Discover Top Posts Tagged with #scoups fluff

Two Sides of the Same Dog Tag

Pairing: Soldier! Choi Seungcheol x F. Reader

Wordcount: 28.8K

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Protected intercourse (use of condom) - PIV - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Emotional Fucking (is this a warning?) - Fingering

Next chapter: Two Sides of the Same Dog Tag Pt. 2

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The smell of lime and cheap cologne is tonight’s problem.

Sticky rings of vodka tonics on the bar top, a row of shot glasses awaiting regret in liquid form, bodies pressed too close to the counter as music hums beneath the chatter. The smell of turpentine clinging to your clothes is from earlier, from the hours that feel like they belong to another life: your cramped apartment, open windows, canvases propped against every possible surface, the air cut sharp with solvent and acrylic.

Your fingers are stained a soft, bruised violet from a failed experiment with texture and shadow. You should have scrubbed harder before work, but the hot water at your place runs out fast, and you were late, and honestly? Nobody here looks close enough to care.

You drag a rag across the bar, wiping up a splash of beer, and the neon sign over the back wall flickers once, threatening to give up completely. Same, you think. Same.

Your phone sits beneath the counter, screen dark. The last notification you saw before your shift started was from your bank app, as if the numbers themselves were disappointed in you. Above you, somewhere in the ceiling, the pipes groan like they, too, are behind on rent. You straighten a row of mismatched bottles, more out of habit than necessity. The place is half-full: a cluster of regulars by the far wall, two women arguing about a man you’re pretty sure isn’t worth their time, and a guy in a suit nursing his drink like it insulted his mother.

The door opens, and cold night air slips in around the frame, curling over your bare arms.

You look up. He walks in first. Of course he does.

Soonyoung is impossible to miss in a crowd, but here, framed by the door’s dim glow, he’s his own little supernova—wide grin, hair pushed back messily, wearing a faded band tee and a bomber jacket that’s definitely not regulation anything. He moves like he’s already halfway through a joke.

Behind him, four other men file in, and there’s an immediate shift to the room. It’s not that they’re loud—they aren’t. Well, not yet at least. But they carry something with them. A kind of focused energy that clings to their shoulders, even under civilian clothes. You recognise that look. You’ve seen it on the news, in recruitment posters, in the tight-set jaws of boys who grew up too fast. Soldiers. Soonyoung’s gaze skims the bar, and then he sees you. His entire face lights up. “No way,” he says, already beelining for the counter, arms spreading. “You actually survived another week in this dump.” You huff a laugh despite yourself as he plants his elbows on the bar, leaning over like he owns the place. “Barely,” you reply, sliding him a napkin out of reflex. “You’re late.”

“It’s called making an entrance,” he says. “You should try it sometime instead of just… existing here like a tragic background character.” You flick the rag at him, and he dodges, laughing. The sound is bright, familiar, cutting through the night’s dull haze.

“You promised me you’d text before you came,” you say, grabbing a clean glass. “I could’ve pretended this job doesn’t own my soul.”

“You love it,” he says. Then he wrinkles his nose at your expression. “Okay, you tolerate it. Fine. You endure it with bitter grace.” You point the glass at him. “There you go. That’s the poet I grew up with.” He rolls his eyes. “I wrote, like, two poems in fifth grade, and you will not let it go.”

“You rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove’ four times.”

“It was thematically consistent,” he protests.

You grin, and it settles something in you that had been buzzing all evening. Soonyoung has always done that—walked in and made the air feel less heavy, like someone had opened a window in your chest.

You gesture with your chin to the men lingering near the door. “You bringing strays now?” He turns, following your gaze. “Oh. Right.” His smile softens with something like pride. “My unit.”

They approach the bar in a loose cluster, the easy way they move together marking them as a group more than any uniform would. You take them in, cataloguing details like you’re sketching them in your head.

The tall one with the dimpled smile and broad shoulders—Mingyu, your brain supplies when Soonyoung starts pointing. The world’s most obvious golden retriever in human form, with a sweatshirt two sizes too big and hair that looks like he cut it himself in the bathroom mirror. Next to him, another sunshine face: Seokmin, radiating warmth, eyes curving kind even before he smiles. He’s in a simple hoodie and jeans, hands shoved into pockets like he’s fighting the urge to wave at everyone. Vernon hangs a little back, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, expression somewhere between amused and perpetually unimpressed. There’s a softness to his mouth, though, that suggests he laughs easily when nobody’s watching. Jihoon rounds them out—smaller, quieter, eyes sharp as if he’s already assessing the quickest exits and the least annoying table. He wears a plain black tee and a watch that looks regulation precise, even if the rest of him reads casual.

And then there’s the last one.

You almost miss him at first because he’s not doing anything loud. He’s just standing there, a half-step to the side, letting the others draw attention. Civilian clothes, sure—simple dark t-shirt, jeans, jacket—but he wears them like a uniform anyway. Everything about him is neat, deliberate. Hair trimmed close at the sides, pushed back cleanly. His shoulders are straight, his stance balanced like he’s ready to move at a moment’s notice. He’s scanning the room, not in the “is this place cool” way, but in a “where are the exits, who’s a threat, what’s that guy’s deal” way. His eyes flick over the bar, the door, the corners. They land on you for half a second, dark and unreadable, and move on. He looks like someone drew the word discipline and gave it a pulse. Soonyoung gestures grandly, one hand sweeping across the group. “This,” he announces, “is my tragic little soon-to-be-war-criminal family.”

“Please don’t say that out loud in public,” Jihoon mutters, sliding onto a stool. “I’m joking,” Soonyoung says. “Mostly. Anyway—this is Mingyu, Seokmin, Vernon, Jihoon…” Each man gives a variation of a nod, a small wave, a murmur of greeting. Soonyoung’s hand lands on the last man’s shoulder. “And this is Seungcheol.”

The name sits heavy in the air for a moment, like it knows it’s important. Seungcheol inclines his head slightly. Not quite a bow, not quite a nod. “Hey,” he says. His voice is low. Even. Controlled.

You wipe your fingers on your apron, suddenly aware of the paint stains, the worn fabric, the fact that you are firmly not pulled-together anything. “So.” You put a smile on anyway. “What can I get you future disappointments?” Mingyu laughs first, bright and loud. “Beer. Whatever’s on tap and won’t kill us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Vernon adds. “If it’s cheap, it’s trying its best.” You reach for the glasses, movements smooth from repetition. “First round’s on me,” Soonyoung says quickly, fishing for his wallet. You freeze, arching a brow. “Since when do you have money?”

“Excuse you,” he says. “I am a responsible adult serving my country.” “You’re a walking hazard sign with a government salary,” you say. He beams. “Exactly. Pay me in alcohol.”

You snort, fill the glasses, and line them up on the bar. While you work, conversation drifts over. “So you are Soonyoung’s famous friend,” Seokmin says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “We’ve heard about you.” You raise an eyebrow, sliding him his drink. “Oh? All lies, I hope.”

“Mostly stories about you rescuing Soonyoung from his own poor decisions,” Vernon says.

“Can confirm,” Mingyu chimes in. “He tried to do a backflip off his bunk last week.”

“It was a morale exercise,” Soonyoung insists. “And my landing was artistic.”

“Your landing was a cry for help,” Jihoon says. You laugh, the sound surprising you with how easy it comes.

“You picked a good place for a send-off,” you say, glancing at Soonyoung. “You could’ve taken them anywhere. Yet, you chose my crumbling second home.” He grins, softer now. “Told them my best friend works here. Felt right.”

You pretend the warmth in your chest is just from the overhead lights.

As you move down the bar to grab a bottle from the back, your shoulder brushes past Seungcheol’s. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step away. He might as well be a wall. You can feel his gaze briefly on the side of your face, like a touch that never lands. “You’re deploying soon?” you ask, more to the group than anyone in particular. Soonyoung nods. “First shipment out.” There’s a moment of quiet after that. Even Mingyu’s grin dims slightly. It’s not fear, exactly. Just… awareness. You swallow. “How long?”

“Six months to start,” Jihoon says. “Longer if they decide we’re useful.”

“Which we are,” Mingyu adds with a grin. “Most of us,” Vernon says under his breath.

You top off another drink, try not to calculate what six months looks like in rent, in medical bills, in canvases that may or may not sell. “You’ll be fine,” you say, forcing brightness into your voice. “You’ve been training, right? Running obstacle courses, rolling in mud, getting yelled at?”

“They yelled,” Soonyoung says. “We vibed.”

“He almost failed his shooting test,” Seokmin whispers loudly. “That was one time,” Soonyoung protests. “And the sun was in my eyes.”

“It was indoors,” Jihoon says.

You lean on the bar, chin tilting into your hand. “God help whatever country you’re supposed to protect.” Mingyu laughs, then looks at Seungcheol. “Our fearless leader here keeps us in line.” You glance at him, surprised. “Leader?” Seungcheol flicks his gaze to Mingyu, something like a warning in it, but it’s too late. “He’s technically not our CO yet,” Vernon explains. “But he might as well be.”

“He’s the guy they yell at when we mess up,” Seokmin says. “He yells at us when we mess up. He lives to yell, actually.”

“I don’t live to yell,” Seungcheol says evenly.

“Yeah, but you thrive on it,” Soonyoung replies.

A twitch ghosts at the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth, so small you think you imagined it. You size him up again with this new information. It fits: the way he stands, the way he watches everything, the way the others unconsciously arrange themselves around him like planets around a sun.

He’s the opposite of you in every visible way. Structured where you’re scattered, pressed where you’re unravelling. If you’re paint splashed haphazardly on canvas, he’s the ruler-lined grid underneath.

You twist the rag in your hands, suddenly restless.

Somewhere in the bar, someone laughs too loudly. A glass clinks. A man near the jukebox starts singing off-key to a song that doesn’t need help being worse. The night blurs into habit. You pour drinks, wipe spills, break up a near-argument over darts. The soldiers—because that’s what they are, no matter how they dress—settle into a table near the bar, drinks in hand.

You catch bits of their conversation as you move around the floor.

“What if they send us somewhere freezing?”

“I packed like, three sweaters.”

“We’re not going on a ski trip, Mingyu.”

“I just don’t want my nipples to freeze off, okay?”

You shake your head, smiling. An hour passes. Maybe two. You lose the feeling in your feet somewhere along the way. Your phone buzzes once from under the counter—probably another bill reminder. You ignore it.

As you’re reaching for a bottle, raised voices cut through the usual noise. Sharper, angrier. At the far end of the bar, near the bathrooms, two men are squaring off—one of your regulars, face flushed, the other a stranger with a jacket too nice for this neighbourhood. They’re chest to chest, voices rising. “Hey,” you call, moving around the counter. “We’re not doing this tonight, okay?”

Regular Guy throws his glass to the floor. “He bumped into me!”

“I said sorry,” the stranger spits back. “You’re the one—” You squeeze between them, palms up. “Okay, okay, let’s all stop squaring off for a second, yeah?” The stranger looks you up and down and sneers. “What are you gonna do about it, princess?” You feel your patience snap. “Kick you out and ban you from ever tasting our suspiciously watered-down gin again,” you say sweetly. “Tragic, really.”

That gets a snort from someone nearby. The tension wobbles, but doesn’t break. The regular shoves the stranger’s shoulder. The stranger shoves back, harder this time, sending the regular stumbling into a barstool. You open your mouth to shout for backup when a shadow falls over your shoulder.

“That’s enough,” a voice says behind you. Calm, but so flat it leaves no room for argument. You don’t have to turn to know who it is. Seungcheol steps in beside you, not touching either man, but suddenly taking up all the space. “You’re done,” he says to the stranger. “Pay your tab and leave.”

The stranger bristles. “And who the hell are you?”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “Someone asking nicely before the bouncer comes over and asks less nicely.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at the phrase asking nicely. His tone suggests he’d be perfectly happy to skip straight to throwing someone out. The stranger looks between the two of you, weighing something. Then he huffs, digs into his pocket, slaps cash on a nearby table, and stalks toward the door. The regular mutters something that sounds like an apology and slinks back to his seat. The tension leaks out of the room, leaving behind the usual buzz. You exhale slowly, then turn to Seungcheol, irritation already warming your cheeks.

“I had it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you at first, gaze following the stranger out the door. “Sure.”

“I did,” you insist. “You can’t just—swoop in like some… stern hall monitor.”

Now he looks at you. Up close, his eyes are darker than you realised, almost black in the low light. There’s a faint scar along his eyebrow, a pale line you somehow didn’t notice earlier. “He was two seconds from putting his hands on you,” he says. “You shouldn’t have been in the middle of that.”

You cross your arms, rag still clutched in one hand. “If I don’t get in the middle, people get hurt, and I have to clean up blood. Which is, believe it or not, worse than spilt beer.”

“So you put yourself in the crossfire instead,” he says. “Smart.” There’s judgment in his voice that rubs you completely the wrong way. “I work here,” you snap. “It’s my job to deal with drunk idiots.”

“It’s your job to serve drinks,” he replies. “Not to play security.”

You feel heat rise under your skin, a familiar mix of defensiveness and stubborn pride. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were in charge of defining my job description,” you say. “Did they teach you that in Soldier 101?”

His jaw tightens, just a flicker. “They teach us not to run toward danger without a plan.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “And they teach you to judge people you don’t know?” He stares at you for a long moment, the bar noise dimming around the edges of your awareness. “They teach us that some people,” he gives you a pointed look, “treat life like a joke and expect others to pick up the pieces.”

You blink. It’s not shouted. It’s not cruel, exactly. But it lands like a slap to the face. Because you hear the subtext. The paint under your nails, the bar job, the overdraft fees, the canvases stacked in your tiny apartment that don’t sell. The way Soonyoung joked earlier that you “exist here”—like there’s nowhere else for you to go.

Your chest tightens. “Wow,” you say, smiling with all your teeth. “Deep.” He watches you, unreadable. You tilt your head, let the knife twist. “Careful, commander, the stick in your ass is showing.” For a split second, surprise flashes across his face. Then his mouth presses into a line so thin it could cut glass. “I’m not your commander,” he says. “No,” you say. “You’re just auditioning very hard for the role of fun police.”

Something shifts in his gaze, like a door clicking shut.

“I don’t care what you do,” he says. “It’s your funeral if you jump between two grown men throwing punches. Just don’t drag other people down with you when you treat everything like a game.” You inhale sharply because that hits closer than it should. You think of your mother in a hospital bed, of late payments, of the ways in which you are absolutely not treating any of this like a game.

You step closer, chin tilted up. “You don’t know me,” you say quietly, venom seeping into your words. “You don’t know anything about what I’m trying to keep together.”

He looks down at you, expression flat. “I don’t need to know you to see the pattern,” he answers.

Your fingers curl around the damp rag so tightly it drips. You want to say something that will crack that composure, make him flinch, anything. Instead, your tongue seizes up around all the words you can’t afford to throw. You scoff, turning away. “Enjoy your drink,” you mutter. “Or don’t. I honestly don’t care.”

You start to walk back toward the bar, needing to put distance between you before you say something that gets you fired. Behind you, his voice follows. “Stay out of trouble, riot.”

You stop. You look back over your shoulder. “What did you just call me?” He shrugs one shoulder, utterly unimpressed. “You heard me.”

Riot. Like you’re a mess, a disruption. Like the walking embodiment of chaos he’s already decided he hates.

You give him a slow, dangerous smile. “Cute,” you say. “Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did your little committee help?” He doesn’t answer. He just moves back toward the table where the others are watching, trying and failing to pretend they weren’t listening.

Soonyoung glances between the two of you as Seungcheol sits down, brows raised. “Everything good?” he asks.

“Fine,” you say at the same time Seungcheol says, “She’ll be fine.”

You bristle.

You retreat back behind the bar, hands shaking slightly as you grab a fresh towel and slam it down on a damp ring of condensation.

Somewhere in the middle of you taking stock, you risk a glance over. Soonyoung is laughing, Mingyu is speaking in his booming voice, Seokmin is making easy jokes, and Jihoon is teasing Vernon about something. Seungcheol is the only one not laughing. He’s listening, nodding occasionally, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass.

Suddenly, his gaze lifts and meets yours across the room. You hold it for half a heartbeat, then turn away deliberately. You go back to your stock. You close out someone’s round. You pretend you don’t feel that unfamiliar nickname clinging to your skin like spilt liquor. Riot.

By the time last call rolls around, Soonyoung and his unit are gathering themselves, ready to spill back out into the night. He makes sure to stop at the bar one last time, leaning across to bump his forehead against yours gently.

“I’ll come by again before we go,” he says. “Promise.”

"You better,” you say. “Someone’s gotta keep you from trying to do a backflip off a tank.”

He grins. “You love me.”

"Tragically,” you say.

He squeezes your hand once, then steps away, following the others toward the door. As Seungcheol passes, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say anything.

Good, you tell yourself. That’s exactly how you like it.

You toss the rag into the sink, flex your fingers, and get back to work.

You always thought rock bottom would feel more dramatic.

Maybe there’d be thunder. A dramatic montage. Some kind of score swelling in the background as your life collapses in on itself like a cheap folding chair. Instead, it’s just Tuesday.

Your landlord blocks the narrow hallway outside your apartment door, one hand braced on the peeling wallpaper, the other clutching a stack of mail like he’s about to throw it at you. “You’re behind again.” Not even a hello.

You hug your jacket tighter around yourself, keys in your hand. “Morning to you, too.” He taps the envelopes against his palm, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the door. “This isn’t funny,” he says. “You’re two months late. I let last month slide because you said you were waiting on a payment. It’s not here.”

You taste metal on your tongue, the familiar bite of anxiety. “I’m getting it together,” you lie. “I picked up extra shifts. I’ve got some pieces I’m selling—” He snorts. “Paintings.” The word drops like a condemnation. “You can’t pay me in art, kid. I need cash. Transfer. Something that doesn’t hang on a wall.” You swallow, the pressure behind your eyes building. “I know.”

"End of the month,” he says, shaking the envelopes once for emphasis. “All of it. Or you’re out. I’ve got people waiting for units. I can’t keep doing this.”

"End of the month,” you repeat, even though the date circles around your throat. “I’ll have it.”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you. You straighten your shoulders, grip the key harder. You must look steadier than you feel, because he just grunts. “End of the month,” he says again, then turns and walks away.

You unlock your door, step inside, and let it close softly behind you.

Your apartment greets you with its usual chaos: canvases leaning three-deep against the walls, brushes clustered in chipped mugs, tubes of paint scattered across your tiny table. The couch sags. The single window lets in more street noise than light. You drop your bag on a chair and stand there for a second, listening to your own heartbeat thud in your ears.

Two months behind. End of the month, or you’re out.

You take a breath, then another, then cross to the far wall where your largest canvas waits, half-finished. A mess of colour and shape and anger. You stare at it, trying to see “sellable” instead of “desperation.” You fail.

Your phone buzzes on the table, and you grab it without thinking, thumb hovering over the screen. New notification: hospital. You don’t open it. Instead, you shove the phone into your pocket and force yourself into motion—shower, pick a pair of jeans with the least amount of accidental paint on them, and an oversized sweater that doesn’t smell too much like the bar. It’s only when you’re halfway to the bus stop, breath puffing white in the cold air, that you check the message.

Your stomach drops as you read the words “additional tests,” “treatment adjustment,” and the number attached to the estimate.

It’s more than your rent. It’s more than a month of rent.

You close your eyes for a second, standing on the sidewalk as cars hiss past. For a moment, you think about turning around and going home. If you don’t go, maybe the reality of it won’t fully form.

You go anyway.

Hospitals always feel like someone tried to bleach out fear and failed.

You sit in a plastic chair that squeaks every time you shift, a clipboard of forms balanced on your knees. Across from you, a TV plays some daytime show too loudly, but nobody is really watching. Your mother is in the room down the hall. You tell yourself she’s just resting. It’s easier than admitting she’s been “resting” more and more lately, and that the nurses have started moving around her with the quiet efficiency reserved for the chronically ill.

A woman in a blazer with a badge around her neck calls your name and waves you over to a small office off the main corridor. You follow, trying not to notice the squeak of your shoes on the linoleum.

She sits, gestures to the chair across from her. There are papers spread out on the desk between you: printouts with line items and amounts that feel like they’re written in a different language. “We wanted to go over the new treatment plan,” she says gently. “There are additional tests the doctor’s recommending based on your mother’s latest results.”

You nod like you understand, because you understand the important part: they cost money. “And the insurance?” you ask, mouth too dry. She hesitates. That’s never a good sign. “The insurance has been covering quite a lot up to this point,” she says carefully. “But they’ve flagged the file for review. Some of these new tests… There may be caps. Limitations.”

"So they’re not going to pay.”

It comes out flatter than you intend. She winces a little. “We won’t know the final determination until the review is processed, but there will likely be out-of-pocket expenses.” You look down at the papers. The numbers blur, then sharpen again. “Can we not… do some of them?” you ask. “Or wait?”

She looks at you with that practised expression you’ve seen on too many faces here—compassion wrapped around pity. “The doctor recommended these for a reason,” she says softly. “Waiting could affect the outcome.” You swallow hard. Outcome. As if this is an exam your mother might fail. “There are assistance programs,” she continues. “We can set you up with someone from financial services. They’ll help you apply for aid and set up payment plans.”

Payment plans. On top of rent. On top of everything else. You nod again, because the alternative is screaming, and that probably won’t help. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Can you… print me what you can? I’ll… figure it out.”

She gives you that look again—like she wants to fix it and knows she can’t—and nods. “I’ll get this together,” she says. “In the meantime, your mother’s resting. You can sit with her if you’d like.”

You would like. You would always like.

You sit by your mother’s bed, fingers tangled loosely with hers. Her skin feels thinner these days, papery and fragile. She smiles when she sees you, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes the way it used to.

“Why the long face?” she whispers, voice rough. You force your features into something lighter. “Just tired,” you lie. “Bar’s been busy.” She squeezes your hand weakly. “You’re working too much.”

"Someone has to,” you say, then immediately wish you hadn’t. She looks at you, something like an apology flickering briefly. “You should be painting,” she murmurs. “Not… all this.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m doing both,” you say. “Multitasking, remember? It’s my one skill.” She huffs a soft laugh that turns into a cough. You help her sit up just enough to sip some water, then ease her back. “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes closing. “Don’t,” you say quickly. “Don’t do that. None of this is your fault.”

She doesn’t answer, drifting back into that half-sleep that smells like antiseptic and sounds like the distant beep of monitors. You sit there a while longer, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles like they’re steps toward something better. Eventually, you have to leave. The world outside is still turning, stubbornly oblivious to your personal apocalypse.

Soonyoung’s building is in a better part of town than yours. Not fancy, but the kind of place where the paint isn’t peeling and the lights in the hallway all work at the same time. You climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last, and knock on his door.

It flies open almost immediately.

Before you can greet him, he drags you into a hug that smells like laundry detergent and instant noodles. You sag into it for a second, your forehead pressing into his shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmurs. “No,” you say honestly, voice muffled by the fabric. He squeezes you tighter. “Good thing I’m a trained professional at emotional triage.” You snort, pulling back. “You barely passed first aid.”

"Hey,” he protests, stepping aside to let you in. “I know how to put a band-aid on with military precision.”

You step into his apartment and blink.

It’s… decent. Bigger than yours, for one. The living room has an actual couch that doesn’t look like it’s seen a crime scene, a half-dead plant on the windowsill, a TV balanced precariously on a stack of crates that he’s absolutely pretending are a “design choice.” There are clothes scattered here and there, a video game controller on the floor, and a mug with something questionable crusted at the bottom. Normal mess. Comfortable mess.

You shrug off your jacket, draping it over the back of the couch. “Wow,” you say. “Look at you. Functioning adult.”

"Please,” he says. “This place is one laundry day away from collapsing in on itself.”

You open your mouth to make another joke when a door down the hallway clicks open. You look up just as Seungcheol steps out of the bathroom, steam curling around him like some kind of cheap movie entrance.

His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead, a towel slung around his neck, dog tags glinting where they’ve slipped out from under his shirt. He stops when he sees you. You stop when you see him. For a second, the only sound is the slow drip of water from his hair onto the floor. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

You scoff. “Try not to sound too excited, commander.”

Soonyoung looks back and forth between you like a spectator at a tennis match. “Right,” he says. “I forgot you two met at the bar.”

Forgot. Sure.

You cross your arms, trying not to think about the way Seungcheol looked that night under the bar’s dim lights. “What are you doing here?” you ask. He blinks once, slowly. “I live here.”

You glance at Soonyoung. He raises his hands. “Temporarily,” he clarifies. “Base housing’s a mess right now. They’ve got us in limbo until we deploy. So I let him crash here.”

You look back at Seungcheol, trying to reconcile him with the pile of shoes by the door and the extra coffee mug on the counter. “Didn’t realise you were inviting half the city over, Soonyoung,” Seungcheol says, gaze shifting to your friend.

“Relax,” Soonyoung replies, unbothered. “She’s not half the city. She’s like… one very loud neighbourhood.”

You toss a throw pillow at him. He catches it easily. Seungcheol’s lips press into something that could almost resemble a smile. “You need the place?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen. “I can get out of your way.”

“You live here,” you say. “I’m just visiting. I’ll try not to ruin your throw pillows with my chaos energy.”

“That ship sailed when you walked in,” he mutters. You bristle. There it is again—that instant judgment, that sense that he’s got you filed away under “problem” in his brain.

Soonyoung clears his throat loudly. “Okay, let’s all remember we are in my home, where I pay rent and therefore get to veto murder.” You drag your gaze away from Seungcheol and force a smile for Soonyoung. “Relax,” you smile. “I’m not wasting a body on your nice floors.”

“Wow,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I feel so safe.”

There’s something off about him today. The usual stiffness is there, but it’s layered with something else—an edge that wasn’t quite so sharp at the bar. He looks… tired. Shadows under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that even the shower steam couldn’t loosen. You catch yourself staring and snap your gaze away.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung says, clapping his hands together. “Kitchen. Now. I have ramen, emotional support chocolate, and a remarkable lack of adult beverages considering who I live with.”

“You drank them,” Seungcheol calls out.

“Allegedly,” Soonyoung replies. You follow Soonyoung into the kitchen, a small galley space with exactly enough room for two people if they genuinely like each other. Three is ambitious. Seungcheol hangs back in the doorway for a moment, then reaches for his phone on the counter. It buzzes just as his fingers close around it. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. “I’ll be outside,” he says, almost to himself.

Without another word, he steps past you, heading for the sliding door that leads to a narrow balcony. He slides it open, steps out into the cold, and closes it behind him with more gentleness than you expected. You watch him for a moment through the glass—broad shoulders outlined against the city, head bent as he lifts the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” Soonyoung says softly, drawing your attention back. “Talk to me.” You drag in a breath. “My landlord cornered me this morning,” you say, grabbing onto the easiest topic. “I’m two months behind. He wants everything by the end of the month, or I’m out.” Soonyoung winces. “Okay. That’s… okay. That’s a solvable problem. We can do math. You can pick up shifts, I can—”

“That’s not all,” you interrupt. He quiets immediately, leaning against the counter, eyes on your face. “The hospital called,” you say. “Mom needs more tests. Insurance is… being difficult. There are new treatments they want to try. It’s…”

You don’t finish. You don’t have to. You see it land anyway.

“How bad?” he whispers. You let out a laugh that sounds nothing like amusement. “If I sell a kidney, we might cover the first round,” you say. “After that, we’re improvising.”

"Hey,” he says sharply. “Don’t joke about that.”

"I’m not,” you say. “Not really.” He reaches out, curls his fingers around your wrist, grounding you. “Look at me,” he says. You do. “We’re going to figure it out,” he says. “You’re not doing this alone.” The words hit a bruised part of you. Your eyes sting.

“You’re leaving,” you whisper. “In a week, you’ll be… I don’t even know where. And I’m here with a landlord breathing down my neck and a hospital billing department that sends me emails with more numbers than sentences.”

He flinches, just a little. Guilt swims through his features before he forces a smile. “Yeah, I’m leaving. And I hate that. But I’m not abandoning you. There’s a difference.”

You blink away the wetness threatening to spill. “What are you going to do, wire me moral support from a desert?”

"First of all, you love my moral support. Second, I can still send money when I can. It’s not much, but—”

"You need your money,” you cut in. “You’ll be out there, you’ll need—”

"Food? Housing?” he says. “Yeah, funny thing, the army gives you that. It’s their whole brand.”

You huff a weak laugh. He lets go of your wrist, reaching instead for two chipped bowls, filling them with hot water from the kettle on the stove. He drops in bricks of instant ramen, stirs, as if this is a ritual that matters. “There are… ways,” he says slowly, eyes on the swirling noodles. “Benefits. Stuff they give soldiers and their families.”

You lean back against the opposite counter, wiping your palms on your jeans. “Families,” you echo. “Yeah, well, unless they start recognising ‘burnt-out bar gremlin with a paint addiction’ as an official dependent, I’m screwed.” He snorts.

“There is… one thing,” he says, drawing the words out in a way that immediately makes you suspicious. “No,” you say, automatically. He grins. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

"Every time you say ‘there is one thing,’ it involves a stupid idea or potential arson.”

"This time it involves neither,” he says. “Probably.” You narrow your eyes. “Spit it out.” He hesitates, glancing toward the balcony. Through the glass, Seungcheol stands with his back to you, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders tense. You catch fragments through the faint crack where the door doesn’t quite seal.

“…told you I sent it last week.”

"No, I can’t…”

“This was supposed to be done by now.”

You drag your attention back to Soonyoung just as he says, “If you married a soldier, you’d have benefits.” You stare. “I’m sorry?” He lifts his hands, the picture of innocent chaos. “I’m just saying,” he goes on quickly. “Spouses get healthcare. Housing allowances. Extra pay. It’s kinda the only good part of this whole thing besides the snazzy boots.”

You blink. Then blink again. “Are you—” you start, then laugh, a sharp sound. “You’re joking.”

"Half-joking,” he admits. “Half ‘I’ve been thinking about this because your situation sucks and I hate it.’” He sets your bowl in front of you, steam curling up between you. You shake your head, incredulous.“I’m not marrying someone for benefits,” you say. “That’s insane. And Illegal.”

“Is it?” he asks. “People do it all the time. Get married before deployment, get the housing, the medical, all that. You’d have help with your mom’s bills, maybe a better apartment, security. You could actually breathe for five minutes.”

You grip the counter behind you, fingers digging into the edge. The worst part is, you can immediately see it. Insurance kicking in, medical bills halved, maybe wiped. Rent covered. Space to paint without counting hours in tips. You push the image away as if it burned. “Even if I was that desperate,” you say, “who am I supposed to marry? Some random private from Tinder?”

He shrugs one shoulder, that same reckless glint in his eye that makes you both love and fear him. “Marry Seungcheol.”

You choke on your own spit. “Absolutely not.” He laughs, weirdly delighted. “You two are literally two sides of the same coin. Wait, no, scratch that. Two sides of the same dog tag. Half the work is done.”

"We met once,” you say. “And he called me a riot like it was an insult.”

“You got into a fight with a guy twice your size in a bar,” Soonyoung counters. “He wasn’t wrong.”

"I was doing my job.”

"You were doing that thing where you throw yourself between chaos and everyone else,” he says. “It’s very noble. It’s also very likely to get you punched in the face." You scowl, heat rising in your cheeks.

“Even if I wanted to,” you insist, “which I don’t—” Soonyoung opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off by the faint sound of Seungcheol’s voice through the glass.

“You can’t keep calling me about this,” he says, voice low but edged. “I said I’m handling it.”

A faint rumble answers him—the other voice too muffled to make out the words, but the tone is clear: sharp, frustrated, authoritative. Another rumble. Seungcheol’s free hand tightens on the balcony railing, knuckles pale. “Don’t,” he says quietly. Deadly. “Don’t bring him into this.”

The silence that follows is heavier than the noise of the city. His profile is hard, eyes focused on some point in the distance that doesn’t exist. You shouldn’t be listening. You know that. But the words seep through the glass anyway.

“I have to go,” he declares, voice flat now. “I’ll send what I can next month.” He ends the call, staring at the dark screen for a second before slipping the phone into his pocket. He rests his second hand on the railing, head dropping forward. For just a heartbeat, he looks like someone held together by sheer force of will and not much else. Then he straightens, pulling the mask back on, and slides the balcony door open.

You snap your gaze back to Soonyoung so fast your neck twinges. He’s watching you, an unreadable expression on his face. You wonder how much he’s heard over the months, how much he pretends not to know.

Seungcheol steps back inside, the cold clinging to him.

“Everything okay?” Soonyoung asks casually, like he didn’t hear any of what you both just heard. Seungcheol’s eyes flick between the two of you. If he suspects you overheard, he doesn’t show it.

“Fine,” he says. “What are you talking about?”

"Nothing important,” you say quickly.

Soonyoung throws you a look that says, “We are absolutely talking about something important,” and then barrels ahead anyway. “Actually,” he says, “we were discussing how my favourite person in the world is in a terrible situation and how the government owes her better.”

“Your favourite person?” you ask, arching a brow. “That’s a rotating title.”

"You’re in the top three,” he assures you. “Anyway, I was explaining how if she married a soldier, she’d get benefits—healthcare, housing, all that fun stuff they use to trick us into signing our lives away.”

You shoot him a warning look, but he’s already committed. Seungcheol’s gaze sharpens, shifting from Soonyoung to you. “So, I said,” Soonyoung continues, oblivious to the way the air thickens, “she should just marry you.”

The room goes quiet. You stare at Soonyoung because that’s easier than looking at Seungcheol. “I told you I’m not that desperate,” you say tightly. It’s meant to be a joke. It doesn’t sound like one. Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes goes colder.

“Absolutely not,” he says. The words are immediate, automatic, like they’ve been waiting on the back of his tongue for years. They hit harder than they should. Your pride, already bruised from landlords and hospital bills and overheard phone calls, flares. “Relax,” you say sharply. “Nobody’s asking you to fall on a sword for me. It was a hypothetical.”

"It’s not happening,” he says, voice flat. “Hypothetical or not.” You turn toward him fully now, anger chasing away the lingering ache. “Trust me, commander,” you say, the nickname sliding out sharper than you intend, “you’re not exactly on my list of dream husbands.”

His jaw ticks at the word. “The feeling is mutual, Riot.”

"It’s not even about you,” you snap. “I’m not planning to try and scam some poor, unsuspecting soldier out of his benefits.”

He snorts softly.” Good, because I’m not putting my career on the line so someone can treat marriage like another messy experiment they can walk away from when it gets inconvenient.” The words slam into that raw, tender place you keep carefully hidden.

“You think that’s what I do?” you demand. “Walk away when things get hard?” He meets your gaze head-on. “I think you have a habit of jumping into situations without thinking and expect someone else to clean it up.”

Images flash in your mind: you between two men at the bar, Soonyoung dragging you out of a party when you called him from the bathroom floor, your mother apologising for hospital bills that don’t have her name on them alone. You step closer, hands trembling with anger. “Congratulations,” you say, your smile all teeth. “You’re safe. I wouldn’t marry you if my life depended on it.”

"Good,” he says again, as if the discussion is already over. “Because mine does.”

The words hang there for a moment, too heavy to parse. You open your mouth to ask what that even means, but the tightness around his eyes and the lingering echo of his phone call slam into place in your head. You shut your mouth.

Soonyoung, who has been silently watching this dumpster fire, throws his hands up. “Okay,” he announces. “New rule. Nobody marries anybody. Nobody insults anybody. Nobody throws punches or metaphors. We’re all stressed and there is ramen getting soggy on this counter and I refuse to let it die in vain.”

You drag your gaze away from Seungcheol, chest heaving, and look at Soonyoung. “I should go,” you mutter. “I have a shift tonight.”

"You just got here,” Soonyoung says, hurt flickering across his features.

“Yeah, well,” you say, shoulders already turning toward the door, “my landlord wants all his money and the hospital wants all of theirs, so I should probably get back to serving drinks to people who don’t talk like they’re better than everyone else.” The last part is aimed at Seungcheol, and from the way his jaw tightens, he knows it.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Soonyoung says, reaching for your arm. You step out of reach gently. “I’m not alone,” you say. “I have you. Until they ship you off to follow orders from people who don’t know your name.” He flinches. You regret it immediately, but the words are already out there, buzzing in the air. “Hey,” he says quietly. “That’s not fair.”

"Nothing is,” you reply, voice cracking. You grab your jacket from the couch and shove your arms into the sleeves. You step out into the hallway, pull the door closed behind you, and lean against it for a second, breathing hard. Your life feels like a painting you’ve tried to fix too many times—layers and layers of corrections until the canvas starts to warp.

You thought meeting Seungcheol once was bad enough.

Turns out, the universe isn’t done slapping your pride around yet.

The blender dies mid-margarita.

It coughs, wheezes, and then gives up entirely, leaving a lumpy swirl of ice and tequila that looks as tired as you feel. You stare at it for a second, hand still on the button.

“Mood,” you mutter.

The woman waiting on the drink taps her nails on the bar, the rhythm just a little too impatient to be polite.

“Is it supposed to sound like that?” she asks.

“Yes,” you say automatically, then sigh. “No. It’s dying. I’m giving it a moment to say goodbye.” She snorts, amused enough to buy you ten extra seconds. You give the blender a strategic smack and it sputters back to life, limping through the last few seconds of the blend.

It’s been three days since you stormed out of Soonyoung’s apartment. It’s also three days until he and Seungcheol deploy.

Your landlord’s text still sits at the top of your notifications: END OF THE MONTH, OR I START EVICTION PAPERWORK. THIS IS FINAL.

You scroll past it whenever you check your phone, which is often, because your brain is trying to decide whether to spiral about rent or about the hospital bill. The hospital bill wins, usually.

You’d barely stepped off the bus after visiting your mom that morning when the email landed. You’d opened it standing on the sidewalk outside your building, hands already cold. There had been a brief, surreal moment where you’d wondered what it would feel like to crumble right there on the concrete. Would anyone step over you? Would anyone stop and ask if you were okay?

You didn’t crumble. You never quite do. You just folded the fear into a smaller, tighter shape and shoved it somewhere behind your ribs.

Now, the fear is thrumming quietly while you pour bourbon into a row of shot glasses, your mind running numbers even as your hands move on autopilot. Bar shift income, tips—if you’re lucky. The tiny trickle from selling a piece last week. You’re not a mathematician, but even you can see the equation doesn’t add up.

The door swings open, letting in a gust of air and the muffled roar of traffic. You don’t look up immediately. It’s just another customer, another order, another delay before your next tiny panic.

It’s only when the air seems to shift that you glance up. He’s halfway across the room by then. No platoon this time, no entourage. Just him.

Seungcheol walks like he’s still in formation. His spine is straight, shoulders squared, gaze steady, like he’s braced for impact and the bar is just another battlefield.

Of all the nights.

You drop the rag onto the counter a little harder than necessary and reach for the nearest glass, polishing with excessive focus. If you pretend you don’t see him, maybe he’ll turn around and walk back out.

He doesn’t. He stops directly in front of you at the bar. “Hi,” he says.

You stare at him. “Are you lost?”

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost a grimace.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“We’re talking,” you say, still wiping the same clean glass. “You want a drink or a refund for the last argument?”

He glances around—a quick sweep of the room. It’s instinctive, and it irritates you more than it should. “I want five minutes,” he says. “Somewhere you’re not trying to serve six people at once.” You squint at him. “I don’t do back-room meetings with men who insult my life choices, commander.” He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s counting to ten.

“It’s important,” he says. “If you tell me no after you hear it, I’ll walk away. That’s it.”

You hate that your curiosity stirs even as your pride kicks and screams. From the end of the bar, your manager lifts a hand. “Take five!” he calls. “We’re good for a bit!”

Traitor.

You place the glass down behind the counter, wipe your hands on your apron, and jerk your chin toward the far end of the bar where a small service corridor leads to the back door and a tiny office.

“Make it quick,” you say. “If I get fired, I’m sending you the hospital bills.”

"You should be sending those to someone,” he mutters. You don’t ask what he means. You just push open the door to the alley and step out into the cold. Seungcheol follows you out, letting the door fall shut behind him. The thump of bass and murmur of voices weaken, leaving just the hum of the city and the buzz of the neon sign above the back entrance.

You lean against the brick wall, approximating casual.

“Three minutes,” you say. “I’m generous.” He studies you for a long moment. “You remember Soonyoung’s idea,” he says finally.

You make a face. “You’re going to have to be more specific. He has at least six terrible ideas per hour.”

"The one about military benefits,” he says. “About you marrying a soldier.”

You scoff. “Yeah. The punchline of last week.” His jaw flexes.

“He wasn’t wrong,” he says. “About the benefits.”

You straighten, arms dropping a little. “If you came out here to recruit me into a pyramid scheme disguised as a wedding, I’m clocking back in.”

"Listen, please,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Less judgment. More… strain. You exhale, breath fogging in the cold. “I’m listening,” you say. “Unfortunately.” He nods once, like he’s accepting your terms. “You need money,” he says bluntly. “For your mom. For rent. You’re not keeping up. You don’t have to confirm it. It’s obvious.”

“You got all that from looking at my bank app over my shoulder?”

"You came to Soonyoung’s place to ask for help,” he says. "He said as much. I’m not an idiot.” You look away, staring at the dumpsters instead of his face. “And you?” you ask tightly. “You just like brainstorming illegal life choices for fun?”

He goes quiet.

“I need money too,” he says eventually. “There are… things I have to pay off. People who need that money more than I need my pride.”

“So you want to commit fraud together,” you say. He exhales slowly.

“I want a contract. An agreement. Strict rules. We get married on paper before I deploy. You get access to my benefits—healthcare, housing allowance, a more stable income stream. I get the additional pay and allowances that come with having a spouse. We split what makes sense. We both use it to fix what we need to fix.”

You stare at him. “And then?”

"Then,” he says, “when I’m out and everything’s paid, we file for divorce. Clean. Mutual. No mess.” You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle.

“You make it sound like returning a pair of shoes you never wore.”

"It’s a transaction. We both know that going in.”

Your heart is beating too hard for a mere transaction.

“It’s fraud,” you say. “You know that, right? Lying to the military? To the government? That’s not a slap-on-the-wrist situation. That’s a prison sentence situation.” He doesn’t flinch. “I know exactly what it is,” he says evenly. “I also know if we do nothing, you might lose your home, and your mom might not get what she needs. And there are people who will come after me—or my family—if I don’t get them their money.”

His voice drops on that last word, something dark shading the syllables.

You search his face, trying to read between the lines. You remember the balcony, the tension in his jaw, the way he’d said Don’t bring him into this and I said I’m handling it.

“Who is after you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His eyes flicker, a brief flash of surprise. Then his gaze shutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Point is, we both have a problem that this solves.” You push off the wall, pacing a short line in the alley. Your boots scuff against the concrete. “Why me?” you demand. “You could marry anyone. Some sweet, sensible person who doesn’t turn every room into a mess.”

"Because Soonyoung trusts you. Because I’ve seen you step between two drunk idiots without thinking. Because I was wrong. You might be chaotic, but you’re not a liar.” You stare at him. “You’re literally asking me to lie.”

“On paper. Not about who you are.” You drag your hands over your face, fingers pressing into your eyes. He’s right and he’s wrong, and you hate that those things can be true at the same time.

“There would be rules,” he says, as if ticking items off a list. “No real feelings. No pretending this is something it’s not. We agree on boundaries. We don’t sabotage each other’s lives. We don’t sleep with half the town and post it on social media.” You look up sharply. “Did you just imply I’m out here sleeping with half the town?” He huffs a breath. “It was a general statement,” he says. “Applies to both of us.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what about when you’re deployed?” you ask, forcing your brain back into the present. “We suddenly become pen pals to sell the story?”

"We keep in touch enough that it doesn’t look suspicious,” he confirms. “Emails. Calls when we can. Social media posts so it looks like we’re trying. If they check, there’s history.”

It’s terrifying how logical he makes it sound. As if you both aren’t standing on the edge of something enormous. You lean back against the wall again, staring up at the sliver of night sky visible between buildings.

“If they catch us,” you finally ask, “what happens?”

“I get court-martialed. I lose my career. Benefits go away. You get dragged into the mess. Best-case scenario, we pay fines. Worst-case…"

He doesn’t finish. You can fill in the worst-case yourself.

You close your eyes.

There’s a painting you started last week, one you can’t afford to ruin with another failed experiment. It’s big—too big for your apartment, really—but it felt right. It was supposed to be about balance: structured lines and chaotic colour, order and mess in conversation. Now, all you can see is the blank space you left in the middle because you didn’t know how to tie it together. This feels like that blank space. Like you’re about to throw paint at it and hope it lands in a way that makes sense.

“Why now?” you whisper. “You hated the idea last time.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low.

“Because I thought I could handle it on my own. I can’t. Not in time. Not before we leave.”

You open your eyes and look at him.

You think of Soonyoung, about to board a plane and leave you behind.

You think of the word riot on his tongue and the word commander on yours, and how neither of you expected any of this when he walked into your bar.

“No real feelings,” you say slowly. “Strict rules. Divorce as soon as you’re out and the debts are paid.” He nods. “That’s the deal,” he says. “You help me. I help you. We keep each other afloat, and then we let go.”

“You make marriage sound like a business partnership.”

"It is,” he declares. “In this case.”

You search his face one last time, looking for a reason to say no. You find desperation instead. Something in you—stubborn, reckless, exhausted—tips. “Fine,” you say, the word tasting like a leap. “I’m in.”

Relief flashes across his features too quickly. His shoulders unclench by a fraction. “Okay,” he says, exhale fogging between you. “We don’t have much time. I deploy in three days. We have to get the paperwork filed as soon as possible.” You try not to flinch at the number. Three days.

“Courthouse?” you ask.

He nods. “Tomorrow. I’ll bring the forms. Soonyoung will come as a witness. We’ll keep it simple.”

You scoff. “Simple,” you repeat. “Right.”

He straightens. The decision has been made, and now it’s just logistics.

“We’ll go over details later,” he says. “You can bail before we sign anything if you change your mind.” You shake your head, lips twisting.

“You don’t know me very well if you think I’m not gonna double down on a bad idea once I commit, commander.” His eyes soften just a little at the nickname this time. “Try not to burn my life down, riot,” he mutters. You swallow, hard. “No promises,” you say.

Inside, someone yells that they’re out of limes. You look back at the door, then at him. For a heartbeat, you both just stand there in the alley, the air between you thick with what you’re about to do.

Fake marriage. Real benefits. Strict rules. No real feelings.

You cling to that last one like a safety line as you push off the wall.

“Tomorrow,” you say. He nods once. “Tomorrow.”

You go back inside to pour drinks and pretend your life isn’t about to become a legal contract with the man who called you a mess after taking one look at you.

You stand at the foot of the courthouse steps, suddenly very aware that your shoes are not wedding shoes.

They’re scuffed boots, the same ones you wore to work last night, and they creak a little when you shift your weight. You tug at the hem of your dress, such as it is. It’s not really a dress so much as a white-ish thing you found at the back of your closet at two in the morning—a slip you’d bought at a thrift store once with the vague intention of turning it into a costume or painting in it. It’s a soft, creamy white that’s seen better days, but it passes at a distance if you don’t look too closely at the faint paint speck on the skirt. You’ve paired it with a cardigan and tights, because it’s not like you had the foresight to buy a coat designed for impulsive fraud marriages.

Your phone is a weight in your bag, full of unread emails from the hospital, a text from your landlord asking if you’d gotten his “reminder,” and a single message from Soonyoung: Don’t freak out before I get there. That’s my job.

Easy for him to say.

The courthouse looms above you, all stone and steps and the kind of architecture that wants to remind you it can outlast your bad decisions.

You’re about to go inside and make one of the biggest choices of your life in front of a bored stranger with a stamp. You resist the urge to turn around and walk away.

“You look like you’re considering bolting,” a voice says behind you.

You turn, and he’s there, because of course he is.

Seungcheol in uniform is a different kind of problem than Seungcheol in sweats or jeans.

The dress blues fit him too well, the jacket sitting perfectly over his shoulders, medals and ribbons you don’t know how to read gleaming against dark fabric. His shoes are so polished that they could probably blind someone if the sun hit them wrong. He looks like he stepped out of a recruitment poster.

“You look like you’re about to arrest me,” you attempt at a joke. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not yet.”

You drag your gaze away from the line of his jaw and focus on something safe, like the courthouse doors. “Where’s Soonyoung?” you ask.

“Parking. He’ll be here.”

“Good,” you mutter. “Someone has to witness my descent into madness.”

He studies you for a moment. “You look…” You arch a brow. “Careful.”

He clears his throat. “…like you didn’t sleep,” he finishes.

You snort. “Is that your way of telling me I look like shit on your big day, commander?”

His jaw tightens, but there’s less heat behind it now. “It’s not my day,” he says. “It’s a transaction.” You roll your eyes. “Nothing says romance like tax terminology.”

He glances at you, and for the first time since you met him, there’s a flicker of something like uncertainty on his face.

“You can still walk away,” he says quietly. “We haven’t signed anything. If this feels wrong, if you think you can find another way…”

You bark out a laugh before you can help it. “Another way?” you echo. “Did the ‘bank of magic solutions’ open overnight and nobody told me?” He doesn’t smile. “I’m serious,” he says. “Once we do this, it’s not easy to undo. Not quietly.”

You look up at the building again.

You think of your mother’s hand in yours, the tremor, the way her eyes drifted away while you talked, like she was already half elsewhere.

“I know what I’m doing,” you say. “Kind of.” He exhales, slowly. “Then we go inside,” he says.

“Wait for me, assholes!” The shout echoes up the steps.

Soonyoung is jogging toward you, hair mussed, tie askew, shoving some kind of pastry into his mouth as he goes. He’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s attended more bad weddings than good ones.

He skids to a stop a few steps below you, breathing heavily.

“You started this,” you huff. “You’re not allowed to be late.”

“I brought emotional support carbs,” he says, holding up a crumpled paper bag. “That buys me forgiveness.”

You snatch the bag, peeking inside.

“You got the good bakery,” you say grudgingly.

“Obviously,” he replies. “If my best friend is marrying my commanding officer, the least I can do is spring for real croissants.”

“Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. “You’ll jinx it.” He grins, then sobers, looking between you and Seungcheol. “Last chance,” he says, unusually serious. “You both sure?”

You look at Seungcheol. He is already watching you, eyes steady. You have the wild, irrational thought that if you say no now, he’ll just turn around and find another solution, and you’ll go back to trying to outrun your bills with minimum wage and tips. You also have the equally wild thought that if you say no, you’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if you’d said yes.

“I’m sure,” you finally reply. Seungcheol nods once. “Me too.”

Soonyoung exhales dramatically. “Okay then,” he says. “Let’s go commit fraud.”

“Stop calling it that,” you and Seungcheol say at the same time. You look at each other. The smallest, strangest bubble of humour pops in your chest. Soonyoung beams. “See? Already finishing each other’s sentences.” You flip him off. He pretends to be wounded.

The three of you climb the steps together.

Inside, the clerk barely looks up when you approach the counter, just slides a stack of forms toward you and points you toward a row of plastic chairs. You sit side by side, pens scratching, filling in boxes with information that feels suddenly enormous: name, date of birth, address. Occupation. You hesitate over that one, then scribble “bartender/artist” in cramped letters. You catch Seungcheol’s form out of the corner of your eye. He writes “active duty soldier” with neat, precise strokes.

Marital status: single. You check it for the last time.

The pen feels heavy when you move it to the next line. When you’re done, you slide the forms back across the counter. The clerk stamps them with the enthusiasm of someone whose soul has slowly been siphoned out by bureaucracy.

“Judge will see you in ten,” she says, pointing down a hallway.

You sit there with the paper ceremony settling around you.

“We should go over the rules,” Seungcheol says quietly. You look at him. “Now?”

“We might not get another chance alone,” he says. “Once we file everything, things move fast. There’s paperwork on base. Admins. My CO.” You grimace. “Okay. Rules.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Number one, we tell as few people as possible. Soonyoung knows. Obviously. Beyond that, we stick to ‘we got married fast, we’re head over heels in love.’ No elaboration.”

You nod. “Agreed.”

“Number two,” he continues, “we keep our finances transparent where they overlap. Housing allowance, medical bills—anything we’re using this marriage for, we both have visibility. No surprises.”

“So no taking your BAH and blowing it on a boat,” you say. He gives you a deadpan look. “Do you want a boat?” he asks.

“I want my mom to live,” you say. “After that, we can talk about boats.”

Something in his expression softens. “Then that’s the priority.” You swallow. “Rule three,” he says. “No real feelings.” You almost laugh.

“Define ‘real,’” you say. “Because I already really want to punch some of your personality traits.” His mouth twitches. “We keep it simple,” he says. “We don’t build… expectations. We don’t promise things we can’t keep. We don’t pretend this is some great love story.” The words land awkwardly.

“So no falling in love,” you say lightly. “Got it.”

“Exactly."

“Rule four,” you add. “If either of us wants out after you’re done with your contract and the money situation is handled, we file. No questions asked. No guilt-tripping.”

He nods. “Rule five: we protect each other. If this goes bad, if someone starts digging, we don’t throw the other person under the bus to save ourselves.”

You look at him for a moment too long. “You really think I’d do that?” you ask, quietly.

“I think people do desperate things when they’re scared. I’m scared. You’re scared. I’d rather say it out loud now than pretend we’re not.”

You sit with that for a second. He’s not wrong.

“Then rule six,” you finalise, surprising yourself. “We don’t lie to each other. We’re already lying to everyone else. We don’t lie in here.”

You tap your chest lightly. His eyes flick down, then back up.

“Agreed.”

The clerk’s voice cuts across the room. “Choi, Seungcheol and…”

She butchers your name halfway through and gives up. You raise your hand. “That’s us.” You stand. Your knees feel less stable than you’d like.

Soonyoung falls into step beside you, vibrating with barely contained commentary.

“Okay, deep breath,” he whispers encouragingly. "Remember: this is fine. Totally normal. People impulsively marry near-strangers all the time. Vegas exists.”

"This isn’t Vegas,” you mutter.

“We can get a fake Elvis after to officiate spiritually,” he says. You elbow him.

The judge is an older woman with kind eyes and a stack of files that suggest she’s seen every version of this before. Her office is plain, a flag in the corner, diplomas on the wall, a faint smell of stale coffee.

She looks up as you enter, glances at the forms in front of her, then at you and Seungcheol. Her gaze lingers on his uniform, then shifts to your thrift-store white.

“Quick one, huh?” she says, tone dry but not unkind.

“Ma’am,” Seungcheol greets, standing a little straighter. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“You both understand what you’re doing?” she asks. “This is a legal bond. Not a trial subscription.”

You think about saying something flippant, but the words dry up.

“Yes,” you say.

“Yes, ma’am,” Seungcheol echoes. She nods, satisfied enough. “All right then,” she says. “Stand here, please.”

You and Seungcheol move to stand before her desk, side by side. Your hand brushes his. You feel him flinch, then go still. Soonyoung hovers behind you, practically buzzing, his phone out, recording the whole ordeal.

The judge picks up a small sheet of paper, then sets it back down, apparently deciding she doesn’t need it. "Do you, Choi Seungcheol, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to support and care for her, as long as you both shall live?”

You look up at him. He looks down at you.

His eyes are dark and serious and, for a moment, stripped of all the defences he usually keeps between himself and the world.

“I do,” he says.

The words land in your chest with more weight than they have any right to. The judge turns to you.

“And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to support and care for him, as long as you both shall live?”

You swallow.

You think of all the ways this is wrong. The lies it’s built on. The ticking clock of his deployment. The fact that you still don’t know what exactly he’s paying off or who he is as a person. You also think of your mother, of your landlord, of the small measure of control this might give you back.

Of the way he said We protect each other.

You lift your chin.

“I do,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake.

The judge smiles faintly. “Rings?” she asks.

Soonyoung practically lunges forward, producing a small velvet box like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

“I got the classics,” he whispers as he opens it.

Two simple bands. No frills. No diamonds. Just gold, plain and bright. You don’t ask how he paid for them.

You take one ring, your fingers trembling around the cool metal. The judge nods toward Seungcheol. “Repeat after me,” she articulates. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

Seungcheol takes your left hand, his fingers warm against your skin. His thumb brushes your knuckle for half a second, sending a startled jolt up your arm. “With this ring,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “I thee wed.”

He slides the band onto your finger. It fits better than you expected. He must have guessed your size, or maybe Soonyoung did. Either way, the weight of it is shocking. Foreign and familiar all at once.

You clear your throat and take the second ring. His hand is larger than yours, calloused, steady.

“With this ring,” you say, feeling mildly ridiculous and completely overwhelmed, “I thee wed.” The band glides over his knuckle, settles at the base of his finger like it belongs there. You let go of his hand more slowly than you mean to.

The judge watches you both, then nods, picking up her stamp.

“By the authority vested in me,” she says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The stamp comes down with a dull thud on the paperwork.

“You may kiss,” she adds.

You freeze.

You hadn’t thought about this part. Or you had, late last night, when your brain was spinning, but you’d shoved it aside the way you shove aside thoughts about falling and drowning. Now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to shove it. You look up at him.

You see the moment he runs through the same calculations—how this will look if you don’t. How it will look if you do. The judge is watching. The invisible future military admin who might someday scrutinise your wedding file.

His hand comes up, fingers resting lightly at the side of your neck, as if he’s giving you a chance to pull away. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, the touch surprisingly gentle.

Then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like he’s trying very hard not to make a mistake, and somehow that makes it worse. Better. His lips are warm, the pressure careful, the angle cautious. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint.

You’re supposed to keep this light. Quick. For show.

You don’t.

You lean into it without meaning to, your fingers curling in the front of his uniform jacket. His breath stutters just a little, and you feel that, too.

For a few seconds, the courtroom disappears. There’s only the taste of him, the steady anchor of his hand, the way your chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like longing.

You pull back first, because someone has to.

His eyes open slowly. They’re darker than before, pupils blown wide.

You don’t know what he sees on your face, but his expression shifts, something soft flickering through before the mask comes back down.

Soonyoung makes a choked noise behind you that sounds suspiciously like “Oh my god.”

You step back, clearing your throat.

“Congratulations,” the judge says, amused. “Sign here and you’re official.”

The rest is ink, signatures, and more stamps.

You sign your name next to his on a paper that says you belong to each other now, in some legal, mechanical way that doesn’t yet match the way it felt when his lips were on yours. When it’s done, you step out of the courthouse into the cold, rings catching the grey light.

Soonyoung throws his arms around both of you at once, nearly knocking you off balance. “You did it,” he says, voice thick with something that might be pride or might be panic. “You idiots actually did it.”

"Language,” you say weakly. “I’m a married woman.”

He snorts.

Seungcheol stands beside you, hand flexing like he’s not sure where to put it now that it’s no longer on your neck, on your back, on the pen signing away his bachelor status.

You look at your hand. At the ring sitting there, simple and bright. You told yourself this was fake. Paper-thin. Transactional.

But as the metal warms against your skin and the ghost of his kiss still tingles on your mouth, you can’t shake the feeling that something about this is very, very real.

You glance up at him.

“Well,” you say, voice lighter than you feel, “congratulations, commander. Try not to regret this too quickly.”

He looks back at you, his own ring glinting as he rubs his thumb over it once. “Too late,” he mutters, but his eyes soften in a way that tells you he’s lying. Maybe you both are.

Either way, the vows are done. The papers are signed.

And whether you like it or not, you’re in this together now.

The restaurant is louder than it has any right to be for a Thursday.

Clinking cutlery. Bursts of laughter that spike over the general murmur. A TV in the corner is playing a game that nobody at your table is really watching. Somewhere, a baby shrieks and is shushed. The air smells like grilled meat, garlic, and something fried that Mingyu has already promised he’s going to order “for the table” and then eat half of himself.

You sit in the middle of it all, at a long pushed-together arrangement of tables near the back—platoon, partners, and soon-to-be-missing chairs. Seungcheol sits beside you on one side, Soonyoung on the other. Your ring glints under the yellow light every time you pick up your glass. It still feels too heavy on your finger, like your hand hasn’t gotten the memo yet. Across from you, Mingyu is mid-story, gesturing with his chopsticks like they’re a prop.

“—and then the instructor looks at him and goes, ‘You are the stupidest brave man I’ve ever met,’” Mingyu says, pointing dramatically at Soonyoung.

“It was a tactical roll,” Soonyoung protests, picking up a piece of steak. “I was providing a distraction.”

“You tripped over your own foot,” Vernon says dryly next to him.

“And yet,” Soonyoung says, “here I am, alive and full of protein. You’re welcome.”

Mingyu’s girlfriend—Nari, sharp-eyed and currently wedged against his side like she’s permanently attached—laughs into her wine. “You didn’t tell me you enrolled in clown school,” she says. “I thought this was the army.”

“Hybrid program,” Vernon murmurs.

You take a sip of your drink, the cold fizz sitting strangely on your tongue. You’ve been aware of the clock all day, ticking louder than everything else. Three days turned into two, then into one. Now it’s the night before.

Tomorrow, they deploy. Tomorrow, you drive to base with him like a proper military wife and watch him walk through a gate you can’t cross. You try not to think about tomorrow. So you count things instead.

The number of chicken wings on the platter in the centre of the table. The number of times Soonyoung has topped off someone’s beer. The number of times your ring has caught the corner of your eye and made your stomach flip.

You feel the warmth of Seungcheol’s shoulder next to yours even when he’s not touching you. His posture is still straight, but something in him is looser. He’s laughed a few times. Genuine laughs, quick and surprised, like they caught him off guard. Every time, you’ve pretended not to notice. You fail.

“So,” Mingyu says suddenly, zeroing in on you. “Tell us about the wedding.” You almost choke on your drink. “What about it?” you ask. He leans forward, eyes bright. “Don’t what-about it me. Last week, you two were arguing in a bar about ‘sticks’ and ‘asses’, and now you show up married? I feel betrayed. I didn’t even get to place bets.”

Nari elbows him. “Don’t bully them,” she scolds. “They’re newlyweds.”

You feel your cheeks heat at the word. Newlyweds. Fake, you remind yourself. On paper only.

Across the table, Seokmin props his chin on his hand, squinting at you over his beer. “Seriously,” he says, already a little pink-cheeked from the alcohol. “I thought you hated each other. Like. Seriously hated. Did we hallucinate that?”

“You saw right,” you say. “He was insufferable.”

“She still is,” Seungcheol says automatically. Heads swivel between you like they’re watching a rally.

“And yet,” Vernon says, “here we are.”

Soonyoung clears his throat, shooting you a quick warning glance that says Careful. You force your shoulders to relax.

“What happened?” Jihoon asks quietly. He’s been mostly silent all night, nursing his drink, eyes tracking each person as they speak. Now his gaze rests on you, steady and sharp. You open your mouth, brain scrambling for a script that doesn’t include the words fraud or panic. “We…”

“We ran into each other again,” Seungcheol says smoothly, picking up the thread. You look at him, startled. He keeps his eyes on the table, voice even.

“After that night at the bar,” he continues, “I went back. To see Soonyoung. She was there. We talked.”

Mingyu snorts. “Pretty sure what I saw that first night wasn’t talking.”

“Argued,” Seungcheol amends. “A lot.” You can’t help the little huff that escapes you. “Still accurate.” He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But, somewhere in the middle of that,” he says, “it… stopped being just arguing.”

The table collectively leans in. “Stopped how?” Seokmin demands. Nari nudges him. “Let them breathe, you gremlin.”

“You gonna tell me you didn’t want to know?” Seokmin asks. She opens her mouth, then closes it, guilty. “…Carry on.”

You should say something. You should contribute to the lie you both agreed to tell. Instead, you find yourself remembering the courthouse—the feel of his fingers at your neck, the press of his mouth on yours, careful and restrained and not nearly as fake as you’d planned. “We didn’t… plan any of it,” you say, which is maybe the truest thing you’ve said all night. “It just… happened fast.”

“Fast,” Vernon repeats, amused. “Very fast,” Jihoon says under his breath, but he doesn’t sound mocking. Just… noting.

“Sometimes you just know,” Nari says wistfully, squeezing Mingyu’s arm. He beams down at her like she hung the moon.

“Exactly,” Seokmin says, raising his glass. “Some people take years. Some people take one badly managed bar fight.”

“Honestly, hyung,” Mingyu says to Seungcheol, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Had what?” Seungcheol asks. Mingyu grins. “The ability to fall in love without scheduling it six months in advance.”

Your spine goes rigid. Love. You nearly drop your utensils. Next to you, you feel Seungcheol go still for half a heartbeat, then relax again in a carefully measured way.

“Love’s not a training schedule,” he says, taking a sip of water. “Even I know that.”

It’s a good line. Smooth. Charming.

You flick your gaze up at him. His expression is the same calm mask, but his hand under the table has curled into a loose fist on his knee. No real feelings, he’d said. Rules. Boundaries. You feel like you’re tap-dancing across a minefield in flip-flops.

Soonyoung leans in closer to your other side, voice low. “You okay?” he murmurs. “Peachy,” you mutter back. “Just lying to the federal government by proxy over appetisers.” He winces. “Think of it as… storytelling with legal consequences.”

“So comforting,” you say. Mingyu, oblivious, leans across the table again. “So what was it?” he asks eagerly. “Like, the moment? The ‘oh shit, I like this person’ moment? Was it at the bar? Was it later?”

You open your mouth, brain a blank slate.

“It was when she called me commander,” Seungcheol says. You stare at him. “That,” he adds, “was definitely the moment.”

The table cracks up.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. You fail. A snort escapes you, and suddenly, the knot in your chest loosens just a fraction. “You were such an ass,” you say. “You started it,” he replies.

“You judged my entire personality based on my job.”

“You insulted my spine.”

“Fairly,” you say.

The conversation shifts. Missions, rumours about where they’ll be sent, and shared complaints about training. Words like rotation and deployment, and if we get back thrown around with forced lightness.

You try to keep your breathing even as the reality of tomorrow presses in again.

At some point, Seokmin starts flirting blatantly with the waitress—a pretty girl with a ponytail and a deadpan sense of humour—calling her an angel every time she refills his glass.

“If you keep this up,” Vernon tells him, “she’s going to spit in your drink.”

“Joke’s on you,” Seokmin says. “I’m into that.” The waitress snorts. “I’m not nearly paid enough for that kind of kink, sweetheart.”

You watch them banter, feeling oddly detached, like you’re watching someone else’s life.

Your glass is empty, and your throat is dry, and the noise at the table is starting to buzz in your ears. You need a drink.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you say, standing.

Seungcheol looks up. “Want me to—”

“Stay,” you say quickly. “I can handle a bar line.”

You make your way through the restaurant toward the bar at the far end. It’s three people deep, a line of bodies pressed against the counter, calling out orders toward the overworked bartender.

You slip into a gap at the corner, resting your elbows on the wood, waiting for a window. The bartender finally slides toward you. “What can I get you?” he yells over the noise. “Gin and tonic,” you shout back. “And a beer—whatever draft’s decent.” He nods, already moving.

You let your gaze drift while you wait, shoulders slowly unclenching.

“Didn’t I see you over there with the soldiers?” The voice comes from your left. You turn your head.

The guy is about your age, maybe a little older, in a button-down shirt that’s trying very hard to be casual and failing. Hair styled, cologne strong. Attractive in a generic way, like a stock photo of “guy at bar.”

He jerks his chin roughly in the direction of your table.

“You’re with them, right?” You blink. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops pointedly to your hand on the bar, where your ring is plainly visible. “And married,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say again, a little tighter. “Very.” He smiles. It’s not particularly friendly. “To one of them?” he asks. “Let me guess. The serious one who looks like he sleeps in a straight line.” Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “Ding, ding, ding,” you reply.

He leans in, crowding your space in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“Shame he’s heading out,” he says, voice dropping. “Those guys are always gone more than they’re home. Lonely nights, am I right?”

Your stomach turns. “I’m good,” you say flatly.

He ignores that. “Just saying,” he continues, “once he ships out, you shouldn’t have to wait around bored. Could have some fun in the meantime.”

It takes you a second to process what he’s implying. When it lands, something hot and furious flashes through you so fast it makes your fingers tingle. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Come on,” he says. “You think you’re the first soldier’s wife to—”

“Stop talking,” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice. His brows lift in mock surprise. “Touchy,” he says. “I’m just offering options. You’re married, not dead. And if he’s dumb enough to leave someone like you alone for months at a time—”

“Back off,” you snap.

People nearby glance over, then look away when they realise it’s just another bar conversation getting heated. He smiles a little wider, apparently mistaking your anger for some kind of game. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not asking you to cheat while he’s watching. We can wait until tomorrow.” Your hand curls into a fist on the bar before you consciously decide to do it. “You’re done,” you say, low and lethal. “Walk away.”

He laughs softly. “What’s he gonna do about it from halfway across the world?”

A hand lands on your hip, broad, warm, and very much not halfway across the world. Fingers splay wide, claiming, the weight of that touch as startling as it is grounding. You feel the solid line of a body press in close at your side, heat seeping through the thin fabric of your dress.

“She told you to back off,” a familiar voice says near your ear. Your pulse kicks.

Seungcheol.

He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your temple, close enough that his chest brushes your shoulder when he inhales. His other hand comes up, resting on the bar just past your glass, effectively bracketing you in. The guy’s eyes flick to Seungcheol, then to the hand on your hip, then down to the ring on that hand, back up to the matching band on yours. Whatever bravado he had falters.

“Hey, man,” he says, hands lifting a fraction in mock surrender. “Just talking.”

Seungcheol’s fingers tighten on your hip, just enough that you feel the pressure through muscle and bone. “Didn’t sound like talking,” he says, voice calm but edged with something that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “Sounded like you were disrespecting my wife.”

There it is. My wife.

It lands heavy, like the words are being nailed into the space between you and this stranger so there’s no confusion. The guy laughs weakly.

“Look, it’s not that serious,” he says. “I was just saying—”

“You were just saying she should keep you in mind after I deploy,” Seungcheol cuts in, not raising his voice. “You were just saying she should treat our vows like a suggestion.” The guy’s mouth snaps shut. His gaze flicks to your face, then back to Seungcheol’s, trying to gauge how far he can push this. Seungcheol shifts just enough that his body is between you and the man now, his hand never leaving your hip. You can see the line of his jaw, the steady, contained anger there.

“Here’s what’s going to happen instead,” he says quietly. “You’re going to walk away. You’re not going to look at her again. You’re not going to talk to her again. Because if I hear another word out of your mouth in her direction, I’m not going to be this polite about it.”

There’s nothing theatrical in the way he says it. No raised voice, no puffed-up chest. Just certainty, like he’s stating a fact. For a moment, the guy seems to consider testing him. Then he looks past Seungcheol’s shoulder, toward your table. You risk a glance too.

Mingyu, Seokmin, Vernon, Jihoon, and Soonyoung are all watching. None of them are laughing now. There’s a particular kind of stillness around soldiers when they’re appraising a situation, and right now it’s focused entirely on this man. The guy swallows.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “She can do better.”

“And that’s on her to decide,” Seungcheol says. The guy huffs, tries to muster some dignity, and peels away from the bar, disappearing back into the crowd.

The hum of the restaurant washes back in as he goes. Someone laughs, a glass shatters somewhere, and the bartender curses. Seungcheol doesn’t move his hand from your hip. You realise your shoulders are tense enough to ache. You exhale slowly, trying to get your heartbeat under control.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, but it comes out too soft. He turns his head, eyes finding yours.

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

His thumb brushes the fabric of your dress, a small, almost absent-minded sweep that sends heat spiralling through you. “You okay?” he asks. You nod. “I had it.”

"I know you did,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to stand over there and watch some asshole talk about you like that.”

For a moment, you forget you’re supposed to be pretending. You forget this is all part of a script you agreed on. You just feel his hand, the solid warmth of him, the way the words my wife still echo in your chest.

He glances toward the bar mirror, where a slice of your table is visible, a distorted reflection of five men definitely pretending not to stare.

“They’re watching,” he murmurs. “I noticed.”

His lips twitch. Then his hand on the bar shifts, his fingers catching yours where they’re curled around your gin and tonic. Gently, he turns your hand, lifting it just enough that both of your rings flash together in the light. He makes sure anyone looking can see. “Just so there’s no more confusion,” he says quietly.

Before you can come up with a response—sarcastic, deflecting, anything—he leans in. His mouth finds yours.

It’s not tentative this time. Not a quick brush, not an almost-accidental press. He kisses you like he means to erase any lingering idea that guy might have had of you being available. You gasp softly against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, tilting his head and brushing his tongue inside. Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric. You feel the steady thud of his heart under your palm, the heat of his chest. His hand at your hip tightens, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush.

The world narrows to the slide of his mouth, the faint taste of whatever he was drinking, the way he makes a low sound in his throat when you respond without thinking, your tongue brushing against his.

He doesn’t drag it out. It’s not obscene. But it’s not demure either.

It’s enough that there’s no mistaking it for anything but what it is: a claim, a message, a very clear she’s with me painted in the space between you.

When he finally pulls back, your lungs feel a little short on air.

His eyes open slowly. “Just making sure everyone got the point,” he says quietly. “You could’ve just waved,” you manage, but your voice is hoarse around the edges. His gaze flicks back to your mouth, then up.

“This works better,” he says.

Your heart is doing a chaotic drum solo in your chest. You desperately wish you could blame the drink.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse quietly. He huffs a tiny laugh.

“Enjoying not having random guys hit on my wife?” he says. “Sure.”

There it is again. Wife.

“You’re laying it on thick.”

He shrugs one shoulder, the motion barely jostling you. “Might as well make it convincing,” he says. “They’re still watching.”

You glance back toward the table.

He’s right.

Mingyu and Seokmin are craning their necks like vultures. Nari has both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide. Vernon is pretending not to look and failing. Jihoon watches, expression unreadable. Soonyoung’s brows are halfway to his hairline, a mixture of holy shit and please don’t combust on his face.

You turn back toward the bar, cheeks hot. “You’re evil,” you mutter. He smiles, small and crooked. “You married me,” he says quietly.

You grip the edge of the bar with your free hand, trying to steady yourself. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” you remind him softly. His smile fades. “I know.”

You glance at his chest, the faint outline of his dog tags under his shirt.

“We should get back,” you say, before the moment can twist into something you’re not ready to name. He nods.

He grabs the beer in one hand, your hand in the other. You feel the touch all the way up to your shoulder. You walk back to the table together.

The conversation dips as you approach, then springs back to life with exaggerated casualness.

“We were not staring,” Seokmin says immediately, which is exactly what someone who was staring would say. “Totally normal amount of staring,” Mingyu agrees. “Very respectful.” Nari is still half-hiding behind her hands.

“You guys are gross,” she says. “I love it.”

Soonyoung meets your eyes over the table. There’s something complicated there—relief, maybe. Worry. A hint of Is this still pretend? You don’t have an answer for him.

You sit down, and Seungcheol settles beside you. The bench is narrow; your thighs press together, your shoulders brushing with every small movement. He rests his arm on the back of the bench behind you. It’s an easy gesture on the surface. Couples do it all the time without thinking.

But you feel the warmth of his forearm along the back of your shoulders, the ghost of his hand close enough to curve around you again if he wanted.

You lean back. Just a little. Enough that your shoulder blades meet his arm, enough that the contact runs from his wrist to your spine.

It feels… weirdly safe there. Like a makeshift anchor in a too-loud room.

Seungcheol’s fingers brush the back of your shoulder, a barely there touch, but you feel it. You fix your gaze on your plate, trying to breathe around the strange tightness in your chest.

Tomorrow, he walks into war.

Tonight, for a few borrowed hours in a noisy restaurant, you let yourself pretend that this is just what married people do.

The motel looks like every other cheap place near a base—you can practically smell the discount military rate from the parking lot.

Flickering vacancy sign. Pale yellow doors lined up beside each other. A soda machine humming loudly beside the stairwell. The kind of place where the beds are too soft and the curtains never quite close all the way.

You stand in the cool night air with the others, the leftovers of dinner making everything fuzzy around the edges.

Seokmin is still hanging on the waitress—Jia, you learned—arm slung around her shoulders like he’s afraid she’ll blow away if he lets go. She seems more amused than bothered, steering him in the right direction every time he veers off-course.

“This is a terrible idea,” she’s saying, laughing. “I have work in the morning.”

“I’m going to war in the morning,” Seokmin replies, scandalised. “What you’re doing is patriotism.”

Mingyu and Nari are somewhere between walking and making out, his hand in her hair, her fingers hooked in his belt loop as they stumble toward their room, giggling. Vernon is holding Soonyoung’s jacket while Jihoon half-carries, half-drags him in the vague direction of their shared door. “I can walk,” Soonyoung insists, feet doing absolutely nothing to prove that. “I’m a soldier. I have legs.”

“Your legs clocked out an hour ago,” Jihoon says, breathless. “Left, hyung. Other left.”

You and Seungcheol trail at the back of the group.

His hand is wrapped around yours, fingers laced tight. It started as logistics—crowded sidewalk, people weaving through—but he hasn’t let go, and you haven’t pulled away. The metal of his ring is warm against your skin.

“You sure you want to stay out here?” you murmur, watching Soonyoung trip over absolutely nothing and laugh about it. “Last night with them before we deploy,” he says quietly. “I’ll take the chaos.”

You steal a glance up at him. He looks like someone trying very hard to memorise everything.

Rooms get assigned in a haphazard blend of planning and tipsiness.

Mingyu and Nari vanish behind a door with very little preamble.

Seokmin and Jia disappear into another, his voice floating back down the walkway. “I’m gonna marry you too if I come back as pretty as I am now,” he declares. “You’re cut off,” Jia replies while laughing, the door clicking shut behind her. Jihoon finally manages to get Soonyoung upright long enough to shove him through their doorway.

“Hydrate,” Jihoon orders.

“Love you too,” Soonyoung says, promptly face-planting onto one of the beds. Their door closes.

The walkway suddenly feels quieter. More exposed.

You and Seungcheol stand in front of the last door, your keycard in his free hand, your joined hands still between you. You look at the numbers screwed into the frame. You should say something casual—some throwaway joke about bad mattresses or thin walls. Instead, the only words that come out are: “So.”

He huffs a faint breath that’s almost a laugh. “So,” he echoes.

He swipes the keycard. The lock clicks. He lets your hand go only long enough to push the door open and flip on the light. You step inside first. And stop. One room. One bed.

You stare at it, then at him, then back at it like maybe a second look will conjure a second mattress into existence. It doesn’t.

“Of course,” you mutter.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click, taking in the space with a quick glance. Small table, two chairs, dresser, TV, bathroom off to the side. One bed. You drop your bag by the chair and cross your arms.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says immediately. You swing around. “Absolutely not.” He blinks. “It’s fine.”

“You’re deploying tomorrow,” you say, stabbing a finger in his direction. “You’re not sleeping on questionable motel carpet on your last night of comfort for God knows how long.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he says. “And you will again,” you shoot back. “Which is exactly why you’re not starting early.”

His jaw tightens, that familiar set to his mouth. “I’m not putting you on the floor,” he says. “I’m not that kind of husband.”

The word punches through you—husband—so you do what you always do with feelings that arrive too fast: you get sarcastic. “Well, congratulations,” you say, throwing your hands up. “You married someone who also refuses to be that kind of wife.”

You both glower at each other for a second, the bed between you like some ridiculous, lumpy battlefield. “We can share,” you say finally, more annoyed than shy. “It’s not like you’re going to catch feelings in your sleep, commander.” His eyes flash. “That’s not the point,” he says.

“Then what is the point?” you demand. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re bending over backwards to make this complicated so you don’t have to admit this whole thing is weird for you too.” His posture goes even straighter.

“It is weird,” he says evenly. “I’m just trying to be respectful.”

“Respectful would be telling me what you’re actually thinking,” you snap. “You’re getting on a plane tomorrow to go into a place where people will be actively trying to kill you, and somehow you’re calmer about that than you are about sharing a mattress.”

“I’m not calm,” he says through his teeth. “Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “All day you’ve been—” you mimic his posture, stiff and upright, voice pitched low—“‘It’s fine, it’s under control, it’s a transaction.’” You drop the act, staring at him. “Nothing is under control,” you say. “Not for me. Definitely not for you. And you’re acting like this is just another box to tick.” His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, voice rising. “You want me to fall apart? To panic? To make it harder for everyone tomorrow?”

“I want you to be a person,” you fire back. “Not a walking checklist. You’re allowed to be scared, Seungcheol. You’re allowed to be pissed, or sad, or anything other than whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely at his whole body, as if that sums it up. He exhales sharply, like you’ve punched the air out of him. “You think I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. You wait. He paces once, twice, then whirls back to face you.

“I’m fucking terrified,” he snaps. It lands in the room. You don’t move. He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising and falling.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he says, words tumbling out now, rough around the edges. “I’m terrified. Happy? I have no idea what we’re flying into. I don’t know if I’ll get all of them back. I don’t know if I’ll get back. I don’t know if I’ve done enough, if I am enough, if I’ve paid enough for all the shit I’ve done before this.” His hands lift, then drop, helpless.

“I can’t control any of it,” he says. “And if I let myself sit in that for more than five minutes, I won’t be able to do the job I’m supposed to do. So yeah, I’m calm. Because the alternative is having a panic attack in front of my team right before I lead them into a war zone.” His voice cracks on the last two words.

War zone.

For a heartbeat, you see past the uniform, past the posture, past the way he sizes up every room he walks into. You see a man standing on a cliff edge, staring down at something vast and dark and utterly unknowable.

Your anger evaporates.

You cross the space between you in two steps. He flinches like he expects another argument. Instead, you reach for his hands, prying his fingers open, wrapping yours around them. They’re shaking.

“Hey,” you say softly. His eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re darker than you’ve ever seen, pupils blown wide. “Hey,” you repeat. “Breathe with me.”

He swallows hard.

You lift his hands, press one to your chest, over your heart. Press your own palm flat against his ribs, feeling the fast, shallow rise and fall.

“In,” you say quietly, exaggerating your inhale. “Out.”

He tries. It’s rough at first, breaths catching. You keep your gaze on his, steady and unflinching. “Again,” you murmur. “In. Out.”

Slowly, his breathing starts to sync with yours. Not perfect, not calm, but less like he’s about to bolt out of his own skin. His thumb twitches against your sternum, like he’s surprised by the beat under his palm. “You’re allowed to be scared,” you say, voice low. “You just don’t have to do it alone.” Something in his expression crumples, just for a second. He looks away, jaw tight, like he’s ashamed to have said anything at all. You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be the commander right now,” you add, softer. “You can just be… you.”

For a long moment, you stand there like that—hands on each other’s hearts, breath slowly evening out, the hum of the motel air conditioner the only other sound.

Then, quietly: “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “You barely know me.” You huff a faint laugh, the sound wobbling. “I married you, didn’t I?” you say. “I might as well act like it.” The corner of his mouth lifts, brittle but real. “This isn’t what you signed up for,” he says.

“Neither did you,” you reply. “And yet, here we are.”

His hands have stopped shaking. You become abruptly aware of how close you’re standing, of the warmth of him under your palm, of the way his thumb is still resting against your collarbone.

Something shifts in the air. He leans in, just a little. “You’re going to make this really hard to walk away from, riot,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. “That sounds like a problem for Future Us,” you say. “Tonight… I just don’t want you to go to sleep scared and alone.” His eyes darken.

He moves before you can say anything else.

His hand slips from your chest to your jaw, fingers spreading warm along your cheek. The other slides to your waist, drawing you closer. He pauses there for half a second—enough time for you to say no, to step back, to put the rules you agreed on between you like a shield.

You don’t. You tilt your chin up instead.

He kisses you.

It’s different from the kiss at the bar. Different from the courthouse. There’s no audience this time, no need to make it convincing. It’s just him and you and the weight of what tomorrow might bring pressing in on you both.

He kisses you like he’s been holding back for days, maybe longer. Like some tight, coiled thing in him has finally snapped. His mouth is warm and sure, angling perfectly over yours. His hand at your jaw tilts your head, deepening the kiss, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone.

A small sound escapes you—stupidly needy, embarrassingly honest. His fingers tighten at your waist in reply.

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. The buttons pop against your knuckles. He’s solid under your palms, broad chest rising and falling faster now. He walks you backwards gently until the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed.

You break the kiss with a soft gasp, looking up at him. There’s a question in his gaze, one last chance to stop. You answer it by pulling him down with you as you sit.

The mattress dips under your combined weight. You scoot back, he follows, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still firm at your waist.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough. You nod, throat tight. “I don’t want to think about tomorrow,” you whisper. “I just want to feel you.”

Something in him breaks.

He bends to kiss you again, deeper this time, finally giving up on restraint. His hand slides from beside your head to your jaw and down the column of your throat, fingertips trailing over the rapid pulse there before skimming along your collarbone.

Then he finds the hem of your dress.

His fingers curl in the fabric and lift, knuckles grazing the back of your thigh as he pushes it higher. Calluses drag lightly over your skin, rough in a way that makes you shiver, every little scrape sending sparks up your spine. He pauses just below the curve of your hip, giving you a second to protest. You arch into him instead, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and dragging him closer.

He takes the answer for what it is.

The dress slides up, up, a slow rustle gathering around your waist. Cool air hits your bare legs; his palms follow in its wake, framing your hips like he’s settling you exactly where he wants you.

You let out a small, involuntary moan against his mouth. He swallows it down like a man starved.

Clothes become a blur then—tugged, shrugged, peeled away in fragments. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, hair mussed, chest rising and falling fast. You stare for a second, taking in the hard lines of muscle, the faint scatter of old scars, the chain of his dog tags glinting against his skin.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, breathless.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to paint me,” he says.

You almost laugh. It comes out as a shaky exhale when his hands find your dress again and pull.

You lift your arms, letting him strip it off in one motion. It lands somewhere behind him with a soft thud. You’re suddenly half-naked under the too-bright motel light, and for a heartbeat, you think self-consciousness will crash over you. It doesn’t.

Because he looks at you like you’re something holy, not a single hint of mockery in his face. His gaze drags slowly from your face down your throat, lingering on the swell of your chest, the curve of your waist, the bare length of your legs. His throat works.

“You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way he exhales says enough.

Somewhere in there, you manage to toe off your shoes before they become a hazard. He fumbles with his belt, and you help, fingers brushing his, both of you laughing breathlessly when the buckle catches.

Then there’s nothing left between you but skin and underwear, and then—careful, uncoordinated—that goes too.

Skin meets skin, warm and shocking.

You suck in a breath as your bare chest presses against his. The heat of him seeps into you where your stomachs touch, where your thighs slide together. He makes a low sound in his throat, like the contact physically hurts and heals him all at once.

He’s careful, even with need simmering just under the surface. Every movement is deliberate, giving you room to pull back, to change your mind. His hand skims down your side, fingers resting on your hip, not pushing, just asking.

You answer with your body—hooking your leg over his, tilting your pelvis up to meet his, nails biting lightly into his shoulders as you clutch at him.

He groans quietly, the sound breaking against your mouth.

For a while, everything narrows to the map of your bodies.

His mouth finds yours over and over, kisses rolling from slow to urgent and back again. Your hands explore the planes of his back, the flex of muscle under your palms as he shifts his weight. You trace the dip of his spine, the ridge of his shoulder blades, the tense line of his neck.

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the side of your throat, each press of his lips a question: Here? And here? And here? You answer with soft gasps, with the way your fingers tighten in his hair when he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear.

He keeps going, a slow, unhurried line down the centre of you—across your collarbone, over your sternum. When his mouth closes around the swell of your breast, you gasp, hand flying to the back of his head. He doesn’t rush, lips and tongue drawing lazy patterns that make your toes curl, the ache low in your belly sharpening into something insistent.

“Seungcheol,” you breathe. You’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

He hums against your skin, the vibration making you shiver.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, words feathering over the damp skin he’s just kissed. “You,” you say, without thinking.

He lifts his head, eyes dark, breath unsteady.

“You already have me,” he says, and there’s a rough honesty in it that steals your breath more than his mouth ever could.

His hand wanders lower, fingers sliding along the outside of your thigh, then in, nudging your knees apart with gentle insistence. He moves slowly, watching your face, giving you a chance to shake your head, to close your legs, to say no. You don’t.

You let him coax you open, heat pooling and throbbing where his touch is heading. His fingers finally slip between your thighs, and you cry out softly, the sound punched out of you at the first real, focused touch to your core.

He works you open with a care that makes your eyes sting, testing pressure and rhythm, paying attention to every twitch, every gasp. Two of his fingers slip inside your walls while his thumb circles your clit slowly. His digits scissor slowly inside you, curling against your walls on every retreat. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, as if he’s concentrating like this is a mission briefing and not you shaking apart under his hand.

“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “So soft.”

You cling to him, nails dragging down his back as his fingers continue penetrating you, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. Your hips start to move on their own, chasing the feeling, grinding your folds helplessly against his palm.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

Your world telescopes down to his hand and your own stuttering breath. You’re right there, teetering on the edge, every muscle pulled taut.

And then you grab his wrist. “Wait,” you gasp.

He freezes immediately, pulling back like he’s been burned.

“Too much?” he asks, voice tight. “Did I—”

You shake your head frantically, dragging his hand up to rest over your pounding heart instead, his soaked fingers cooling your heated skin.

“I need you,” you say, the words ripped out of some raw place inside you. “Not just your hand. I need you.”

Understanding flickers across his face, chased by something almost like fear and something very much like hunger.

“Baby,” he says quietly, the word slipping out before he can catch it. His jaw flexes. “Are you sure?”

The term of endearment hits you like another touch. You bite your lip, nodding hard.

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “Please.”

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s steadying himself. When he opens them again, they’re blazing.

He reaches blindly for his discarded pants, fumbling one-handed until he finds his wallet. You watch as he digs out a small foil packet, tears it open with more care than you’ve ever seen anyone give anything, and takes a moment to roll the condom on, jaw clenched.

Then he’s back over you, settling between your thighs, his weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One of his hands finds yours, fingers lacing tight, anchoring you both.

“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You look up at him—at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his lips are pressed together, at the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

“Don’t stop,” you say. “Don’t you dare.”

He exhales, shaky, and then there’s no more talking.

You feel the slow, careful push of his cock lining up with your entrance, the first gentle press as the head starts to slide in. Your breath stutters; your free hand clutches at his bicep, fingers digging into the hard muscle.

He moves inch by inch, pausing when you tense, giving you time to adjust. His forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“You okay?” he pants.

It’s a lot—the stretch, the fullness—but it’s him, and somehow that makes the shock of it sweeter. You nod, forcing your muscles to relax. “Keep going.”

He does, easing forward until he’s fully seated, your bodies fitted tightly together.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You just breathe, learning the feel of his cock inside of you, the way your body makes room, the way the burn slowly melts into something that makes your toes curl.

“You feel—” He cuts himself off with a low groan. You smile, shaky but real. “So do you,” you manage. He laughs once, breathless, then starts to move.

At first, it’s slow—testing, adjusting, shallow rolls of his hips as he watches your face for any stray flicker of discomfort. When your soft gasps turn to needy little whines and your nails sink into his back in encouragement instead of warning, he lets himself go a little more.

The rhythm builds, your hips finding a shared pace. You wrap your legs around his waist, calves pushing him deeper, your heels digging into the small of his back.

“God, you’re going to kill me,” he mutters, voice ragged.

“Terrible last words,” you whisper back.

He huffs another laugh, but it dissolves into a groan when your walls clench around him, your own pleasure spiralling higher again, faster this time. He kisses you through it—mouth hot and insistent, swallowing every sound you make. When the angle shifts just right and a sharp bolt of pleasure shoots through you, you break the kiss with a startled cry.

He hears it, adjusts, chases it again and again until you’re panting.

“Cheol,” you gasp, arms winding around his neck. “Need—”

"I know,” he says, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it takes him not to just lose himself. Then he’s pulling back slightly, shifting his weight.

“Come here,” he murmurs. “Sit up.”

You blink, dazed.

He pulls back just far enough to change the angle, his abs tightening as he brings you with him. One arm bands around your waist, guiding you, the other steady on your hip. You follow his lead, moving with him until you’re upright in his lap, still joined, your knees bracketing his thighs.

The shift makes you gasp as he settles deeper inside you, the new angle sending a sharp bolt of pleasure through your core. You clutch at him on instinct, your hands flying to his shoulders; his grip lands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you steady.

“You’re okay?” he asks again, voice hoarse.

You nod, swallowing hard.

“Move with me,” he says softly. You do.

You start slowly, rocking your hips, testing how your body feels with him filling you like this. He groans low in his chest, head tipping back for a moment.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Just like that, baby. You’re so good.”

The praise hits you almost as hard as the pleasure.

You find a rhythm quickly—every slide down makes you feel stretched and impossibly full; every drag up makes you chase it again.

He meets you halfway, guiding your hips and lifting his slightly to match your movements. The friction is perfect, unbearable. Your hands slip from his shoulders to his chest, fingers splaying over his dog tags.

He ducks his head, mouth finding your collarbone, then lower. When his lips close around the curve of your nipple, you gasp, hips stuttering.

“Cheol, please,” you whimper.

He doesn’t answer with words, just sucks lightly, teeth scraping just enough to make you jolt, then soothing the sting with his tongue. He lavishes attention on you there, one hand still moving your hips, the other sliding up your back, holding you closer, like he can’t stand the thought of you even an inch away.

The combination—his mouth, his hands, the steady thrust of him inside you—pushes you closer and closer to that edge.

“I—” You can’t even form the sentence. He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours. “I’ve got you,” he says, low and fierce. “Let go.”

You do.

It hits you like a wave—no sharp snap, just a swell that rises and rises until it breaks over you, pleasure flooding every limb. You cry out, clinging to him, burying your face in his neck as your body tightens and then unravels around him. He holds you through it, murmuring things you can’t fully catch into your hair.

You’re dimly aware of him still moving, slower now, as if he’s trying to draw every last tremor out of you. Then his rhythm falters, his grip on you tightens, and he’s following you over that edge, breath knocking out of him in a rough groan against your shoulder. You feel the tension snap through him, the way his muscles lock and then give, his whole body shuddering under your hands as he comes.

For a long moment, you stay locked in the embrace.

You breathe, chests rising and falling together, hearts pounding out an uneven, shared rhythm. Eventually, sensibility—and gravity—start to creep back in. He shifts, careful and gentle, easing you off him and guiding you down onto the mattress. He deals with the condom quickly, disposing of it in the bathroom, then returns to crawl back into bed, moving softly like he’s afraid of spooking you now that the haze has lifted.

You don’t give him the chance.

You reach for him, tugging him down beside you. You end up half on top of him, your leg hooked over his, your cheek pressed to his chest.

His skin is warm, slightly damp. You can feel his heart still racing under your ear, slower than before but not yet calm. His hand finds the small of your back, fingers spreading wide, holding you there. Not possessive, exactly. Like a promise.

You trace idle patterns on his shoulder with one fingertip, eyelids heavy.

“You okay?” you murmur, echoing his question from earlier.

He hums, low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “For the first time this week… yeah.”

You smile against his skin, eyes drifting shut.

Sleep pulls at you, slow and inevitable, wrapping around the edges of your exhausted body. You fight it for a second, wanting to stay awake and memorise the feel of him beneath you. As you drift, hovering at the edge, you feel him press a barely-there kiss to the top of your head.

You fall asleep like that—tucked against him, his arm around you, finally lying still for a few stolen hours before morning comes.

You wake up to cold sheets and the hollow shape of where his body should be.

For a second, you think you dreamt it all—the courthouse, the restaurant, the hotel room, his hands, his mouth, the way he’d held you.

Then you shift, and everything aches in ways that are very real.

The clock on the nightstand glows a harsh 04:12 in the dark. The space beside you is empty, a dent in the mattress cooling. Your heart does an ugly little lurch.

You push yourself up on your elbows, squinting in the dim light leaking through the crack in the curtains. The bathroom door is open, light off. The chair in the corner is empty. His bag is still near the wall, neatly zipped. Panic flickers—stupid, instinctive.

Then, the door lock clicks.

You jerk your head toward it just as Seungcheol steps inside.

He’s in a T-shirt and running shorts, damp with sweat, hair pushed back and darker at the temples. His chest rises and falls too fast, breath still coming in sharp pulls. He closes the door quietly, like he’s trying not to wake you. Too late.

“You went running?” you croak. His head snaps up.

He sees you awake—sees the rumpled sheets, the way you’re clutching them to your chest—and something flickers across his face. You can’t name it before it’s gone, replaced by the familiar, controlled blankness.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You sit up a little straighter, tucking your knees under you.

“You could’ve… said something,” you mumble. “I woke up and you were gone.”

He looks away, dropping the key on the table with a soft clack.

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he says. “You were asleep.”

It shouldn’t sting. You told yourself this was a one-night suspension of reality, a mercy for both your frayed nerves. But there’s a part of you that woke up reaching for him and found nothing and now wants to pick a fight just so you don’t have to admit how that felt. “You ‘didn’t want to bother me’ by existing in the same room?” you say, sharper than you mean to. His shoulders tense at your tone.

“I needed to clear my head,” he says, tone clipped. “Running helps.”

You study his profile—tight jaw, muscle ticking in his cheek, eyes fixed on some neutral point near the door instead of looking at you. Your chest tightens. “Right,” you say. “So that’s the plan? Get your head clear, pretend it didn’t happen?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you’re doing,” you shoot back. “You couldn’t even stand to lie next to me for one night without bolting.” The words come out harsh, raw and too honest. He scrubs a hand over his face, streaking sweat across his brow.

“I leave in a few hours,” he says. “I needed to get my head back in the game. What happened—” He breaks off, searching for words that don’t exist. You feel your stomach drop. Here it comes.

“What happened was us trying to breathe for five minutes,” he says finally, carefully. “We were scared. We’re still scared. But it doesn’t change what this is.” You blink. “What this is,” you repeat, voice going flat.

“A deal,” he says, and you can hear the way he hates the word even as he clings to it. “An agreement. We said we’d keep it simple. No...complications.”

No real feelings. You hear it even if he doesn’t say it. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “So we had sex, and your first instinct is to file it under ‘complication’ and pretend it was… what? A stress relief exercise?” He winces. “That’s not—”

“You know what?” you cut in, the hurt buzzing hot under your skin. “Save it. I get it.”

You throw the covers back and swing your legs over the side of the bed, stomping past him to your bag. “You were clear from the beginning, right?” you continue, words tumbling out now that the dam has cracked. “Fake marriage, strict rules, no feelings. Congratulations, Commander, message received.”

“Riot—” Your laugh is brittle. “Don’t fucking call me that right now.”

You grab your clothes with shaking hands and head for the bathroom. He moves to follow.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, reaching out like he might catch your arm and then thinking better of it. “I’m trying not to drag you deeper into this before I—”

“Before you get on a plane and possibly don’t come back?” you snap, whirling around. “Newsflash: I’m already in this. I signed papers. I watched you put a ring on my finger. I married you.” He looks stricken for half a heartbeat. Then the shutters slam down behind his eyes again. “I’m trying to make it easier,” he says quietly. “For you. For me. For when I’m gone.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job.”

You step into the bathroom and slam the door before he can answer.

The lock clicks under your thumb with a finality that doesn’t match how your throat feels—tight and thick and stupidly close to tears. You brace your hands on the sink and let the motel’s harsh fluorescent light strip away any illusions you have left about looking okay.

You look wrecked.

You splash water on your face, then lean your forehead against the mirror, breathing through the tightness in your chest. On the other side of the door, it’s quiet. You don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed.

At exactly 6 o’clock, the airfield is a vast open space.

The transport plane squats on the tarmac, a hulking grey thing with its ramp lowered, engines ticking as they idle. It looks too big and not big enough at the same time.

You stand just inside the designated family area—a strip of painted line where you have to stop and they have to walk away. Your hands are stuffed into the pockets of your jacket, thumb worrying at the cool band of your ring.

Seungcheol stands beside you in full uniform and gear, helmet clipped to his vest, pack slung over one shoulder. His dog tags glint once as he shifts. He’s all straight lines and discipline again, every trace of last night packed away behind neatly sealed compartments. He’s been quiet since you left the motel. You can feel his awareness of you—the way his gaze flicks over sometimes, landing on your profile and then snapping back to the plane, to the men, to the checklist in his head.

There’s a glacier between you now. Cold, wide, impenetrable.

Everyone seems to notice without saying it, too wrapped up in their own goodbyes.

Mingyu is a few meters away, arms wrapped around Nari like he’s trying to memorise the feel of her. She’s crying openly, face pressed into his chest. He keeps kissing her hair, murmuring things you can’t quite make out, his own eyes suspiciously glossy.

Seokmin is there with Jia, who’s still in her restaurant clothes under a puffy jacket, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. He keeps cracking bad jokes, his grin wobbling every time she laughs, and then immediately starts tearing up again.

Vernon’s parents stand on his left—a tall man with kind eyes and a woman who keeps dabbing at her face with a tissue, trying to smile through it. Vernon hugs them both, long and awkward and heartfelt, his usual dry humour stripped back to something softer.

Jihoon’s sister clings to him like she’s twelve again instead of whatever age she is now, berating him quietly between sniffles. He lets her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, cheek pressed to the top of her head.

There’s so much love in the air it almost hurts to breathe.

Tearful, hopeful, terrified love.

You feel out of sync. You’re wearing the wife badge, the ring, the “dependant” wristband they stuck on you at the gate. You’re standing where the spouses, and the girlfriends, and the families stand. But the man beside you is staring straight ahead.

Say something, you think. Anything. He adjusts the strap on his pack instead.

The PA system crackles overhead, announcing boarding times and something about final checks. The plane’s engines whine a little louder. “Boarding in ten!” someone calls.

Hugs tighten all around you. Voices rise, overlapping. You swallow, turning to face him. His eyes find yours immediately.

For a second, the glacier thins enough that you can see the strain underneath—the fear, the regret, the thousand things he doesn’t know how to say without making your last minutes together harder.

You almost cave. You almost step forward, grab his vest, pull him down and kiss him goodbye because that’s what everyone else is doing, because it would be easier to drown in the feeling for one second than stand here trying to pretend it’s fine.

Instead, you pat his shoulder. “Don’t die, Commander. I’m not about to become a tragic war widow for a marriage that doesn’t even come with good furniture.” His mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am… riot.”

It lands somewhere halfway between a joke and an apology.

You both stand there for a heartbeat longer, suspended in the space between what you want to do and what you’re willing to let yourself do. Then someone is calling his name. Officers are gesturing. Men are starting to file toward the plane in staggered lines, packs bouncing, boots thudding against concrete.

He takes a step back.

Now, some panicked part of you insists. If you don’t do it now—

You don’t move.

He gives you one last look—long, lingering, like he’s trying to photograph you with his eyes and take the image with him. Then he turns and walks away.

You watch his back as he joins the line, as he blends into the green and khaki and gear. You watch him climb the ramp and disappear inside the belly of the plane.

Your ring feels heavier the moment he’s gone, like someone added weight to the band when you weren’t looking. You press your thumb against it, hard enough to hurt. Around you, the goodbyes taper into sniffles and silence. The engines whine louder. You’re still staring at the ramp when a familiar voice cracks through the noise like a poorly timed fireworks blast.

“Hey!” Soonyoung, already halfway up the ramp, spins around and cups his hands around his mouth. “Before we go, everyone give it up for the newlyweds!”

Your entire soul exits your body. Heads swivel. A few people whoop immediately. Someone claps. You freeze. “No, no, no,” you mutter, instinctively stepping back, trying to make yourself smaller. It’s useless. Mingyu lights up like a floodlight. “That’s right!” he yells, joining in. “Choi-ssi’s not leaving without giving his wife a proper send-off!”

Traitors. All of them.

You want the tarmac to open up and swallow you. Instead, you get Mingyu and Soonyoung sprinting down the ramp and vanishing into the plane’s interior. For a second, nothing happens. Then they reappear, flanking a very confused, very manhandled Seungcheol. Mingyu has him by one arm, Soonyoung by the other, both grinning like hyenas. “Come on, hyung,” Mingyu crows. “Don’t be shy.”

“Stop resisting the narrative!” Soonyoung adds. You want to strangle him.

The small crowd—family, girlfriends, wives, a few curious base personnel—starts to laugh, to cheer, to clap. Phones appear, because of course they do. You’re fairly sure your soul is now somewhere over the Pacific.

Seungcheol looks flustered. It would be funny if your heart weren’t currently trying to escape through your throat.

He digs his heels in, protesting under his breath, but he’s outnumbered and out-committed. Soonyoung gives him one last shove that sends him stumbling forward, straight toward you. The momentum carries him right into your space. You catch yourself with a hand on his chest. He catches you with both arms, one around your waist, the other automatically supporting your back. Hooting erupts.

“Kiss your wife, Cheol!” someone yells.

“Don’t be shy!” Jia calls.

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. His grip on you tightens just a fraction. Up close, you can see the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his throat bobs. His eyes search yours, frantic and apologetic and something else you don’t have time to examine. “We don’t have to—” he starts under his breath. You huff, shaky. “We kind of do,” you whisper back, glancing around at the expectant faces. You feel him inhale, slow and deep, as if bracing himself.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “On three.”

"You’re not jumping out of a plane,” you hiss. “It’s just a kiss.”

He gives you a look that says for you maybe and then there’s no more room for commentary. He cups your face in both hands, fingers warm against your skin, and kisses you. The crowd erupts.

At first, it is performative. You tell yourself that as his mouth moves against yours—this is for them, for the story, for the file that will show a happy couple at deployment. Your hands land on his vest in what is supposed to be a casual, photogenic hold.

Then he makes a small, helpless sound against your mouth, and it stops feeling like acting at all. You feel yourself melt. Your fingers curl in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a little closer. His thumbs stroke along your jaw, a subtle, aching tenderness at odds with the rowdy cheers in the background.

For a few seconds, you forget everything. You forget about the plane waiting, the war on the other side of the sky. There is only the warmth of his lips and the way your heart stutters and then finds a new rhythm to keep time with his. You kiss him back like it’s natural. Like this is what you do. Like you’ve been doing it for years.

Then the memory of his face in that motel room flashes behind your eyes.

You pull back. It’s not dramatic. You don’t shove him. You just ease out of the kiss and take half a step back, enough that his hands slide from your face to your shoulders. The crowd is still cheering, a few wolf-whistles cutting through the early morning air. You force a grin you don’t feel and roll your eyes up at him. “There,” you say, loud enough for the nearest onlookers to hear. “Now go and make your wife proud.”

There’s laughter around you. His eyes, though, flicker with something like hurt before he tamps it down. “I’ll do my best,” he says quietly.

The ramp call comes again, more urgent. “We have to go,” someone shouts.

Mingyu jogs past, Nari cupping her hands to her mouth as she yells something you can’t catch. Vernon squeezes his parents one last time before trotting toward the plane. Jia kisses Seokmin so hard he stumbles, both of them laughing through their tears.

Soonyoung hangs back a second. He steps into you, arms wrapping around you in a hug that’s all warmth and familiarity and pain. You squeeze him just as hard, burying your face in his shoulder.

“Bring him back,” you whisper. He nods against your hair. “I’ll drag his stubborn ass home myself,” he murmurs back. “And hey—” He leans back enough to look you in the eye. “Don’t let him make you smaller than you are,” he says quietly, just for you. “He’s scared. You scare him. That’s his problem. Two sides of the same dog tag, remember?” Your throat burns. “You’re not helping,” you say, voice thick.

He grins, eyes bright. “I never do,” he says, then kisses your cheek and bolts for the ramp before you can cry.

You watch him go, watch him clap a hand to Seungcheol’s shoulder as he passes, watch the two of them exchange a look you can’t read from here. Then they’re inside. The ramp starts to lift with a mechanical whine, sealing them in.

You stand there with the others as the plane’s engines roar to life, the ground vibrating under your feet. Wind whips at your hair and jacket. Someone to your left is crying openly; someone else is muttering a prayer under their breath. Beside you, Nari sniffles loudly.

A second later, her hand finds your arm, fingers wrapping around your sleeve like she needs an anchor. You look down. Her mascara is smudged, nose red, lower lip chewed raw. “I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “I just—if he doesn’t… if something happens—” Her voice breaks.

Your own fear swells, a dark, heavy thing that wants to climb up your throat and spill out. You push it down and slide your arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her into your side.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Mingyu’s stubborn. They all are. They’re going to annoy some poor commanding officer for months, and then they’re going to come home and be insufferable about it.”

She lets out a wet laugh, shoulders shaking. “You promise?” she whispers. You look at the plane, at the painted numbers on its side, at the barely visible faces in the tiny windows. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely audible over the engines. “I promise.”

The plane begins to move, lumbering down the runway, gathering speed. Your breath catches as its nose lifts, wheels leaving the earth in slow motion.

You stand there with Nari clinging to you and dread blooming in your chest, watching the metal bird carry your husband into the sky, hoping like hell that the promise you just made isn’t a lie.

Days don’t pass like they used to.

They don’t drag their feet the way they did when every bill felt like a threat and every morning started with the quiet arithmetic of survival. They move faster now, almost rude about it—like time heard you were drowning and decided to toss you a life vest and then sprint away before you could ask questions. You keep waiting for the catch. It doesn’t come.

The first change is a text from your landlord that reads like a smug victory lap: Rent. Today. Non-negotiable.

You stare at it in your kitchen while coffee goes cold in your hand. You open your banking app. There’s money there.

Not enough to buy peace forever, but enough to cover what you owe, plus the shameful little late fees he’s tacked on. Your thumb hovers over “transfer.” You do it.

Twenty minutes later, he’s pounding on your door. You open it with your sweetest dead-eyed smile. He’s holding his phone like it’s proof of a miracle. “You paid.”

“I did.”

His mouth opens, closes. Suspicion tries to crawl onto his face, and you stomp it out with cheer. “See?” you say. “I told you. I’m a responsible adult with a thriving financial plan.” He narrows his eyes. “Where’d you get it?” You shrug. “The bank. Where people get money. You should try it.”

He mutters something about artists and miracles and goes back down the hall. You watch him go, then shut your door and lean your forehead against it for a second, laughing silently at the absurdity of it.

The second change arrives in a thick envelope with a military seal that makes your stomach do a small, nervous somersault even before you open it. Housing authorisation. Military spouse status. A name you can’t quite believe is attached to yours now. You read it twice, then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into psych, gotcha.

They don’t. So you pack.

A steady migration of your life into boxes: paint supplies, canvases, the lamp that flickers but you’ve never thrown away, clothes that smell like the bar, old childhood photos you’ve kept in a shoebox.

You don’t tell anyone why you’re moving. Your coworkers assume you finally found a cheaper place. Your friends assume you got lucky with a sublet. Your mother assumes nothing, because you’ve always moved through life with your life folded under your arm, like you’re on the run from something. You keep it vague. You keep it light. You keep it safe.

Military housing is… not what you pictured.

You expected sterile beige, strict rules, the kind of place where art goes to die. Instead, it’s small but sturdy, a neat row of low buildings behind a gate with a bored security guard who barely glances at you once you show your paperwork. The apartment itself is plain in the way new places always are—clean walls, scratched linoleum, furniture that isn’t yours waiting to be made into something you can stand living inside.

You walk through it slowly the first time you get the keys, half expecting Seungcheol to be standing somewhere in a doorway, arms crossed, saying something judgmental about how you’re holding them. He isn’t.

The quiet echoes a little. You’re surprised by how much you like it. You set your boxes down in the living room and take a long breath.

Space. Not city space. Not “make do with what you have” space. Real, actual room to move. To stretch. To paint without balancing a canvas on the same table you eat on. You don’t call it home out loud. It’s too soon for that. But you still catch yourself looking around like you’re deciding where to put your favourite pieces. Like you’re imagining colour on the walls.

The third change happens at the hospital.

The insurance lady who once looked at you like you were a charity case now smiles with a kind of professional brightness that makes you a little suspicious. “Good news,” she says. “We’ve got supplemental coverage approved. Your mother’s treatments will be fully covered from here on out, and the new tests are greenlit.” You stare at her. “Fully?”

“Fully,” she repeats. “You’ll still see paperwork, but you won’t be responsible for the remainder.”

You wait for your knees to buckle, but they don’t. You wait for tears, and they don’t come either. Your body is too busy doing the math of relief. You sign the forms with a hand that shakes a little anyway.

Your mother doesn’t ask where the coverage came from. She assumes a charity program or one of those government things you never had time to apply for. You let her. You talk about it like it’s an accidental stroke of luck, like you didn’t tie your life to a stranger’s to make it happen.

You still work nights at the bar, still pour drinks for people who think their heartbreak is original, still mop up beer with a rag that never quite dries right. But it’s different now. You’re not counting tips like a lifeline. You’re not staring at your phone between orders, praying for a miracle transfer. You breathe at work, which feels like a luxury. You pay for groceries without wincing. You buy a new set of brushes without doing the mental gymnastics of, ‘Can I eat less this week to afford this?’

You come home to your quiet military apartment at dawn, kick your shoes off, and paint until your hands cramp. You start finishing pieces instead of abandoning them halfway through. You start sketching without that steady buzz in your skull that tells you you’re wasting time. Your fingers are constantly stained now. Your floor gets splattered. Your life looks messy again in a way that feels like you—not like a crisis.

And still, somehow, the biggest adjustment isn’t the apartment or the bills or the way you’re no longer bracing for impact every time you open an email. It’s him being a voice in your pocket now. A person on the other end of the distance who you don’t quite know what to do with.

Your first phone call is a disaster.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the empty living room—no couch yet, just a half-built IKEA table and a canvas drying against the wall—when your phone rings with an unknown number. You answer on the second ring. “Hello?” Static. Then a muffled voice. “—Can you hear me?”

“Barely,” you say, already frowning. “You sound like you’re calling from inside a blender.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who works with a blender,” he says, and you can just barely make out the dry edge of his voice under the crackle. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you outside? Move. I don’t know, two feet left.”

“Two feet left of what?”

“Of wherever you are.”

“That’s not how directions work.”

“They do if you’re not annoying.” More static. A clatter in the background. Someone yelling something you can’t understand. “…Hold on—” he says, and then the signal dies entirely for three seconds. When it comes back, so does he, louder and somehow more annoyed. “You still there?”

“No, I hung up just for fun,” you snap. “Yes, I’m here.”

“…You don’t have to be like that,” he says.“Like what?”

“Hostile.”

“Hostile?” you repeat. “Commander, I can’t hear half of what you’re saying. If I sound hostile, it’s because I’m trying to translate you through five miles of sand and the world’s worst network.” He exhales hard, the sound distorted. “Okay. Fine. I’m sorry. Can you—” Static swallows the rest. You blink at your phone. “Can I what, Seungcheol? Can I set your connection on fire? Because I’m open to that.”

“…Did you call me Seungcheol?” comes his voice again, faint and surprised. You freeze. “No,” you lie instantly. “Your connection glitched. I said ‘you’re intolerable’.” Pause. Then his voice, still crackly but unmistakably amused: “…Sure you did.” You glare at your phone like he can see it. “Anyway,” you say. “What do you want?” A faint laugh, softer this time. “Just checking in,” he says. “Make sure you’re settled.”

“I am,” you say, then add before you can stop yourself, “The place is… fine.”

“…Fine,” he repeats, and you can hear the smile in it. “High praise.”

You open your mouth to retort, and the connection drops again. You stare at your dead screen for a long second. Then you flip it off and toss it onto the pile of pillows you haven’t unpacked yet.

A few days later, your phone buzzes while you’re in the middle of sketching. You wipe your fingers on your jeans before you open it.

Choi Seungcheol sent 5 photos. You tap.

The first one is Mingyu, shirt half-off, flexing at the camera like he’s auditioning for a protein powder ad. There’s a caption scrawled over it in Seungcheol’s neat handwriting through the phone app:

He’s been like this for ten minutes. Please remind him we’re at war.

You snort out loud. The second photo is Seokmin mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, mouth wide open, holding what looks suspiciously like a stolen slice of cake in one hand. The caption: Morale officer. Also menace.

Third is Soonyoung, doing some kind of ridiculous superhero pose with a makeshift cape made out of a towel. He’s grinning so hard it hurts to look at, even through a screen. The caption: Your friend is alive and unbearable.

Fourth is Vernon and Jihoon in the background of a group shot, both side-eyeing the chaos like they’re already exhausted by it. The caption: Our two sane ones. Allegedly.

Fifth is a blurry shot of boots and sand with the message: Tell me something about home.

You stare at that last one for a beat longer than you mean to. Then you angle your camera down at your sketchbook. You send him a picture of the half-finished charcoal portrait you’ve been working on—rough lines, strong shadows, a face that isn’t exactly his but carries the same hard set of his jaw you keep catching in your head without trying. You add a caption: Not sure if this counts as home, but it’s what I’m doing instead of committing arson.

You hesitate. Then you send another photo—your new living room, chaotic already: canvases stacked in one corner, light spilling in through blinds, a bare wall that looks like it’s begging for paint. Our apartment isn’t awful. Don’t get cocky. Three dots appear. Then: I’ll try to contain my ego. You scoff, smiling anyway.

Emails start up after that because emails are easier. They don’t drop out mid-sentence. They don’t distort his voice until he sounds like a robot chewing sand. They arrive when they arrive, and you can read them at your own pace, in your own kitchen, with coffee and quiet to buffer the distance. Also, emails feel easier to perform in.

You both know your messages can be screened. Logged. Read by someone who needs to confirm that the marriage filed in some cabinet back home is real enough to keep. So you write like you’re a little in love. Not too much. Not enough to make it suspicious. Just enough to be believable. It’s weird how natural that becomes. Maybe because you’re good at slipping into roles. Maybe because the line between role and truth has always been blurrier for you than you admit. Your first email takes you twenty minutes of staring at a blank screen before you type.

Subject: Still alive, unfortunately To my favourite pain in the ass commander, I’m writing this from the floor of our living room because we don’t have a couch yet, and I’m refusing to buy one without at least pretending you get a vote. Don’t worry, I’m picturing you frowning at every option I scroll past, so your spirit is very present. I’ve officially moved in. I unpacked the kitchen first because apparently I’m domesticated now. There’s a mug with your Initial on it that I found at a thrift store. It’s ugly in a way that feels vaguely military, so I’m claiming it as yours. I’ll keep it safe until you can drink from it yourself. I paid the final rent today. Landlord looked so disappointed I almost offered him a sympathy croissant. Almost. I painted until sunrise this morning. I forgot what it felt like not to paint on borrowed time. I kept thinking you’d hate the colour palette, and then I laughed at myself for caring. So congratulations, Commander. You’re officially haunting my studio. Send me something normal. A stupid photo. A complaint. Tell me you ate something that isn’t sand. Tell me you’re sleeping at least a little. I’m not asking as your wife, I’m asking as the person who will personally come over there and drag you by your dog tags if you don’t. Be safe. I know that’s what everyone says, but I mean it. —Your resident riot

You reread it three times, tweaking every line so it lands sweet enough for a military auditor and casual enough for you to pretend your chest didn’t tighten when you typed it out.

His reply comes the next night.

Subject: Re: Still alive, unfortunately To my resident riot, I’m reading this sitting on an ammo crate pretending it’s a chair, so I think that counts as matching your living-room-floor situation. If you buy a couch without me, I will survive war just to be insufferable about it. I’m glad you’re moved in. The phrase “our living room” shouldn’t sit so right in my head, but it does. I keep catching myself picturing you painting in there, turning every blank wall into a crime scene of colour. I’ll take whatever hives that earn me. The mug with my name on it is already my favourite thing. Under no circumstances are you allowed to call it ugly again. I expect a photo of it on the counter like proof of life. The guys are fine. Loud as ever. Mingyu is trying to start a push-up competition and keeps insisting I “have to stay hot for my wife.” I told him to shut up. He did not shut up. Soonyoung says hello and also asked if he can crash on our couch when we finally get one. I told him that decision is between you and whatever pillow you want to throw at him. I am eating. I am sleeping. Not as much as you’d like, probably, but enough. Don’t threaten to drag me by my tags again unless you plan on following through, because the mental image is distracting. Also — your sketches. Keep sending them. You have no idea what it does to me to open my phone and see your hands at work, like I get a piece of you in the middle of this place. I carry that with me more than I carry anything else. Be good. Or be you — I know those aren’t the same thing. Just come home to yourself every night. I need you whole when I’m back. —Your favourite pain in the ass Commander

You stare at the last line a little too long.

Your chest does that strange, small thing again—like a muscle you didn’t know you had is flexing in the dark cavern behind your ribs.

The emails become routine after that.

You tell him when your mother has a good day. When she’s tired. When you nail a painting or hate everything you’ve touched with a brush. When the bar has a slow shift and you get to go home early. When Soonyoung’s old hoodie shows up in your laundry because you stole it years ago and never gave it back. He tells you about the dust storms and the heat and the dumb games they play to keep morale up. He complains one line and then carefully praises the unit the next. He asks about home, as if he’s trying to keep one hand on it while the other grips a rifle.

One night, you catch yourself smiling at your screen for no reason other than the way he ends a paragraph with “I’m proud of you.” You delete the first three drafts of your reply because every version sounds too warm. In the end, you send: Don’t get used to saying that. I might start believing you. He answers: Too late. You should feel annoyed. Instead, you laugh out loud into your empty kitchen, and the sound surprises you.

You keep your hands busy. You keep your life moving. You keep your feelings locked behind sarcasm and paint fumes.

Because there’s a war between you and the truth, and you’re not ready to lose that fight. Not yet.

You always thought life was supposed to be a rollercoaster—up, down, loops, the occasional derailment.

Lately, it feels like you got stuck on a version that only goes up, click by nervous click, and you keep waiting for gravity to remember you exist. It doesn’t. The car keeps climbing. Little good things keep happening, one after another, and you find yourself gripping the safety bar of your own life, squinting at the track ahead and wondering when, exactly, the drop will come.

A message from a gallery you once emailed and forgot about sends a polite and interested reply, asking if you’d be willing to show a few pieces in a corner of their next group exhibit. A week later, an online feature—one of those curated accounts that spotlights emerging artists—posts your work with a caption you re-read three times. Your phone buzzes for hours after, likes and comments piling up on your social media.

You try to be cool about it because you’ve learned that if you show the world too much hope, it has a way of snatching it back.

Except this time, you don’t want to fold it up and hide it.

This time, when the scheduled video call pops up a few nights later, you wait until he picks up to say it out loud. His face appears on your screen—sun-worn, tired around the eyes, a little grainy from the connection, but there. Behind him, you can hear the low hum of other voices, the muffled chaos of his platoon doing their own calls in the same room. You pretend your heart doesn’t do that soft, stupid thing it’s been doing more often lately.

“Hey, Commander,” you say, leaning your phone against a stack of sketchbooks. “So. I think I have news.” Seungcheol tilts his head, brow lifting. “Bad news or you-pretending-it’s-not-a-big-deal news?” You snort. “Wow, you know me so well. It’s the second one.”

“Go on.”

You take a breath. “A gallery offered me a corner for their next exhibit. It’s small, but it’s real. And there’s an online feature that picked up my work. Like… properly picked up. People are actually asking if anything’s for sale.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like the words have to land somewhere in him before he can react. Then his mouth curves, slow and bright. “Riot, that’s not small,” he says firmly. “That’s huge.”

You roll your eyes on instinct. “It’s a corner.”

“It’s a foot in the door.” He leans closer to the camera, voice dropping. “I’m proud of you.”

The warmth blooms, uninvited, right under your ribs.

Before you can deflect, someone off-screen shouts something that makes his head turn. You hear Mingyu’s unmistakable laugh in the background, then Vernon’s quieter chuckle, then Seokmin loudly asking who’s winning at whatever game they’re playing in the next corner of the room.

Seungcheol looks back at you, still smiling, and then—like he can’t help himself—he raises his voice toward the room. “Hey,” he calls. “My wife just got offered a gallery spot.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the room explodes. You hear whoops, clapping, someone yelling “SHE’S FAMOUS!”, and Soonyoung shouting something about free tickets. Seokmin starts singing some off-key victory anthem. Jihoon says something dry that makes them all laugh harder. Mingyu’s voice booms the loudest. “THAT’S MY CAPTAIN’S WIFE!”

Seungcheol’s grin turns smug. He looks back at you, eyes warm.

“That’s my wife, alright,” he says, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.

You can’t help it—you laugh, cheeks heating, shaking your head at the chaos you can’t even see. “You’re all idiots,” you say fondly.

“We’re your idiots,” he replies.

You end the call later with your chest feeling too full for a chapter you’re still insisting is not about him. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You don’t quite believe it.

When the uphill rollercoaster of your life finally crashes, you don’t see it coming. You should have.

Good stories don’t get to stay good for long—not for people like you. Not without the universe tapping your shoulder eventually and saying, Alright, that’s enough for now. What you didn’t expect was the whole damn thing coming off the rails.

You’re at the bar, sleeves rolled up, a smear of lime pulp on your wrist, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses moving around you in its usual, familiar rhythm. Someone is laughing too loudly near the end of the bar, the same song has played twice in a row from the jukebox, and you’re halfway through pouring a beer when you feel your phone buzz in your back pocket. You finish the pour, slide the glass across the counter, take someone’s crumpled bill, and make change. The normalcy of it feels almost protective.

Then you pull your phone out. Unknown number. A country code you don’t recognise at first glance. Your stomach dips. You answer. “Hello?”

There’s a tiny delay, then a measured voice, clipped and careful, speaking with the flattened tone of someone who has done this before.

“Mrs. Choi?”

You almost say wrong number on reflex. “Yes,” you say instead, fingers tightening around the phone. “This is she.”

“This is Sergeant Klein calling from Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre in Germany,” the voice says. “I’m calling about your husband, Sergeant First Class Choi Seungcheol.”

For a second, the bar noise drops to a distant muffled roar, like you’ve been shoved underwater. Your hand goes numb. “What—” Your tongue is thick. “What about him?”

The sergeant’s tone doesn’t change. You cling to that, stupidly. “Your husband was wounded in combat,” he says. “He is currently in stable condition and being prepared for transport back to a military hospital closer to you.”

“What does that mean?” you whisper. “What happened?”

“I don’t have all the tactical details, ma’am,” he replies. “What I can tell you is that he sustained a significant injury to his leg. The medical team was able to stabilise him in theatre, and he has been evacuated to us for surgery before transfer.”

Injury. Leg. Stabilise. Your brain tries to build a picture and fails.

“Is he…” You can’t say dying. It feels like if you put the word in the air, it’ll make it true. “He is stable,” the sergeant repeats, firmer. “He will need rehabilitation, but right now he is stable. We will notify you as soon as he has been transferred and admitted to your local facility. Do you have a pen to take down the contact information?”

You look down at your hands, like a pen might magically appear between them. They’re empty. The bar is still moving around you. Someone is asking for another round. Ice rattles in a metal shaker. The jukebox finally flips to a new song.

“Ma’am?” the voice prompts gently. “Are you able to write this down?”

You make some noise of agreement, fumble blindly for the pen you always stick behind your ear, and grab a napkin from the counter. You scribble down numbers, names, phrases that swim on the paper as soon as they’re written. You blink hard. “Thank you,” you manage.

You don’t remember hanging up. One second, there’s a voice in your ear, the next, there’s just the bar’s hum and your own heartbeat pounding too loud. Someone at the counter laughs at something unrelated. Someone else snaps their fingers for your attention. You stare at the napkin in your hand until the ink blurs. Your coworker brushes your shoulder. “You good?” she asks. You look at her like she’s speaking another language.

Your lips try to shape around sound. Nothing. “I… I need to go,” you finally stammer out. She blinks. “What? Now?”

You nod once, already grabbing your jacket off the hook. Your apron comes untied. You walk out through the side door and into the cold night air.

Everything after that is a blur stitched together by adrenaline and dread.

A cab. Paperwork. Phone calls. A security gate that checks your ID with solemn efficiency. By the time you get to the military hospital, dawn has already bruised the sky.

You sit in a waiting room, your knee bouncing, your ring cold against your even colder skin. They’ve told you the basics: he’s had surgery, he’s under observation, they’ll bring you in when they can. There’s a folder in your lap with your name and his on it, full of words like ‘spouse’, ‘next of kin’ and ‘authorisation’. You keep expecting someone to walk in and say, “There’s been a mistake.” That you’re not supposed to be here. That this is meant for some other Mrs. Choi whose marriage to a soldier wasn’t written in panic and pretending. No one does.

When they finally wheel him in, it’s almost a relief just to have something solid to look at. You stand automatically, heart climbing into your throat as the door swings open and the bed rolls into the room, surrounded by too-white sheets and too-blue scrubs and a nurse whose expression is set to that neutral, professional calm you’re beginning to hate.

He looks… wrong.

He’s pale under the harsh light, skin washed out, lips chapped. There’s an IV line taped to the back of his hand, monitors clipped to his fingers, a smear of bruising along his cheekbone. His leg—his left one—is swaddled in thick bandages and what looks like a graft, elevated slightly, wrapped and braced in unnatural ways. His eyes are open, but dulled.

You end up at his bedside, fingers gripping the rail so hard they hurt.

“Cheol,” you breathe. His gaze drags to you, slow, like crossing a distance.

For a second, nothing flickers there. No recognition, no relief, just a flat exhaustion that scares you more than the injury. Then something shifts. “Hey,” he croaks out. “You… beat me here.” You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Traffic was light,” you say weakly. His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t stick.

Up close, you can see more—tiny cuts along his knuckles, a faint tremor in his hand as he exhales. You look at his leg again, at the bandages, at the way the sheet tents awkwardly around the bulk. “Does it—” The word hurt feels ridiculous. Of course, it hurts. “They’ve got me on enough stuff that I can’t feel much,” he says. “It’ll… hit later.”

You swallow. You want to ask what happened so badly your tongue aches with it. But the question sits there, heavy, and your body knows before your brain does that whatever answer he has is going to change more than just the shape of his leg. His eyes slide away, focusing on the far wall. Silence stretches, filled only by the soft beep of the heart monitor.

You realise he’s not going to volunteer anything. You take a breath that rattles your lungs on the inhale. “They said it was… combat,” you say quietly. “That you were wounded.” His eyes close briefly. “Yeah,” he says. You wait. “Cheol,” you say, softer. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”

He opens his eyes again, looks at you for a long moment, something like resistance and grief and obligation all tangled up behind his pupils.

You see the exact second he realises you genuinely don’t know. He exhales, a harsh, broken sound. “IED,” he says finally. “Improvised explosive device. Roadside.”

The words feel clinical coming out of his mouth. Your brain immediately supplies every war movie image it’s ever stored. None of them feel big enough. “We were on patrol,” he continues, staring at a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Convoy. It went off under us. I was… close.” His eyes flicker to his leg, then away again. “So was Soonyoung. Vernon was in the back.” The way he says their names makes your palms sweat.

“Are they—” You can’t finish the question. It hangs between you, heavy and awful. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he opens them, they’re glassy. “Soonyoung didn’t make it,” he whispers.

The world tilts on its axis. You grab the rail harder because if you don’t, you’re sure your legs will not remember how to hold you.

“No,” you say automatically, the word tearing out of you on a breath. “No, he— he’s— you’re wrong, he—”

“I was there,” Seungcheol says, and there’s something raw and sharp in his voice, slicing through the numbness. “I tried.” His hand twitches like it remembers gripping something. “I pulled him out. I did everything I could. It wasn’t enough.”

Your vision blurs. You shake your head, tears hot and relentless, pooling at your waterline. “No,” you repeat, like you can argue the universe into rewriting it. “He was just— he was just texting me stupid memes last week. He was… we were supposed to—”

Your breath stutters, turning to shallow gasps. The sterile room wavers around you. He watches you, eyes wide, guilt and pain warring with the drugs in his system. “Riot,” he says hoarsely. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. His face swims. “And Vernon?” you force out. “You said—”

He hesitates just long enough to confirm the worst. “Critical,” he says. “They got him out. He’s… hanging on.” You press a fist to your mouth, a choked sound escaping before you can swallow it. For a second, the urge to run is so strong you nearly obey it—out of the room, out of the hospital, out of the story entirely. Your knees buckle. Seungcheol reaches for you on instinct, face contorting in pain as the motion jostles his leg. His fingers catch your wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks like all the colour has been drained out of him.

“Hey,” he grits out. “Don’t. Don’t do that here.”

“You’re telling me not to panic,” you manage, voice shaking. “You.”

His mouth twists. “One of us needs to be upright,” he says. “I can’t exactly get out of bed.” It’s a terrible joke. You nearly laugh anyway because if you don’t, you’ll scream.

The door opens before you can reply.

The doctor clears his throat gently from the doorway, flanked by a nurse.

"Mrs. Choi,” he says, stepping inside the room. “We’ll need a primary caregiver for Sergeant Choi once he’s discharged into outpatient rehabilitation. Given his injury and the expected recovery time, the military has approved caregiver benefits. We assume you’ll be taking that role.”

Assume. Because wives do that. Because spouses hold the line when their husbands come home. Because paperwork made you into devotion, whether you feel it or not. Your body is still trying to process everything you just learned. And yet the answer is there anyway, simple as breathing.

“Yes,” you say, voice unsteady but clear. “I’ll do it.”

The doctor nods, professional relief in his expression.

“We’ll also be looking at upgrading your housing assignment to something more accessible,” the officer adds, as if that sweetens the deal. “Ground floor if possible, with modifications available should Sergeant Choi’s mobility require it.”

They continue talking about logistics and optics and future—ramps and handrails and wheelchairs and physical therapy schedules—while your friend is dead and another is somewhere between here and gone, and the man in the bed beside you might never walk again.

“We’ll prepare the discharge plan and therapy schedule,” the doctor says. “You’ll be briefed on at-home care. He’s expected to receive commendation for his bravery during the incident. He… pulled two men from the vehicle before collapse. His commanding officer will speak to you tomorrow about the award.”

Commendation. Bravery. Words that are supposed to make you proud. You glance at Seungcheol. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to care. No amount of metal pinned to his chest is going to rewind the explosion, unburn the sand, pull Soonyoung’s laugh back into the world.

The doctor eventually excuses himself, leaving behind promises of paperwork and updates. The nurse adjusts a drip, checks a monitor, murmurs something about rest, then slips out as well, closing the door softly behind her.

Silence settles over the room again. “You didn’t have to say yes,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I did.” You swallow. “Somebody has to make sure you don’t terrorise the physical therapists,” you add, reaching for the only shield you have left: humour.

His mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile. “You think you can handle that?” he murmurs. You look at him, at the wreckage, at the shape of the life now pulling both of you forward, at the scars you can see and the ones you can’t yet.

You’re terrified. You’re grieving. You know you’re in too deep.

Your reply is final: “Try me, commander.”

A/N: Soooo, this is the first part of my newest Seungcheol story. I know, I write too much for him. Am I sorry about it? Not really. Ya'll should've realised by now that he's my ult. Anyway, there is definitely a second part coming very soon (maybe even a third). Hope you liked it so far, and stay tuned because the rollercoaster hasn't finished yet.💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)

#scoups fluff

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#scoups fluff