The Tiger & The Moon
Pairing: Circus performer! Kwon Soonyoung x Artist! F. Reader
Themes: Smut | Angst | Found Family | Forbidden Love | Slow burn | T.W.: mentions of violence, trauma, panic attacks, prostitution, infertility and miscarriage.
Wordcount: 12.7K
Playlist: 'Rescue' - Lauren Daigle | 'Colors - Stripped' - Halsey | 'Terrible Love' - Birdy | 'I Found' - Amber Run | 'Youth' - Daughter | 'War Of Hearts' - Ruelle
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Slight Bodyworship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames - Reassurances and clear consent (this is incredibly soft lovemaking)
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
It’s the sound of drums that draws you in.
Not hunger, though that gnaws in your stomach like it always does. Not the wind, though it hisses cold through the hem of your tattered skirt. Not even the need for safety—because that’s something you stopped believing in the moment your legs carried you across the city’s edge, away from the suffocating perfume and filthy hands of the brothel.
It’s the drums. Low. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.
You stumble across a dew-drenched field just past midnight, led only by the flickering glow of distant lanterns and the echo of music that feels like something ancient. It beats like a second heart inside you. Ahead, the tents bloom like massive, sleeping flowers—red and gold, navy and cream—sprawling beneath the stars in messy rows.
A travelling circus.
You’ve heard stories, of course. Dancers who bend like willow trees, men who swallow swords, tigers that leap through hoops of fire. But in the city, in the brothel, dreams were things beaten out of you with the back of a hand. Here, dreams seem to shimmer above the grass like fireflies.
You hover at the edge of the makeshift grounds, wrapped in a stolen cloak two sizes too big, fingers curled into the sleeves. You don’t belong here. You know that.
But then the drumbeat quickens, and something else begins—something theatrical and alive. A cheer from the crowd. The hush of anticipation. And the metallic snap of spotlights flooding the massive tent’s entrance.
You slip through the shadows, heart racing, eyes darting. No one sees you. No one cares to. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.
You crouch behind crates stacked near the back of the tent—costumes, ropes, props—and peer through a narrow flap left ajar. The scent of sawdust and sweat curls in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. Not like the sweet, rotting perfume they used to force on your skin.
Inside, the ringmaster stands in the centre, announcing acts with a booming voice and a sharp smile, cracking his whip-like punctuation. The audience roars as a woman juggles knives on horseback, her braid flying behind her. A man in glittering blue dives through a column of fire.
You watch, wide-eyed, breathless.
But then he appears.
Not from the center. No. From the shadows. From the ceiling. He swings down from a rope like gravity never applied to him at all—legs bent, body twisting midair, tiger stripes painted onto his chest in glittering gold and black.
You forget to breathe.
He’s wearing nothing but loose black pants, his shoulders flexing with each spin. His movements are sharp, primal, choreographed to the beat of the drums. When he lands, the entire tent goes silent, as if waiting for him to roar.
And he does. Not with sound. With movement.
A flip. A clawing gesture. A slide across the floor that ends with him kneeling, hand outstretched toward the crowd. They erupt.
Your pencil is in your hand before you realise it.
You pull a crumpled sheet of paper from your pocket and begin to sketch, hands working almost on instinct. Curves. Angles. His shoulders. The grace. You don’t think. You just draw.
And then his gaze flicks sideways, right to where you are hidden.
Your fingers still. Your chest goes tight. You convince yourself he doesn’t see you through the curtain of crates and outfits.
His eyes are impossibly warm and impossibly dark. And for a second—just a second—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t grin. He just looks.
But then he’s gone again, dancing, spinning, leaping into the air as if the moment never happened. You watch him until the lights dim, the applause roars, and the ringmaster calls for the next act.
You don’t realise your drawing is finished until your pencil slips out of your grip.
Hours pass. You stay hidden.
When the crowd finally disperses and the lights begin to dim, you sneak through the back of the grounds—quiet as a shadow—until you find an empty wagon stacked with boxes. You curl into it, pulling your knees to your chest, using the cloak as a blanket. Your fingers still smell like pencil lead. You close your eyes.
And then a voice startles you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
It’s his voice. Rough. Low. Accented in something lazy and teasing.
Your eyes fly open. He stands at the opening of the wagon, still shirtless, a towel around his shoulders and a smirk on his lips. His hair is damp.
“You know that, right?”
You sit up sharply, preparing to bolt. But he raises his hands in surrender.
“Hey—hey. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head. “You were watching me earlier.”
You stay silent. He saw you? He steps closer.
“You’re not a thief, are you? You don’t look like the type to steal. Except maybe hearts. But that’s a performer thing, too.” His grin widens. “Unless you’re here to audition. In that case, great hiding spot. But we don’t usually hire ghosts.”
You speak for the first time in what feels like days. “I’m not a ghost.” He pauses. Cocks his head, like a tiger curious about a mouse.
“No. I don’t think you are.” You glance at the door. He follows your gaze.
“If I was going to turn you in, I would’ve done it already. The ringmaster doesn’t like strays. But me? I’m a sucker for sad eyes and good timing.” You don’t answer.
He hops up into the wagon without asking. You flinch. He notices. The grin falters for just a moment.
“Sorry. I’ll stay over here.” He drops onto a crate across from you, towel still looped around his neck, eyes scanning you with less mischief now and more curiosity. “What’s your name?”
You shake your head.
“No name? Mysterious. I like it.” He leans back and stretches his arms behind him. “Alright, no-name. You look cold. And like you haven’t eaten in a while. You planning on sleeping out here all night?”
You blink. “I have nowhere else to go.”
He studies you for a long time. “Fine. You can stay in my wagon. Just for tonight. I won’t touch you. I talk a lot, but I’m not a creep.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re probably better off there than out here, where Rigo might see you.”
You hesitate.
“You trust me?” he asks. You shake your head.
He laughs. Loud and unashamed. It startles you. “Good. That’s smart. But I’ll still offer.” He hops down and gestures. “Come on, Moon.”
“Moon?”
“You didn’t give me a name, so I gave you one.” His eyes soften. “You look like the moon tonight. Pale. Quiet. Far away from all of us.”
You say nothing, but you follow him.
You tell yourself it’s because anything is better than the cold.
The inside of his wagon smells like lemon oil and dust.
Not in a bad way—just lived-in, like someone’s been here too long without changing anything. Crumpled shirts hang from hooks, performance pants tossed over a stool, and a tiny mirror edged with fairy lights blinks at you from the wall. There’s a faded photo stuck in one corner—him as a boy, maybe fifteen, grinning with his arm around a tiger statue.
You hover at the threshold.
“It’s not much, but it’s warmer than outside,” he says, flicking the light on with a sharp click. “You can take the bed.”
You shake your head immediately.
“Come on. I’ve slept in worse places. The hay pile behind the giraffe cart? Unbelievable back support.” He grins again. He does that a lot, it seems—too easily. Too brightly. You don’t trust it.
You settle into the corner farthest from the door, your cloak pulled tight. He doesn’t push. He just throws himself onto the small bench under the window and crosses his arms behind his head like he hasn’t just invited a total stranger into his home.
“I’m Soonyoung, by the way,” he says. “But everyone calls me Hoshi.”
You don’t reply.
“‘Hoshi’ means ‘star’ in Japanese. My mom called me that when I was little.” He lifts a shoulder. “Thought it sounded cooler on posters than ‘Kwon Soonyoung the dancing idiot,’ so I kept it.”
Still, you don’t speak. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your name, not your trust.
He shifts, observing you. His tone changes—softens.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know what it’s like to… want to disappear for a while.”
You watch the way he fiddles with a gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s shaped like tiger fangs. Sharp. Delicate. Probably fake.
“Everyone here’s running from something. That’s kind of the circus’s thing, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You run away, you join the show, and suddenly you’re someone else. Someone shinier. Safer.”
He lays back again with a sigh that sounds too tired for someone who laughs so much.
“I’m happy here.”
The words hit the floor between you with a dull thud. You don’t believe him.
The next few nights pass in a hush of repetition.
You wake in silence, hide during the day, and slip out only when it’s dark enough not to be seen. Hoshi smuggles you small pieces of fruit, leftover meat pies, and, once, a package of coloured pencils he claims he “borrowed indefinitely.” You nod your thanks, never quite sure what to do with his kindness.
He talks a lot.
About the time he tried tightrope walking and fell into the cotton candy machine. About the fire-breather who accidentally singed her own eyebrows. About the night a tiger escaped its cage and wandered into his wagon like it owned the place.
“I offered it my dinner. We’ve been cool ever since.”
You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches. He notices. He always notices.
You stay hidden, but he never questions it. Never asks you to explain. And each night, when the music starts and the big top floods with light, you creep to your place behind the crates and watch him come alive.
He moves like he’s been set on fire and only the rhythm can put him out. Like if he stops dancing, he’ll vanish.
You draw him every time. The curve of his spine, the snap of his arms, the wildness in his grin when he lands a perfect flip.
You sketch until your fingers ache.
Until you know him by lines alone.
It happens five nights in.
You can’t sleep. The roof drips, the blankets itch, and something inside you is restless. Hoshi had told you he’d be late—extra rehearsals, he said. You slip from the wagon quietly, boots soft in the mud, coat pulled tight around your frame. The circus grounds are mostly dark—tents closed, wagons locked, fire pits reduced to embers.
You walk past a row of cages—empty now—and head toward the supply wagons when you hear it.
“You said it’d be done by now.”
It’s Hoshi’s voice. You freeze and duck behind a barrel.
“And I said the debt doesn’t clear just because you’re popular,” replies another voice—older, crueller. “You still owe me three hundred thousand. You want to leave, Soonyoung? Pay up. Until then, I own your name. Your act. Your body.”
"I’m trying. I’m performing every damn night—”
"And drinking away your cut by morning.”
"That’s not—”
"Don’t lie to me.”
You peer around the edge. Rigo—the ringmaster—stands with his back to you. Hoshi is in front of him, shirtless again, glitter smeared down his jawline. He looks smaller. Angrier.
“You said I’d be free by the Paris tour,” Hoshi mutters.
“And maybe you will be. If you keep earning.” Rigo steps closer. “But if you try to leave early, if you even think about running—I’ll find you. And I’ll break every bone you use to dance.”
Silence.
“Don’t forget who gave you a stage when the world laughed you off it.”
The ringmaster walks away. Hoshi stays still for a long time, fists clenched, chest heaving. When he finally turns, you’re already gone.
Hoshi comes back late that night, humming some off-key melody, sweat dripping from the nape of his neck.
“Moon, I brought—hey, you okay?”
You’re sitting on the floor, paper and pencils scattered around you. One sketch lies in your lap, the most detailed one yet.
You don’t answer. You just hand it to him. He looks down.
A tiger in a cage.
Its shoulders are hunched, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Its paws are bruised. Its tail is curled tight against the bars. But its eyes… its eyes are still burning.
He blinks. “Is this… me?”
You look up at him. And for once, you don’t hide the sadness in your face. “You’re not happy here.”
He doesn’t smile this time. He just kneels down slowly beside you, gaze never leaving the drawing. He places it gently on the bench, then leans back on his heels.
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”
One morning, without warning, he throws a scarf at your face.
“You need air,” Hoshi says, grinning as he pulls on his boots. “And you’re gonna get it.”
You flinch when the scarf hits your cheek, even though it doesn’t hurt. He notices. His grin falters but doesn’t fade completely.
“You’ll come with me. I’ll show you around. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been living in my wagon rent-free.”
You hesitate. Fear creeps into your stomach like spoiled wine. If they find out what you are—who you were—there’s no telling what Rigo will do. Or worse, who he might call.
Hoshi holds out his hand. Open. Steady.
“I’ll tell them you’re the new sketch artist. That the boss approved it. No one questions my mouth anymore. Too loud to argue with.”
You don’t take his hand, but you follow him anyway.
The circus in the daylight is nothing like the spectacle at night.
The glitter is dulled. The costumes hang in long rows on wires, limp and sequined. Elephants bathe lazily near buckets of water, and smoke curls from frying pans where breakfast burns on open fires.
You walk closely behind Hoshi, the scarf clutched tight around your neck, chin tucked low into the fabric. He’s all motion and brightness—waving, laughing, tossing casual greetings around.
“Morning, Andrei!”
"Hey, Mira! Save me a biscuit this time!”
People nod. Smile. Some glare. He doesn’t seem to care.
When he finally introduces you, it’s with a flippant gesture and a wink. “This is Moon. She’s our new sketch artist. Bit shy, but brilliant. Like a raccoon with talent.”
You keep your eyes down. Offer a small nod. Most people nod back with vague disinterest—too tired or too wary to care. Some squint.
A few notice the tension in your shoulders.
One of the acrobats—a tall, wiry man named Luca with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile—lingers. He steps close. Too close.
“Didn’t know we were letting in strays now,” he says, eyeing you like a spider eyes a fly. “You get her off the street, Hoshi? Or also into your bed?”
The words land sharp and cold. You stiffen. Hoshi goes quiet.
Then he steps between you and Luca, shoulders squared. His voice loses its brightness.
“Watch your mouth.”
Luca raises an eyebrow, smirking, as he walks off.
“I’m just saying—Rigo won’t like it when he finds out you’re hiding runaways. You know how he feels about… damaged goods.”
That word—damaged—splits something open inside your chest.
You turn away, hands shaking, throat closing around the ache that’s been building since you stepped out of the shadows.
“He’s got the personality of spoiled cabbage,” Hoshi mutters as he catches up to you. “Ignore him.”
But you’re already spiralling.
As the tour continues, a juggler brushes too close behind you. A fire breather claps a hand on your shoulder in greeting, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been burned. Hoshi sees it. Every time.
When you finally slip away after dinner, you think no one notices.
You sit behind the main tent, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your ribs like you’re trying to keep your bones from shattering. The sounds of rehearsal echo nearby—drums, whip cracks, the creak of wires overhead—but they feel far away.
Your breathing’s shallow. Your cheeks are damp with fallen tears. You hate how familiar this feeling is.
Powerless. Exposed. Vulnerable.
You thought you were past this. Thought the circus would be different.
A shadow moves in the corner of your vision.
You tense, expecting harsh words, maybe worse—but it’s just Hoshi.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask what happened.
He just sits cross-legged beside you, arms resting on his knees, not touching. Not pressing. Just breathing beside you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to share the same air with someone breaking.
You wait for questions. There are none. The minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the tent or the distant bray of a donkey.
Eventually, your tears slow. Your breath evens out.
And then—“I hate his guts.”
Hoshi’s voice is low. You glance at him.
“Luca,” he adds, as if it needs clarification. “Always sniffing around like he’s the ringleader’s favourite pet. I’m gonna replace his shampoo with glue one of these days.”
Your laugh comes unexpectedly. A real one. Crooked. Barely there. But it’s enough. He grins, but not in a triumphant way. In a relieved one.
“Better. That suits you more than silence, Moon.”
You don’t reply.
But when he rises and offers his hand again, you take it.
And when the two of you curl up that night in opposite corners of the wagon—backs to each other—there’s something binding in the silence.
And you sleep. For the first time in years.
You’ve never had someone bring you gifts before.
Not ones that weren’t dripping in expectation. Not ones that didn’t come with strings wrapped around your throat.
But Hoshi doesn’t tie bows around his kindness. He just… offers.
First, it’s a bundle of dried flowers—pressed and quirky, the kind that only bloom in colder months. He drops them beside your sketchpad one morning with a wink and a shrug.
“Found them near the trapeze wagon. Figured you might like dead things that look pretty.”
You don’t react. But you take them.
Then it’s a tin of coloured charcoal blocks—half-used, dull at the tips, but vibrant in your hands. The reds are bright, the blues deep. You don’t ask where he got them.
“Artist tools for my artistic shadow,” he says. “Now you can sketch me with proper flair. Make me taller, okay?”
Later, two perfectly peeled oranges, tucked in a napkin.
“You don’t eat enough,” he says, plopping beside you on the wagon step, his shoulder close but not touching. “You’re gonna float away at this rate. Then who’ll sketch my dramatic death leaps?”
You split one in half and hand it back to him without a word. He grins. Like he always does.
That night, he lights a candle in the middle of the wagon and sets it between you. The wax pools golden, flickering against the walls, throwing soft shadows across his face.
He talks while you draw. He always talks.
About his tiger routine, and how he once landed wrong and cracked two ribs but didn’t tell anyone. About a show in Prague where the audience threw roses—and one pair of underwear—onto the stage. About the time the tightrope snapped mid-performance and the crowd thought it was part of the act.
“I stuck the landing, though. Obviously.”
You glance at him.
“Barely broke my ankle. Ten out of ten.” He winks.
Your hand pauses on the page. A laugh itches in your throat but doesn’t come out.
“You’re hard to crack, Moon,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “I’m trying not to pry, I swear. But sometimes I look at you, and it’s like... I dunno. Like you’re made of glass, but all the sharp parts are turned inward.”
The candle flickers. So do you. He doesn’t ask anything else that night. Just hums while you sketch.
You don’t show him the drawing, but he smiles like you did.
You start watching him at night.
When the circus sleeps, and only the stars keep time, you slip out barefoot and perch behind the tent. He practices long after the others have stopped. Moves with a fever in his body, like he’s chasing something no one else can see.
Tonight, his shirt is discarded in a heap on the floor, and sweat slicks his spine as he flips, lands, stretches—again and again. No music. Just the beat of his breath and the slap of his feet against the pallet floors.
He stumbles. Not hard, but enough that he swears under his breath. You hear it—“Shit.”—followed by the dull sound of him sitting heavily on the edge of the platform.
He doesn’t notice you at first.
Then—“Moon?”
You freeze. He turns toward your hiding place, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.
“You always watch from the dark, don’t you?”
You don’t move. But he doesn’t seem upset.
“I don’t mind,” he says, softer now. “Just wish I knew what you saw when you looked at me.”
You step into the candlelight. Not fully. Just enough to be seen.
He smiles, but it’s tired. Raw.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly. “Not running. Just… stepping out. Free. New city. New name.”
You say nothing.
He looks down at his hands.
“I wanted Paris.”
The words are quieter now. Less Hoshi, more Soonyoung.
“I used to dream about it every night. Dancing in Montmartre. On a stage that mattered. I wanted to be someone people wrote about. Someone remembered.”
He chuckles bitterly. “Instead, I sold my soul to a man who locks animals in cages and calls it art.”
You take another step forward. He doesn’t look at you. Just continues to stare at his palms.
“I owe him too much. Money. Time. My best years. I perform, and he lets me breathe. That’s the deal. That’s the cage.”
Your heart twists. Because you understand. More than he knows.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “I think I could just disappear. Walk out into the night and never stop walking. But then I remember—no one would come looking.” He says it with a crooked smile.
Your voice is rough when you speak. Barely a whisper. But it slices through the night like a thread of silver.
“I would.”
He freezes. His head lifts. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
You’re not sure why you said it. Or maybe you are. Perhaps you’ve known since the first time he called you Moon and smiled like he meant it.
The silence that follows is the kind that lands heavily on your skin.
“Say that again,” he breathes.
You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.
Instead, he stands. Walks over. Stops a step away. You brace—but he doesn’t touch you. He sits down beside you. Cross-legged in the dirt.
Like he did the other night. No questions. No explanations.
Just two lonely things pretending—for a moment—that they are not alone.
They call it The Velvet Night.
Once a month, the circus throws a masquerade for its wealthiest patrons—aristocrats in velvet, merchants with too many rings and not enough kindness, and strangers with mouths that never smile unless they’re closing a deal. The ringmaster loves them, of course. Their wallets are heavier than their morals, and they pay for illusions like addicts pay for Nirvana.
Tonight, the tents are lined with gold silk. Wine flows like water. Lanterns flicker from every beam and rope. The world smells like roses, sweat, and something sour beneath.
You spend the day in the costuming wagon, where Mira and the others chatter and laugh around you, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands shake every time you touch lace or ribbon. The feel of silk between your fingers makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of curtains. Of rooms that locked from the outside.
You sew quietly. You keep your head down.
Hoshi pops in at one point, barefoot and smiling. “Moon,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come watch tonight. I’ve got a new finish. It’s dramatic as hell. Might pull a muscle for it.”
You nod. He winks and disappears.
Night falls; the masquerade begins.
You don’t risk going near the centre tent where the patrons gather, but from a side flap, you catch glimpses. Silk gowns. Flashing jewelry. Glasses filled with golden liquid. Painted lips and empty laughter.
You know this kind of party. The kind where you aren’t a person—just something to look at, to own, to touch if no one’s watching. Your stomach turns.
Still, you stay. Because Hoshi is in there. And for reasons you can’t name, you need to see him. You lean against a pole, hidden in the dark, mask in your hand, breath held.
And then he steps into the ring.
He wears black tonight. A fitted, sleeveless top that sparkles under the lights and tight pants that hug the strength in his legs. His face is hidden behind a white and gold mask that glints with each movement.
Every turn, every snap of his limbs is poetry. He spins for them. Leaps for them. Smiles for them. And none of them know how much it costs him.
You know. You see it in the way his shoulders dip just a fraction too low when the music fades. How his chest rises with effort, not excitement.
And then— It happens.
A woman in red—older, tall, with lips the colour of blood—pulls him in with her fingertips. She slips folded bills into the waistband of his pants. Laughs. Says something you can’t hear.
And he—He kisses her hand. Grinning. Flashing that perfect, practised smile.
You stagger back as if struck. The breath leaves you in a rush.
You turn before you can see anything else and walk—fast—into the darkness behind the wagons.
You don’t stop walking until your legs shake.
You end up behind the animal cages, near the row of hay bales where the fire breathers warm up in the mornings. No one comes here at night. It’s too quiet, too far from the music and the masks.
You sit. And the tears come.
You don’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not because of him. Not because he kissed someone’s hand and smiled like it meant something. But it pulls at a memory buried so deep inside you, you had almost forgotten about it.
You curl your knees up. Bury your face in your arms. Try to pretend you’re somewhere else. But the memory creeps in anyway.
Men with cold rings and even colder hands. A room that smelled like wine and roses. The sharp click of heels. The way they’d touch your face like you weren’t even there.
Used. Brushed aside. Forgotten. Always forgotten.
You thought it might be different here. And that makes you hate yourself more.
“Moon?”
Your body jolts, instinct screaming hide—but it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Hoshi approaches slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.
“I saw you leave. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “Can I… sit?”
You nod without looking up. He lowers himself onto the hay beside you, hands between his knees, gaze turned away. Silence stretches.
Then, in a voice you barely recognize as your own—“They used to make us smile, too.”
He stills.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. But the words keep spilling out, hoarse and thin, like something cracked inside you and finally let loose.
“At the brothel. We were supposed to laugh. Greet them like old friends. Let them touch us. Call it work. Call it love.”
You swallow hard. “They paid for what they took. That made it okay, they said.”
The air grows heavier with every word you whisper.
“Some of them liked it when we cried. Said it made us look real.” You feel your hands shake in your lap.
“I learned not to cry. Not to move. Not to exist, if I could help it.”
You finally look up. And he’s watching you. Not with pity. Not even with shock. Just quiet, fierce grief. Tears fill his eyes but don’t quite fall.
“Moon,” he whispers.
You flinch when he reaches out. His hand hovers near yours. But he stops.
“Can I hold you?” he asks.
Your throat closes. Your nod is barely a twitch. But he sees it.
He wraps his arms around you. Not tightly. Not hungrily. Just… safely. You don’t know the last time someone held you like this. Not to use. Not to consume. Just to be there.
He doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or, promises or empty words.
He just breathes. You feel his chest rise and fall. Feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His hand rubs gentle, slow circles across your back—no pressure. Just presence.
You cry again. This time, without shame.
And he stays.
The circus rolls into another town. Another foggy field. Another string of faceless patrons with fat wallets and vacant eyes. You’ve stopped caring where you are. All that matters is the tent. The rope lights. The sketches you leave scattered across Hoshi’s wagon table.
You sketch him constantly now. Not just onstage.
As he braids Mira’s hair between acts. As he sleeps curled on his side, hand under his cheek. As he rubs ointment onto his bruised knees.
Your pencils know the shape of his body like religion.
One night, you wait behind the curtain as the show ends.
He finishes his routine, glittering and breathless, but tonight, he’s a half-second off. His landings are sharp, but not as sharp as they should be. His final pose holds less punch, like his mind is somewhere else.
And Rigo notices.
As the crowd erupts into applause, the ringmaster stalks over to him like a storm cloud.
“What the hell was that?” Rigo snaps, grabbing Hoshi’s arm before he’s fully off-stage.
“It was fine,” Hoshi mutters, panting slightly.
“No. It was distracted. Sloppy. You’re better than that—so what’s got your head up your ass lately?”
Hoshi wrenches his arm free, jaw clenched. He sees you, just over Rigo’s shoulder, and his eyes soften for half a second.
“Maybe I’m just tired,” he offers.
“Then wake up,” Rigo growls. “You don’t get tired. You get perfect. That’s the deal.”
He walks off before Hoshi can reply.
You slip back into the shadows, heart hammering. The guilt feels sudden. Sharp. You wonder if you’re the reason his landings aren’t clean anymore.
You wonder if you’re unravelling him.
That night, you sit together outside the wagon.
The stars are unusually bright—clear for once, not clouded by fog or smoke. Hoshi sits beside you, hands clasped in front of his knees, chin resting on them. You watch the wind curl through his hair.
“We’re going to Paris next month,” he says suddenly.
You glance at him.
“It’s our biggest show. Rigo’s been hyping it for years. We’ll be at the Palais Garnier, if you can believe it.” He laughs once. “Me. In a building with gold ceilings. What a joke.”
You nudge your shoulder against his gently. He sighs.
“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it.
“After the Paris show. Slipping out during the night. Starting over. No more debt. No more cages. Just a train. A map. A backpack. I’ve saved enough. Barely, but enough.” He finally turns his head toward you. His voice is quieter now. More vulnerable. “I want you to come with me.”
You freeze.
His eyes search yours—not pleading, but open.
“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. But I trust you.” A beat. “You’re the first real thing I’ve found in years, Moon.”
You stare at him, and your heart twists.
Because you want to say yes. You want to leave.
But part of you still believes you’re a shadow. Something cursed. You don’t want to ruin whatever light he has left.
So you lower your gaze.
He just whispers, “Think about it.”
You don’t sleep that night.
And by morning, everything has changed.
Hoshi bursts into the wagon, jaw tight, eyes furious.
“He knows.”
The words are like ice in your veins.
“Rigo. He knows about you.”
You rise slowly, heart pounding. “How?”
"Luca.” His mouth twists. “Little bastard must’ve told him last night. He told Rigo everything. That you’re not crew. That you’ve been staying in my wagon.”
You swallow hard. He sees your fear. Tries to soften it.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”
A voice cuts through the air like a whip.
“So this is the little stray.”
Rigo stands at the entrance, dressed in dark green and gold, his ringmaster cane tapping ominously against the threshold.
You shrink back. Rigo steps into the wagon like he owns it. Because he does.
“No name. No papers. No protection. You know what that makes you, sweetheart?” His voice drips like poison. “Sellable.”
Hoshi steps between you, blocking Rigo’s path.
“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”
Rigo lifts a brow.
“Brave words for someone still owing me two hundred grand.”
"Take me instead,” Hoshi spits. “Whatever it is you want from her, I’ll do it. I’ll clean cages. Dance double. Fucking wear a leash if you want—just don’t touch her.”
You’re trembling.
Rigo narrows his eyes. Then—without warning—he strikes.
A backhand. Brutal. Fast.
Hoshi stumbles back with a choked sound, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.
You scream. Instinct. Terror. Rage.
You move forward, but Hoshi lifts a hand, even through the pain.
“Stay back.”
"You want to keep her?” Rigo sneers. “Fine. She’s your debt now. Double it. Four hundred grand. Pay it, or I send her back to the brothel myself.”
He turns, storming out as the door slams shut behind him.
And the silence that follows is deafening.
You wait until Hoshi falls asleep in his bunk—after you’ve cleaned the blood from his lip and kissed his forehead so softly he doesn’t stir—to leave. You pack nothing. Take nothing.
Just your cloak, your boots, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of him.
You run. To protect him. To protect yourself.
He might hate you for leaving, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay.
You don’t know the name of the city you end up in.
The circus had stopped on the edge of somewhere cold, grey, faceless—one of those in-between places that no one dreams about and no one stays in unless they have nowhere else to go.
You walk around with your cloak pulled tight, eyes darting with every step you take. No one notices you. That’s good. That’s the goal.
Disappear. Blend in. Be nothing again.
It’s easier than it should be.
By mid-afternoon, your stomach is growling with hunger.
You pass a street market where vendors shout over one another, hands waving, eyes hawk-sharp. You linger near a bread stall. Time it. When the seller turns his back to argue with a customer, you slide a roll off the edge of the cart and disappear into the crowd.
You do the same with an apple not long after. Your hands still shake when you tuck it into your pocket. But your feet don’t stop moving.
You’ve learned that survival means guilt becomes background noise.
That night, it rains.
You find shelter beneath a wide stone bridge, its arch stretching over a river that smells of metal and sewage. You press your back to the cold wall, knees drawn up, the stolen bread long gone. The apple you save for tomorrow.
You watch the raindrops trace lines across the river’s surface and pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You miss the wagon. The scent of lemon oil and warm blankets. The candle he lit each night—flickering against wood-panelled walls. You miss him.
The way he called you Moon like it was sacred. The way he let you be quiet without demanding answers. The way he looked at you like you weren’t broken.
You don’t allow yourself to cry.
You just press your forehead to your knees and breathe through the ache of everything.
The next morning, you wake soaked, sore, and starving.
You spend the day trying to find a way out.
You walk into a café, asking if they need help in the back. They glance at your dirty clothes and shake their heads.
You try a laundry service. A florist. A small bookshop with dusty windows.
Every time:
“We’re not hiring.”
"No experience?”
"Come back another day.”
You leave each time with your head lower than before.
By sundown, your apple is gone, and your coin purse is empty. You can feel the panic start to creep in again—sharp, familiar, suffocating.
You turn a corner, not even sure where you’re going, and walk faster.
You’re trying to think, trying to plan, when you hear it.
“Angel?”
The name slices through the air like a whip. You haven’t heard that in a long time.
“Angel, is that you?”
Across the street, under a flickering lamp post, stands a man in a long coat with a hat pulled low around his eyes. Older. Heavy. His mouth curls into a grin you know too well.
“Thought I’d recognise that little walk anywhere. Been years, but damn. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Your heart launches itself into your throat. You turn and keep walking.
“Don’t be like that, Angel!” he calls louder. “Come say hi to an old friend!”
You walk faster.
“Come on, you remember me, don’t you? You used to like me. Said I was your favourite.”
That sets you off. Your feet slam against the pavement. Your eyes scan for an escape. Shops are closed. The street is empty. You don’t dare look back.
“ANGEL!”
The shout becomes a bark. A threat. You start running.
Your breath comes out sharp and ragged. Your boots slip on the slick stones. You round a corner, then another. Behind you, footsteps thunder.
He’s chasing you.
And this time, it’s not for a transaction. You stumble past an alley and are about to keep going when a hand grabs your arm.
You scream—but another hand clamps over your mouth, and you’re yanked into the shadows and dragged underneath a rusted fire escape.
Your body thrashes until you hear the voice.
“Shh. It’s me.” Your blood stills.
“Moon. It’s me.” The voice presses against your ear like a balm. “It’s me. It’s Hoshi.”
You don’t believe it—not for a second—until you turn your head and see his eyes in the dark. Wide. Familiar.
And then footsteps pass.
“Angel! Where the fuck did you go?”
You go rigid. Hoshi’s arm around your waist tightens just a little. His other hand stays over your mouth, steady but gentle. You both breathe as silently as you can.
“I know you’re out here!” the man shouts, voice slurring now. “You can run, but I will find you. You’re mine, you little—”
The words cut off as his footsteps fade down the street.
You wait. Long after he’s gone. Until the only sound left is the wind shaking loose a gutter pipe above you.
Hoshi finally lowers his hand. You suck in a breath like you haven’t in hours. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers tremble as you look at him—really look at him.
He’s soaked. Panting. His shirt is half untucked. Eyes brimming with worry.
“You—how—what are you doing here?” you whisper.
He exhales through a shaky laugh.
“Looking for you, obviously.”
You stare, stunned. “How did you find me?”
"You’re not exactly subtle when you run away in the middle of the night with nothing but your coat.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the sketch you made the first night you saw him. The one you left behind.
“I figured you wouldn’t go far.” His voice is softer now. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off. Looks down. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.”
Your throat is thick. Your hands curl at your sides.
“But Rigo—he’ll kill you if you keep protecting me. He said—”
"I don’t care what he said.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll sell my ring, my shoes, I don’t care. I’ll dance until my legs break.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you disappear again.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He keeps going.
“You said once that you would come looking for me.” His hand brushes your sleeve. “So now I’ve come looking for you.”
You don’t mean to. You don’t plan it.
But you step forward, fists balling into his shirt, and you crash into him like the sky’s falling.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his chest.
He melts around you instantly. His arms wrap around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.
“I’ve got you now,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Moon.”
The wagon looks exactly as you left it.
Your coat drapes over the corner of the bench, the coloured charcoals still lay scattered across the table beside a stack of half-finished sketches. The candle is fresh now, a new stub melting quietly in the jar you used to stare at every night.
You sit down in the same spot you slept in for weeks, staring at the flame until your hands stop shaking.
Hoshi hovers like he’s afraid you might vanish again. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t take his eyes off you either. You don’t mind. For once, it’s comforting. A tether instead of a chain.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
The circus moves two days later.
Another town. Another dirt lot. Another field where fog clings low and the ringmaster’s voice cuts through the morning like a cleaver.
No one knows you’re back except for Mira and the twins from the rigging crew, who catch glimpses of you slipping into Hoshi’s wagon at odd hours. They don’t say anything.
Hoshi’s return, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.
The moment he sets foot near the main tent, Rigo is on him.
“Gone two nights,” the ringmaster growls through gritted teeth. “Two full shows missed without a word.”
"I was scouting a location. Spoke to the fire-breather about it weeks ago,” Hoshi lies smoothly, with just enough annoyance in his tone to pass for truth.
You listen from behind a canvas divider, heart in your throat.
Luca stands nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.
Rigo eyes Hoshi but doesn’t press.
“If it happens again,” he says, voice dropping, “I’ll have another very interesting conversation with a friend of mine back in the city. Runs a brothel. Says he’s been looking for one of his girls. Thought she’d vanished. Sad story.”
Your blood runs cold.
“You leave again without permission,” Rigo continues, “and I’ll be sure to point him in the direction of our last stop. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
Hoshi says nothing. But his fists are clenched. You can see it even from here. The trap is set.
And there is nothing either of you can do.
Because if he leaves, you’ll be taken back.
And if he stays, he’ll be ruined.
When he finds you later, you act as if you haven’t heard anything. You reassure him, a smile gracing your lips that doesn’t reach your eyes. “All good. Nothing to worry about.”
On your way to the next stop, Hoshi tells you he wants to debut something new.
“A solo,” he explains, eyes lit up. “But not just me. I want it to be our piece.”
You stare at him, confused.
“Your sketches,” he explains, stepping closer. “You capture me better than any mirror ever could. I want to bring that version of me to the stage.”
You hesitate, he notices.
“Come on, Moon. We’ll choreograph it together. In secret. It’ll be just ours.”
You nod. Because how could you not?
You spend nights in empty tents and behind curtains, moving with him. Not dancing, not really—but guiding. Sketchbook in hand, you draw each frame. Each leap. Each reach. He watches your eyes more than your lines, and listens when you say “Again”. It becomes something else. Something that belongs to both of you. Not the circus. Not Rigo. Just you.
The night of the performance, he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing.
He steps into the center ring in silence, no music at first. The crowd murmurs. Rigo frowns from his usual spot near the edge of the tent but says nothing.
Then the lights dim. A spotlight blooms. And Hoshi begins to move.
It’s slower than his usual routines. Less about spectacle, more about story. Every line of his body carries emotion—grief, yearning, rage, release. He uses space like it’s water, shifting in and out of it with the grace of something both wild and controlled.
You watch from the shadows, breath caught. Because this—this is not a cage.
This is art. This is flight. This is freedom.
He ends on his knees, back arched, chest heaving, arms thrown wide like he’s asking to be struck by lightning.
And for the first time in months, the audience is silent.
Then—Thunderous applause. They stand. They shout.
Yet, Rigo doesn’t smile.
While you help Mira gather some of the costume bins behind the dressing tent, you hear voices again.
You duck behind a rack of sequined jackets, crouching low.
“What was that tonight?” Rigo snaps. “That wasn’t the act we approved.”
"You said as long as he performs, you don’t care what it looks like,” Luca mutters.
“I said I want obedience. That little stunt was defiance dressed up in glitter.”
A pause. Then—
“How much does he owe you again?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rigo growls. “I’ll change the amount however I want. Interest, late shows, fines. He’ll never pay it off. That’s the point.”
“And if he tries to leave again?”
"We remind him what happens to little strays who don’t know their place.”
You don’t hear the rest. You’re already slipping away, eyes wide, chest tight.
Hoshi doesn’t know. He thinks the debt is manageable. That there’s an end to it. But there isn’t. There never was.
The next city is louder than the last.
Cobbled streets overflow with carriages and clamour. Street performers clog every corner. Posters for the circus flutter on every lamppost.
You help him dress backstage that evening, hands tightening the clasps of his costume as he stretches his arms above his head. He hums off-key, as usual, pretending not to wince when his shoulder cracks.
“Nervous?” you ask, voice barely audible.
“Always,” he says with a grin, though the tremor beneath it betrays him. “But it helps that I know you’ll be watching.”
You smile. It’s faint. But real.
He cups your chin with one gloved hand, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorise you again. You lean into his palm before he can pull it away.
“Come back to me after,” you murmur.
“Always.”
You don’t see the man in the suit approach him.
You don’t hear the words exchanged at the edge of the ring after the show when the lights are dimming, and the crowd is dispersing.
You don’t see the glint of a silver card passed from one palm to another.
But Luca does. And that’s enough.
Hoshi returns later than usual that night.
You’re in the wagon, seated cross-legged on the bench, one of his shirts in your lap. Mending it. Or pretending to. Every sound outside sends your heart leaping.
When the door finally creaks open, you look up—and freeze.
He’s pale. His mouth is drawn tight. He walks like he’s trying not to breathe too deep.
“You’re late,” you whisper, rising quickly.
“Got caught in the crowd,” he replies, his voice hoarse.
You cross the floor in two strides and reach for his arm. He jerks it back instinctively. Your heart drops.
“What happened?”
"Nothing, Moon. Really. I’m just tired.”
You narrow your eyes, and you step closer.
He won’t meet your gaze.
“Take off your shirt.”
"What? No, I—”
"Take. It. Off.”
His jaw tightens.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you add, softer now. “Not here.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.
Bruises bloom like dark petals across his ribs and chest. Long, red welts streak across his back—angry, raised, and recent. Some are still bleeding. Others already begin to purple.
“Rigo,” you whisper, your voice trembling.
Hoshi says nothing. Just stands there, eyes closed, like he’s waiting for you to flinch away.
Instead, you reach out. Your fingers brush gently across one of the bruises, barely touching. He hisses softly—but not from pain.
“He beat you.”
"It’s not the first time.”
"Because of me?”
"No.” His eyes flash open, fierce. “Not because of you. Because I might’ve had a way out. Because someone else saw what I could be, and he can’t stand that.”
"A scout?”
He nods.
“Asked if I was under contract. Told me he’d seen my last two performances. Said I had something rare.” He swallows. “I didn’t even say yes. I just took his card.”
You don’t need to ask what happened next.
Your stomach churns. Rage bubbles in your throat, bitter and thick.
“I’ll kill him,” you whisper. “I swear to god, I’ll kill him.”
"It’s nothing.”
"Don’t say that.”
He finally looks up.
And it’s you he sees now—not the artist, not the runaway—but the woman who’s watched him from the shadows every night since he met her.
“This place will kill you before it frees you,” you say.
“Then what do we do?"
Your hands reach for his.
“We burn it down.”
It begins with Mira.
You approach her first. The seamstress with needles tucked into her bun and burns on her fingers. You show her Hoshi’s bruises. You don’t say a word. Just let her see. She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then she nods.
“It’s about time.”
Then Andrei.
The tall, silent strongman with eyes like storm clouds and a permanent frown. He’d always been kind to Hoshi. Had once given you half a sandwich without asking why you were hiding behind crates.
He listens. He nods once. Then he spits on the ground.
“I’ll handle the locks.”
Then, the twins—Illya and Ivan.
Aerialists with matching red hair and scars on their ankles from the silk ropes. They’d grown up in the circus. Their parents hadn’t been as lucky.
When Hoshi tells them the plan, they glance at each other—then smile, cold and sharp.
“We’ll give them a show they’ll never forget,” Illya says.
“And if Rigo ends up gagged in a lion cage, well…” Ivan shrugs. “Oops.”
It becomes something more than revenge. It becomes a rebellion.
One by one, performers start pulling their weight for Hoshi, stalling for him, hiding you in plain sight.
You and Hoshi begin mapping out everything.
You sketch the grounds, mark the weak points, the tent poles soaked in oil, the ropes fraying after years of neglect.
Hoshi studies fire escapes like choreography. Practices his flips in silence. His eyes burn with purpose again.
And every night on your way to Paris, before the candle goes out, you sleep with your hand in his.
The Palais Garnier gleams like a dream—its chandeliers sparkle, marble stairs echo with polished footsteps, and every guest inside wears something that costs more than your entire life.
It is Paris. And tonight, the circus burns.
You stand just outside the main tent, your body cloaked in dark rain-slick fabric, the matchbox clenched in your hand.
The performers pass around each other like whispers—disguised in their roles, eyes meeting in split seconds of silent code. Tonight isn’t a performance. It’s a war.
Mira helped you lace your boots extra tight. Andrei handed you the rope soaked in kerosene. Illya gave you a pocket knife, “just in case.”
No one says goodbye.
You’re not sure if that’s superstition, or fear.
Across the field, on the opposite end of the canvas, Hoshi slips into the beast tent. You catch one last glimpse of him. His white and silver costume shimmers against the lighting. No mask. Just his face, taut with focus, damp hair clinging to his temples.
He looks back once. His eyes find yours. And you nod.
Then, he vanishes into the shadows.
Inside the ring, the final act is about to begin.
The guests—drunk on champagne and artificial wonder—roar in their seats. Rigo stands just behind the curtain, adjusting his cuffs and sipping dark liquor from a cut-crystal glass. His cane, tiger-head-topped and gold-plated, rests against his thigh.
“They think they’ve seen a show already,” he smirks to Luca. “Wait ‘til the beast steps out. Solomon’s presence raises the price of the ticket by tenfold.”
"Are you sure it’s wise?” Luca murmurs. “He was twitchy this morning.”
“They’re all twitchy before a crowd.” Rigo scoffs. “That’s what makes them pliable. And Soonyoung knows better than to disappoint me again.”
He chuckles, cruel and smug. “Besides, the tiger knows who owns him.”
You circle the outer rim of the tent now, fingers trembling as you reach the section Mira marked in chalk—just behind the main structure, near a weak seam in the canvas wall. It’s here you strike the match.
The sulfur flares with a hiss, gold against the grey.
The flame eats the rope greedily.
The wind carries the flames faster than expected, wrapping around the edge of the tent. The fire is elegant at first—just a shimmer. A flickering glow.
Then, the fuel kicks in. And the tent goes up like a furnace.
Inside, Rigo freezes mid-sip.
The crowd begins to murmur—then shout.
“What the—” he barks, turning toward the entrance. The smoke has reached the curtains. Flames curl upward in waves.
“Someone put that out! What’s happening?!”
Luca runs out with two other crew members. Chaos explodes like firecrackers. Chairs overturn. Guests push toward exits, masks slipping from sweat-soaked faces.
Then, a roar splits the air, but it doesn’t come from the crowd.
It’s deeper. Wilder. Rigo pales.
“That’s not possible.”
He turns— and sees the gate of Solomon’s cage wide open.
The chain lies coiled on the ground.
“No. No, no, no—WHERE IS HE?! WHO LET HIM OUT?!”
He stumbles back as the tiger emerges.
Solomon moves slowly at first, padding across the ring with terrifying grace. He is not panicked. He is not afraid. He is free.
The audience flees. Performers scatter.
And in the centre of the smoke and madness, Rigo stands—frozen. His cane shakes in his grip.
“Easy now,” he whispers, stepping backwards. “You’re trained. You know me. You know your master.”
But Solomon does not stop.
He snarls low as his eyes gleam with something cold. You watch from outside the tent, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Rigo lifts his cane like it’s a sword.
“You obey me!”
And then Solomon pounces.
The cane flies from Rigo’s hand as claws tear through his coat and skin. Rigo screams—a high, broken sound that echoes like a death rattle inside the inferno. He stumbles to the floor, arms flailing, trying to crawl, trying to beg, but Solomon bites down.
The tent is fully ablaze now.
A final scream is lost in the roar of collapsing canvas and shattering beams.
And just like that—Rigo is gone.
There’s only one last thing left to do.
You reach his wagon on the far edge of the circus grounds.
It’s massive—more like a carriage fit for royalty than a travelling performer’s quarters. The door, somehow, is unlocked.
Of course, it is. Overconfidence always did follow arrogance.
You slip inside and close the door silently behind you. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and expensive cologne. The velvet drapes are half-drawn.
You move quickly.
The room is cluttered—brass fixtures, crystal glasses, boxes of cigars. But your eyes are sharp now, your purpose clearer than fear. You open drawers. Tear through desk cabinets. Rifling past letters, ledgers, and a pile of guest receipts.
Nothing.
Then—you find it.
A narrow cabinet beneath the liquor shelf. Locked. You pry it open with the tip of your knife.
Inside, you find a thick stack of bound papers, folders, and cash.
You search quickly until your fingers close around one with a name written in thick black ink across the top.
Kwon Soonyoung.
You grab it. Beneath it is a yellowed envelope, fat with bills—more than you’ve ever seen in one place.
You shove both into a satchel, sling it over your shoulder and turn toward the door.
“Going somewhere, Angel?”
Luca stands in the doorway, his face dirty with ash and smoke, eyes wide with fury.
“You stupid, stupid bitch.”
Meanwhile, Hoshi is running.
Rain pelts down in sharp slashes. His chest heaves as he pushes through the brush and out toward the clearing.
The rendezvous point, where you should already be.
He drops the bags—his and yours—by the base of the tree where you promised to meet.
“Moon?” he calls. Nothing.
“Moon!” Still nothing.
He turns, scanning the tree line, frantic.
Mira appears first, drenched and panting, dragging a case of costumes behind her. Then Andrei, carrying one of the twins—Illya, maybe—with blood on his shirt. Ivan stumbles in next, singed and coughing.
One by one, they arrive. Except you.
Back in the wagon, Luca steps inside and slams the door behind him. “You think you can just destroy us and walk away?” He bellows. “You think he’s free? He’ll never be free. Not from this. Not from what he is.”
You stand your ground even though your body is already coiled like a spring.
“Rigo owned that tiger,” Luca spits. “He made all of this. You think you’re better than us? You think you’re something because Hoshi likes you?”
He spits the words like it’s poison.
“You’re still just a broken whore who’s good at looking sad.”
You don’t have time to answer.
He lunges.
His hand strikes your face first—hard, open-palmed, knocking you into the desk. Pain blooms across your cheekbone.
Before you can recover, he kicks you in the side. You cry out and crumple against the cabinet.
“You ruined everything,” he growls, dragging you up by your hair. “He could have had a future. We all could. But no—you had to make it about you.”
You thrash, kicking. Your elbow connects with his ribs, but he punches you in the stomach. Air flies out of your lungs. Your vision swims.
You hit the floor hard.
Then—you see it. The brass tiger paperweight on the edge of the desk.
You lunge for it.
“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, dragging you once more. “You can’t even fight.”
You close your fingers around the cold metal.
And without thinking, you swing.
The sound of impact is dull and sickening. Bone cracks. Luca stumbles backward, stunned, blood pouring from his temple.
He sways, then crashes to the floor.
The smoke is crawling into the wagon now. The wood slowly engulfing into flames.
You grab the satchel, stagger to your feet, your ribs screaming in protest. The velvet curtains are alight.
You throw open the door, choking, stumbling into the open air. And run.
Hoshi is pacing.
“She should be here.”
"Maybe she went a different way,” Mira suggests gently.
“No. We had a plan.”
Then—movement.
You burst through the trees, soaked in blood and soot, your dress torn, your lip split.
Hoshi turns and runs to you.
“Moon—Moon, what the hell happened?”
He cups your face, frantic, hands shaking.
“Are you okay? What—did someone—”
"I’m okay.” You gasp. “I’m okay. But we have to go. Now.”
You hold up the satchel. “I have it. Your contract. The money. Everything.”
His eyes widen.
“You went back.”
You nod once. Then: “Train. Now.”
You run.
The entire company—burned, bruised, breathless—runs together through the wet fields, dragging bags and trunks and instruments and cages. You help Andrei lift Illya. Hoshi carries your satchel when your arms give out. Mira wraps a scarf around your bleeding arm without a word.
In the distance, you hear a whistle.
The tracks shimmer in the dark.
An old freight train rumbles past, slow and moaning.
You run faster.
Hoshi helps Mira up. You push Illya into the cart. Andrei hoists Ivan. Hoshi jumps up next, then turns and grabs you.
Your knees almost buckle from exhaustion—but his arms are around you, pulling you in.
The doors close. The train rolls on.
And as the last glow of the fire dies behind you—you are free.
The train groans against the tracks, the kind of sound that settles into your bones like an old ache. It’s been three days since the fire. Three days since the circus ceased to exist. Three days since Rigo’s scream was swallowed by a blaze you lit with your own hands.
You haven’t spoken about it.
Not with Hoshi. Not with anyone.
The others are gone now, scattering like embers from a dying flame. Andrei leapt off at a sleepy station near the border, chasing rumours of a woman who once promised him she would wait. The twins disappeared into fog-cloaked hills, saying something about a cousin’s vineyard and never setting foot in a tent again. Mira kissed you both goodbye, said Paris was too heavy and lacework was lighter.
Now, it’s just the two of you in an empty freight car, rocking slowly toward the south. The sea, maybe. Or some small town with cheap rent and no haunting past for either of you.
The silence between you grows louder with every mile.
Hoshi crouches in front of you, his hands gently pressing a warm cloth to your cheek. The swelling has gone down, but the purple bruising still blooms over your ribs, your jaw, and your hip. He’s been nursing you like this every day, his fingers careful, his voice low.
But tonight, you’re both too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
“Stop fidgeting,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in a tin cup of boiled water.
“I’m not.”
“You say that right before you wince.”
"That’s because you’re hurting me.”
He sighs, but there’s a flicker of something under the breath—something sharp and coiled.
“I’m trying to help, Moon.”
"I didn’t ask you to.”
It slips out colder than you intend, and the moment you say it, you regret it. His hand stills on your skin.
You flinch, not from pain but from the look in his eyes.
He stands slowly, tossing the cloth aside.
“You don’t have to bite me every time I get too close.”
"I’m not—”
"Yes, you are.”
He steps back, the space between you stretching like a chasm.
“Every time I try to touch you, really touch you, you act like I’m going to burn you alive.”
"That’s not fair.”
"Neither is the fact that I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if you’ll be gone when I wake up.”
That stuns you.
The candlelight flickers. Rain begins to tap softly on the metal roof above.
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.
“I know you’re scared, Moon. God, I know. But I’m scared, too. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what this is.”
You want to say something. You do. But the words are stuck in your throat.
He turns away slightly, his voice quieter now.
“And I’m starting to think you’ll leave now that I’m not something to fix.”
That breaks something in you.
“So that’s what you think this is?” you whisper. “That I stayed because you were broken?”
His silence says enough.
You stand, even though your ribs scream. You move closer until there are only inches between you and the man in front of you.
“I’ve never stayed for anyone, Soonyoung. Not once.”
He doesn’t answer.
You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Your voice shakes when you speak next.
“But I want to stay with you. Every day.”
The words hang in the air between you, trembling like your breath.
Hoshi’s eyes search yours—wide, stunned, reverent. Like you just handed him a whole galaxy and asked him to hold it.
Then, slowly, carefully, he steps toward you, his hand lifting to your cheek.
And his lips finally meet yours.
His mouth moves against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but you don’t. You melt.
The kiss deepens, slow and aching. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he backs you gently toward the soft pile of blankets laid out on the freight car floor.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.
“Don’t,” you breathe, voice small. “Please. Just—don’t.”
Soonyoung kisses you again, slower this time. Fuller. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth from scratch. His hands stay at your waist, not roaming, not demanding. You press your chest into his, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.
You whimper when he grazes your lip with his teeth.
His thumb strokes over your hip.
“Still okay?”
"Yes.”
He unbuttons your shirt slowly, each pop of a button a small act of worship. He kisses your shoulder as it slips off, trailing warmth in his wake. You’re trembling—but not from fear.
His eyes drink you in as he pushes the fabric down your arms.
“You’re so—” he swallows. “God, you’re so beautiful.”
You flush, chest tightening.
You’re not used to this. Not this kind of looking. Not this kind of wanting.
He kneels in front of you like one would at an altar, before his hands softly remove your pants.
When you’re bare in front of him, shivering in only your underwear, he leans forward—pressing his lips gently to the bruises on your ribs. Your stomach. The cut on your collarbone.
“You survived so much,” he murmurs. “And you’re still here.”
You bite your lip, fighting tears.
“I want to make you feel good, Soonyoung,” you whisper. “I want to—”
He shakes his head.
“No.”
You blink.
“You don’t have to give anything tonight. You don’t owe me pleasure, Moon. You never did.”
"But—”
"Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says softly. “Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”
You shudder as he leans in again.
“You deserve to be worshipped, not used.”
He gently instructs you to lay back on the blanket, your hair fanning out like a halo. His lips trail along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Every kiss is slow, like he’s savouring you. Every glance between kisses makes you ache deeper.
When he finally pulls off his shirt, you see the bruises still healing across his ribs, and your breath catches. You reach out, kissing the darkest one.
“You got this for me.”
“I’d do it again.”
His hand slips between your thighs, fingertips brushing the cotton of your underwear.
“Can I?”
You nod, voice caught in your throat.
He eases the fabric down, then settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be.
The first touch of his fingers against your clit is gentle. Careful.
He strokes between your folds, collecting your building juices and learning every gasp that leaves your mouth, every arch of your back, every shiver of your hips. He watches you with the same expression he wears on stage—focused, present, enchanted.
And when he slides a finger inside your wet heat, his mouth meets your breast, kissing, sucking, syncing the rhythm of his tongue with the one from his fingers.
You reach for him—needing him closer, needing his weight, his heat.
“Soonyoung—please—”
He groans against your skin.
“You feel like heaven.”
Your pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising, until you’re trembling beneath him, and the world is spinning behind your eyelids. His fingers continue their steady push and pull inside of you as his thumb gently flicks your clit.
You don’t even realise when you fall.
You suddenly cry out his name, shaking, as waves of pleasure ripple through you, raw and real and overwhelming.
Hoshi guides you through it, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your jaw.
When the aftershocks fade, you pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”
He hesitates.
“Are you sure?”
"I’ve never been more sure.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time. Your bodies slide together, skin to skin, as he removes his pants. His hard cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. He doesn’t break eye contact when he guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You gasp softly, your legs falling open wider to make space for him. He stills halfway through, his brows drawn in concentration, the corded muscles of his arms shaking where he holds himself above you.
“You’re okay?” he pants.
“Yes,” you whisper, overwhelmed by the stretch of him within your walls, by the way your heart cracks wide open under the weight of being cared for.
“You feel like… fuck, Moon. You feel like home.”
He finally bottoms out with a groan, hips pressing flush to yours. Your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips at the feeling.
He doesn’t move at first. Just lets you adjust. Your hands trace his spine, nails dragging lightly. His breath is ragged against your neck.
When you lift your hips, he takes it as permission.
He moves. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.
The friction sparks something deep in you, something raw and tender. Your body arches into him, chasing each slow grind of his hips.
He kisses your lips again.
“You’re so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrusts deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside of you, you never bothered to search for.
The rhythm builds—deliberate and measured, but full of heat. He rolls his hips against you, his body moving like a dance, like the final act of a performance meant only for you. Each thrust pushes in just right, pulling soft, gasping moans from your throat.
“Soonyoung—please—don’t stop.”
"I won’t. I’m right here.”
You cling to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building in waves again, dizzy from the closeness, from the way he never looks away from you. His forehead presses to yours. Your lips brush as you breathe each other in.
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your aching bundle of nerves again and circling it gently with his fingers. You cry out at the combined sensation, your hips jerking, pleasure blooming fast and deep.
“Come for me, Moon,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And you do.
You shatter beneath him—back arching, a sob torn from your throat, the orgasm rippling through you so hard it steals your breath. Your whole body trembles, tears spilling from your eyes.
Soonyoung kisses them away.
“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”
Your walls cramp around him with your orgasm, and he groans—a low, desperate sound—and thrusts faster, his hips losing their rhythm as he chases the edge as well.
"I love you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “I love you, I love you, I—”
And then he comes too, with a shudder and a cry against your skin, his come pouring into you, his body collapsing into yours.
You wrap your arms around him as he trembles through the aftershocks, your hands stroking his back, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.
Neither of you speaks for a long time.
You simply hold each other, sweat-slick and breathless and ruined in the most sacred way.
And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—those eyes soft with everything he doesn’t know how to say—you whisper, “You’re mine now.”
He smiles.
The sea is quieter in the mornings.
You like to think it’s listening.
The breeze carries the scent of salt and citrus, the sky soft with watercolour light. Your little studio stands just beyond the dunes, tucked beneath an olive tree that’s older than you’ll ever be. The walls are whitewashed and cracked in places, but the inside is alive—with your brushstrokes, with the stories only colour can tell.
You painted the studio walls with everything you couldn’t say. A tiger in flight. A girl with stars in her hair. Fire that doesn’t burn but frees.
Soonyoung says it feels like walking into your soul.
He still calls you Moon.
Even now. Even after all this time. Even when your given name hangs on your business sign in elegant cursive: Galerie de Lune.
You laugh now, more than you cry. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s no longer unbearable.
Soonyoung teaches dance in the community hall just down the road. Most days, he brings home sand in his shoes and glitter on his neck from the children, who insist on decorating him like he’s part of the show.
He teaches them rhythm, footwork, and how to roar on stage without fear.
“No one can take your voice if you learn how to use it,” he tells them, tapping their chests where their hearts beat bold and wild. “Even when it shakes.”
Sometimes, you watch through the open windows as he twirls a girl in pigtails or lifts a boy with stage fright into the air until he forgets to be afraid. You still can’t believe he’s real.
Sometimes you touch his back in the middle of the night just to make sure he’s still there.
The bed is a little fuller now.
There’s a child who curls up between you most nights, her little body warm and soft and full of questions. She has a gap in her teeth and a temper that rivals thunder. She calls him Papa and you Maman and insists she was a tiger in her past life.
You might just believe her.
The adoption wasn’t easy. Your body, marked by things you never asked for, couldn’t carry life without danger. It broke you once, quietly and completely, in the dark of a hospital room. But he never blamed you. Not for a second.
He only kissed your tears and whispered, “Then we’ll find the child who’s already waiting for us.”
You did. And she is perfect.
Sometimes you still flinch in your sleep. Sometimes he still wakes from dreams of iron bars and snapping chains, sweat beading on his skin, whispering names he never told you.
But it’s not like before.
You soothe each other back down, palms on hearts, kisses against temples. The panic no longer owns you. It visits. It passes.
You have anchors now. You’ve built a world where no one owns you. Where no one watches from behind velvet curtains. Where no one pays to touch you, or beats you for dancing too slow.
Here, in this quiet coastal town with your studio and his stage and a child that carries light in their palms—you are finally free.
And you are still in love.
Tonight, the stars are out.
You sit on the porch with your sketchbook, legs tucked beneath you, your child asleep inside. Hoshi brings you tea and a kiss on your cheek, still sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.
“Whatcha drawing, Moon?”
"You.”
"Again?” he laughs.
“Always.”
He sits down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly, he says, “Do you ever think about the fire?”
"Sometimes.”
"Do you regret it?”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “No. It saved you.”
"It burned everything down.”
"Only what needed to die.”
He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “You rebuilt me.”
"No,” you whisper. “You just finally had room to bloom.”
He hums, content. And as the tide laps against the shore, you realize something so simple it nearly brings you to tears.
You are safe. You are free. You are loved.
And your tiger still sleeps beside you.
A/N: Don't ask me where this came from, I have no idea. Did I cry while writing it? Yes. Am I also incredibly proud of it? Yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy and that it breaks your heart like it did mine. 💟
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)
