synopsis IF YOU LET ME STAY THE NIGHT, I THINK I MIGHT JUST HAVE TO STAY FOREVER ⋆ 𐙚 ̊ in which you spend 7 days in cebu, and the fellow tourist you meet by chance makes it difficult for you to stomach the thought of leaving.
pairing choi soobin x (f) reader
genre fluff, smut, reader and soobin are both tourists, strangers to friends to lovers
a/n first fic on this blog kinda nervous :3 been feeling sososo much for my soobie doobie these days, my love couldn't help but spill all over tumblr. hi, new friends! ♡
It seems as though the whole universe has conspired against you.
Standing under the scorching heat, you could not help but think that you should have stayed in the confines of your sweet, humble abode. If only Karina hadn’t convinced you to, in her words, “Step out of your comfort zone, you homebody!”, then maybe you would have been 12 episodes deep in a new drama, or even getting your rank rating up in League of Legends.
It’s hard to gaslight yourself that your trip to Cebu is supposed to be a cathartic experience when it’s all starting so horribly already. Not when you are fresh off a miserable flight with the person in front of you reclining their chair all the way. Not when some businessman spilt their coffee all over your pristinely white hoodie, mumbling that you should have stayed out of the way because he has a flight to catch. Not when you are all alone while everyone else seems to be having the time of their lives raving about the beaches and parties this place has to offer. Not when you couldn’t even shoot a message to Karina complaining about how this was such a dumb idea for a raging introvert like you, because your stupid phone is betraying you and it can’t catch a stupid signal.
And while you are easily irritated, it’s also easy for you to come to terms with the fact that you will be stuck on this island by yourself for 7 days. You tried your best to convince Karina to come with you, but she kept insisting that it was time for you to attempt solo traveling just for the experience. Easy to say for someone as outgoing as her. You huff, feeling defeated as you slump to sit on your luggage, waiting for a cab to take you to your hotel, when you catch sight of a man bickering with… a cab driver?
“What do you mean I have to pay a thousand pesos? My hotel is 15 minutes away!”
If you thought you were already the epitome of irritation, this guy was far worse. He looks like he just clawed his way out of hell with how messy his hair is and how much sweat he’s drenched in. Not to mention the bags under his eyes and how flushed his skin looks from how hard he’s keeping his annoyance within and oh god, he’s beautiful.
He drags his feet to walk away from the cab, eyebrows still furrowed, and you had to begrudgingly stop yourself from checking this stranger out because you do not want embarrassment to lace all the exasperation you’re feeling right now. You feel your cheeks heat up when you realize he stopped to stand beside your slumped form, sulking like you’ve lost all your will to live.
“Jesus, it’s so hot…” you hear him groan as he types away on his phone. You assume he’s complaining to a friend because it’s what you would have done. That is, if you could catch a signal.
You giggle to yourself and he snaps his head to look at you, expression softening.
“Tourist?”
He’s talking to you. What the hell are you supposed to do when a man (who looks like he stepped out of a typical romance drama) strikes a conversation with you? You choose to face him, avoiding eye contact, and nod meekly.
He immediately whines. A behavior such a stark contrast to a man whose figure towers over you, “Can you believe that cab driver tried to charge me 1000 pesos for a 15-minute ride? My friend told me they overcharge tourists like crazy, so I should just act angry, but I guess I’m not scaring them off..?”
You finally make eye contact with him, skimming over his features. He’s handsome, but not in a way that suffocates you. He’s… cute. Makes you feel fuzzy inside with his soft features. Round, wide eyes, nose slightly scrunched, and the way his front teeth sit on his bottom lip makes him look like a bunny who wasn’t given enough carrot treats. What the fuck are you even saying at this point? He’s just some guy. Okay, a gorgeous one, at that.
You clear your throat, “Maybe you should try an Uber?”
“Ubers aren’t available in the Philippines…”
You nod, not knowing what to say. You’ve proven yet again that you are physically incapable of talking to cute guys.
“Shit. Now my phone is at 1%.”
You snort, “I’d offer mine, but this dumb fuck cannot catch a signal.”
He sighs defeatedly, now sitting on his luggage as well, “Aren’t you going to try and get a cab?”
“I was going to, but after seeing you with that cab driver, I might as well just take a flight back home already…”
He chuckles. Even his laugh is pretty.
“Maybe you’re better at haggling than I am?”
He seems to be right, because the first cab driver you hailed instantly agreed to drive you for 300 pesos. You nod at the stranger while loading your luggage in the back, and he smiles at you in return. You’re probably never going to see each other again. So much for a short-lived airport crush.
You fall back onto the expanse of your bed once you’ve checked in, relishing in the comfort after a pain-staking flight. Stretching your back, you’re relieved to find that the hotel wi-fi works like magic, finally satiating your need for chronically online personal time. After a few moments of scrolling through your feed to see what you’ve missed, you grew bored, pressing the call button beside Karina’s contact name. Her face lights up your screen immediately.
“Yah! Why are you on your phone instead of the beach? I just saw you repost a Tiktok 5 minutes ago!”
You roll your eyes, “Can’t a girl replenish her social battery before going out and about all alone?” She simply chuckles, giving you an avenue to start complaining to her about all the mishaps that have happened so far. You drone on and on until you’ve lost track of all the time you spent just grumbling over every inconvenience, and she reassures you that maybe you used up all your bad luck, and from hereon, everything will fall into place smoothly. You aspire to be as optimistic as she is. Soon enough, she yawns, saying that it’s time for her afternoon nap, and you’re left to scurry over to the bathroom to freshen up.
It’s 4PM when you step out of your hotel room, padding over to the lobby to ask for the pathway to the beach, when you catch sight of a familiar tall figure hunched over the receptionist desk. He seems to feel your presence, because he snaps his head towards you.
“Huh? Oh!”
It’s the cute guy from the airport. You swear you’re going to get a heart attack.
“O-oh? Hey,” you try to muster out. You really, really suck at talking to cute guys.
He smiles, “Didn’t know you booked the same hotel! We could have shared a cab, then.”
“Would be weird to tell a complete stranger which hotel I booked, right?” You didn’t mean for the words to trail off your mouth quite harshly, really, but your realization hits you too late when his face flushes in panic as he responds. “A-ah! Yeah! I suppose it would be really weird. Sorry…”
You glance over at the receptionist desk to see that there was no one manning. Great. Now you can’t weasel your way out of this awkward situation.
“Uh… I was going to ask the receptionist where the pathway leading directly to the beach was, but I guess there’s nobody here?”
He’s shocked. It’s almost animated how his expressions are painted on his face. “I was going to ask them too! I’ve been waiting for about 10 minutes now, but I have no idea where the receptionist has gone, so…” He trails off, and maybe it’s the impatience getting to your head, so you ask,
“You want to just fuck it and find it ourselves?”
He looks at you, and for just a moment, you’re terrified. What if he thinks you’re hitting on him? Wanting to spend time alone with a hot guy? You almost think you’re fucked until he flashes a grin.
“I’m already itching to get my feet in the sand.”
And that’s how you find yourself walking side by side with him. You learn that his name is Soobin, and that he’s from South Korea, working in corporate like you. Soobin tells you about his friend that was supposed to come with him, but he booked his flight incorrectly in an absentminded haze, thus he was traveling solo. You tell him that your friend practically had to bribe you into going on this vacation because of all the stress you have bottled up from your miserable job. He lets out a giggle, saying that he needed to get away from his laptop screen given that even typing was giving him a migraine.
Despite your closed off nature, it was surprisingly easy to fall into a conversation with Soobin. Maybe you enjoyed the conversation a little too much, because it’s only then that you realize you’ve been going around in circles, still not finding the beachside.
“Do you think we’re lost?”
He turns over to you and stops in his tracks, smiling sheepishly. “Maybe?”
And then it hits you. You’re lost. God knows where you are, and you’re stuck navigating your way back with someone you met less than 5 hours ago. Did you really put your guard down for a stranger?
“Shit,” you pull out your phone, only to be reminded that it’s practically useless. It doesn’t help that you’re in a dead zone. You see him fiddling with his phone, seemingly to find a way to map yourselves out of this, but he was met with disappointment upon reading the words “no cellular service”.
You groan, wanting nothing but to go back to your hotel room to curl up in your bed, but Soobin was still adamant on finding the beachside. Unfortunately for you and your aching legs, you had to choose between dragging yourself sluggishly or having a tantrum in the middle of nowhere. The latter was a no-go, obviously, unless you had a death wish?
The fatigue and anxiety were catching up to the both of you as dead silence remained in the air, save from the small huffs you were letting out occasionally. Soobin glances at you from time to time, seemingly to check on your pathetic state. The sun was starting to set, and you’re certain you were going to make it to the headlines as the 25 year-old woman who (a) perished in extreme fatigue and irritation, or; (b) got brutally murdered by a bunny-looking stranger twice her size.
You don’t notice that you were looking at the ground, questioning every life decision that has led you to this absurdity, when Soobin’s awed gasp snaps you back into reality.
“Heol…”
You look up to see a breathtaking view, all yours to behold. The sun was setting in the horizon, etched in the apricot sky. Palm trees breezed through the path, and the salt in the air barely grazed your tongue. Soobin has his mouth agape, eyes full of wonder. Okay, maybe he’s not a serial killer out to murder you if he brought you to such a beautiful part of the seaside. Unless this is all part of his grand scheme to let your guard down? But he looks clueless as he can be, perhaps you were more likely to be the murderer in this situation.
“Come! There’s no one around!” Soobin hurriedly waddles over to a spot just below the trees, inviting you to join him. Once you’re sat beside him in the sand, he stretches the entirety of his legs, letting out a hum of relief. He has a stupid smile on his face as his eyes glaze to take in the golden hour.
“I’m sorry I got us lost. I’ve never been good at directions,” Soobin smiles apologetically. “But hey, this view is nice. We have this all to ourselves.”
No one was around. Okay. Maybe this is the part where he brutally murd-
“I hope you’re not too tired. I… kinda heard you huffing a lot earlier and I figured you were getting antsy. Also it was probably because you were lost in god knows where with a dude you just met, so that must have been scary for you? I can’t convince you that I’m completely harmless because that would make me more suspicious, right? And oh god why am I rambling?” He’s melting into a puddle of embarrassment. Usually, you liked it when men learned to shut the fuck up, but you tolerated his rambling. He was quite… endearing, actually.
You let out a small chuckle, “Soobin, it’s fine. We’re chill. I was just tired of walking in circles, that’s all.” He sighs in response, fingers tracing shapes in the sand.
“The view is beautiful though. I’m kinda glad we got lost. We can gatekeep this experience,” you add, shooting a reassuring smile. Now you feel bad for ever thinking ill of him, because the way he perks up and grins at you just seals the deal that he was never a threat. Soobin turns away to continue watching the sunset, basking in the way the sun’s rays kiss his skin.
Time flew by too fast, and now you’re left with the problem of how you’re supposed to go back to the hotel, when a light suddenly beams at the two of you.
“Hey! This is private property!” Fuck. No wonder there weren’t any people around. The two of you get escorted out, with the security guard huffing about how “kids these days just fool around everywhere”, to which you and Soobin turn crimson profusely. You had no choice but to push your luck, asking him the way to your hotel no matter how embarrassed the pair of you were.
“Okay… that was humiliating,” you cringe and glance over at Soobin, who was not faring any better than you. His cheeks were still puffed out, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip.
“Kinda feels like we’re trauma bonded now,” he mutters, praying that this time around, you were going the right way. “Trauma bonded over a humiliation ritual…. today felt too long.”
You hum, “Yep. Might have to skip dinner. I just want to sleep and stock up on social battery for the next 6 days.”
His eyes widened, “Wow. We have the exact same hotel and trip duration.”
You nod, not knowing what to make of this new knowledge, but all the rummaging in your brain was instantly cut off by him.
“Do you, perhaps…” His voice turns small. “Perhaps you’d like to stick together?”
“A whole week together? You might get sick of me.”
He grins, “Well, if by chance I do, it would be totally fine. We’re most likely never going to cross paths with each other again anyway.”
You don’t know what compels you to, but you agree.
You hope Karina would be proud of you stepping outside of your comfort zone (and trusting that some guy doesn’t offer you as human sacrifice.)
The next few days went by like a dream.
On the second and third day, Soobin took you ziplining and leaping off waterfalls despite your protests. You remember how your heart skipped a beat at his proud, child-like grin when he got you to admit that facing your fear of heights ended up rather enjoyable. The day after, the pair of you decided to take a break from the adrenaline and wandered off to the cultural spots Cebu had to offer. You didn’t expect him to take such good shots of you, worthy enough to be posted on your wilting Instagram account. Karina had even bombarded you with question marks, asking if you’ve finally made a new friend. Imagine her shock when you sent her a selfie you had taken of the two of you, and she found out your new “friend” looks like he stepped out of a manhwa.
By the end of the fifth day of your escapades with Soobin, you had suggested trying out the beachside bars your Tiktok algorithm was raging about. It seems like Karina had magic senses, because your phone suddenly chirped with a text notification while you added finishing touches to your makeup.
rina<3: u crack cebu boy yet?
You furrow your eyebrows at this.
: huh
: we’re FRIENDS
rina<3: and he’s ur exact type
: well yes
: but it would be weird to get in a random stranger’s pants
rina<3: dude that’s exactly why
: u can just leave it behind
: what happens in cebu stays in cebu type shit
: esp if hes bad in bed 💀
: you are so…
: what if i catch something from him
rina<3: feelings?
: oh u meant an std
: i snooped through his instagram and mans looks bitchless anyway
: his following list consists of league gameplay accounts and 4 of his friends
: ugh idk man
: i just
: hes hot but
: i’d rather not put weird thoughts in my head about a dude i’m spending the remaining days with
rina<3: LMAO it’s okay i’m playing
: just sayin u only live once
: and i’ve prayed hard for u to finally get laid again
: especially after ur ugly ass ex
: and don’t tell me u haven’t snooped through his ig either
: ?
: i have but
: just out of pure curiosity
rina<3: love when u get defensive
: u in bed alrdy? do u wanna call and catch up
: im yearning for my best friend
: awww i’m going out
: trying the beachside bars
rina<3: oh? 👀
: enjoy <3
: hoping u break ur vow of abstinence
: ????
: love you
: i’ll call u tomorrow evening maybe
Karina sends a heart and a wink in response, making you smile and shake your head
Looking at yourself in the mirror, you adjust a strand of your hair and suddenly become antsy. All those talks about Soobin suddenly made you feel hauntingly self-aware. You hate to admit that you wanted to look pretty to him. Life has a way of making things fall into place so perfectly, because not long after your frustrated fussing, you hear three knocks on your door. Soobin.
You pad over, opening your door to see Soobin standing in true, awkward, painfully endearing Soobin fashion.
His eyes fall on your face, drifting just a millisecond to your bikini-clad and sheer covered body. You barely miss the way his cheeks burn despite the cold air from your room.
“You look-” he starts, but cuts himself off. Alarms blare in your head. Look horrible? A mess? You look like you tried to get all pretty for me but absolutely failed?
“Look what?” you squeak out, voice small. He scratches his neck, as if debating what words to say. You’re painfully fretting over every possible response until he eventually mumbles something after a few beats.
“You look beautiful.”
He says it so sincerely it makes your head spin. But alas, Soobin is Soobin…
“Not in a creepy way! The color of your outfit just fits you really well. And the way you did your hair and makeup is pretty cool. And-”
You shush him, trying to calm your heart that is about to beat out of your chest, “It’s fine, Soobin. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
Awkward silence then envelopes you in the warmly lit hotel hallway, both of you not daring to meet each other’s eyes.
You were the one to break the stillness, “Let’s go?”, to which he hums in response. He looked like he had much more to say, but you don’t dare to pry him on his thoughts in fear of further straining the situation.
One thing you liked about spending time with Soobin is how the two of you go well together. Platonically, you swear. It isn’t even five minutes deep into the walk together when you’re back to telling each other mundane stories about your lives back home. Soobin whines about how he misses his dog, Tori, to which you reply “so she’s far better company than me?”, causing him to ramble in panic. You, in turn, tell him about how you don’t want to come back to office paperwork when you’ve been having the time of your life getting your feet in the sand all day.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” he sighs, seemingly in a haze as the night breeze grazes his hair. “It’s been really fun just doing anything and everything with you.”
You take the chance to finally, actually look at Soobin. He towers over you, looking you straight in the eye like he doesn’t know your heart is about to beat out of your chest every time he does so. His hair is messy from the wind, the outline of his face perfectly chiseled by the moonlight gracing his skin.
In that moment, you know something starts shifting between your feelings and your ever-so rational mind. You can’t help it. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung up the moon. Not when his beauty is one you would only find once in a lifetime.
You’re done for.
Despite this, you push your thoughts down your throat, managing to whisper, “I’ll really miss you when we go our separate ways, you know?”
He chuckles, “Because I’m the only male friend you have that actually takes good photos of you?”
“Your words, not mine.”
He beams teasingly before adding, “I’ll miss you too. A lot.”
Suddenly confronted with the vulnerability of your words, you tear your eyes away from him and start kicking sand beneath your feet, “I don’t know why I got sappy, sorry. I still have 2 days with you.”
“It’s cute,” Soobin reassures you. As a friend would, right? You don’t want to overthink it. “I never would have thought we’d warm up to each other so fast, but maybe I was meant to meet you on this trip.”
“Just so you have someone to buy you vinegar for your jellyfish stings?”
“That, and we make quite a good pair for people who only met at the start of this week.” Your heart feels like it’s being tugged from all sides, painfully reminded of the fact that you’ve grown attached to him in such a short period of time.
Right. You really shouldn’t get too attached to someone who will be an ocean away by the following week.
Your forlorn musings are interrupted by the chants of people that cut through the bubble you and Soobin have placed yourselves in. He flashes an ever so sweet smile at you, taking your hand in his.
“You ready to get absolutely shitfaced?”
The world is spinning before your eyes.
“Sooooobieeee” you slur out, arm snugly wrapped around his. “Let’s drink more!”
You don’t know how much alcohol is flowing through your bloodstream, but it was enough for you to cling into Soobin like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Literally. If it weren’t for him, you would have fallen face flat into the ground.
He squeaks, “No more! You’re red all over!”
“And you’re not!” you pout, “It’s like I’m the only one having fun!”
You would have thought he was starting to get sick of you if it weren’t for his grip tightening before he says, “I’m having fun. But-”
“Soobin. Soobin. I’m going to throw up.”
He mutters a profanity in his native language, dragging you up so gently and guiding you somewhere your inebriated mind couldn’t fathom. It’s only when you breathe in the stench that you piece out that he had taken you to the bathroom (more specifically, the line of people leading to it.)
“Don’t barf on me, please,” Soobin practically begs, rubbing circles on your back as you lean further into his grip, dopey smile plastered on your face as you admire him from the angle below.
“You’re really, really, reallyyyy cute, Soobie,” you squeeze the bicep you’re clinging onto, making the man shriek in surprise. “How are you even real?”
He chooses to look away from your eyes that keep raking all over him, cheeks now a carmine red.
“I told you earlier that you didn’t look too bad yourself, but I wanted to tell you that you looked absolutely fucking beautiful. Far prettier than me. Even though I spent so long trying to look cute for you,” you stumble over your words as he keeps his hold on your waist. You don’t even notice that it was your turn to enter the bathroom when he sighs and escorts you inside, oblivious to the stares you got from stepping inside together.
He positions you so that you’re hunched over the toilet, his annoyingly long legs folded to keep you at eye level while he bunches your hair up. As your drunkenness wills, you expel the intoxication out of your system as Soobin wipes the sweat off your face and neck. When all is done, you look at him and weakly ask for toilet paper to wipe your face with, to which he takes it upon himself to do it for you, gingerly padding over your mouth and tear-stained cheeks.
“All okay?” Soobin asks as he throws the toilet paper away and tidies up the bathroom the best he could.
“Mhm,” you purr, latching onto his arm as he opens the door, receiving pointed stares from the people witnessing you step outside together. You were all oblivious to it, wanting nothing but to curl up into the heat his body tenders. He’s silent as you stumble over your feet, and yet he traces his arm back around your waist once more.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you back.”
“But you haven’t even drank that much yet!”
“I’m not a heavy drinker.”
You sulk as he maneuvers you all the way back to your hotel room.
When he sets you down on the bed, your frown only gets deeper. He’s immediately rummaging through your bathroom, hurriedly asking where your cleansing wipes are before you succumb to slumber, and returns to your side albeit not telling him where it was. It’s funny, really, the way you could see yourselves falling into this routine in the future. A future that seems so out of reach, if only you wouldn’t be miles away from each other when all this is done.
“Stay still,” Soobin whispers, as if terrified of breaking through the air of tenderness sifting through your hotel room. He holds your face so delicately as he drags the makeup off of your lethargic state. He’s merely inches away and yet he seems so far from your reach.
“Soobin,” you let out, almost a pained, yearning whimper. You feel his fingers tremble against your cheek before he resumes his ministrations with a simple hum. “You’re even prettier up close.”
Maybe it’s the liquid courage. Maybe it’s all those talks with Karina. Maybe it’s the rare occurrence of you acting according to impulse– but you close the distance between the two of you, letting out a contented sigh as you feel his plump lips against yours.
The problem is Soobin stays unmoving.
You pull away, shame overcoming the entirety of your system.
“Soobin, I’m sor-”
“Good night,” he replies curtly.
All inebriety has fallen out of the window as you lay down, pulling the sheets all over yourself. You pray this was all just a dream. That you had actually dozed off as he was busying himself on tidying the makeup off your face.
The last thing you hear before sleep overcomes you are his faint footsteps and the clicking of your door.
page.soobin: let me know if you’re awake
: i bought painkillers for you
: i’ll come by then
It’s half past 3 in the afternoon when you awake from your slumber, groaning as you curse yourself for drinking like a maniac the previous night. You simply blink at Soobin’s texts, about to reply when you recall all the humiliation you put yourself in.
Fuck. Fuck. You’re fucked.
page.soobin: you awake?
: you have read receipts on by the way
Great.
: i just woke up
: it’s fine i can manage
: you don’t have to come over
page.soobin: stop
: at least let me take care of you
: i’m okay, soobin
: i swear
page.soobin: i’m still dropping by
: elevator rn
It all happens so quickly. One second you’re grimacing at the thought of seeing him in your disheveled and oh-so dreadfully humiliated state, and the next you’re opening the door for him. He’s dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts, hair disheveled as if he’s been running his hands through it the whole while.
“You should have gone out instead of worrying about my hungover,” you grumble under your breath, eyes not daring to land on him.
“Go out? Without you?” He says it like nothing significant happened between the two of you just hours ago.
“Yeah, I don’t know about that…”
Soobin puffs out a breath he’s been keeping for God knows how long.
“Listen-”
“We don’t have to talk about it, Soobin. I’m really sorry. We should just forget that ever happened and just go our separate ways for the rest of our days here.”
Your mind is in shambles as he stares blankly, debating what to say next.
“Please look at me.”
You can’t deny his request when his voice sounds like it’s about to break. When your eyes meet for the first time since last night, everything just comes crashing out on you. He’s staring so intently, you fear you’ll break upon his gaze.
“Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“That you find me beautiful,” he pauses before adding, “That you tried to look pretty for me.”
You grimace at his prodding. “Why would I not mean it?”
“You were drunk.”
“Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I’m lying.”
Just like that, another awkward silence falls upon you. You could only hear his shallow breaths, like he was holding himself back. You pray he doesn’t hear the buzzing in your brain.
“I wanted to kiss you,” he professes matter-of-factly.
“You didn’t kiss me back.”
“I didn’t want our first kiss to be of us being drunk.”
You’re dumbfounded as you took in his feverish appearance.
“So, if you’ll let me,” he murmurs, “I’d like to have a do-over.”
This time, it wasn’t you who closed the distance between your lips. In a matter of seconds, all of you is filled with him. Soobin. Soobin, who didn’t want to make a move in fear of you not reciprocating. Soobin, who was patient enough to care for you in the most minuscule of ways. Soobin, who you have at the palm of your hand, giving you himself wholeheartedly. Soobin, who has yearned for you all this time.
His soft lips glide against yours so smoothly, his hands eventually slotting around the curve of your waist to pull you in closer. Kissing him felt like coming home. Pressed up against him is where you wanted to be forever.
Soobin pushes you to lay on the bed, with him following suit. He’s careful not to put his whole weight on you, but even so, you feel suffocated by the affection bubbling within you. He’s all yours, albeit just for this moment.
“Soob,” you manage to mewl out against the kisses he is peppering all over your collarbone.
“You alright, baby?” The endearment is enough to make your legs buckle around his waist, wanting to pull him in closer.
“More than alright,” you gasp as he grazes his teeth against your neck, leaving love bites. “I just can’t believe you’re mine today.”
He furrows his eyebrows, halting his actions, “Today?”
“Today,” you frown. “Last full day together and we’re back to our old lives.”
His eyes soften immediately, brushing the strands of hair from your face before he speaks, “It doesn’t have to be just today. I’m yours evermore.”
“But-”
“I’ll visit you every now and then. You can show me around your hometown, and I’ll fly you out to mine,” he traces his finger against your cheek, “And then you’ll meet Tori. I swear you’ll fall in love with her. And we’ll have all the time to ourselves.”
You snicker, “Do you say that to the girls back home too?”
Soobin chuckles in response, a low humming in his chest, “Home is with you.”
You feel like you’re going insane as you pull him in once more, so overwhelmed with the infatuation. Your kisses escalate from shy smacks to a full-blown makeout session, eliciting soft groans from the man looming above you. The way you touch each other feels as though you’re trying to memorize the feel of your bodies, your hands making their way to the skin of his chest under his shirt.
“Take it off if you want to, baby,” he prompts, half-teasing and half-desperate. You catch your breath before tugging on it, motioning for him to help you in pulling it over his head. Every part of him looks like it was sculpted by the gods so intricately. You really can’t believe he’s yours for the taking.
“You look like you’re about to devour me,” he teases.
“I am about to devour you.”
He moans at your words, taking you aback.
“You’re into that?”
“Only if it’s you.”
You don’t know how much time passes– all you know is that your clothes ended up on the floor and he’s inching his long fingers into your heat. His eyebrows are knit as he presses each knuckle to your walls, while you are left to whimper helplessly. His pace picks up, making your face scrunch up from the pleasure.
“Soo- baby, no,” you have a death grip on his arm, trying to stop him.
“Hurts?”
“No, good,” you swivel your hips, “Just want you inside.”
He gulps, a rush of heat going straight to his groin. “Condom?”
It’s irresponsible, really. Despite having previous experiences, you’ve never done it without. You don’t know why, but your brain compels you to heave in response, “No. I want all of you.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Death by dick seems pleasurable.”
Soobin almost can’t believe the humor laced in your words when he’s about to fuck the living daylights out of you, “Don’t die on me.”
He pulls himself out of his boxers, stroking himself. He’s achingly hard, and it took everything in you not to shoot up and beg him to let you have a taste.
“Soobin, you’re huge.”
“More surface area for me to love you with.”
You were about to shoot him a cringed out look when he guided his tip to your entrance. Both your faces scrunch up in pleasure despite the lack of penetration.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Baby,” your chest heaves, “I need you. I thought I made that clear.”
He beams, a stark contrast to him starting to inch through your insides. He’s biting his lip as he holds your hips down, “You’re- fuck.”
Your brain has officially melted into a puddle when he manages to fit everything inside. He gives you time to adjust to the intrusion, pecking your face all over. You swear this is the closest thing to paradise.
And he’s not far off. You notice how his knuckles are turning white from gripping your hips so tautly, trying to ground himself.
When you give him the signal to move, Soobin swears he could almost finish from the first thrust. He’s almost whining from the all-consuming pleasure, thrusts going from the softest brushes against your walls to calculated presses against the deepest parts of you. Soon enough, you’re babbling against his collarbone, leaving your own marks on his ivory skin. He’s yours, yours, yours.
“Fuck,” Soobin sobs, “I just want to stay like this forever.”
You can’t even bring yourself to respond verbally, resorting to clenching around him. His sobs grow even louder, hips unrelenting against yours. You wish you had met back in your hometown. You wish he was easily within your reach. You wish you had the liberty of being tangled up with him for the rest of your life. You don’t want to let him go. What can you do when the only person you’ve allowed yourself to feel everything and anything for lives oceans away?
“Baby,” your voice is weak as you scratch up his back, tugging on his nape. “About to cum.”
This only eggs him on faster, now slamming his hips roughly as he chases your orgasm. “F-fuck. I-inside?”
You hum, locking your legs tighter around his waist, “Nowhere else. N-need to have a piece of you with- in me before we fly back tomorrow.”
Your words seem to do wonders for Soobin. Your orgasm hits you at the same time he spills his warmth deep inside. You would’ve teased him about how he came so much if you weren’t twitching from the aftershocks of your release. He stays inside as the two of you unwind, him drawing circles against your hips, trying to soothe it from his death grip from earlier.
“You alright?” he mumbles against your neck, lapping at it gently. You hum in response, running your fingers through his tousled hair. You lay in silence, relishing in each other’s body warmth under the covers. He kisses the top of your head from time to time, breathing in your scent.
“I smell like vomit,” you grimace.
“You smell like sex.”
You roll your eyes, “That too. But I’m too lazy to take a shower. Just want to be with you.”
He taps your thigh, smirking, “Just say you want to take a shower with me.”
And that, you did. He takes his time with you, locking you in his embrace as the water simmers through your bare bodies. Mundane as it is, you bask in the feel of his body pressed against yours. You’d do anything to live in this moment eternally.
When it was time to fly back home, it took everything in you not to lock yourself inside Soobin’s luggage. You had walked hand in hand, waiting for each other’s flights back home. He kept kissing your knuckles, hushing sweet nothings. When your flight had been announced for boarding, you had cried in his arms, desperately wanting to take him with you. Soobin, ever the mediator, kisses the top of your head, promising to be by your side in a few months’ time. You don’t dare to look back when you enter the gate. You’re scared you’ll fall into another fit of sobs.
It’s been 5 months since, and you’re lounging on your couch, waiting for Soobin’s daily good morning message. He had been consistent in giving you even the smallest details of his life, the highlight of each of your days being the video call you hop on for your debriefings until you fall asleep.
soob ♡: good morning
: the heat is killing me
Your face lights up as his name pops up on your screen.
: good morning <3
: it’s 17° in seoul though?
soob ♡: wanna see something funny?
: baby it’s too early for your league of legends gameplay
soob ♡: heyyy :(
: but please say yes
: this isn’t related to league i swear
: ?
: okay yes i wanna know something funny
soob ♡: okay maybe this is borderline creepy instead of funny
: [Sent a photo attachment.]
You shriek as you open the photo, feet immediately waddling over to your front door.
There he is.
Soobin has a large grin on his face when his eyes land on you, a bouquet of lilies in his hand extended towards you. Even so, your favorite flowers dull in comparison to your favorite boy. The bouquet is all forgotten on the ground when you run to his embrace, one that you’ve been longing for. You don’t care if the neighbors could hear your squealing throughout the apartment hallway. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here, and he’s finally all yours.
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre/warnings: explicit sexual content (smut with plot, 18+ mdni), rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, in chapter warnings to apply
✧ total word count: est. 35k~
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | main masterlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ index
teaser
lesson one
lesson two
lesson three
epilogue
read on wattpad
review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here
CW ꕤ porn without plot tbh · breeding talk · breeding · dubcon? (The condom breaks and soobin keeps going. Readers overwhelmed but doesn’t tell him to stop) · dirty talk · soobins a freakaleak · dom!soobin · overstim (f) · let me know if i missed anything!
Felt it. That subtle pop of latex giving way mid-thrust—so quick, so clean, you barely registered it before the change hit you. That tight, familiar resistance was gone.
In its place was something else entirely—the raw, burning heat of Soobin’s cock suddenly bare, skin-on-skin, sliding deeper than it ever had before. It was blistering, a kind of stretch and fullness that made your whole body stutter in place.
You gasped. “Soobin—” you choked, arms trembling where they held you up. “I think—it broke—” But he was already moving. Already fucking into you, slow and deep and undeniably bare.
“I know,” he growled behind you, voice so low it scraped your spine. “Fucking felt it.”
There was no panic in his voice. No guilt. Just that dark, heady note of relief. Like he’d been aching for this. Like the second the condom broke, he made the choice not to stop.
He just moaned, deep in his throat, and drove forward again, sliding in to the hilt so you could feel every inch—every vein, every twitch of his thick cock pulsing inside your raw, soaked cunt.
“God—” he hissed, one hand curling around your waist, the other gripping your ass tight. “You feel even better like this. Warm. Wet. Nothing between us—fuck, I can’t—”
He was losing it.
You tried to move, to lift your hips, to think, but your body was already reacting—clenching around him, sucking him in harder with every thrust.
“Wait—wait, Soobin—”
“No,” he snapped, thrusting harder now. “Don’t tell me to stop. Not now. Not when you’re taking me this fucking well.”
You whimpered as he slammed into you again, his cock sliding in slick and hot, his hips slapping against your ass in sharp, wet collisions. Your walls fluttered around him, confused by the bare stretch, the sheer exposure. He could feel it.
“I know,” he grunted. “I know, baby. Your pussy knows it’s different. She likes it, doesn’t she?”
“Soobin—fuck, it’s too—”
It wasn’t too much, though. Even as your body shook under him, even as your thighs trembled, your back arched—you wanted it. Every brutal thrust, every messy slide of slicked skin-on-skin, every primal moan he let loose into the crook of your neck.
You wanted it all, and he knew it.
“Knew you’d feel like this,” he muttered, rutting into you faster now as he leaned into your neck, his voice right in your ear. “Knew you’d squeeze me so tight. You weren’t meant to be fucked with anything on—meant to be bred raw.”
Raw. Bare. Unrelenting.
Your pussy, already slick and swollen, clenched around him so tight it was almost hard to move—and that only made him rougher. His cock glided through your wetness, each thrust squelching obscenely between your thighs, the filthy sound echoing through the room alongside your strangled whimpers.
“Too good,” he panted, his voice cracked open with hunger. Sweat beaded at his hairline, dripping down the curve of his jaw, sliding off his chin and onto the small of your back as he leaned over you.
“You feel too fucking good—I’m not stopping now, baby. No way.”
Your elbows buckled under you, palms slipping uselessly against the sheets as your body struggled to hold itself up. Your legs shook—quivering under the weight of him and the way he fucked you like he was on a mission.
Your cunt fluttered around him, spasming as another orgasm crept up too fast, too hard, forcing a choked, panicked moan from your throat.
You tried to crawl forward—instinct, not thought. Your body screaming that it was too much. That it couldn’t handle another one. That you needed space, a second to breathe, anything—
Soobin growled. Deep and possessive. Voice ragged as his hand snatched your waist and yanked you back down.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
You cried out when he drove back in—deeper, somehow—his cock punching into you with a force that made your vision blur. Your ass slapped against his hips, the sound sharp and wet and absolutely obscene.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled into the back of your neck. “Not when this pussy’s dripping like it was fucking made for me.”
He bent over you, chest pressed to your back now, his breath hot in your ear, and his hand slid up under your stomach—feeling the bulge of his cock pressing inside you from underneath. The heat of his palm spread across your belly like a brand.
“You feel that?” he whispered hoarsely. “That’s me. That’s how deep I am.” You could only sob in response, the pleasure too overwhelming, your body clenching around him like it was trying to keep him, not push him out.
“Fuck it,” he hissed. “I’m gonna cum in you.” He kissed your shoulder—soft, trembling—and then bit it just hard enough to make you yelp. “I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “I’m gonna stuff this pretty little pussy full—fuck it in so deep it sticks.”
He didn’t stop. Not when your thighs were shaking. When your voice broke from begging. When you came again, screaming his name, eyes rolling back as your body gave out completely.
Now he was chasing something, fucking into you with single-minded, animalistic focus, driven by the feel of your warm cunt clenching, sucking him in, the way your body melted under his touch and went pliant from being used.
When he finally came?
It was loud. A guttural moan, a tremble through his whole frame, hot ropes of cum flooding deep, soaking your pussy until it dripped down your thighs in thick, warm streaks.
The sexual tension between user filmsbyun and the 'one-bed' trope is a phenomenon that clearly deserves serious study. Because of my borderline obsession with this delightfully silly trope, I’ve put together a series of five charming one-bed scenarios, each featuring a TXT member. Buckle up, pretties, because this winter is about to get very, very heated... probably. Sorry I'm not used to commentaries chat </3
STATUS: ONGOING
Midnight Spirit || Choi Soobin
⤷ You visit a remote mountain village for a once-in-a-decade lantern festival, a week-long celebration of “paired spirits” where visitors are matched with local guides. Yours is a reserved man, content to walk beside you through the nights without intruding. As the final midnight approaches, tradition requires each pair to share a resting space until dawn to keep wandering spirits at bay. He assures you he won’t cross a line unless you choose otherwise.
Borrowed Walls || Choi Yeonjun
⤷ Your apartment’s being renovated, leaving you without a place to stay for the night. Your childhood friend says you can crash at his place and the catch is he shares it with a flatmate. You weren’t planning on saying yes but it’s the safest and the most reasonable option you have.
Snowbound Affairs || Choi Beomgyu
⤷ A blizzard strands your train in the middle of nowhere, and the only inn with a room left has one bed. You don’t hesitate to book it with the charming stranger who’s been keeping you company.
Corporate Misalignment || Kang Taehyun
⤷ You’ve spent months convinced your impossibly handsome coworker hates you by the way he talks to everyone but you. A “mix-up” by your friends forces you to share a room on a work trip to “fix the tension”. That’s when you find out he’s not cold; he’s hopelessly in love with you and has no idea how to act around you.
Late Session || Huening Kai
⤷ You meet him at an evening writing class where you’re both regular attendees, and what begins as polite formalities dissolves into a friendship so natural that by week four, your classmates assume you’re flirting; you’re not, but also you are. When a transit strike leaves you stranded after the late class across the city, he offers his apartment for the night.
The taglist for this series is CLOSED. By requesting to be tagged, it’s assumed you’re willing to actively engage with my work - but if not, that’s completely fine; interaction is always appreciated! Please make sure your settings allow your blog to be tagged.
☆⠀⸺ pairing: tribute choi beomgyu and tribute female reader
You want the capitol to burn.
You don’t just want the capitol to burn. You want it to explode. Every last one of those affluent, entitled, insufferable motherfuckers; you want them to sizzle over a slow flame, to roast, to burn alive. Every bizarre, overengineered building with its pointless, convoluted architecture, you want it reduced to rubble. You want President Kim, tied to a stake, to feel the slow, torturous crawl of fire consuming him until there’s nothing left but ash. No, you don’t just want to watch it happen.
You want to do it yourself.
︵ ུ warnings: hunger games au! , dystopian , romance , enemies to lovers , slow-burn , politics , societal issues, power imbalance, violence! , mature! , used diff idols as characters , MDNI — if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything. this is a work of fiction.
︵ ུ wc: 15k — see the series masterpost here. ུ continue to next part
︵ ུ notes: it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? i’m actually tearing up as i type this. i found my way back here again, and it feels like coming home. my love for writing never left me and i hope this fic says all the things my heart can’t. thank you for being here. i hope you enjoy every word. the next part will be up on the within the week 🤍
When you wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.
You reach for it out of habit, fingers searching for warmth, but all you find is the rough canvas of the mattress cover. You’ve noticed the pattern by now, your body seems to remember the date before your mind does.
Today is the day of the reaping.
The reaping for the Hunger Games, a spectacle the Capitol calls tradition. A televised reminder that the districts belong to them. That disobedience has a price. It isn’t about justice or chance, it's about punishment. Every year, two names are taken from each district. One boy. One girl. Children between twelve and twenty, chosen by chance and sent to die for it. Their lives folded into slips of paper and dropped into a glass bowl, as if that makes it fair.
They call it a lottery. You’ve always known what it really is.
Your hands move slowly as you fold the thin sheets, your fingers stiff from the cold. Your back aches from another night spent on the hard floor, every muscle protesting when you straighten up. It should feel normal by now. You have done this every year, on the same day, in the same room. Still, the pain never really fades.
Because every reaping day, every Hunger Games, leads you back to the same memory. The day your twin brother, Jungwon, was taken. The day the world learned how to be cruel in a way you would never forget.
Don’t worry about me, Y/N.
I’ll make it home to you.
You force yourself to breathe, even as your vision blurs every time his last words echo in your head. It has been four years now. You were sixteen when his name was drawn from the bowl, when the square went quiet and the world tilted. You still remember the sound you made, a broken gasp that felt like it tore out of your chest. You remember how he hugged you, tight and desperate, as if he could hold you in place with his arms. You remember his mentor pulling him away, fingers digging into his sleeve while you reached for him too late. You remember shaking as you watched the Games, your hands pressed to the screen, your heart pounding so loudly you thought it might give you away.
You remember the way hope flared in your chest when he ran through the forest, when he was still alive, still fighting. And you remember the scream that ripped out of you when he died, the sound of your own voice turning unrecognizable.
Four years of mourning. Four years of waking up and going to sleep with the same wound. Four years of grieving the last family you had.
District 12 was the worst of the districts. You could not count on your hands how many children you knew who were already orphans, how many families had been broken by Peacekeepers, by hunger, or by the mines that swallowed people whole. Death was so common it had learned how to live among you.
You lost both of your parents to sickness.
The wooden floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you move through the house. It is small and worn down, every wall stained with years of coal dust and time. It feels too big. Too empty.
How can a home that once held four people ever feel the same again?
You sit in the hush of the kitchen, nudging your food across the plate without tasting it. You try to eat, but even the faint smell of it turns your stomach. Hunger lingers in you like a shadow, yet your body refuses to listen. At last, you rise and rinse your face with cold water, letting it sting your skin awake. Your gaze drifts to the clothes you set out the night before, folded and waiting. Outside, the world is still wrapped in dark. The sun has not yet dared to rise.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
You change into your hunting clothes, the fabric fitting tighter than what you usually wear, pressed close to your skin. You reach for your bow, fingers settling around the worn grip, steadying yourself with something that has never failed you.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
“Our last year, huh,” Kai says quietly. “Who would’ve thought we’d make it this far.”
You let out a small huff. “I caught some rabbits.” You barely finish speaking before he reaches for your bag. “You know how to skin them by now, right?”
“Of course, ever so generous angel.” He laughs, eyes bright with the simple relief of knowing there will be food tonight. “I’ll share them with the kids too.” But as he takes the bag from you, something in his expression shifts. The smile fades, replaced by something heavier. “Do me a favor,” he says.
You tilt your head, studying him. “What?”
“Don’t volunteer.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Everyone knows,” Kai says. “They whisper about it, about how you were always sharp even as a kid, how you never learned how to bend. They say if you’d been born in another district, you would have stood a chance at a life that didn’t end in poverty.” His jaw tightens. “They talk about how you changed after your brother.” He stops, breath catching, then forces himself steady. “They say you want blood. That you want the Capitol to pay. That you’re just waiting for the right moment.”
“Oh,” you say, dry and hollow, pressing a hand to your chest. “Such faith. Truly touching.”
Kai’s shoulders sink. “You know that’s not what I mean. We both know the Games don’t care how good you are. They don’t care how angry you are either.” His voice drops. “I promised your brother I’d keep you alive.”
“Don’t,” you say, cutting him off. “Don’t bring him into this.”
Kai lets out a breath through his nose and looks anywhere but at you. You have fought about this before, more than once. He knows how deep your hatred for the Capitol runs. He has seen it grow, slow and violent, ever since your brother died. You are a thing wound too tight, always on the edge of breaking. A ticking bomb.
He watches you whenever the Peacekeepers pass, terrified that one wrong look will be enough to set you off. He watches when someone is dragged into the street and punished, afraid you will step forward and never come back. He watched you through the last three reapings, heart in his throat, waiting for you to shout that you would volunteer. Every year, he notices the ways you change. How you wake before the sun. How your words grow fewer. How your grip tightens whenever he touches your hand by accident, as if you are holding yourself together by force alone.
You are a ticking bomb. He has known it for a long time.
And what frightens him most is not the question of if you will, but when.
You’re back in your cold, empty home.
Your hands smooth over your blouse, straightening it as best you can. Somewhat formal. It is tradition, after all, to dress your best on this day, no matter how hollow it feels.
The Reaping. Reaping number one hundred and twenty-one.
You can’t remember when the age range changed, shifting from twelve to seventeen, then twelve to twenty. The Capitol offered some weak excuse about fewer children being born each year, and you almost laugh at the absurdity. Who in their right mind would bring a child into a world like this?
I promised your brother I’d keep you alive.
Kai’s last words echo in your head as you move through the house. You hate that he always brings your brother into it at times like this. You hate that it still works, and you hate yourself most of all for letting it. You stop in front of the cracked mirror. A dull gray collared shirt hangs from your shoulders, paired with black pants that have lost their color years ago. Dark, muted. Safe. You tug on your old boots and lace them tight, almost finished when a voice calls from outside. “Y/N?”
“I’m coming,” you answer quickly, grabbing the door and stepping out into the pale morning.
Hiyyih is waiting by the fence. She smiles when she sees you. “You look pretty, sister.”
A small smile tugs at your lips. Hiyyih’s presence has always carried that soft, innocent edge. She is all that remains of Kai’s family, both of their parents swallowed by a failing mine when they were just children. She’s fifteen, and even though her laughter, her stubbornness, her way of seeing the world is the opposite of yours, it hasn’t stopped her from calling you her sister.
Kai comes up behind you, steps silent. His eyes find yours, and he shoots a look loaded with unspoken meaning. Then, in that quiet, controlled tone he always uses when he’s trying not to let his worry show, he says, “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
District 12 is miserable.
You have always known that, but Reaping Day makes it impossible to ignore. Parents cling to each other and to their children as if their arms alone can keep fate away. Some of the younger kids are already crying, faces blotchy and terrified. Coal dust coats everything. Shirts are stained. The streets look as tired as the people standing in them.
“Don’t volunteer,” Kai whispers when he manages to slip close to you. His mouth is near your ear, his voice barely there, because words like that are dangerous. A disturbance, the Capitol would call it. Enough to earn him punishment.
You shoot him a warning look.
When you do not answer, his hand starts to shake. It grips your forearm. A Peacekeeper could hear him. He knows it. You know it, but fear is louder than sense. “Don’t kill yourself.”
“What are you doing, boy? Back to your lane!” a Peacekeeper snaps.
Kai is shoved away before either of you can react. You flinch as the sharp click of a gun being cocked cuts through the square. A warning. A reminder.
You close your eyes. It is moments like this that make your hatred burn hottest. When the Capitol shows you exactly how small you are. How easily you can be moved. How little your life is worth. You are not people to them. You are livestock, herded into rows and counted and culled. Cattle dressed up as citizens, waiting to be chosen for slaughter.
Kai. Hiyyih. Jungwon.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
Don't volunteer. I beg of you. Don't kill yourself. I promised your brother I’d keep you alive.
The words stack on top of each other until you can hardly breathe beneath them. You stay beside Hiyyih the whole time, a silent agreement between you both to not let go, to face whatever comes together. Step by step, you check in with the Peacekeepers and shuffle forward into line, bodies pressed close in the sea of fearful faces.
“Welcome!”
The microphone screeches, a high-pitched feedback that makes your teeth ache, and then the Capitol floozy appears at the center of the stage. Her hair is sapphire blue, poofed impossibly high like a cloud someone trapped in color, her pastel outfit puffed around her like candy. Glitter rains down with every exaggerated shift of her towering heels, the sun catching the shimmer like a spotlight just for her.
She blinks her oversized eyelashes, scanning the crowd, a wide, cheerful grin plastered across her face. You fight the urge to vomit. How can someone smile like that when everything around her is pain?
“Welcome to the 121st Annual Hunger Games,” she chirps, voice sweet and sharp all at once. “Now, to introduce one of District 12’s previous victors, who will be serving as mentor this year,” she continues, “Mr. Minho!”
The district’s only victor. The man who won twenty years ago. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him sober.
There’s a brief, tense pause before Minho stumbles onto the stage, and it surprises no one that a bottle swings loosely in his hand. He lurches forward, tilting it to his lips, taking a long, sloppy swallow before his arm drops, the glass wobbling like it might slip and shatter at any moment.
You can’t look away. Not just because he’s a mentor now, but because he was your brother’s mentor too. The man who trained Jungwon, who watched him fight and die, now swaying in front of the entire district like he’s trying to hold himself together with alcohol and willpower alone. His eyes wander over the crowd, slow and scanning, and then they land on you. Something passes across his face in that instant. Was it guilt that flashes? Or your face reminds him of another child, another blood on his hands?
This year is your last year on the reaping. Your last year.
"Our victor of District 12, everyone!" The Capitol's escort says, forcing a smile.
No one claps. No one ever does.
“And now,” she continues, voice dripping with cheer, “for the selection of the male tribute who will represent District 12 in this year’s games—”
She prances toward the bowl, glitter catching the sunlight and throwing shards of color over the gathered crowd. Her long nails scrape through the thousand folded papers, and finally, one is selected. She struts back to the microphone.
“Kim Sunoo!”
A young boy steps forward, too small, too young. His face is almost childlike, soft and unformed, lips trembling as if the world has just begun to press its weight against him. He shuffles forward sheepishly, the Peacekeepers looming beside him. On the stage, under the Capitol’s relentless glare, he trembles, swallowed by the enormity of what is about to happen.
The woman’s hand dives again into the bowl. “And for the female tribute,” she says.
You feel it before you hear it. That hollow drop in your chest. The sense of something terrible already moving toward you. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears until it sounds like water rushing, drowning out everything else. Hiyyih’s hand tightens around yours, and for a second, the world tilts, unreal and weightless, as if you are standing at the bottom of a lake.
“Huening Hiyyih!” The name splits the air.
You gasp, fingers locking around hers as if you can keep her there by force alone. Whispers ripple through the crowd, sharp and startled, and beside you Hiyyih makes a small, broken sound you barely recognize as a sob. You turn to her, and she is already crying, eyes wide and terrified, lips parted like she wants to speak but cannot.
Peacekeepers begin to move toward you. Their boots cut through the space between rows, heavy and final. You look down at Hiyyih, at how small she is, how thin her arms feel in your grip. She is lifted almost off the ground when they reach her, her body too light, too fragile in their hands. “Wait—”
A lump rises in your throat as she cries, your hands trembling around hers. You turn your head, searching the crowd, and find Kai. His eyes are wide, glassy with tears, the people beside him trying and failing to hold him still.
His gaze meets yours. Pleading.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
You give him a look that is steady, unwavering; a resolve carved from years of shadow and grief. All the doubts that clawed at you, all the questions of whether this goes against what your brother would have wanted, melt like frost under sunlight. In that gaze, you see it: a thin thread of chance, a fragile glimmer among the darkness, guiding your next move.
You cannot let another heart shatter the way yours did.
“I volunteer!”
The words loudly tear out of you.
It was dark after your brother died. So dark it hollowed you out. You became a ghost of yourself, moving through years that felt endless and empty. Every day since had been night, the longest night of your life. But as the syllables echo across the square — a dawn brushing light over the edges of your pain. You will get to do something. You can do something for your brother's death.
“I volunteer!” Every head turns. Every eye falls on you. Even the stage seems to hold its breath.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
And for the first time in years, you are not fading. You are not hollow. The silver of your resolve, fragile and sharp, burns brighter than all the shadows around you.
You have never felt more alive.
“Oh my god!” the Capitol’s escort squeals, voice dripping with excitement. “For the first time in history, District 12 has its own tribute volunteer!”
You see the Peacekeepers’ grip on Hiyyih loosen, and few start moving toward you. Unlike any tribute before you, you don’t flinch. You don’t lower your head. You step forward unyielding, toward the stage. The crowd notices. Eyes widen. Whispers ripple like silver threads through the air. This is the woman who hunts beyond the borders of their fences, the woman who survives where others falter.
A hunter. A fighter. A woman shaped by grief and fire.
Hiyyih catches up to you, tears in her eyes, she reaches for your hand, voice trembling “I’m sorry—” The Peacekeepers pulls her back before she can touch you, but you do not stop. You do not look down. Step by step, you ascend the stage. Your gaze locks on Minho. His eyes are wide, disbelief etched across every line of his face.
“Welcome, darling!” the Capitol floozy trills beside you. You glance at her. “Congratulations.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, you face forward. Every face in District 12 stares at you. No one with the likes of you has ever been seen on your district.
“And here we are,” the lady continues, voice rising over the tense murmurs, “tributes this year for District 12! Shake hands, you two.”
You sit alone in a quiet room.
It smells faintly of flowers. There’s a desk, a chair, shelves lined with books you’ve never read, vases you’ve never touched. Everything feels calm, as if the world outside could be tamed by neat lines and polished surfaces. Your eyes drift over the spines.
The door opens. “Sister.”
You turn. Hiyyih rushes across the room, throwing herself into your arms. You hold her as tightly as you can, as if the strength of your body could shield her from what is coming. Her cries press against you, wet and desperate, and you feel her fear seep into your bones. When you look up, Kai is there. His eyes are red, he paces, hands dragging through his hair, a caged animal straining against invisible walls.
“You can shoot. You can hunt. You can run. You can—”
“Shut up. Come here.” You open your arms. He hesitates only a second before stepping into you. Hiyyih’s crying grows louder between you, and suddenly there is no space left. It is a tangled, desperate embrace, three bodies clinging together like this might be the last safe place in the world.
“Give them hell,” Kai murmurs into your shoulder. Your chest tightens, your throat stings. “Make them regret it, and come back to us.”
It hits you then, the memory that curls in your chest. The way your brother’s arms felt around you that last time, the ache of losing him, the helplessness you promised you would never feel again. Pain blooms, then grief, then rage, pure and unfiltered, hot and burning through every vein.
You closed your eyes and you felt tears escape your eyes.
“Hey, Soobin.”
“Hm.”
“Shouldn’t you be more focused on your own tributes?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are glued to the television, watching the Reaping in District 11 unfold. There’s a weight in his stare, a search for something he cannot name yet. The tributes of District 11 appear on screen, trembling, pale, weak in his eyes. He scoffs, a quiet sound that carries both dismissal and calculation.
He has a plan. He knows it will work, but there is one element missing— one piece that could tilt every probability in his favor.
“Soobin.”
“Yes?” he replies, voice flat, still fixated on the screen as the Capitol escort with impossibly blue hair prances toward the glass bowl.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Yes.” — “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
His eyes flick toward his own tributes. Beomgyu and Ryujin sit at the dining table, watching him with attentiveness. Two children molded by his design, trained since they could barely walk, capable with every weapon and every strategy he taught them. They are pieces of his plan, but even they cannot fill the gap he has yet to identify. His gaze lingers, on the unknown, the one variable that could make everything fall into place.
“Beomgyu,” Soobin says, “I’m still missing something.”
“I’m aware,” Beomgyu replies, his tone dry, “I asked what you’re looking for.”
Soobin doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the screen. Then it happens. A scream rips through the broadcast, raw and jagged, and it makes the room still, makes the air itself pause. Everyone watches.
“I volunteer!”
Soobin straightens, the words hitting him like a shock he never expected. His throat tightens, dry and constricted. He doesn’t know why. There’s a force in your voice that pulls him, tugs at something he didn’t realize he was holding back. You step forward with certainty, with a grace born of fire and shadow, and every eye, every whisper — bends toward you. It’s effortless, terrifying in its simplicity.
It’s the look on your face that stops him. Not fear. Not hesitation. You are weightless and grounded all at once, as if for the first time in years you are allowed to breathe, allowed to exist fully, allowed to make this choice without trembling. As if the world itself has been holding you down, and finally you push against it and rise.
“This is her,” Soobin breathes, fascination threading every word. The disbelief is sharp, metallic. How could a district so low, so overlooked, so trampled, produce someone like this? A flame uncontained, fierce and untamed.
“A distraction,” he says at last, almost to himself, almost as if naming it makes it real. The missing piece of the puzzle.
"We need to talk to her as soon as possible."
Before you can fully understand what is happening, you are swept onto the train and set down in a room so rich with color and shine that it feels unreal. Soft seats. Polished tables. Vases filled with perfect flowers. For a moment, you almost laugh. One chair in this car could feed District 12 for a month, one useless decoration could keep families alive through winter. The Capitol wraps hunger in gold and calls it kindness.
Sunoo sits across from you, small and rigid, hands folded in his lap. You open your mouth to speak, but Minho’s voice crashes through the space first.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
He storms toward you, eyes sharp, bottle clenched in his hand. “What would Jungwo—”
“Don’t fucking say his name.”
The Capitol escort gasps, scandalized by your language, by your tone, by the fact that District 12 does not come dressed in manners.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you continue, heat rising in your chest. “You do it every year. This was my choice. You are not my family.” You remember every attempt he did to approach you, when your brother died. All you saw was a man trying to wash away his guilt.
The woman fumbles for words, waving her hands as if she can stitch the air back together. “Now, now, let’s not make this uncomfortable—”
“What can you do?” Minho snaps instead, turning sharply to Sunoo. The question lands on both of you, heavy and accusing.
“I can… hide,” Sunoo says quietly.
Minho lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Great. Holy shit. You’ll win.” Sarcasm drips from every word, and something ugly coils in your stomach. The train hums beneath you, carrying you farther from home, farther from graves and coal dust and the people who loved you.
You push yourself up from your seat and stand in front of him. The smell of alcohol hits you first. “You know how good my brother was,” you say angrily. “You watched him. Everything he could do, I can do too. I hunt alone. I build traps. I know how to use a knife. I know how to shoot.”
Minho opens his mouth, but you don’t let him speak.
“And you know he would have survived,” you continue. “He would have made it out of that arena if the Capitol hadn’t decided he was too dangerous to fight fairly.” Your voice lowers. “So they poisoned him in his sleep.” The room feels smaller. “Strong tributes don’t die like that,” you say. “Not unless someone’s afraid of them.”
Minho’s jaw tightens. “Don’t say that. Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”
The Capitol escort moves quickly to the door and shuts it, her hands trembling just a little. When she looks at you, her eyes are soft. Pitying. Sunoo shifts in his chair. His voice is thin when he speaks. “She’s telling the truth. Everyone in Twelve knows her.” He swallows. “The meat that gets shared. The meat that keeps kids alive in winter. It comes from her.”
You look at him. “She never misses,” Sunoo says. “Always through the eyes. So the animal doesn’t suffer. So the meat stays clean.”
The Capitol escort hesitates. “Do you… do you think you can win?” she asks carefully. “My name is Minji.”
The train hums beneath your feet and in your silence. Minho finally mutters, “Let’s eat, and talk.”
Night falls.
You sleep in a bed wide enough for four people, wrapped in sheets so soft you lose consciousness the moment your head touches the pillow. When morning light spills through the window, warm and pale, you almost pretend this is just another day. For a second, you want to stay there, buried in comfort, untouched by the world.
Then you remember.
The Capitol. The Games.
You force yourself up, limbs heavy, and dress in clothes laid out for you. Black pants made of light, airy fabric. A dark green long-sleeved shirt that slides over your skin like water. Silk. Softer than anything you have ever owned. You pause, fingers brushing the sleeve, stunned by how gentle it feels.
The Capitol has more of this luxury than it knows what to do with, and your district starves for crumbs. You want the capitol to burn.
You don’t just want the capitol to burn. You want it to explode. Every last one of those affluent, entitled, insufferable motherfuckers; you want them to sizzle over a slow flame, to roast, to burn alive. Every bizarre, overengineered building with its pointless, convoluted architecture, you want it reduced to rubble. You want President Kim, tied to a stake, to feel the slow, torturous crawl of fire consuming him until there’s nothing left but ash.
No, you don’t just want to watch it happen. You want to do it yourself.
You want to do it yourself.
You let out a slow breath and step into the hallway, barefoot and unsteady, following the quiet hum of the train toward what you think is the living room. A table waits there, covered in food so rich and bright it almost looks unreal. Sunoo is already eating, stiff and silent.
Minho sits across the room in an armchair, a drink in his hand even this early. His eyes find you immediately.
You ignore him.
You sit beside Sunoo instead, close enough to remind him he is not alone, close enough to remind yourself that you are still here.
Sunoo looks up at you from his plate. “Sleep well?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer. “You?”
“Yeah. I did too.” His reply is light, almost playful, and it shouldn’t be. Not after last night, not after the way the four of you talked about the arena while he quietly removed himself from the conversation, sitting there like someone already half gone. It is as if he knows what waits for him and has decided not to fight it.
“We should talk about your approach,” Minho says suddenly. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands and crosses the room.
“For what?” You keep your eyes on your food. “I already told you what I want.”
He sighs. “I know you have your own agenda.”
“Then leave me alone.”
“You have potential,” he insists, his voice rough with something that sounds too close to pleading.
You finally look at him. “Is that what you told my brother too?”
The room goes quiet. Minho stops where he is, his expression emptying as if the words have struck him somewhere he was not prepared to be hit. His mouth opens, then closes, and whatever answer he meant to give never comes.
You turn back to your plate, but the food tastes like nothing. Heat builds in your chest, the same old anger that has lived there since the day your brother never came home. Everyone in your family is dead because of the Capitol, until there is nothing left but you.
The train hums wrapped in silk and silver and excess, carrying you toward a city that has already decided how many of you will die for its entertainment.
“I can see what’s driving you,” Minho says, his voice quieter now, like the word vendetta is something sharp in his mouth. “But if you let your anger show, you’ll make yourself a target before the Games even begin. You need to be careful. You need to look strong, not reckless. Let me make you someone the Capitol wants to watch. Someone they’ll want to sponsor.” You keep chewing, jaw tight, but slower now, and he notices. He leans forward, pressing the point. “You don’t have to stand alone in this. You could have allies. You’re blunt, you’re confident, and you’re smarter than you pretend to be. If you use that right, you won’t just survive. You’ll become something dangerous. Something they won’t know how to control.”
When you don’t answer, Minho takes your silence as permission.
“Tonight is the tribute parade,” he says, already shifting into strategy. “You need to be likable. Let them see something worth rooting for. If they like you, they’ll give you a decent score.” He hesitates, then adds, “We also got a call last night. A stylist asked for you, specifically. They usually work with the upper districts, but we’re not refusing that kind of attention.”
You let out a quiet scoff. “The stylist asked for me.”
“Yes.” Minho pushes himself to his feet. “So eat. We’re almost at the Capitol.”
When you arrive at the Capitol and are ushered off the platform, it feels like the most painful part of the journey so far. The air is too clean, too bright, and everything around you is built to remind you that you do not belong here. You are guided into a towering building and herded into a massive elevator with three people wearing makeup so strange it barely looks human. They giggle as they look you over, cooing about how pretty you are, about how they will make you the most beautiful tribute this year, as if beauty is something that can soften what is about to happen to you.
Then they strip you. Your protests stay caught in your throat as they work quickly and without mercy, removing every hair from your body. You try to curl in on yourself, to hide, to keep whatever dignity you can, but they pry your hands away whenever you cover yourself. Their touch is clinical and careless, and by the time they are done, you feel smaller than you ever have. They leave you with a flimsy robe that barely covers you, and you clutch it tight as you are led into a small waiting room and told to sit.
District 12 always looks the same in the parade. Coal miner costumes, dark fabric, soot painted onto skin like a costume instead of a lifetime. You cannot imagine what any stylist could possibly do with that, and the thought of being dressed up like a symbol of your own suffering makes your stomach twist. You have a week before the Games begin, a week to be turned into something the Capitol can enjoy looking at.
The door opens, and your body goes rigid.
A man steps inside dressed entirely in black. His hair is streaked with blond highlights, styled perfectly, and silver piercings line his ears. His eyes are sharp and foxlike, and when he smiles, it is slow and deliberate, as if he already knows something about you that you do not. He is tall and lean, with a presence that fills the room without effort.
“It’s good to meet you,” he says, “I’m Yeonjun. Your stylist.”
“I’m Y/N.” Something in his expression shifts when you say it. He moves behind you and gently turns your chair toward the mirror. His hands settle on your shoulders, and he studies your reflection.
“I know this can be a lot,” he says, his voice lower now. “But I want you to know I’m on your side.”
Doubt threading through your tone as you meet his gaze in the glass. “So what’s your plan? Coal miners again?”
He lets out a small laugh. “Honestly, your little stunt at the Reaping inspired me to dig out one of my old designs.” There is a spark of pride in his smirk. “And Soobin wants—” He stops himself too late, his mouth closing like he has said something he should not have.
“Who’s Soobin?”
“A friend,” he answers too quickly, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “He had some suggestions, and I agree with him. If District 12 is going to walk into that parade, we might as well make it good. I already know exactly what to put you in.”
Something stirs in your chest at that, a feeling you have not allowed yourself in a long time. A dangerous excitement, like a match struck in the dark.
Yeonjun tilts his head, watching your reaction through the mirror. “So,” he says lightly, “how do we feel about fire?”
You surprise yourself by smiling.
Moving with Yeonjun feels natural, like your body already knows what to do under his direction. He dresses you in a long, sleeveless black jumpsuit with a halter neckline, simple in shape but alive in the light, the fabric catching and reflecting it with a faint, silvered glint. Black boots ground you, smoky shadow darkens your eyes, and gloves slide up your arms to your elbows. Your hair is gathered high on your head, pinned neatly into place, every strand controlled. When he steps back, you barely recognize the person in the mirror.
Now you stand beside the chariot, waiting for your turn to be called, while Yeonjun makes small adjustments to your makeup and smooths a loose strand of hair with careful fingers. “When you’re ready, press the button on the belt,” he says quietly, as if the air itself is listening. “It’s synthetic flames, but keep your hands away from your hair. Just in case.”
You nod. “Thank you, Yeonjun.” After a few minutes, he finally steps away and leaves you alone with the waiting. The other tributes have not arrived yet.
Then Sunoo appears, dressed in the familiar coal miner outfit, dark and plain beside your black shimmer. He looks at you and smiles, soft and a little sad. “You look so cool.”
You fall into a brief, quiet conversation with your co-tribute, but your attention drifts. Your eyes wander over the crowd as other tributes begin stepping forward to prepare. Faces blur together, costumes flashing with color and metal and fabric too fine for hands that will soon be bloody. You look without really seeing, moving from one district to the next, until your gaze catches on someone who is not looking away.
He is staring at you.
Out of all of them, one boy has fixed his eyes on yours. The first thing you notice is his face. It is striking in a way that feels unfair, softer than most of the boys you have known, yet sharpened by something colder underneath. His district partner is busy beside him, adjusting their costume, but he stands still. Both of them carry themselves like they were trained for this, shoulders straight, expressions carved into something proud and dangerous, already measuring the crowd and the competition.
Then he realizes you are looking back.
His stare does not break. Dark hair frames his face, making the gold crown they have placed on his head burn brighter by contrast. The costume clings to him like armor, molded and shining, as if the Capitol wants him to look like a god instead of a boy. You take in the lines of his arms, lean and muscular, a body shaped for fighting rather than running. He looks like someone who was built to survive.
And still, he keeps watching you.
It unsettles you more than the costumes, more than the noise, more than the waiting. You cannot tell if there is challenge in his eyes or curiosity, or something else entirely. All you know is that he does not look away, and the question curls in your chest like smoke.
Why you?
“Who are you glaring at? Shit, are you staring down District Two?” Sunoo whispers frantically beside you. “Stop it,” he adds, tugging at your sleeve like that might save you from whatever you have started.
“He started it,” you mutter, refusing to look away. Your eyes stay locked on the boy across the line. “You know him?”
Sunoo swallows. “You did not watch the reaping videos, did you?” he says in a rush. “He is highly predicted to win this year. Choi Beomgyu. The Capitol’s favorite, the one everyone’s betting on. They trained him since he was a kid.”
You nod slowly, the name settling into you like a stone. Beomgyu keeps staring for another long second, and then, finally, his attention shifts back to his district partner. Your shoulders loosen despite yourself, relief slipping through you when the tension breaks.
It lasts exactly one heartbeat, because Beomgyu turns away from his partner and starts walking toward you.
Sunoo’s breath stutters. “What?” His voice shakes. “Did you say something? Why is he coming over here?”
“I do not know,” you hiss, eyes tracking Beomgyu’s every step. “I did not do anything.”
He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can see the fine sheen of sweat at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw beneath the gold crown. His gaze flicks briefly to Sunoo, cold and assessing, and Sunoo understands at once.
Leave.
Sunoo hesitates only a second before backing away, swallowed by the noise and movement of the other tributes. You are left standing there, alone with the boy the Capitol has already decided will win. Beomgyu looks down at you like he is studying a weapon, and for the first time since the chariots lined up, the crowd around you seems to disappear.
It is just you and him.
Nothing is said at first. Around you, the other tributes and their stylists chatter and laugh, but between you and him there is only silence.
You are the one who breaks it. “What the fuck do you want?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but it vanishes just as quickly. His posture stays tight, he's guarded. “What’s your game?”
“My game?”
“You’re a poor, pathetic kid from District Twelve with the confidence of a Career tribute,” he says, eyes sharp as if he is trying to peel you apart layer by layer.
“I’m a poor, pathetic kid from a district,” you reply, “who stands on the same level as you right now, because we are both tributes.”
For a moment, it looks like he is about to answer, something flashing behind his eyes. You do not give him the chance. “Fuck off,” you hiss, “or I will make sure you do not last a day in the games.”
You do not care if you have angered him. You do not care that you come from a district the Capitol expects to lose. None of that matters now. You are here because something in you decided you had to be, because the path led here no matter how hard you tried to turn away.
For Kai and Hiyyih, whose hands still shake when they think of the Reaping. For your brother, whose name still lives in your chest like a wound that never closed, and for yourself, because surviving is no longer enough. You are here to mean something, even if it costs you everything.
Beomgyu tears the cheap armor off the moment he steps into the District Two living space. The metal clatters against the floor as he yanks the gold crown from his hair, irritation written plainly across his face. Soobin is the only one in the room, and he rises at once when Beomgyu enters.
“Where’s Yeonjun?” Beomgyu snaps. “He couldn’t even style me for the parade?” He holds up the crown like it has personally offended him. “He would never have made me wear this.”
“We needed him for District Twelve,” Soobin says calmly. “And I think it was worth it.”
It was. Beomgyu cannot stop the image from resurfacing in his head. You, standing in black, wrapped in fire. The flames licking at your silhouette while the crowd forgot how to look anywhere else. You were the star of the night, the thing everyone talked about. Exactly what Soobin had wanted. All eyes drawn to you.
“So?” Soobin presses, studying Beomgyu’s face. “How is she?”
Beomgyu freezes, your voice and your stare echoing in his mind. The way you looked at him, unflinching, unbowed, as if he were not some towering Career tribute but merely a boy. He cannot remember the last time anyone from a poor district had dared to meet his eyes, to speak to him without fear curling in their throat. They knew better. They stayed quiet. They kept their heads low. They survived by being invisible.
You did not.
And in that audacity, he feels it — a pulse of both respect and wariness. Either you are foolish enough to court death, or you are dangerous enough to stand on equal ground with him.
Soobin had been right.
“She’ll do,” Beomgyu admits.
Soobin smiles, the sound quiet but satisfied, a strategist pleased that his pieces are falling into place. “You think she bites?”
“She carries herself like she does,” Beomgyu replies, voice low.
Soobin nods, his expression sharpening. “She cannot die yet. Not until Heeseung maps the arena, sets the pieces, draws the strings. She has to last at least a few days and it will not be easy, because the Capitol hunts those who burn too brightly.” His eyes darken as he remembers another fire from years past, a boy who had almost sparked hope and was snuffed out in his sleep.
“She will need allies,” Soobin says.
It is the one imperfection in an otherwise perfect plan, the one weakness that could unravel everything. This time, Soobin will not allow it. This time, Soobin will not allow it. This time, he will ensure mistakes would't happen, ever again.
Dinner that night is miserable.
Minho is in an unusually good mood, Sunoo looks lighter than he has all day, and Yeonjun has taken a seat near you with Minji laughing too loudly at everything he says. At some point, the conversation turns to you, and it does not stop. Your parade. Your flames. Your chances. You sit there while your name is passed around the table like something shiny and new.
“Oh, the way they were gushing about you,” Minji squeals, clasping her hands together. “The sponsors we could get. You might even score high.” You nod and swallow a mouthful of food that suddenly feels too big for your throat, aware of Yeonjun’s gaze on you from across the table.
“Sure,” you say, because it is easier than saying what you really feel.
Minji claps, delighted. “Wonderful. We will be in business in no time.”
Yeonjun smiles at you, softer than the others, “I’ve already got a dress ready for your interview, honey. If you liked the flames in the parade, you’re going to love it.” Normally, you would bristle at being called that. Normally, you would not care about dresses or designs or what you look like on a stage built for slaughter. But Yeonjun is different. There is sincerity in the way he looks at you, a quiet pride in his work, and you remember what he told you the first day.
I want you to know I’m on your side.
“Thank you, Yeonjun,” you say, and this time, you mean it.
“I’m excited for your next outfit,” Sunoo says brightly. “I wonder if that’s why District Two made him come talk to you.”
“District Two?” Yeonjun asks at once, lifting his head. “Who talked to you?”
“The guy,” you say with a shrug. “The one with the pretty face. What was his name again. Beomgyu. He wanted to know what my deal was and casually threatened me.”
You are fairly certain he did not actually threaten you. If anything, you were the one who did that. Still, something about his name, his face, the way his voice sounded when he spoke to you lingers longer than it should. You shove the thought away as soon as it forms. You hate him. You hate what he represents. You remember his words about poor districts and feel your jaw tighten, heat rising in your chest.
“Why would he make you a target?” Minho mutters, rubbing at his temple. “It’s the first day and you’re already marked by district two?”
“Maybe he isn’t targeting you,” Yeonjun says carefully. “The threatening could have just been a test, that’s how careers are. They size each other up. They don’t bother talking to someone unless they think that person is worth their time.”
You turn your stare on him. “You sound like you know him pretty well.”
“I hear things,” Yeonjun replies quickly. “That’s kind of my job, Y/N.”
Minji claps her hands together. “That’s good news. Career tributes have the most sponsors.”
Yeonjun nods. “An alliance could work. If he respects your strength, he might be useful. He could help you survive the first stretch of the games.”
You scoff and lean back in your chair. “Or he could choke me in my sleep.”
Minho looks at you seriously. “This could change everything.”
“All I care about,” you say, your voice rising before you can stop it, “is that the Capitol gets what they deserve.” The table falls into stunned quiet, the sound of utensils dying out one by one as every face turns toward you. Even Minji’s smile disappears. For a moment, there is only the weight of what you have said hanging in the air.
Minho is the first to recover. “You do realize they could be listening,” he says carefully.
“Yeah,” you answer, your jaw tight. “Let them listen. They already know I hate them.” He starts to speak again, but you cut him off, your eyes burning as you look straight at him. “They killed my brother.” The words land harder than anything you have said all night, and the table freezes around you. “They know exactly who I am. He would have won. There were only two tributes left. The other one was bleeding out, barely conscious, and my brother didn’t even have a wound on him. Not a cut. Not a bruise. Maybe a mosquito bite.” Your voice cracks, but you force the words out. “And they killed him in his sleep.”
It is the first time you have ever said it out loud. Not to Kai. Not to Hiyyih. Not even to yourself in the dark. Four years of swallowing it whole finally tear their way free, the shame of surviving when he did not, the rage at his mentor for letting it happen, at the crowd for cheering, at the Capitol for deciding he was too dangerous to keep alive. Your chest aches with it, raw and open. You feel every pair of eyes on you, the weight of their pity and fear pressing down until you cannot breathe, and then you meet Yeonjun’s gaze. Something in his expression shifts, a crack in the careful mask he wears, and for one awful second you think you see guilt there. The thought sends a cold shiver up your arms, and you wonder what he knows that you do not.
“I remember your brother’s death,” Minho says suddenly, cutting through the tension. “There isn’t a single person in District Twelve who doesn’t. He was too young. He was too good, but I knew he would die.”
Something inside you snaps.
You move before anyone can stop you. Minho seems to expect it, almost as if he has been waiting for this moment, and he does not even try to dodge you. Your hands slam into his chest and then his throat as you drive him backward, forcing him to the floor. Chairs scrape loudly, and you hear people shout your name, but the sound barely reaches you. You lean down close to his face and whisper, your voice trembling with fury, “You knew. You watched him get poisoned. You could have sent something. You were his mentor.”
Minho’s eyes fill, tears spilling over without shame. “He was a good kid,” he says, his voice breaking.
Your grip tightens, your whole body shaking as your brother’s face flashes in your mind, the way he used to smile at you like the world was still kind. Strong hands pull at your shoulders, dragging you back, and you lash out blindly. “Fuck off,” you snarl, trying to shake Yeonjun away as he calls your name again and again. You do not look at him. You cannot. All you can see is blood and fire and a boy who should have come home.
You do not want to be there anymore. You leave the room without looking back, your steps carrying you down the hallway with no real destination in mind, only the need to be anywhere else. When you reach the elevators, you hesitate, then notice a plain door tucked beside them. Twelve floors, one for each district, and somehow you have wandered past your own. You open the door and find a stairwell instead, dim and echoing. All you want is air, space, a moment where no one is watching you or waiting for you to break.
You climb a single flight before another door appears, and when you push it open, wind rushes at you hard enough to steal your breath. It takes a second to understand where you are. The rooftop. You step out slowly, your breathing evening as the anger drains from your chest. It is quiet up here. No cameras. No people. The sky stretched wide above you. You walk to the edge and look out over the training center, the Capitol spread beneath you, and then you glance down, the distance making your stomach turn.
“If you’re thinking of jumping, they’ve got a forcefield down there. You’d just bounce right back up.”
You inhale slowly and turn around. It is him again. District Two. Beomgyu. Of course it is. “What are you doing here,” you say flatly. “Trying to finish the competition early?”
He stands with his arms crossed, far enough away that you have space, close enough that you stay alert, already measuring how fast he could reach you if he wanted to. “I would hardly call you competition,” he replies.
You keep your eyes on him, unblinking. “You seemed pretty interested earlier.”
He studies you for a moment, then looks away. “All bark,” he says quietly. “No bite.”
You shrug, suddenly too tired to care about posturing or threats, too drained to keep pretending he matters. “Go away.”
The words come out softer than you expect, and his eyes flicker at that, like he was waiting for claws and got something raw instead. In the short time he has known you, he has learned you are sharp, loud, ready to snap, not this quiet thing standing at the edge of a roof with the wind tugging at your clothes.
“Why are you up here, Twelve?” he asks, and you almost laugh at how normal it sounds.
“I got sick of everyone,” you answer honestly, surprised at yourself. “You?”
His gaze does not leave your face. “Only place where there aren’t any cameras or mics.” For a moment, he does not look like District Two or a Career or an enemy. He just looks like a boy who needed somewhere to breathe.
The thought unsettles you.
“We’ll be killing in the arena soon,” you say, to the sky more than to him.
“I could kill you now.”
You glance at him sideways. “And you said I wasn’t your competition.”
“You’re not. I could still kill you anyway.”
“You could try.” The words sit between you, sharp and light at the same time, and you add, almost careless, “Even if you did, I may have told my mentor and my stylists and everyone else that you threatened me today. You’d be the prime suspect.”
He studies you, then turns his face toward the city, where the buildings glow like a thousand watching eyes. You think he looks better like this, silent, unarmed by his own mouth. The space between you fills with quiet, and the sun begins to sink, spilling gold and bruised red across the Capitol.
It is beautiful, and the thought feels like a betrayal.
After a long while, he speaks again. “What did the Capitol do to you?”
The question lands too cleanly, cutting through you without warning, and your breath stutters. Why does he care? “That’s not your business,” you snap, body moving to leave.
“Nice talking to you too,” he says, dry, shaking his head.
You turn away before your face can give you away and stride toward the door, anger and something softer burning together in your chest. You take the stairs quickly, as if distance might drown out his question, but it follows you down all the same, echoing in your ribs.
You spend the next day in the training center, though it feels less like preparation and more like standing inside a living map of the Capitol’s cruelty.
Stations line the room in neat sections, blades flashing under white lights, targets reset with mechanical clicks, knots and snares demonstrated by mentors who speak as if this is all a sport. You move slowly between them, pretending to browse, pretending not to notice how the Careers have already claimed the best spaces. District 1 laughs too loudly as they throw spears. District 4 gathers around the spears and the sword rack, muscles on display like a warning. The lower districts drift at the edges, fingers brushing weapons they are afraid to choose, eyes darting whenever a Career looks their way. No one tells you where to stand, but somehow everyone knows where they belong.
It is an unspoken rule, clear as law. You do not stand with the Careers if you come from somewhere poor. You do not pretend you are equal if the Capitol did not raise you to be dangerous.
Beomgyu is there too, and you make a point of not looking at him. He moves with the easy precision of someone who has never doubted his place in the world, blade cutting clean arcs through the air, his district partner murmuring praise at his shoulder. You keep your gaze on a rack of bows across the room, studying their curves, their strings, the small differences in balance.
Sunoo ruins that effort by nudging you and whispering, almost amused, “He’s looking at you again,” and the words grate against your nerves until you want to snap. You pretend not to hear. It makes your skin itch, the idea of being watched like prey or puzzle, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes.
You stop near the camouflage station and watch a girl from District 8 smear ash across her face with trembling hands, trying to disappear into the painted wall. A boy from District 10 drops a knife and flinches when it clatters too loudly. Across the room, a Career hurls an axe and splits the target clean in half, cheers breaking out around him. The sound makes something twist in your stomach. You think of traps made from wire and scrap metal, of practicing in empty fields, of learning to aim because missing meant going hungry.
None of that belongs here, and yet it lives in your bones.
All around you, the Careers stare openly, waiting for you to move, to prove something, to show teeth the way you did before. They want a performance, a spectacle, something they can measure and dismiss or fear. You lean against a pillar and let your gaze drift over the room, as if you are simply bored.
You give them nothing. You refuse to be a dog summoned by a whistle.
You do not need to show them how you fight. You do not need to train the way they do, because you have been training all your life without weapons or sponsors or applause. When the time comes for individual scores, you will meet your bow then, in front of all of them, when it actually matters.
Until that moment, you stay still, eyes sharp, body quiet, letting them wonder what you are capable of and whether they should be afraid.
You hear the whistle blow.
The room slowly unravels as tributes begin to move back toward the elevators. It means the day is over, that you are expected to return to your floor and sit down to another Capitol meal. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Beomgyu turn from the weapon racks and walk straight toward you. He does not bother hiding it. The other Careers glance between the two of you, confusion flickering across their faces as he closes the distance with long, certain strides.
“Meet me again tonight,” he says, stopping in front of you. He does not bother to explain where. He does not need to.
You scoff and tilt your head. “And if I don’t show up?”
To his credit, he’s facially unbothered by your words. His jaw doesn’t tighten, his lips don’t twitch, his gaze doesn’t even falter from where it’s pinned to your face. You hate how indifferent he is; it makes him impossible to read. It gives you nothing to work with.
“I’ll see you there,” he replies, already turning away. A moment later he is gone, slipping back into the cluster of tributes as they head for the elevators.
You trail behind the others, your thoughts tangling as fast as your feet can move. Meet him again. The words echo in your head with no clear shape. The elevator is large enough to hold all twenty four of you with space still left over, but it feels crowded anyway. The ride is slow, stopping at every floor, the doors sliding open and shut like a patient mouth. You stand near the back, eyes drifting despite yourself toward District 2. This time it is not Beomgyu watching you, but his district partner. When your gaze meets hers, you raise an eyebrow. To your surprise, she clears her throat and looks away.
You’re a poor, pathetic kid from District Twelve with the confidence of a Career tribute.
The ride feels endless as tributes leave one by one, until it is only you and Sunoo left inside. The bell chimes softly and the doors slide open. You step out into your floor and head toward the dining room, where the table is already covered in food. Minho and Minji are seated, and your mentor brightens when he sees you.
“How’d training go?” he asks.
You cut him off before he can say more. “I’m going to eat later.”
He blinks, clearly not expecting that, but you are already turning away. You do not want questions. You do not want faces. You do not want to sit under bright lights pretending nothing is wrong.
You pass the elevator and push open the familiar stairwell door instead. Cool air rushes over you, carrying the scent of metal and sky. By the time you reach the rooftop, your breathing has slowed. Beomgyu is not there yet. The space is empty except for the wind and the distant glow of the Capitol below. You walk to the edge and lower yourself onto the ledge, the stone wide enough to hold you. For a moment, you just sit there, waiting for whatever comes next.
The sun is already sinking when he appears, the sky bruised with orange and violet. “You’re early,” Beomgyu says as he lowers himself onto the rooftop stone, keeping a careful distance between you.
“Planning to push me off?” you ask without looking at him.
He shrugs,“Don’t tempt me.”
“What do you want?”
You do not know why you chose this place instead of going back to your team, back to the people who are supposed to be on your side. Your mentor, your partner. They should be the ones steadying you, filling the hollow parts with plans and reassurance, telling you how to survive. But they do not. Their words feel like instructions, not comfort. Their concern feels heavy, like another thing you have to carry. For some crooked reason, sitting here with him feels easier. He does not tell you what to be or how to act. He throws barbs instead of promises, and somehow that honesty feels safer.
He does not like you, and you do not like him, and there is relief in that. It is simpler than standing among people who claim to care when you do not know if you can return it.
“I don’t have a game, Beomgyu,” you say before you can stop yourself. The confession slips out, raw. “I barely know what I’m doing. All I know is I’m angry, and I can’t sleep without thinking about burning all of this down.”
“Yeah?” His eyes lift to yours, curious. You look away, studying the sky instead, pretending you did not notice the way his brow arches. “So that’s it? Hate the Capitol and see where it takes you?”
You consider it. Trust is a dangerous thing, and words are weapons too. You search for something in yourself that could be used against you and find only the same fury you have carried for years. There is nothing here he can steal.
“I hate them too,” Beomgyu says into the quiet. “That makes the two of us.”
It stuns you, hearing it from him. A Career tribute, raised in strength and privilege, speaking the same hatred you do. You stare at the city and wonder what the Capitol took from him to make those words sound so true.
You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “They took everything from me.”
Silence settles again. You were not expecting to like this, not expecting to feel understood by someone you are supposed to fight. Yet you stay, watching the last of the sun disappear, and for the first time all day, you let yourself listen to what he might say next.
“Why me?” you finally ask, the question burning its way out of you. “You keep singling me out. You keep watching me. And now you’re sitting here with me on a rooftop when we’re supposed to kill each other in four days. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I want to be allies, Twelve.”
Your brows lift despite yourself. “Did you hit your head somewhere?”
He lets out a short scoff. “No.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“One of us is still going to end up killing the other.”
Beomgyu shifts, the stone scraping faintly beneath him. “Then make it mean something. Make it hurt them. Give the Capitol hell. I’m in.”
“No,” you say at once.
His head tilts. “No?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t want to be allies.” You slide off the ledge, your boots hitting concrete with a dull thud, and start toward the door. “And don’t call me Twelve.” The words trail over your shoulder as you push it open and shut it behind you, leaving him with the dying light of the skyline.
The last day of training passes in a strange, muted blur.
You drift from station to station, letting the instructors correct your stance and your grip, memorizing small tricks for close combat and defense. You spar once with a tribute from District 11, all muscle and grit, and the mat burns against your skin when you hit the floor. Still, you never touch a bow.
By midday, the calls begin. One by one, tributes are summoned for their private sessions with the Gamemakers, starting with District 1, of course. Ten minutes each. Ten minutes to prove you are worth betting on. You and Sunoo are left sitting side by side in the waiting room, the air thick with nerves. To your surprise, he looks calm, hands folded in his lap, eyes distant. When his name is called, he gives you a small nod before disappearing through the doors.
You are alone after that. Time stretches thin and brittle. When your turn finally comes, you step into a vast, echoing room. A shooting range lines one wall. A towering rack of weapons stands at the center, blades and spears gleaming under the lights. In the corners are smaller stations, knots to be tied, patterns of camouflage to be tested. It feels like a playground built for killing.
You walk straight to the weapons.
The Gamemakers sit above you in their high gallery, nearly two dozen of them, draped in color and excess. They are eating, laughing, talking over one another as if you are nothing more than part of the scenery. You hate them on sight. Hate the way they do not look down. Hate how easy it is for them to ignore you.
You stop at the rack, your fingers twitching as they hover over a bow. The pull in your chest is instinctive, something old and familiar. When you lift it, the weight feels right in your hands, balanced and steady.
“District 12,” you call up, your voice carrying through the room. No one turns. “Last one of the day.” The words fall flat, swallowed by their laughter.
You notch an arrow and face the range. The target seems too close, too simple. You glance up again. Still no eyes on you. A bitter breath leaves your lungs. So this is what you are to them?
Then why gather twenty four of you at all if they will not even look. Why build an entire spectacle if they cannot be bothered to watch. You draw the bowstring back, anger tightening with it, and decide that if they will not see you, you will make them.
You remember Minho’s voice in your head, Do good. But not too good. Do not give everything away.
You loose the first arrow. It strikes the target in the stomach, solid and clean, but not perfect. A safe shot. You lift the bow again, already preparing the second, when laughter breaks through the air.
You look up.
A servant is weaving between the Gamemakers with a tray of champagne, and suddenly all of them are cheering, glasses raised, their attention swallowed by bubbles and gold and noise. They do not see you. They do not care that you are here, breathing and waiting and bleeding in advance.
Heat rushes into your face.
Screw Minho. Screw restraint. Screw all of it.
I hate them. That makes the two of us.
You grab another arrow, faster this time, anger guiding your hands. You draw and release in one sharp motion.
The arrow whistles clean through the air. It strikes the champagne glass just as it reaches a Gamemaker’s hand. Crystal bursts apart with a sharp, ringing crack. Pale gold liquid explodes outward, splashing across silk sleeves and polished tables. The ruined stem spins once before falling, and your arrow continues on, clattering uselessly into the far wall. Silence drops over the room. It is sudden and absolute. Every voice dies. Every fork stills.
Every jeweled, powdered head turns toward you.
“I was worried you couldn’t see us from down here,” you say, your voice raw and blazing, louder than you expect it to be, “It must be fucking hard, looking past all this.” You let the bow slip from your hands. It hits the floor with a heavy, echoing thud, and you see one of them flinch as if you had aimed at them instead.
“Enjoy the party,” you add.
With a final glance, you bend at the waist in a slow, mocking bow. Then you turn on your heel and walk out, heart pounding, leaving their spilled champagne and their staring eyes behind you.
You have a real appetite at dinner.
You eat with vigour. Minho keeps glancing at you from across the table, brows drawn together as if he is trying to solve a puzzle. He has never seen you like this, relaxed in the shoulders, steady in the hands. Yeonjun arrives partway through the meal, hair still perfect, eyes bright when you give him a small nod in greeting. Minji talks through half her plate, laughing too loudly at her own jokes. For a brief, fragile moment, it almost feels like a normal day.
Then the television switches on.
The sound alone pulls everyone’s attention toward it. Forks pause midair. Chairs scrape closer. The host’s painted smile fills the screen, teeth too white, eyes too sharp. One by one, the scores are announced. District after district. Numbers rise and fall like dice thrown by careless gods. You feel each one in your chest, a dull thud of anticipation. Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table.
“And now for the District Twelve tributes,” the host says, and your spine goes rigid.
He glances down at his card. “The male tribute, Kim Sunoo. A score of eight.”
Sunoo lets out a small breath beside you, something between relief and fear. Minho nods once, slow and thoughtful. “We can work with that.”
Then the screen changes. Your face fills it, caught mid-turn, eyes sharp, jaw set. You barely recognize yourself. “A score of…” the host begins, drawing the moment thin, stretching it until it hurts.
The number spins into place. Your fork slips from your fingers and clatters softly against the plate.
“Oh my goodness,” the host laughs, delighted. “A score of twelve.”
When interview day comes, the morning passes in a strange calm. You are left alone long enough to breathe, to sit with the quiet and pretend this is just another day that belongs to you. By afternoon, your prep team swarms in with brushes and powders and eager hands, fixing your hair and painting your face until you barely recognize the reflection.
Everyone is pleased with your score, especially Minji, who chatters about sponsors and attention and how she has already been dropping your name into the right mouths. You nod and let her talk, but you know better. A high score is not a blessing. It is a mark. The Capitol has lifted you into the light so everyone can see you clearly when they aim.
Yeonjun brings the dress in his arms. The fabric is cool and soft when he drapes it over you, a spill of red that gathers at your waist and falls in heavy folds to the floor. When he turns you toward the mirror, the sight steals the air from your lungs. Scarlet wraps around you in a careful spiral, climbing over your shoulders and throat like flame caught in motion. It is intricate and dangerous and impossible to ignore.
“Well?” he asks, watching your face instead of your reflection. “What do you think?”
"It's beautiful," his expression softens.
“It’s flammable,” he adds quietly. “Just like how you liked it.” The words land too close to something you have not touched since the day he looked at you with that strange knowing gaze, the day you mentioned your brother, hung unspoken between you.
You wait until the room is empty and the air feels safe before you turn to him again. Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. “Do you know my brother?”
The question frightens you as soon as it leaves your mouth, because there is no harmless answer to it. If he says yes, it will change everything. If he says no, you will wonder if he is lying. You search his face for something solid to hold on to, knowing that whatever he says next will either steady you or split you open.
“Yes,” Yeonjun says, and there is nothing careful or evasive in his eyes. “I was only starting out back then. I was shadowing another stylist, and that stylist,” he pauses, then continues, “was your brother’s stylist.”
You go still at his answer. The room feels smaller, tighter around your chest, and he keeps talking before you can stop him.
“He talked about you constantly,” Yeonjun says. “Not about the Games. Not about winning. About you.” A faint smile touches his mouth, but it wavers. “He said he had a sister who was kind. A sister who was stubborn in the best way. A sister who shared her food even when there wasn’t much to give.” His voice softens. “He said he couldn’t wait to go home to you. That once it was over, he would never let them take him away again.”
“You were the reason he kept trying,” Yeonjun continues. “Every fitting, every meeting, every night before the cameras turned off, he talked about you like you were the sun. Like you were proof that something good still existed.” He swallows hard. “It’s strange. I remember him talking about you with so much hope, and now you're here, carrying all this grief he never wanted you to have..”
Your vision blurs before you can stop it. You stare past him, at the wall, at the mirror, at nothing at all. Your ribs feel too tight, your breaths coming uneven, shallow and sharp. You keep your mouth closed because you know your voice will break if you try to speak. You turn as if you are about to leave, as if movement will save you from this.
“I don’t want to cry,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “I can’t.”
“I know,” Yeonjun says quietly. “But it doesn’t make you weak.”
You shake your head. “If I start, I won’t stop.”
Then his hands are on your face, warm and steady, forcing you to look at him.
“I’m going to make you unforgettable,” Yeonjun says quietly. “Press this when you’re on stage. The flames won’t hurt you, spin once your dress catches.” His voice lowers, almost like a promise. “For Jungwon.”
He pulls you into a hug before you can stop yourself, and this time you do not resist. Your forehead presses into his shoulder, your breath catching as grief finally finds a place to land. Your eyes burn, and your hands clutch the back of his jacket like you are afraid of falling. For a moment, you are not a tribute.
You are a sister who was loved.
The waiting room is painfully plain.
One open doorway waits at the far end, curtains pulled back just enough to hint at the stage beyond. White walls stretch endlessly, too clean, too bright. A peacekeeper stands in each corner, guns resting against their chests like decorations rather than threats. In front of the twenty four chairs, a massive television flickers to life, tuned to the center stage so none of you are spared from watching what comes next.
You sink into your seat and stare at the host on the screen. His hair is an unnatural shade of purple, glittering every time he moves his head beneath the lights. His smile is wide and blinding, practiced down to the smallest muscle. Another loyal Capitol dog, dressed up in color and charm. “Welcome!” he booms, arms thrown wide. “To our tribute interviews.”
The applause crashes through the speakers, loud enough to make your chest vibrate. The audience sounds endless. They start with the girl from District 1. Chaewon, you think. She glides onto the stage in a soft pink dress, flawless and glowing, answering questions with ease. She smiles at the right moments, laughs on cue, never once looks afraid. She is everything your mentor would have wanted you to be. Everything the Capitol loves.
Tributes come and go, faces blurring together, until Beomgyu’s name is called.
He stands and moves with an unhurried confidence, he’s dressed simply, a grey collared shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms, black slacks that fit just right. There’s no spectacle to him, no forced shine. His stylist didn’t need to try. He already knows how to hold a room.
He stops in front of you. “They want you dead,” he says quietly. “Because of that score.”
You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “Can you tell me something I don’t know?”
Beomgyu throws you an exasperated look when the security nudges him toward the stage, and you can’t help the small grin that slips out when he scowls at them like they personally offended him. For someone who acts like a menace around you, he looks almost… annoyed at being paraded.
What a pleasant guy.
You watch his interview with more attention than you mean to. He is nothing like he is with you. No sharp tongue, no lazy smirk meant to get under someone’s skin. He only speaks when the host corners him with a question, and even then his answers are clipped and bare, a word or two at most, like he is rationing them.
It is strange, seeing him like this. Quiet. Guarded. Almost bored. You know how easily he trades barbs with you, how quick his mouth is when it comes to you, and the difference settles heavy in your chest before you can name it. With you, he bites back. With them, he barely opens his mouth.
The host struggles to pull anything out of him, fishing for charm that never comes. When Beomgyu’s time is up, he leaves the stage without a backward glance, shoulders set like he has been waiting for the escape.
As he passes you, you tilt your head. “Aren’t you such an entertainer.”
He glances at you, corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk. “I aim to disappoint the right people.”
You snort. “Guess I’m lucky then.”
“Don’t push it,” he mutters, walking past.
You watch the stage again, your reflection faint in the dark screen, and wonder how much of yourself you’ll be willing to give when your name is finally called.
People file past the doorway one by one, their interviews bleeding into each other until the host finally calls your name. The sound of it feels heavier than it should. You force your shoulders back and stand. Every pair of eyes in the room turns toward you as you step onto the stage, the lights so bright they wash the world into white.
“There she is!” the host bellows, voice ringing through the hall. “Our girl on fire!”
You manage a smile, though it feels stiff on your face, something borrowed instead of owned. The heat of the lights presses against your skin as you sit across from him, hands folded carefully in your lap.
“My dear!” he says, beaming as the cheers finally die down. “Who is responsible for this masterpiece of a look? Oh, Choi Yeonjun!”
You find Yeonjun in the crowd. Against the Capitol’s riot of colors, he looks almost out of place in all black, his slacks and high neck shirt stark and simple. He offers a small, polite wave to the camera before sitting again, his gaze finding yours just long enough to steady you.
“You’ve been such a favorite,” the host continues, delighted. “Especially after that parade of yours. So tell me, anyone special watching from home tonight?”
Kai’s face flashes in your mind. Hiyyih’s laugh. The way home used to sound. No. You swallow.
“My brother would be,” you say, voice clear despite the tightness in your chest. “If he weren’t dead.”
The host falters, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His smile slips before he catches it again. “I’m very sorry to hear that, dear. But I’m sure he’d be proud of how well you’re doing, right?”
“I wish,” you answer, lifting your gaze to the camera. You know who sits behind it. “The President knows all about that. Don’t you?”
The audience exhales in sharp little sounds, whispers rippling through the seats like disturbed water. The host glances up at the timer above the stage, hope flickering across his face as if it might save him. You are the first tribute he cannot steer, the first one who refuses to soften. “Well,” he tries, “why don’t we talk about the arena? Any plans you’d like to share with us?”
Your eyes stay fixed on the camera. “I’m going to get them all,” you say. “Even the ones who think they’re safe. Even the ones who think they’re untouchable. I’ll get them.”
You shift your gaze to Yeonjun. He is already watching you, waiting. When he nods, it feels like a door opening. You pinch the button hidden in your palm.
Fire answers.
It climbs you in a rush of gold and white, a living thing that coils around your dress and devours the red in a heartbeat. The audience erupts into screams, chairs scraping back as if distance might save them. The host stumbles so hard he nearly falls, one hand lifted in useless defense. Heat roars in your ears, bright and blinding, until there is nothing but flame and the pounding of your own blood.
The flames won’t hurt you.
You draw in a breath and turn slowly on the spot. The fabric of your dress collapses as you move, breaking apart like embers drifting down onto the stage. It peels away in falling pieces until the fire thins, then dies, and the hall fills with the sound of a thousand sharp inhales.
Beneath it, you stand in black.
The jumpsuit clings to you like armor, stark and severe, carving your silhouette into something sharper than you’ve ever been allowed to be. You don’t look like a girl from District Twelve anymore.
You look like a warning.
You lift your chin and stare straight into the camera. Then you turn and walk off the stage without waiting for permission, your footsteps echoing in the stunned quiet.
Your heartbeat crashes in your ears, loud as thunder now that it’s over. Your hands start to shake, the tremor working its way down your arms, but you don’t regret a single second of it.
When you step back into the waiting room, every head turns. Some tributes stare at you like you’ve done something reckless. Some look pale, like they’ve just realized how real this is. One girl covers her mouth, eyes shining like she might cry.
But others…
Others look lit from the inside. Something fierce. Something alive. It was as if you just said the words they’ve been swallowing for years.
Your gaze drifts down the line. Beomgyu is leaning back in his chair, watching you with that crooked, knowing smirk. His eyes catch yours, and before you can stop it, the corner of your mouth lifts.
⋆·˚ ༘ * He fixes, he folds, and he fucks like he’s determined to show you just how much he cares. You want nothing more than to return the favor, be the one who takes care of him for once. But Taehyun can't imagine not being of service to you.
✦ Love Language: Acts of Service
pairing: taehyun x reader ✮⋆˙✐ 3.3k
warnings: f!reader, smut, domestic tension, switch but mostly dom!taehyun, kitchen sex, service kink, oral f!receiving, no protection
🗂️ click here to access all txt member’s files
˚₊ · »-♡→ main masterlist
Taehyun never said I love you like a normal person.
He said it through tasks, timing, and attention. Always quietly folding the world around you so you never had to ask for anything. And you’d let him.
Truthfully, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d lifted a finger in his presence. You were independent when you met him—fiercely so. The kind of person who didn’t trust anyone to do things as well as you could, let alone take care of you. But Taehyun had a way of gently dismantling those walls, brick by quiet brick, until your hands were empty and your burdens shared.
There were meals cooked after long days where you both came home tired and frayed, only he wouldn’t let you touch the stove. Instead, he’d kiss your forehead and force you to sit pretty on the counter so he had a nice view while he worked. And when you were done eating? You wouldn’t dare attempt to help clean up. Not unless you wanted your hands swatted away and Taehyun sprinting upstairs to run you a bath, insisting you “go soak and relax, baby, I’ll join you soon.”
You’d never forget coming home from that terrible day, still raw from an argument with your best friend, and finding the apartment spotless, your clothes folded neatly on the bed, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter beside your favorite takeout. No questions asked.
You couldn’t even recall the last time you carried your own purse. Traveling? He always found a way to juggle both suitcases without complaint, leaving your hands completely free.
And it wasn’t just the grand gestures. It was in the subtleties. The way his eyes always flicked toward you, searching for anything you might need. How he’d bring you water without being asked. Fix a squeaky cabinet at one in the morning because it annoyed you once. Rearranged his already busy schedule for yours, because stress on your shoulders was unbearable to him.
Not to mention in bed. God, the pillow princess he’d turned you into. Taehyun was as eager to please as he was allergic to being on the receiving end. The concept of letting you take care of him was laughable, sacrilegious, even. He never let you, not once. As if your love was something he didn’t need to feel. Only something he was born to give.
He never asked or expected. He only gave, and gave, and gave. But tonight, you decided to try anyway.
There he was now, creeping into the kitchen to make you a snack because he’d heard your stomach rumble while the two of you curled up in bed mid-movie. When you reached for him, questioning why he paused the TV, he only smiled softly, kissed your temple, and slipped out from under the covers.
For a moment, you lay in the dark listening: the clinking of metal, the click of the stove, the crinkle of packaging. Soon, the savory scent of your favorite instant ramen drifted down the hallway. It pulled you from bed like a thread tied to your chest. And the moment you step into the kitchen, your heart nearly stops.
He’s shirtless, facing away from you as he stirs the pot. The warm overhead light carves golden lines down his back. His shoulder blades shifting with every movement. Sweatpants hang low on his narrow hips, the waistband tugging slightly down on one side. He’s completely unaware of how devastating he looks, and that only makes it worse.
You swallow, mouth watering—and not just because of the ramen.
A few more steps forward and you're wrapping your arms around his torso from behind. Taehyun jumps, slightly startled, then relaxes into your touch with a smile. He sets the chopsticks aside and folds his arms over yours in a welcoming gesture.
"Hi baby," he hums with contentment.
"Hi," you smile into his skin, cheek pressed to the expanse of his back. "Smells good." A soft sigh leaves your lips, warm breath brushing his bare shoulder.
Goosebumps rise across his skin. He can feel the shape of you—your nipples faintly brushing through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, your hips pressing gently to his. He knows without looking that you’re wearing nothing underneath but panties.
Still, he doesn’t move. He lets you hold him. But you? You’re already planning to do more than hold.
Your arms tighten, lips beginning to brush his back. You feel the tremor that runs through him, the tension pooling just beneath his skin. And still, he doesn’t pull away.
You trail your fingers along the firm plane of his stomach carefully, until your palms rest flat over the waistband of his sweats. You don’t dip beneath just yet, instead holding him there like he’s yours to touch.
He draws a controlled breath through his nose. “Baby…” he warns gently, voice catching in his throat.
“I know,” you whisper. “Just... let me.”
You turn him around by the hips, and Taehyun allows it, chest rising now with more visible effort. He leans back slightly against the counter perpendicular to the stove, arms going loose at his sides like he’s trying to prove something to himself and to you. But his eyes are already dark, focused on your mouth intently.
You press a kiss to his sternum. He gulps hard. Another kiss to the edge of his collarbone. And then, finally, you tilt your face up and catch his mouth with yours.
It starts sweet, nothing but melted sugar and warmth. His lips move slowly, savoring the feeling as he holds himself back.
But then your hands slip to the sides of his neck, pulling him deeper, angling his head how you want him. Your tongue drags against his with hot need. You kiss like you’ve forgotten what patience even means.
Taehyun moans softly against your lips, involuntarily. You feel his knees bend slightly, as if his whole body wants to follow yours.
You pull back, just enough to murmur, “Sit for me.”
Before he can question it, you gently push him toward the chair at the kitchen table.
He stumbles back a step and halts. His brows twitch with uncertainty. You watch the flicker in his expression: a flash of confusion and resistance. He’s never been the one sitting like this. He doesn’t really know how.
But you step forward, crowding him slowly, guiding him with your hands on his waist like you’re offering him something for once instead of taking. The backs of his legs hit the chair.
You don’t force him down, you just press lightly. He lets out a breath and finally sits.
For a second, Taehyun looks bewitched by you in the most gorgeous way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling too fast, mouth pink and kiss-bitten. His hands clutch the edge of the seat like it’s anchoring him to the earth. Because he really might float away if he doesn’t hold on.
You climb into his lap with reverence, legs folding around him, your hands smoothing over his shoulders. His skin is flushed. His cock presses hard against you through the thin fabric of his sweats, and the friction alone has him sighing like he’s seconds from losing composure.
You kiss him again, filthier this time. Your hips roll forward, just enough to force a strangled noise from him.
“Let me take care of you for once,” you whisper into his mouth.
Your hand snakes its way down Taehyun’s abdomen. He’s so tense it’s almost laughable. He’s fighting within himself, wanting so bad to give in. But it felt unnatural.
“Baby… you don’t have to.”
His eyes are wired shut when he speaks. You don’t even grace him with a response. He sits there, feeling useless, feeling you place your lips in all the right places across his neck and jaw, fingers finding their way to cutely snake into his sweatpants.
But all he can think about is how you’re probably soaked under those panties. How you must be clenching around nothing, begging to be touched. You must want to be cared for, and oh how he wanted it to be him doing it. Suddenly, he can’t get the idea of you whining and cumming at his manipulation out of his mind.
That’s when the panic sets it.
Taehyun huffs, a sharp and frustrated sound that floods your ears, before gripping your waist so suddenly it makes you yelp. His eyes snap open, blown wide with want. So much want it nearly breaks you.
“I can’t,” he says hoarsely. “You don’t get it—I can’t.”
He lifts you with too much ease, standing abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Your legs tighten around him out of instinct. He presses your back to the kitchen table, firm but not rough, breathing hard. His forehead falls against yours.
“I’ll lose my mind if I don’t touch you the way I need to.” His voice is a growl now, trembling with restraint. “You don’t get to make me feel good and expect me to just sit here. That’s not how this works. That’s never been how this works.”
You see it all over him—how badly he wants the pleasure you’re offering, and how violently it clashes with the way he’s wired to love. It’s sexy, yes, but it’s also so deeply revealing you feel it split something open inside you. It's not that he doesn't want it. It's that he simply can't compute it.
His hands roam. One cups your jaw, the other sliding beneath your thighs. He’s already rolling his hips into you, chasing friction like it’s air.
“You’re not supposed to take care of me,” he hisses against your neck. “That’s not—what I’m made for.”
You gasp as his mouth finds the edge of your collarbone, biting gently. His grip on your waist tightens, and just like that, the control is back in his hands.
He rises slightly, pushing your shirt up over your chest to see all of you. Nipples flushed pink and hard with need, black underwear that he picked out already soaked and hugging the outline of your folds. He stares unashamedly like he always does. His hands are rough, tracing you from your ribs to your thighs as if reacquainting himself with your body.
"If I stop giving... and I let you give, it’s like I’ve failed you," he mutters, eyes glazed over with lustful thoughts of you.
While he's too busy eye-fucking you, you take your chance. You sit up slightly, just enough to reach for his cheek, grazing it softly.
“You haven’t failed anything. You love me so well. Let me love you back.” You attempt to bargain.
You rise further, closing the gap between you with a slow kiss, your legs looping around his waist to tug him closer, ankles locked. But he catches your wrist mid-motion, grinning softly, already seeing through your plan. Of course you’d try to flip the script.
But he can't take it anymore, not with your bodies this close. The food sizzles on the stove, but he doesn't care. His desire to serve takes over.
He scoops your thighs into his arms and drags you to the edge of the table, then drops to his knees. Your legs fall open over his shoulders. A breathy moan slips from his lips as he drinks in the new view—now eye level with your dripping cunt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I need to. Please—just let me.”
Your soaked panties cling to you obscenely, a clear outline of want pressed against black lace. He hums low in his chest, the sound nearly guttural.
Taehyun presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, this one open-mouthed and wet, teeth grazing just enough to make you mewl. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs to anchor himself.
He moans just from the scent of you. “Fuck." His voice is muffled, lost in the heat between your legs. “So wet.”
“Oh my god-“ You gasp as his tongue presses flat against the soaked crotch of your panties. Taehyun doesn't bother pulling them aside. No, that would be too simple. He’s decided you’re getting ruined like this: his mouth taking you through the fabric, letting every flick of his tongue sink through cotton and lace to where you need him most, and it works.
Your hips are arching up into him. But he’s relentless, hands sliding up to hold you still, palms splayed across your chest.
“Stay still,” his voice vibrated against you. “Let me do this right.”
He licks you long and slow, savoring the way your arousal has soaked through and made the panties cling to you like a second skin. Every pass of his tongue has your thighs trembling, your hands reaching blindly for something to hold.
You fist his hair. Taehyun groans—really groans—like your fingers pulling at his scalp could make him cum untouched. He presses his face deeper between your legs, nuzzling the soaked fabric as if inhaling you could give him life.
His tongue finds your clit. Even through the damp cotton, it sends a bolt of pleasure tearing through your spine. Your back arches and a cry escapes you. He hums again, pleased, adjusting the angle so he can suck gently, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.
“That’s it, baby,” he inhales deeply. “Give it to me. Let me have all of it.” He exhales just as deeply.
You don’t know if he’s talking about your moans, your pussy, your entire fucking soul, but you let him have it. Maybe this was your way of giving to him.
Taehyun keeps eating, savoring, and drinking you in through the delicate fabric until it's useless and he’s so hard in his sweatpants he could cry. One of his hands leaves your hip to slip between his legs, palming himself through the fabric just for a second, just enough to breathe again.
Then his mouth drags lower, tongue teasing the spot just beneath your entrance through the sheer fabric before returning to your clit. You're writhing now, moaning like a confession, your thighs trying to close in around his head but he won’t let them.
“You're almost there, aren't you?” His voice is noticeably ruined. “Cum for me. I want to feel you shake on my tongue.”
He licks harder, and you shatter.
Your orgasm hits like a wave. Crashing and sweeping through your entire body until your hands fall from his hair and you’re barely able to breathe, whimpering his name over and over.
Still, he doesn’t stop, not until your hips twitch from overstimulation and your whines turn into helpless little pleas for him to end it. Only then does he pull back, panting, chin glistening, and your panties practically glued to you.
He looks up at you like he’s blessed. This is the only thing he’s ever prayed to.
“Better?” he asks, voice hoarse, lips curled into the faintest, self-satisfied smirk.
You're so busy coming down from your orgasm, about to respond, that you don’t even realize he’s stripped you. Your soaked panties gone along with his boxers and sweatpants, discarded somewhere on the kitchen table.
When you glance down, he’s already between your thighs again, his cock hard against your leg. You’re still catching your breath, body trembling from your orgasm, but his hands are already moving.
He lifts one leg, then the other, hooking the backs of your knees over the crooks of his elbows like he's done plenty of times before. His chest brushes yours, folding you in half on the table, breath warm against your skin as he lines himself up.
“Let me give you more,” he murmurs, every syllable soaking with need. “Let me stay inside you until you forget your own name.”
Then he’s pushing in devastatingly deep. Your breath stutters, your head tilting back as he sinks you down onto him inch by inch. His grip tightens around your thighs, holding you to him while your body opens for him completely.
You can feel every inch of Taehyun. But it’s not just the fullness that makes you a whimpering mess, it’s the way he’s holding you there, pinned to the surface.
Your hands reach to grip his neck as he starts to move. Each thrust is so expertly precise. The slow drag out, the firmer press in. His rhythm is just right, but his breath is ragged. You cling to the edge of the table and to him, legs still lifted, knees trembling slightly where they’re slung over his arms.
Taehyun's hands grip your body in a way they've never held you before. And he groans every time he bottoms out inside you.
The kitchen is filled with the slick, inappropriate sound of him moving inside you. The quiet hiss of the stove behind you both now forgotten, noodles cooking past perfect. The smell of ramen and sex drifts through the air.
“Taehyun!” you gasp, head tipping back. This is his favorite view of you.
“Yeah?” he pants, not stopping once. “Say it again.”
You do. Over and over. Not just his name, but everything. What he feels like, how he fucks you, how he makes you feel like no one else ever has. You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Only that it pours out of you in moans and broken whines.
You feel it building again, this time too fast and way too strong. Your body tenses around him.
He must feel it too, because he drops your legs from his elbows and folds you close, hips never faltering as he hooks his arms around your waist and lifts you clean off the table. You gasp in surprise, clutching his shoulders.
Now it’s chest to chest, his forehead against yours, your legs wrapped tight around his hips. Your nails score his back as he fucks you suspended in the air.
“Come on, baby,” he pleads, voice cracked as he slams you down onto his cock. “Give it to me one more time.”
You shatter for the second time in your little kitchen. This one rips through you harder than before. You cry out, whole body shaking and convulsing around him, just the way he likes.
“Fuckfuckfuck—fuck,” he hisses, every muscle in his body going rigid as he drives into you one last time and cums harder than ever. His hips falter, then still as he pushes in as deep as possible, moaning into your mouth as he buries himself to the hilt.
Taehyun doesn’t pull out of you right away. He lowers both of you down slowly, your back landing softly against the now-cleared table. His cheek rests against your thigh, damp with sweat, lips parted as he catches his breath. His arms are still around your waist. You brush a hand through his hair, looking down at him.
“One day, I’ll make you let me take care of you.” You can't help but smile.
He half-laughs and murmurs back, “I'll die trying to stop you.”
You feel the slight ache in his words. Because behind them, you worry Taehyun thinks he’s unworthy of being taken care of by you. That’s the part that guts you.
You sit up just slightly, shifting your weight until you're able to reach the stove. The ramen is still there, now slightly burnt at the edges, thick with overcooked noodles. Laughing quietly, you dish some into a bowl, scooping a bite with your chopsticks and blowing to cool it down. When you turn back and offer it to him, he almost hesitates.
But eventually Taehyun lets you. He opens his mouth, and you feed him. He chews, swallows, then drops his forehead into your neck with a sigh so deep as he relaxes into your warmth.
This is the kind of peace he’s never allowed himself. But tonight, just for a moment, he does for you.
★ synopsis
at their manager's wedding, choi yeonjun watches the joy of marriage unfold and feels an unexpected pull toward the future.
though he’s never believed in traditional superstitions or fate, the sight of lifelong commitment stirs something deep making him quietly imagine a wedding of his own.
★ pairing: idol boyfriend!yeonjun x idol fem!reader
★ genre: romance, fluff, established relationship, talks of marriage
★ status | word count: completed | 6.9k
★ ao3: On Your Wedding Day
note: been busy with school so this is honestly just a random thought inspired by txt recently attending their manager's wedding and that video of yeonjun suddenly carrying a baby there lmao
enjoy <3
The grand ballroom glowed under strings of soft golden lights, chandeliers casting warm prisms across the white linen tables and towering floral arches. Laughter and clinking glasses fill the air, the joyful chaos of a wedding where everyone truly belongs: family, lifelong friends, and the extended family forged through years of shared schedules and late nights.
You sit at the table near the front, the gentle warmth of the lights brushing your skin as you watch Soobin command the room as wedding emcee. He moves with effortless charm—warm, funny, never letting the energy falter.
Absent-mindedly, you lean toward Yeonjun and murmur, “Soobin’s doing so good up there. He’s really carrying the whole vibe.”
Yeonjun doesn’t answer right away.
You notice the way his fingers twist the edge of his napkin, the subtle bounce of his knee under the table. You tilt your head, studying him.
“Hey,” you tease lightly, bumping his shoulder with yours, “Why are you so nervous? People are gonna think you’re the one getting married.”
He lets out a small huff of a laugh and nudges you back, gentle but pointed. You giggle, and the sound finally coaxes the corner of his mouth upward before he heaves a long, quiet sigh, shoulders dropping as though he’d been carrying something heavy all night.
“I don’t even know,” he admits, voice low so only you can hear. “We’ve performed hundreds of times. Stages, festivals, stadiums… but today?” He shakes his head. “I’m shaking.”
You soften instantly. You reach up and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over the sharp line of his jaw.
“It’s because it’s Jisoo-nim,” you say gently. “You don’t want to mess anything up for him. He’s been there since the beginning with you guys. Every debut stage, every 3 a.m. practice, every time one of you wanted to quit. Of course you’re nervous. You love him.”
Yeonjun exhales through his nose, eyes falling closed for a moment under your touch. Then he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead, lingering there as though he was drawing calmness from you.
“Yeah,” he mumbled against your hair. “Probably.”
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, offering that small, crooked smile reserved only for quiet moments like this.
“I have to go dance with the boys now,” he says with a smile.
You nod, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “Go make Jisoo-nim cry again. You’re good at it.”
He chuckles under his breath, stands, and smooths a hand down the front of his shirt. As he walks toward the others, you watch the familiar set of his shoulders relax inch by inch. The closer he got to the dance floor, the more the nerves dissolve and the performer inside him surfaces.
The DJ drops the opening synths of “Love Language,” and the room erupts in delighted gasps and cheers. You smile to yourself, already knowing what’s coming.
Yeonjun steps forward, every line of his body loose and confident. He mouths the lyrics straight at Jisoo—“What’s your love language?”—playful and bold. When the manager flushes bright red but begins trying to follow along, Yeonjun’s grin turns blinding.
As the final chorus builds, the energy sharpens and the boys pull Jisoo into the center. Soobin reaches into his pocket without missing a beat and pulls out a pair of sleek black sunglasses, passing them over with a quick, knowing nod. Jisoo grins before bursting into another helpless laugh as he slips them on.
Jisoo straightened, rolled his shoulders once like he was stepping back into an old, familiar role, and suddenly he was moving with them. Not just following—dancing. Hips popping on the beat, arms slicing through the air with surprising precision, matching every sharp hit and fluid wave of the choreography they’d been rehearsing in secret for weeks.
They finished the last portion flawlessly, hitting the final sharp pose right as the song cut out and the room erupted. Jisoo’s bride jumped up and down in front of him, clapping furiously, tears of joy shining in her eyes as she shouted his name over the thunderous applause, her voice bright and proud.
When Jisoo ripped off the sunglasses, laughing so hard he had to bend at the waist for a second, he pulled his bride into a spinning hug while the boys piled on around them, a messy, joyful tangle of arms and congratulations.
You watch it all from your seat, heart full, the warmth of the moment settling deep in your chest as Yeonjun glances over at you through the crowd, catching your eye for just a second.
He winks and you roll your eyes with a laugh at his ridiculousness before he disappears back into the hug pile.
Later, when the night has quieted into dessert and soft conversations, Yeonjun slides back into the seat beside you, his arm draped along the back of your chair almost immediately, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against your shoulder blade in time with the music.
You turn to say something teasing, but he’s already leaning in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers something absurd that makes you throw your head back laughing, hand flying up to cover your mouth.
When you twist to shoot back a reply, he dips his head and presses the softest, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. No performance, no camera needed—just the two of you, and the quiet comfort that has grown between you over years of shared glances and late-night talks.
You lean into it for a second, eyes fluttering closed, then nudge him with your elbow. He laughs low, the sound vibrating against you, and the two of you dissolve into shared giggles again, wrapped up in your own little world while the rest of the room hums around you.
Across the table, Beomgyu nudged Taehyun and nodded your way with raised brows. Taehyun smirked, lifting his glass in a mock toast. Soobin just smiled into his drink, soft and knowing. Kai snapped a quick polaroid of the table, smiling as he told them how their family “keeps growing”.They all laugh and you think, sitting there with Yeonjun’s arm warm around you and Jisoo’s happy laughter still echoing somewhere behind, that he’s right.
After the formal ceremony came the reception that already tipped into that golden, slightly hazy hour where champagne flutes are refilled without question and the dance floor pulses with a mix of generations swaying to everything from 90s ballads to the latest idol tracks.
The bouquet toss is announced with a flourish—Jisoo's bride, cheeks still flushed from earlier tears and laughter, turns her back to the gathered single women (and a few brave men who joined in for the chaos). You stand near the middle of the loose circle, not pushing forward but not retreating either, your dress catching the overhead lights.
The bouquet sails in a perfect arc, petals fluttering like confetti. Hands reach—some half-hearted, some determined—but it’s your fingers that close around the stems first. A surprised laugh bursts from you as you lift it triumphantly, the mix of white and pink roses trembling slightly in your grip.
The crowd erupts in cheers, whistles, and playful screams, and not two minutes later came the corsage toss.
Jisoo, grinning like he’d planned the whole thing, blindfolds himself dramatically before flinging it backward over his shoulder. The small cluster of white orchids and silver ribbon spins through the air.
Meanwhile Yeonjun, who’d been standing off to the side chatting with Soobin, instinctively raises a hand and unintentionally catches it one-handed, clean and effortless, like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.
The venue explodes, cameras flash, phones zoom in, and someone—probably Beomgyu—lets out a theatrical wolf whistle that cuts through the noise.
You turn, bouquet still clutched to your chest, and lock eyes with Yeonjun across the small divide. He holds up the corsage like a trophy, one eyebrow arched in mock challenge, lips curving into that signature half-smirk that always makes fans weak. You point at him, laughing so hard your shoulders shake, then mime putting the bouquet behind your back as if to hide it.
The tradition hits like lightning: girl catches bouquet, boy catches corsage—next wedding bells will ring for you two.
Jisoo, mic still in hand from his earlier thank-you speech, couldn’t resist. He steps forward, tux jacket now slung over one shoulder, hair slightly mussed from dancing, the spotlight finding him easily.
“Ah, ah—everyone, hold on,” he says, voice warm and teasing through the speakers. “Look at this. The girlfriend caught the bouquet... and the boyfriend snagged the corsage.” He pauses for dramatic effect as fresh laughter rolls through the room. “You know what that means, right? Tradition says you two are next.”
More cheers, louder this time. Someone in the back yelled "Get it, Yeonjun!" and got a round of applause for it, making Jisoo's grin widen, his eyes twinkling with the kind of fond mischief only a manager-turned-big-brother can pull off.
He leans toward the mic again, lowering his voice conspiratorially even though it booms everywhere. “And let me tell you—I’ve been with these boys since the very beginning. Back when Yeonjun was still... how do I say this politely?... pining. Pining hard. Sneaking glances during schedules, pretending he was ‘just checking lyrics’ when he was really looking at someone across the award ceremony venue.”
He shot a pointed look at Yeonjun, who had gone from cocky to tomato-red in approximately three seconds flat. "And now? Look at them. Standing here, bouquet and corsage in hand, making me feel old and sentimental at my own wedding."
The venue dissolved into warm laughter as you buried your face in the bouquet for a second, peeking over the flowers with sparkling eyes. Yeonjun rubbed the back of his neck, ears burning, but he couldn't hide the helpless, happy smile spreading across his face.
He catches your gaze again and mouths a quick “your fault” that makes you laugh harder and shrug playfully from a few feet away.
The other TXT members are losing it in the best way. Beomgyu has doubled over, clutching Taehyun’s arm for support. Huening Kai is filming the whole thing on his phone with zero shame, zooming in on Yeonjun’s flushed cheeks. Soobin simply stands there beaming like a proud brother, occasionally shaking his head as if to say, of course this happened.
Jisoo raises his glass.
“To the lovely couple over here—may your wedding be half as chaotic and twice as beautiful as mine. And… don’t make me wait too long. I’ve got a suit to match already.”
The toast was met with clinking glasses, more cheers, and spontaneous chants of “Marriage!” “Marriage!” that had both of you ducking your heads in delighted embarrassment.
The chant eventually dissolved into softer chatter and the gentle clatter of dessert plates being cleared. The reception settled into that late, haze where time feels elastic—people lingering at tables, slow-dancing in corners, stealing quiet moments before the inevitable goodbyes.
You slip away from the main crowd for a breath of air near one of the tall windows, the cool glass pressing against your palm, when you feel a familiar presence at your back.
Yeonjun appears beside you, but he isn’t alone.
In his arms is a tiny girl—barely two, cheeks round and flushed from the warmth of too many hugs, dark curls escaping the little bow clipped into her hair. She’s nestled against his chest, one small hand fisted on the side of his suit jacket, the other clutching the edge of his tie like it’s a lifeline.
Yeonjun holds her with the easy confidence of someone who’s done this before, one arm securely under her bottom, the other supporting her back while she drowsily blinks up at the twinkling lights above.
You blink, confusion flickering across your face. “Where did you even get a baby?”
Yeonjun’s grin is instant and blinding, the kind that makes his eyes disappear into crescents.
“One of the protocol team’s daughters,” he says, voice soft so he won’t startle the toddler. “Her dad got pulled into an emergency call with the venue staff, and the little one was getting fussy. I figured… why not? We’re basically uncles and aunts to half the company kids anyway.”
Your expression melts from bewilderment into something unbearably fond. You reach out instinctively, brushing a stray hair off the baby’s forehead. The little girl stirs at your touch, big eyes focusing on you before breaking into a gummy, sleepy smile.
“Hi, pretty girl,” you coo, voice dropping to that automatic gentle register people use with babies.
You then ended up on the floor near your table—out of the main traffic but still visible enough that a few guests smiled indulgently as they passed. You sit cross-legged in your dress, the silk pooling around you like spilled rosewater, and Yeonjun lowers the toddler carefully into your lap.
The little girl immediately latches onto your necklace, small fingers exploring the delicate chain with intense fascination.
Yeonjun drops down behind you, knees bracketing your hips as he settles in close. His arms come around your shoulders loosely, chin hooking over your collarbone so he can see the baby’s face too.
Together, you coo and make silly faces—you bounce the toddler gently on your knees, Yeonjun tickles her round tummy until she squeals in delight, tiny fist grabbing at his finger and refusing to let go.
For a stretch of minutes the rest of the reception fades to background noise. There’s only the soft baby giggles, the warmth of Yeonjun’s chest against your back, the way his fingers occasionally brush yours when you both reach to steady the little one.
The toddler’s energy slowly lowered as her eyelids grew heavy, head lolling against your shoulder before finally tipping sideways to rest against Yeonjun’s arm. Within moments she’s out, tiny mouth parted in sleep, lashes dark against flushed cheeks.
Yeonjun exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Mission accomplished.”
You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re disgustingly good with kids, you know that?”
He shrugs one shoulder, careful not to jostle the sleeping baby. “I like kids even though I grew up without siblings. And maybe I’ve been thinking about it more lately.”
The words hung between you as your heart gives a small, unsteady thud but you don’t reply right away. Instead, you reach up and brush your fingertips along his cheek with a smile in silent acknowledgment.
Eventually Yeonjun stands, cradling the toddler with the same steady care, and carries her back across the room to where her father had just returned, looking grateful.
The man mouths a thousand thank-yous as he takes his daughter, pressing a quick kiss to the sleeping forehead before disappearing toward the exit with the rest of the staff.
When Yeonjun came back, the energy in the ballroom had shifted again. The lights had dimmed a fraction more, the DJ playing slower songs now, signaling the night was winding down. Guests began drifting toward the coat check, hugs and promises to meet again exchanged in clusters.
The night has softened into that quiet, reluctant winding-down where the energy of celebration finally gives way to yawns hidden behind polite smiles and the slow shuffle toward coat check and valet.
The ballroom lights have dimmed to a gentle amber, most of the tables cleared, leaving only scattered petals and forgotten champagne flutes catching the last glow. Outside, the February air bites sharper, but the group lingers at the entrance, reluctant to let the magic end.
Jisoo and his bride stand near the wide glass doors, wrapped in each other’s arms, still radiating the soft, dazed happiness of people who’ve just married the love of their life. TXT and you approach in a loose cluster, hugs and back-pats exchanged like currency earned over years.
Soobin goes first—tall, steady, pressing a careful hug to the bride and a firm handshake-turned-hug to Jisoo. “Hyung, seriously… Thank you for everything. We’re so happy for you.”
Taehyun follows, quieter but no less sincere, murmuring congratulations that make Jisoo’s eyes shine again. Kai practically launches himself at both of them, earning a laugh and a ruffle of his hair. Beomgyu is next, dramatic as always—bowing theatrically before pulling Jisoo into a bear hug that lifts the older man an inch off the ground.
And then Yeonjun.
Jisoo catches him before he can even open his mouth, one arm slung around his shoulders, the other hand gripping the back of his neck like he’s still sixteen and nervous for his first evaluation.
“You,” Jisoo says, voice low but carrying that familiar teasing edge, “better not make me wait another decade to see you in a tux like this again. I told you earlier that I’ve got the perfect suit picked out already—it matches your eyes when you’re being all lovesick.”
Yeonjun groans, ducking his head, but the blush is helpless and bright under the outdoor lights. “Hyung, come on—”
Jisoo only laughs, pulling him into a real hug this time, the kind that says more than words ever could. “I’m proud of you, kid. Always have been. Now go—don’t keep her waiting.”
He releases Yeonjun with a gentle shove toward you, bouquet still cradled in one of your arms, his jacket draped over your shoulders.
You step forward last. First the bride, giving her a warm, genuine hug as she whispered, “thank you for coming, it meant so much.” Then moved to Jisoo who immediately hugs you like family.
“You’ve been part of this circus since before it even had a name,” he says softly. “Don’t ever think you’re just Beomgyu’s friend. You’re ours too. And of course the girlfriend of that guy over there”
Your eyes shimmer as you nod with a laugh, throat too tight for words, and squeeze him once more before stepping back.
The members surround you then, a quick round of goodnights. Taehyun and Kai press quick kisses on your cheek, Soobin gives you a gentle side-hug. And Beomgyu—Beomgyu lingers.
He wraps both arms around you, chin resting on top of your head for a long moment, the way only childhood best friends can without it feeling strange. When he finally pulls back just enough, his voice drops to a whisper only you can hear.
“Take care, okay? Well, I know you’ll be alright since you’ll be with Yeonjun.” You nod against his shoulder before he leans back, eyes narrowing playfully as he flicks his gaze to Yeonjun who was pretending to check his phone but clearly watching every second.
Beomgyu points two fingers at his own eyes, then jabs them toward Yeonjun in the universal I’m watching you gesture.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Choi.”
Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Gyu.”
Beomgyu snorts, gives you one last squeeze before finally letting you go.
You part ways in the valet line—TXT piles into their designated van with promises to spam the group chat tomorrow, while you slide into the passenger seat of Yeonjun’s car. The engine purrs to life, and for a few minutes there’s only the soft hum of the heater and the distant city noise muffled by tinted windows.
You stare down at the bouquet in your lap, fingertips brushing the bruised petals.
“I still can’t believe Jisoo-nim invited me,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I mean… it’s his wedding. I thought maybe I’d just get a text the next day or something.”
Yeonjun glances over from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across the console without hesitation. He finds your free hand, threads your fingers together, and lifts it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles.
“Of course he invited you,” he says quietly. “You’ve been there since before any of this was real. Back when you’d sneak into the practice room after school just to bring Gyu ramyeon and watch us butcher choreography. Before you even became an idol yourself, you were already part of it.”
You laugh under your breath, soft and a little watery. “If we weren’t dating, he probably still would’ve invited me. Just because I’m Beomgyu’s best friend.”
“Exactly.” Yeonjun’s thumb traces lazy circles over the back of your hand. “But we are dating. So it’s both.”
A comfortable quiet settles again, broken only by the occasional tick of the turn signal as he navigates the late-night streets. You lift the bouquet slightly, tilting it toward him.
“Do you… actually believe in stuff like this? The bouquet, the corsage, the whole ‘next wedding’ thing?”
He exhales through his nose, thoughtful. “Honestly? Not really. Never did. Thought it was just a cute superstition—something aunties say to make single people blush.” He pauses at a red light, turns to look at you fully, the glow from the light paints a soft red hue across your cheekbones.
“But now?” His voice drops, honest in a way that makes your breath catch. “When it’s about us? Yeah. I believe it.”
Your lips part in a surprised little laugh. He keeps going, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them all night.
“Think about it. Anyone could’ve caught that bouquet. Some random cousin, one of the staff-noonas, hell, even Kai if he’d jumped high enough. Same with the corsage. But it was us. Both of us. At the same damn time.”
He shakes his head, almost disbelieving. “And if Beomgyu had caught this stupid thing instead of me?” He taps the corsage still tucked in his pocket. “He’d never shut up about it. ‘Hyung, looks like I’m marrying her first—sorry!’ I’d have been so jealous I’d probably combust.”
You burst out laughing, head tipping back against the seat. “You would’ve sulked for weeks.”
“Months,” he corrects without missing a beat. “But we both caught them. So yeah—it means something. Fate, tradition, whatever you want to call it. I’m not letting anyone else rewrite that part.”
You turn toward him, eyes bright with mischief now. The light turns green; he eases forward, but your gaze stays locked on his profile.
“So…” you drawl, voice lilting with teasing sweetness, “you’re saying you want to marry me, huh?”
Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel tightens for a split second. Then he laughs—low, warm, caught but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he lifts your joined hands again, kisses your wrist this time, right over your pulse.
“Caught me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Guess the flowers ratted me out.”
You giggle, leaning over the console just enough to rest your forehead against his shoulder as he drives. The bouquet sat between you like a quiet promise, roses still fragrant in the warm car air.
The city lights streak past in soft blurs, the Han River a dark ribbon on your left as Yeonjun navigates the familiar route home. The car is warm now as the heater continued to hum low. You shift closer during a red light, forehead resting against the edge of his shoulder, eyes half-closed in that soft, post-adrenaline haze that always follows big nights.
Yeonjun glances down at you for a second as he leans a fraction closer so you could be somewhat comfortable, eyes flicking back to the road almost immediately. His free hand moves without thought, fingers slide gently on your cheeks towards your hair, caressing slow circles against your scalp, thumb brushing the shell of your ear. The motion is automatic, practiced, the kind of touch that has become language between you long before words ever caught up.
“You tired, baby?” His voice comes out softer than he means, rough around the edges from laughing and singing along to old ballads all night.
You nod against him, the smallest movement, cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt. A contented little hum vibrates through you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head briefly, breathing you in for a heartbeat before straightening again.
His hand never stops moving, petting gently down the length of your hair, then back up, grounding you both. “Hang on a little bit longer, we’re almost home,” he murmurs.
Then, quieter, like the words are too big for the small space but he has to say them anyway.
“I love you. You know that right?”
You smile against his shoulder, eyes still closed as he continues to speak.
“I can’t wait for the day it’s going to be me in a tux and you in a wedding dress, walking towards me instead of catching someone else’s bouquet.”
Your giggle bubbles up immediately, bright and sleepy. You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling under the passing streetlights.
“You don’t know what the future holds, Choi Yeonjun.”
But even as you tease, you turn your face into his hand—the one still stroking your hair—and press a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over the faint blue veins. Then you sit up properly, settling back into the passenger seat with a dramatic little sigh, as if reclaiming your composure.
His hand follows without hesitation. Fingers seek yours across the console, lacing them together like they’ve never been apart. Palm to palm, thumb brushing over your knuckles in the same steady rhythm he used on your hair.
“Three years,” he says after a beat, eyes still on the road but voice thick with something fond and certain. “We’ve been dating almost three years. And I’ve been pining for you since… what, a decade ago? Give or take. I know what I want, baby. I’ve known for a long time.”
He squeezes your hand once, gently. “And it’s not just me being dramatic. Our families keep bringing it up every time we go to each other’s gatherings. Mom asks when she’s getting a daughter-in-law. Your dad corners me about ‘marrying his only daughter’. The future’s basically sealed at this point.”
You laugh again—head tipping back against the seat this time, the sound bright and unguarded in the quiet car.
“I never knew you’d liked me that long,” you say, turning to study his profile. “A decade?”
Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, glancing at you sidelong. “Mm. Is that really surprising? When did you start liking me, then?”
You pretend to think, tapping your chin with your free hand. “Probably… six years ago? Around the time we filmed that year-end special and you kept finding excuses to stand next to me during breaks.”
He gasps an actual, theatrical gasp, eyes widening as he stares at the windshield like it has personally betrayed him. “Six years? Why the hell did we only start dating three years ago then?”
You burst out laughing, shoulders shaking so hard your joined hands jostle. “Because we’re idols, you idiot.”
Yeonjun blinks. Once. Twice. Then he lets out a long, dramatic exhale, slumping back in the driver’s seat as if the realization has just hit him like a truck.
“Oh. Right.”
He drags a hand down his face, laughing under his breath. “I forgot that part. Completely slipped my mind.”
You nudge his arm with your elbow, still giggling. “You act like we could’ve just dated in the practice room between schedules when we were still new to the industry. As if you could have gone, ‘Hey, wanna be my girlfriend? Cool, let’s go tell the company right now.’”
“I would’ve,” he mutters, half-serious. “Still would.”
You laugh and roll your eyes as the car slows, tuning into the underground parking of Yeonjun’s apartment building. Lights flicker overhead, painting everything in pale white. He pulls into his spot, engine cutting to silence, but neither of you moves right away.
Yeonjun turns toward you fully, elbow resting on the center console, fingers still tangled with yours.
“Six years for you. Ten for me.” He shakes his head, smiling in that soft, helpless way that always makes your heart stutter. “We’re really bad at this timing thing.”
You lean in, resting your forehead against his again—this time deliberate, noses brushing. “Maybe. But we got here eventually.”
“Yeah.” His thumb traces the ring finger of your left hand, slow and thoughtful. “And I’m not letting the timing slip again.”
You kiss him then—soft, unhurried, tasting like champagne and promises. When you pull back, your eyes are bright, teasing gone soft around the edges.
“Come on, future husband,” you whisper, reaching for the bouquet with your free hand. “Let’s go inside before Beomgyu texts me asking if you’ve proposed in the parking lot yet.”
Yeonjun laughs, low and warm, and finally opens his door.“I can do that,” he says as he rounds the car to open yours. “I’ll get down on one knee right now” he says and you laugh, smacking him lightly with the bouquet you were holding making him chuckle.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, spilling you into the hushed hallway of the apartment building, Yeonjun’s arm already around your waist as you walk—more carrying than guiding. Your feet padded quietly against the cool marble while his jacket still hung loose on your shoulders.
Inside, his apartment welcomes you with familiar dimness: floor lamps left on low, the faint glow from the city skyline filtering through half-drawn blinds. Yeonjun kicks the door shut behind you, toeing off his shoes without letting go of you. You sway the moment you reach the living room, a tiny, sleepy lurch forward that has you grabbing his sleeve for balance.
Yeonjun laughs fondly, the sound rumbling against your temple. “Falling asleep on your feet already?” He steadies you with both hands on your hips, turning you gently toward the wide sectional couch. “Come here, baby.”
You let him guide you down onto the cushions, bouquet set carefully on the coffee table like a fragile centerpiece. Yeonjun drops beside you, long legs stretching out, one arm slung along the back of the couch so you can curl into his side.
You do exactly that, gently placing your head on his chest, legs tucked under you. For a minute there’s only quiet—His heartbeat steady under your ear, the distant hum of traffic twenty floors below, your slow exhales evening out.
Then you shift as you fish your phone from the pocket of his jacket, thumb unlocking the screen with practiced ease. A soft laugh escapes you almost immediately.
“Look at this,” you murmur, tilting the phone so he can see. “The fans already found the video from earlier.”
Yeonjun leans in, chin resting on your shoulder. The clip is grainy but unmistakable, taken from one of the side tables during the reception. Both of you were sitting on the floor, cradling the toddler Yeonjun brought over earlier on your lap.
You coo at the screen, eyes softening. “God, she was so cute. Look at those cheeks.”
Yeonjun’s smirk is instant, wicked. He slides one hand down your back, fingers finding the delicate zipper at the nape of your dress and tugging it down an inch—just enough to tease.
“Yeah?” His voice drops, playful heat threading through it. “You want one? We can work on it right now. You can just stay put like this… let me do all the work.”
“Yeonjun!” You exclaim as you burst out laughing, twisting to punch his arm playfully.
He catches your wrist, kisses the inside of it, grinning against your skin. “What? Aside from the marriage, our parents also keep dropping hints about grandchildren every family dinner. Might as well give them what they want.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile stays. “You say that now. Wait ‘til there’s a tiny human running around your apartment at 5 a.m. while you’re trying to sleep off a twelve-hour schedule.”
He sighs dramatically, flopping back against the cushions and pulling you down with him until you’re half-sprawled across his chest. Arms wrapping around you fully, he presses a series of slow kisses along your hairline, mumbling against your scalp.
“Fine. I’ll settle for my current baby instead.”
You snort, burying your face in his neck to hide how wide your smile has gotten. “You’re so corny.”
He hums, not even caring about the complaint you just said as his fingers traced idle patterns on your spine.
“But seriously… we can’t get married yet. Can’t have a baby yet. All because we’re always so busy with schedules, practices, all that.” He sighs, “Can’t we at least live together here? Just you and me in this place?”
You lift your head, eyebrows raised. “You barely even live here, Yeonjun-ah. You’re always at the dorm with the boys. I’m at my group’s dorm more nights than not.”
He groans, long and theatrical, tipping his head back against the couch. “I know, I know. I bought this apartment because I wanted my own space. Privacy. A place to breathe. And then… I never did. Because coming home to the chaos of the dorm felt more like home than coming home to silence.”
Your expression softens. You reach up, brushing his bangs off his forehead. “We do stay here sometimes. On breaks. Late nights after schedules. Those weekends when we steal a few hours.”
“Not enough,” he whines, voice pitching into that rare, vulnerable register he only uses with you. “I want to always stay here. Come home to you. Wake up to you hogging all the blankets. Fight over who gets the good side of the couch. I want that. Every day.”
You nuzzle closer, cheek pressed to his collarbone. “Soon, baby.”
The pet name hits him like warm honey—he melts instantly, arms tightening around you, a soft exhale escaping against your hair.You keep going, voice muffled against his shirt.
“Maybe we can ask when we renew contracts. TXT’s up next week, right?” you suggest.
His eyes light up, sparkling even in the low light. “Yeah. Next week.”
You laugh quietly. “But I still have two years before my renewal. You’d have to wait.”
Yeonjun’s face falls into an exaggerated pout, complete with a dramatic groan. He buries his nose in your hair, whining. “Two years is forever.”
You turn your head, pressing a kiss to whatever part of him you can reach—his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Why are you so adamant about married life today, anyway?”
He goes still for a second, then sighs—honest, unguarded.
“Because I saw Jisoo-hyung tonight. Standing there, looking at his bride like she hung every star in Seoul. They’re happy. Really happy. And we’re older now—twenty-six, twenty-four. Not kids anymore. I want that too. I want us to have that.”
You shift so you can look at him properly, hands framing his face. “We’re still idols, though.”
“I know.” He leans into your touch, eyes searching yours. “And I still want to be one. I love the stage. The music. The boys. All of it. But I also want to come home to you. I want mornings that aren’t dictated by call times. I want… more. With you.”
You smile and cup his face gently like he’s the one who needs soothing.
“I’ll still be here. Even if we don’t get married tomorrow. Even if we don’t live together yet. Even if kids are years away. I’m not going anywhere.” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “At least we never had to worry about hiding because you literally announced we were dating the second it was official. No vague tweets, no denials. You just… said it. On Weverse. In front of everyone.”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh, remembering. “Yeah. ‘Hey MOA, Y/n and I are together. Please be kind to her.’ Short and sweet.”
“Very you,” you tease.
He catches your hand, kisses your palm. “I meant it. Still do. I just… tonight made me greedy. I want the rest of it too.”
You curl back into him, head on his chest again, listening to the steady thump of his heart. “We’ll get there, one stolen night here at a time. We’ve already waited this long. What’s a little more?”
He wraps both arms around you fully, chin resting on top of your head. “As long as it’s with you? I’ll wait forever.”
“You’re being corny again” You laugh.
“I know,” he says, kissing your head. “You love it though”
The apartment then settles into that deep, late-night stillness. Your breathing slows against Yeonjun’s chest, body growing heavier, limbs loosening in the way that means sleep is winning.
His fingers moved through your hair with slow, rhythmic strokes from crown to nape, then back up, twisting gentle curls around his index finger before letting them slip free again.
You sigh once, a tiny contented sound, and nuzzle closer, nose pressing into the hollow of his throat. Yeonjun smiles into the dark, lips brushing your temple.
“We should change,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Sleep in the bedroom properly, yeah?”
You make a soft, sleepy hum as your fingers curl loosely into the front of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself there.
He chuckles under his breath, the sound warm and low. “Okay, baby. I’ve got you. You don’t have to move.”
Without another word he shifts, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. He lifts you in one smooth motion, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing.
You stir faintly, a small whine escaping as your head lolls against his shoulder.
“Shh,” he soothes instantly, lips grazing your forehead. “I’ve got you. Just stay like this.”
He carries you down the short hallway, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The bedroom door is already ajar as he nudges it open with his hip. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, silvering the white sheets and the faint outline of the bed you’ve made together last time you stole a night here.
He lowers you slowly, reverently, easing you onto the mattress so your head settles against the pillow. You sigh again, lashes fluttering but not quite opening, body instinctively curling toward the cool sheets.
Yeonjun kneels beside the bed for a second, brushing a stray strand from your cheek. “Gonna change you now, okay? Just relax.”
He moves with practiced gentleness—first slipping his jacket off your shoulders, then finding the half-undone zipper at the back of your dress. The silk smoothly slides as he eases it down, careful not to tug too hard. He peels the fabric away inch by inch, folding it over the foot of the bed like it’s something sacred. Underneath you wore simple lace-trimmed underwear.
He doesn’t linger, doesn’t tease—just reaches for one of his shirts from the drawer and threads your arms through the sleeves, guiding your limp hands, then tugs the hem down over your hips. The shirt swallows you the way his jacket had earlier, sleeves pooling past your elbows.
You hum again, pleased even in sleep, and burrow deeper into the pillow.
Next comes the makeup. He grabs the small pack of micellar water wipes he keeps on the nightstand specifically for nights like this, and kneels closer. One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, pressing the lightest kiss to your closed eyelid. “My pretty girl.”
He begins to wipe gently—first your eyes, careful around the delicate skin, then your cheeks, your lips—each pass slow and tender. Between strokes he kisses you: the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, the faint freckle just under your left eye. Every touch accompanied by soft murmurs.
“You did so good tonight… danced, laughed, caught that bouquet like it was meant for you… I’m so lucky, you know that? So damn lucky.”
You don’t wake, but your lips curve into the tiniest smile, like some part of you hears him anyway. When your face is clean—skin soft and bare, lashes dark against pale cheeks—he leans down one more time, kissing you properly now: slow, lingering, barely a press of lips but full of everything he couldn’t say louder.
“Sleep, baby. I’m right here.”
Only then does he stand. He strips quickly out of his suit jacket, shirt, and trousers as he folded them over the chair, leaving him in just his boxers. A quick pass with a makeup wipe for himself, scrubbing away the remnants of lip stain and foundation until his face feels fresh again.
He doesn’t bother with a shirt as the room is warm enough, and he likes the way your body heat feels against his skin when you tangle together. He slid under the covers, pulling the duvet up over both of you.
You shift instinctively toward him, seeking warmth even in sleep. He gathers you close—your back to his chest. He draped one arm over your waist, hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other tucked under your head like a pillow as his nose found the crook of your neck. He inhales the faint rose scent still clinging to your hair, mixed now with the clean smell of his own shampoo from the shirt.
“Love you, baby,” he whispers into your skin, so quiet it’s almost just breath.
You sigh in your sleep, fingers finding his wrist and holding on. Yeonjun presses one last kiss to the nape of your neck, then lets his eyes close.
The city lights keep flickering outside, the world keeps turning.
