Synopsis: One minute, you were running through choreography. And in the next, Hoshi had you pinned against the fogged-up mirror, his breath hot on your neck and his grip bruising your hips. The last thing on your mind was the collab stage. A duet was already happening. The audience? You and him.
Pairing: idol!Hoshi x idol!afab!reader
Genre: smut, idol! au, no plot just filth
Rating: mature
Word count: 1.2k
Warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), semi-public sex, creampie, lemme know if I missed anything!
Note: This is a full version of this drabble! I couldn't stop thinking of fucking Hoshi in the practice room, so here we are.
Thank you papa @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping me with the synopsis!
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"5, 6, 7, and 8."
The two of you hit the final pose, chests heaving, skin glistening with sweat. You and Hoshi have been rehearsing for an upcoming collab stage—both main dancers of your respective groups, your companies decided that pairing you up was the best move.
And this dance? Sensual would be an understatement.
There's one move in particular that never fails to fluster you—the moment Hoshi presses against you, his body moulding to yours. And every time, without fail, you catch the faint smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
Catching your breath, you swipe a hand across your damp forehead.
"That was better," you say with a smile. Hoshi nods in agreement.
"Still struggling with one part, though," he pouts, and you have to bite back the internal squeal at how unfairly cute he looks.
"We can run it again," you offer.
Hoshi grins before restarting the song, and your breath stutters when you realise which part he's talking about. His hands settle on your hips as he steps behind you, his chest flush against your back. One arm winds around your waist, dragging you even closer as his nose trails from your neck to your shoulder.
His dark eyes lock onto yours in the mirror, and you can't stop the heat flooding your cheeks. He holds the pose far longer than necessary, the air between you thickening with something electric.
Then his fingers begin a slow crawl up your torso.
"H-Hoshi," you gasp.
"Mhm?" His lips brush your ear, voice a low hum as he nuzzles into the curve of your neck.
A broken sound escapes you when he rolls his hips against yours.
"Shhh," he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. "There are people in the other room."
Another slow grind, another whimper torn from your lip—he's unravelling you, piece by piece.
"Hoshi, please," you whisper, voice trembling.
"Please what, baby?"
"I need you."
A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "All you had to do was ask."
He spins you to face him, your hands landing on his chest as you look up into his piercing gaze. Without hesitation, he crashes his lips onto yours in a hungry kiss. You moan as his tongue tangles with yours, and a low groan rumbles from his throat when your fingers slip beneath his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his bare skin.
A whimper escapes you at the feel of his muscles under your touch—firm, taut—every defined ab flexing beneath your fingertips.
His hands roam your body, gripping, teasing, and you shiver under his possessive hold.
Then, in one swift motion, Hoshi lifts you and slams you against the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the practice room. Your back hits the glass with a gasp. The two of you stare, breaths ragged, eyes burning into each other with unspoken hunger.
His finger trails from your forehead down to your lips, feather-light, before pressing against them. Instinctively, you suck, drawing a deep groan from him.
"You're driving me insane," he rasps.
A gasp tears from your throat as he grinds his hard length against your clothed cunt, the sheer size of him already making you clench around nothing.
"Hoshi, please—I can't—" you whine.
"Can't what, baby?" His smirk is infuriating. You huff in frustration.
He chuckles darkly before sliding his hand down, cupping your heat in one possessive grip. You whimper, squirming under his touch.
"Bet you're already soaked for me." His voice drips with satisfaction, and your cheeks burn.
In one swift motion, he yanks down your shorts and panties, exposing your dripping cunt to the cool air. His hungry gaze rakes over you, and you flush under the intensity.
He spreads your folds, thumb pressing against your clit—your back arches, a moan slipping free.
"Hush, baby," he purrs, "don't wanna get caught, do we?" You bite your lip, muffling yourself as his thumb begins slow, torturous circles.
Electric sparks dance under your skin, but it's not enough—you stare up at him, pleading.
"What is it?" he taunts.
A muffled whimper is all you manage.
"Words, baby." His thumb slows just to spite you.
"Need more…please," you beg, voice thick with desperation.
His smirk sharpens before he plunges a finger inside, stretching you with a single, ruthless thrust.
"Fuck—so tight." His growl sends heat straight to your core.
His finger pistons in and out while his thumb works your clit, the dual sensations coiling pleasure low in your belly—but you need more. You rock against his hand shamelessly, chasing relief, and he laughs at your desperation.
Then—another finger. He curls them deep, hitting that sweet spot with brutal precision.
Your head slams back, a bitten-off moan trapped behind your lips. He does it again. And again.
You're unravelling, every nerve alight. His thumb speeds up, circling your clit with relentless focus—your thighs tremble, the knot inside you pulling taut.
"H-Hoshi—don't stop, I'm so close!"
"Cum," he orders, "drench my fingers." Then his mouth crashes onto yours, swallowing your cries as you shatter.
Your body convulses around him, waves of pleasure wracking through you as he fucks you through it, dragging out every last tremor. When he finally pulls out, the obscene slick of your arousal hangs in the air.
Dazed, you pant against his lips, still throbbing from the aftershocks.
Then his fingers—glistening with you—press to your mouth.
"Open up, baby."
You obey, sucking them clean, the taste of yourself igniting a fresh wave of heat. His eyes darken—dripping with desire.
"Can't hold back anymore. I need you." His grip tightens, spinning you around before slamming your cheek against the cold mirror.
You hear the sharp sound of his zipper, then the soft thud of his pants hitting the floor. A gasp escapes you as he teases your entrance with the tip of his cock, slick and insistent.
"Ready?" His voice is rough, strained.
You nod, and with one deep thrust, he's inside you—drawing a sharp gasp from your lips and a guttural groan from his.
"Fuck—you're gripping me so tight," he rasps, his voice ragged.
A muffled whimper slips out as he bottoms out, filling you completely. Then he moves, dragging himself in and out, the thick ridges of his veins rubbing against your walls in a way that makes your eyes roll back.
"Look at me." He commands with a growl. "Look at me while I ruin you."
You obey, meeting his darkened gaze in the mirror—his black hair clinging to his forehead, brows furrowed, lips swollen from biting back moans. His eyes burn into yours, unrelenting.
His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as his pace turns frantic, almost feral. You can't hold back anymore—a loud moan spills from your lips, uncaring who might hear.
"Shit, you're squeezing me like that—" His voice is rough with pleasure. "Close?"
You moan, nodding desperately as the coil inside you winds tighter.
His hand slips between you, fingers circling your clit with practiced precision.
"Cum with me, baby."
A few more brutal thrusts, and you shatter around him, your walls fluttering as pleasure crashes over you. The sight pushes him over the edge—with a deep groan, he spills into you, filling you up as his hips jerk through his release.
Chests heaving, you stare at each other in the fogged-up mirror, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. One thing's certain, though—this just made everything a hell of a lot more complicated.
WARNINGS: smut, penetrative sex, nasty messy sex so—mentions of body fluids (cum), hair pulling, cock riding, really horny reader, hoshi rolling his hips like a slut, it doesnt have an order, it's just a long drabble of how hoshi fucks.
hoshi's hip (sex) game is the topic of the night, and this a post 100% dedicated to it (and how he fucks basically). i swear, there's not a SINGLE fic of mine that doesnt mention hoshi circling his hips or going balls sack deep. DUH. he’s a dancer—body carved by god or whoever tf is up there crafting perfect models for shit like this.
but looks like all of his dancer journey have gone straight into how he fucks. and yeah, you should’ve said something earlier, should’ve prepared your damn soul for the hip game this man is packing. but nah, you were dumb. reckless. thought it’d just be another roll in the sheets.
it was not.
he’s got you laid out like a fucking masterpiece, your legs trembling before he’s even inside. his hands r steady as hell, holding your hips like they’re choreography. “you good?” he asks trying to sound cute, heartly being careful but with that stupidly hot, cocky grin curling his lips, like he already knows the answer. he does.
and when he slides in, it's game over. it’s not just the stretch (which is already enough to have your back arching like you’re tryna touch the ceiling). it’s the way he moves. hoshi doesn’t thrust. he rolls his hips, and i JUST KNOW! that it goes straight to the sweeet spot. he knows will ruin you. you’re done. wiped out.
“you feel that?” smug motherfucker. and yeah, you do. his tip’s got your g'spot on lockdown, like he mapped that shit out beforehand. every roll has his glutes flexing, you didn’t think you’d ever appreciated someone’s ass mid-fuck until hoshi, the power in them driving him deeper, balls-deep and then some. it’s like he’s tryna rewrite your anatomy.
“fuck me—” it’s the only thing you can manage because every other thought in your brain has been evicted.
“yeah, that’s what i thought.” he punctuates his words with a sharp snap of his hips. he’s got one hand gripping your thigh, the other tangling in your hair. if it’s long, he’s wrapping it around his wrist, pulling your head back just enough to meet his gaze.
“look at me,” he commands, and his hips don’t. fucking. stooooop, grinding into you like he’s on heat. “c’mon, babe. lemme hear you.”
but all you can manage is this strangled suffocated moan because his pulse is fucking otherworldly. he knows it, too. his smirk deepens, his eyes dark with that predatory gleam of someone who knows he’s completely destroying you.
legs, trembling. breath, nonexistent. moans, choked af, caught in your throat because his tip is right there. massaging your cervix, hitting that spot like it owes him rent. hips circling so smoothly it feels like he’s winding you tighter and tighter, like you’re about to snap.
and when you do—because obviously you do—he doesn’t slow down. no, he leans into it, letting you ride that high while his pace stays maddeningly perfect. every roll, every grind, like he’s got this whole thing down to a science.
hoshi knows exactly what he’s doing. and he loves it. loves the way your body reacts to him, the way your thighs tremble and your back arches, the way your moans break apart like you can’t take it anymore. “told you, didn’t i?” he says, grinning as he watches you unravel. “best fuck in the world.”
you knew you were screwed the moment hoshi smiled at you during that dinner. not the polite kind of smile tho—it was the type that tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that promised chaos (very hoshi of him). you’d spent the whole night thinking, damn, he’s so sweet, so charming, falling for his jokes and the way his laugh made everything else blur. and then, that same mouth was pressed against your neck not even two hours later, and now you’re realizing that “sweet” is the last fucking word you’d ever use for him.
it’s not even just him, it’s the fact that he drags you down with him. one second, you’re gasping like some innocent disney princess; the next, you’ve got your knees digging into the mattress, heels propped up, grinding down on his cock like you’re trying to carve his name into your pussy.
“ohmygodyouresofuckingbig” you gasp, your voice wild, your hand braced against the headboard so you don’t fucking launch into orbit. his hands resting on your hips, loose as hell, like he’s just chilling, letting you take what you want.
he laughs at the sight, his chest glistening from sweat, abs flexing every time you drop down. his head tips back against the pillow, a hand running through his messy hair as he watches you like you’re putting on the show of a lifetime. “weren’t you just the sweetest little thing at dinner? now you’re grinding on me like you think i’m about to leave.”
your reply isn’t even a word. it’s a throaty, drawn-out moan, one that sounds ripped straight from a porno, because hoshi’s cock feels like it was engineered to ruin you. every time your hips roll down, you feel him, thick and impossibly deep, stretching you making your brain short-circuit. “shit, baby,” he groans when you clench around him, his hands tightening ever so slightly. “you’re so—fuck—tight.”
you’re too far gone to even be embarrassed. filthy sounds of your bodies moving together are louder than any shame you could’ve had, and when his tip drags right against your sweet spot, you lose it.
“fuck, hoshi,” you babble, your voice cracking as you try to form coherent thoughts. “so deep, you’re so—god, you’re—you’re ruining me!”
his laugh rumbles beneath you. “ruining you?” he mocks. “baby, you’re doing all the work. look at you. riding me like you’re afraid my cock’s gonna disappear.”
you barely register his words. but when he takes one hand and tangles it in your hair again, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, you’re done for. absolutely done. “oh my god, oh my fucking god,” you cry out, your thighs burning from the effort, but you don’t stop. can’t stop. he’s too deep, too good, his cock hitting your g-spot with every grind, every roll, and it’s got you unraveling at the seams.
“listen to you,” he keeps talking, even though he's more moaning than saying anything. “such a good girl at dinner, saying please and thank you. now you’re on my cock, moaning like you’re getting paid for it.”
“you—fuck—you’re so—fucking big,” you manage to gasp, your hand sliding down his chest, fingers curling into his slick skin as if that’ll keep you steady. “so deep, hosh, i can’t—i’m gonna—oh my god.”
his hips shifting up just a fraction to meet yours. that tiny movement sends stars shooting across your vision, and agian, he fucking knows it. “yeah?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. “you gonna cum for me, baby? gonna cream my cock, hm?” his words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. your thighs tremble, your moans turning into these high-pitched, incoherent whines as you chase that high, grinding down harder, faster.
“that’s it,” he groans, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your screams go silent. “fuck, you’re so good. so fucking good. take it, baby. take everything.”
and when you finally snap, your head tipping back, your moans breaking into sharp, breathless cries, he lets you ride it out. doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just watches with this half-lidded, satisfied grin as you completely lose your dignity on his cock.
AND.
he loves the mess. thrives in it, even.
it starts when he’s got his fingers buried in you, watching the way your slick coats them with every pump. his other hand’s braced against your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread so he can watch the way you clench and drip around him.
“listen to that,” grin on his face pure sin as his fingers curl. the wet, obscene sounds of your cum fill the air, and he’s eating it up, moaning slutty like it’s his favorite fucking song. “so messy, baby. you like that, huh? making such a pretty little mess on my hand.” he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until there’s a wet spot on the sheets beneath you, proof of just how far he went.
“fuck, look at that,” he groans, dragging his coated fingers along your inner thigh, leaving wet trails that make you shudder. when he slides into you, it’s like he’s in a trance. slow just enough to feel the way your walls squeeze around him, wet and hot and perfect. but then he pulls out almost entirely, glancing down to watch the way your cum clings to him, coating every inch of his cock in a slick, glistening sheen.
he does it again. until he’s buried deep, then pulls out just to watch. the slick sound of it drives him insane, makes him groan low in his throat as he watches strings of your sluick stretch between you before dripping down onto the sheets. every thrust is accompanied by the wet, obscene sound of your slick, loud enough to echo in the room, loud enough to make him grin (maybe thats why he likes to roll his hips deep inside you, because makes the sound louder??) “every time i move, i can hear you, baby. you hear that? that’s all you.”
but it’s never enough for him, hoshi’s gotta see it. so he slows down, pulls out entirely, and fuck, the sight alone is enough to make him lose it. your arousal glistens on his cock, dripping in thick, shining lines, pooling onto the bed beneath you. he runs a hand along his length, spreading it, smearing it, just so he can watch how messy you’ve made him.
and then he’s back inside, the glide impossibly smooth, wet and filthy, and he’s groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.
♡ pairing: roommate!hoshi x afab!reader
♡ theme: smut [18+ mdni], humor
♡ wc: 4.1k
♡ warnings: oral (f. & m. receiving), unprotected piv sex (do not do this), multiple orgasms, a lil spit play, head pushing, thigh riding, somnophilia, cum eating/swallowing, cumming in pants, like 2 seconds of angst, praise kink, hs is down bad for reader, gendered pet names (baby, good girl, pretty girl, etc), bit of fluff at the end
♡ a/n: this is part 2 to make me !! finally got this written hope yall like <3
Ever since you sort-of-accidentally had sex with your roommate for the first time, he’s been nothing but a fucking menace.
Not in a bad way - no, despite the fact that he's kind of an actual insane person he's always been and continues to be a very considerate and agreeable roommate. There's no problem with your living arrangements.
The problem is how fucking insatiable he has become.
You previously never thought there could be such a thing as too many orgasms, but Soonyoung really is testing your limits. You've never had so much sex in your life - and you're not mad about it by any means. But your roommate-turned-friend with benefits is absolutely, utterly, wholeheartedly obsessed with having his entire face buried in your pussy at all possible times. And you love every second of it.
Sure, sometimes your clit kinda feels like it's gonna fall off. Most of the time you've barely recovered from the last set of two, three, four orgasms (the current record is six, a record he's determined to beat) before he’s back between your legs again. But the constant cunnilingus leaves you more sensitive than ever before - and the more you squirm beneath his tongue and scream and cry as he takes you to paradise, the more it gets him off. One time you were wailing his name so much that he actually came in his pants, fully hands-free. The man simply worships you.
You've had various kink-related conversations over the past couple months of nonstop boinking, as these things come up. You wouldn't necessarily say Soonyoung is into anything too crazy (besides the occasional burst of tiger roleplay, anyway), but so far he's been enthusiastically down for everything you've expressed interest in. He’s the very definition of matching one’s freak.
“You know what would be hot?” Soonyoung asks you one day, approximately two minutes after you woke up and emerged from your room.
“Good morning to you too,” you tell him through a sleepy yawn.
“What if,” he continues anyway, “hypothetically, I were to wake you up one day by eating you out?”
“Soonyoung is it nine in the morning,” you reply as you give him a dull glare. You go to make yourself a cup of coffee, but he extends a full mug to you. You take the cup - it’s fresh, piping hot.
“Oh, thanks,” you say, surprised by the kind gesture.
“So?” he prods, eagerly awaiting your reply.
“I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t be mad about that,” you answer with a small shrug.
“NOICE,” he exclaims, pumping his fist in the air.
“BUT-” you quickly add. “That cannot be an everyday thing.”
“Right, of course not,” he agrees with a nod. “Soooo, when can I try it?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that,” you reply straightforwardly. “It’s supposed to be a surprise, that would like, defeat the whole point.”
A wide grin spreads across his face, but he shakes it off right away, playing it cool.
“Okay cool, well I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, grabbing your hand and shaking it vigorously. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
You roll your eyes at him.
“You’re so fucking stupid,” you gibe, but your face cracks into a smile. He pulls you in and kisses you.
“Love you too.”
You freeze.
You may have been intimate with him more times than you can count, but your relationship is strictly casual. You only kiss when you're fucking, and the words I love you have never once been uttered by either of you. You know he probably was saying it facetiously, but the way he said it was so nonchalant. So… realistic. You stare at him for a second, not knowing how to respond. His smile slowly drops.
“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes. His ears immediately turn red with embarrassment.
“No no it’s fine,” you babble, trying to backtrack. “I just wasn't expecting…”
“I was just kidding,” he responds. Then his eyes widen. “I mean not like that, it's not that-”
“It’s fine!!” you quickly interject before he can say anything else. “I know what you mean.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs again. He suddenly realizes he's still holding onto your hand - he swiftly lets go.
“Thanks for the coffee,” you tell him politely with a smile, trying to change the subject.
“Of course,” he replies, trying to smile back at you, but you can tell he's still sulky. He departs from the kitchen without saying another word. He emerges from his room about a minute later in athletic gear, his gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“Off to workout already? I thought you were going this afternoon” you inquire, but he's already breezing past you.
“Yeah, Mingyu just texted me and wanted to meet earlier,” he answers as he grabs his keys.
It’s a bad lie, and you both know it. But you don't press him further.
“Okay, have fun!” you say cheerfully. But an air of tension remains.
“Thanks,” he replies, turning back to glance at you for only a brief second.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Soonyo-”
He's out the door before you have a chance to finish even saying his name.
You stand there for a few moments, staring at the front door, wondering if you've just fucked everything up. You didn't mean to, of course. You were just so taken aback by the stupid L word. It's not something you ever expected to hear coming from Soonyoung’s lips, not about you anyways. But now it has you thinking. Was he simply joking around? Or does he actually have… feelings for you?
A small blip of a thought enters your mind: and do you have feelings for him?
You push it away before you can think about it any further.
The next few days are undoubtedly a bit awkward. Soonyoung is clearly avoiding you - not in a malicious way, but he just so happens to have business elsewhere whenever you're at home.
You're mildly annoyed, but more so you're feeling gloomy about the whole situation. You never meant to do anything to push him away - near-constant fucking aside, Soonyoung truly is a good friend. And now you find yourself missing him.
After an entire week of this nonsense, you decide to confront him. You pretend to be going to sleep, anticipating that he’ll spend some time alone in the common area. A few minutes later your hunch is confirmed when you hear the tv come on, its volume low. You quietly open your door and sneak into the living room. You approach the couch slowly from behind - when you arrive at it, you jump around and plop down next to Soonyoung.
“FUCK,” he yelps, nearly jumping out of his seat. “You scared me!”
“I'm horny,” you tell him bluntly, scooting up next to him. “Let me suck your dick.”
Soonyoung stares at you, looking into your eyes that are now mere inches from his. You can tell he desperately wants to say yes, but he resists. You give him a flirty look, trying to entice him.
“Pleaseeeee?”
“Well, I was gonna watch a movie…” his sentence trails off, unfinished. He tries to shift his focus away from you, but his eyes keep flickering back to yours.
“Seriously?” you ask, crossing your arms. “Since when do you turn down head?”
“Y/n…”
You wait for him to continue, but he doesn't.
“Yes?”
He looks you in the eyes again, then sighs.
“I dunno, I’m just not in the mood right now,” he finally answers. He looks away sullenly.
“Are you okay?”
He looks back at you. He clearly wants to tell you something, but he hesitates.
“About the other day…” he finally speaks. He pauses, in case you have something to say. You don’t; he continues.
“I didn't mean to make things weird. When I said that I loved you.”
“You didn't,” you assure him. You note that he didn’t say anything about it not being true, but you try to ignore that right now.
You take his hand in yours, patting it softly. He looks at you, surprised by the gesture.
“I was being weird, that's on me.”
His mood cautiously lightens. “You sure?” he verifies.
“100%,” you say with a nod. He smiles at you.
“Now will you please put your dick in my mouth?” you request again, looking into his eyes seductively.
A smile creeps onto his face.
“I mean if you're gonna be this fucking hot…”
You give him a mischievous smirk. You tug at his tshirt; he immediately takes it off. He groans as you grab his dick through his sweatpants, his cock starting to harden instantly in response. One thing about Soonyoung - you can do the bare minimum and he’ll have a boner within five seconds. You lick your lips, stroking him slowly through the soft gray fabric. He lets out a deep exhale, relieved by your touch - it had only been a week, but he missed you badly. He craved your touch, craved how insane you make him feel. He drops his head back, his legs spreading as he settles into the couch, shifting his pelvis up so you have full access to his groin. You rub your hand over the thick bulge, squeezing and pulling lightly, causing him to let out a pathetic-sounding moan. He is putty in your hands.
About a minute more of your over-the-pants handjob and Soonyoung is rock fucking hard. You slide off the couch, taking to your knees between his spread thighs. You pull at the elastic waistband, tugging it down over the pulsating bulge in his underwear. You place your mouth on him through the fabric, letting him feel your lips, your hot breath on him.
“Stop teasing me,” he begs after you plant several more kisses on his clothed dick. “Please.”
You gaze up at him, your eyes filled with lust. You reach into his underwear, retrieving his cock, prompting further pathetic moaning. He is leaking with precum - you take him in your fist, stroking up and down at a pace that he finds painfully slow. You place your lips atop the head, lightly sucking up his juices. He cries out as you then swirl your tongue over his tip.
“Aaaah,” he groans, his voice turning gravelly.
You grab his balls and take the rest of the head into your mouth. You hollow your cheeks as you begin sucking on it slowly - each motion of your lips long and drawn out. Saliva accumulates in the back of your mouth - and an overwhelming wetness accumulates in your underwear.
You draw your head back, gazing up at Soonyoung submissively. You collect your saliva, spitting it onto his cock - it trickles downwards. Wrapping your hand around his girth you spread it over his full length, coating his cock with your spit.
“Oh wow,” he mutters, nearly going cross eyed. You take his cock in your mouth once more, swallowing more and more of him until his entire length is down your throat.
“Goddamn baby,” he growls as you bottom out. You begin to bob your head, sucking him off. The sounds being made right now are grotesque - slurping and gagging from you, moaning and grunting from him. But it's only turning you on even more.
“Ohh that's a good girl,” he grumbles as he pets your hair. You increase your pace - saliva coats your lips, dripping down your chin, spreading across your face. The utterly sloppy head has Soonyoung writhing beneath you, babbling unintelligibly as his orgasm draws near.
“Feels so good baby.”
“Fuck you’re so hot.”
“Pretty girl sucking my cock so good right now.”
His other hand ventures to your head, holding you down as his hips jerk and shake. Your throat aches from him fucking it, your eyes well with tears - but your clit throbbing against the stickiness that has flooded your panties proves how much you fucking love this.
“Ohhhhhmygoddddd,” he groans through gritted teeth. “Fuuuuck, y/n… I’m gonna cum…”
He pushes your head down as he releases, giving you several hard thrusts as his cum spurts down your throat. You let him fill you up, eagerly swallowing each burst of his load. His hips slow as his climax wanes. His arms plop onto the couch cushions, his body sinking into the sofa as his body relaxes. He drags one hand to your face, grasping your jaw gently as he slowly pulls you off of his sensitive throbbing cock. He wants to look at you so bad, see that pretty little face with those pretty swollen lips covered in both your juices - but his energy is too drained to even lift his head.
“C’mere,” he pleads softly.
You pull yourself back up onto the couch, pressing your body closely against his. You lay your head on his shoulder as your fingertips delicately trace up and down his cock - it pulsates at your touch.
He turns his head to face you, his nose brushing up against yours. He lifts one hand, tenderly cradling your cheek.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
You feel a pang deep in your stomach. You've been scared to admit it this whole time, but at this point it's undeniable: you are falling in love with your roommate. And god do you want to kiss him.
“Yes,” you whisper, the word hot and breathy against his lips lingering before yours.
Soonyoung grabs your face with both hands, pulling you deep into his kiss. His lips hungrily lock onto yours, his body stilling except for his chest, rising and falling with slow, heaving breaths. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, holding you tightly, refusing to allow any physical space between you two. You want to stay here for all of eternity.
Slowly, your mouths part - he gives your bottom lip a few more tugs before letting go. His forehead rests against yours, both of you exhaling deeply in tandem. His hands drop to your waist, touching you gently as the warmth of his breath greets your face. He looks into your eyes as he holds you.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
You nod. Quickly tucking his remaining erection back into his sweats, he takes your hands and pulls you up with him, kissing you with each step as you stumble together into your room. You plop onto your bed, pulling Soonyoung on top of you. He rolls over, holding you snugly against him, your legs tangling together as he starts making out with you again. Your aching cunt presses against his thigh as you wrap your legs around him; you begin to grind your hips slowly.
“Wait,” he pauses. He reaches for your shorts, sliding your pajamas and panties off of you. You kick them the rest of the way off, discarding them somewhere on the bed, your shirt quickly joining them. He yanks his own pants off; you straddle his thigh again, your soaked cunt greeting his skin.
“Oh my god,” he groans. “It’s so fucking wet.”
Your hips begin again, dragging your pussy up and down his thigh, your juices spreading everywhere. You whimper at the stimulation, riding Soonyoung’s thick muscular quads as he wraps his arms around your torso. You cling to him as he draws you in close, his mouth wandering to your neck to plant a string of small kisses on the delicate skin. Ceaseless moans escape you as a fire builds in your gut, the burning pleasure of your climax rapidly approaching.
“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” you cry out as you frantically get yourself off on Soonyoung’s thigh. You feel his cock growing hard again - it presses into your belly as it strains against the fabric of his underwear.
“Cum for me babe,” his low voice speaks softly into your ear.
Desperately grinding your pussy on his thigh, you finally release. You scream his name as you cum, legs trembling as your body shakes with vigor. Soonyoung holds you tight, kissing your cheek lovingly as you orgasm in his arms.
“That's my girl,” he murmurs as he kisses your lips. You begin to come down, but your head is still spinning from the overwhelming stimulation. You try to catch your breath, slowing your breathing as Soonyoung rubs your back - but his touch and the warmth of his body sends you into a deep state of relaxation. He whispers something else to you, but before you can even process what he's saying, you are fast asleep.
You’re awoken the next morning by loud, moaning cries.
Still half asleep, you begin to register a familiar bodily sensation. Only when you pry your eyes open and see Soonyoung situated between your legs, do you realize you’re the one moaning. His face is buried in your pussy, licking you slowly, tasting you, savoring every moment of having his tongue in your cunt.
He lifts his eyes, noticing that you’re now conscious.
“Soonyoung what the fu- ohhh,” you question, but are cut off by his lips attaching themselves to your clit.
“Good morning beautiful,” he mumbles into your cunt, refusing to take his mouth of you for a second.
“Oh my god,” you groan. “I forgot I told you you could do this.”
He pauses, looking up at you.
“Do you want me to stop-”
“NO,” you shout, louder than you meant. You lift your hips, putting your folds back in his mouth. He smiles into your cunt, eagerly resuming eating you out.
“Good,” he replies, barely audible as his tongue begins working into your hole again.
Your back arches as his nose presses into your clit, making it throb desperately. He flattens his tongue, licking you all the way up, then swirling around the sensitive bud.
“Ahhh,” you cry out involuntarily. “You’re gonna make me cum already.”
This only eggs him on further. He wraps his arms around your thighs, grasping you tightly as the tip of his tongue quickly flicks over your clit.
“How- fuck, how long have you been down there?”
He glances up at you again, sticking his tongue out exaggeratedly as he continues licking you.
“I dunno, like five minutes maybe.”
“Five?!” you proclaim as your head falls back onto the pillow. You run your fingers through his hair. “That’s it?”
Soonyoung smirks, planting several kisses on your pussy.
“You were already soaking wet when I got here,” he informs you. “Must’ve been dreaming about me.”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” you pretend to be annoyed with him, but the moans escaping from your lips undermine your facade.
“C’mon, you like it,” he teases.
“Yeah,” you admit. “I do.”
He grins widely. “Good girl.”
His praise and the way his tongue is now circling your clit send you over the edge. You whine as your orgasm approaches - loud, pathetic sounds filling the air as he sucks and slurps between your thighs.
“Don’t stop,” you beg.
The sensation builds and builds, making you squirm beneath him as every nerve in your body erupts with overwhelming delight.
“Oh fuck- I’m cumming,” you shriek as you reach your high. You cum on his tongue, long and hard - riding out your orgasm on his face accompanied by loud, unabashed cries of pleasure. As your body starts to relax, you release the tight grip you didn’t realize you had on his hair, stroking his head as he softly laps up your release.
“Come here,” you tell him softly, but he doesn’t move. He seems to be even more relaxed than you are right now.
“Just a second,” he responds through deep breaths, his body sinking into the bed.
“Oh my god, did you…”
“Cum in my pants again?” he finishes your question for you. “Yeah. I did.”
He lifts his head, his eyes glazed over in post-orgasm bliss.
“You’re so hot, I couldn’t help it,” he says with an amused grin.
Finally able to move, he rises - his underwear visibly filled with cum. He crawls back up to you, plopping onto his back right beside you. He peels the ruined underwear off, tossing them aside, then stares down at his own mess.
“Lemme just, um…”
He goes to get up, intending to go clean himself off, but you pull him back onto the bed.
“I got it.”
You scoot yourself down, positioning your face near his groin. Slowly you begin to lick his own cum off of him.
“Jesus fuck, y/n,” he groans, his voice deep and low. “You’re filthy.”
“Don’t act like you don’t think this is hot.”
“Oh I do,” he says proudly. “Very fucking hot.”
He strokes your hair as you clean him up. As you finish he pulls you back up, laying you on top of him as he wraps his arms around you once more. Both of you are sweaty, and the embrace is nearly too warm - but neither of you want to move.
You lay there in silence, your head tucked comfortably into his shoulder, peacefully listening to the songbirds chirping as warm morning sunlight filters into the room through the blinds. Soonyoung is breathing so steadily that you think he's fallen asleep underneath you, but eventually you hear your name softly muttered from his lips.
“Hey, y/n?”
“Hmm?” you reply sleepily without moving. Soonyoung caresses your back, dragging his fingertips gently up and down over the soft skin.
“What are we?”
You lift your head, propping yourself up by your elbow. You look down at Soonyoung - he gazes up at you, waiting for your response.
“I don’t know,” you answer after thinking for a moment. “What do you want us to be?”
He reaches for your face, stroking your cheek gently.
“I wasn’t lying the other day.” He stares into your eyes. Despite the fact that he literally just had his face buried in your pussy, it feels overwhelmingly intimate. Your stomach churns anxiously.
“I really do love you.”
You knew he was going to say it, but your heart skips a beat anyway. Hearing him say it out loud, hearing him confess his love to you - it’s a thought that previously scared you. But you no longer fear confronting this reality. Now that you’re here, it feels comfortable, it feels right.
“I’m sorry if that makes things weird between us, but it’s the truth,” he says timidly. “I just can’t deny it any longe-”
You cut him off with a kiss.
You kiss him for far too long - but it’s never long enough. When your lips part at last, you gaze at him lovingly, a big, cheesy grin growing upon your face.
“I love you too, dummy.”
He stares back at you, mouth agape. He finally processes your words, his face lighting up with excitement.
“Really??” he asks you in awe.
“Really really,” you nod.
He embraces you with explosive enthusiasm, making you yelp as he rolls over on top of you. You giggle as he gives you a series of rapidly-placed kisses all over your face.
“Stop itttt,” you cry through your laughter. “That tickles!”
“Sorry,” he says with a big goofy smile. “I’m just really excited.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” you say as you grab his boner that has quickly returned.
He beams at you. “What can I say, you make my dick happy.”
“God, you’re such a dork,” you tell him as you roll your eyes. But you guide his tip to your entrance, shifting your hips to take him inside you.
“Ohh fuuuuck,” he mumbles, his eyes rolling back into his head. He starts slowly sliding his overstimulated cock into you, grunting when his whole length is inside. He rests, unmoving.
“You good?” you ask him.
“Yeah, just trying not to cum immediately,” he says, grinning.
“Soonyoung, you are crazy.”
“Crazy for you,” he says with a kiss.
You spend the rest of the day in bed together, making out, fucking, napping - anything, so long as you don’t have to leave his side. Soonyoung, being Soonyoung, tells you he loves you no fewer than 12 more times.
“So,” he asks as you intertwine your fingers with his, holding hands after he goes down on you for probably the fourth time today. “Does this mean I can call you my girlfriend now?”
You try to answer, but you’re trying to catch your breath after your millionth orgasm.
“Hmmmm?” he pesters.
“Gimme a… fucking second…” you mumble, pushing him away playfully. He gets right back in your face.
“I’m not hearing no…” he says, kissing your nose.
“Oh my god, yes, Soonyoung. The answer is yes.”
He grins from ear to ear, then wraps his entire body around yours, clinging to you like a koala.
“Yayyyy!" he replies as he nuzzles his face into you.
“You know,” he says after a few moments of silence. “I’m pretty hungry…”
“You better mean real food this time,” you tell him sternly. “I don’t think I could handle any more orgasms today.”
“Yes, real food,” he chuckles. “Shall I order delivery from that Thai place you like?”
Preview: You should’ve known the moment he walked into the boardroom with a grin too expensive for someone so inexperienced, This was temptation—tailored in Armani and absolutely lethal.
How did the two of you end up here—his office, lights off, half-breathing on his desk at nine o’clock at night?
You should’ve known the moment this would spiral. The signs were all there.
Soonyoung Kwon was the grandson of your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. Which, by hierarchy, technically made him your boss too—though the title felt more ornamental than functional. You still remember the day he stepped out of the elevator a month ago, flashing a dazzling smile, shaking hands with the interns like he was on a political campaign.
He had announced himself as the new Director of KF Label, like he was gifting you all with his presence. And then your former director, who clearly saw the chaos ahead and ran, called you in for a “quick chat” and gracefully asked you—read: begged—to guide Soonyoung during his adaptation period.
A polite corporate term, you’ve since realized, for “He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, so make sure he doesn’t crash and burn the company before Q4.”
And yes—he truly has no idea what he’s doing. He is rich in confidence, poor in skill. A golden retriever with a black card and a C-suite title. Infuriatingly cheerful, tragically unqualified.
Which is how you, the marketing manager who actually built her way up from zero, spent the past month babysitting someone who thought "brand synergy" was a soft drink.
Thirty days of training him, fixing his mistakes, dragging him out of meetings he wasn’t prepared for, and still—still—somehow he manages to get under your skin.
“Now, tell me…”
“What should I say… during the meeting… with the supermarket owners tomorrow?”
Your fingers dug into the edge of his desk as he slammed into you, hips snapping forward with a pace you didn’t know he was capable of. God. Why were you into this? And why were you suddenly sounding like a desperate young woman getting her brain fucked stupid?
Kwon Soonyoung was an idiot. A cocky, clueless pain in your ass.
Yet tonight—he was making you worse than everything he is. Your moan broke the silence of the office in a high, breathless pitch no one in this building had ever heard from you. You—who kept your heels sharp, your lipstick in place, and your tone professional no matter the pressure. But now? Now you could barely get out a single word. Barely answer his simplest questions.
Yet he kept asking them. “We have a slogan?” — his first dumb question, asked a month ago when you handed him a company profile and procedural system you had rewritten in the simplest terms possible. You’d practically turned it into a corporate comic book, hoping to minimize the damage.
And now?
“Should I wear a Rolex or a Cartier for tomorrow’s meeting?”
He whispered it against your ear like it was dirty talk, the smirk in his voice cutting sharper than his thrusts. He probably thought he won something. Okay—fine. He won a little. Ever since he had you bent over his desk, squirming, gasping, ruined.
But still—stupid. Always with the stupid questions. “You’re… stupid!” you managed, voice strangled between a moan and a cry, half an insult and half a plea. You barely made sense, and you hated that he knew it.
He laughed, low and wicked, before slowing his hips, dragging out the motion just enough to make you whimper at the loss. His hand ran along your front, slipping under your blouse and palming your breast like he knew you needed that grounding, that release.
“Please… Kwon Soonyoung…” you gasped, back arching when his fingers grazed your nipple.
But instead of mercy, he pulled you upright, chest to chest, keeping you firmly locked against him. His hand gripped your waist as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Answer me first, Ms. Ji. And remember…” His voice dropped a note deeper, quieter, deadlier.
“I’m your boss. So it’s Director Kwon.”
The next morning felt criminal.
Not just because you only managed two hours of sleep, or because your thighs still ached from being bent over a mahogany desk like some overworked intern in a very inappropriate drama. No. It was criminal because you still showed up on time, coffee in hand, hair done, heels on, and speech script perfectly printed.
Even after Kwon Soonyoung had given you three orgasms in one hour. In the office. On his desk. Under the goddamn company logo.
You were trying your best to pretend it never happened. Really, you tried. The speech script was crisp, stapled, and revised at 3 a.m. in between waves of humiliation, aftershocks of pleasure, and the memory of him whispering “Answer me, Ms. Ji…” like he wasn’t buried so deep inside you— you forgot your own name.
You had cross-checked every paragraph, every bullet point, just to make sure you hadn’t unconsciously written “Your cock has a better function than your brain.”
Honestly? If that line made it in, it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Was there a company that specialized in evaluating performance like that? Maybe it was time to write to the Kwon family directly. You could pitch it as a side venture—something like Kwon Enterprise: More Brains Below the Belt.
Hell, they might even give you equity for surviving their grandson.
“Thank you, Ms. Ji,” Soonyoung said quietly, his voice low, velvet-wrapped. He took the papers from your hand, but didn’t let go. His fingers lingered. So did his eyes.
And you swore—you swore—you saw the same madness in them that you saw last night. The hunger. The chaos. The wicked tilt of his mouth that said he remembered everything.
You cleared your throat, yanking your hand away as if his touch burned. It did, in a way. You forced your face back into your best professional mask.
“Try not to freestyle this time, Director,” you said coolly, taking the seat beside him. “And no dumb questions about ‘what synergy means.’ It’s in bold on page two.”
He smirked without turning, flipping the paper open. But you caught the way his leg brushed yours under the table. Intentional. Definitely intentional.
Last night was incredible. You couldn't lie. But if this man thought he could rattle you in daylight the same way he did in the dark. Well. He really was stupid.
*
A gentle touch on your shoulder startled you out of your screen-staring trance—you didn’t even know how long you’d been zoning out. Your eyes blinked back into focus, and you looked up to see Kim Mingyu, your colleague and the ever-reliable Finance and Accounting Manager of the label.
His brows were furrowed, concern written across his face. “You okay, Y/n? Director Kwon’s called for you three times,” he said softly.
You sighed, pushing yourself up from the chair with a tired stretch. “I’m fine. Just... running on fumes,” you said, flashing him a half-smile that tried to pass for reassurance.
But Mingyu didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, gaze narrowing just a little. “Is he still bothering you?”
You blinked. “Who?”
“That bastard,” he replied, voice lower now—him, meaning Jeon Wonwoo, your ex. The IT guy who cheated on you two months ago with an intern. The same incident that created a domino effect of side-eyes and rumors throughout the building. It wasn’t a secret that Wonwoo’s spiral post-breakup had revealed just how deeply insecure he truly was. And not just about you—about everything.
You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling a sudden weight in the room. “No,” you said, clearing your throat. “He’s not worth mentioning anymore.”
Mingyu nodded slowly, reading between the lines but not pushing. “Okay. But you know I’ll throw hands if I have to.”
You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Appreciated. But no violence in the office—unless it’s against that printer in the copy room.”
That earned a soft chuckle from him. “Did Director Kwon actually say anything, or does he just need me to be present and breathing?” you asked, your eyes scanning your desk for the folder Soonyoung needed to sign. You knew how he was—selectively urgent.
Mingyu reached over and pulled a document map from the far corner of your workspace. “This. He needs this.”
You took it with a grateful sigh. “I’m seriously glad I have you, Mingyu. Otherwise I’d probably die in here for the stupidest reason—death by incompetent boss.”
Mingyu laughed, that boyish grin spreading across his face, fangs peeking out. “You’re dramatic.”
“You know I’m not.”
“True,” he replied, still grinning. “But at least the chaos keeps things interesting.”
You rolled your eyes with a quiet chuckle, fingers tightening on the file as you braced yourself to face Soonyoung again. That man could burn your patience to the ground in five minutes—and somehow still leave you… you didn't want to think about it!
You entered his office with quiet steps, the thick folder in your hand still warm from Mingyu’s grasp. Director Kwon Soonyoung sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pushed back in a way that looked almost too polished for someone who once asked if a “slogan” was a new type of dip.
Without looking up, he extended his hand. “The file?” You placed it gently in his palm, expecting some sort of snide comment or dumb question about where to sign. But instead, he opened it, flipped straight to the right page, and signed with swift, confident strokes. No questions. No confusion. Just… efficiency.
Your brows lifted slightly. Who was this? Then, without looking up, “what’s the projected ROI on the third campaign under the Miju rebranding?”
You froze. Not from fear—but from pure shock.
He finally glanced up, and your eyes locked. There was no usual smirk, no cocky glint in his gaze. Just focus. Calculation.
You cleared your throat. “Projected ROI is 127%, assuming we maintain target engagement through the influencer channels and retail activations we discussed last week.”
A beat passed. He nodded once. “Good. Shift the TikTok rollout to next Monday. Make the data look prettier before we send it to the board. I want them convinced before they even read it.”
Another pause. You blinked. You were still blinking. He signed the final page, closed the folder, and handed it back with a smooth slide across the desk.
Then, with the slightest tug of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth, he said—
“You may go on the clock for today, Ms. Ji.”
You narrowed your eyes just slightly. “Excuse me?”
He leaned back in his chair, lazy again. Back to his usual smug, languid rhythm. “I said you may go. Early dismissal. I hear sleep deprivation reduces productivity—and I’d hate to see the company suffer just because you forgot how to say no to your boss.”
Your jaw tensed. He was back. The devil in Dior. But you refused to let him have the last word. So you smiled sweetly, flipping your hair off your shoulder. “Then I’ll use the time wisely and remind myself what good leadership looks like.”
His laughter followed you out the door. But so did his eyes.
*
You woke up to the sound of your phone ringing, the sharp buzz pulling you out of a sleep so deep, you almost forgot where you were. The living room was dim, the drama still playing quietly on TV—the last thing you remembered before dozing off. You hadn’t napped like that in years. Not since you started working your ass off at the label.
You squinted at your phone screen. 9:02 PM. The name flashing across it: “Boo Dam.”
“Mmm… Seungkwan…” you mumbled as you slid to answer.
“Honey!” his voice practically sang through the speaker. “You just woke up? Heol! That’s a record. Anyway—I’m going to this new bar with Vernon and Chan. Come join us!”
Seungkwan and Chan were your friends from college—your soulmates in chaos. Meanwhile Vernon… well, Vernon was the guy Seungkwan successfully seduced at a club a year ago with nothing but eye contact and a whiskey sour. They've been disgustingly cute ever since.
You stretched, letting your limbs slowly remember how to function. “Is it like a bar,” you asked, voice dry, “or a bar?” You didn’t need to explain the tone difference—Seungkwan knew.
Without missing a beat, he replied, “A bar. Capital B. Good lighting, better drinks, people who bathe.”
You smiled, already getting up. “Pick me up in thirty. Should I wear the red dress I sent you last week?”
The one you bought after seeing the intern Wonwoo cheated with had liked it on Instagram. It was an impulsive purchase—unlike you. But still… it looked fire on the model, and tonight, you wouldn’t mind setting something on fire.
Seungkwan gasped like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “YES. Yes please! I want that intern to cry just by breathing the same air as you!”
You grinned. Tonight might not fix your mess of a professional life. But maybe, just maybe, it would remind you what it felt like to be you again.
*
Seungkwan rushed up to you like a windstorm in designer sneakers and pulled you into a quick hug that reeked of cologne and overpriced candles. “You look unreal. That intern is somewhere crying right now, I know it.” He held your arms and took a step back like he was inspecting artwork. “Ten out of ten. No—eleven. You’re welcome, world.”
Vernon chuckled beside him. “Glad you made it.”
“Thanks,” you laughed. “Though now I’m wondering if I overdressed.”
“You definitely didn’t,” Chan said without missing a beat, raising his hand to you. “You’re just raising the bar.”
The bar Seungkwan had chosen was all velvet mood and amber light—dim enough to hide your regrets but not dark enough to trip on your heels. Hushed conversations buzzed low under a jazzy remix of something that used to be a love song, and the scent of expensive gin and citrus filled the air.
You made your way toward the bar counter, scanning the place. But before the group could fully settle, Seungkwan clapped his hands once. “Okay, baby,” he turned to Vernon, “we need to find the bathroom. And by bathroom I mean selfie lighting. Emergency.”
Vernon just smiled, like this wasn’t the fifth time tonight. “Lead the way.” And just like that, the couple vanished into the crowd like glitter in a wind tunnel.
You slid onto the barstool, crossing your legs as you adjusted the hem of your red dress, feeling the fabric hug your skin in all the right ways. You stared after them, then turned back to Chan, brows raised. “Did they even sit down?”
Chan shrugged, raising his hand toward the bartender for an order, strong whiskey. “I give them ten minutes. Tops. Then they’ll either come back drunk or deeply emotional.”
You laughed again, warmer this time. “Or both.”
“Always both.”
“So,” Chan said, turning slightly to face you, “what do you want out of tonight?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Out of tonight?”
He nodded, serious now—his eyes clearer despite the liquor. “I mean… what would make this night feel like it was worth leaving your bed and dreams behind?”
You looked at him for a second. Your red dress clung to your skin in all the ways that made you feel powerful. But somehow, that question made you feel a little bare.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe just a moment where I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight of everything. A night where I’m not someone’s manager, not the woman who got cheated on by an IT guy with bad eyesight.”
Chan chuckled, amused. He knocked back a shot of whiskey, exhaling sharply as it hit. Then, as if it were the most natural shift in conversation, he muttered, “So. Still dealing with your incompetent boss?”
You tilted your head with a sigh, leaning your elbow on the bar. “Worse. I think he’s trying to be competent now, which is terrifying in itself.”
“Hmm.” Chan nodded solemnly. “Mine forgot to approve the budget this week and then blamed it on Mercury retrograde.”
You blinked. “Isn’t he the one who doesn’t believe in astrology?”
“Exactly.”
A beat passed, then both of you laughed quietly into your drinks, bitter and understanding.
“People like us deserve a position,” Chan muttered, more to himself than to you. Then he downed his next shot like he was trying to silence something. Maybe his ambition. Maybe the reality.
Your eyes followed his line of sight, catching a man on the other side of the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, eyeing Chan like he was something worth unwrapping.
Chan caught it too. He turned to you with a mischievous smirk, the kind you knew too well. “Excuse me,” he said smoothly, setting down his glass. “Duty calls.”
You laughed as he sauntered off, watching the silent exchange between him and the stranger—how easily Chan slipped into chemistry, how effortlessly people gravitated toward him.
It made you smile. And ache, just a little. Your friends really were better at finding men than you. You swirled your drink in its glass, watching the liquid catch the light like molten gold. Fuck.
A subtle shift in air made you glance to your side. Someone had taken the stool Chan had vacated minutes ago—unannounced, but not unwelcome.
He looked crisp. A semi-formal suit in charcoal gray, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest ease without arrogance. His hair was freshly cut, styled like he walked out of a luxury magazine spread, but the smile he wore? Surprisingly… cute.
“Hey,” he said, voice smooth but warm. “Are you alone?”
You blinked once, thrown for the smallest second before recovering with a polite smile. “Nah, I’m with friends.”
He nodded, gaze never drifting, posture casual but confident. “I’m Choi Seungcheol.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Choi Seungcheol? You’d heard the name before. Everyone in the building had. Director of Grand Paradise Hotel, under the Choi Group. One of your company’s most important VVIP clients—usually talked about in numbers, not in the context of flashing a boyish smile at you in a bar.
“Ji Y/n,” you replied, offering your name with an ounce of surprise still clinging to your voice.
“I like your dress, by the way,” he said sincerely, his tone the kind of soft that didn’t ask for attention, but gave it fully. “You look amazing in it.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing clever came. His compliment didn’t feel like a line. It felt like the truth wrapped in manners. He flagged down the bartender, ordering something light—no shots, no bravado. Just a mild liquor with a twist of lime, like he was trying to prove he was here to talk, not to get drunk.
Cute. And unexpectedly polite—for someone carrying that much power behind his last name. Unlike someone you were really, really trying not to think about.
“So,” he said, turning slightly toward you, “my friends are at a table across the room. Do you mind joining us?” He paused, then added with a soft chuckle, “I promise they’re decent guys. No finance bros in sight.”
You considered it. Not too quickly, not too slowly—just enough to give the impression that you weren’t that easy, but you also weren’t cold.
You smiled, head tilting. “Sure.”
His eyes sparkled briefly at that, and in one smooth motion, he stood. Then, reaching for your hand, he helped you up from the high stool—like a man raised right. His grip was firm, confident, warm. And it was probably nothing. Probably just good manners.
Seungcheol’s hand remained gently on yours as he guided you across the bar, weaving through polished shoes, crystal glasses, and laughter that cost too much.
The place changed as you moved deeper—less noise, more privacy, the lighting softer, shadows richer. The kind of spot reserved for people who didn’t have to wait in line. And you were being led there. You.
When he stopped at the table, three men looked up mid-conversation, drinks in hand, posture relaxed in the way only old money could be.
“Everyone,” Seungcheol said casually, “this is Ji Y/n. She’s joining us tonight.”
You smiled, polite but composed, heart thumping a little harder than you liked. You recognized the faces before Seungcheol even opened his mouth. You’d seen them in magazine articles, shareholder meetings, boardroom slides—not up close, not like this.
Jeonghan sat at the far end, one arm draped lazily over the back of the velvet booth, legs crossed, a glass of scotch in hand. Hair tucked just right behind his ear, a soft silk shirt half-buttoned like he was born too elegant to care about dress codes. He was the kind of man who turned being looked at into an art form. You’d seen him before—once at a fashion gala you were nowhere near important enough to attend, and many times in the margins of headlines about high-end runway investments, creative directorships, and quiet takeovers. The heir of a fashion empire, and from the look in his eyes, fully aware of it.
Next to him was Joshua, spine straight, shirt pristine, smile the kind that had likely been melting boardroom resistance since he was a teenager. He exuded charm without arrogance—a quieter sort of influence that didn’t need to announce itself. You remembered him from a different kind of context: a company email signature at the bottom of a rejection letter when you’d applied to Hong Finance 8 years ago. Back then, you imagined men like him sitting behind high-rise windows, too far out of reach to even notice people like you.
“Nice to meet you,” you said calmly, shaking his hand with a professional grace. No bitterness. Just quiet history you kept to yourself.
And then—then your gaze moved to the last man at the table. Your breath stalled for half a second.
Kwon Soonyoung. He was mid-sip, glass frozen near his lips, eyes wide with what could only be described as… surprised indignation. He looked clean and collected in a black button-up with his sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone like the night didn’t deserve his full formality. But his stare? It was searing.
You’d never seen him in this kind of setting. Not as your annoyingly attractive director. But as one of them. Powerful. Prestigious. Connected.
You tilted your chin slightly, letting a small smile rise to your lips as if to say, Fancy seeing you here.
He blinked, then lowered his glass slowly. “Ji Y/n.” Your name sounded strange coming from his mouth in front of this table. Too familiar. Too… intimate.
Joshua and Jeonghan looked between the two of you with mild interest, picking up on the tension like it was perfume. Seungcheol remained seated, watching the exchange without interference. Then he leaned over, voice smooth as his smile.
“Looks like you two know each other?”
You chuckled softly and sat down beside him. Soonyoung’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped against the side of his glass, lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.
*
Your eyes met across the polished length of the boardroom table. Again. This has become a weekly ritual now—joining board meetings not just as the Marketing Manager, but as Kwon Soonyoung’s unofficial shadow. Secretary. Handler. Babysitter. Pick a label, they all applied.
Still, a small part of you secretly flattered at the elevation. The prestige. You were seen, involved, and whether they liked it or not, your presence had weight in that room.
Every time a meeting wrapped, you’d nudge Mingyu and mutter, “I’m going to be the one talking in there someday. Note that.” To which he always replied with a half-laugh, half-sigh, “Sure you are.”
He never debated you. He knew better. You didn’t bluff when it came to ambition. But right now, ambition wasn’t the problem. It was Soonyoung.
He’d been staring since you walked in. Sat down. Dragged him out of his office five minutes before the meeting began, muttering something about punctuality and image and for once just pretend you’re not a walking HR hazard.
Staring wasn’t new with him. He often looked at things the way a curious toddler would—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, like the world was one big mysterious object. But this time? This time his stare wasn’t childish curiosity. It was more like you grew a second head and he couldn’t decide if he liked it or wanted to poke it with a stick.
You shot him a sharp look, mouthing the word “Focus” and subtly motioning toward the executives who were mid-discussion about budget forecasting.
Soonyoung blinked, then smiled—too innocently—and turned his gaze toward the speaker, nodding along like he hadn’t just spent the last three minutes trying to telepathically undress your thoughts.
You furrowed your brow in suspicion before glancing down at your watch. Almost noon. And you were starving. Your fingers tapped the table quietly as the meeting stretched on, words starting to blur together. You tried to stay alert, but every time you felt yourself zoning out, Soonyoung shifted slightly in your peripheral vision. Not because he was fidgeting.
But because he was still watching you. And now you were convinced of one thing: He wasn’t staring like you grew a horn.
“You went home with Seungcheol-hyung last night.” His voice broke the silence as the two of you had just settled in after the board meeting—him tossing off his blazer like he ran the world, you gathering your files with the intention of escaping before your stomach officially started devouring itself.
Your steps halted mid-stride. “Yes, Mr. Kwon,” you replied, turning slightly over your shoulder. Tone neutral. Civil. Professional.
Soonyoung nodded slowly, a little too calmly. “I bet you went home… very safely.”
You blinked. Was that supposed to mean something? “I did, actually,” you said, brows lifting in subtle confusion. “Thank you for your concern.”
He slid into his chair, tilting it back with that look on his face. A smile curled at the corner of his lips—not his usual, goofy, harmless grin. This one was... sharp. Teasing. With just enough glint of mad to make you want to throw a stapler across the room.
“I’m expecting the summary from the meeting,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head, “after lunch.”
You blinked again. “I was planning to finish it after I eat.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Mmm, but you always say I should send the report right after the meeting ends, remember? ‘Strike while the numbers are hot,’ wasn’t that your words, Ms. Ji?”
Shit. That was your line. You cleared your throat. “With all due respect, I’m afraid I can’t hand it in that fast. I’ll need some time to—”
“Really?” he cut in, voice dipped with mock surprise. “Because I need it quickly. You made that very clear. Efficiency is everything, right?”
You stared at him, mouth parting in silent disbelief. This was personal. You knew it. That little smile on his face was soaked in petty vengeance. You bowed stiffly, jaw clenched. “Understood, Mr. Kwon.”
As you turned to leave, fuming and still hungry, you could practically feel his smugness trailing behind you like expensive cologne. And everyone who saw you stomping back into your department after that? Knew exactly who you were cursing under your breath.
Kwon Soonyoung, the golden heir of the Kwon Group. A menace in designer shoes. And currently, the reason you’d be skipping lunch and possibly losing your sanity.
*
No one stayed in the office during lunch. It was the only sacred hour when even the most cutthroat employees stepped out to breathe something that didn’t reek of toner, stress, or twenty kinds of corporate ambition. Even Mingyu had left—after tipping you off about a new KF Label instant spaghetti that only needed five minutes in the microwave. “Garlic cream or tomato,” he’d whispered like he was offering black market gold.
But not you. You sat at your desk, typing the meeting summary like your job—or pride—depended on it. Which, let’s be honest, it did. You weren’t about to give Kwon Soonyoung the satisfaction of thinking he’d thrown you off just because he got a little petty over last night’s company. Your stomach growled in rebellion, but your ego growled louder.
When the last word clicked into place and the printer began humming behind you, you pushed away from your chair with a smug stretch and headed to the pantry. You’d earned that microwaved meal, sad as it was.
Except when you stepped inside, the scent of cheap instant coffee hit you first—followed by the last person you expected to see.
Kwon Soonyoung. Blazer gone, sleeves rolled up, stirring his coffee like this wasn’t the same man who’d made your blood pressure spike all morning. His tie hung slightly loose, hair messier than it had been during the meeting. He looked... calm. Almost casual. Like he belonged here. He didn’t.
“Ms. Ji,” he greeted smoothly, his voice low, almost too composed.
You bowed without thinking, still halfway in surprise. “I didn’t know you were staying in.”
He shrugged, not quite smiling. “Neither did I.”
Your gaze narrowed slightly. “Didn’t grab lunch, Mr. Kwon?”
He swirled the plastic stirrer in his cup, then leaned against the counter with the kind of confidence that didn’t belong in a pantry. “Didn’t have time,” he said, eyes cutting toward you. “You said I needed that report fast, remember?”
You ignored him and turned to the microwave, peeling back the film cover. “I came here for spaghetti.”
The microwave beeped. You retrieved the steaming bowl, grabbed a fork, and gave it a quick stir. The scent of tomato and roasted garlic filled the small space—a reminder that, yes, your company did do something right.
“So that’s it,” he said behind you. “The new KF Label product.”
You nodded without turning. “Premium instant line. Heat-and-Meet.”
There was a pause. Then, Soonyoung stood.
He moved to stand beside you, too close for the pantry’s size, or for what little sanity you had left. “You’re eating company product,” he said, voice lower now. “That’s very… loyal of you.”
“I’m starving. Loyalty’s a coincidence.”
He glanced at your fork, then back at your face. “Still looks good on you.”
You blinked. That line shouldn’t have worked. But it stirred something anyway. You cleared your throat. “Do you want a bite?”
He raised a brow. “You’re offering to share?”
“Don’t make it weird. It’s R&D. You’re the director. You should know what it tastes like before you embarrass yourself at investor tastings.”
Without hesitation, he leaned forward and took the bite directly from your fork. It was too smooth. Too deliberate. The slide of his lips against the plastic, the way he held your gaze as he chewed.
You stared at him, half wondering when the room got warmer. He swallowed, thoughtfully. “Tangy. Surprisingly rich.” He looked at you, a beat too long. “Kind of like the woman who made me eat it.”
You stared at him. Not just because of what he said, but how he said it—like it wasn’t a line, like it was a fact. His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. And then it did—just slightly—drifting down. You felt it like a touch: the way his eyes paused at your lips. Not in a rush. Not in hunger. Just there.
Studying. Contemplating. Wanting. Your breath hitched, just enough that you swore he noticed it. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do. And suddenly, the air between you didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt hot. It felt loud.
You didn’t move. He didn’t either.
But the tension between you was already leaning forward, even if your bodies hadn’t yet.
And then, slowly—so slowly—it happened.
Your eyes fluttered down. His breath brushed your cheek. Neither of you said a word as you both leaned in at the same time, like it wasn’t a choice but a conclusion. Like something you’d been avoiding had finally cornered the two of you in the smallest room in the building.
Your lips met—soft, hesitant at first.
A question. An answer. And then it deepened.
Not rushed, not frantic, but sure. Deliberate. Like every back-and-forth bicker, every power play, every petty jab in the boardroom had been leading to this.
His hand touched the edge of the counter beside you, grounding himself. Yours hovered somewhere near his chest before settling on the curve of his arm—tense beneath your fingers.
It wasn’t a kiss that screamed recklessness. It was a kiss that whispered, we knew this was coming. And maybe… maybe that was worse.
Because when you finally pulled away, just barely, lips still brushing, you didn’t dare look at him. Not yet. You just whispered, voice low and cracked at the edge, “That was very… unprofessional, Mr. Kwon.”
Soonyoung’s lips curved near yours. “Good,” he murmured, “because I’m not done being unprofessional.”
You barely had time to process his words—“I’m not done being unprofessional”—before his lips captured yours again, firmer this time. Less tentative. Less testing.
Your back bumped against the edge of the counter as he stepped closer, his hand skimming your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the thin fabric of your blouse. The scent of his coffee still lingered on his breath, mixing with something uniquely his—clean, warm, infuriatingly intoxicating.
You let out a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a gasp, as your fingers slipped into his hair—soft and slightly messy from the day. You gripped it lightly, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth. God. That sound.
His hand settled firmly on your hip, pulling you into him like gravity had a personal agenda. The kiss turned deeper, messier, your bodies syncing in a rhythm that felt far too natural for two people who spent most of their time trading sarcasm and sideways glances in glass-walled meetings.
It was heat. Friction. Unspoken things finally spoken with mouths instead of words. Soonyoung broke the kiss only to trail his lips to the corner of your jaw, his voice warm and ragged against your skin. “You always talk so much in meetings,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the exposed skin beneath your tucked blouse. “But now you’re so quiet.”
You swallowed, breath shaky, heart hammering against your ribs. “Maybe I’m waiting for a good question for once.”
He chuckled against your neck, low and sinful, before lifting his head—eyes dark, lips kissed pink, voice like velvet. “Okay then…”
His thumb grazed the hem of your skirt. “…Ms. Ji, what do I have to do to make you say my name again?”
You should’ve walked away. You should’ve reminded him this was a pantry, in a corporate building, at lunchtime. But instead?
You pulled him back into you like your body had already made the decision your brain refused to acknowledge. Fingers tight in his hair. Mouth crashing into his like you were both starving. And maybe you were.
You didn’t remember taking another breath—only the weight of his body caging you against the counter, the soft clang of your forgotten fork hitting the floor, and the rush of his hands finally going where your thoughts had wandered for too long.
Soonyoung hovered close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice almost reverent.
“Am not,” you breathed, your fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there like you weren’t entirely sure you could stay upright without him.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, slow, assured, until his knuckles grazed the band of your underwear. He paused, as if testing the waters. As if daring you to stop him.
But you didn’t. You let your head fall back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he tugged at the fabric—just enough to slip his fingers under, to brush against heat and softness and the part of you that ached with how long you'd resisted this exact moment.
A quiet gasp escaped you, and that seemed to break whatever restraint he still had. “God…” he exhaled like a confession, “you really drive me insane, you know that?”
He kissed you again, slower this time—almost sweet if not for the way his hand moved with purpose, with intention, like he wanted to memorize every reaction you gave him. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, grounding yourself in him, in this, in the ridiculous insanity of making out in the pantry like it was your last chance on earth.
“You’re always so in control,” he murmured, teasing the edge of your jaw as his other hand anchored your hip, “but I think you like it when I push.”
You opened your eyes just enough to meet his, and there it was again—that flicker of madness, mischief, and something dangerously close to need.
“Careful, Mr. Kwon,” you whispered, mouth brushing his, “push too far, and I might pull you under.” He smirked like he hoped you would. And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, pulling you closer like the world outside that pantry didn’t matter.
*
You were flabbergasted. A month ago, you were heating instant spaghetti in the pantry, trying to pretend that fucking your boss didn’t feel like the worst idea you’d ever fallen into.
Now? You were sitting stiffly in a room with three people from HR, a folder in front of you, your hands cold despite how warm the room felt.
Yes, you had slept with Kwon Soonyoung. A few times. Consensually. Not impulsively, not irresponsibly—not from your perspective. And as ridiculous as it was to admit even to yourself, he hadn’t been bad at all in those areas. Too good, in fact. Dangerously good, both with his hands and the way he listened—actually listened—to your ideas during board meetings. He even stopped wearing Cartier and started taking actual notes.
So the fact that you were here, now, caught off guard and very much alone, felt like a slap out of nowhere.
The woman in the middle of the HR panel cleared her throat, hands folded neatly. “Ms. Ji. We wanted to discuss something concerning that’s come to our attention.”
You blinked, still unsure where this was going. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I did anything against the—”
“Your last relationship,” the woman interrupted gently, “was already a topic of concern when it involved someone significant to the company.”
Wonwoo.
You stiffened, jaw tightening. You hadn’t heard his name in weeks, and you preferred it that way. But yes, the intern he cheated with turned out to be someone's niece from the Kwon family. Of course that hadn’t died quietly.
You opened your mouth to respond, but the man sitting beside her cut in first. “We didn’t expect this one.”
You blinked again. “Excuse me?” They didn’t repeat it. They didn’t need to.
The third HR rep leaned forward, sliding a paper your way—an incident report, stamped and dated. “We’re going to have to take action regarding your affair with Director Kwon.”
Everything in you froze. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft buzz of the overhead light. You didn’t move, didn’t speak, as the words circled your head like a siren you couldn’t shut off. Your affair. Director Kwon. It felt like your lungs deflated.
“I… don’t understand,” you finally said, slow and careful. “On what grounds?”
The woman in the center flipped open a file. “There was a complaint submitted anonymously, referencing inappropriate conduct in the office. Specifically in shared spaces. A pantry, for instance.”
Your stomach dropped. So fast, it made your fingers go numb. “And—if I may,” the younger HR rep added, “there’s also concern regarding power dynamics, given your reporting line.”
You wanted to laugh. But it wasn’t funny. Because you’d worked so damn hard. You trained Soonyoung. You cleaned up his messes and wrote half the proposals with his name on them, and still walked into every meeting like your career had been built on steel, not glass.
And now, after everything, it came down to this? A moment. And an anonymous report.
You clenched your jaw, sat straighter, and folded your hands in your lap. “So what kind of action are we talking about?”
The room went quiet. The silence that followed your question felt like it lasted forever. And then the answer came, quietly, like they already knew how you’d react—and were bracing for it.
“We’ve decided,” the woman said carefully, “that you will be reassigned to a different department effective immediately.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “Reassigned?”
“Demoted,” the man clarified with corporate softness, as if using the word wouldn’t hit like a fist. “You’ll be moved from Marketing Management to Administrative Strategy under Corporate Communications.”
You stared at them. Not because you didn’t understand. But because you did. They weren’t firing you. That would’ve made noise. No—they were burying you quietly, slipping you into a department where your work wouldn’t shine, where your name wouldn’t show up on campaign reports, board meeting minutes, or executive proposals. They were pushing you out of the light.
You let out a slow, controlled exhale, refusing to let the tremble in your chest reach your face. “Is Director Kwon receiving the same treatment?”
Another pause. “No,” the lead HR officer said. “After discussion with the executive board, it was determined that Director Kwon will be formally warned, and the matter will be noted in his file.”
A warning. You blinked. A warning for him. A demotion for you. You pressed your lips together, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “And that’s fair, in your opinion?”
“Ms. Ji,” the younger officer interjected gently, “you’ve had a prior history of internal relationship issues that—”
“He’s my superior.” You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If anything, he should’ve been held to a higher standard.”
They didn’t answer. No one ever did, when the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air. He had power. You didn’t. And even if you were the one who helped him become competent, presentable, capable—even if you were the one cleaning up his early failures and doing your work and his—they didn’t care. Because it was easier to punish the one they knew would quietly take it.
Your jaw clenched as you stood, straightening your blazer. “I understand.”
The head officer gave a polite nod. “Your reassignment email will be sent by the end of day. Your new manager will expect you tomorrow morning.”
You turned to leave, your heels echoing sharper than usual against the tiled floor. Your desk had never felt this bare before. You moved like your body had detached from the rest of you—silent, efficient, folding your things with the kind of care you’d normally reserve for the start of something, not the end. Each click of a pen, each rustle of a folder being stacked, was sharp in the quiet.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You just packed. A shadow passed in your peripheral vision.
“Y/n?” You turned slightly to find Mingyu standing there, a confused frown drawing across his face. His eyes darted to the box on your desk, to your emptied shelves, then back to you.
“What’s going on?”
You kept your head down, pretending to double-check a folder as you tucked it into the box.
“I just got an email from HR,” he continued, voice tightening. “They’re asking me to step in as acting Marketing Manager… temporarily.”
He said the last word like it tasted wrong in his mouth.
You didn’t answer. Your fingers paused at the edge of a stapler, then moved past it.
“Y/n.” Mingyu stepped closer. “What the hell is happening?”
You closed the box slowly, pressing your palm flat against the top as if to anchor yourself. Your chest felt too full—tight with shame, anger, disbelief—and none of it had a name you were ready to say out loud.
You looked up, just enough to meet his eyes. His worry was sincere. Of course it was. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have accepted the offer if he did.
“I’m being moved,” you said quietly. “Another department.”
“Wait—what?” Mingyu blinked, stunned. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you said, voice low and flat. “Not right now.”
He fell silent. You could hear the protest building in his throat, the way he shifted his weight like his body didn’t know whether to stay or follow. But he didn’t press. He just nodded once—slow, reluctant.
You gave him a tight smile, the kind that didn't touch your eyes. Then you picked up your box and walked out of your office—your former office—without looking back.
*
Soonyoung walked into the office with his blazer half off and irritation simmering behind his eyes. The lunch meeting had been a disaster—numbers thrown around without context, board members talking in circles, and nobody knowing what the hell they actually wanted from him. He needed grounding. He needed clarity. He needed you.
So when he stepped out of the elevator and saw Mingyu standing by his office door instead of you, he frowned. “Mingyu?” he asked, blinking like he’d walked into the wrong floor. “Where’s Ms. Ji?”
Mingyu straightened a little, caught off guard. “I… see HR hasn’t told you.”
Soonyoung’s brows pinched. “Told me what?”
“Ms. Ji has been reassigned to another department,” Mingyu said, careful with his words. “I’ve been assigned to assist you until your new executive assistant is recruited.”
For a beat, the air felt thicker. Soonyoung tilted his head, confused. “She was moved? When?”
“I’m not sure about the details, sir,” Mingyu replied, trying not to fidget under Soonyoung’s narrowing gaze. “I only got the notice after lunch.”
Soonyoung stared past him for a second, processing. You were just… gone? No meeting. No sarcastic remarks. No quiet nod as you handed him a stack of deadlines and subtle reminders to behave like a functioning adult. No draft on his desk of the proposal you were supposed to polish before 3 p.m. Gone. Without a word.
“Right,” Soonyoung finally said, brushing past Mingyu and into his office. “Thanks.”
At exactly 2 p.m., two sharp, precise knocks echoed against the glass door of Soonyoung’s office. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Only one person knocked like they were keeping time on a metronome. The door opened anyway.
Kwon Soonyoung looked up to see Lee Jihoon—his cousin, his childhood sparring partner, and unfortunately, also the manager of the Human Resources department. Jihoon was sharp as ever, dressed in a pale button-down and black slacks, sleeves rolled past his elbows like always, giving him the air of someone both overworked and unbothered by it.
He walked in with calm purpose, a single manila folder in his hand and a look on his face that said this wasn’t a social visit. Soonyoung sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What now?”
Jihoon said nothing. He reached the desk, dropped the folder down with a solid thump, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Your notice,” he said, tone clipped. Soonyoung dragged his fingers through his hair and opened it with two fingers like it might bite. Inside was a printed letter bearing the company’s watermark and the clinical, unmistakable phrasing of HR. The header hit first:
Formal Reprimand — Director Kwon Soonyoung.
Beneath it:
Violation of company policies regarding professional conduct and inappropriate relations within workplace hours...
A wave of heat spread across the back of Soonyoung’s neck. He exhaled through his nose. “A love letter,” he muttered bitterly.
“I warned you,” Jihoon replied, not even flinching.
Of course he had. Jihoon had been warning him since the second week Soonyoung started at KF Label. First subtly. Then with passive-aggressive memos. And then with real conversations—cousin to cousin, HR to Director.
Soonyoung kept reading. Then he stopped. Your name was listed. His. Dated timestamps. A note about internal protocol breaches and the review that followed. “She was moved because of this?” Soonyoung’s voice was low. Tight.
Jihoon gave a slow, neutral shrug. “She’s been reassigned to Corporate Communications under Admin Strategy. Effective immediately.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Jihoon didn’t move from where he leaned against the desk, arms crossed again. “The complaint came in. Security reports matched the time. You want the details? You’ll get them in writing. Bottom line—HR took action.”
“She didn’t file anything,” Soonyoung said, more to himself than anyone.
“No,” Jihoon replied. “But someone else did. You’re in a glass building, Soonyoung. Don’t act like you’re invisible.”
“No, she didn’t,” Jihoon agreed, voice flat. “But she’s not the one with Kwon as their last name. You are. And between the two of you, the board wasn’t about to sacrifice their own director—so they cut the easier string.” The words hit harder than they should have.
Soonyoung sank into his chair, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the folder. “She made this department function,” he said. “She made me functional.”
Jihoon tilted his head, stepping away from the desk. “And now she’s somewhere no one will bother her again.”
He reached for the door handle, pausing with one foot out. Then, without turning back, “She covered for you every single time you slipped. Maybe instead of being angry at HR, you should be asking yourself why she ever had to.”
The door clicked closed behind him.bAnd for the first time since Soonyoung sat behind that director’s desk, it didn’t feel like power anymore. It felt like consequence.
Days later, Soonyoung stared at his screen, the cursor blinking beneath the words he had retyped at least four times. He wasn’t good at this part. The… formal part. The “trying to keep things clean after it’s already messy” part.
But he had to try something. He’d already felt the hollow space you'd left behind the second he walked into the office and saw someone else standing where you should have been. The wrong energy. The wrong rhythm. Everything off balance. The chair behind your old desk was too still, like no one dared to fill the space you carved.
So he wrote the email like a coward—because walking to your new department unannounced felt too aggressive. And calling felt too personal.
Ms. Ji, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet briefly regarding recent events and your transition. Please let me know if you’re available this week, at your convenience.
Regards,
Kwon Soonyoung
Director, KF Label
He wrote it like a professional. And hated every line of it. But he sent it anyway. Then he sat there, one elbow on the desk, teeth pressing against his knuckle as if it might keep the anticipation at bay. It didn’t.
When your reply came in twenty-three minutes later, he opened it instantly. The corner of his lips lifted—small, involuntary.
I didn’t realize you had mastered the art of professional communication—should we alert HR?
Of course you’d say that. He let out a breath of something that was almost a laugh. It tugged at his chest in a way that was both cruel and comforting. You hadn’t blocked him out. Not entirely. You still knew how to twist the knife with charm. He leaned back in his chair and reread the last line.
Please book a meeting room that doesn’t echo.
So you were coming. Soonyoung swiveled in his chair, glancing toward the hallway, toward the part of the building where he used to see you moving between departments, coffee in one hand, files in the other, bossing people with that crisp, no-nonsense tone that made him fall for you in the first place.
It had been a month. A month of kissing you like he couldn’t help it. A month of crossing lines in ways that felt reckless but right. And then one day—just gone. No fight. No confrontation. Just a folder on his desk from Jihoon and a quiet, echoing absence.
He turned back to his screen and opened the calendar. Booked Meeting Room 5A—the only one with decent soundproofing—and sent the invite. As he pressed send, he sat back and rubbed a palm against his jaw, heart slower than usual but heavier.
You were coming. But this time, you were coming from a different department, a different floor, a different version of what the two of you had built—one meeting, one mistake at a time.
And he didn’t know if you were coming as a former colleague, a woman he’d ruined something with, or someone who still wanted answers.
Soonyoung wasn't the type to fall for the cold ones. Not at first glance, anyway. His usual preference tilted toward softer edges—women who laughed too easily, said yes too quickly, and let him coast through the surface of things. People who didn’t poke at his insecurities or point out the gaping holes in his competence like it was part of their daily job description.
Which is exactly why you were not his type. At least, you weren’t supposed to be.
You were the definition of precision—smart, fast, efficient, and terrifyingly prepared. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t dangle compliments or flash polite smiles unless they were strategic. You were the woman who made everyone in the room sit up straighter when you walked in.
And yet, from day three, he was already in trouble.
You’d walked into his office with your file folder tucked against your chest, wearing a blood-red pencil skirt and a black blouse so sharp it could’ve sliced someone’s quarterly budget in half. Stockings, heels, hair pulled back in that tight, quiet way that made him forget what you’d said right after you said it.
He hadn’t even known what department you were from before then. But he knew from the second he looked at you that you were dangerous.
You weren’t just attractive. You were intimidatingly put-together. The kind of woman whose brain was hotter than her body—and her body was already a goddamn threat.
Call him a pervert—but he’d nearly choked on his own thoughts that day. And his type? Changed. Overnight. It wasn’t just the clothes. Or the legs. It was how you looked at him when you spoke. Like you knew ten things he didn’t. Like he was your slowest subject in class.
And that mouth. You didn’t curse. You didn’t yell. You told him he was stupid with elegant, HR-friendly, vocabulary—inefficient, unprepared, unfamiliar with protocol. Words that stung more than insults because they were true.
Soonyoung wasn't a saint. He loved women. But your breed? Rare. Too rare to ignore. Too rare to resist. Maybe that’s why when you’d stayed late with him that first time—papers everywhere, the city lights bleeding in through the blinds, and you standing too close with your hair falling from that bun—you became inevitable.
Maybe that’s why his hand reached for you like instinct. Why you didn’t push him away. Why your kiss tasted like the end of something professional. And maybe that’s why he’d bent you over that desk that night—not just because he wanted to (God, he did)—but because some part of him had already fallen.
*
"Fuck..."
Your breath hitched as you settled onto him, your knees braced on either side of his thighs, the edge of the table digging lightly into your back. The polished surface was cold. His hands were anything but.
Soonyoung’s fingers gripped your hips with a firmness that said he’d been dreaming of this—of you—for longer than he wanted to admit. His thumbs pressed into the curve just above your waistband, guiding you, grounding you.
Each movement between you was desperate but controlled, like something learned through tension rather than timing.
Earlier, You arrived at Meeting Room 5A at 4:01 p.m. He was already inside. Blinds drawn. Door locked. Suit jacket hung neatly over the chair beside him. His shirt sleeves rolled up, wrists bare. A bottle of water sat untouched in front of him, condensation sliding down its sides like even it was nervous to be in this room.
You didn’t sit right away. Soonyoung looked up, eyes scanning you with something unreadable. He stood as you approached, as if unsure whether to greet you like a colleague… or something else.
“Ms. Ji,” he said quietly, too formal for the way he was looking at you.
“Director Kwon,” you returned with equal sharpness, sliding into the chair across from him. You placed your phone on the table, screen-down. Just in case.
Silence hovered like a third presence. He was the first to break it. “I didn’t know they were going to move you.”
You tilted your head. “That’s the thing about consequences. Sometimes they arrive quietly.”
“I didn’t file anything,” he said. “You know that, right?”
You gave a small, humorless smile. “I know. But your silence wasn’t exactly protective either.”
That landed. He didn’t argue. The seconds stretched again, thick with things neither of you wanted to say out loud.bThen, Soonyoung leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice dropped, no longer formal. “I miss working with you.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers tapped against the wood, rhythm steady. “Is that what this meeting is about?” you asked eventually. “Missing your assistant?”
He smirked, but it was hollow. “You weren’t just my assistant, and you know that.”
You did. And that was the problem.
His hands slid up slowly, tracing the slope of your waist, steadying you as you moved against him. He tilted his head back just slightly, his jaw clenched, mouth parting with a quiet exhale that barely made it past his throat.
You didn’t need him to say anything. You felt it in the way he held you tighter with every shift. The way his fingers pressed into your skin like he couldn’t believe this was real again.
Your palm found his chest, steadying yourself. He was too warm, too solid beneath you.
Then he looked up at you. Eyes darker. Focused. Not on what you were doing, but on you—like watching you fall apart on him was more powerful than anything else he could feel.
His hand rose, brushing up the length of your spine, fingers threading into your hair before tugging just enough to steal your breath again.
You weren’t sure when your head tipped back, or when your hands gripped his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to this moment. The edge between pleasure and collapse was thin now—barely holding.
His breath was ragged against your throat, each exhale growing more erratic, his hands no longer guiding but gripping—like he was trying to ground himself in you, like letting go too soon would ruin everything.
Soonyoung’s voice came low and strained against your skin, “Y/n—don’t stop.”
You didn’t plan to. Your rhythm faltered for half a second, hips stuttering from how tightly your body coiled around the sensation—but he was right there, his hand steady at the small of your back, keeping you close, keeping you moving.
Your foreheads touched. Sweat. Breath. Tension.
He looked at you—really looked. And for a beat, the air stopped. There was nothing but the heat of his palm at your waist, the tremble in your thighs, the way your name barely formed on his lips like a prayer or a warning.
And then it hit you—how close you were. How close he was. Every movement became desperate, sloppier. More like instinct than intent.
Your lips brushed his cheek, your body arching as your pulse surged, your voice catching in your throat. “Fuck—Soonyoung—”
That did it. His hands tightened, his body tensed, and in the space between control and surrender, you both tipped over the edge—together. Breathless. Silenced. Shaking.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of your breathing. Tangled limbs. Quiet gasps. And the soft creak of the table beneath you. He didn’t speak. He just held you—one hand still at your back, the other cradling your waist like you might disappear if he let go too fast.
Your breath was still uneven, your limbs trembling slightly as the silence wrapped around you both like a warm, heavy fog. You rested against his chest, trying to steady your heartbeat, when his voice broke through.
Soft. Low. Like a secret he wasn’t ready to share but couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Resign.”
You blinked.
“Hand them your resignation.”
The words didn’t register at first—your mind too hazy, your body too loose. But when they did, your brows furrowed instinctively. You lifted your head just slightly, startled.
He was already watching you. Still inside this moment. Still bare and open and raw in a way he rarely allowed.
“I—what?” you whispered, breath catching again—but not from desire this time.
Soonyoung reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from your cheek. His touch was slow, almost reverent. And then he tilted your chin until your eyes met. His gaze wasn’t playful now. No teasing. No smug curl to his lips. Just quiet sincerity.
“I couldn’t watch you being humiliated like this,” he said. “Not after everything you’ve done. Not after everything you’ve fixed… for me.”
You felt it then. The way your throat tightened. The sharp sting behind your eyes. You didn’t even realize a tear had fallen until his thumb was already brushing it away, tender against your cheek like you’d break if he pressed too hard.
His fingers traced the curve of your face, slow, careful. You hated how gentle he was being—it unraveled you faster than anything else. This wasn’t supposed to be gentle. This wasn’t supposed to feel like he cared.
But he did. And that made it worse.
You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. Tried to pull back the flood of emotion that had been simmering under your skin since the HR meeting—since the reassignment, the whispers, the humiliation you had to wear like perfume the minute you stepped into your new floor.
And now this. Soonyoung, who was never supposed to take anything seriously, was the one seeing you the clearest.
Your lip quivered. You bit down on it hard enough to taste metal, willing yourself to stay composed. But the second tear came. Then another. You looked away, ashamed of your silence, your vulnerability, your inability to respond.
“Y/n,” he said gently, pulling you closer, foreheads touching again. “If they don’t see your worth… leave. And I’ll help you find a better place.”
The weight of those words hit you harder than anything else. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
But your hand slid to his chest, curled softly in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto.
And for once, he didn’t ask anything more from you. He just stayed with you in this quiet, undone moment.
*
You didn’t mean to call anyone. You had told yourself you'd just shower, maybe eat, maybe sleep—but instead you found yourself curled up on the edge of your bed, still in your clothes, your phone pressed to your ear as it rang.
It was late. The kind of late that made everything feel heavier. The dim light from the kitchen gave the room a soft glow, but your phone pressed to your ear felt heavier than usual.
“I’m just… tired,” was all you said when Seungkwan picked up, his voice chipper at first—then cautious. He didn’t push. He never did. He let the silence fall, filling it with his presence, not questions.
There was a pause, long enough that you almost said “never mind.” Then your voice slipped through again, barely above a whisper.
“What do you think if I’m resigning?”
A beat. Then Seungkwan answered, calm and sincere. “I don’t mind. I mean, yeah—it’ll be hard to find something with the same value, same reputation. But if that’s what you want, I’ll support it. Always.”
You sighed, pressing your thumb against your temple. Your head hurt in the kind of way that wasn’t about lack of sleep—but a lack of peace.
“I don’t know, Seungkwan... I really don’t know.”
“Of course you’re clueless. You’ve been shoved around and put in situations where you had to survive. I understand,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Do you have any career plan? Is someone offering you a job?”
No. No one. Well— Soonyoung had said he’d help. Said it with conviction in that private moment like it was gospel. Like he meant every word.
But he was Kwon Soonyoung. A man who once asked if “ROI” was the name of a new intern. Who didn’t know how to schedule his own meetings without color-coded prompts you made for him. Who showed up to investor brunches with lipstick on his collar—your lipstick—and still made a joke out of it.
You couldn’t even trust him to send an attachment properly in an email. And now he was asking you to trust him with your life after this?
Your silence must’ve stretched too long, because Seungkwan spoke again. “Is it him?” That stopped your breath. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t have to. He knew.
“I don’t know what he promised you,” Seungkwan continued gently, “but if you’re holding on to that as your only parachute, make sure it’s not just… words.”
You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe him.bWanted to believe that Soonyoung meant it—that he would fight for you, that he saw everything you sacrificed for that label, that he wouldn’t let this end with you packing your things and being erased.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You didn’t know if it was belief… Or wishful thinking. And you were tired of hoping. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence fall again.
*
When Soonyoung stepped into his apartment, the first thing that hit him wasn’t the silence—but the scent. Something warm. Garlicky. Familiar. He paused by the door, blinking like he had to recalibrate. There was someone in his kitchen. You.
Wearing one of his aprons—badly tied—and frowning softly at the pot in front of you. The sleeves of your blouse were rolled up, and your hair was clipped messily at the back. You didn’t hear him come in right away, too focused on adjusting the stove and tapping at the edge of the box labeled KF Meal Kit –Kimchi Jjigae.
He chuckled, loosening his tie. You and these damn company products. It was the fifth time he’d seen you cooking them in the last month. At work. At home. He shrugged off his blazer, folded it neatly, then quietly walked to the kitchen. You looked up as he reached the counter, eyebrows raised and a small smile tugging at your lips.
You leaned a little on the counter, watching the pot begin to simmer. He stepped closer without thinking, hands finding your waist like they belonged there. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him. If anything, your body softened beneath his touch, like it remembered the rhythm of standing this close.
Soonyoung exhaled quietly, pressing his forehead near your ttemple I miss you,” he murmured.
There was no teasing in it. No smug grin. Just honesty, spoken low and barely audible over the bubbling of the meal.
You blinked, the words catching you off guard—but not in a bad way. They melted into the air, sinking into the skin between his palms and your ribs. You didn’t respond immediately. You just leaned the tiniest bit into him, a silent answer in itself.
His thumb brushed over your hip, and he pulled you just slightly closer—not possessive, not rushed. Just… here. Present.
You tilted your head toward him slightly. “Dinner’s not even done yet and you’re already getting sentimental?”
Soonyoung chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder, “You in my kitchen is enough. Feels like I’ve already won.”
And for a moment, it was quiet. Dinner was long gone—plates in the sink, lights dimmed, and the two of you curled on the couch like gravity pulled your bodies together on instinct. The TV played something neither of you paid attention to. Just background noise to the slow rhythm of Soonyoung’s fingers trailing along your cheek, brushing the edge of your jaw, memorizing your face like it was the first time again.
You blinked, lazy from the warmth of his hold, when he spoke.
“I talked to Joshua hyung today.”
Your brow lifted. “Yeah?”
“He said there’s a manager position opening in his company. He’d like to see your resume.”
You turned toward him a little, eyes wide in disbelief. “Really?”
He smiled, nodding, looking far too proud for someone just casually bringing life-altering news. “Yeah… I told him about you. About how competent and sharp you are. He said he can’t wait to meet you.”
You stared at him. “That’s… unexpected.”
Soonyoung immediately pouted, his brows knitting together in that ridiculous way that never quite matched how tall and put-together he could look in a suit. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I wouldn’t come through?”
You chuckled under your breath, “No, it’s not that. I just…” you exhaled, “I didn’t expect you’d actually do it. I know you can, with your last name and network. But I guess a part of me thought… I was just someone who helped you with work.”
Soonyoung stared at you like you’d just said something blasphemous. Then sighed heavily and pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin.
“You should know by now that you’re more than that, Y/n. Everyone sees it. Even Seungcheol hyung said you were—what did he say—ah, charismatic.”
You groaned, pressing your face briefly into his shoulder. “Don’t bring that up…”
Soonyoung chuckled, a little too amused. “What? It’s true. Remember that night he drove you home from the bar? You told him what you did—accidentally, if I recall—and he just went, ‘So you’re the one supervising Soonyoung? Ah… the annoying marketing manager, huh?’”
You sighed dramatically. “Great. That’s my legacy.”
“Sexy annoying marketing manager,” he corrected with a grin, pulling you closer.
“Shut up.”
He laughed harder now, contentment laced into every curve of his smile.
Then, a pause. Softer.
“You’re not mad?” he asked.
You looked up at him. “Mad?”
“For… helping you like this. I mean, I know you’re strong. I didn’t want to bruise your pride or make it seem like I thought you couldn’t land something on your own.”
You stared at him, heart clenching in that way it sometimes did when people said something too kind. Something too thoughtful.
“You’re competent. Smart. Efficient,” he said, as if repeating it to himself. “And I was worried you’d turn it down because you thought I was underestimating you. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.”
You blinked, then smiled, unable to stop the warmth spreading through your chest.
“You’re cute, Soonyoung,” you murmured, fingers reaching up to pinch his cheek gently.
“Hey! I’m being serious!” he protested, squirming under your touch—but his grin betrayed him.
You leaned into him again, nestling under his chin as his arms instinctively wrapped tighter.
“I know you are,” you whispered. “And that’s why I might actually consider it.”
He didn’t answer. But the way his breath slowed, and the way his thumb gently brushed the back of your hand, said everything.
The TV murmured in the background—some drama neither of you were really watching—as the quiet between you stretched long and comfortably still. The couch dipped just slightly beneath your bodies, your fingers lazily tracing the hem of his sleeve. You were dangerously close to dozing off again in his warmth. Until—
“Soonyoung-ah?”
The sudden voice made you jolt so hard you lost balance. He turned his head sharply—just as you tried to sit up. Your knees caught the edge of the coffee table, he tried to grab your waist, you both fumbled—and then fell.
Hard.
The thud was loud, a tangle of limbs and fabric hitting the floor, followed by a stunned silence and a hissed curse from Soonyoung.
“Oh my—are you okay?!” came the voice again. It was closer now.
You froze, eyes wide. Soonyoung groaned beneath you. “Why didn’t you lock the damn door?” you whispered sharply as you sat up from his chest, trying to fix your shirt, your dignity already lost in the living room rug.
“I didn’t think I needed to!” he hissed back, rubbing the back of his head.
Then a pair of heels stepped into view.
“Oh,” said a woman with a well-maintained bob cut and too-perfect makeup. Her tone was pleasantly surprised, but her gaze was anything but subtle. “I… didn’t know you had company.”
You scrambled upright. “Hello—I'm sorry—I didn’t hear anyone come in—”
“Clearly,” she said with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Soonyoung stood, brushing off his slacks and walking past you like nothing happened. “You visit,” he said flatly.
His mother blinked. “I brought food. And I wanted to check on you.”
He walked toward the kitchen without glancing back. “I’m not twelve.”
She gave you a knowing glance and followed. “Still, you always forget to eat when you're under pressure. And you’re hosting. I had to make sure she wasn’t starving.”
You stiffened slightly. Soonyoung looked back at you, unreadable. “She ate.”
“I can see,” she said, eyes flicking toward the leftover meal kit container on the counter. “Microwave dinners. Very romantic.”
His mouth twitched. “It’s from the label.”
His mom looked at him, then at you, and smiled again, this time softer. “You must be the reason he’s actually showing up to board meetings.”
You opened your mouth, unsure what to say.
“Mom,” Soonyoung interjected, tone clipped. “You’ve delivered the soup. You’ve confirmed I haven’t died. Are you staying?”
She tilted her head slightly. “I can go. Don’t let me interrupt.” Her gaze lingered on the couch—on the crumpled blanket, the two glasses, the clear closeness—before she turned to the door.
“I’ll call you later, Soonyoung,” she added as she slipped her heels back on. “Nice to meet you, Miss…”
“Ji,” you supplied quickly.
“Miss Ji,” she echoed with a small smile before she stepped out, closing the door with an audible click.
Silence.
You turned to him, breath still uneven from both the fall and the mortification. “So that was your mom.”
“Yep.”
“She didn’t seem… warm.”
“She’s not.”
A pause. “She said she brought food.”
He rolled his eyes. “She’ll Venmo the maid to drop it off later.”
“…You okay?”
Soonyoung scratched the back of his head, then looked at you with a crooked grin. “Honestly? I’d rather fall again.”
You laughed. Loudly this time. And maybe—just maybe—it made the awkwardness a little easier to carry.
*
Your first day at Hong Finance went better than expected. The morning had been a whirlwind of handshakes, onboarding documents, and a glossy welcome kit with your name printed in soft gold on the folder. The office was sleek, everything glass and grey and expensive-smelling, but the people? Surprisingly warm. Joshua, your new Director, had personally introduced you to each team member, casually mentioning that you came highly recommended—without saying by who.
Though you had a guess. A certain someone who used to forget what KF Label even stood for.
You worked through the day with quiet diligence, letting your brain adjust to the faster pace, the bigger picture, and the knowledge that you weren’t being micromanaged by HR this time around. You weren’t running damage control. You were actually doing your job—and being respected for it.
It was 6:10 when you stepped out of the building, your heels clicking gently on the pavement. The golden haze of sunset stretched across the city skyline.
And right there, leaning against a black car with sunglasses perched atop his head, was Kwon Soonyoung.
He looked like he belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine—tailored slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand in his pocket and the other lazily scrolling his phone. But the second he spotted you, he straightened up and pulled the door open.
“For the newly hired marketing manager of Hong Finance,” he grinned.
You raised an eyebrow as you walked up. “Look who’s playing chauffeur.”
“I prefer ‘supportive boyfriend who can finally say that title out loud.’” He gave you a dramatic bow before you slid into the passenger seat. “You worked hard. I’m proud of you.”
You chuckled as he got in, started the engine, and the two of you merged into the soft blur of city traffic. “So how was your day?”
He shrugged with a grin. “Better now. I was thinking of you the whole time. Could barely sit through my meeting without wondering if you were dying in there or thriving.”
“I’m thriving,” you smirked. “Try not to look so surprised.”
He glanced sideways at you, eyes softening, then turned back to the road. “You know, I meant it when I said I wanted to take you out tonight. Properly.”
You leaned your head against the seat, lips curving. “I know.”
He glanced at you again.
“And I meant it too,” you added, mischievous. “‘Finally growing up,’ huh?”
Soonyoung groaned playfully. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”
“Nope.”
It happened six months later. You weren’t expecting it. Not after all the teasing. Not after the jokes he made every time marriage came up, always with a sly grin and a "we’ll see" or a "why rush, we’re young, aren’t we?"
And certainly not on a regular Saturday afternoon, in the middle of folding laundry in his apartment, your hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing one of his old oversized shirts that still smelled like his cologne no matter how many times you washed it.
But maybe that was why it happened. Because you weren’t dressed up. There was no audience. No violin strings, no rooftop dinner. Just sunlight spilling through the windows, the quiet hum of domestic life, and the two of you surrounded by all the little pieces of your routine. Your world.
He stood behind you, not saying anything at first. Just watching. You felt his stare and turned around, sock in hand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Soonyoung tilted his head, lips quirking faintly. “I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
He laughed softly, but didn’t look away. “I mean it.”
You waited.
“I was thinking,” he said again, this time quieter, “about how I used to think love was chaos. Fireworks. Like a storm you couldn’t control.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice.
“But you’re not chaos,” he went on, stepping closer. “You’re… steady. You’re grounding. You told me when I was being stupid. You stayed when it would’ve been easier to quit. You even learned to like our new meal kit.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “So now you’re confessing your undying love through carbs?”
“No,” he chuckled, then reached into his pocket. “I’m proposing through this.”
Your breath caught as you saw the small velvet box. He opened it slowly, revealing a ring so simple and beautiful it nearly took your breath away. No diamonds shouting for attention. Just a gold band with a small, elegant gem. The kind of thing someone would wear every day. Quiet. Constant.
Just like the love he’d built with you.
“I’m not good with a lot of things,” he admitted, voice trembling just slightly. “But I know I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. I want our dumb, quiet mornings. Our microwave dinners. You calling me an idiot when I deserve it. And maybe one day, you walking into my office again—but with my name.”
You stared at him, completely speechless. Then he laughed, nervously. “You don’t have to say yes now, by the way. I know your career’s still—”
“Yes.”
He paused. “Wait—what?”
You dropped the sock you were holding, stepping closer. “Yes, Kwon Soonyoung. You idiot.” His smile split wide as you tackled him in a hug, the ring box still clutched in his hand.
*
Meeting his parents was something you’d quietly prepared for, even if Soonyoung said you didn’t need to. “They’re not scary,” he promised with his usual shrug. “You met my mom. My dad’ll just talk about the stock market until someone stops him.”
Still, as you sat beside Soonyoung at the long dining table in their sleek Hannam-dong house—with its museum-level lighting and not a single speck of dust—you knew this wasn’t just any dinner.
His mother greeted you first, of course, in a flurry of perfume, pearls, and the kind of warmth that felt performative but not unkind.
“Oh, you’re getting prettier!!” she said, gripping your hands with both of hers. “Soonyoung was never this glowy, you know. He must be eating well.”
You smiled, bowed politely, and thanked her—twice. She seemed like someone who appreciated a bit of extra etiquette. She gave you a quick once-over—your outfit passed the silent inspection, thank God. then insisted you sit beside her son like you were already part of the family.
His father arrived late, after the wine was already poured and the soup already served.
He was tall, imposing, with the kind of sharp silence that made your posture straighten without thinking. His handshake was firm, his gaze sharper.
“You’re working in finance now, I heard?” he asked, cutting his steak slowly.
“Yes, sir. Hong Finance. I handle B2B marketing strategies under Director Hong Joshua.”
His father hummed, noncommittal. “I see. No family ties to the industry?”
You blinked, just once. “No, sir. I’m from Busan. My family runs a small printing business.”
Another hum.
Soonyoung glanced at you, eyes flicking in concern. You nudged his knee gently under the table—a silent it's fine. I got this.
The conversation moved, meandering through safe topics, until the elder Kwon brought up the label again.
“You know, the KF Label still has too many bleeding points. Sales growth is good, but not stable. I’m not convinced Soonyoung understands where it’s leaking,” he said bluntly. “You do understand what I mean by that, don’t you?”
Soonyoung opened his mouth, clearly trying to assemble something in his head. You could almost see him reaching for words, for numbers you knew he hadn’t looked at since last quarter.
But before the silence stretched too long, you calmly lifted your glass, smiled, and spoke.
“The margin inconsistencies in the semi-premium line have been narrowing, actually. Since February, we’ve scaled down redundant distribution channels and optimized the logistics route from our Cheonan facility. The recent push with ‘Heat-and-Meet’ expanded brand visibility with minimal promo spend.”
You placed your glass back down and added, with polite finality, “Soonyoung has been involved in all those strategy approvals. We’ve made it a point to streamline executive summaries so he can lead without getting buried in jargon.”
The table went quiet for a beat. His father looked at you properly now—eyes no longer cold, but assessing. Appraising. “Hm,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of the Cheonan streamlining.”
“I prepared the original logistics adjustment proposal,” you said with a slight smile. “But the final call was Soonyoung’s.”
A pause. Then, almost grudgingly, the elder Kwon nodded. “Impressive.”
Soonyoung gave you a look under the table—half grateful, half floored.
His mother clapped lightly. “You speak better about business than some of his uncles do, dear.”
You blushed politely and simply replied, “I just care about what I do, ma’am.”
His father said little else after that, but the look he gave Soonyoung as he excused himself from the table later carried something unfamiliar. Respect. Maybe for the first time.
And as you and Soonyoung helped clear the dishes together in the kitchen, his mother called from behind you with a small, satisfied smile:
“You’re already helping him become a better man, Y/n.”
You just bumped your shoulder into his and whispered with a smirk, “Glad someone finally noticed.”
*
The revolving glass doors of KF Label glided open with a quiet sigh as you stepped inside, heels tapping steadily against the pristine marble floor. The lobby hadn’t changed—still sterile, still polished, still smelling faintly of lavender diffuser and corporate ambition.
But you had. Not Ji Y/n, the former marketing manager. You were now Kwon Y/n. The name settled differently on everyone’s tongue now. Especially here, where whispers spread faster than memos.
You nodded at familiar faces—staff from various departments, even the security guard who once complimented your meal-prep lunches. Some smiled with genuine warmth, others with thinly veiled curiosity. And a few didn’t bother to hide their surprise.
Your steps slowed only when you reached the seventh floor. There, near the meeting room, you saw him. Kim Mingyu. He looked up from a file he was reviewing, pausing mid-page when he saw you. His expression didn’t change much—no shock, no smile. Just a polite flicker of his brows. You offered a small, courteous smile and bowed slightly. He returned the gesture with the same practiced civility. That was all.
It was a month after your resignation when you’d found out through Dokyeom in a hesitant voice over a coffee meeting, that it was Mingyu who had filed the HR report. The report that cost you your role. Since then, there’d been no real confrontation. No apology. Just stiff smiles across event halls and neutral nods across meetings.
Jun, Soonyoung’s secretary, greeted you the moment he saw you approach. He looked much livelier than he did during your era of damage control.
“Y/n,” he beamed, standing quickly and smoothing his tie. “You look amazing, as always.”
You offered a gentle smile. “Is he available?”
Jun nodded, already walking to the heavy door. “Just finished a call. I’ll let him know.”
He knocked once and pushed the door open with a practiced hand.
“Sir,” he said with a knowing grin, “your wife is here.”
There was a pause, then a familiar voice from inside, low and warm with the tone he reserved only for you.
“Let her in.”
And just like that, you stepped through the door—leaving behind the past titles, the old pain, and the fractured stares.
You weren’t here to prove anything anymore.
You were here as Kwon Y/n—his partner, in more ways than one.
Soonyoung stood the moment you entered, his face lighting up with that boyish grin that never failed to soften you. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled, and the stress lines on his forehead were deeper than usual.
Still, he reached you first—fingers brushing yours before he gently guided you toward the couch like you were something precious.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asked, sitting close, knees turned fully toward you.
You tilted your head, teasing, “What would you have done if I told you?”
“Prepared something,” he said dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Like a red carpet. You’re a star here, baby.”
You let out a soft laugh, brushing your hand against his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Only for you.” He leaned his head against your shoulder then, a deep sigh escaping from him as his whole body relaxed. “Have you had lunch?” you asked quietly, resting your cheek on his head.
He shook his head. “No time. This anniversary event… the product launch, five proposals due by tomorrow—” he exhaled sharply, motioning vaguely to his chaotic desk. “I’m going crazy. If you hadn’t walked in, I might’ve actually curled under that table and disappeared.”
You ran your fingers gently through his hair. “I took a half-day off.”
His head lifted slightly. “Why? Still feeling fatigue?”
You nodded, pressing your lips together. “Yeah. And I went to the doctor earlier.”
That made him sit up straighter, concern painting his face. “You should’ve come home. Why didn’t you say anything? Why are you visiting me if you’re not feeling well?”
Instead of answering right away, you pulled a neatly folded document from your bag and handed it to him.
His brows furrowed as he took it. “Wait—this… is this what I think it is?”
“Open it.”
Soonyoung unfolded the paper slowly, eyes scanning over the lines until they landed on one sentence that made everything around him blur.
His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. His hands trembled just enough for you to notice, the document still in his grip.
“I’m—” he blinked, voice rough with disbelief. “I’m going to be a dad?”
You nodded, your own breath catching. “Yeah. We’re… we’re going to be parents, Kwon Soonyoung.”
For a second, he just stared.
And then he laughed—a soft, breathless sound of pure joy—as he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest with a mix of awe and something almost like reverence.
“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I swear, you are.”
“I’m telling Jun I’m going home. Everything can wait until tomorrow.” Soonyoung stood up with a spark in his eyes after pulling you into one last firm hug.
You opened your mouth to protest—“Soonyoung, your schedule—”
But he already had his phone to his ear, spinning half toward his desk while still watching you like he couldn’t stand looking away for too long.
“Jun. Yeah. Cancel everything for the rest of the day. Postpone the internal review, shift the client call. Send a memo that the director is off-duty. No, not sick—in love.” He grinned at you while Jun, somewhere across the floor, probably died a little. “You can blame the most beautiful woman in my life.”
You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic,” he said, putting his phone down and coming back to you. “I’m in love. And apparently, I’m going to be a dad, which means I have very important priorities now.”
He helped you up gently, his hands warm on your arms. “Let’s go home, baby.”
You smiled, heart full. “Okay.”
As the two of you stepped out of the office hand in hand, the corridor lights overhead felt softer. Familiar faces turned, surprised, and smiled—some knowingly, some with wide eyes.
But you didn’t care.
Not as he walked beside you, fingers laced tightly in yours, saying things like “I’m buying dinner. No—wait, I’m cooking! No, I’m ordering and cooking!”
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.
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)
wonwoo's enlisting! which means hoshi is next (and woozi too)!!
can you write smthg about hoshi's s/o being sad when they announces the date for his military service at first but then comes around after seeing how excited hoshi is to serve? ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ
ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ
Hoshi (SVT) | Enlistment
fluff | 0.7k | gn!reader
“Yeah, there will be only one set of dishes to wash, less clothes to hang up,” you sigh happily while you kick off your shoes and put your keys back into the little dish on the shelf by the door.
“Ah, and there’s also that new place I wanted to check out,” you keep listing whatever comes to mind.
It’s not like your boyfriend never takes you places that only you’d like, but you think it makes more sense to spend your date nights doing something you both enjoy. So of course the big selling point of his enlistment that he presented to you was that you’d be able to take yourself out for the dates without thinking about his preferences. He’ll pay for you, so you can feel like he’s still there, or so he said.
“Exactly! See, it won’t be that bad,” Soonyoung grins at you. It’s infectious.
To be honest, you still have your doubts. Of course it’s not a big deal, it’s normal, inevitable. He won’t be gone forever, you’ll keep in touch. You suppose you’re just afraid of missing him.
Until now you could always call him and he'd pick up. There was a chance at least, and that alone was enough for you. You seldom called him like that. It really was reassuring enough that he was there, somewhere, like a star in the sky.
You realize it's not that dramatic. But sometimes emotions get the better of you.
“Hey,” Soonyoung comes to stand in front of you, “You’re spacing out again."
"Sorry," you shake your head.
“Thinking about more exciting things to come?” he wiggles his eyebrows at you. You push him away with a roll of your eyes. “You know it’ll be sweeter when we see each other after some time. It’ll be like we’re just dating again.”
“I guess,” you smile, “What if I got wiser with time and won’t accept it when you confess this time?”
“Oh please,” he smirks, crowding into your personal space just to lean down and whisper into your ear, “You adore me.”
You do. You really do. And maybe that’s why it’s so easy to shake your head at your dramatic thoughts. He’s excited to go and it’s rubbing off on you. You can’t wait for the stories he’ll tell you, can’t wait for him to exaggerate his heroic actions and bravery. Can’t wait to see if there will be any military horanghae. You really hope not but you also believe it might be inevitable. If nowhere else, then whenever you see him during his vacation days.
“I do,” you sigh, reaching up to run your hand through his hair, “I think nobody is as excited about the enlistment as your hair. It deserves to catch some break finally.”
“I don’t know about that,” he considers seriously, picking at a few strands. You wonder what’s giving them the strength not to break immediately upon contact. “I still haven’t tried tiger print hair.”
“You know the date won’t come closer just because you get bald, right?” you sigh, fondly ruffling his hair. Despite how brittle it looks, it stays intact.
“Worth a try,” he smiles, pulling you with him to get snacks in the kitchen, “You’ll miss me though, right?”
You hum and pretend to think about it for a bit.
“Will you, though? How do I know you won’t forget me while making friends?” you tease.
“Never,” he gasps, “I’ll think about you day and night and do my best to make you proud.”
“Then I’ll miss you and do my best for you too,” you finally agree, chuckling when he comes back close to hug.
“We’re meant to be,” he kisses your cheek.
There’s a switch in his energy, sudden but obvious to your trained senses. You hug him back resting your head against his shoulder.
“But you know I’ll be most excited to see you whenever I can, right?” He rubs his hands over your back, “It really will be like we’re reliving our dating days. I’ll pretend I’m sneaking off to see you, okay?”
“Does our relationship really need more spice?” you joke, “Are you bored of me already?”
“Maybe you’ll get tired of waiting for me. I’m doing this for you,” he grumbles.
“I’ll never get tired of you,” you reassure him, “But sure, if you want to act out dramatic skits, then that’s one more reason to look forward to you being away.”
“See? I told you you’ll come around,” he grins before kissing you with a smile.
he’s a lot more worried about your safety than he lets on. jun starts to panic the second he spots the massive crowd, and immediately puts his arm around your shoulders to pull you into his side. he doesn’t want you to think that he’s being controlling or that he doesn’t want you to walk around on your own - it’s just that he’s a bit anxious to let you wander off on your own without anyone to protect you. it’s just the amount of people that he’s afraid of, what the situation might turn into in the worst case scenario. so, it’s safe to say that for the most of the night you’d be tucked safely into jun’s side.
hoshi
my first thought was “he’d lose you in the crowd in a second” but… i don’t think we give him enough credit, he can be very responsible and aware of his surroundings when needed. yes, soonyoung is a silly little goofball and an ipad kid, but i’m 100% sure he wouldn't let go of you if you were surrounded by a large number of people. the thought of you - lost and all alone amongst the big crowd - that makes him sick to his stomach and he can’t even imagine how scared he’d be, so soonyoung would rather keep you by his side than risk losing you. his grip on you is tight and secure, but not too overbearing, and he asks every other minute if you’re okay or if you want to leave.
the8
he’s not too overbearing in how he looks after you when you’re in big crowds, which is perfect since you can have fun without being all over each other. of course the only way he’s fully relaxed and not on constant alert is when you’re right next to him, preferably with his arm wrapped around your waist, so he knows that you’re truly there by his side, sound and safe. but, if you want to say hi to someone or go to the toilet, hao won’t follow you or make a big deal about you going away, he’ll just ask you to send him texts that you’re ok every few minutes, so he doesn’t stay too worried.
dino
there’s nothing that could make him let go of you. nothing. maybe chan is being a little bit paranoid, but the thought of losing you in a crowd of people where everything could go wrong makes his stomach lurch in all of the worst ways possible. your hand is always in his, no matter what - if you want to pee he’ll be there with you, it’s either both of you or no one. he’s all wrapped around you, holding you securely in his grip, because that’s the only way he can relax a bit and have fun at whatever gathering you’re at. he has to know that you’re safe. besides, he's a lil clingy cuddle bug so he uses it as an excuse to give you hugs all night long.
