i think the funniest flavor of liujiu for me is one where sj goes into it like "ah yes I am going to EXPLOIT lqg's feelings and EMOTIONALLY MANIPULATE him for my own protection and safety" but he catches feelings hard and doesn't realize this for several years. one day he has a crisis at 4am about the fact that he does actually experience positive emotions towards lqg and frantically wakes lqg up to say "i. i think i love you. what the fuck", to which lqg is like "we've been married for five years. what are you talking about."
LISTEN 2 ME if i was jaewon dissociating into hell wallowing in my pit of guilt and self hatred in the middle of the canteen (deeply relatable experience. Canteens r built for incomprehensible levels of emotional turmoil im pretty sure) and i made eye contact w the sweetest most earnest brave boy jihyun. N he. smiled at me the way he did in that scene (i had to pause it and make a gutteral noise w my head in my hands) . I would have Immediately folded no questions asked . just so . open and genuine and kind and understanding. oh my GOD . Im kissing him gently on the forehead in my head as we speak.
SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.
OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer
GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish
PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )
WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use
WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words
AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3
FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED
PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU.
Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you.
And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you.
Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.
To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable.
Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room.
But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.
His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.
It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.
“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks.
“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.
“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers.
“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it.
“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.
Ouch. Does he not want you touching him?
You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void.
You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown.
Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this.
You wish he would just kiss you.
Just once.
Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.
Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.
“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”
The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty.
Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.
Because deep down, you know.
Jongseong is lying.
You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.
“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—”
“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision.
In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice.
And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks.
An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face.
“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence.
“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.”
Your breath hitches.
The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.
Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.
You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.
Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.
And neither was his.
For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.
You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.
“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.
“Jongseong—”
He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.
You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.
There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.
Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.
Park Jongseong had never kissed you.
And at this rate, you aren't sure if he ever will.
THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.
You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.
Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.
Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”
The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.
You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.
“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”
The words taste sour in your mouth.
You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.
He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.
“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.
There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.
Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”
Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.
You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.
You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.
The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.
As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.
Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.
You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.
You walk side by side in silence towards the car.
You can't hold it in any longer.
“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.
Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.
“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.
“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”
He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”
You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”
You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”
His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”
You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.
“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”
The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.
But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”
You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.
When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.
You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.
But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.
So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.
And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.
Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.
PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.
But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.
And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.
No. He does nothing.
Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.
He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.
9:30 am, he reaches his office building.
The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.
The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.
“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.
He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.
The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.
A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.
Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.
“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”
“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”
A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.
When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”
But Jongseong shakes his head.
“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”
He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.
Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.
Birthday.
The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.
He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.
A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.
But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.
“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.
A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.
Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.
Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.
His breath falters, you remember.
His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.
And the scent hits him instantly.
Curry.
Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.
Something coils in his chest.
Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.
JAY
Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.
It indeed spells, JAY.
He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.
Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.
And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.
By you.
“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.
Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.
“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”
“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.
Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”
“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”
“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”
Jongseong glares at him.
“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”
Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.
“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”
“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”
Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.
Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.
“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”
Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again.
Finally, blessed peace.
He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.
A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.
But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.
YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.
Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.
He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.
“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”
He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.
“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.
He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.
But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.
Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.
But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.
Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.
Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.
Is that you?
Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.
“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”
You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.
But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.
“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”
“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”
“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?
“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”
You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.
“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”
He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”
Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.
But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.
“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.
He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”
The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.
“I won’t go—”
“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”
Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.
“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.
“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.
He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”
The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.
And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.
His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.
“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”
You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.
“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.
“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”
Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.
You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.
You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”
Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.
“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”
He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.
When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.
“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”
“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.
“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”
“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.
You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.
“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.
“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”
“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”
There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.
It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?
“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.
He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”
Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.
Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.
“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.
You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.
RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.
Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.
It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.
You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.
The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.
He doesn’t see you at first.
Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.
You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.
You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.
You hope none of that was your imagination.
Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.
That’s when someone steps beside you.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.
You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.
“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”
“You look tired.”
“You have no idea.”
He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t notice the shift in the room.
But Jongseong does.
He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.
The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.
He downs his drink.
“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”
He doesn’t hear it.
Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.
The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.
Why are you smiling like that?
He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.
And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.
He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.
You feel it before you see him.
The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.
He’s coming toward you.
Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.
Your heart stutters.
You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.
“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”
Jongseong stops beside you.
Too close.
Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.
“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.
Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”
He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.
Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”
Your breath catches.
Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.
Not entirely touching you.
Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.
“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”
When he leaves, the space collapses.
You’re alone with Jongseong.
Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.
“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.
“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.
“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.
He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.
“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.
You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.
“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”
For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”
The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.
“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”
His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.
“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.
Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.
But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.
“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”
“Why?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.
“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”
He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
But he isn’t.
You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.
“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.
“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”
The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.
At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.
“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”
You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.
When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.
His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”
He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.
“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”
You freeze.
His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.
You don’t move.
Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.
And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.
It makes him tell the truth.
YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.
Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.
You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.
Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.
If anything, he does the opposite.
He lingers.
At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.
You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.
After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.
You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.
But rules blur when he learns your steps.
He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.
It’s never announced. Never even whispered.
It just happens.
And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.
Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.
That’s when it starts to bleed through.
In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.
At night, he sleeps closer.
Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.
You start waking before him just to watch.
The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.
You don’t ask, even when you know you should.
Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.
The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.
You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.
Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.
“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“So are you,” you reply.
He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.
Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.
He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
That alone feels like a confession.
The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.
“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”
You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.
Breakfast is quiet after that.
He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.
It’s barely noticeable.
But you notice.
You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.
“You already have one,” you say.
“I know.”
He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”
He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”
You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”
You look up at him, still braced.
“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.
Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.
He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.
“I can share,” he says.
You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.
But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.
It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.
Jongseong comes home late.
You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.
You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.
He doesn’t greet.
His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.
“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.
“I know,” he replies, cold.
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.
Something prickles.
“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.
His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.
“I was busy.”
The way he says it feels deliberate.
You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”
Silence.
You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”
His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”
“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”
“I am okay,” he snaps.
The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.
He sees it.
Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.
“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”
The words land badly.
“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you in three strides.
Too fast. Too close.
You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.
The sound it makes is soft.
The effect is not.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.
“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”
Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”
You don’t move.
You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”
His eyes darken.
Because he wants to kiss you.
Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.
You think this is it.
Then he pulls back.
Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.
He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.
“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”
He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.
And how far he ran.
PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.
He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.
Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.
Just for a fraction of a second.
He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
The bedroom door opens softly behind him.
“Jongseong?”
Your voice.
He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.
You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.
“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”
The question hangs between you.
Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.
His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.
Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.
“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.
“You look—”
“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”
The moment collapses.
Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”
The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words
----
The family house is already alive when you arrive.
Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.
“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”
Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.
“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”
He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”
That’s not an answer.
You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.
You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”
His jaw ticks. “All of it.”
“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.
He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”
“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”
Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.
Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.
Conversation starts harmless.
Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.
But then the atmosphere shifts.
“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”
Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.
Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”
She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”
Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”
You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”
“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”
The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.
You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.
“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”
Fortunate.
The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.
You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”
You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.
Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.
Jongseong’s fork stops moving.
It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.
He looks at you. Really looks this time.
The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.
His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”
“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”
His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”
The silence thickens.
His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.
His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”
Jongseong turns to him slowly.
For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.
“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”
He stops. Breathes shakily.
“—my wife.”
The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.
“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”
A pause.
“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.
“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”
You move before anyone can stop you.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.
No one stops you. No one knows how.
You walk out before the tears can fall.
The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.
You don’t hear him at first.
“Y/n—!”
Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.
You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.
You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.
Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.
“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”
Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
“No,” he says, “You’re not.”
He doesn’t ask for permission.
Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”
He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.
Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.
The house disappears behind you.
THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.
Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”
“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”
He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”
He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.
The silence stretches.
“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”
He doesn’t look up. “I did.”
“I could defend myself—”
“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”
Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.
You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”
Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.
“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”
His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him stop again.
“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”
You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”
His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.
“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I should’ve been there faster.”
You look at him then. “You caught me.”
“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.
His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.
Then Jongseong straightens.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.
“I’m okay,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.
You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”
His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.
“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”
You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”
His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.
“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”
The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.
His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.
“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”
“Contained from what?”
“From wanting more,” he admits, voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”
“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.
That’s all it takes.
He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.
When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.
Almost reverent.
The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.
He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.
He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.
“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.
“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.
Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.
You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.
He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”
His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.
He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.
“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”
He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”
“Jay,” you answer.
He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.
Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive
He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.
“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.
“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.
MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.
The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
You wake first.
For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.
Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.
You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.
Jongseong looks different in sleep.
Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.
Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”
He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”
He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.
“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.
You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That makes his eyes open again.
Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” you admit. “You?”
He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”
There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.
“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.
“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”
Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.
Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.
Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.
He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”
You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”
He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.
You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.
As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.
Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.
And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.
You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.
That’s when you notice the folder.
Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.
Your stomach twists.
You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.
But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.
You stand.
Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.
You pull the paper free.
Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.
The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.
You scan the first page. And then the words blur.
Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.
Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.
Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.
You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.
Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.
But it doesn’t.
Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?
A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.
Footsteps sound behind you.
“Coffee will be ready in—”
The sentence dies in his throat.
You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.
“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.
When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.
The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.
Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.
“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.
“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”
He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.
“A while,” he admits.
The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.
“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”
His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.
“Years.”
The word drops into the room like a blade.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.
“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.
Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.
“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”
He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.
“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.
“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”
Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.
“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”
His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”
“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”
“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”
He stops himself.
Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”
“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.
The words don’t land right away.
They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.
“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”
He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.
“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”
You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.
“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”
He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”
“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”
You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”
“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.
“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”
“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”
He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.
“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”
The words gut you.
“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”
His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.
“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”
He stops. Swallows hard.
“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.
And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.
Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.
Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.
Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.
Love, most of all.
You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.
Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.
“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”
“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”
That hits him harder than shouting ever could.
Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”
The word hangs in the air between you.
Dying.
It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.
“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”
Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”
The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.
“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.
His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”
His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”
You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”
“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”
That does it.
Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.
“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.
Then he leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.
“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.
“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”
His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.
“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.
“Sorry” you reply quietly.
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.
He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”
Your heart twists painfully.
“You are my future,” you say without thinking.
The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.
He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”
He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”
You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.
“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath stutters.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”
Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”
He winces like you’ve struck him.
“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”
Silence falls again, thick and heavy.
You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”
He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.
“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”
“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.
His face tightens, but he nods once.
Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.
“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“I will marry you, Y/n.”
The certainty in his voice steals your breath.
He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.
“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”
Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”
Something inside you shatters completely at that.
You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.
Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.
“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.
His breath catches.
“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”
You still, listening.
“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”
He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”
Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.
“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.
“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”
A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.
“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”
He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.
He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.
And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.
Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.
EPILOGUE
The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.
There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.
Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.
So here you are.
The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.
Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.
Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.
The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.
You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.
Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.
This is real.
When you open them, you see him.
Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.
And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.
His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.
You start walking.
Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.
With every step, memories rise up uninvited.
The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.
And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.
You stop in front of him.
Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.
“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.
When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.
But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.
His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.
When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.
“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”
His voice steadies, just a little.
“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”
Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.
When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.
And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.
The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.
Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.
His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.
“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”
You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.
The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.
You and Jongseong take a step forward together.
The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.
“Jongseong?” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”
You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.
“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”
“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”
So you walk slowly.
Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.
And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.
Your own thoughts are no less tangled.
Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.
You reach the middle of the aisle.
There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.
Jongseong exhales, long and slow.
“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”
You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”
His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.
“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”
You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.
It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.
“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.
The room seems to tilt.
For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.
“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.
Then his knees buckle.
The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.
Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.
“Jongseong—!”
The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.
His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.
“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.
Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.
AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛
edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3
I have a request for YEARNING STEVE. Everything you do he just can’t get enough. Touchy. Clingy. Whiney when you’re not near and everyone is lowkey sick of seeing it but he doesn’t care he just wants YOU 😭
good old-fashioned lover boy
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pairing - steve harrington x fem!reader (no use of yn)
genre - fluff, established relationship
warnings - tooth rotting fluff bc i’m in love w steve harrington & im projecting all my feelings into my work, lots of skin-ship, steve harrington yearns, gag-worthy amounts of being in luv, kissing & some making out! steve refers to u as his gf and baby multiple times, word count 3.7k 🧍♀️
authors note - tysm for the req :) i hope this is ok, and ty for letting me yearn with no restraints <33 my ask box is always open for these kinds of things so pls don’t be afraid to ask me to write something
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summary - 3 times steve harrington couldn’t keep his hands off you, and the 1 time everyone called him out on it.
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if anyone were to ask, steve harrington would say his love language was physical touch. really, he couldn’t help his insistent need to reach out and touch you, not that you complained most of the time anyways, because it was just how he expressed his feelings. sometimes words weren’t enough, and steve was raised on the saying that “actions speak louder than words.” so it came to no surprise that he’d always have a hand on you; whether it was his fingers laced with yours, an arm slung over your shoulder or his hand ghosting over the small of your back, steve was always touching you in some degree.
steve could recall nearly every time he’d notice someone glance at the pair of you, or hear an off-handed comment from someone he knew about how you two were glued to the hip, how they almost never saw one of you without the other. he took pride in it, despite the judgemental tone some of them had, because why wouldn’t he want to spend quality time with the love of his life? he never really understood the idea of being without someone for long periods of time, because in his mind: to be loved is to be present.
i.
there was nothing romantic about the cramped employee back room of family video. it was dusty, the air was stale and more often than not you’d walk in and find keith sitting at the desk with a game & watch under the pretence of “admin work”. yet, steve still had the nerve to convince you that he couldn’t be more than five steps away from you, rambling on about how it’d physically hurt him to separate his hand from yours, and that he’s offended you wouldn’t “walk to the ends of the earth with your boyfriend in hand.” to which you just roll your eyes.
“steve, you’re so dramatic sometimes..” he’s moping, complaining that you don’t love him, because if you did, you’d be in the store room with him right now instead of calling him names. “is it a crime to want to be with my girlfriend?” he’s got a hand clutching his heart, murmuring that he’s wounded and the only cure for his broken heart is just behind the door to the back office. “no, but unauthorised entry in an employee only area is..” you’re teasing him now, steve is opening wearing his heart on his sleeve and expressing his unwavering love for you and you’re teasing him.
“baby, you’ve literally been behind doors countless times, and last time i checked..” he’s making a show of looking around, knowing full well the two of you were alone; robin not due to start her shift for another hour or so. “.. there’s no one else here.” it has you rolling your eyes, and steve’s calling checkmate. he’s got you right where he wants, no more excuses lined up on your tongue and you just sigh, giving in easily like you always do. steve’s internally cheering, a smug smile on his face as he interlocks your fingers with his, tugging you towards the secluded area out back, and all you can do is follow.
before you’re even able to question his clingy behaviour, steve is slowly backing you towards the nearest wall, one hand laced with yours and the other is pressed against the cold surface beside you, and it all clicks. “baby, you did not just convince me to come back here just so we can make out..” steve just shrugs, feigning innocence even when his eyes are telling you everything. “mm, don’t know what you’re on about.” he leans in anyway, and you don’t fight back, his lips on yours in a matter of seconds. and as much as you had wanted to poke fun of how needy he was today, you realised you needed this too, needed him close enough to touch, and you think you’re becoming just as bad as him.
it was just supposed to be a few innocent kisses, a few unspoken words in the form of his lips interlocked with yours, and yet, you can’t help but have an arm strung around the back of his neck, your need to have him closer clouding your judgement. steve’s just as bad, both hands on your waist, bringing you in, chest to chest, and you’re both whining about being too far away, despite the lack of space left between you. “you’re a terrible liar.” you call out, and he’s ignoring it in favour of kissing your jaw, following a path down your neck, while you’ve got a hand bunched in his hair, tugging just hard enough to get a sound out of him. he’s grinning up at you now, from the junction of your throat you can feel his teasing smile, and you roll your eyes, pretending you’re not wrapped around his finger right now, like you’re not as equally eager to have him.
he’s sliding a hand underneath your shirt, drawing aimless shapes along your bare skin, lost in the feeling, before there’s the distinct sound of shuffling outside that halts his movements. you both freeze, eyes stuck on the door before flicking back to each other, and you’re looking at him in horror, too afraid at the idea of being caught. “i thought you said it was just us?” you whisper, you curse him out for being reckless, and dragging you along with him, before you push him off you in favour of smoothing out the wrinkles on your clothes. steve’s groaning out in irritation, muttering something along the lines of “last time i checked, it was.” before sticking his head outside to see what the commotion was all about.
“dingus, the fuck are you doing? there’s a customer.” it’s robin, and steve’s eyes shoot up to the clock, she’s early, and he’s wincing because really, out of all days. steve coughs awkwardly, some feeble excuse on his tongue dies when robin takes notice of his disheveled appearance and he can tell she’s grown suspicious, that she’s got questions he doesn’t really want to reveal the answers to. her suspicions quickly turn into disgust when she pieces the picture together, and she’s looking at the door as if she can already guess who’s behind there with him. “think you can see what they want? i’m a bit preoccupied.” and robin is feigning a gag, all while the customer just stands there, judging the both of them before making a comment about the lack of professionalism the youth have these day.
“i’m not even clocked in you idiot!” but it doesn’t matter, because steve’s quick to close the door on her and robin flips him off when she thinks the customer isn’t looking. they were, and it’s just another thing she has to deal with before her shift even begins.
ii.
steve thinks it’s entirely unfair that you’re ignoring him right now. he’s lying between your legs, breath tickling your thighs and practically yearning for your attention. yet you’re more engrossed in whatever it is that nancy is saying to you on the phone, than your amazing, perfect, and very bored boyfriend. sure, you’ve go one hand playing idly with his hair, and it’s enough to have him close his eyes, to enjoy the way you rake your fingers through it softly, but it’s not enough to ease the ache of not being the centre of your attention. if the role were reversed, there wouldn’t even be a phone call, steve would happily ignore all his responsibilities if it meant he got to laze around with you, the most important person in his life.
it’s quiet, and the only sound in the room is nancy’s small voice bleeding through the speaker. she’s gossiping, giggling about something jonathan said and the vibration of your laughter makes steve look up, and he hates that he’s jealous over nothing. he hates that your attention is split between two, especially when it was so rare for the two of you to have a joint day off like this. sure, you both technically worked at the radio station, and you guys did see each other everyday, but rarely did he get to have you to himself like this.
he’s bored, grumbling under his breath and it momentarily grabs your attention, nancy’s speaking, but you’re not particularly listening right now, eyes locked onto your pouting boyfriend, who’s rolling his eyes and moving out of your space. you’re raising an eyebrow, and he’s leaning over you, and a part of you is expecting him to cling on to you, to bridge the sudden space between you. he cranes his body over yours, and breathes out a quick “sorry nance.” before taking the phone out of your hand and hanging up, placing it back on the cradle, and you can hear her sigh before she’s cut off. “steve, i was using that.” and he hums, clearly not listening in favour of wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and focusing on the movie that played as background noise.
“oh sorry, i didn’t realise.” he’s being sarcastic, and you roll your eyes and hit his chest playfully, melting into his embrace nonetheless, because you were always so weak for your boyfriend despite his questionable intentions. “you’re lucky i love you.” and he can’t fight the smile on his face, he can’t play the role of the upset boyfriend anymore, because you always knew how to have him swoon with just a few words. “yeah? love you too.” there’s a lingering kiss to the edge of your mouth, and you’re turning your head, trying to catch his lips fully but he’s pulling away, teasing you like he always does.
“steve..” the roles feel reversed now, like you’re the one vowing for his attention and you realise just how easy you played into his hands. “you’re annoying.” he nods, ‘engrossed’ in the movie, and your fingers are grazing his jaw, pulling him back into your bubble so you can kiss him properly, so you can give him the attention you both were craving. “oh, hi baby.” steve is playing dumb, and you shake your head, bringing him even closer to the point where you have your legs thrown over his lap, perched on his thighs and blocking the view of the tv. “don’t ’hi baby’ me steve.” and the act drops, hands on your waist and he’s sighing into your mouth, both of you longing for the other.
“missed you.” he’s murmuring against your lips, breath mingling with yours and you can feel the way he pouts like he just can’t believe you would’ve rather spoken to nancy than to have him like this. “i’ve been here all day stevie..” and he’s shaking his head, pulling you closer because it’s different, yeah, you were here physically, but your attention wasn’t. steve just wanted to spend his day lying around idly with his girlfriend with no distractions, no interruptions.
“you were on the phone with nance for ages..” a sigh leaves your lips, cooing at his obvious bitterness and you’re quick to move both hands to the sides of his face, forcing him to look at you and you lean in for a chaste kiss. “it was for like ten minutes, you’re such a big baby..” steve rolls his eyes, but there’s a crack of a smile when he feels you stare at him, eyes shining with that familiar adoration and he doesn’t respond to your very true statement, because he’s aware that he was acting out, but really, who cares when he’s got you like this.
“yeah yeah, now can we please pay attention to your very handsome, doting boyfriend who wants to kiss his beautiful girlfriend right now.” and you just nod, breathing out a laugh and leaning forward once again.
iii.
dustin really wishes he missed this crawl, maybe then he wouldn’t have to deal with you and steve giggling in the front of the van like two lovesick teenagers. steve’s got a hand situated on your thigh, hearts in his eyes as you sit there, full focus on him whilst he explains the significance of the clutch pedal. you had made an offhanded comment on how you wish you learnt how to drive manual, and steve perked up, he felt like a petrolhead, eager to teach you all he knew.
dustin’s fiddling with a rubik’s cube he found lying around in the back, waiting for the signal from the others at the station, knowing it’d take awhile before they could finally hit the road. so he’s sighing, looking anywhere but the two of you, because he can already picture it, the way steve is gloating, priding himself on his extensive knowledge of shifting gears. he doesn’t need to look over to picture the way you’re batting your eyes, humming along to every word steve says, hyperaware of how steve’s hand is inching higher without him even realising it.
dustin wants to gag, you two were so disgustingly into each other that it’s suffocating, it’s got him flicking the antenna of his walkie and mumbling into the speaker, voicing a prayer and a cry for help. he can hear a snicker on the other side of the frequency, it’s robin, and she doesn’t even have the courtesy to act surprised, because it could be worse. “don’t bother henderson, it’s been like this all day.“ and he sighs, because he thought you two would’ve been tired of each other by now, really, he doesn’t understand how you find steve interesting enough to be infatuated by him at all waking hours of the day.
he thinks of steve like an older brother, his best friend, someone he looks up to but even he also knows just how annoying he can be. he admires your loyalty, because dustin might’ve clawed his hair out if he had to deal with steve the same way you do. steve was different before the two of you met, that cool, uncaring facade he carried with him only switched on when you were around and now that you two were together and grossly in love, it was like he was looking at a completely different person.
steve harrington, the same guy who beat the shit out some demodogs, who put up a fight against the russians is now the same steve who’s distracted by your every move, who misses his queues at the squawk because he’s too enamoured by you walking past while they’re on air. the same steve who keeps a polaroid of you two in his wallet, who insists that he can’t hang out with dustin on sunday’s because it’s date night, or because you two are seeing a movie. the same steve that’s looking at you like you’ve hung the stars, even in the cramped seats of the squawk van.
it’s best to ignore you two for now, because dustin knows that steve is too focused on you to even entertain his disappointed looks he keeps throwing at the pair of you. steve can’t help it though, he’s been dreaming for a girl like you, and now that you’re finally his, he wants to make sure that you know how much you mean to him, even at the cost of being teased by the entire party for being at your beck and call.
“..and that’s how you avoid a stall.” you’re nodding, and steve’s got that smug smile he always has when he’s showing off, and you couldn’t find him any more attractive as you do right now. you’re not even remotely interested in manual driving anymore, not when you’re distracted by how he hot he looks when he’s focused on something. you don’t even register the static of laughter in the back, the sound of a snicker coming through the speakers because steve’s looking at you in full earnest, soft smile tugged on his lips and it’s like the world around you goes mute.
“okay lovebirds, please don’t forget i’m here too.” a voice chimes in, and it’s like someone’s snapped their fingers, your attention drifting over from steve to dustin’s folded arms, he twitches when he can see you finally take off your rose tinted glasses and come back down to earth. you hear steve sigh beside you, annoyed that your time together is always cut short, and turns his head to greet his younger friend. “yes henderson?” but he’s distracted by the sound of your laughter, you’re clearing enjoying the exchange between the two and it just peeves dustin off more.
steve really can’t stay annoyed for long, not when you’re there; he has a soft spot for you always, and not even dustin’s glare can spoil his mood. “can’t you two hold it in until after the crawl?” dustin chimes in again, his hands emphasising the telemetry tracker beside him, and you nod, promising the two of you will behave, much to steve’s dismay. “baby..” you hold a hand out to stop steve from speaking out, and he pauses, eyes looking between you and dustin, and you can see the exact moment he gives up.
steve doesn’t remove his hand from your thigh though, instead he laces his fingers with yours and squeezes, because he still craves your touch even when he’s silently moping like this. you smile at him, squeezing back, and it’s then that they finally get the signal to drive, and dustin couldn’t be happier.
iv.
the kids had just graduated, and you soon find yourself situated with the others on the roof of the radio station. the nostalgia hitting and memories flood in of your time together at the squawk, and it feels like no time has changed, despite it being over a year since you all decided to pursue your seperate aspirations. there’s the lingering feeling of sentimentality, seeing your friends after months apart, and knowing it’ll be a long ways away until you’re all reunited again after this. it didn’t help that robin’s final goodbye on the radio had your heart feeling heavy for the past couple hours now, and sitting here, drink in tow, wasn’t doing it any favours.
jonathan and steve are bickering about the premise of jonathan’s film; capitalism, cannibalism? you weren’t really paying attention to the two, your eyes trailing around you, taking in the scenery, the sunset, the memories, and you’re thinking back to the first time you had discovered how to climb up to the roof. robin notices your silence, because she too is reminiscing all the time she took for granted with you guys, you two lock eyes, and there’s a silent agreement that you’d give anything to go back to how things were, minus the end of the world.
it’s then that robin speaks, roping nancy into spilling information about the “hot babes at emerson.” which has nancy rolling her eyes. she had dropped out, and that itself felt like a bombshell, but she had always known that maybe it wasn’t on the cards for her, that she was destined for other things, and you envy it a little. you hadn’t quite figured out what you wanted to do with your time, you felt a bit behind, and it was scary.
steve notices how quiet you’ve gotten, and the familiar feeling of his hand sliding into yours, fingers intertwined, is enough to silence that nagging voice in your head for the time being. you’re squeezing his hand back, grateful for the distraction before you notice the others around you fall quiet, it’s jarring how awkward it feels before robin’s clearing her throat, and she’s the one to address the elephant in the room.
“so is no one going to mention that huge rock on your hand?” and just like that, the air around you feels lighter and you can’t help but laugh at how blunt she’s being, and how shocked the others look when they finally take notice of the ring on your finger. “holy shit!” nancy exclaims, and she’s quick to move out of her chair, smacking steve’s hand out of yours; to which he groans in faux annoyance, in favour of checking the diamond attached to you.
it makes steve’s heart swell, the familiar feeling of pride that situates itself whenever he looks down at the engagement ring he had bought months ago. it’s a reminder of just how lucky he is, how he’s finally found the one, that he’s promised forever with you. “oh yeah, that..” you’re shy when people notice, but you can’t fight the grin that makes it’s way to your face every time, because steve harrington will always be your person, and now you have a physical reminder of that.
“spoiled her on a coach’s salary too.” you smack his shoulder, and steve pouts, knowing you can’t stay mad at him for long. there’s obvious heart eyes when you look up at him, that all too familiar feeling of yearning you don’t think will ever fade. it’s disgustingly cute, atleast that’s what robin says when she breaks the silence, and you can’t help but shy away from the eyes of the others, their gazes soft and it makes you feel extra vulnerable.
“took you long enough” robin’s calling out from beside you, and you furrow your eyebrows, because it still shocks you when you think back to his proposal, steve down on one knee with shining eyes and wobbly smile. he had this speech about how he couldn’t imagine a life without you, it was endearing how nervous he was, how sweaty his hand got whilst it was latched with yours, and you always tear up when you think back to that moment, how easy it was to say yes.
“now, what’re your thoughts about having six little nuggets?” jonathan jokes, and steve shoots him a glare, but you don’t fail to metion how easy it is to imagine a family with steve. “i mean, maybe not six, but definitely atleast two.” and it shuts steve up, you two had only really talked about kids a handful of times, nothing too serious, but he’s looking at you with stars in his eyes, there’s that familiar look of adoration, and you can see jonathan instantly regret bringing it up. “great, you’ve set him off again.” and steve doesn’t even care, because he’ll always be guilty of being in love with you, and god forbid a man is infatuated with his future wife.
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yeah i ain’t even got an excuse for this one i literally blinked and it became this big ass fic.
i sincerely hope you all enjoyed this :) & please lmk if this was ok!!
i think a part of myself will always have room for steve, especially over the last month or so since i started writing. it’s kinda scary releasing something, but seeing people reblog and comment that they like my writing is enough for me to continue !!
SYNOPSIS: Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships. You knew that from the start. Six months of late-night calls and empty beds later, you’re still foolish enough to believe you might be different. But when loving him starts to feel like losing yourself, you’ll have to decide: keep fighting for someone who won’t fight back, or finally walk away from the only person who ever made you want to stay…
Better yet, you’ll play his game and start a war—one where neither of you will come out unscathed.
LENGTH: 11.5k
TAGLIST: OPEN (reply/ask to be added!)
NOTES: Please don’t hate me LMAOOO if you’ve read Cry for Me you know my deal with pain and characters that make u go insane 😁 Anyways, chapter title is from rosé’s number one girl and im pretty sure if u know the song, u can already guess why hehe ENJOY READING! Tell me what u all think!
chapter two ⋆𐙚₊ series masterlist ⋆𐙚₊ chapter four
The week after the photo incident passed in a strange sort of limbo—like existing in the eye of a storm, that deceptive calm where you know the destruction is coming but you pretend it isn’t, where you convince yourself that maybe the worst has already passed.
You pretended nothing had happened. Both of you did.
Gojo never mentioned the photos again. Never explained the girl who’d disappeared or the dark-haired boy who’d clearly meant something or the choices everyone had apparently made that led to that particular ending. The face-down frame stayed face-down, a tomb for whatever was buried there, and you didn’t ask again because asking meant acknowledging the chasm between you—the parts of himself he refused to share, the history he couldn’t let go of but couldn’t quite face either.
So you existed in this careful pretense, this manufactured normalcy that felt increasingly fragile with each passing day.
You still saw him. Still laughed at his jokes. Still let him pull you into his lap on his obscenely expensive couch while some movie you weren’t watching played in the background. Still gasped his name in the dark while he learned new ways to make you fall apart, cataloging your responses with that focused intensity he brought to everything he actually cared about.
The sex was good—sometimes great, sometimes desperate, sometimes tender enough to make your chest ache with dangerous hope. He’d pull you close afterward, arms wrapped tight around you like he was afraid you’d disappear, and whisper things into your hair that almost sounded like promises. Almost.
You were at his penthouse more than your own apartment now. It had happened gradually—a toothbrush in his bathroom, then a drawer for your clothes, then half your closet migrating to his because it was just easier, more convenient, why go home when you’d just end up back here anyway?
Utahime had opinions about this development, delivered with her characteristic bluntness over brunch: “You’re basically living with him. Except you’re not. You’re just… existing in his space. That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s fine,” you’d said, stirring your coffee with unnecessary focus. “It’s easier this way.”
“Easier for who?”
You didn’t have a good answer for that.
Shoko had been quieter about it, just watching you with those perceptive eyes that saw too much, that looked at you like she was cataloging symptoms of a disease she recognized but couldn’t cure. “Just be careful,” she’d said finally. “Gojo’s… complicated.”
“I know that.”
“No, I mean—” She’d paused, choosing words carefully. “His history is messy. There are things you don’t know. Things he probably won’t tell you.”
“Like what?”
But she’d just shaken her head, a sadness in her expression that made your stomach clench with premature dread. “Not my story to tell. Just… be careful. Protect yourself.”
You’d nodded, smiled, assured her you were fine. Another lie, transparent enough that she’d seen right through it but had been kind enough not to call you on it.
It was Thursday afternoon—unremarkable, ordinary, the kind of day that should have passed without incident—when Gojo came home early from work and found you curled up on his couch, laptop balanced on your knees, working through emails.
He’d dropped his things by the door with a heavy thud, loosened his tie with one hand, and just looked at you for a long moment. Something in his expression made your pulse skip—soft and intense and almost vulnerable, like he was seeing something that mattered.
“Hi,” you’d said, smiling despite the way his intensity made you nervous. “You’re home early.”
“Had a thought,” he’d said, moving toward you with deliberate purpose.
“Yeah? About what?”
Instead of answering, he’d pulled something from his pocket—small, metallic, glinting in the afternoon light filtering through those floor-to-ceiling windows.
A key.
He’d held it out to you, and for a moment you’d just stared at it, brain struggling to process what this meant, what he was offering.
“To the penthouse,” he’d said unnecessarily, voice carefully casual but with something underneath—nervousness, maybe, or hope. “So you don’t have to wait for me to let you in. So you can come and go. So this can feel like… yours too.”
Your heart had done something complicated in your chest—expanding and contracting at once, hope and fear tangled so tightly they’d become indistinguishable.
“Satoru—”
“You’re here all the time anyway,” he’d continued, still holding out the key like an offering, like a promise he didn’t quite know how to make with words. “Might as well make it official. This is your space too now. I want it to be.”
You’d taken the key with shaking fingers, the metal cool and solid against your palm. Real. Tangible. Evidence that this meant something, that you weren’t crazy for thinking this was progressing, that maybe he was finally ready to let you fully into his life.
“Thank you,” you’d whispered, throat tight with emotion you didn’t quite trust.
He’d kissed you then—soft and thorough and almost reverent, hands cradling your face like you were something precious. “Stay tonight,” he’d murmured against your lips. “Stay every night if you want.”
And you had. God help you, you had.
“He gave you a key.”
Utahime’s voice was flat, carefully neutral in that way that meant she was fighting to control her reaction. You’d met them for lunch at that café you all loved, the one with the overpriced salads and the good espresso, practically vibrating with the need to share this development, this proof that things were moving forward, that Gojo was finally committing to something real.
“Yeah!” You couldn’t keep the brightness out of your voice, the hope that felt dangerously close to certainty. “To his penthouse. He said he wants me to feel like it’s my space too. That I can come and go whenever I want. Isn’t that—”
You’d stopped because Shoko’s face had done something complicated—a flash of concern quickly masked, but not quite fast enough. Her eyes had met Utahime’s across the table, some silent communication passing between them that made your stomach start to sink with premature dread.
“What?” you’d asked, smile faltering. “That’s good, right? That means he’s serious about this. About us.”
Shoko had set down her coffee cup with careful precision, the small sound loud in the sudden tension. “He gave you a key,” she’d repeated, and there was something heavy in her tone, something that felt like pity.
“Yes. We established that.” You’d looked between them, heart starting to pound with the sense that you were missing something crucial, that they knew something you didn’t. “Why are you both looking at me like that?”
Utahime had reached across the table, hand covering yours with gentle firmness. “Babe… he’s done this before.”
The words had landed like a physical blow, sharp and unexpected and precisely aimed. “What?”
“The key thing. Giving girls keys to his place.” Utahime’s voice was soft now, sympathetic, which somehow made it worse. “It’s part of his pattern. Makes them feel special, like they’re different, like they mean something. Then—”
“Then what?” But you’d already known, stomach plummeting, the hope that had felt so certain moments ago crumbling like sand.
“Then he gets bored. Or scared. Or whatever the fuck his damage is.” Shoko’s tone was clinical, matter-of-fact, delivering a diagnosis you didn’t want to hear. “And he takes the key back. Usually by just… disappearing until they get the hint and return it themselves.”
You’d stared at them, wanting to argue, wanting to insist that this was different, that you were different, that Gojo wouldn’t do that to you. But the certainty had evaporated, leaving just a sick, hollow feeling in your gut.
“How many?” The question had come out smaller than you’d intended.
“That I know of?” Shoko had tilted her head, considering. “Three. Maybe four. Hard to keep track sometimes.”
“Jesus Christ,” you’d breathed, pulling your hand back from Utahime’s, suddenly needing space, needing air, needing to not hear this even though you’d asked. “So this means nothing. The key means nothing.”
“I didn’t say that.” Shoko’s voice had gentled slightly. “I’m just saying… be careful. Don’t read too much into it. Don’t assume it means more than it does.”
“Then what does it mean?” You’d hated how your voice had cracked, how close to tears you’d suddenly been. “If not that he wants me in his life, then what?”
“It means he likes having you around. That he’s comfortable with you.” Utahime had tried to make it sound positive, but it had just felt hollow. “But comfort isn’t the same as commitment. And Gojo… he’s good at making people feel special without actually promising them anything.”
You’d sat there in that overpriced café, expensive salad untouched, key burning a hole in your pocket, and felt the foundation of your hope cracking beneath you. All your careful optimism, all your evidence that this was progressing—the key, the drawer, the nights spent tangled together, the way he looked at you sometimes like you mattered—suddenly felt suspect, tainted by the knowledge that you weren’t the first, that this was a pattern, a script he’d followed before with other girls who’d also believed they were special.
“I’m sorry,” Shoko had said quietly. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”
“No. It’s fine. I’m glad you told me.” Another lie, but what else could you say? “Better to know.”
But was it? Was it better to know that the key you’d thought meant forever was just another move in a game he’d played before, just another way of keeping you close without actually claiming you, without actually committing to anything real?
You’d left lunch early, claiming work obligations, and walked home in a daze. The key was heavy in your pocket—too heavy for something so small, too weighted with implications you’d been too hopeful to see.
Back at his penthouse—because it was his, not yours, no matter what he’d said about it being your space too—you’d stared at that key ring sitting on his kitchen counter. Simple, elegant, expensive. Just like everything else in his carefully curated life.
How many other girls had stood in this exact spot, holding this exact key, believing it meant they were different, they were special, they were the one who would finally break through his walls?
The thought made you nauseous.
But you didn’t give the key back. Didn’t confront him about the pattern Shoko and Utahime had revealed. Because some masochistic part of you wanted to believe that maybe—maybe—this time would be different. That maybe you actually were special, actually did mean something, actually could be the one to break his pattern.
Hope, it turned out, was harder to kill than it should be.
Even when all the evidence suggested you were just another name in a long line of girls who’d mistaken convenience for commitment, who’d confused good sex with genuine connection, who’d believed that if they just tried hard enough, loved thoroughly enough, waited patiently enough, Gojo Satoru would finally choose them.
You thought about love sometimes, in those quiet moments when you were alone in his penthouse that wasn’t really yours, when you were surrounded by his things but still felt like a guest, like someone existing in the margins of his life rather than at the center of it.
Love was supposed to feel like coming home. Like safety, like certainty, like knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be.
This felt like drowning.
Slow and insidious, the kind of drowning where you didn’t even realize you were going under until you were already gasping for air, already in over your head. Each small compromise—accepting his hot-and-cold behavior, forgiving his disappearing acts, convincing yourself that the key meant something despite evidence to the contrary—another inch deeper, another moment where you should have fought your way to the surface but didn’t.
You were losing yourself in him. In the hope of him, the potential of him, the version of him that existed in those rare perfect moments when he was fully present, fully yours, fully the man you’d convinced yourself he could be if he just tried hard enough.
But love—real love, healthy love—shouldn’t require this much effort. Shouldn’t feel like constantly bracing for impact, like walking on eggshells, like you were always one wrong move away from him pulling away entirely. Shouldn’t make you feel smaller, needier, more desperate with each passing day.
Love should make you feel more like yourself, not less.
And you were definitely becoming less. Less confident, less certain, less of the person you’d been before Gojo Satoru had crashed into your life with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid smile and his stupid way of making you believe you mattered right up until the moment he made you feel like you didn’t.
You kept the key anyway.
Added it to your key ring, right next to your apartment key and your mailbox key, like it belonged there, like it meant what you wanted it to mean.
Gojo noticed, of course. Noticed it hanging from your keys when you set them on his counter, and smiled—genuine and warm and almost relieved, like he’d been worried you wouldn’t accept it, like this meant something to him too.
“Looks good there,” he’d said, pulling you close, arms wrapping around you from behind while you pretended this was normal, this was healthy, this was fine.
“Yeah,” you’d agreed, leaning back into his chest because even knowing what you knew, you still wanted this, still wanted him, still hoped that maybe this time would be different.
Still drowning, but convincing yourself you were learning to breathe underwater.
Three weeks after the key, Gojo came home with news that made him restless in a way you couldn’t quite place.
“I’m speaking at a conference next month,” he’d announced, setting down his briefcase with his usual practiced ease. His penthouse office had already confirmed the details—major presentation, international investors, the kind of high-stakes networking event that someone in his position handled regularly. “Big showcase for the new development strategy.”
“That’s amazing!” You’d wrapped your arms around his neck, genuine happiness for him cutting through your lingering doubts. “You’ll kill it. You’re brilliant at this stuff.”
“Should be straightforward enough.” But there was something underneath the confidence—not nervousness exactly, but a tension that didn’t quite fit. He’d done dozens of these presentations, closed deals worth millions with that devastating charm and razor-sharp business acumen that had made him a executive VP before thirty-five. This shouldn’t rattle him. “It’s the usual crowd. Some new faces from overseas.”
“When is it?”
“A few weeks.” He’d laughed, but it had sounded off somehow, strained in a way that had nothing to do with public speaking.
“You’ll be perfect,” you’d assured him, meaning it. “You’re always perfect.”
The smile he’d given you then was soft, grateful, almost shy. “Come with me? To the presentation? I want you there.”
Your heart had done that stupid flutter thing, that traitorous leap that ignored every warning sign, every red flag, every piece of evidence that you were setting yourself up for heartbreak. He wanted you there. At his big career moment, surrounded by colleagues and investors and people who mattered. That had to mean something, right?
“Of course,” you’d said. “I’d love to.”
He’d kissed you then—deep and thorough, backing you against the wall with focused intensity. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me,” he’d murmured against your lips, hands already working at the buttons of your blouse. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The words had made you glow, made you believe that maybe—maybe—this was finally becoming something real.
The next few weeks were consumed by his preparation. You’d never seen him this focused, this driven, this utterly absorbed in something—and that was saying something for a man who’d built his career on being three steps ahead of everyone else. He worked late every night, came home restless, spent weekends rehearsing the presentation over and over while you offered feedback, made him eat, reminded him to sleep.
It was strange, though. You’d seen him close a fifty-million-dollar acquisition over a two-hour lunch, barely breaking a sweat. Had watched him navigate hostile board meetings with the kind of cool confidence that made other executives nervous. This was his element—the high-pressure performance, the strategic maneuvering, the spotlight.
So why did he seem so… preoccupied?
Some nights he’d come home and couldn’t sit still, pacing his penthouse like something was chasing him, running through key points with an intensity that felt excessive for someone who could probably deliver this presentation in his sleep. His mind seemed somewhere else entirely—not on the content, which he knew cold, but on something bigger, more complicated.
“Hey.” You’d taken his face in your hands one evening, genuinely confused. “You’ve done this a hundred times. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just want it to go well.” But his jaw was tight, his eyes distant. “Important people will be there.”
“You know important people. You golf with important people. Your family knows important people.”
“This is different.” He’d pulled away, resumed pacing. “Just—it needs to be perfect.”
You’d watched him, trying to understand. The material wasn’t the issue—he had it down cold, could probably recite it backwards. The investors weren’t the issue either—he’d charmed tougher crowds at his family’s foundation galas. Something else was eating at him, something he wouldn’t name.
“You’re going to be incredible,” you’d said finally, because what else could you say? “You always are.”
He’d looked at you then with something almost like gratitude, but also guilt, which made no sense at all.
The stress sex started around week four.
He’d come home one night, tie already loosened, shirt half-untucked, eyes carrying a weight that had nothing to do with quarterly projections. You’d been on the couch reading, looked up when he entered, and barely had time to set down your book before he was on you.
“Need you,” he’d growled against your neck, already pulling at your clothes with rough, impatient hands. “Need to not think for a fucking second.”
It was different from the usual intimacy between you—more desperate, more intense, almost frantic. He’d fucked you right there on the couch, hard and fast and single-minded, chasing oblivion with the same focus he brought to everything else.
Afterward, he’d held you close, breathing hard, trembling slightly with residual tension that seemed too big for just work stress. “Sorry,” he’d murmured into your hair. “I know I’m being—”
“It’s okay,” you’d assured him, running soothing hands down his back. “You’re stressed. I get it.”
But you didn’t, not really. This wasn’t normal pre-presentation jitters. This was something else, something deeper, and he wouldn’t let you near it.
It became a pattern. He’d come home carrying whatever weight he refused to share, would lose himself in your body with almost desperate intensity, would hold you afterward like you were the only solid thing in his spiraling world.
You told yourself it was fine. That this was what partners did—supported each other through stressful times, offered comfort in whatever form it was needed. That the sex being rougher, more disconnected, didn’t mean anything about the actual state of your relationship.
But sometimes, when he was inside you but clearly somewhere else mentally, you felt the distance anyway. Felt like you were a tool for stress relief rather than a person he was connecting with. Felt used in a way you couldn’t quite articulate but that left you hollow afterward.
“Satoru,” you’d tried one night, catching his face when he seemed particularly far away. “Look at me.”
He’d focused on you with visible effort, eyes slightly unfocused, jaw tight with tension that had nothing to do with PowerPoint slides or investor relations.
“Where are you right now?”
“Here,” he’d said, but it was automatic, unconvincing. “I’m here. With you.”
But he wasn’t. Not really. He was somewhere else entirely, somewhere he couldn’t or wouldn’t take you. You were just the body he was using to escape whatever was really bothering him.
You’d let it go, though. Let him use you that way because at least when he was inside you he was present in some form, because you told yourself this was temporary, that after the presentation things would go back to normal.
The night before the big day, he barely slept. You’d watched him pace the bedroom, and it finally clicked that he wasn’t reviewing material—he was bracing himself for something. Some impact you couldn’t see coming.
“Come to bed,” you’d finally said around 2 AM, patting the mattress beside you. “You need rest.”
“Can’t.” But he’d joined you anyway, let you pull him down, let you wrap around him like you could physically anchor him to whatever storm he saw coming.
“You’re going to be incredible tomorrow,” you’d whispered against his shoulder. “They’re going to be blown away.”
“Yeah.” His voice was hollow, distant. “Yeah, I know.”
He’d turned in your arms then, kissed you with sudden intensity. The sex that followed was different from the stressed encounters of the past weeks—slower, more connected, almost tender. Like he was memorizing you. Like he was already saying goodbye to something.
He’d moved inside you with deliberate care, hands gentle on your body, mouth worshipping every inch of skin he could reach. Made love to you—because that’s what it was, even if he’d never call it that—with focused attention that felt almost mournful.
“Thank you,” he’d said afterward, curled around you in the dark, voice rough with emotion. “For being here. For this. For everything.”
“Always,” you’d replied, meaning it with terrifying completeness.
You’d fallen asleep like that, tangled together, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm. And for once, you’d let yourself believe that everything was going to be okay.
That after tomorrow, after whatever he was so afraid of facing, he’d finally have space to fully commit to this, to you, to building something real.
You’d been so stupidly hopeful.
The conference was held in one of Tokyo’s most prestigious venues—all glass and steel and architectural minimalism, the kind of place that screamed money and importance and exclusive access. You’d dressed carefully, wanting to look the part of successful girlfriend supporting her equally successful boyfriend, even though he’d never actually called you his girlfriend, even though you had no official claim to that title.
The navy dress was perfect—professional but flattering, expensive enough to fit in with this crowd but not so expensive that it seemed like you were trying too hard. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time on your makeup, wanting to look polished, put-together, worthy of standing beside Gojo Satoru in front of his colleagues and investors.
He’d looked at you when you’d emerged from the bathroom and his eyes had gone dark with appreciation, with want. “You look incredible,” he’d said, voice rough. “Almost makes me want to skip this whole thing and stay here.”
“Absolutely not.” You’d swatted his hand away when he’d reached for you. “You’ve worked too hard for this. We’re going.”
The presentation hall was already half-full when you arrived—expensive suits and designer dresses, the kind of people who moved through spaces like they owned them because they probably did. Gojo had been immediately absorbed by colleagues, pulled into conversations about investments and market trends and technical details you didn’t fully understand.
You’d found a seat toward the back, not wanting to be too conspicuous, content to watch him in his element. He was magnetic like this—confident and articulate and commanding attention effortlessly, that natural charisma that made people lean in when he spoke, that made you understand why he was so successful.
The presentation started right on time. Gojo took the stage and he was perfect—smooth and polished and brilliant, explaining complex concepts with easy clarity, fielding questions with quick wit, completely in control of the room. You’d watched him with pride swelling in your chest, thinking this is my person, this incredible man is mine, even though you had no real claim to him, even though the possessive thought was presumptuous at best.
He was twenty minutes in, killing it, the audience clearly captivated, when it happened.
The door at the back of the hall opened.
Everyone’s attention shifted slightly—a natural reaction to movement, to interruption, to someone arriving late to an important presentation. You’d glanced over with mild curiosity, expecting some flustered businessman who’d gotten caught in traffic.
Instead, you saw her.
She moved through the room like she owned it, like every eye on her was expected, deserved, her birthright. The kind of woman who commanded attention without trying, who made other women unconsciously straighten in their seats, suddenly aware of their own inadequacies.
She was stunning. Not pretty—stunning. There was a difference. Pretty was approachable, sweet, the girl next door. This woman was art—the kind you saw in museums, the kind that made you stop and stare even though you knew you probably shouldn’t, the kind that made you feel small and insufficient just by existing in the same space.
Designer suit in dove gray that probably cost more than your monthly rent, tailored so perfectly it looked custom-made for her body. Hair in an elegant updo that somehow looked both effortless and impossibly complex. Subtle makeup that enhanced rather than masked, highlighting features that needed no enhancement. Expensive jewelry—nothing ostentatious, just the kind of pieces that whispered old money, inherited wealth, the confidence that came from never having to prove anything to anyone.
She walked down the center aisle with unhurried grace, heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that demanded attention. Found an empty seat in the front row—of course the front row—and settled in with fluid elegance, crossing legs that went on for days.
Then she looked up at the stage.
At Gojo.
And smiled.
It wasn’t a polite smile, wasn’t the professional acknowledgment of a colleague arriving late. It was knowing. Intimate. The kind of smile that spoke of history, of shared memories, of inside jokes and private moments and a connection that transcended this professional setting.
And Gojo—confident, brilliant, completely-in-control Gojo—froze.
Literally stopped mid-sentence, words dying in his throat like he’d forgotten how to speak. Just stared at her, eyes wide, every muscle in his body going rigid with shock or recognition or something you couldn’t name but that made ice flood your veins.
Three seconds. He stood there frozen for three full seconds—an eternity when you’re on stage in front of hundreds of people, when you’re supposed to be the confident expert commanding the room. Long enough that people started shifting uncomfortably, exchanging glances, wondering if something was wrong.
You watched his throat work, watched him struggle to remember where he was, what he’d been saying. Watched the careful composure he’d built crack wide open, exposing something underneath—shock, pain, longing, fear, all tangled together into an expression you’d never seen on his face before.
Finally, he managed to recover. Cleared his throat, glanced down at his notes, picked up where he’d left off with voice that sounded almost normal if you didn’t know him well enough to hear the tremor underneath.
But the damage was done. The room had noticed. The woman had noticed. You had noticed.
And for the rest of the presentation—perfectly delivered, brilliant as ever—your blood ran cold in your veins, turning your pride to ice, your happiness to dread.
Who the fuck is that?
You already knew, though. In your gut, in your bones, in the sick certainty settling in your stomach like lead.
That was her. The girl from the photos. The one who’d been there and then wasn’t, the one who’d stood between Gojo and that dark-haired boy and somehow destroyed whatever they’d all had together.
The ghost he’d never explained, never acknowledged, never laid to rest.
And from the way he’d looked at her—like seeing a dead person walking, like confronting every mistake he’d ever made, like having his past slam into his present with devastating force—she wasn’t buried at all.
She was here. Real. Flesh and blood and still capable of making Gojo Satoru forget how to speak.
The rest of the presentation passed in a blur. You heard none of it, processed none of the brilliant points he made, couldn’t focus on anything except the woman in the front row who sat there with perfect posture and that knowing smile, who watched Gojo with an expression you couldn’t quite read but that looked possessive, proprietary, like she had every right to be here disrupting his life.
When it finally ended—thunderous applause, colleagues standing, clear success by every objective measure—you couldn’t even feel happy for him. Could only watch as he was immediately surrounded by people congratulating him, shaking his hand, discussing investment opportunities.
And watch as she approached.
She moved through the crowd with that same unhurried grace, people instinctively stepping aside to let her pass, drawn to her presence like moths to flame. Made her way directly to Gojo, who saw her coming and went rigid again, that careful mask he wore cracking to reveal something raw underneath.
You moved closer too, needing to hear this, needing to understand what was happening, even though part of you wanted to run, wanted to leave before you had to witness whatever this was.
You were close enough to hear when she reached him.
“Satoru.” Her voice was like honey—smooth, rich, the kind of voice that belonged in old movies, in film noir, in stories about dangerous women and the men stupid enough to love them. “You were incredible.”
Her hand found his arm—casual, familiar, the kind of touch that spoke of history, of a right to his body she still believed she possessed. Her fingers trailed down slightly, thumb stroking once over the fabric of his suit jacket.
Gojo stared at her like he was seeing a ghost, like reality had tilted sideways and he couldn’t quite find his footing. “Akane.” Her name came out rough, strained, like it hurt to say. “What are you doing here?”
“You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?” Her smile widened, pleased, like she’d caught him in something. She tilted her head slightly, eyes glancing at you before studying him with an intimacy that made your stomach churn. “Shoko’s been telling you to tell her.”
The words hit like a slap. He’d known. He’d known she was coming, had known she’d be at this presentation, had known for god knows how long and hadn’t said a word to you. Had let you come here unprepared, unsuspecting, thinking this was just a career milestone when it was actually a reunion with his past.
Everything clicked into place with sickening clarity—the weeks of excessive anxiety, the sleepless nights that had nothing to do with PowerPoint slides, the way he’d paced his penthouse like a man waiting for execution. The desperate sex, the way he’d held you like he was memorizing you, the guilt in his eyes when you’d promised him everything would be okay.
He’d known she was coming. Had known she’d be at this presentation. Had known for god knows how long and hadn’t said a word to you. Had let you come here unprepared, unsuspecting, thinking this was just a career milestone when it was actually a reunion with his past.
That’s what he’d been bracing for. Not the presentation—he could do those in his sleep. Her. Seeing her again. Having you and her in the same room, the past and present colliding, whatever unfinished business still existed between them finally surfacing.
And Shoko had known too. Had been encouraging him to tell you, which meant this was significant enough that even his friends thought you deserved a warning. Significant enough that he’d spent weeks dreading this moment instead of just being honest.
All those nights you’d held him, reassured him, promised him he’d be perfect—you’d been comforting him about the wrong thing entirely.
“I—” Gojo started, but seemed to lose the words, seemed unable to form a coherent response. His eyes hadn’t left hers, drawn to her like gravity, like he’d forgotten anyone else existed in this space.
You chose that moment to step forward, inserting yourself into the small circle that had formed around them. The movement was deliberate, claiming space you weren’t sure you had a right to claim. “That was a great presentation.”
Your voice came out steadier than you felt. Gojo’s eyes flickered to you—recognition, something that might have been guilt—but his attention pulled immediately back to Akane like she was magnetic north and he couldn’t help but orient himself toward her.
Like you’d barely registered. Like you were background noise in the symphony of her presence.
The dismissal stung worse than if he’d ignored you completely. At least then it would have been intentional. This was worse—this was you not even being important enough to warrant his full attention when she was in the room.
Akane’s gaze slid to you, assessing in that way women do to other women—quick, efficient, cataloging everything from your dress to your shoes to the way you held yourself, measuring and finding you wanting in comparison to her obvious perfection. Her smile stayed in place but something sharp entered her eyes, something that recognized you as competition and dismissed you in the same breath.
“How lovely,” she said, tone pleasant but with something cutting underneath. She didn’t move her hand from Gojo’s arm. If anything, her touch became more possessive, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. “And you are?”
“This is—” Gojo started, and you held your breath, waiting to hear how he’d introduce you, what title he’d give this thing between you that had never been properly defined.
But Akane cut him off smoothly, still looking at you with that assessing gaze, still touching him like she had every right. “Let me guess. The current project?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The words were delivered lightly, casually, but the implication was clear—you were temporary, replaceable, just another in a line of women who’d thought they were special. “I’m Akane. Satoru and I have… history.”
The way she said history made it sound important, significant, the kind of past that mattered more than any present. The kind of connection that couldn’t be competed with by something as insignificant as whatever you had with him.
“How nice for you,” you managed, voice impressively steady despite the rage and hurt churning in your gut. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.
Gojo finally seemed to register the tension, his eyes flickering between you and Akane with something that might have been panic if he were capable of such a human emotion right now. But he said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there while his ex touched him intimately and dismissed you casually and redrew the boundaries of what mattered in his life.
Akane’s attention had already shifted back to Gojo, dismissing you as efficiently as she’d assessed you. Her hand moved from his arm to his shoulder, the gesture familiar, proprietary. “We should catch up. Dinner? Tonight?”
“I don’t think—” Gojo started, but his protest was weak, uncertain, his eyes still locked on hers like he couldn’t quite look away.
“It’s business, Satoru.” Her tone was reasonable, professional, but her touch said something else entirely. Her fingers squeezed his shoulder once, intimately. “About the investment. The one we discussed.”
She glanced at you briefly, that same pleasant smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You understand, I’m sure. Business has to come first.”
The implication was clear—whatever claim you thought you had on his time, his attention, his loyalty, business mattered more. She mattered more. You were just an inconvenience to be managed, acknowledged briefly and then dismissed so the important people could have their important conversations.
“Of course,” you heard yourself say, voice brittle enough to shatter. “Business.”
Gojo looked torn for the first time since she’d arrived—eyes flickering between you and Akane, jaw tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. You waited for him to say something, to choose you, to tell her no or at least suggest another time, to acknowledge that maybe springing a dinner invitation on him in front of his girlfriend—not-girlfriend—whatever you were—was inappropriate.
But he just stood there, speechless, paralyzed by the situation he’d apparently known was coming but hadn’t warned you about.
The betrayal of that silence burned worse than anything Akane had said.
“I need some air,” you said abruptly, turning away before either of them could respond, before you did something humiliating like cry or scream or demand explanations you probably didn’t want to hear.
You made it to the hallway before Gojo caught up to you, hand closing around your wrist with familiar warmth that now felt like a brand.
“Wait—”
“Don’t.” You yanked your arm free, spinning to face him with all the hurt and rage you’d been suppressing for the past thirty minutes. “Don’t touch me right now.”
His hand dropped immediately, but he didn’t step back, didn’t give you space. His jaw was tight, frustration evident in every line of his body. “Let me explain—”
“That’s her.” Not a question. A statement. Flat. Final.
He had the grace to flinch. “Yes.”
“Your ex.”
“Yes.”
“The one who destroyed whatever was going on in those photos. With you and that dark-haired guy.” The pieces were falling into place now, the timeline making sick sense—happy photos with all three of them, then her disappearance, then the fractured aftermath.
His jaw clenched, a flash of anger and annoyance crossing his features. He ran a hand through his hair—that gesture of frustration and discomfort. “Yes.”
“And you’re having dinner with her.”
“It’s business.” But he sounded uncertain, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
You laughed—bitter, sharp, humorless. “Right. Business. Because that’s totally what that was out there. Professional. Completely above-board. No subtext whatsoever.”
“What do you want me to do?” His voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding through. “It’s a huge investment. This could make my career.”
“Say no.” The words were simple, clear, the obvious answer that he was somehow missing.
“I can’t just—”
“Yes you can. You just don’t want to.”
“That’s not fair.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t understand how important this is—”
“I understand perfectly.” Your voice was cold now, the hurt crystallizing into something harder, sharper. “I understand that your career matters more than my feelings. That impressing your ex is more important than respecting your—” You stopped, because you still didn’t have a word for what you were to him, still didn’t know what title you were allowed to claim. “Than respecting me.”
“That’s not—you’re twisting this—”
“Fuck your career.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. “You don’t even need the money. You’re already rich as hell.”
“That’s not the point.” His jaw was so tight you worried he’d crack a tooth. “This isn’t about money. It’s about reputation, about building something, about—”
“About her.” You cut him off, the truth you’d been avoiding settling between you like a guillotine blade. “This is about her. Admit it.”
Silence. Damning, heavy silence. He ran his hand through his hair again, rougher this time, the gesture almost violent. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours.
“And what am I?” The question came out smaller than you’d intended, vulnerability bleeding through despite your best efforts. “In all of this, what am I?”
More silence. He stared at you with those blue eyes that had once made you feel special, seen, chosen, and said nothing. Couldn’t even give you that, couldn’t even pretend you mattered enough to rank above a business dinner with his ex.
“Exactly.” You blinked back tears that absolutely would not fall here, would not give him the satisfaction, would not let him see how thoroughly he’d gutted you. “I should go.”
You turned to leave but his hand shot out again, catching your wrist with desperate strength. Not pleading—frustrated. Demanding. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t walk away. Not like this.” His voice was hard, controlled, but there was something underneath—anger at the situation, at you for making this difficult, at himself for being caught.
“You walked away from me the second she walked in that room.” The accusation was precise, cutting. “You looked at her like I didn’t exist. Like everything we’ve been building meant nothing compared to three seconds of looking at her.”
He dropped your wrist, jaw working. “I was surprised. I didn’t expect—”
“You knew she was coming.” The betrayal of that hit fresh, sharp. “Shoko’s been telling you to tell me. Which means you’ve known for a while and just… what? Decided I didn’t deserve a heads up? Decided to let me walk in there completely blind?”
He looked away, jaw clenching, and that was answer enough.
“How long?” you pressed, needing to know, needing to understand the scope of this betrayal. “How long have you known she’d be here?”
“Does it matter?” His voice was sharp, defensive.
“Yes, it fucking matters!”
“Three weeks.” He bit the words out, still not looking at you. “Maybe four. I don’t know exactly when she confirmed.”
Three weeks. He’d known for weeks—had spent weeks preparing for this presentation, weeks letting you believe this was just about his career, weeks using your body to work out his stress while keeping this massive secret. Weeks of opportunities to warn you, to prepare you, to be honest, and he’d chosen silence every single time.
“You let me walk in there with no warning.” Your voice shook with fury and hurt. “You let me be blindsided while you—what? While you mentally prepared for seeing her again? While you figured out how you were going to handle this reunion you knew was coming?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you—”
“How about ‘hey, my ex-girlfriend who destroyed my life is going to be at my presentation’? That would’ve been a great start!” You were yelling now, not caring who heard, not caring about the professional setting or the people probably listening from the conference hall. “Instead you just let me show up like an idiot, thinking I was there to support you, when really I was just—what? Set dressing? The current girl who doesn’t matter enough to deserve honesty?”
“That’s not—” He ran both hands through his hair now, messing it up completely, frustration radiating off him. “You’re making this bigger than it is—”
“Am I?” You laughed, hollow and bitter. “Because from where I’m standing, you kept a pretty fucking significant secret for weeks. You used me for stress relief while hiding the real source of that stress. You let me believe this was about career anxiety when really you were freaking out about seeing her again. And now you’re going to have dinner with her while I—what? Go home and pretend this is fine?”
“I have to go to that dinner—”
“No, you don’t.” The words were final, decisive. “You want to. There’s a difference.”
His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with anger now. “This could make or break my career—”
“Then break it!” The words burst out of you, raw and desperate. “If your career requires you to have cozy dinners with the ex who ‘destroyed everything’—” you threw his vague words back at him, “—then maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe I’m not worth it to you. Maybe nothing is worth it except whatever the fuck she represents.”
He stared at you, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides. The anger in his expression was palpable now, mixing with frustration and something that might have been guilt but looked more like annoyance at being called out.
“I’m going to that dinner,” he said finally, voice hard. “It’s important. And you’re just going to have to accept that.”
The words landed like a slap. Clear. Definitive. His choice, made right in front of you.
“Fine.” Your voice was cold now, frozen over with self-preservation. “Then I’m done.”
“What?”
“I’m done.” You repeated it, making sure he understood, making sure there was no ambiguity. “Go have your important dinner. Process your feelings about your ex. Figure out whatever you need to figure out. But do it without me.”
“You’re being dramatic—”
“I’m being realistic.” You stepped back, putting physical distance between you. “You just chose her over me. Made it crystal clear where your priorities are. So fine. You made your choice. Now I’m making mine.”
“That’s not—this isn’t—” He gestured sharply, frustrated, unable to articulate what he wanted to say.
“Call me when you figure out what you want.” You turned away, done with this conversation, done with watching him choose her again and again. “Her or me. But you don’t get both.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Life isn’t fair, Satoru.” You kept walking, didn’t look back, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this hurt. “You taught me that.”
“I have to go.” You pulled your wrist free again, more forcefully this time.
“Can we talk? Later?” His voice was almost desperate now, eyes searching yours for something—forgiveness, understanding, permission to make this okay when it clearly wasn’t.
“Will you be done with your business dinner?” The words were acid, designed to hurt as much as you were hurting.
Direct hit. He flinched like you’d slapped him. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” You were backing away now, putting physical distance between you, needing space to breathe, to think, to not feel like you were drowning in his proximity. “But I’m asking you anyway. Her or me.”
“It’s not like that—” He reached for you again but you stepped back, avoiding his touch.
“Yes it is. It’s always been like that. I just didn’t want to see it.” You could feel the tears coming now, hot and inevitable behind your eyes, and you needed to leave before they fell, before you completely fell apart in this hallway. “Call me when you figure out what you want.”
“I want—”
“No. Don’t tell me you want me. Not when you’re about to go have dinner with her. Not when you’ve been lying to me for god knows how long about her showing up today.” Your voice was shaking now, control slipping. “Just… don’t.”
You turned and walked away, spine straight, head high, every muscle in your body screaming at you to run but refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flee. You could feel his eyes on your back, heavy with things unsaid, but he didn’t call out again, didn’t follow.
You left him standing there in that hallway, surrounded by the wreckage of whatever you’d been building, and didn’t let yourself cry until you were safely in your car, away from the venue, away from him, away from the sight of his ex-girlfriend’s hand on his arm and his complete inability to choose you over her.
You knew you were being selfish. Knew it deep in your bones, in the rational part of your brain that understood how the world worked, how business worked, how his world worked. This was his career. These were important investors. Akane was clearly someone significant in the industry, someone whose connections and influence could make or break deals worth millions. Asking him to choose you over that—to prioritize your feelings over a business dinner that could impact his position, his company’s future—was unreasonable. Childish, even.
You could see the importance of it. Could understand, logically, that this was networking, that this was professional, that mixing personal insecurity with business obligations was exactly the kind of thing that made you seem small and unsuited for his life. The kind of life where seven-figure deals happened over dinner, where past relationships became present colleagues, where separating personal from professional was just part of existing at that level.
But god, it hurt anyway.
Maybe you were just jealous. Probably you were just jealous—of her poise, her place in his world, the way she looked at him like she had every right to, the history between them that you’d never be able to compete with. Jealous of how easily she fit into this space, how she commanded attention without trying, how she could make him forget you were standing right there. It was ugly and petty and you hated yourself for feeling it, but the feeling didn’t care about your self-awareness.
And beneath the jealousy was something worse—the hurt of weeks of lies by omission. Of holding him through anxiety that wasn’t about what he’d told you it was about. Of being used as comfort and distraction and emotional support for a situation he’d deliberately kept you in the dark about. Of standing here now, completely blindsided, while she smiled like she’d won something and he looked at her like the rest of the world had disappeared.
You didn’t know what to do with any of it. Didn’t know how to be the cool, understanding partner who could separate business from personal, who could smile graciously and tell him to go to dinner, to do what was best for his career. Didn’t know how to voice your hurt without sounding unreasonable, demanding, like exactly the kind of complication he didn’t need in his life.
So you sat there, trapped between what you knew you should feel and what you actually felt, between being rational and being human, between protecting yourself and protecting whatever this relationship was supposed to be.
He’d made his choice. And it wasn’t you.
You’d just watched the man you loved look at someone else like she was everything, like she mattered in a way you never would, like three seconds of eye contact with her was worth more than six months of building something with you.
And the worst part? You’d known. Some part of you had known from the beginning that you were fighting a losing battle, that you were competing with a ghost, that whatever he’d had with Akane—and apparently with that dark-haired boy too—had left scars too deep for you to heal, damage too extensive for you to repair.
You’d just been foolish enough to believe love could be enough. That wanting it badly enough, trying hard enough, being patient enough could somehow make him choose you over his past.
But you couldn’t fight a ghost. Couldn’t compete with memory, with history, with whatever complicated tangle of emotions Akane still represented for him.
Your phone buzzed as you sat, tears streaming down your face, hands shaking on the steering wheel.
Satoru: having dinner. just business. i promise.
Just business. The words should have been reassuring. Instead they just felt like another lie, another way of making you feel crazy for having perfectly reasonable emotions.
You didn’t respond. Just stared at that message, at the promise that felt hollow, at the choice he’d made that spoke louder than any words could.
The message was sent at 9:43 PM.
You drove home, cried in your apartment, waited for him to realize what he’d done, to choose you, to come back and make this right.
He didn’t call. Didn’t text again except for that one message.
By 12:47 AM, you’d accepted the truth: he’d chosen her. Was choosing her right now, with every minute that passed, with every moment he spent at that dinner instead of fighting for you.
Three hours.
Three hours. He’d been at dinner with his ex-girlfriend for three hours while you sat at home spiraling, checking your phone obsessively, trying to convince yourself that this was fine, this was normal, business dinners took time.
But three hours wasn’t business. Three hours was catching up, reminiscing, falling back into old patterns, old chemistry, old feelings that apparently hadn’t died despite whatever had happened to end things between them.
Three hours was choosing her over you, again and again, with every minute that passed.
You texted once, hating yourself for it: Are you coming over?
Read immediately. Those three dots appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared. Twenty agonizing minutes of him typing and deleting, unable to commit to even a simple answer.
Finally: sorry. got caught up. u wanna just talk tomorrow?
Got caught up. Like you were an afterthought. Like five minutes of his time was too much to spare when he was busy with her.
Your heart had shattered reading that. Such a simple message, so casually devastating. got caught up. Like you were an afterthought, a minor inconvenience to be dealt with tomorrow, less important than whatever he was caught up in with Akane.
He’d chosen. In that moment, with that message, he’d made his choice clear.
And it wasn’t you.
You’d spent the rest of the night crying—ugly, wrenching sobs that left you hollow and exhausted. Utahime had called, somehow sensing disaster, and you’d told her everything through hiccupping breaths. She’d offered to come over, offered to key his car, offered increasingly creative violence against Gojo that would have made you laugh if you weren’t so destroyed.
“Leave him,” she’d said finally, voice gentle but firm. “Please. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t love. This is just… slow-motion heartbreak. And you deserve so much better.”
“I know,” you’d whispered, and meant it.
But knowing and doing were different things.
He showed up at your apartment at 2 AM.
You’d finally stopped crying, finally achieved that numb exhaustion that came after emotional devastation, finally convinced yourself you were done, you were over this, you’d leave him and mean it this time.
Then your doorbell rang.
You knew it was him before you opened the door. Could feel his presence like a disturbance in the air, like your body was attuned to his proximity despite your brain screaming at you to not answer, to leave him standing in the hallway, to choose yourself for once.
But you opened the door anyway.
He looked wrecked—hair disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it, tie loosened, shirt slightly untucked, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion or emotion or both. He stared at you with an intensity that made your breath catch despite everything, despite your resolve to be done.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice rough.
“I have nothing to say to you.” The lie tasted bitter but you held firm.
“Well I have things to say to you.” He took a step forward, crowding into your doorway with that unconscious assumption that he was welcome, that your space was his space, that he had rights here he hadn’t earned.
You wanted to slam the door in his face. Wanted to tell him to fuck off, to leave you alone, to go back to Akane since she clearly mattered more.
Instead you stepped aside, let him in, hated yourself for it.
He paced your small living room like a caged animal, all that restless energy with nowhere to go. You closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed defensively, watching him self-destruct.
“Where were you?” Your voice was flat, emotionless, all the hurt compressed into cold distance.
“I told you. Dinner.”
“For five hours?”
“We talked. We had a lot to talk about.” He ran both hands through his hair, making it stand up in chaotic spikes. “There’s history there. Things that needed to be discussed.”
“What kind of things?” You needed to know, needed to understand what could possibly be important enough to justify five hours with his ex while you sat at home wondering if you even mattered.
“It’s complicated—”
“Stop saying that!” The words exploded out of you, all that carefully controlled emotion breaking free. “Stop telling me things are complicated and expecting me to just accept it! Either explain or don’t, but stop treating me like I’m too stupid to understand complexity!”
“That’s not what I’m doing—”
“Then what are you doing, Satoru? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you had dinner with your ex-girlfriend for five hours, ignored my messages, and now you’re here at 2 AM expecting—what? Forgiveness? Understanding? For me to just be okay with this?”
“I need time.” The words came out rough, almost desperate. “To process seeing her. To figure out what I’m feeling.”
The admission hit like a physical blow. “Time? You want time?”
“It’s been years. I thought I was over her but seeing her brought everything back—” He stopped, seemed to realize what he’d just said, how devastating that confession was.
But it was too late. The words were out there, hanging in the air between you like poison gas.
“Then take all the time you need.” Your voice was cold now, frozen over with self-preservation. “Away from me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re done. Until you figure your shit out.” The words were final, decisive, even though saying them felt like tearing out your own heart.
“You don’t mean that—”
“I absolutely fucking mean it.” Tears were falling now, hot and angry and beyond your control. “You can’t have both of us, Satoru. You can’t keep me on hold while you figure out if you still love your ex. You can’t expect me to just wait around while you process your feelings for another woman!”
“That’s not—I’m not—” He moved toward you but you held up a hand, stopping him.
“Don’t. Don’t come near me right now. Don’t touch me. Don’t try to make this okay when it clearly isn’t.”
“I don’t love her,” he said, but it sounded uncertain, like he was trying to convince himself. “What we had was years ago. It’s over. It’s been over.”
“Has it?” You wiped angrily at your tears, hating that you were crying, hating that he was seeing you like this. “Because you looked at her like she was everything. You froze for three full seconds just from seeing her. You spent five hours at dinner with her. That doesn’t sound over to me.”
He ran his hands through his hair roughly, the gesture violent and frustrated. “There’s history there. Things that ended badly. Things I never properly dealt with.”
“What kind of history?”
“It’s complicated—”
“Stop saying that!” The words exploded out of you. “Stop hiding behind ‘it’s complicated’ and actually tell me something real!”
If you weren’t drowning in your own hurt, you might have noticed the way his hands trembled at his sides—barely perceptible, but there. Might have caught how his fingers kept curling into fists and releasing, like he was trying to ground himself in something physical, something real. The Gojo you knew never had unsteady hands. Never showed a crack in that carefully maintained composure.
You might have seen how his breathing had gone shallow, labored, like someone trying not to break down. How his chest rose and fell with effort that had nothing to do with the words he was saying and everything to do with the war raging beneath them. He was fighting something—fighting himself, maybe, or fighting feelings he’d thought were buried, or fighting the reality of having both past and present colliding in front of him.
There was something haunted in his eyes when he finally looked at you—really looked at you—something raw and wounded that went far deeper than you could reach. This wasn’t just about seeing an ex. This was about something that had carved itself into him, left scars you’d never known existed because he’d hidden them so well beneath that perfect exterior, that easy confidence, that untouchable charm.
He looked like a man standing in the ruins of something, trying to figure out which pieces still belonged to him.
His jaw kept tightening, muscle jumping beneath skin, like he was physically holding back words or emotions or truths he couldn’t let out. You’d never seen him work this hard to maintain control, which meant whatever was happening inside him was big enough, devastating enough, to actually threaten that legendary composure.
If you weren’t as hurt as you were—if your own heart wasn’t cracking open in your chest—you might have been able to recognize the pain radiating off him in waves. Might have seen that this wasn’t simple, wasn’t clean, wasn’t him just choosing someone else over you. This was him being ambushed by his own past, by feelings he thought were dead, by a version of himself he’d maybe tried to leave behind.
But you were hurt. Were watching him admit that seeing her had “brought everything back” while his hands shook with the weight of it. Were standing there feeling like a placeholder, a temporary comfort, a way station between his past and whatever future he was now reconsidering.
So you couldn’t afford to care about his pain. Couldn’t afford to notice the way he looked like he was barely holding himself together, or how his breathing had gone ragged, or how his usual unshakeable certainty had fractured into something desperate and lost.
You could only feel your own breaking.
He started pacing, agitated energy filling your small living room, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping. “The guy in the photos. Suguru. We were best friends. Since we were kids.” His hands went through his hair again, rougher this time. “And then there was Akane.”
“And?” You waited, needing more, needing something that explained the devastation in those photographs.
“And it all went to shit.” His laugh was bitter, self-loathing. “We all fucked up. Did things we couldn’t take back. Said things that destroyed everything.” He stopped pacing, turned to face you with frustration radiating off him in waves. “I lost my best friend. Lost her. Lost everything that mattered because we were all too young and too stupid to handle it properly.”
“That’s not an explanation—”
“It’s all you’re getting right now.” The words came out sharp, cutting. “Because I don’t even fully understand what happened. Just that one day we were solid—all of us—and then we weren’t. And now she’s back and Suguru won’t even look at me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of it.”
The vagueness was more frustrating than an explanation would have been. You could see him shutting down, walls going up, that careful distance establishing itself even as he stood in your living room looking wrecked.
“So you spent five hours with her tonight trying to figure it out.”
“I spent five hours trying to understand why she’s here. What she wants. Whether this is really about business or something else.” He resumed pacing, restless and trapped. “And yeah, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to feel about seeing her again after all this time.”
“And what do you feel?”
“I don’t know!” The frustration burst out of him, voice rising. “Confused. Angry. Guilty about shit that happened years ago. Fucked up about Suguru. And—” He stopped, jaw working. “And stressed that seeing her is messing with what we have.”
Not an admission of lingering feelings, but not a denial either. Just more vagueness, more non-answers, more ways of keeping you at arm’s length while expecting you to be patient.
“And now she’s back.”
“Yeah.” He stopped pacing, turned to face you with frustration evident in every line of his body. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. How I’m supposed to feel. If I’m supposed to try to fix things or just let the past stay buried.”
You sat down on the arm of your couch, suddenly exhausted. “I understand why seeing her would bring all of this up. Why you’d need to process it.”
“Do you?” His tone was sharp, challenging.
“Yeah.” You took a shaky breath. “But I can’t be here while you do that.”
His entire body went rigid. “What?”
“I can’t be your placeholder while you figure out your feelings for your ex.” The words were gentle but firm. “I can’t sit around wondering if you’re comparing me to her, if you’re wishing I was her, if you’re only with me because you can’t have her.”
“That’s not—” He ran his hands through his hair again, the gesture almost violent now. “I don’t want her—”
“You don’t know what you want.” You cut him off, voice soft but certain. “You spent five hours with her tonight. Five hours you could have spent with me, reassuring me, making this okay. But you chose to be with her instead.”
“It wasn’t a choice—”
“Everything is a choice, Satoru.” You stood, needing to move, needing to not feel trapped in this conversation. “And you chose her. Even if it was just to talk, even if it was just to process, you chose her over me.”
“What are you saying?” His jaw clenched, frustration and something that might have been fear battling in his expression.
“I’m saying we’re done. For real this time.” The finality in your voice surprised even you. “Not a break. Not a pause while you figure things out. Done.”
“No.” The word was flat, hard. “You don’t get to just decide that—”
“Yes, I do.” You held his gaze, refusing to back down even though every instinct screamed at you to take it back. “I get to decide that I’m worth more than being someone’s backup plan. That I deserve better than waiting around while you sort through your complicated history with your ex.”
He started pacing again, hands going to his hair, pulling at it in frustration. “This is bullshit. I need time to process seeing her and suddenly we’re done? That’s not fair—”
“None of this is fair.” Your voice rose despite your efforts to stay calm. “But I’m asking you anyway. Time away from me. Time to actually deal with your past without me in the middle of it.”
“She’s an investor. This could make my career—”
“And what am I?” The question hung in the air between you.
He stopped pacing, turned to face you, jaw working like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite say.
The silence was answer enough.
“Exactly.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I’m convenient. Available. Good for stress relief and late-night company. But when it comes to actual choices, actual priorities, I lose. Every time.”
“That’s not true—” But his frustration was evident, making the denial ring hollow.
“Isn’t it?” You moved toward the door, needing him to leave before you completely broke down. “You knew she was coming. For weeks probably. And you never told me. Just let me walk into that presentation completely blind so you wouldn’t have to deal with a difficult conversation.”
“I was going to tell you—”
“When? After the dinner? After you’d already spent five hours with her?” Your laugh was bitter. “You weren’t going to tell me. You were going to keep it hidden and hope I never found out.”
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, frustration radiating off him in waves. “You’re being unreasonable—”
“I’m being realistic.” You opened the door, the gesture clear. “I’m choosing myself for once instead of waiting around for you to figure out if I’m worth choosing back.”
He stared at you, then at the open door, clearly struggling with the reality that you were serious, that he couldn’t talk his way out of this one.
“This isn’t over,” he said finally, voice hard with determination rather than pleading. “I’m going to deal with my shit. And then we’re going to talk about this again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I keep my promises.” He moved toward the door, stopped beside you close enough that you could feel his body heat. “And I promise you—this isn’t over.”
The certainty in his voice almost made you believe him. Almost made you take it back, give him another chance, let him try again.
But you didn’t.
“Goodbye, Satoru.”
He looked at you for a long moment—frustration and determination and something that might have been hurt warring in his expression. Then he stepped into the hallway without another word.
You closed the door before you could watch him walk away, before you could see if he looked back, before your resolve could crumble entirely.
Then you slid down to the floor and cried like your heart was breaking.
ignore that i just said i hate my writing im sad again
there are nights where michael kaiser fears he can’t do anything but hold you through the night.
you refuse to sleep. like some nightmare will catch up to you.
you refuse to eat. like you’ll throw it all up.
you refuse to drink. like you’ll drown in one glass of water.
you refuse to get out of bed. like the world will swallow you alive.
to put it simply, you’ve been rotting away for days and nights, now. mentally and physically, you’re stuck in the same spot.
you can cry, but no tears come out. just overthinking and dry retching. everything and nothing at the same time.
and michael wants to help, he really does. but what can he even do?
you find comfort in solitude. everything sets you off; you may not get mad physically, but he can tell it bothers you. so he tries to play his cards right and do as you say, even when its as little as one word.
lately, he’s been by your side more often.
he used to be able to go to practice and text you to check in, but he’s been leaving late in the mornings, and coming home early.
today, however, he had to be at practice early.
as he slips out of your shared bed, you weakly reach for his wrist, peeking out from under the covers.
“five more minutes?”
and he can’t help but smile a little.
the most you’ve said to him in maybe two weeks. not a demand, not a one-word answer; just a request. an innocent request that means you want him around.
“all day, schatz,” he carefully lays back down, opening his arms to bring you closer. “if you’d like, that is.”
you nod slightly, slowly shuffling to lay in his embrace.
solitude may bring you solace, but sometimes, the best cure to loneliness is to be with someone you love.
pov: you’re fwb with joe keery and he flies you out to cure his boredom filming fargo
joe keery x fwb!reader
wc: 5k
18+ MDNI NSFW
warnings: so many. fwb, no use of Y/N, pnv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it folks), mentions of on/off again relationship, roleplay, oral (f receiving), fingering, edging, punishment, not being allowed to cum, bratty gator, dom!joe/gator sub!reader, spanking, pussy play, no warnings given to reader, spit play, ass play, pussy to ass eating, handcuffs, reader being handcuffed, pet names, minor male masturbation, boot play, consensual crushing reader with boot, mentions of phone sex, solo masturbation, intruder, minor stalking, foreplay, more roleplay at end WHEW
a request from and for @louisbelongstome28 😘
_____________________________________________
The flight was long. It wasn’t exactly long long, but long enough to where you basically were overthinking every choice you had made up until this point. You knew that going to see a friend wasn’t a crime… but was it a crime that this was the same friend who is broken up with their girlfriend for like the 6th time this year and just happened to start hitting you up at all your weakest hours? Possibly.
And you knew what that meant. You knew all too well because this was the story of your friendship with Joe. Flirty, fun, but friends - sometimes more, and sometimes less… lately its been less, but now?
*ding* *ding* *ding* *ding*
Joey: text me when you land, I ordered you an uber to take you to the vrbo
Joey: should be there at like 8:15ish waiting in the pickup area
Joey: almost wrapped for the day and then ill head back to the vrbo
Joey: hellooooo r u o k, I thought you were landing at like 7:50
yes omg im fine lol, just turned my phone back on from airplane mode
Joey: ????????????? you should’ve still been able to get my texts through the wifi
i zoned out and was listening to the new muse album my bad
Joey: omg im not mad since its an incredible album, but if it was shitty then id be annoyed
Joey: well he’s outside waiting for you
Joey: uber black ;)))))
for little ole me??
Joey: only the best for my best girl
anddddd ur done. okay im getting my bag but I see him
You grabbed your bag from the conveyor belt from your nearly empty flight, because who the fuck was coming to Calgary in February? Apparently, you.
Though you were only staying for the weekend, wanting to be back for work on Monday, your bag was weighed down by the heavy layers that you were inevitably going to be wearing. Nothing says “hey best friend, long time no see - wanna undress my 18 layers and we can have sex?” better than Calgary in February.
The automatic doors flew open and your hair swooshed out of your face, bitter and freezing on your skin. You didn’t even have to tell your feet to move before they were already hustling over to the uber. The driver opened the trunk and threw your bag in the back with ease, and you couldn’t help but notice that he was only wearing a long sleeve shirt. You could see his tattoos peeking through the shirt, it was nearly paper thin. Part of you wanted to offer him one of your several layers, but once you got into the car, you understood. The man had it absolutely cranked high on heat.
“Your ride notes mentioned you would be cold, so I prepared to the best of my abilities… also - peanut m&ms!”
Joe. Fucking Joe. Always prepared Joe.
Your Joe.
Nope. Nope. No no, not yours.
You thanked the driver and you were on your way. The vrbo was only 15 minutes from the airport which was perfect because you felt nauseous from the flight and wine you drank on said flight.
“So, I am not really allowed to ask this…”, the driver met your eye in the rearview mirror, “But my booking was placed under Joe Keery… like as in Steve Harrington from Stranger Things - is that him or is this a prank?”
The smile creeps up on your face before you can figure out how to answer this. You had met Joe in college and he was just Joe… he wasn’t Steve Harrington, Hell - to you he wasn’t even Joe Keery, he was just Joe.
“Yeah, that would be him.”
“For real? I knew he was filming in the area with Jon Hamm - I got to see him a few weeks ago. I guess that my luck for having uber black - the celebrities want me.” He said with a laugh, but with full sincerity.
Joey: when you get to the vrbo, let me know
Joey: code is 1234*
joe pls tell me ur fucking lying
Joey: what now
1234*
Joey: it was the simplest thing for me to remember okay
thats like not safe at all
Joey: *picture*
Joey: all good bb, I got this locked n loaded
thats ur prop gun
Joey: still scary
Joey: bout to leave set rn
Joey: c u soon emoji
Joey: wtf I did speech text and I thought it would put the emoji for me hold on
Joey: c u 🔜
okay bud
Joey: dont
You pull up to the house and its a small one story, perfect for a 6 month rental for a man who hasn’t had a visitor here… ever. You tried not to let that sink into your skin and affect your disparity.
The driver unloads your bag and tells you to tell Mr. Harrington ‘hello’ for him, and then waits for you to get inside. You were absolutely humiliated typing in ‘1234*’ into the padlock - but the second the door opened and you could smell him? Nothing else mattered.
You made yourself at home. A quick tour, bathroom break, changing out of all the intense layers until you were in nothing but a t-shirt and leggings. Suddenly, you were opening the fridge looking for something, anything - he only had beer, but beer would do quite well. Grabbing a knife, you shoved the cap up and popping it off with a long bang - the cap falling to the floor with a ring that echoed off the walls of the empty house. You hinged at the hips, reaching down for the beer cap.
Before you knew it, a voice boomed behind you.
“You didn’t even lock the door?”, a hint of an accent popped out - you had noticed it a couple times on the phone throughout the past 4 months since he’s been gone. He really gets into his characters in that way, picks up traits from them like that.
“Wouldn’t have even mattered, just as unsafe as I am with the door code being 1234#”, You straightened back up, back still facing him and you placed the cap on the countertop.
“Well, it was actually 1234* not pound - so…”, he said sarcastically towards you, taking two steps in - you heard boots. Heavy boots.
Spinning around to face him, you weren’t sure what you were expecting. Obviously, you were expecting Joe… but, he wasn’t Joe at all.
His long unruly hair was slicked back tight against his head, sides buzzed, even had a design cut into the side. His normal cool guy slouchy vibe was replaced with a form fitting leather jacket and tight cargo pants, hugging his thighs maybe a little too well. And, good God - speaking of thighs…
He wore a thigh holster with his stupid little prop gun still in its place.
And then there were the heavy boots, that was probably the only thing that actually looked like something your Joe would wear.
“Hi”, Your eyes unfortunately were still glued to the thigh holster - they never quite made their way back up to where they were supposed to be looking.
“Hi darlin’”
And right there made you snap out of it.
“Darlin’… what is that about, huh?”
“What? Stop acting like you don’t like that shit, I know you.”
Oh, did he.
His hand swooped around your back and he pulled you up against him, wrapping you into a hug. You melted into it immediately, laying your head on the cold leather that you knew was his wardrobe for his character - but even that smelled like him. Tobacco, leather, woods… just fucking perfect.
“What’s this guys name again?”, You mumble out, face smushed in his chest.
“Gator”
“Gator. Alligator!”
“No no, just Gator. Gator Tillman. Actually, Deputy Sheriff Gator Tillman.”, He said with a bit of flare, his fake accent slipping out. He gave your ribs a little tickle, making you squirm in his arms.
“Oh, cocky…”
“Very”
“And you come home like this after every day of filming?”
“Just when I wanna show off my thigh holster to girls who cant take their eyes off it.”
You can hear the smirk without even seeing it. A laugh exhales itself out of your nose and your eyes roll, you’ve missed him.
Pulling back, you splay out one hand on his torso while the other stays wrapped around his back. His hands wandering dangerously close to your ass.
“I took my eyes off of it, Deputy - don’t be so conceited.”
His body tensed slightly at the nickname, not realizing that it was doing something for him rolling off of your tongue, “Took ya a minute.”
“And what the hell happened to your hair?”, your nose scrunched up in amusement.
“I know… its a bitch to wash out.”, He bent his head down slightly to you showing you the damage. You didn’t know what was worse, Gator Tillmans chrome dome or Steve Harringtons hairspray fire hazard.
Your hands slipped up his body and circled around his neck, fingers raking into the edges of his hair. Obviously, the feeling sent Joe over the edge a bit more than he probably meant to show - his eyes rolled back and he dropped his head to rest on your forehead.
“Feels good?”
“Mhmmm- more than you know.” He whispered against your skin.
You continued to deepen the strokes of your fingers, the gel giving way to your fingers - your Joe was coming back slightly.
“Baby, you need to know what you’re startin’”
“You and I both know why you flew me out here, Joe - so don’t start with me.”
“Gator.”
Your eyes flicked up to him, but his were still closed tight - forehead still pressed against yours. His fingers dug into the sides of your ass and you couldn’t mistake the feeling of his hardening cock pressing into your thigh.
“Gator?”
“Mhm, now come on-”, his fingers lifted your chin and he met you with a deep kiss. It was slow, desperate, filled with the secret that only you and Joe held - and now, Gator too.
His hands cupped the backs of your thighs and picked you up in one swift motion. Your eyes met briefly, but he broke contact by glancing down at your lips and reconnecting the kiss. Moving with urgency and efficiency, Joe Gator began moving down the hallway to where his bedroom was. He shoved the door open with your back and made his way over to the bed. Gently laying you down, he finally pulled away from the kiss.
“Missed you”, he whispered.
You felt your heart twist, thats not what Joe was for you - you couldn’t go there. You shifted back to the performance.
“Missed me? But Gator, I just met you?”
A smile broke out on his face realizing you wanted to play along. He dipped his head down into the curve of your neck, leaving open mouthed sloppy kisses all over your skin. His hand travelled from your waist and came down to palm you over your thin layer of leggings, than you were nearly soaking through.
His fingers began rubbing small delicate circles over your clit, the fabric not giving you what exactly you were wanting - but you knew Joe liked to take his time with you… maybe Gator is the same?
“Oh fuck, right there-”
“Ya like that, baby?”
“Mhm, fuck yeah - holy shit, J-fuck Gator”
He lifted himself out from the crook of your neck and grabbed the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down with both hands - your thong went right along with them. You see Joe snag your thong and throw them onto his nightstand, sending you a wink. Joe hasn’t done anything like that before, you guess Gator likes that type of thing.
You began sitting up as he lowered himself down onto the carpet, and yanked you to the edge of the bed. A sharp gasp left your lips and he ran his tongue up your inner thigh before roughly separating your thighs with his large calloused hands. Joe’s fingers were always calloused from playing guitar, but you had a feeling Gators was from his gun. His mouth attached himself to your dripping wet cunt, a deep growl ripping from his throat like you had starved him from this for far too long - and granted, it had been a while for the two of you.
The rough feeling of his slight stubble against your thighs intensified the feeling of his soft tongue running in your folds, a stark difference. Your hands instinctively reached for his hair, but the gel momentarily sent you for a loop.
As if he could read you, he spoke against your pussy, “Just get in there, it’ll break.” Not even a second later and he was back to pumping his tongue into you, steady and strong. And just like he said, you tangled your hands into his strands and the gel separated for you - like it was begging, waiting, needing you to dive in.
His tongue continued moving in and out of you with that slight curve at the end that always sent you over the edge. Hands still spreading your thighs wide, allowing him to get in deep - his face covered in your juices and his own saliva. His sharp nose touched your sensitive clit and your body reacted with a roll against his face, which he rewarded with a laugh and purposefully doing it again.
“Oh my god, Joe! Fuck, Im gonna c-”
His mouth was off of you before you could even finish your sentence, let alone get your orgasm.
A sharp gasp left your lips, the sudden lack of contact and cool air hitting you overstimulated you more than his stubble and tongue did.
“What the fuck!”, your eyes snapped to Joe who was now standing up, looming over your exposed lower half. You were never shy in front of Joe, but something about this was different. It was like he was different.
“Turn the fuck around”, He demanded.
“Fuckin’ ass up, get your pretty little head in the motherfuckin’ mattress”, He nodded back to the bed, you still sitting at the very edge.
You were shellshocked, he had never been so demanding in bed before - you weren’t complaining, but this was so new. That shock caused hesitation.
He slowly bent his knees until he was eye level with you.
“Do not make me repeat myself”, he leaned forward, lips inches from yours and you ached for him, “Ass. Up. Head. Down.”
You pulled yourself back onto the mattress and flipped over, doing as you were told. Back arched so far that you were sure he might knock out a vertebrae if he goes too rough. You anxiously waited for the sound of his zipper.
The sound came and you felt yourself clenching around nothing, needing him. But the feeling of his cock lining up with you didn’t come… instead, you watch as he slid the leather jacket off his broad shoulders, cracking his neck with a tilt of his head. For just a moment, he really had you fooled. You actually believed that he was some small town deputy who had a long day and needed his little toy to fix his issues.
At least half of that was true.
He tossed the jacket to the small bench at the end of the bed, his eyes watching the movement. When he looked back at you - his pupils were blown, he was fucking hungry for you.
Your head splayed sideways on the mattress, you watch as he strolls up to the bed and flexes his hand - eyes now on your exposed ass, perfectly raised for him. Thats when you notice them… tattoos on his skin. AK-47s making ‘L’s, and barbed wire making an ‘O’ - LOL. On his other arm, 3 small lines on his forearm. Joe didn’t have any tattoos, but wow - seeing him like this? And that shirt… had to have been 2 sizes smaller than what he typically wears. Swear you’ve never seen him wear a shirt so tight. And God… it showed off everything. All his hours in the gym, all the nights that those biceps were gripping your legs, his wide chest you’d lay on after - everything was on display.
A sharp slap on your ass snapped you out of your dripping state.
“Fuck! What the fuck? No fucking warning?”, you cried out, shocked flooding your face.
“Thats for calling me Joe…”
“You already didn’t let me cum - I think I paid for it enough, don’t you think?”
A crooked grin rose across his face, eyes dark and sparkling in the dim room.
Another sharp smack rang out across the room, stealing your breath.
“Thats for being a fuckin’ brat”
He gripped ahold of your ass, watching the red spread across your skin - chill bumps shaping out where his hand landed. His hands spread out your ass, and he hallowed his cheeks and spit out over your asshole - his thumb stopped it from running down to your pussy. He drug his thumb up and circled your tightness, causing your legs to tremble.
“Girls shaking and we ain't even started yet…”, he tilted his head down to you and whispered, “If I didn’t know it any better, I'd think you kinda like Gator.”
A small whimper left your mouth as you withdrew his thumb. He rounded back to your backside and got on one knee. Joe Gator dipped his head down to your clit, giving it a harsh suck - your thighs shaking again, he placed his warm hands on either thigh to calm you. Slowly, he began rising up in one motion. His tongue ran from your clit and into your folds. He slipped into your cunt just for a moment before coming back out, and moving back over your taint and up to your ass. His tongue laid flat and swiped up all the saliva from moments earlier before he spit it back out onto you, violent and abrupt. Both of his hands grabbed at the softness off your ass, and then wrapped his arms between your thighs - slamming you into him.
You couldn’t even tell where his mouth was, you felt him everywhere.
His face was deep inside of you, the room a stage for his groaning, your whining, and the squishing noises from your dripping pussy. There was no salvation here. You just needed him to keep touching you. Keep making you feel this godly.
He pulled away from you, and brought one of his hands up against your cunt - giving it a slap, the noise was the definition of sin. A grin grew on his face as he realized the slap sent juices up his arm.
“Damn, mama… gonna force me to undress - I cant ruin these clothes.”
A choking cry left your mouth as he withdrew from you completely, you were an absolute mess and all he had done was take off his jacket so far.
“Look at me”, He demanded as he took a few steps back, “I want you to watch.”
You tried. You really did, but your legs were so sore. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were tugged you sideways, your hips falling sideways to where you now were completely laid out on your side.
He puffs out his chest as his fingers slide up his thighs, his right hand gliding over the thigh holster. His head cocked over to the side, he was watching your eyes as your eyes were watching his hands. Fingers reaching his belt bucked, he begins to undo the leather. His thumb pops open the button and he runs down the zipper - that was the zipper you were waiting for.
His hands cross over each other, tugging his shirt overtop of his head. A shocked half-gasp half-laugh left your mouth as you laid out on the mattress. He always looked good, but right now? He looked meaty. Built. Strong.
“Not much to do in the fuckin’ cold with no friends. Gym keeps me warm.”
“Yeah, no shit”, you pathetically laugh as a tear falls from your eye from the angle.
He tosses the shirt over by the leather jacket, and the game is back on.
Pulling the belt from his cargo loops and placing the belt strategically on the bed, your heart rate spiked. The sliver of moonlight caught the light of something in his back pocket, you saw a glimpse of it as he tugged off the belt - handcuffs.
“Get back up. Right back where I had ya.”
You knew better than to disobey.
Pushing your body up with your forearms, you crawl back up onto your knees and let your torso lay limp against the mattress - your breath shaky.
Sure enough, his hand runs behind his back to his pocket and pulls out the handcuffs. He steps towards you and grabs your wrist, clamping it into the metal and then repeats it to the other wrist - completely at his will. He lifts one knee up onto the mattress and begins to run his fingers against your desperate pussy, eyes rolling to the back of your head. A whine leaves your lips as he dips in two fingers at once, pumping them slowly in and out of you in a steady motion.
“You gonna be good f’me?”
“Yes, Gator.”
“Good fuckin’ girl…”
He curves his fingers inside of you, finally hitting that spot that makes you see stars - a loud moan running off your tongue. You are in so much pleasure that you don’t even see him untuck his cock from his cargo pants - leaving them and the boots on.
His calloused hand pumps himself to the same rhythm he pumps his fingers into you, his eyes closing briefly, teasing himself. Head shaking himself back into reality, he didn’t need to imagine anymore - you were finally here.
Joe Gator lines himself up with your entrance, and doesn’t waste a second in the transition from his fingers to his cock. The man gave you no warning, no signal - just him, completely him inside of you.
It had been a while. A horrible, pitiful, amount of time had passed since you last had felt the sensation of a cock stretching you out - and God, nothing was like Joe. Nothing was like Gator.
He tips his head back in ecstasy, a groan ripping from his throat. His hand comes down hard against your ass, “Fuck yeah, baby. Take it like a winner.”
What is that even supposed to mean?
He begins to snap his hips against your skin, jolting you deeper into the mattress. You can here the liquid popping in and out of you, completely wrecked from all of his foreplay - and now for the main event, you are spent and at his mercy.
Another sharp slap to your ass is delivered as a scream tears out of you. Unrelenting, and always advancing, he grabs ahold of the thin chain between your cuffs - pulling you as if it was reins on a horse.
Your body felt warm, you felt like running hot water. Time didn’t exist here - it was just you and him; you and Gator.
“Fuck baby, you feel so fuckin’ good around me like that”, He spilled out through gritted teeth, “should just fuckin’ keep ya here. Keep ya all nice and filled up- god… fuck baby”
His free hand was wandering over your bare skin, touching anything everything he could reach from this angle. Hips stuttering, he adjusted his stance just slightly which sent him forward - slamming you further into the mattress, blankets engulfing your face.
“Gatorgatorgator oh my GOD- oh fuck!”, you squealed out loudly into the room.
He took that as a sign to keep going harder.
“Im gonna do something, if you don’t want it then I need you to squeeze my hand”, he told you, and when you didn’t react, “Ya with me, princess?”
You squeezed his hand, tugging at the cuffs - he knew you would listen, and you knew he would concede if needed.
The next thing you felt was him pushing you further onto the bed, your torso dragging across the blankets and hair laid everywhere. Without removing himself from you, he swung his other leg on the bed. He picked his pace back up and you were starting to wonder what he had up his sleeve. Was he nervous to do something to you?
And then you felt it.
The pressure.
A boot pressed up against the side of your head, shoving you deep - the foam engulfing you. He continued fucking you hard, but squeezed your hand to check. You didn’t squeeze back.
“Baby?”
You responded with a twisted thumbs up, what you could manage with your handcuffed wrists pulled in the air by him.
That was all he needed.
He switched hands holding onto the chain, the other hand laid across the back of his head - forcing his back straight meanwhile yours looked like a ‘C’. His cargo pants were rubbing against the back of your thighs, wearing into the soft skin.
The feeling of his boot on top of you, fucking you senselessly like this - it should’ve pissed you off. It should’ve made you feel degraded or like he only viewed you as a warm hole to get off in… maybe that was all Gator saw in you. But Joe? No… Joe was peering at you, watching you the whole time - making sure that smile was still on your face. If it wasn’t? He was done. You knew it too. You knew just how safe you were, and something about that allowed you to dive in headfirst with Joe; with Gator.
You could feel yourself closing in, an absolute mess in his hands. He could feel it too.
“You’re close, aren’t you princess? Ya wanna come on Gators dick?”, he rasped out in-between grunts.
“Please fuck, please Gator - fuck, gotta let me cum please.”
“Ya gonna cum with me?”
“Yes, fuck! Please!”
“Please what?”
“Please let me cum with you, Gator-”
“Show me what ya got.”
You released onto him, pussy clenching so tight you could physically feel him having to push to continue. A cry left your throat, wailing at the sensation - he has never fucked you like this, nobody has fucked you like this.
As soon as your cries withered down enough to where he knew you were good, he allowed himself to finish inside of you - like always. His cock throbbing inside of your sensitive cunt, all for him - him all for you.
What a welcoming party.
____
10 months later
Joe would be home tomorrow night. Thats all the time you had left apart from your boyfriend. You could last that long… right? He was busy. It wasn’t like you could call and have phone sex. You’ve already done that three times this week - borderline embarrassing how many times you needed him. He had been gone filming ‘Cold Storage’ and though he wrapped his scenes weeks ago, they flew him back out to Italy for a couple additional scenes depending on how they decided they wanted the movie to flow.
This was normal for Joe, but not for you.
You had gotten used to your best friend leaving. You had gotten used to your best friend dating someone else and you weren’t even on the back burner - you were off the stove entirely. That you knew…
You didn’t know how lonely the nights were without him in bed with you. You didn’t know how empty your home would feel. It was small, simple like the both of you - enough to hold a superstar and his college sweetheart. It was yours.
The ache in between your legs didn’t waver. Joes phone was still on DND, he was still in a shoot apparently.
You click the TV on…
‘There’s nothing wrong with it, right? It still my boyfriend’, you told yourself as you pulled up Fargo, season 5 episode 4.
You could help but let your hand drift under the blanket, lifting the hem of Joe’s t-shirt - the only thing you were wearing. Fingers teasing your clit as you rubbed back and forth over the sensitivity. Your breath hitches as Gator slowly walks onto the screen, wearing that stupid ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ mask - unfortunately, it just did something to you.
Thumb taking over the clit as your fingers dip low, beginning to tease your entrance - your mind drifts back to Gator; to Joe, to Joe as Gator, to that night.
A soft moan slips from your lips as Gator rips off his mask. There he is…
Your man.
You begin to finger yourself, taking another sip of wine in the process. Checking your phone, Joe still wasn’t done - well, too bad buddy, you were going to get off to Gator.
Just like Gator did to you, you slip in two fingers - pumping them in and out of you. Your eyes squeeze shut, whimpering his name.
Then you hear a soft click. You open your eyes to see that the TV has turned off…
Huh?
You reach for the remote, trying to click it back on, then realize that all the lowlights scattered through the house are also off…
Anytime Joe leaves, you keep the lights on… for him, for you - it makes you both feel better.
Reaching for your phone, you go to call Joe. You had no clue where the breaker box was, and it was his job to know things like that. If he didn’t answer, maybe his assistant would and then they could ask Joe quickly. But as you reached for your phone, that when you saw something in the reflection of the blacked out TV.
Directly behind the couch, positioned right behind where you were sat…
Gator Tillman.
“Don’t be scared of the dark now… Deputy Sheriff Gator Tillman, at your service. Looks like you could use some help there, little lady.”
And that was the day you told Joe you wanted door alarms for the house after he admitted he had been watching you since you clicked on Fargo and still had enough time to slip into the guest closet where he kept his favorite wardrobes from past sets - perfectly for an opportunity like this.
_____
A/N 💌 this was my first attempt at a one shot ever LOL I HOPE I DID OKAY! love you guys, and now im going back to leather & lace. requests are open and when I have time I WILL DO THEM but be patient! love you all so much
gonna tag my L&L tag list, hope you guys don’t mind!!
