(MISC. MLST) . han seojun x fem!reader · fluff, est. relationship, soft!seojun, jealous!seojun, comfort, study dates, slice of life
• high school sweetheart!seojun who waits for you near your house or the bus station everyday so that you can go to school together.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who leaves a milkbox or juicebox on your desk when you’re out of the class with your friends.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who glances at you in class to see if you understand when the teacher has explained a difficult concept.
• high school sweetheart!seojun whom your family adores and treats as their own son.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who invites you for hangouts and study sessions at his house after school (except no studying actually happens).
• high school sweetheart!seojun who watches you lovingly while you doze off in class.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who doesn’t look away and holds your gaze with a small half-smile when you open your eyes and catch him staring.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who tears his eyes away only when the teacher interrupts.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who asks for kisses in exchange for his notes when exams are near.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who loves to show off in front of you during physical education when he’s playing basketball.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who softly kicks your chair from the back when he wants your attention and simply says hi with a gleeful smile when you finally look at him.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who claims he doesn’t understand a certain question just to listen to you explain.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who saunters over to your table and claims you as his partner when the teacher says you have to work in pairs.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who lets you wear his leather jacket when you get cold.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who gives you rides on the back of his motorcycle after school and takes you to local cafés or arcades where you have the time of your lives together.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who calls you at midnight to revise for the finals but really just to hear your voice.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who always shares his food during lunch and even calls to make sure that you’re eating well on weekends when you can’t meet up.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who absentmindedly plays with your hair while studying.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who fiercely cheers for you on sports day even if you’re not on the same team.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who gets sulky and jealous if he catches other guys flirting with you in class.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who drags your desk and chair closer to him with a glare.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who reaches over to tap on your forehead when he sees you dozing off in the middle of the lesson so that you don’t get scolded by the teacher.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who tries to be discreet as he whispers or shows you the answer when the teacher asks you in class.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who pulls one earbud out of his ear and places it in yours when you ask him what he’s listening to.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who happily carries your bag or books before and after school.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who messages you flirty texts in class and glances to see your reaction and smiles like an idiot for the whole period when he sees you blushing.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who always rushes over to you so that he can wish you ‘good luck’ and give a small, encouraging pat on your head before every test.
• high school sweetheart!seojun who always suggests café dates with the excuse to study but he just wants to spend time with you during weekends.
“I’m giving this to you. Keep it.” Seo-Jun handed you the lilac music box with a bright smile.
“What? No, I can’t take that!” you protested, surprised. It was only your second date, and he was already offering one of his most treasured possessions.
“Y/N, I want you to have it. Please,” he said softly, his tone earnest.
You hesitated, but then took the delicate box from his large hands, studying its intricate details. A warm, unfamiliar sensation washed over you, filling you with a comforting sense of something long missed.
“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.
Seo-Jun’s deep, soft laugh echoed through the room. “You’re welcome.”
Suddenly, you stood up and made your way over to him. He had been so careful, so respectful, keeping his distance—ironic, considering how your first meeting ended tangled in your linen sheets.
He looked up at you, confusion in his golden eyes, as you cupped his face gently in your hands.
“I want to thank you properly,” you whispered before pressing your lips to his.
The kiss felt like heaven, something you could lose yourself in forever. You felt his smile against your lips as you pulled away, teasing him.
“What’s that smile for?”
“It’s the taste of your lips,” he replied, mesmerized.
“My lips?”
“Yeah, they’re sweet and so soft. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since we last parted.”
Heat began to rise within you, the desire intensifying.
✸request: Hi! Can you also write something with Heo In-gang (Dear X)?
✸synopsis: a fake relationship born from scandal traps you in a world of flashes and fabricated smiles, where heo in-gang’s icy distance slowly cracks into dangerous tenderness. by the time the truth comes out, the only lie left is pretending you don’t love him.
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / baek ah-jin did him so dirty :( my hearttt
[now playing: pretty boy — lennon stella]
m.list
─────
the hotel hallway is thick with the scent of aged wealth and fresh anxiety.
it clings to the opulent velvet wallpaper, a tactile reminder of the past, and seeps into your lungs — the rich aroma of polished mahogany, the lingering notes of expensive cologne, and the plush carpet that has absorbed countless whispered secrets. this is the kind of place where hushed negotiations unfold in shadowed corners, and louder blunders echo through the air.
your company’s ceo, seo mi-ri, strides confidently half a step ahead of you, as she always does. she is close enough that you can feel the palpable heat of her authority radiating from her, yet far enough that the uncomfortable reminder of your place in this hierarchy lingers in your mind.
“just smile,” she instructs, her gaze fixed ahead, never meeting yours. her voice is steady, rehearsed, as if she has delivered this line a thousand times before. “touch his arm. let the cameras believe it.”
her hands are clasped neatly behind her back when she delivers this command — the posture of a woman offering you a privilege rather than tightening a noose around your neck. you nod in response, instinctively, because that’s what you were conditioned to do.
you refrain from questioning the motives. you don’t inquire about the duration of this charade. you don’t ponder the consequences of dissent. deep down, you already grasp the implications.
baek ah-jin’s name ignites a fierce blaze in your chest, a smoldering ember that refuses to be extinguished. every screen in the lobby below is ablaze with her name — bold letters that leap out at you, breaking news banners that flash like sirens, blurred images that capture fleeting moments, and sharp speculation that cuts through the air like a knife. her scandal spreads like wildfire, consuming everything in its path — uncontained, ravenous, and relentless.
and you?
you’re the glass of nectar hastily assembled in a moment of panic, a mere afterthought in the chaos. silent. disposable. yet, somehow, you possess a charm that can soften the jagged edges of impending disaster, a calm presence amidst the storm.
you pause just outside the suite, the polished gold numbers shimmering under the hotel’s gentle illumination, each digit a beacon of anticipation. mi-ri finally pivots, her gaze piercing as she examines your expression, searching for any hint of uncertainty — of defiance.
“remember,” she speaks low, her fingers deftly smoothing a wrinkle from her cuff, a gesture that feels both casual and deliberate. “you’re lucky to be trusted with this.”
lucky. the word hangs in the air, almost absurd in its simplicity, and you suppress a laugh that threatens to escape.
with a sharp, decisive knock, your ceo raps on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness, and without waiting for a response, she swings the door open. the room beyond is cloaked in dimness, the curtains drawn halfway, casting elongated shadows that dance across the floor. the city’s reflection flickers against the glass walls, a haunting mirror of a world alive with movement and noise, yet here, it feels suspended in time.
and there he is.
heo in-gang stands near the window, his back to you, an enigmatic figure framed by the interplay of light and shadow. his hands are tucked into the pockets of his impeccably tailored suit, the fabric crisp and unyielding. his spine is straight, exuding an air of confidence that feels almost tangible.
he appears as if he has been carved from the very distance that separates you, a statue of composure amidst the chaos of the outside world. he doesn’t turn when the door opens, his focus seemingly locked on the cityscape beyond, as if he is contemplating the weight of decisions yet to be made.
“here,” mi-ri says lightly, guiding you forward with a gentle pressure from her fingers nestled between your shoulder blades. “this is the girl i told you about.”
you feel her hand linger just long enough to remind you of the power dynamic at play, a subtle assertion of control in this high-stakes environment. in-gang’s reflection meets yours in the polished glass before he finally pivots, his movements deliberate and measured.
his eyes are colder than the air in the room, a chilling contrast to the warmth of the gathering. not cruel. not harsh. just… unreachable, like a distant star in a vast, dark sky.
you bow. too deep. too quick, the instinctive gesture betraying your unease. habit. fear. the familiar dance of submission.
he gives you a small nod back, the bare minimum of politeness, a flicker of acknowledgment that feels both significant and dismissive. your ceo talks. she always talks, her voice a steady stream of information. schedules, optics, appearances — each word carefully chosen, each phrase a calculated move in this intricate game. words you barely hear because your heart is too loud in your ears, pounding a frantic rhythm that drowns out the chatter around you.
you stand beside in-gang, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, the warmth almost tangible yet just out of reach. the air is thick with tension, a silent acknowledgment of the stakes at play. your ceo leans in closer, her breath hot against your ear, carrying the faint scent of her perfume, a reminder of her presence and authority.
“remember what i said,” she whispers, her voice meager and urgent, laced with the weight of expectation. you force a smile, the corners of your lips lifting in a practiced gesture, and your fingers brush against in-gang’s arm, the contact electric and fleeting, but useful in proving your position. you can almost hear the click of cameras capturing the moment, the flash of lights illuminating the façade you both wear. let them believe it, you think, as you navigate this intricate dance of appearances and power.
mi-ri takes a moment to compose herself, straightening her posture with an air of authority. with a sharp clap of her hands, she signals the end of the conversation and glides gracefully back toward the door, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
“we’ll let you get acquainted,” she announces, her voice smooth yet commanding. the door swings shut with a soft thud, sealing off the outside world.
an immediate silence envelops the room, thick and palpable, as if the air itself is holding its breath. it feels alive, charged with unspoken tension.
in-gang stands still, his gaze fixed on the door handle long after it clicks into place, as if weighing his options — whether to pursue her or to confront the barrier that now separates them.
finally, his attention shifts to you. not a glance that passes through you. a direct look, piercing and intent.
“you don’t look… enthusiastic,” he observes, his tone low and measured. your fingers instinctively curl into fists at your sides, a physical manifestation of your unease.
“i’m not,” you reply honestly, quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
a moment passes, heavy with unspoken words, as a flicker of something inscrutable dances in his eyes. a sense of relief washes over you, a quiet affirmation that he recognizes the truth lurking beneath the surface. the deception has yet to unfold, yet it looms large, a shadow threatening to engulf you both. the absence of cameras feels almost surreal, yet the atmosphere crackles with the energy of a performance already in motion, as if the world outside has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this charged space.
in-gang feels like a winter's breath, colder than the marble lobby.
the chill radiates from the way he stands — perfectly still, perfectly composed, as if warmth is a distant memory he learned to suppress long ago. when you’re introduced, there’s no reach for your hand, no polite stretch of fingers, just a nod that feels like a barrier. clean. controlled. final.
his eyes flick to your face for half a second, then slide away, as if the mere act of contact costs him something precious. you realize quickly that this isn’t an act; it’s a fortress.
he doesn’t want this interaction either.
─────
the “relationship” begins in bursts of flash, a spectacle that captivates the moment.
at incheon airport, the air is thick with the scent of jet fuel mingling with the sweetness of expensive perfume, creating an intoxicating atmosphere. cameras swarm like bees, their lenses glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights, capturing every fleeting moment before you even have a chance to register their presence. you feel in-gang step closer, the warmth radiating from his body without needing to look at you, his presence a solid line at your side, a silent promise of support amidst the chaos.
your fingers brush against his when a microphone bumps your wrist, the unexpected contact sending a jolt of electricity through you. it’s accidental, yet it feels like fate.
but the world erupts anyway, as if the universe conspired to make this moment unforgettable.
gasps ripple through the crowd. clicks of cameras echo like thunder. whispers flutter like leaves in the wind, each one a testament to the spectacle unfolding before them.
he doesn’t pull away, his grip steady and reassuring. he doesn’t tighten his hand around yours either, allowing the moment to linger, suspended in time. he just lets it happen, embracing the chaos with an air of nonchalance. a controlled accident, perfectly orchestrated.
on the red carpet, it’s his hand at your waist — placed precisely where the publicists instructed him it should be. not too high, to avoid any hint of impropriety. not too low, to maintain an air of elegance. light enough to be respectable, yet firm enough to be believable, a delicate balance of intimacy and professionalism.
the soothing touch of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of your dress, a reminder of the connection you share amidst the flashing lights and eager eyes. his face is sculpted to perfection, a smile crafted for billboards, designed to capture attention and create headlines. yet, his eyes remain unchanged, distant, and guarded, as if they hold secrets that lie far beyond you, beyond the cameras, beyond this entire performance.
you adapt to the rhythm of his presence, learning to navigate the unspoken rules of this intricate dance. you discover the precise angle to tilt your chin, just enough to catch the light without overshadowing him. you lean in, close enough to feel the warmth of his aura, yet careful not to overstep the invisible boundaries that define your roles. you synchronize your steps with the clicking of the shutters, each movement a calculated part of the performance.
but as the heavy doors of the car close behind you and the tinted windows rise, the warmth dissipates like mist in the morning sun. he retreats, as he always does.
a deliberate distance forms, a carefully maintained space that lingers between your shoulders and his. he gazes out the window, lost in thoughts that seem to drift far beyond the confines of the vehicle. you find yourself staring at your hands, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your attire, a silent testament to the tension that fills the air.
words hang heavily between you, unspoken and laden with meaning, yet never voiced. he chooses his vocabulary sparingly, speaking only when the situation demands it.
“step lightly.”
“show your best smile.”
“strike a pose in three.”
and, in the absence of flashing lights and the weight of deception — “thank you.”
always gentle. always aloof.
he addresses you by your surname. never your first name. not in the intimacy of private moments. not in the public eye. it’s a barrier, cloaked in politeness. a strategy to prevent any emotional closeness.
you perceive it in the soft timbre of his voice, in the deliberate way he articulates each syllable, as if he’s subtly reminding both of you of the nature of your relationship. a pact. a facade. a theatrical display.
you wonder if he uses your last name because he’s afraid that if he says your real one, something inside him might change. and that appears to be the one boundary he steadfastly refuses to cross.
─────
you find yourself ensnared in a web of deception on a night heavy with the scent of rain and the flicker of neon lights.
the award ceremony drags on, stretching into an eternity. crystal chandeliers hang like stars above, their light refracting through the air thick with anticipation. polite applause fills the room, mingling with the clinking of glasses, yet the champagne tastes flat, devoid of the celebration it should embody.
when you finally step outside, seoul greets you with a drenched embrace — streets shimmering like liquid silver, the air crisp and invigorating, rain cascading in a steady, soothing rhythm.
stylists dart around beneath the shelter of awnings, their heels clicking against the pavement. assistants murmur into their phones, urgency lacing their voices. security personnel form a barrier, pushing the throng of fans and onlookers back, creating a small pocket of space.
and amidst the swirling chaos, you and in-gang find yourselves unexpectedly… alone.
a stranger thrusts a sleek black umbrella into his hand. it’s wide and imposing, an intimate gesture for two people who are merely playing a part. without a word, he unfurls the umbrella, stepping close enough that your shoulders nearly touch, the ease of his presence igniting a spark of tension.
the cameras capture the moment in an instant.
a wave of sound ripples through the crowd — gasps of surprise, the rapid clicking of shutters, names shouted in excitement.
you don’t pause to consider the implications. you simply react. your fingers intertwine with his, a seamless connection that feels both natural and choreographed.
for a fleeting moment, his hand hesitates, stilling in a way that sends a thrill of danger coursing through you. but he doesn’t pull away.
the rain patters against the fabric of the umbrella, each drop a whisper of secrets yearning to escape. the world around you constricts — flashes of light illuminate the scene, voices rise in a cacophony, the pavement glistens underfoot, and your breath mingles with the cool air, fogging the space between you.
together, you move in perfect, rehearsed harmony toward the waiting car, the night enveloping you both in its enigmatic embrace.
for the cameras, your fingers lace tighter, a silent promise woven between you. for the cameras, he doesn’t pull away, his presence anchoring you in the moment.
the car door opens with a soft creak. the shutters explode one last time, capturing the fleeting intimacy. then — silence envelops you like a thick blanket. the door shuts with a definitive thud.
the tinted glass seals the world out, creating a cocoon of privacy. rain becomes a distant rhythm, tapping gently against the roof, a soothing backdrop to your shared space.
your hands are still joined, fingers entwined like vines, a connection that feels electric. you realize it at the same time, a spark of understanding igniting between you, his breath hitching slightly.
in-gang’s jaw tightens, a muscle flickering just beneath his skin, betraying the tension simmering within. his gaze drops to your fingers, studying them as if they are something dangerous and alive, a secret he’s not sure that he wants to uncover.
“you should stop holding my hand like that,” he murmurs, his voice low and laced with an undercurrent of something unspoken. controlled. almost careful, as if he’s weighing each word.
but he doesn’t move, the air thick with unvoiced thoughts. you don’t loosen your grip, the warmth of his skin against yours igniting a fire within. you could. you know you could. that’s the right thing. the safe thing, the logical choice in this tangled web of emotions.
instead, you hold tighter, defying the logic that whispers in your ear.
the car hums softly, tires cutting through wet streets, the sound a gentle reminder of the world outside. the space between your knees is too small, the intimacy palpable. the air feels warmer, thicker, charged with unspoken words.
his thumb shifts — just barely — brushing against the side of your finger, a fleeting touch that sends shivers down your spine. an accident, or perhaps a deliberate act, the line between the two blurring in the heat of the moment.
or perhaps not.
he swallows hard, the sound echoing in the stillness. his gaze remains fixed on the floor, refusing to meet the window's reflection. neither of you dares to break the silence that hangs heavily between you. neither of you lets go.
and in the dim, quiet cocoon of the moving car, the lie begins to morph into something delicate, a gossamer thread rather than a mere fabrication. like a fragile promise that could shatter you both if either of you exhales too forcefully.
─────
the truth releases on a tuesday, a day that once felt mundane.
it bursts into your consciousness through the screen of your phone, the cold white light illuminating your face as you sit in a makeup chair that feels foreign, a relic of someone else's life.
baek ah-jin, once the center of a storm, now stands vindicated, the allegations evaporating like mist in the morning sun. evidence, once thought solid, revealed as a carefully constructed illusion. legal action looms, a shadow on the horizon.
the words hit you like a punch to the gut, their weight heavy and suffocating. they linger in the air — flat and sharp and impossible to digest — while the room is thick with the scent of hairspray, the stale remnants of old foundation, and the lingering trace of someone else’s perfume, a reminder of the life you used to know.
no one calls you anymore. that’s the first sign of the unraveling.
usually, when there’s news, there’s a flurry of activity. phones ring incessantly, their shrill tones cutting through the air. you can hear the hurried footsteps of assistants rushing by, their faces etched with concern. managers huddle in corners, their voices low but urgent, arguing over the latest developments behind closed doors.
but today?
nothing.
silence stretches out, so clean and stark it almost feels like a physical presence, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket.
you leave the office without anyone stopping you. no assistant tapping your shoulder with a reminder of your next meeting. no schedule thrust into your hands, filled with back-to-back appointments. no one asking for “just one more photo op” to capture the moment.
outside, the city feels louder than it should, the cacophony of honking cars and chattering pedestrians amplifying the emptiness inside you. people pass you by, their eyes glazed over, not looking twice, as if you’re just another shadow in the crowd.
you check your phone, your heart racing with a flicker of hope. no new messages. no instructions waiting for you. no him.
by the time you reach your apartment, the understanding settles in slowly, painfully, like a weight pressing down on your chest — they don’t need you anymore. the realization is a bitter pill to swallow, a stark contrast to the vibrant life you once led, filled with purpose and connection.
the contract ends not with a conversation, but with absence. no thank-you. no closure. no warning.
you stare at your phone long enough for the screen to dim, then brighten again.
nothing. not from the company. not from the ceo. the absence is deafening.
the silence wraps around you, suffocating. a lump forms in your throat, a tangible reminder of what was lost. your eyes burn with unshed tears, the pressure building as memories flood your mind.
you prepare a cup of tea, the steam curling up like fleeting hopes, but you leave it untouched on the table. you perch on the edge of your bed, still clad in your coat, feeling the weight of the fabric as if it were a shroud. you replay every moment, every carefully crafted smile that masked the truth, every hand that lingered just a moment too long, every accidental brush of fingers that ignited a spark.
you insist to yourself it was all an act, a performance for an audience that no longer exists. you convince yourself he was merely a character in a play, a figment of your imagination. you remind yourself you were just a pawn in their game, a tool to be used and discarded. yet, deep down, your heart refuses to accept the narrative. as darkness envelops the room, the quiet settles in, heavy and unyielding.
your phone remains silent, the screen untouched and dark.
for a fleeting three hours, your name ignites the digital world — a whirlwind of speculation, confusion, and countless think pieces — only to dissipate into the ether, as if you had never existed at all.
by the time dawn breaks, it’s all over.
you approach the window, peering out at the dreary, gray city that seems to mirror your own desolation. you ponder, is this it?
you’ve been wiped from existence. and the most painful aspect isn’t the public humiliation that stings like a thousand needles. it isn’t the crushing loneliness that wraps around you like a suffocating shroud. it’s the fact that he didn’t even bother to say goodbye.
and somehow, that absence of farewell cuts deeper than anything the contract ever demanded of you.
─────
after a week, you’ve managed to regain your footing, diving back into work with a fervor that masks the emptiness gnawing at your heart, filling the void with endless tasks and fleeting moments of busyness that only serve to distract you from the ache of loss.
as the sun sets on friday, you find yourself sinking into the cozy embrace of your living room, ready for a well-deserved weekend of relaxation. the aroma of takeout wafts through the air, mingling with the soft glow of fairy lights strung around the room. you pour yourself a generous glass of soju, the clear liquid shimmering like liquid crystal, envisioning the laughter and release that will fill the night.
just as you settle into your favorite spot on the couch, the sudden chime of the doorbell jolts you from your reverie. your brows furrow as you gaze at your notificationless phone. no one should be here, and you weren’t expecting anyone.
you cross the threshold and don’t bother looking out the peephole before swinging the front door open. heo in-gang appears like a long-forgotten dream that’s finally found its way back to you.
there’s no entourage trailing behind him, no stylist fussing over his appearance, and certainly no manager whispering last-minute advice into his ear.
it’s just him, standing there. you blink up at him, owlishly.
his hair is tousled, soft, and slightly tousled by the wind, giving him an effortlessly disheveled look. his coat hangs open, the collar askew, as if he’s just stepped out of a whirlwind. his eyes, however, tell a different story — they are bloodshot and weary, revealing a vulnerability that feels raw and genuine, unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed on a screen.
you lock eyes with him for what feels like an eternity, a fragile moment suspended in time. you don’t inquire about the reason for his visit. you don’t question how he managed to track you down.
instead, you simply step aside, allowing him entry.
the door clicks shut behind him, sealing the outside world away.
your apartment is dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft, muted glow of the city lights seeping through the windows. the air carries a faint scent of freshly laundered clothes mingled with the crispness of the night.
he stands a few paces away, an uncomfortable distance that feels like a barrier he hasn’t yet learned to dismantle. you can almost hear the rhythm of his breath, steady yet hesitant.
“i don’t know how to do this without a script,” he admits, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with a hint of embarrassment. a soft, surprised laugh escapes your lips before you can rein it in, a reaction to the unexpected honesty in his words.
that’s the moment he decides to bridge the gap. not in a hurry, not with uncertainty clouding his movements. he crosses the space between you with a deliberate grace, as if he’s been rehearsing this very moment in his mind for what feels like an eternity.
his hands rise and frame your face, careful and trembling, like he’s afraid you might vanish under his touch. his forehead rests against yours, warm and too close. you can feel the way his breath shakes when it hits your lips.
he smells like rain and wool and something unmistakably him.
“you were never… part of the act,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, laced with urgency.
your lashes flutter, a soft tremor of anticipation coursing through you. his thumbs shift slightly, almost helplessly, along your jaw, tracing the delicate line as if memorizing every contour.
“you were the only thing that felt real,” he confesses, his gaze piercing into yours, searching for understanding.
your hands fist in the fabric of his coat before you can think about it, the coarse texture grounding you in this moment; before you can be careful, before the weight of the world can intrude.
the kiss isn’t gentle; it’s a collision of need and longing. it’s starved, a desperate hunger that has been building for far too long. it’s months of restraint snapping all at once, the dam breaking under the pressure of unspoken words.
his mouth finds yours like he’s been holding his breath since the day he met you, a lifeline in a sea of chaos. the sound he makes is low — almost broken — as he kisses you again, harder this time, pouring everything he’s held back into this single moment.
he steps into you, backing you slowly toward the wall, not rough, not careless — but desperate, as if he fears the world will steal you away if he lets go. your back hits the wall softly, the cool surface contrasting with the heat radiating between you. you don’t pull away; instead, you lean into him, craving the connection. your mouths clash, a fierce dance of passion and urgency. then slow, as the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you in this fragile bubble of intimacy.
the kiss turns soft around the edges, yet it retains an insatiable hunger that ignites a fire within. his hands slide to your waist, warm and certain now, as if they know exactly where they’ve always belonged — even if only in dreams that felt too vivid to be mere fantasies.
your breath tangles in your throat, a mix of exhilaration and disbelief. your thoughts scatter like leaves in a gust of wind, each one a fragment of the moment that feels both fleeting and eternal.
the room fades away, the walls blurring into the background, as if they too are captivated by the intensity of this connection. when you finally manage to pull back, it’s only because your lungs refuse to function anymore, gasping for air as if you’ve just surfaced from deep water.
he doesn’t let you go, his grip firm yet gentle, anchoring you in this shared reality. his hands remain at your waist, fingers splayed possessively, while your own fingers curl tightly in the fabric of his coat, as if afraid to let go.
his forehead drops back to yours, the warmth radiating between you a palpable force.
“i don’t care what they need from me anymore,” he breathes, his voice breaking open in the quiet, raw and vulnerable. “i want you. not the story. not the lie that’s been woven around us.”
your heart is loud, pounding like a drum, too loud for your chest, too big for your body, as if it’s trying to break free and declare this moment to the world. the city hums outside, a distant symphony of traffic and faint sirens, life continuing on as if something monumental hasn’t just shifted in the fabric of your existence.
but inside this room, in this small, fragile quiet —
the silence isn’t staged, devoid of pretense. it isn’t practiced, a mere act for an audience. it isn’t something sold to cameras, a moment captured for show.
it’s real, raw, and unfiltered. it’s heavy, laden with unspoken promises and desires. and for the first time, it belongs only to the two of you, a sacred space where nothing else matters but this connection, this truth.
Yeah the dude gave me the creeps last ep, but I was hoping I was wrong
He's such a sad, poor excuse of a human. But the mom is the biggest puzzle to me. How do you witness this POS beating up your son (who then proceeded to lock him up for DAYS), and you are still married fifteen years later??
Awww, they could never make me hate you, Soobin. The only villains here are his parents. He was young and entirely dependent on his father; he had to go along with what he said. That doesn't erase the pain Yijae had to go through, but it definitely does not make him responsible.
I'm just happy that he ended up following his dreams, and it seems that he no longer has a relationship with his abusive father. Good for him.
