick to his word and not push that limit. Especially not let some freak tucked away in god knows where intercept that frequency, too. And he should stop letting himself feel so heavily for you—but that one’s a given, and one that he isn’t so great at maintaining.

His dick is heavy in his hand, sensitive when his fist constricts a tighter ring around it to speed up the shameful process. And finally—with not much time between—warm, white liquid is dripping down the length of his cock, down the back of his hand until it drips onto the mattress from the curve at his wrist. His chest rises, falls, lurches with every painful breath, eyes squeezed shut until the pulse between his legs subsides enough for him to regain strength. He leans over, putting the cigarette out on the floor beside the leg of the bed and using the nearest solid object to stomp it out.

Then, a quiet gasp from beneath him. Barely loud enough to hear, though his ears just catch it.

His hand frantically grasps the radio from where he’d dropped it, buried somewhere under a leg, and brings it closer to his face, quelling his huffs as he listens more closely. The usual, faint hum of static bleeds out, accompanied by the occasional soft noise of your breathing. You’re both there, listening. But neither of you parts your lips to speak, admitting to the reality of the situation aloud.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispers.

“Night, Evan.” °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟˚ৡ.° DAY 80 You wake up the following morning to the sound of your name being called over a speaker. Your eyes slowly flutter open, and confusion washes over as your brows furrow, head piquing toward the noise. From what your tired ears can make out, it’s a lookout calling you; though, it isn’t who you want to be woken up to. Only one person can occupy that slot.

As your throat releases a tired groan, your arm extends outward until your hand meets the radio. You gather as much composure as someone who just woke up can muster and answer, wanting to know what is so important that it has to be reported to you this early in the morning. And what this man says is—well, enough to sober you right up.

“I…think I’m gonna be sick.”

Heeseung stops dead in his tracks. He’s been up for a few hours now, preparing to check out the cave. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I just received a call from one of the other lookouts, saying that an Evan from Two Forks called him late last night and told him that I know what started that fire at the site,” you tell him blankly, unsure of how to say it without sounding accusatory. “Something is wrong, Evan, really, really wrong.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know,” you huff, shaking your head. “I spent twenty minutes with him trying to explain that no, I don’t know what happened! And I don’t know what started it! That ‘Evan’ isn’t real, and I’m not fucking insane!”

You palm your forehead, “So that said—we’re being threatened.”

“Fucking Christ,” he exhales, stepping toward the cave’s entrance as the cold, brisk air from inside wafts out and fans his face; a decent contrast to the stale, smoky air outside. “I’m gonna find out what’s in this cave, if it’s the last thing I do.”

And with that, he disappears into the cave’s bitter darkness, leaving behind his signal to find out what secret is being kept inside.

Upon reaching the all-too-familiar gate buried deep inside the cave’s embrace, Heeseung’s hand rips the key he’d found last night out of his pocket. The frustration and confusion boiling inside of him is far too heavy a weight to carry alone, despite experiencing all of this alongside you. Your tower hasn’t been broken into; you haven’t been lured into the forest in the middle of the night just to find a key; you weren’t coaxed into coming here just to get what you know will answer only a fraction of the questions you harbor.

Heeseung jabs the key into the hole and turns it until the lock clicks and the door swings open towards him. He steps past the threshold, stuffing the key back into one of his pockets, not paying any mind to which one—he could drop it now, for all he cares.

The cold brushes his exposed forearms, seeps between the openings in the fabric between each tattered button on his flannel top. He considers ditching the whole damn thing sooner or later—its edges are fraying, the seams are begging to pop, a few small holes rest near the hem, and no amount of rinsing it in the lake can erase the wear left on the fabric. And especially now, any chill in the air drifts straight through it, rendering it virtually useless.

Would it be indecent to run around the forest shirtless? He’s grown some muscle; perhaps it would be a sight to behold, rather than condemn.

Heeseung jams the carabiner into a crack in a nearby rock, tugs to check its stability, and climbs further down into the cave, where he feels the temperature drop another two, three degrees. A subtle change that he only notices with the help of his useless top. The lone path leads him to a somewhat narrow stretch that lasts no more than two hundred feet until a ray of sunlight beams in from above, illuminating a sight for sore eyes. The exact thing that he came here looking for.

The body of a twelve-year-old boy. Buried beneath a pile of old rocks, just below a steep, long slide.

As he steps closer, Heeseung doesn’t need to ask to know who the skeleton belongs to. It’s Brian Goodwin, the son of his predecessor, and an old friend of yours. The boy you cherished, thinking he’d left to go back home, to return to his family and friends; instead, dead at the bottom of a cave, tucked away for no wandering eyes to see. Which answers one question, yet forms another:

Who wanted Heeseung to see this, and why?

“You poor kid,” he whispers, carefully stepping over the child’s half-buried body in an effort not to displace or disturb him. For a moment, he crouches down, hanging his head low as if to pay respect to a boy he never knew. But this was a child, and he was someone important to you; he figures it’s the least he can do, as one of the few people who even know he is here.

Then, he gently stands back up and heads forward, towards the nearest opening that leads him back to the surface. The hot, humid, and smoky air welcomes him back (though it isn’t exactly a warm welcome, despite the blistering heat), the sun casting his shadow on the rocks beside him as he stands before the cave’s exit, a somber expression stuck on his face. He knows now what he needs to do, even if he shouldn’t.

“Y/N…” he hums into the radio, taking tentative steps through the dirt and back towards his tower. “I’m…I’m out.”

“Hey, what’s up?” you ask, standing over the counter as you try to sew a button back onto your shirt with the old sewing kit your grandmother had gifted you ages ago. “What were they hiding in there?”

Heeseung’s teeth gnaw at the inside of his cheek; you sound so happy, occupied with whatever you’ve been doing, finally at ease after the mental turmoil you’ve put yourself through for no reason. The fear and ache in your chest that you finally managed to quell has vanished from your tone, and though he wants to tell you—needs to, by his standards—he can’t bring himself to, not yet.

“Nothing,” he lies in the most neutral tone he can manage. “It was empty. It has to be a distraction, or some kind of trap.”

“Oh, that’s…weird.”

Your fingers pinch the top’s material between them, holding the half-sewn button in place until both hands are free again. “Maybe it was a diversion? Something to distract us, or confuse us, from something else? Y’know, because they know we’re on their trail, so maybe they’re just…buying themselves some time.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung blinks; you’d have a point if that were the truth. “That’s probably it.”

“Okay, well…I’m trying to sew this shirt back together, and it’s a little bit difficult to do with a radio in my hand, so…I’m gonna sign off for a few,” you tell him, voice perkier than usual, perhaps from the rest and relaxation you gave yourself after the rough start to the day. This entailed a few sips of wine and a trip down to the creek, where you dipped your toes into the water and just took a breath. “Let me know if you find anything else. I’m assuming you’re just gonna head back?”

“Yeah, might stop by the lake, or something. It’s hot. Feels a little hard to breathe out here.”

“That would be from the joint fires,” you joke, as if he isn’t able to piece that together himself, but it earns a chuckle from your counterpart. “I wouldn’t take too long, it’s dangerous out there. Be safe.”

And with that, you toss the device onto your bed and continue with the meticulous work you’ve gotten yourself into, humming a soft tune and noting that you should bring a CD player next year to dull the silence. Though, that price tag might be damning; you guess you’ll have to look into it.

Heeseung—as he toyed with the notion of—heads westward to the lake, shedding his upper half and dunking his head into the cool water. He ruffles his hands through the wet strands of hair, allowing the water to act as a coolant as he tosses his head forward, elbows resting on his kneecaps in his crouched position. A few lukewarm droplets land on his shoulder, dripping down the expanse of his bicep as he forces out a heavy breath, long overdue.

Eyes closed, he remembers the day he trekked out here at the beginning of summer; the heat hadn’t quite reached its peak yet, and he’d floated mindlessly in the water until his fingers grew numb, the pads wrinkling with the submersion. The shot and a miss he took, implying that you should join him, only for you to not-so-politely decline and return to your work—whatever it was, at the time.

He felt then that things were finally beginning to settle in, not feel so lonely. That he could embrace the calm of the nature around him, and that he could finally start searching within himself for the answers he needed. Only…with time, he realized that they weren’t as satisfying as he thought they’d be. And that only led him here—alone, surveillanced, and…unfaithful, by the textbook. That day, it had been only a little more than a week since he arrived; he wishes that he hadn’t taken that freedom for granted.

Then again, meeting you might have been the only answer he needed, after all. Because he does make poor decisions—something he thought coming here would erase—but you showed him that they make him human. That his remorse is what solidifies that truth. Good people can do bad things, too; both of you are examples of that.

It’s what keeps you up at night, wondering if any of this is even worth it. If he’d leave you, too, if he even had the choice. If he would become just another fleeting moment in your life. Never a constant. Never anything. Just a memory you’re burdened with to add to the burning pile that already rests in the forefront of your mind.

You’ll never be anything more than a lesson to learn. °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟˚ৡ.° Heeseung stares up at the ceiling, night having fallen over him just about an hour after he finally returned to his lookout. The smell of charred wood has fully infiltrated the room, and even his tower is no longer an escape from reality; nothing is, or will be, anymore.

The truth about the cave still weighs down on his chest, and since the moment the lie slipped from his lips, he’s kicked himself for it. He should’ve told the truth, and he shouldn’t have tried to spare you, knowing how imperative it was that you found out. Time is of the essence; you don’t have any to waste. Which is what leads him here, preparing his conscience with a deep, weighted breath as he lifts his radio to his face.

“Y/N, can you sit down for a minute?”

“Evan, I’m always sitting down,” you laugh. “And it’s also,” you check your clock, “almost eleven. If I’m not in my bed by now, something’s wrong.”

He laughs in response, but the noise lacks its usual amusement, and it doesn’t sneak past you. Your brows furrow as you perch yourself a little further up into a half-sitting position, distributing your weight onto your bent elbow. “It’s…about the cave,” he admits gently, as if to ease your nerves. “I didn’t exactly tell you the truth about what was in there.”

“What…” you mumble, swallowing down the rest of your sentence until your mouth can form the words again. “What was in there, Evan?”

“Brian,” his voice a near-whisper. “Brian Goodwin. He’s…He’s dead, Y/N. His rope…snapped.”

You don’t realize that the radio is out of your hand until it hits the floor and cracks one of its plastic edges. You jump, eyes following the noise, though the rest of your body feels paralyzed. Every last suppressed emotion lurches into your throat, stuffs your lungs so full that you feel like you can no longer breathe. Tears—warm, wet, ugly—run down your cheeks; you hear Heeseung’s voice asking your name, muffled by your sobs as if it’s nothing but background noise. You’ve held the guilt in for so long that the dam built in your chest had burst on impact, his sentiment like the first fall of a domino.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

“No,” you admit angrily, tears streaming down your face for reasons he can’t even begin to imagine. “This is my fault, this is all my fault. If I had called it in, if I hadn’t lied—he would be alive. I got him killed.”

“You didn’t kill him,” he tries to reassure you, though he doesn’t quite understand, but he knows that his words mean nothing. “You were just trying to protect him, Y/N, there is nothing wrong with that.” His heart aches at the thought of you sitting alone in your tower with no one to comfort you, to help ease the pain and the guilt.

“You don’t understand, Evan, I—I’m not a good person. I’m a liar,” you shout to him, as if the way it registers can properly convey your message. Instead, the noise leaves his speaker choppy, loud, and ugly in his ears.

“Liar? Liar, how?”

Your eyes fall shut, and your stomach dips, a throbbing pain replacing the empty feeling that once sat there.

“The fire two years ago,” you begin softly, slowly, taking your time as you carefully decide what you’re going to say before the words escape your lips. You’re tired of hiding things; exhausted from carrying the weight on your own. “I didn’t call it in when I noticed it because of Brian. Because I thought that if too much attention was brought to the fire, they’d catch Ned with him, and they’d take him. So I gave them time to hide, get away from prying eyes.”

Heeseung doesn’t speak; he listens quietly, processing your story as he waits for you to continue.

“It got bigger, hotter, more dangerous. It was so much worse than any of this—I had to call it. I couldn’t wait again,” you breathe, pushing down the urge to hurl right then and there at the mere thought of it. “People came to manage it, but by then it was too much of a threat. A few…died. Trying to fix the mess I created. Ned told me that some of their gear had been lost in the fire; he was pissed—god, he was so angry.”

A sob breaks through, “The fire damaged the exact equipment that failed him. I killed Brian.”

“Y/N—”

“—I could’ve told you this whole time about that, but I didn’t. Because I wanted you to think higher of me.” Tears spill from your eyes, hot and angry and bitter. “Why do you think everyone leaves? It’s because I lie. I lie to make myself look better than I am, just for it to crash down on me like it always does,” you sob, gasping for air between words as the ability to breathe evades you and your chest heaves. “My fiancé didn’t leave for no reason. No one does, whether I push them away, or they make the decision for themself.”

Heeseung’s face contorts into a frown at your admission. You’ve been keeping this from him the whole time and lying to cover your own tracks—of course, he’s upset, disappointed, even a little angry. But the fragility in your voice makes it difficult for him to stay that way. He can hear your sobs and the sadness in your voice, and as much as he shouldn’t, he feels bad.

“Y/N, just—just calm down, okay? Everything will be fine.”

“No, it’s not fine, Evan! It’s not,” you shout back, not meaning to come off so harshly. “I’m not good for you. God, I’m making you cheat on your—”

“Stop.”

The line falls silent; it isn’t comfortable, not the way it usually is on nights like this.

“For your own good,” you whisper weakly, “just keep your distance.”

Something in the way you speak flips a switch inside of him. His consciousness slips as his feet meet the ground and practically stomp out of the door, down the stairs, into the grassy clearing around his tower. He’s moving north—down the exact path he’s traveled at least eighteen times by now—through the cave, past the formerly downed line, further around the bend until he reaches a cable car.

The one that leads to your sector; the one you’d told him countless times never to take. The one he steps onto and moves down the zipline and over the ravine in. Your voice doesn’t chime on his radio like it usually does, hasn’t spoken since you willed him off. His hand clenches around the edge of the wood, hard enough to splinter if his palm moves the wrong way, though he likely won’t notice if it happens; he feels too numb to care about something so insignificant.

Irritation rises in his stomach, bile to his throat as he climbs the stairs of a tower that is unfamiliar, with a conviction that rivals any step he’s taken out in that forest, any word he’s uttered into that microphone, and any shameless stroke of his cock in the confines of that dingy fucking lookout he’s been living in.

You hear the footsteps clear as day, daunting, echoing in your head loudly enough for you to jump to your feet and follow the noise. The pit that anchors in your stomach is answer enough to who it is, the forceful press of boots into wood unrelenting as the noise draws closer. You’re standing outside of your door, the bottom edge held open by your heel, bare against the weathered wood below your foot.

And then—for the first time—Heeseung’s face falls into view.

He freezes halfway through rounding the corner; lips parted just slightly as his eyes catch on your figure standing only a few lazy feet away, as if you’ve been waiting for him. He steps closer, tentatively, eyes drifting along the expanse of your body and landing on your face, studying every last inch of it until there is no feature that goes unnoticed.

God, you’re beautiful.

Your head tilts back once he’s close enough to stand taller than you, his gaze matching yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to speak; the shock overtaking your body barely lets you register him, the way his hair gently falls behind his ears and cascades down the back of his neck, curling outward at the nape. The softness in his face, his large, gentle eyes, his neck bobbing when he swallows.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, lacking the strength they usually have, the power they’ve held over him in the past. “I told you to stay away.”

“Good for me or not, I want you,” he answers back. The tips of his fingers slip beneath your jaw and land at the back of your neck; not forceful, just gentle, grounding. “I don’t care about what’s out there. I don’t care what’s waiting for me at home. I’m here, now, and whether we leave tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day, I won’t step foot into that helicopter without having you first.”

“Ev—”

“—Heeseung.”

“Kiss me.”

And with everything he has, he does.

Your hand braces itself on the balcony railing from the binding pressure of his lips chasing yours with desperation that feels like he’s wanted to do this for years. And perhaps—in his own fucked up way—he has, after the torment of dealing with Sooha’s illness, after shamefully pretending that he did love her the way he should have. If anything, you’re the good one; not the reverse.

Heeseung backs you past the threshold and into your lookout, hand temporarily leaving your face in favor of the doorknob behind him to pull the door shut with a loud slam that echoes off of one of the walls. Every bone in your body wants to reject the feeling, resist the urge to continue, let him have his way with you, but it can’t; the devil on your shoulder preaches otherwise in a voice that sounds too similar to his.

His tongue coaxes your lips open, pushes itself past them and into your mouth, grazing gently along your top row of teeth as if to map them out; commit them to memory for the months to come, when all that’s left of you is limited to his head.

A small noise falls from your lips, the sound so sweet in his ears as his grip tightens in your hair. “God, your voice,” he hums into your mouth, the desperate edge in his tone impossible to miss. “All of you, fuck, you’re real.”

The backs of your knees bump against the tiny structure in the corner of your room—barely enough of a bed for one person—and they give out when he slips a hand down to the bend of one, hoisting it up to his waist. Your back hits the mattress while his grip remains constant around your knee, fingers offering a squeeze as he moves to hover above you; eyes glaze over your figure with admiration, something else hidden behind them that flickers when your gaze meets his again.

He doesn’t bother to loosen his flannel before pulling it over his head, his dark hair falling lazily back into place. You notice that he’s still practicing his no tank rule, eyes glazing over his bare figure—the sharp edge where his neck meets his shoulder, down to his chest. The gold cross between his pecs reflects in the light, dangles as his chest rises and falls between breaths.

His fingers curl around the first button on your top, mouth messily pressing wet kisses into the dip at your collarbone as he coaxes each one open, your back unwillingly arching closer to him. The fabric finally falls open, barely hanging onto your shoulders as the air hits your exposed stomach and flutters against your skin. His index finger slides carefully along the center of your midriff, tracing the dewy skin in an upward motion until his palm is curled around your neck, thumb angling your chin toward him.

“This is what you’ve been hiding,” he states as his lips kiss the corner of your mouth, heat rising to your cheeks with its bittersweet gentleness. “And you think I’d walk away from it?”

Your fingers squeeze his bicep, firm under your grasp. “It’s not about that,” you complain, squirming when his lips begin to travel south, pausing at your lower belly to glance up at you; you swallow down a moan at the sight. “It’s about this—doing it just to have you taken away.”

“Then I’ll make it good,” as he tugs your silk shorts down, sporting a deep teal hue with their lace beginning to lift from the wear.

You don’t hesitate to raise your hips, eyes drifting shut, and something between a whimper and a sigh leaving your mouth at the realization that your underwear left with the shorts; you’re laid bare, embarrassingly so. He pulls your legs apart carefully by your ankles, slowly, as he watches your pussy flutter open to him with hungry eyes. When his head sinks lower, your hand follows suit, tangling itself into the brown strands of hair he’d once described to you, and it’s now that you realize just how poorly he made himself out to be; you’ll reprimand him for it later.

His mouth is on your inner thigh, then up further—closer, until his breath grazes your clit, wasting no time before wrapping his lips around it. The sudden pressure pulls a moan from your chest that filters into his ears much clearer than either of the shitty radios could manage, deeper than any you’d let slip from your own fingers.

He knows that he doesn’t have much time with you, to savor this moment like he’s been wanting to for months, and a part of him regrets not giving in sooner; allowing himself to cross this boundary early enough to allot him days, weeks to get you out of his system.

“Taste good,” he murmurs into your pussy, arousal dripping onto his tongue as he laps at the mess you’ve already created; he wonders if this is what it had looked like those nights.

“Not much to compare it to,” you breathe back, but humiliation bleeds into your chest at the realization of how insensitive you sound. An example of what has pushed people away in the past, what you assume will keep the streak alive.

He pauses, but doesn’t look up. “No,” he confirms, fingers pressed firmly into your knee as he kisses your lower lips, slick from the mixture of spit and arousal gathered along their puffy shapes, “there isn’t.” Your face contorts with surprise, but doesn’t maintain it for long once his tongue dips inside, and your thighs constrict involuntarily around his head.

At your reaction, he works faster, diligent with his tongue as it alternates between your hole and your clit, circling around the bud until your throat makes that exact squeak he’d memorized from the first night you fucked yourself to him. Satisfied, he draws closer, emitting a slick slurp with every lick and suck he delivers to your pussy. He’s starved, and you’re moaning into the air with a sharp quietness that allows only him to hear you, trying to avoid wandering ears as best as you possibly can.

You watch the muscles in his back contract and release with each brief movement of his head; the sharp edges of his traps and shoulder blades on display, having been strengthened over his time here.

A part of you can’t believe that any of this is real, that the man between your legs and rushing heat through to your fingertips is Heeseung, the man who was meant to be nothing more than a colleague, one of the handful of lookouts that you have to direct, to tend to. You’ve spent so many hours listening to the soft lull of his voice, speaking about god only knows what until the latest possible minute. You’d started to think that you may never forget his voice, for you’d become so accustomed to it that you could hear him even when he wasn’t there.

His lips finally part from your clit, your walls absentmindedly clenching around nothing in a way that silently begs for more, despite your decently-kept composure. You let a whimper out with the loss of contact, hand tightening a bit in his hair. Wetness continues to drip out of your hole as Heeseung’s saliva coats its outer skin, glistening in the dim lamplight that glows from the top of your old, half-working refrigerator.

His face fades back into view, a little blurred by your weak vision, yet you think now that you could pick him out of a crowd as easily as you could recognize his voice, even if you’ve only caught a few minutes’ worth of glances at it. It’s soft—a few droplets shine along his chin that he makes no effort to remove or smear.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your sternum as his fingers finally dispose of the top your body still rests on, exposing the latter of your chest to him. “I don’t have time.” His lips find the curve of your breast, kissing the flesh until he reaches your nipple, taking it between them. Sucking gently as an apology as the palm of his hand slips over the other, offering another small squeeze before his mouth lands on yours again, kissing you with a fervor that rivals any man you’ve ever kissed.

“It’s okay, Heeseung,” you breathe, the corners of his lips tugging into a smile at the sound of his name on your tongue—far better than the speaker could ever replicate. “I…” you try, losing the words as your eyes blink away the tears to see his face, so distractingly beautiful, despite his depiction of himself.

“I don’t want you to take your time,” your voice hardens. “Just want you to fuck me, Heeseung.”

You can’t breathe when he kisses you again. It’s sloppy and wet, a tangled mess of clashing teeth and tongues, moans blending into one another and soaking into the dense walls. The metal cross presses into the valley of your chest, its usual cold touch hindered by the hot forest air inside. One of his hands tangles in your hair, the other somewhere at your waist, while yours can’t find a place to rest. They map the expanse of his back, hold his face, mirror his own, too desperate to stay wherever they find.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he moans into your mouth, “I promise.”

His hips grind into yours, the bulge of his clothed cock brushing against your sensitive pussy—creating a wet spot on his shorts that he can feel through the thick material. He whines into your ear, the noise resonating heavily in your belly, pulling the imaginary coil so tight that you have to gasp for air.

“Heeseung, please,” you groan as your fingers prod at the zipper on his shorts. “Wanna feel you before the sun rises?”

A laugh brushes against your ear, and he rises to his knees to promptly remove the shorts and boxers beneath. Something metallic clanks onto the floor. Your eyes follow his motion and land on his cock, thick and heavy-looking in his palm; the tip swells, a flushed shade of red as pre-cum leaks all over it. His palm smears the liquid along his length, stroking it lazily as he draws nearer and hovers just centimeters above your face again.

“Can’t believe you’re real,” he whispers, applying pressure at your entrance until just the tip pushes in, and you gasp into the air, fingers pressing a tenacious grip onto his shoulders. “You’re so pretty.” His lips kiss your temple gently as the rest of his cock suddenly stretches your velvety walls entirely. He coos softly into your hairline, a hand on your knee, rubbing back and forth to keep you grounded.

“You’re so big,” you retort, and Heeseung laughs. “Fuck.”

“Just can’t drop the attitude, can you?”

“Don’t you know me by now?” you counter, wincing when your hips shift—and by association, him inside of you.

He brushes a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Not as much as I want to,” he whispers low, letting the words hang in the air as butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Disregarding his sentiment, Heeseung presses his lips to yours firmly, craning his head to better the angle as his hips finally pull back and push forward; a moan reverberates from your mouth to his. His one hand steadies your bent knee and keeps you propped open for him, while the other rests just by the underside of your jaw. His touch is gentle, regardless of the desperate way he devours you, your saliva mixing messily and dripping out from your connected mouths.

He grinds his hips against yours in no particular manner, shaft stretching your inner walls to the fullest extent they’ve ever been opened to—larger than anyone you’ve ever taken, courtesy of the questionable men you’ve managed to wrap yourself up with before. Even if this ‘relationship’ with Heeseung far transcends the line of taboo, it means more to you. Which is—in all fairness—what forced your hand to keep such a distance from him until now, because you know that this can only hurt in the end.

But god, the way he feels inside of you is so gratifying, so perfect that you don’t care about the whines that spill from your lips, that he collects on his tongue as he somehow coaxes his cock deeper into your aching cunt. Wetness collects in a ring at the base of his cock, becoming increasingly thicker with his push and pull.

Your pussy squelches with a heavier thrust; he recognizes the sound from months prior, a noise he committed to memory without thinking he’d ever hear it again.

“You’re perfect—feel perfect, so good,” he mumbles into the air between you with his forehead pressed to yours, arm perching your leg on his waist to deepen the angle he hits. “He ever—ngh—feel this good?”

“Did she?”

Desperate eyes fall on his own with knitted brows, as if his answer will dictate the rest of your life. Despite knowing that nothing will change, no matter the answer. His expression mirrors yours—needy, eyes big with pouty lips that have your stomach in knots.

“No,” he whispers; a tear threatens to fall onto your cheek, but he captures it with his thumb before it can properly form. “Just you,” he adds, but the conviction laced within his words only adds salt to the open wound slicing into your heart.

“He didn’t, either.”

His lips envelop yours again as if to cut the conversation short; wasting time on something that is far too intimate for your situation isn’t worth it. It shouldn’t be, rather, not with the ticking time clock hanging above your heads. With someone still out there, waiting, watching. If his head was in the proper space, he’d wonder if they even know what they’re doing; how wrongful their behavior has escalated. Even still—he wouldn’t care.

“Mm,” you whimper when his tip prods at your sweet spot, hips involuntarily chasing his as your body tries to replicate the interaction. Successfully, he thrusts against it again; then again; then again, noting silently that he’d found it.

“‘m close, Hee,” the nickname tumbles out of your mouth, pulling a satisfied noise from his throat that sounds almost entirely unfamiliar.

“Right there?” he emphasizes with another push, earning a nod from you. “‘kay, baby.”

Jesus Christ, this guy.

His hands are all over you again; the edge of his chain taps against your bare chest, slick skin letting it glide over the area with ease. A palm slips off your shoulder and along the length of your arm, not stopping until his fingers are brushing yours and entwining themselves between them. Your eyes flash to his; a gust of wind blows in the distance; he meets your gaze gently and intensely at the same time.

“Heeseung…”

“Let me enjoy this—you,” he murmurs into the column of your neck; presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Let me love…” he hesitates, “love it.”

He looks at you like no one ever has before. Like you’re something to be cherished, to be worshipped, to be cared for. Something you aren’t used to, that others decided you were unworthy of.

His eyes flicker between admiration and something deeper; his features appear so soft that you don’t think anyone has ever looked so beautiful. An ache throbs in your chest, around where your heart sits, and you think—just for a fraction of a moment—that you might love Heeseung.

Part of him thinks he feels it, too.

When his thrusts turn messy, a sudden sting forms between your thighs and creates a binding pressure that your body can barely withstand. Heat rises in your belly and snaps the coil inside when he whimpers into the air between you. His voice completely and utterly wrecked by the tight squeeze of your cunt.

The squelch that releases into the room is obscene—fueled by the hot liquid gushing out of your hole and down his cock, where the slick ring at the base builds thicker and whiter than once was. His mouth is on yours again, swallowing the near-scream that threatens to slip out to the forest with its volume and give both of you away to whoever may be lurking near; surely, they know Heeseung is here, by now. The weak bed creaks beneath you; his hand’s grip turns vice over yours, pinning the back of it to the useless pillow behind it. The metal bar on the headboard presses into your hand as if the pillow isn’t even there to serve as a buffer, drawing a wince from you when the pain becomes too strong.

In one languid motion, his forehead lifts to yours, and his free hand reaches between you to pull himself out; the searing stretch finally subsides, and he watches your cunt flutter around nothing. Then, another breathless, unsteady moan as spurts of white decorate your puffy folds. You gasp when his tip catches on your clit; cum still seeps out of your hole, runs along the crevice between your pussy and your inner thigh.

His chest heaves above yours as you watch. The metal taps your cheek, your neck, the curve of a breast with the rise and fall, each heavier than the last. His lips find the side of your head, trailing carefully down the skin as if to worship its softness beneath them. They land just underneath your jaw, lingering for a moment there, savoring the sweet scent of the fragrance you occasionally apply—or, what is left of it.

It’s only when your body is near-perfectly still beneath his that he lowers his weight onto you and loosens his hold on your hand, letting his fingers ghost tentatively away from yours until they’re resting somewhere off to the side. Your fingers lower to the nape of his neck, where they drift over a few loose, half-damp strands of hair. He hums quietly against your skin. A shiver shoots through his spine beneath your touch.

“‘ve gotta clean you up,” he says when he pulls up from your body; thin strings of release keep you connected. He reaches for the makeshift table beside the bed and takes the folded handkerchief between his fingers, wrapping it snugly around his index and middle to wipe the milky stains away. Your pussy—still sensitive—throbs under the cloth.

“Not very hygienic, is it?” you tease, at which he chuckles and nudges your shoulder. He tosses the cloth onto the kitchenette counter at the opposite side of the room. “Hey, be careful with that,” you pout, “that’s my good cloth.”

“I just used it to wipe up cum, and you’re concerned about a dusty countertop?”

“Heeseung,” you warn.

The brunette chuckles and lowers himself at your side, propping his head up with his elbow and pulling your frame an inch or two closer. His palm skates to your hip, rubbing circles in a soothing motion over the red-marked skin; courtesy of his former grip.

“You’re not a bad person, Y/N,” he whispers into the back of your head, breathing in the inescapable smell of sex that floats in the surrounding air. “You made mistakes with good intentions; you shouldn’t penalize yourself for that.”

The butterflies in your stomach suddenly jolt to life, and a sigh parts your lips as your fingers toy with a crease in the old bedsheet. Your eyes tunnel vision onto it as a mediocre distraction. “I wish it were that simple, Heeseung.”

Your body tears between what your head wants and what your heart wants; though only one of the outcomes is possible, as far as either of you is concerned, spoken aloud or not. The situation feels too familiar—Heeseung’s voice guiding you into the territory that you swore you wouldn’t fall into again.

But this time, it feels suffocating. Because he isn’t some guy on the other end of the line anymore; he’s here, he’s tangible, and he’s real—you couldn’t bare the thought of seeing him, because that would make it real, and when you inevitably have to go back to your lives, none of what happens within the perimeter of this forest can follow you.

Before, Heeseung was nothing more than an idea; now, he’s proof that your morality has bent itself into something unrecognizable, and there is no way to reverse it.

“The person you think I am…She doesn’t exist.”

“It’s not about that. It was never about that,” he counters, dragging the tip of his finger along your ribcage. “You may have tried to make yourself look better, Y/N. But the difference between me and whoever else you’ve lied to is that this was never about doing the right thing, because if it was, then I wouldn’t be here.”

Tears spring to your eyes because deep down, you know that he’s right. And it hurts to know that you helped orchestrate this mess of a relationship, if you should even have the nerve to call it that. You don’t try to suppress the cry that emerges from your throat; the pain—as wrongful as it is—is too severe, and you’re sick of pretending that you don’t feel it, that in some fucked up way, you care for him.

“You wanted to protect him, Y/N. And maybe that doesn’t excuse what you did, but you can’t spend the rest of your life kicking yourself over something you never could have predicted would happen.”

You take his hand with yours when you feel it start to lift off your body; you bring the two in front of your face, feeling the callouses on his fingertips brushing against yours. You think that, if you squeeze hard enough, it won’t hurt so much anymore. You try to speak his name, but it doesn’t form on your tongue as easily as it once had, as if your body is trying to resist it.

“So if lying—and if being here makes you a bad person, then so am I.”

You’ve bared every part of yourself and your body to him, and yet, you’ve never felt as vulnerable as you do right now, sobbing in his arms, as if the dam has finally broken inside of you. It all happens so fast, like a wave crashing into you, submerging your head underwater until you can’t breathe. All you can do is cling to Heeseung’s hand, internally reprimanding yourself over and over again for acting so childish.

Your friends are married, have children, have families, and what are you doing? Shacking up with a married man whose wife can’t even remember her own name? It’s embarrassing, and it’s humiliating, and despite every bone in your body wanting to pick yourself up, you can’t.

The brutal reality is that no one will treat you the way he does, and perhaps that’s what cuts so deep: that all of this is just because he can. Because he could walk out of this room right now, and nothing would change.

He whispers something unintelligible into your hair when he thinks you’re asleep. Though you’re halfway there, his voice is reduced to nothing more than a muffled noise that eases your muscles. You think, at one point, that he’s humming a song you’d mentioned once before; your lip curves into a smile, too tired to be noticeable.

There in his arms, you finally drift off, tear stains decorating your warm cheeks as Heeseung’s hand stays firm over yours, his thumb rubbing circles into your wrist. °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟˚ৡ.° DAY 81 Your body doesn’t expect another one to be closely pressed against it when you wake the next morning.

The early sunlight casts a warm glow into the lookout, amplified by the mixed fires’ orange hue. Smoke blooms in the air around your tower, almost as if to cast a warm blanket over your resting bodies. The scent of warm cedar fills your nose when your senses come to, and your eyes flutter open, falling onto the palm that rests over your stomach.

You notice Heeseung’s breath leaving his nose in favor of the nape of your neck, brushing over the skin with a gentle breeze that cools your body. You feel rested and a lot more peaceful after the night’s events; you can still feel the remnant of a dried tear at the corner of your eye. But before you can wipe it away—or at least, offer an attempt—Heeseung’s fingers slide below your navel, sweeping over the skin there.

“Good morning,” he hums, his sleep-touched voice a sultry purr. “You okay?”

“Mm…Mhm,” you nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t know why pressure builds so quickly in your belly when he speaks. His voice has always relaxed you, been something you tended to fixate on, where you had no other trace of him. But this morning, it’s as if your body hasn’t gotten the proper fix. That—more specifically—your core aches with a need for more, even if you’ve just woken up.

Heeseung seems to sense the shift; you don’t know what signals it to him, but you know that the message is delivered when his fingers dip lower to brush over your clit. The pads of his middle and ring fingers rub circles into the flesh, and your head shifts backward, pressing slightly into his shoulder.

“You want…this?” he emphasizes for confirmation, humming contentedly when you give a curt nod. “M’kay,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

But then, you’re shaking it. “N—ngh—no,” you swallow, “inside.”

“Ohhh,” he nods almost tauntingly, gliding his fingers down your slit before pressing just the tip of his middle finger inside; a whine tumbles out of your mouth, hips squirming beside him. He adds the ring finger alongside it, watching your eyes squint shut when they finally sink fully in with the wet squelch he attributes to your pussy. “Like this?”

“Yes, like that,” you groan, hearing how pleased he is to be giving you a taste of your own medicine for once. “Feels good.”

Luckily for you, you’re far too exhausted to complain about even this, as he’s still giving you what you want. Heeseung doesn’t tease for long, given the time constraint and his own messed-up desire building in his cock. Between both of you, the thick line of nearly three months’ worth of tension had been completely severed into two, and no amount of sex for the next week could make up for it.

Though if the recent fire development is anything to go by, you’ll be on your way home by nightfall. But you don’t want to think about that quite yet—you’d already suffered it last night, amidst the post-release vulnerability that plagued your ability to suppress those emotions.

Your hand snakes behind you and lands somewhere at the back of his head, palming his hair to stabilize yourself. Your pussy sucks his fingers in, already slick enough to make the push and pull that much easier, despite the tight ring constricting around them. He curls them deep inside, hitting the spongy spot buried too deep for your own fingers to reach; your hips jolt forward with the sudden blinding contact.

Even more unexpectedly, he yanks them out as quickly as they came. You whine with frustration, huffing his name before his arms pull you into a half-sitting position on your knees. Now pressing up into you, his fingers push back into your clenched hole, while his thumb works your clit until you’re falling towards him, breathing more stunted moans into the dry air. Your radio flickers on your desk; both heads turn to the static, but no one speaks, forcing the line back to silence.

Heeseung laughs, pressing his lips to your shoulder as he uses his free hand to brush your hair towards the opposite one. He kisses a line down to your bicep and back upward, landing at the crevice in your neck that makes your hips roll involuntarily and pries a sigh from deep within your chest. He sucks at the spot, nips the skin with his teeth as your hand tugs the long strands of hair between your fingers; he moans into your neck, fingers delving impossibly deeper into your throbbing cunt.

You can’t decide where this is more or less intimate than last night. The sun lights up the room enough for anyone standing close enough to see inside, yet you don’t mind. The intense fog that the joint fire creates around the tower blocks the view. A helicopter flies just closely enough to hear the chopping blades, but it isn’t close enough to worry about, not yet. And the thought of the person—or people—watching you hasn’t crossed your mind since the last call Heeseung made to you; it seems they’ve taken some kind of vacation, much like yourself and your counterpart.

He decides that if this is the last time he’ll get this chance with you, he’s not going to waste it on his fingers.

You’re so jaded by the time his fingers are replaced with his cock that you don’t notice until the grating seer returns to your pussy, rushing blood and heat all the way to the tips of your ears in one fluid motion. You quickly lean back, sinking yourself as far as your body allows into Heeseung’s lap, crying out when his tip slams into your cervix with no admonition.

“God, you feel so—fucking good.”

Without thinking, you lift yourself and fall forward, bracing your weight first onto your weak knees, then distributing it through to your palms as they flatten onto the mattress. Heeseung follows, never quite pulling out as his hands move to your waist and linger over the skin there, sweat already clinging to it in small beads that trickle down the sides of your legs. You wiggle your hips, pussy seeking the friction again, and he finally meets you halfway, pushing his cock back into you from behind.

“Jesus—fuck, Heeseung,” you groan with your eyes screwed shut, fingers gripping onto the bedsheet for dear fucking life. “You’ve just been carrying this thing around?”

“Pfft,” he scoffs, “you say that like it’s a bad thing,” and delivers a slightly deeper thrust that prompts a faint, reflexive whimper. Ha. “And besides—I wasn’t the one putting a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole between us. That was you.”

And now you’re shoving that pole in me; the thought flashes in your head.

“Because I—” you hesitate, rocking back on your knees to coax him in further until he hits that spot again. “Mmph—I was too scared.”

He leans forward, shifting his grip to your lower ribs and lifting his leg for a better angle, sacrificing the bed frame’s stability. Something beneath you creaks—the floor, the frame, maybe even the stairs leading up here, and someone is about to catch you two in just about the most compromising position you could possibly tangle yourselves into. A weak gust of wind blows through the cracked window, and his ring moves on the floor; no more than an inch.

“Scared of what?” he asks breathily, and your stomach ticks, spreading a not-so-pleasurable feeling up to your chest.

“You know what.”

Heeseung puts his mouth to better use, planting wet kisses on the expanse of your back and cementing a moan into each little spot with every sinful thrust of his hips. You’re quick to forget any of what you just said (and thought) when he slows his pace so tactfully that you assume there must be a reason, and it frightens you, just a little bit; a shiver shoots to your core, near-abused and still needy.

As if he’s finally completed mapping every inch of your body out, he angles the next push to make direct contact with the spongy spot buried in your pussy; your eyes sink to the back of your head, and your knees jolt, nearly giving out with the acute pressure that it creates between your legs.

And—fuck, it actually exists?

Curses spill from your lips; raw, unfiltered, desperate. Until now, you’d thought that the whole ‘G-spot’ thing was a myth made up by guys who couldn’t make their girlfriends come, or whatever. But this?

Your body doesn’t know how to counteract the blistering heat that scorches through your skin, fills your lungs, and renders your ability to breathe useless. You’re a mess on all fours for him, and yet, he’s barely moving at an intolerable pace. It’s neither slow nor is it fast; it’s deep, punishingly so when your ass rocks back to meet his lower stomach with every thrust.

Heeseung leans further forward—inadvertently pressing into the spot harder, at which you whine—and kisses your exposed shoulder. His teeth nip the skin, a shot of pain hits, and his tongue licks over the area to soothe the sting. The salty taste of your sweat collects on his tongue, and he swallows it down, pulling your back flush with his chest, holding you in place with his flattened palm over your belly.

The coil inside pulls tight again, and you squirm in his hold, breathing out a moan that borders on a yelp. You’re hot; sweltering in the mix of the forest fire’s unrelenting heat and the threat of your orgasm.

“Heeseung,” you pant, “Heeseung, fuck, I can’t—”

He pushes you closer with his hand; you grip the top edge of the headboard, digging crescent-shaped divots into your palms. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your shoulder.

“No, it’s—fuck—” you whine, but he persists, shaking his head and massaging his hand over your stomach; you can’t tell if it tightens or loosens the knot there. “Okay, shit—don’t stop.”

Like hell, he will.

His kisses draw paths along your sweat-glazed skin, his own turning dewy with every passing moment, glistening like it’s honey in the warm, morning sunlight. He whispers praises into your back, your shoulder, your neck, your hair when he takes a gentle fistful and tugs your head to him, just to envelop your mouth with his own.

His tongue pushes into your warm mouth, saliva dripping grotesquely down your chin as if you’ve already been completely fucked dumb. Your throat no longer harbors the strength to produce a sound any louder than a strained huff of breath—maybe the occasional whimper, if your body gives—as Heeseung’s hips begin to collide with yours almost mercilessly.

You’re so close that he can feel it; not in the way that a cocky fuck would say it when they’re about to get off, and you’re barely even close to an orgasm—oh, no—your pussy fucking strangles him like he’s her lifeline. He’s found the sweet spot, he’s bruising it with every deep push of his hips into yours, his lips and hands are all over you, and he doesn’t even have to touch your tits, or your ass, or finger your clit until you come apart around him to make you feel this way.

Maybe he’s just that good, maybe you’re addicted to the idea of him, maybe that fucked up part of you really does love him, or maybe it’s none of that, and you’re just so fucking turned on by the fact that this is the dead last thing you should be doing with him that your body has conformed to his.

But you know—your heart knows—that it’s all of it.

His name rolls off your tongue with a filthy, guttural moan that sounds like every ounce of built-up tension since the moment you first heard his voice trickle through that shitty radio, all exiting your body in one breath. Heeseung holds you like something precious, something fragile, thrusts unrelenting in their pursuit of your release, yet his touch is so feather-light on your skin that you wonder if he’s really there.

His voice brings you down—wrecked in its own way while he tries to combat the pressure building in his stomach, waiting for your muscles to relax before he even thinks about coming. Heeseung worships your figure, holding it upright until it falls limp in his arms, while gushes of liquid drip down your inner thighs; another shameful display that will haunt you for years to come, when this is all said and done. Even when you’ve relaxed, his hold stays intact as he carefully pulls out of you, pumping himself once, twice, before painting your lower lips white again.

His palm trails up and down your spine, the brush so gentle that a shiver runs just below it, and you sigh, fingers loosening their grip on the painful metal crossbar. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into your shoulder blade, reaching between your legs to collect as much of the mess as he can onto his thumb. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head. “No,” you breathe, “just—tired.”

“Good,” he whispers back, finally lowering your body onto the mattress with practiced tentativeness, his touch never quite leaving your lower stomach. He smiles down at you—gently—and you mirror it, eyes flitting to his thumb sitting upright and away from his palm.

Your eyes move back to his face, proposing a silent suggestion within their gaze; Heeseung brings the pad to your lips, coaxing them open to wrap around it. Your tongue swirls over the skin, gathering his taste onto the buds, and you swallow it down carefully, parting your lips again with a sigh.

His lips plant a kiss on the curve of your jaw; he smiles against it. “You’re beautiful.” A hand trails upward to hold your face, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

“You’re married.”

“Still you,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting over yours. And words like that should make you want to push him off you; instead, you pull him closer, letting your own palm rest upon his face, fingers brushing the loose bangs that fall in front of it as you study every feature and curve. “This is more like the Y/N I know,” he adds quietly, and you quirk a brow.

“What do you mean?”

“The one from last night, who hated herself,” he explains, fingers opening and closing over your waist, toying with the flesh there. “It wasn’t you; not the you that I know.”

“You…don’t know me. Not really,” you admit carefully, voice a little softer.

“You’ve never taken any shit from me. You always kept me on track and grounded when I needed it,” he begins softly. “You taught me not to kick myself down for being here, that taking a breather isn’t a bad thing. You told me that one of your favorite songs is by Phil fucking Collins, and when I picked on you for it, you doubled down and said that I had no taste.” You laugh when he recounts it, remembering the exact conversation as if it happened yesterday, much like any of them.

“That’s you, Y/N. The person I’ve come to know over the last three months, who would tell me that I’m a fool if she believed it. Not the one who lies, who doesn’t even have to.”

“Hee…”

“You’re not a bad person,” he repeats from last night like a Bible verse, as if you’ll finally start to believe it, too, if he says it enough.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you tell him earnestly, a tear slipping down your cheek that his thumb is quick to collect. “Even if…this is it.”

“What if I don’t want it to be?” as his hand closes over yours, the skin-to-skin contact sending heat to your fingertips.

“You know it has to be.”

And he nods—against his wishes—turning his head to kiss the inside of your hand.

Suddenly, the wave receiver attached to his bag beeps—slowly, two or three beats between each ring—and he sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “I have to go,” he mumbles, words muffled by your hair. “Need to settle this bullshit once and for all so we can get the hell out of here.”

“Agreed,” you nod as your stomach curls into itself at the thought of the whole situation. Amidst everything, you’d nearly forgotten that the whole reason Heeseung had shown up here was because of a domino effect the “research” project caused, which seems more like a cover-up after he saw what he did. “I’m sick of feeling toyed with for what—their pleasure, or something?”

You shake your head, his hand steadying your lower back as you plant your feet onto the ground, reaching one forward to try and catch some of your clothes on the floor with your toes. Not your proudest moment, but you don’t feel like bending over to grab them. Heeseung still laughs.

“It’s stupid. It’s like the universe cooked up the worst thing to happen to us, in spite of our very obviously questionable behavior,” you roll your eyes, pulling on your panties—which are clean—then folding your sleep clothes and setting them on the bedside table.

“Do you think it’s all connected? To Brian, I mean,” he suggests, standing up to tug his own clothes back onto his body. “The surveillance, Ned, even. And—you know—those supposedly ‘untapped’ radios? You got them from someone involved here, right? They’re clearly still tapped; they’re on the inside, Y/N.”

“Fuck, I didn’t even think of that. I mean, it’s obvious that something is happening within this forest, but…Clearly, it isn’t just some randoms.” A chill runs through your spine as you reach behind you to take your shirt off its hanger, “It’s orchestrated.”

“I’m gonna follow that stupid signal, and I’m gonna find out what the hell it is that they’ve been doing to us. And who they are, and what this stupid Schylla bullshit is.” He shrugs his top over his shoulders, fingers tactfully buttoning it closed. “Even if I have to die trying.”

“Motivational,” you hum. “I should put that on a shirt when I get home. Maybe I’ll make millions off of your last words.”

Heeseung rolls his eyes. “This is a serious matter, and you’re laughing. See?”

“This,” his fingers rise to pinch your cheek, pulling it back and forth tauntingly, “is the woman I have the displeasure of knowing.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

His hand smooths over your cheek, fingers caressing the rosy skin. “I’m not gonna forget you, y’know,” his tone hushed; body standing tall over yours, your eyes aligned with his lips.

“Good. Don’t,” you tease in return, and he chuckles quietly, fingers pressing a fraction deeper. “I don’t want you to. Even if all I am is the escape.”

“I think you’re more than that.”

“But we both know that it’s what I should be,” you wink, nudging his chest with the tip of your finger. “You needed a lesson to learn, right? So I’ll be that.”

“My favorite lesson,” whispered as he cranes his head and leans down, while you rise to your toes.

“Yeah,” you mumble, smiling when his lips slot with yours, so gently that you almost don’t feel it, at first. Your fingertips land on his biceps, resting, rather than gripping. His free hand sweeps over your waist, not tugging—just there. “Okay,” you smile sadly as you break the kiss, lips hovering just a centimeter or two away from his. “Go.”

He nods, slipping his hands off your body, though the ghost of his touch still lingers on every inch. He steps toward the wall, where his bag slings against it in the place he’d tossed it as he stepped inside last night. Picking it up, he detaches the radio, metal actually decently cool in his grasp. Perhaps, from the heat still radiating off his body.

He turns back, and you motion your head toward the door.

“I’m still here. Just through that,” you point to the radio in his hand. “Go end the torment, Hee.”

When he finally steps outside, he feels your presence pull clean out of his chest, as if you were never even there. Like every physical trace of you will forever remain locked inside the four walls, destined never to reach him again. °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟˚ৡ.° “I’m getting close.”

The receiver beeps faster now, green dots lining up perfectly in the center of the device. Heeseung keeps walking forward—south and past his what may be former lookout—to find the source of the signal.

“Okay. Good, I’m glad you made it. The fire, it’s…bad.” You sigh, stuffing your belongings into one of your duffel bags with your free hand. “I just got the call. They’re coming to pick us up today at my tower. You can just…take the tram back over and pretend you were never here. I think, because of the fire interfering with vision, they don’t even know that you ever left your tower last night.”

“Good, that’s…Good.”

“Be safe. Be careful. I’m here if you need me.”

Finally, he reaches a clearing with nothing but a tall cliff and a rope dangling over the edge with his name scribbled in some sort of ink on the rock; definitely punishable by defacement of national property, he notes, stepping forward as he realizes that the signal linking him to this very spot is from some kind of tracking device—attached to another cassette tape. He presses play.

“Hey, Evan. Or Heeseung—whatever you go by, these days.”

It’s a male voice; one he doesn’t recognize.

“You’re probably wondering who this is, and I wouldn’t blame you for that. My name is Ned Goodwin, and from what I’ve heard, I don’t think I need to say more than that for you to know who I am.”

“We’ve been causing each other a lotta headaches this summer. I’ve been living here for two years, dolling up the site you’re about to find at the top of this cliff. I’m the guy who bumped into you back in May, down by the cave. Because of my carelessness. After that, I had to keep an eye on you.”

Heeseung’s feet touch the dirt at the top of the cliff; he looks around until he finds a hidden hatch made out of an old sign that had been broken down. He steps toward it, opens the door, and climbs into the bunker that Ned had crafted over the years.

“I had that antennae rigged up not long after I found this place. In case you’re wondering, no—I’m nowhere near ‘ya, not anymore. By the time you’re listening to this, I’ll be halfway to some other desolate part of the forest to find somewhere as fit as there to stay in.”

“Y/N…She’s something else, isn’t she? I can see why Brian took to her. She’s a record you don’t gotta flip. You and I both know that you took an interest in her, too…Unfortunately.”

Heeseung grimaces.

“About a week ago, I stopped trying to hide what was going on. Stopped caring if you guys knew what I was up to. That’s about when everything went shit-house with you two. Led to…Well, I saw you leave the tower. You finally grow the balls to fuck her? Probably. But here’s the thing—you guys don’t know nothin’ about having kids. It ain’t easy, and I know I wasn’t the best dad on Earth, but you gotta know that I didn’t kill him.”

“That brings me to all of this. I was working with the team of researchers at the station…In the beginning. I refused to believe that any of this was a mistake, and that Y/N would just ‘accidentally’ not call in the biggest fire of the fuckin’ year. Then we get the shit end of it, have to move all of whatever is left of our equipment, I get no goddamn answers, and my son is dead.”

“I contacted them right after the fire was put out. Told ‘em I had reason to believe that she’d been doin’ somethin’ shady, behind everyone’s backs. They listened to me. Did some digging and tapping into your radios and came up with some code name for it so they wouldn’t get caught. But after you two got up to…whatever the fuck you got up to—they didn’t take me seriously, and I had to start takin’ matters into my own hands.”

“I planted the files in the tent. I replaced the ‘new’ radios. Tryin’ to scare you off didn’t work, and you got closer. Doctors figured this wasn’t goin’ nowhere, and I tampered with their files, stole the key—you know the rest.”

Heeseung refrains from touching anything inside the bunker, pausing to look out at the horizon when Ned’s voice falters.

“And then she finally admitted it. You gotta know, Evan—Brian wasn’t her fault. I went back…could barely look at him…but the rope wasn’t anchored right. He didn’t sink the damn thing the way I taught him to. The rope wasn’t faulty because of her…It was me.”

Ned sighs.

“Don’t come lookin’ for me. Just get outta here before the whole place burns up. And…I’m sorry about your wife.”

Heeseung blinks; a beat passes before any words fall out of his mouth. “I found the surveillance operation. It was Ned Goodwin; he was the one listening to us.”

“Ned? What—what? He made the tapes?”

“He thought…that you had something to do with the fire, and with Brian. He tried to work with the station, but that didn’t really work, so he took matters into his own hands, and…He did all of it, Y/N. Tapped the radios, trashed my lookout, started the fire…All of it.”

“He—what the fuck? I loved his son, why—why would I try to get him killed?”

“I don’t know, but…Y/N, he went back to the cave. It wasn’t equipment failure. Not calling in that fire…That’s not what killed Brian. It was just a freak accident.” He steps out of the bunker and makes his way over to the edge of the cliff where he’d climbed up.

“Oh…my god, Heeseung. Where is he?”

“He’s gone,” he shrugs. “He went deeper into the forest. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s still here, or about…you know.”

“Jesus…” you mumble, blinking out at the forest, as if he can see you. “Well, you’d better get back here, then. They say the helicopters are making rounds now. Be fast.”

“Okay.”

Heeseung trudges back down the steep incline and maps out the route back to your tower—the place he shouldn’t have been at in the first place. It’s much harder to see now, with the fire’s smoke emanating through just about every inch of land he’s touched over the summer. He tries not to inhale too much of the thick air, already feeling lightheaded from the hike all the way down here on no food, no drink, no anything, really.

Time passes more slowly on his way back. He passes his tower for the final time, glancing up at the structure as he bites the inside of his cheek. Perhaps, if he had more time, he would go back inside and check for loose belongings. But anything Heeseung wants to leave behind is already in there, and he figures that maybe it should stay that way.

So he moves forward, back into the trees, and back to the cave, where he takes a faster trip through its cool, enclosed air. He takes a long, deep inhale from the inside, the air a sliver thinner, cleaner, less polluted by the fire’s fumes and debris. When he steps out, he hears your voice, a bit muffled by his pocket until he shoves his hand inside to grab the radio he didn’t think he would need again.

“They’re here, Heeseung. I told them that you’re out there, and they said they’ll come back, but…I think I’m gonna go with them.”

His heart drops—or, however someone would describe the feeling that transpires in his chest.

“Yeah, I—yeah, you should,” he nods, swallowing down the lump rising in his throat. “If I don’t get back, and something happens to you…I’ll never forgive myself.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, wincing softly when the edges prick the inside. Your stomach aches as if you’d expected a different answer; the one you know you shouldn’t.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Get back safe. Please.”

“Will do.” °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟˚ৡ.° When Heeseung finally finds the tram, crosses the ravine, and climbs the stairs to your tower, he just…studies. He hadn’t focused on anything but you when he was here earlier. But one glance at your walls really does explain it all—every inch of this place defines you.

He starts at the kitchenette counter, where dust still accumulates on the ancient-looking granite. Running a finger along the edge of the cool surface, he looks to the shelf above it, where a couple of water coolers, extra storage bags, and a few containers rest; he rubs the dust off his finger. A plant sits in the corner, on top of a small end table that doesn’t quite match anything else in the room.

He moves to the bed—just about the only thing in here that he is even remotely familiar with. The sheets are neatly folded over, the flat pillow resting at the head as it looks directly at the makeshift bedside table, where all that is left is an old desk lamp.

Finally, he finds your desk, where time seems to stop. The drawing you made of him is perched above the desk, a little off-center and barely held up by a single piece of tape. His fingers brush over the page, contemplating for a moment before taking it and reading the words on the page.

What we know is scribbled in the top corner, followed by a small numbered list of Korean, Tom Cruise, Long Hair?

Heeseung chuckles.

He places the paper flat onto the chipped wood and sits in the chair, noticing the pair of headphones resting in the center; the ones that carry the frequency to the helicopters. He picks them up and places them onto his head, listening first for the faint chopping blades in the background, then releasing a breath into the air.

“Y/N?”

“Oh, you made it,” you smile from inside, pushing the headphones’ pads further against your head to hear him a little clearer. “We’re just landing, and—hey, I think I see your truck. What a piece of shit.”

“Thanks.”

“They said they’ll come back for you shortly. I told them not to leave until you were there,” you say, fingers picking at the skin on your forearm. “So hopefully, they won’t have to break that promise, now.”

“So…taking stock—we helped scare a couple of teenage girls off, found that the last lookout killed his son and became a lonely hermit, broke about eighteen different rules and regulations, and prevented…one fire?”

“But we kinda started another.”

“So a wash, then,” he adds, and you laugh. “What’s next for you?”

“I…I don’t know, to be honest. I just…know that I’m not going back. I need to find myself, and it starts with losing this hellscape of a job. I think…I’m gonna stay with my sister, at least for now.” You look down at your feet, pursing your lips as you think of something else to say; in all your time together, you’ve never had difficulty speaking to him. “I found your ring on the floor, by the way. It must have fallen. I left it on the desk.”

Heeseung scans the desk until he sees the glint of light reflecting off the gold band, brushing away a few loose wires to find it resting gently in a folded handkerchief. The one he’d tossed onto the counter last night. He swallows, tracing the fabric as if it will disintegrate if he puts any pressure on it.

“Your silence is telling, Hee,” you prod with a giggle. “Keep it. It’s yours, now. And don’t worry, I’m not gross—I washed it.”

He takes the handkerchief between his fingers and wraps it around the wedding band. The gesture feels like a signal of something deeper, closing a chapter in his life that shouldn’t have been so long. He carefully adds it to his bag, alongside the other belongings stuffed inside.

“You need to go back home, Heeseung. And…you need to go see her. You can’t…” Your words dwindle as you look for the right words. “You can’t move on without letting her go first. I know that it sucks, and I know that this—complicated everything—”

“—I didn’t love her, Y/N, not…not really.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s…I have a lot of guilt, too. In…other ways than just this,” he breathes, and you nod, deciding not to pry into something that you should’ve never been involved in, in the first place. “I wasted her life, and now she doesn’t even remember.”

“Then that’s more reason to go,” you tentatively add, fingers pinching your skin. “Give her a good ending. Fix what you should have years ago. Your problems…They don’t go away, out here. They just get worse.”

“Yeah,” he swallows. “I’ll go. Make things right.”

“Good.”

The line is quiet; the helicopter’s noise is much duller than it once was, and a few voices chirp in the background, though he can’t make out what they say.

“Heeseung?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, “for everything. You…made me feel really cared for, for once. Good luck, and…Be safe, okay?”

“For you…Always.”

Another chopper draws closer, and Heeseung notices the wind blowing in the distance, just a few yards away from the bottom of the tower. A clearing forms in the air, just enough for him to see it landing, waiting to pick him up. He pulls the backpack tighter on his body and stands, hand coming up to the pair of headphones around his head.

“They’re here. I have to go,” he sighs gently, uncertainty lacing his tone. “Bye, Y/N.”

“Bye, Evan.” °ৡ𓂃.𖠰ᨒ↟˚ৡ.° FOUR MONTHS LATER The truck’s dingy radio blasts current hits into the air, bleeding out through the rolled-down windows and turning passersby’s heads. A constant, cool breeze blows into the truck’s interior, and Heeseung’s freshly-trimmed hair cascades behind him, occasionally hitting the headrest. His fingers tap the leather steering wheel cover, which doesn’t offer much protection, given its run-down state.

The weather is calm, Eric Carmen’s new single trickles into his ears, and his perpetual smile stretches for about six miles straight; his life has finally fallen into place, and he has one person to thank for it.

He’d gone to Australia immediately after arriving home, just as you had told him to. He first settled back into living again—eating full meals, sleeping in a real bed, rather than a mimicry of one—and then he packed a bag and flew across the world. Sooha’s parents didn’t exactly greet him with warm smiles, but after many hours’ worth of convincing, he finally managed to make them budge.

Though her memory would not return, Heeseung stayed by Sooha’s side. He told her stories about the forest, although she’d often forget by the end of the day. He’d sing her to sleep when she asked, when a stagnant memory would surface, though she couldn’t place why she would know such a thing about the strange man staying in her home. He treated her well and made her feel loved and cared for in every way he knew how, up until her dying moment.

She passed away just a few weeks into August, barely thirty-one years old. Heeseung sat beside the bed, holding her hands in his as she took her final breaths, her parents standing by in the corner as her mother sobbed into her father’s chest.

He’d helped plan the funeral, choose the arrangements, and notify those close to her and the family. Her parents—as hesitant as they were about him—found solace in his presence, deciding that they had been wrong about him. They’ll never know what happened within the bounds of that little forest in Wyoming; the silence a choice Heeseung had made before he set foot into their home, knowing that extending that knowledge to them would only sever their hearts further.

Closure; that was what he needed to move forward. And once he knew that Sooha could rest easy, Heeseung returned home. He kept a decent life for himself, explored a few short-lived jobs to find what he did and didn’t like, and finally tried his hand at fashion (which threw him into a spiral he didn’t even know was a possibility).

Yet even after everything, once he finally settled into the present, his mind kept returning to the one aspect of his past that he just couldn’t shake. He thought that by bettering himself, he would be able to let this summer go—let you go—but he couldn’t.

“Hungry eyeeees; one look at you, and I can’t disguise,” Heeseung hums along with the music, the fresh scent of cool, crisp air wafting into his nose and brushing against his skin—still golden from the extensive time he spent in the sun this summer. “I feel the magic between you and I…”

His smile grows wider as night begins to fall. He finally approaches the city, and he sighs beautifully with relief after the long, six-hour drive. He’s dressed all wrong, his palms are a little clammy over the steering wheel, and his stomach admittedly drops a sliver when he approaches (and passes) the Santa Fe sign.

So, maybe the fashion exploration results are a little taboo for the southern Midwest, but he really thinks he came into his own with it.

As if a switch has flipped inside him, he reads every street sign attentively, pulling the piece of lined paper out of his pocket with a random address scribbled on the page in faded black ink. His head flicks between the paper and the road; then a sign; then rinse and repeat. Until he finally turns onto a little two-way street, lined with an array of beautiful homes that he could only dream of seeing back in Boulder.

His foot eases on the gas, dragging along the street in a slow, careful manner as he scans the homes’ numbers. He nearly slams on the brake pedal upon reaching the number he’d written a week ago with the pen that read “Shoshone National Forest” in grossly-worn white lettering along the side.

1009, in bold numbering just beside the door. He pulls into an empty spot on the opposite side of the street, crumpling up the paper and tossing it into the passenger seat as he opens the truck door and steps out. Heeseung sticks out like a sore thumb; a bright red Ford Ranger parked near a bunch of small, neutral-toned Pontiacs and Hatchbacks, almost there to taunt him. On a normal day, he seems out of place, but in a realm of unfamiliarity, it’s multiplied tenfold.

The truck locks with a click, and he crosses the road with a jog, walking down the long, intimidating driveway until he steps onto the porch surrounding the home’s front entrance. His feet thump on the wood; he tries to keep quiet, given the late hour.

He plants his feet in front of the door and takes a long, careful, deep breath that resonates in his stomach. With trembling hands, he adjusts his collar and smooths over the fabric at his waist. He dons a white blazer with a turquoise t-shirt underneath and a pair of jeans that just barely match. But what truly sticks out is a small handkerchief, tied carefully around a belt loop at his side. His outfit contradicts the one he wore consistently in the forest. And his hair slicks back with a small glob of gel that he’d applied earlier, before leaving his house.

Then, his fingers lift to the doorbell and press; just one soft ring that he barely hears through the thin veil separating him from who he believes to be on the inside. And finally—just a few short moments later—the door slowly swings open, revealing exactly what he hoped he’d see.

Your hand falls limp at your side, and your lips part, damp hair emitting the gentle scent of cherries and blossoms from your shampoo. The strength in your body reduces to the size of a walnut, lodging itself in your throat and making it impossible to breathe. Your eyes light up—study the figure of the man who’d flipped your world upside down without even realizing it, now standing before you with soft eyes that beg you not to close the door.

“Heeseung,” your voice a frail whisper as your fingers press firmer around the door’s edge, knuckles slowly turning white.

Heeseung steps closer, a smile glued so perfectly onto his face that no amount of soap and water could rub it off. His fingers brush over yours at your side, carefully slipping further until they’re meshed together as one, the memory of summer suddenly at the forefront of your mind.

“Can I come in?”

The smile he’d grown accustomed to after just one night slowly lights up your face, and your fingers curl tighter around his, returning his hold as if his hand is the only one ever meant to be slipped into yours again. The moment your head dips into a nod—so gingerly that he nearly doesn’t notice—his feet carry him another inch closer, then another, until he’s looking down at you like you’re the most precious thing the world has to offer.

“You found me,” you whisper, only loudly enough that he can hear. “You really think I’m worth it?”

“You’ve always been worth finding, Y/N,” he whispers back, and with that, cranes his neck down slowly, leaving room for you to pull back.

But you don’t; you meet him halfway, instead, with more conviction than you’ve ever had. And the moment his lips finally touch yours after so many months of uncertainty, the ache buried in his heart finally begins to subside. He swears he can feel the final piece of his life finally slide into place.

He decides then—in the middle of the night, standing on the porch at some random house in Santa Fe—that he never wants to let you go, again.

Maybe escaping isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

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