#wonwoo au

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Co-Op Mode

Pairing: Game developer! Jeon Wonwoo x Game developer! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | Gamer AU | Workplace Rivals | Hidden Identity | Virtual Romance | Corporate Competition | Enemies to Lovers

Wordcount: 37.2K

Playlist: 'GAM3 BO1' - Seventeen | 'Tamagotchi' - TIMMS | 'Play Date' - Melanie Martinez | 'PS5' - salem ilese, TXT, Alan Walker | 'Ma Meilleure Ennemie' - Arcane, Strommae, Pomme

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Phone Sex - Mutual Masturbation - Dom! Wonwoo - Brat! F. Reader - Biting - Choking - Hairpulling - Semi Public Sex - PIV - Unprotected intercourse

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

You are going to die here.

That’s the thought that keeps drifting through your head as you blink at the same line of dialogue for the twelfth time, the blue light from three mismatched monitors painting your apartment in shades of insomnia. Your eyes burn and your spine feels like it’s been replaced with poorly implemented ragdoll physics, but your fingers keep moving anyway, muscle memory dragging you forward.

Your desk is a war zone. Empty energy drink cans stand around your keyboard. Sticky notes cling to the edge of your monitor in neon layers, covered in half-legible scribbles about branching choices and emotional beats, little arrows connecting one colour to another as if you thought that would actually help at the time. There’s a cold slice of congealed pizza on a plate somewhere under a pile of printed scripts you swore you’d recycle three days ago. A hoodie you don’t remember taking off is half on your chair, half on the floor. Somewhere under it all, your phone vibrates and then gives up when you don’t bother to check.

You crack your knuckles, stretch your neck until it pops, and reread the dialogue you just typed. You grimace. Too melodramatic, not enough specificity. Too “late-night drama,” not enough “player agency.” You delete the line and start again, fingers clattering, a soft plastic storm in the quiet of your apartment. The clock in the corner of your screen informs you, very helpfully, that it’s 02:43.

You were supposed to send the final script for this indie client six hours ago. But they pushed new requirements yesterday – “a more emotionally resonant, cinematic ending, you know, like that huge AAA title but different enough that we don’t get sued” – and then attached a list of notes that made it clear they had no actual idea what they wanted. Typical.

You scroll through the feedback again, jaw tightening at the last line: We know you’re really good with feelings and stuff, so just sprinkle some of that magic on there. We’ll worry about the “real” game bits. You don’t need a mirror to know your expression right now could curdle milk.

Sure. Feelings. Sprinkle some on. Like parsley. Like you’re not the one who also mapped their entire progression path because they didn’t hire a systems designer and hoped you wouldn’t notice.

Your cursor blinks. You type, erase, retype. The story in your head is broader than what’s making it onto the screen; it always is. Your brain wants to build a whole trilogy, and your contract only pays for four endings and twelve unique dialogue paths. You keep catching yourself jotting down ideas that go way beyond scope, then crossing them out hard enough to rip the page.

You force yourself to focus. Deep breath. Okay. You can do this. One last pass. Then maybe, if you’re lucky, three hours of sleep and a shower that doesn’t involve you crying silently under the hot water. You promise yourself an actual breakfast, too, even though you already know that’s a lie.

Your inbox tab flashes with a new email.

You almost ignore it. Nothing good ever lands in your inbox after midnight. It’s either a passive-aggressive reminder, a bug report, or your mother sending you a link to yet another “stable career path in marketing or UX writing.” Still, the notification icon is glaring at you like a boss’ health bar at 2%. You sigh, swipe the cans aside enough to find your mouse, and click over. The sender field makes your brain stutter.

From: [email protected] Subject: Invitation to Discuss Potential Collaboration

The logo is crisp and tiny next to their domain, the stylised anvil-and-flame you’ve seen a thousand times on splash screens, posters, and awards shows. Titan Forge. The company that basically defined your teenage years, the one whose GDC talks you watch on YouTube when you need inspiration, the one that other studios name-drop in their “inspired by” decks. The name people drop into conversations with a certain reverence, like it’s a magic spell that can open doors. You click the email open with hands that suddenly don’t feel entirely attached to your body.

Dear, Titan Forge is exploring potential collaboration opportunities with select external developers for upcoming projects. Your previous work has come to our attention, and we would like to invite you to our offices to discuss a possible partnership. Please find attached a mutual NDA for review and signature, along with the proposed date for an in-person meeting at our studio. We look forward to speaking with you. Best regards, Titan Forge Talent & Partnerships

You reread it once. Twice. Five times. Your heart thumps so hard you can hear it in your ears. The words blur, then snap back into focus. Your previous work has come to our attention.

You glance around your apartment like someone might be standing in the corner with a camera, waiting to yell “Pranked!” But there’s only your dying plant, your dirty mug, and your mess of cables. The plant droops accusingly, like it knows you’re about to forget to water it for another three days.

You check the sender carefully. It’s a real Titan Forge domain. The signature block looks clean, not one of those obvious scams with Comic Sans and bad logos. There’s an NDA attached, and it’s long and boring and full of legalese about confidential information and non-disclosure, and no, you may not tweet anything. This is real.

You scroll back up, suddenly hyper-aware of the film of sweat on your palms. There are no details about the project. No indication of what “upcoming projects” means. Just “potential collaboration” and a date in three days’ time, in an office you’ve walked past more than once, telling yourself someday you’d get inside. You remember stopping across the street once just to stare at their lobby, watching badge-wearing employees scan in like it was nothing.

Doubt slinks in like a glitch through a wall. Maybe they sent this to the wrong person. Maybe they meant it for someone else, and your email got autocomplete’d by accident. Maybe they think you’re your own more impressive clone, the version of you who’s already shipped a breakout hit and has a hundred thousand followers on whatever platform is currently eating Twitter’s corpse.

You’re painfully familiar with being underestimated. Conferences where you’ve been asked if you’re “here with your boyfriend.” Panels where your questions get redirected to the guy next to you. Clients who praise your “soft skills” and then hand combat design to some dude whose portfolio is three jam entries and a YouTube channel. This… doesn’t feel like that. This feels like someone, somewhere, actually noticed. Like they played something you wrote and cared enough to remember your name. Which, obviously, means there’s probably a trap.

You scroll again to make sure you haven’t missed the part that says “participation unpaid, for exposure only.” There’s nothing. Just an address, a time, and the NDA. Your cursor hovers over the “Reply” button.

If you accept and it’s a mistake, you’ll die of embarrassment in their lobby while security escorts you out and some bored receptionist makes a note never to let you back in. You can already picture yourself walking home with your laptop bag feeling heavier than your entire body. If you don’t accept and it’s real, you will never forgive yourself.

You drag a hand over your face, pressing your fingers into your eyes until sparks dance behind your eyelids. Your pulse is jittery, too fast, like pre-boss-fight music when you haven’t found the health pickups yet. You open the NDA attachment again, scroll to the bottom, and type your name in the signature field. You attach the signed document, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you type a reply.

“Thank you for reaching out. I would be happy to visit the studio to discuss potential collaboration. The proposed date works for me.”

You hover over the send button. Your stomach swoops like you’re staring down a boss arena. You hit send.

The email flies out into the void. There’s no explosion, no confetti, no immediate follow-up saying “Sorry, wrong person.” Just the quiet hum of your PC and the soft, endless buzz of the fridge in the corner. You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

You’ve been here before. This is the part where your brain tries to speedrun every possible worst-case scenario. It’ll tell you the competition is all men in expensive hoodies with more followers than you; that they’re going to look at you and see someone who likes “feelings and stuff” but doesn’t know real game design. You’ve survived this industry long enough to recognise the voice in your head that doesn’t belong to you. The one that sounds suspiciously like a collection of panel mansplainers and Reddit threads.

You take a breath. You can panic later. After the deadline you’re about to miss. You spin your chair back to your script and drag the current scene to the side, opening your notes. The feedback doc sits there, smug and bullet-pointed.

You let your forehead drop gently onto your keyboard. The keys imprint little squares into your skin. You exhale into the plastic. “Okay,” you mutter to yourself, words coming out muffled against the spacebar, then lift your head. “Fine. One more pass, then I send this, then I freak out about Titan Forge in a controlled manner.”

Promise made, you rework the scene until your eyes sting. You adjust lines, trim redundancies, and add that one small choice that ties back to an earlier conversation and makes everything hurt more. By the time you hit send on the revised script and attach the build notes, the sky outside your window is shifting toward that pre-dawn grey that feels like a graphics engine with no lighting baked in.

You watch your sent email slide into the folder and sit there, accusing you. There will be more notes. There are always more notes. But for now, you are free. Free, and buzzing with too much adrenaline and too many energy drinks in your bloodstream to sleep. You check the time: 04:19.

Sleep would be the sensible choice. Like good posture, or actually leaving your apartment sometimes. You open your game launcher instead.

The Aetherion icon glows in the centre of your screen, your most-used app after your engine and your writing software. The familiar loading animation swirls, the orchestral theme swelling in a way that still hits you in the chest, even after hundreds of hours. You’ve written breakdowns of this intro just to figure out why it works so well; you still don’t know, not really.

The login screen fades in. You type your password by muscle memory, fingers moving faster than conscious thought. Your username materialises in the corner: MidnightNyx

You select your main.

Nyx appears in a burst of light — slim, dark armour etched with faintly glowing sigils, twin daggers strapped across her back, a hood shadowing her face. She stands in the middle of the Iridescent Wilds, crystalline trees rising around her, their branches tinkling softly as pixelated wind passes through. Wisps of colour drift like fireflies between the trunks.

For a second, you just breathe.

The tiny floating UI elements, the faint shimmer of particle effects, the distant silhouettes of other players moving like fireflies through the forest — it all feels like stepping into a version of reality that fits you better than the one with rent and deadlines and emails that may or may not change your entire career.

You move Nyx forward with the lightest touch on your keys, listening to the soft thud of her boots on glassy ground. Her cape sways; the gems in the trees refract light in shifting patterns. Somewhere overhead, a dragon’s silhouette cuts across a distant moon. Your chat box blinks with system messages. A friend request from someone you don’t remember grouping with; a guild recruitment spam; a global shout about some rare world event spawning in fifteen minutes.

Your guild status still reads [Solo]. You’ve been invited to join groups before, but there’s something comforting about logging in alone, slipping into the world without anyone expecting you to talk. No cameras, no commentary, no one asking you to justify your design decisions in real time. The raid finder icon pulses.

You roll your neck, stretching the knot at the base of your skull. The Titan Forge email sits behind all of this like another open window in your brain. You’re not going to be able to stop thinking about it. But you can redirect the energy. Screw sleep. You guide your cursor to the raid queue and hover over “Crystal Depths – Mythic.”

Probably a bad idea. Your reaction time is trash on this little sleep. But Crystal Depths is your favourite: a dungeon carved entirely out of luminous gemstone, mechanics built around light refraction and shadow phases. Elegant, punishing, beautiful. The kind of encounter you secretly wish you’d designed. You click the queue button. A small confirmation pops up. Enter matchmaking as: [DPS] [Healer] [Tank]

You smirk despite yourself and tap DPS. The queue timer starts ticking up, numbers creeping higher in the corner of your screen.

You tug your blanket off the back of your chair and wrap it around your shoulders like a cloak, pulling your knees up under you. The fabric smells like coffee and takeout and you. Under your breath, you murmur, half to Nyx, half to yourself, “No pressure, right?”

The words hang in the air, small and wry, and you can’t tell if you’re talking about the raid you just queued for or the meeting you just agreed to with a company that could rewrite your career. Probably both.

The timer ticks past 01:23. Somewhere in the world, other players are also hitting “Join.” Different screens, different lives, all funnelled into the same encounter, the same boss arena, the same glowing loot. You watch the spinning icon and let your heartbeat settle into a steadier rhythm.

Here, you know what you’re doing. Here, you’ve already proven yourself a hundred times, in clean pulls and perfect dodges and clutch saves. Here, nobody cares what you look like or whether your voice sounds like it belongs on a panel. They care if you can play.

The screen flickers. Match found. Joining raid…

You straighten automatically, fingers finding their place on the keys. For the next hour, you’ll transform into Nyx, shadow-stepping through the Crystal Depths, blades flashing, dancing on the edge of failure and victory with nine strangers.

The loading screen swirls into a new scene of glittering caverns, light bouncing off mirrored walls. The raid frames populate on the left side of your UI, names appearing one by one in a quick cascade of colour and guild tags. You barely glance at them. You’re already moving Nyx forward, ready to work, ready to fight, ready — for just a little while — to exist in a world where your enemies are clearly labelled, and your objectives are simple.

Kill the boss. Don’t die. Don’t let your team down. Everything else can wait.

Titan Forge’s lobby looks just as intimidating as the outside.

It’s all polished concrete and matte-black metal, warm wood accents, and big green plants that are somehow alive despite being indoors. Screens on the walls loop trailers and dev diaries on mute, flashes of monsters and magic and UI mock-ups reflecting across the gleaming floor. The company logo glows behind the reception desk: the stylised anvil-and-flame, bright enough to make your heart skip. You clutch your laptop against your chest like a shield.

The receptionist gives you a professional smile, scans your ID, and hands over a visitor badge on a lanyard. “You’re here for the partnerships meeting?” she asks. “Yeah,” you manage. Your voice sounds surprisingly normal. That’s something.

“Great. Take the elevator to the fifth floor. Someone will meet you at the door.” You clip the badge to your shirt and head toward the elevator bank. The doors slide open with a soft whoosh, swallowing you into a box of brushed metal and your own reflection. You stare at yourself in the mirrored panel: dark circles under your eyes, hair pinned back in a way you hope reads as competent instead of I did this in a rideshare. Your reflection adjusts her grip on the laptop. “You belong here,” you whisper to yourself, barely audible. “Act like it.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open onto a hallway that smells faintly of coffee and expensive hardware. A guy in a Titan Forge hoodie greets you, scans your badge with his phone, and leads you past rows of open-plan desks and glass-walled meeting rooms. Everywhere you look, people are in motion — standing meetings around whiteboards covered in diagrams, clusters of devs staring at screens, someone testing a game build on a massive TV with a controller, laughing when something clearly breaks. Snatches of conversation float past: fragments about shaders, telemetry, and patch notes. It’s like walking through a highlight reel of your dream job.

You’re so busy trying not to gape that you almost miss it when your guide stops and holds a hand out toward a door. “Here we are,” he says. “They’re just getting set up. You can go right in.” You adjust your grip on your laptop again and push the glass door open.

Five heads turn.

There’s a long table in the middle of the room with sleek chairs around it, a wall-mounted screen at one end, and floor-to-ceiling windows that pour light over everything. Four people are already seated, each with their own laptop, each looking like they could front a different marketing campaign for “diverse, talented developers.”

Your gaze skims across them on autopilot — sharp-bobbed woman with a blazer and glitter eyeliner, guy with blond hair and suspiciously perfect skin, dude in a designer jacket scrolling on his phone, woman with a messy ponytail and sharp eyes — and then snags on the fifth chair. On him. Jeon Wonwoo.

You’ve seen him on stage more times than you care to admit — accepting awards, giving talks about combat pacing and enemy AI. You’ve seen his name on leaderboards, on credits, on headlines in trade blogs. You’ve seen his face across convention hallways, in green rooms, on tiny Discord icons. You’ve argued with him on panels, quote-tweeted his threads, DM’d him memes, and fought with him about difficulty curves at three in the morning in a group chat full of other devs who should also have been asleep.

You know him. Unfortunately.

He looks up as the door clicks shut, eyes flicking over you. The bored expression shifts just enough to register recognition, like the game has finally loaded the correct asset. “Well, shit,” he says, voice low and dry. “They really are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

It’s almost a greeting. Heat spikes in your chest. You arch a brow, forcing your feet to keep moving. “Funny,” you say. “I was just thinking they must have lost a bet if they invited you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but familiar.

“Pixie,” he says, and there it is. “Try not to set anything on fire before the coffee break, yeah?”

It’s absurd that one stupid nickname can make your spine straighten and your heartbeat pick up, but here you are. You’ve heard it from him before, of course. He started using it after he saw your avatar in some game’s credit reel and decided you looked “like trouble but also like you’d fit in a backpack.” You hated it then. You still do. Mostly.

You walk past him to an empty chair across the table, two seats down. You sit, set your laptop down, and busy yourself with the charger cable like that little exchange didn’t just light up every competitive synapse in your body. He goes back to spinning his pen like nothing happened. It infuriates you. The others introduce themselves in polite murmurs while you’re pretending to check your email.

“Mina Myoi. Freelance designer.”

“Lee Felix. Systems and combat.”

“Byun Baekhyun. Creative direction, mostly.”

“Kim Yoohyeon. Narrative and content design.”

When it’s your turn, you look up and give them your name, a quick summary of “freelance narrative, RPG focus, some systems overlap.” They nod, murmur “Nice to meet you,” and then, inevitably, all eyes slide toward the last man at the table. He doesn’t bother to look up from his laptop. “Jeon Wonwoo,” he says, like he’s reading his own name off a bug report. “Combat design. Freelance.” He glances up then, eyes catching yours for half a heartbeat.

It’s really not long enough to be meaningful, but the overall effect is the same as always: he’s not surprised you’re here with him. He’s not impressed by it either. You want to throw your laptop at his head.

The door opens again before you can consider how bad that would look on a Titan Forge security report.

David Lee walks in like he owns the building, which, to be fair, he kind of does. Not literally, but close enough. You recognise him from interviews and presentations — sharp suit, white sneakers, the kind of charisma that could probably sell microtransactions to people who hate microtransactions.

Behind him: a woman in a Titan Forge narrative hoodie you recognise instantly as Jisoo, a tall guy with warm brown skin and a lanyard full of enamel pins who must be Raj, and a neat, prim man carrying a tablet who can only be Kaito. David claps his hands once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention to him, and grins. “Look at this table,” he says. “If a bus hits this meeting room, half the indie scene is screwed.”

There’s a ripple of laughter. You feel your shoulders loosen a fraction.

He moves to the head of the table but doesn’t sit, pacing slowly instead, remote in one hand. “You all know who we are,” he continues. “You’ve cursed our patch notes, you’ve argued about our balance passes, you’ve probably watched at least one of our trailers and thought, ‘I could do better than that.’” He winks. “Good. That’s why you’re here.”

The wall screen behind him flares to life with the Titan Forge logo, then shifts. Mythfall: Eclipse

The font is big and clean, the art behind it a swirl of dark sky and shattered constellations. You feel your stomach drop and your veins light up at the same time. David sees the reaction around the table and smiles like a wolf. “This,” he says, gesturing at the title, “is our next big mistake waiting to happen. Co-op action RPG, mythic collapse, gods dying, all that good cheerful stuff.”

He clicks, and a new slide appears: Five Trials

Vision

Versatility

Co-op

Fire

Fallout

You blink. “Cute naming scheme,” Felix mutters under his breath. David hears it and grins wider. “We’re not hiring an ‘idea person,’” he says. “We’re not hiring a code goblin who can’t talk to another human without breaking out in hives. We’re looking for someone who can lead. That means having a clear vision and the ego to defend it, but also the humility to throw it away when it’s wrong.” He ticks off the words on his fingers as he talks, energy crackling in the air.

“Trial One is vision. We give you a very thin prompt, and you tell us what the hell Mythfall: Eclipse actually is. Pillars, tone, the kind of player who’s gonna lose a hundred hours to it.” Click.

“Trial Two is versatility. You’re all specialists. We’re going to shove you out of your lane and see if you drown or learn to swim sideways.” Another click.

“Trial Three is co-op. You’ll be paired up to build a vertical slice together. We get to see how you share the wheel, who hogs it, who knows when to let go.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between you and Wonwoo for a second before moving on.

“Trial Four is fire. Live playtests, live feedback, live iteration. No hiding behind ‘we’ll fix it in post.’” Click.

“Trial Five is fallout. Long-term vision, live-service thinking, crisis rescoping. Because everything goes wrong eventually, and we want to see how interesting your solutions are when it does.”

The slide lingers behind him, the words stark against a dark background.

“You’ll be judged by people who actually ship this stuff,” David says, nodding toward the others. “Jisoo on narrative, Raj on combat, Kaito on production. They will not be nice to you. If they’re nice, it’s because they’re worried about HR.” Jisoo grins. Raj gives a little finger-wiggle wave. Kaito inclines his head, expression politely deadly.

“We’ll talk structure, expectations, and all the fun paperwork after this,” David adds. “But the short version is: over the next few weeks, we’re going to see what you do under pressure. We’re going to see how you handle failure and how you handle each other. At the end, we decide whether Mythfall gets one of you as a lead…” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “…or whether we go back to the drawing board and pretend this never happened.”

Your chest tightens. You’re not used to people talking about your career like it’s a boss arena you can win or lose in one shot. It’s always been incremental for you — contract by contract, line by line, tiny gigs stacking into something that looks like a trajectory. This is not tiny.

David’s gaze sweeps the table. “You’re here because I watched your work,” he says. “Because people on my teams argued about your stuff in meetings. In a good way.”

Wonwoo shifts slightly in his chair, eyes never leaving the screen. Of course, he’s interested. This is basically a love letter to everything he’s good at — combat, pacing, spectacle. If anyone in this room is a natural fit, it’s him. If anyone is currently feeding your imposter syndrome like it’s a Tamagotchi, it’s also him.

David wraps up with a reminder about discretion, a joke about “no leaks unless you want to see our legal team level up,” and dismisses you with instructions to check the portal for your first brief after lunch.

Chairs scrape. Laptops snap shut. You shove your notebook and laptop into your bag with maybe a little more force than strictly necessary and follow the others out into the hallway, heart still racing. The corridor hums with office noise: distant chatter, the clack of keyboards, the faint soundtrack of some game test playing behind a closed door. You’re halfway to the elevators when a familiar voice drawls behind you.

“So,” he says, “if you try to speedrun your burnout any faster, you’ll glitch through the floor, Pixie.” You stop. You turn slowly.

Wonwoo is leaning against the wall by the water cooler, hands in his hoodie pocket, head tipped slightly back. He looks like he’s been standing there for hours, even though you know you just left the same room. His badge dangles against his chest, tilted sideways. You lift your chin.

“Bold of you to comment on my burnout when your sleep schedule is a cryptid,” you say. “Do they know you only log off Twitter when the servers catch fire?” He arches a brow, mouth twitching.

“At least I don’t subtweet the people who might sign my checks,” he says. “Interesting strategy, by the way.”

You snort. “If Titan Forge kicked out everyone I’ve subtweeted, you’d be giving this little lecture to an empty hallway,” you shoot back. “You’re not that special.”

The corner of his mouth curls into that infuriating half-smirk. “Afraid of the competition, Pixie?” Your pulse jumps at the nickname, annoyingly traitorous. “Afraid you’ll finally have to notice it,” you shoot back. Something flickers across his face — brief, almost too quick to catch — before his expression shutters back into lazy.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “If you do something worth noticing, I’ll let you know.” Your jaw tightens. “Wow,” you say lightly. “I forgot how charming you are in person.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m sure the internet reminds you all the time.”

You want to hit him and high-five him at the same time. It’s deeply annoying that his insults land with the same precision as his combat balancing. “Enjoy your temporary head start,” you tell him, stepping past. “I’m sure it’ll make losing more dramatic.”

His low chuckle follows you down the hall, threading under the murmur of office noise. “We’ll see, Pixie.” You don’t look back.

You have the sudden, vivid memory of losing that one industry award to him — the way he accepted the trophy with quiet grace, the way the cameras lingered, the way your agent patted your back and said “Next time,” like that fixed anything. You remember starting the stream of his thank-you speech at home later, getting thirty seconds in, and closing the tab because it was easier to resent him than admit he was good.

Now you’re sharing a hallway. A project. A shot at something you’ve wanted since you first saw the Titan Forge logo on a much smaller screen. You ride the elevator down with your heart still hammering against your ribs, the weight of the badge on your chest suddenly heavier.

By the time you get home, your brain feels like it’s been run through a blender and poured back into your skull wrong.

You drop your bag by the door, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your living room for a full thirty seconds, just… buffering. The Titan Forge badge is still clipped to your shirt. You unclip it carefully and set it on your desk. Then you flop into your chair and stare at nothing.

You scrub your hands over your face, then reach automatically for the one thing that always helps when your thoughts are too loud. Aetherion boots up with that same familiar swell of music. You log in on autopilot, fingers flying over the keys.

Nyx materialises in the centre of a bustling hub, other players darting past like bright, restless birds. You roll your shoulders, mirroring the way Nyx stretches when she loads in, and open the raid finder. You don’t even care which one. You just need something that isn’t your own brain.

The queue pops faster than you expect. Raid ready. Joining in 5… 4… 3…

The loading screen dissolves into a vast, gleaming arena — all massive stone platforms and swirling magic, a boss at the far end already roaring in place. Your raid frames fill up in a neat list on the side of your screen, health bars stacking. Most of the usernames blur together as you skim them, all variations on edgy nouns and misspelt Latin. One stands out: KadeLocke.

Your gaze catches on the little sword icon next to the name. Melee DPS. Greatsword type, if you remember the class symbol right. You move Nyx into position near the group, bouncing on her heels while the raid leader pings markers. Chat scrolls by with the usual chaos. A message pings in party chat.

[Party] KadeLocke: First time for anyone? Mechanics are simple, but I can call them out as we go.

You smile despite yourself at the calm confidence in that one line. Not cocky, not plz listen to me, just… sure, like he expects people to follow because that’s what happens when he talks. Someone types first time here with a crying emoji. Someone else sends same lol.

You hesitate for a second, then type. [Party] MidnightNyx: I’ve done it, but I won’t say no to free carry commentary.

[Party] KadeLocke: Not a carry. Just prefer killing things efficiently instead of watching everyone panic.

You huff a laugh, shoulders relaxing a little. Same, you think. The pull timer starts counting down. The boss fight erupts into motion. Magic flares. Health bars dip. The arena shakes under heavy footsteps and explosions. In the middle of it all, Kade moves like he’s playing a different game. His greatsword arcs through animations with ruthless precision. He doesn’t waste a step. He doesn’t flail. His positioning is textbook. More importantly, his callouts are good.

[Party] KadeLocke: Stack centre for slam. Don’t touch the glowing tiles.

[Party] KadeLocke: Nyx, you and I take left adds? You’ve got the burst.

You blink. Nobody ever singles you out like that in randoms unless it’s to yell about aggro. You flick your camera and see him — his avatar, at least — already pivoting toward the left flank, greatsword resting on his shoulder as he waits for the next wave. You dart after him, Nyx’s daggers flashing as you fall into rhythm without even meaning to.

He pulls, you erase. He knocks enemies into the air, you chain combo off the juggle. Twice, you see a stray hit coming for him and dive in to interrupt, your fingers moving before you consciously decide to. You don’t have to think about where to stand. He’s always half a second ahead, his movements almost telegraphing what he’s going to need from you. The boss drops to one knee. Final phase.

[Party] KadeLocke: Everyone on boss. Save big cooldowns. Nyx, go crazy.

You grin, feeling the rush of it — the permission, the trust from a stranger. You burn everything you’ve got, weaving in and out of danger, leaving the boss’s health bar in ragged chunks behind you. When the thing finally goes down in a burst of light and loot, the chat floods. You lean back, letting your pulse slow, a stupid little spark of pride warming you as the victory fanfare plays.

A private message pops up. Kade: Nice damage. You’ve got good instincts. You stare at it for a second, lips tugging up. Nyx: You’re welcome for my hard work.

There’s a long enough pause that you wonder if you were too sharp, if text doesn’t carry your grin. Then, Kade: Bratty. Bold choice for someone who almost stood in the death beam twice.

Your mouth falls open in a laugh. Nyx: Almost stood in. Keyword. That’s called “living on the edge.”

Kade: That’s called “giving your healer a heart attack.” You wiggle your mouse, making Nyx circle in place. Nyx: They lived. Boss died. Sounds like a win to me.

Kade: Can’t argue with results, I guess.

He adds, a beat later, Kade: Queue another? Could use someone who knows how to improvise without completely ignoring mechanics.

Warmth pricks at the edges of your tired brain. This is just random matchmaking. You don’t owe him anything. You should probably log off, drink water, and stare at your notes for the first trial tomorrow.

Instead, your fingers are already moving. Nyx: Sure. But if we wipe, I’m blaming you in global chat.

You imagine Kade on the other side of the screen, wherever he is, reading that and maybe smiling. Maybe rolling his eyes. Maybe, like you, relieved to just play with someone who gets it.

Kade: Deal. I’ll try not to ruin your reputation, Nyx.

You feel a tiny, stupid flicker of warmth at the way he uses your name — not player or rogue or some generic label, but the one you picked, the one that feels a little more like you than your real one does some days. It’s nothing. Just a stranger in a game being mildly charming. The loading screen swirls, and the world pulls you forward.

In one life, you’re preparing to go head-to-head with Jeon Wonwoo for the biggest opportunity of your career. In another, you’re running into battle beside a stranger with a greatsword and good instincts. You don’t yet know how these two lives will collide.

For now, you tighten your grip on your mouse, flex your fingers over your keys, and step into the next fight.

The email arrives at 06:12, which is frankly rude.

You wake up to your phone buzzing itself off the nightstand, grope for it, and squint at the screen through one half-open eye.

From: Titan Forge Portal Subject: Trial One – Brief & Deadline

You groan into your pillow. Sleep was not your friend last night. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain projected the Mythfall: Eclipse title card onto the back of your eyelids and ran a mental speedrun of Jeon Wonwoo being effortlessly competent in every possible scenario. You crack one eye fully open, tap the notification, and drag yourself upright against the headboard as the portal page loads.

TRIAL ONE – VISION Objective: Articulate a concise, compelling core vision for Mythfall: Eclipse. Deliverables (max 1 page total): – 3–5 clear game pillars – A short scenario synopsis (1 key story moment) – A high-level combat loop outline Deadline: 48 hours

You stare at the “max 1 page” line and make an offended noise. They want your entire brain in 500 words or less.

You swing your legs out of bed and immediately step on a sticky note. Of course. You peel it off your foot and squint at the scribble: “Player choices = emotional scars, not stats.” You have no memory of writing that, but past you was onto something. You decide: coffee first. Then vision.

Two hours later, your apartment looks like a crime scene where the victim is “scope control.” Your whiteboard is crammed with phrases in different colours, circled, underlined, connected by frantic arrows:

“All myths collapsing into one dying world.”

“Co-op = emotional co-dependency, not just DPS checks.”

“Players as unreliable narrators of their own legend?”

“Failing gods. Ordinary heroes. Shared consequences.”

You pace in a tight loop between the board and your desk, marker tapping against your palm, trying to distil everything into something clean enough to fit on one page without losing what makes it interesting. You can practically feel Raj threatening to fall asleep if you don’t mention anything with numbers, so you scribble in:

“Combat loop: read → react → retaliate. Fewer button mashes, more meaningful windows.”

“Synergy skills: co-op abilities that get stronger the more you ‘trust’ your party member.”

You add a quick note about positioning mattering, about telegraphed attacks that tell a story instead of just glowing red on the floor. You hate yourself a little for writing “visceral,” but it fits. You step back, chewing the end of the marker cap, and imagine Wonwoo in his apartment somewhere, sitting down with a notebook, pen in hand, completely unbothered. One neat, clean page. Probably annotated. Probably infuriatingly good. The thought lights up your competitiveness. No way, you think, turning back to the board. You are not letting him walk in with a cleaner pitch. You drag a line down the centre of the whiteboard and force yourself to pick. Three pillars. Just three. You write, slowly, in big letters:

Shared Fate, Shared Story – Co-op choices that bind players’ destinies together.

Myths in Freefall – Colliding pantheons, broken rules, consequences that reshape the map.

Every Fight Tells a Story – Combat as character expression, not just math.

Underneath, you sketch out one scenario: a boss fight where a dying god refuses to let go of power, and players have to decide whether to kill them outright or siphon what’s left to save a village. Either way, something breaks. Either way, the world remembers what they did.

You stare at it until the words swim, then force yourself to sit down and turn the chaos into a one-page doc. You trim, condense, murder your darlings. You cut a whole paragraph about mythological canon because nobody has time. You wrestle the combat loop into three sentences: anticipation, reaction, pay-off. You squeeze in one line about accessibility without making Kaito’s eye twitch from imagined budget creep. Every time you get stuck, your mind flashes a quick image of Wonwoo in that glass room — pen spinning, expression unreadable, sitting there like all of this is just another Tuesday. You type a little harder.

Titan Forge in the early morning feels like a level before enemies spawn.

The corridors are quieter, the lights a little softer. Most desks you pass are still half-empty, monitors waking up, a couple of early birds nursing coffee the size of your forearm. Somewhere, someone is yawning loud enough to echo. It’s almost peaceful.

You’re one of the first to reach the meeting room. The door is propped open. Inside, Jisoo is already there, leaning over the table with a notebook, pen moving in quick, looping strokes. Raj sits near the end with a massive mug, scrolling through something on his tablet with the kind of frown that usually precedes a refactor. Kaito has his laptop open, fingers flying over the keys, expression composed in that I’m already thinking three steps ahead of all of you way. You hover a second in the doorway, then step in. “You’re early,” Jisoo says, glancing up with a quick smile.

“Figured I’d get my panic out of the way before the others show up,” you reply, sliding into a chair near the middle of the table and setting your laptop down. Raj huffs into his coffee. “If you’re not panicking a little, you’re not respecting the process,” he says. You’re pretty sure that’s his version of encouragement.

People filter in over the next few minutes. Mina arrives with a neatly organised folder under her arm and a latte in a reusable cup. Felix stumbles in behind her, earphones around his neck, hair still damp like he showered in a hurry. Baekhyun saunters through the doorway, looking like he woke up directly into that outfit. Yoohyeon slips in quietly, tablet hugged to her chest, eyes already scanning some document. You watch them all take their spots, the party assembling.

Wonwoo is one of the last to appear. He walks in without hurry, hoodie thrown on over a plain T-shirt, badge clipped crookedly to the pocket. He’s got his notebook in one hand, pen in the other, as if he’s been taking notes on the way over. He takes in the room with one quick sweep, then his gaze lands on you. For a moment, his eyes soften — not enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. “Look at you,” he says, heading for the empty chair across and one over from you. “Almost human in daylight.”

You snort. “Careful. If you keep flirting with me in front of your future employers, people will talk.” He drops into his seat, flips the notebook open, and spins his pen between his fingers.

“Relax, Pixie,” he says. “I only flirt with people who can actually beat me.” You open your mouth, ready to bite back, when he adds, almost offhand, “But, you’re closer than most.”

It takes your brain a second to decide whether that was a dig or a compliment. By the time you land on both, David makes an entrance like the room has been waiting expressly for him. Probably because it was.

“All right, legends,” he says, grinning. “Trial One: Who actually knows what game they’re making?” He moves to the head of the table but doesn’t sit, pacing slowly instead, remote in one hand.

“Here’s the deal,” he says. “No slides, no mood boards, no thirty-page bibles. You get five minutes to convince us Mythfall: Eclipse is worth sinking the next several years of our lives into. Imagine I’ve just stepped into your Discord call and I’m one bad pitch away from cancelling the project and making a mobile idle clicker instead.” A reluctant chuckle moves around the table. Your palms are sweating.

“Keep it focused,” David adds. “Pillars, a moment that sells the fantasy, and how it plays. Make us feel it. We’ll ask questions. We’ll argue. If you’re lucky, Raj will try to break your combat loop. If you’re very unlucky, he’ll succeed.” Raj lifts his coffee cup in a little salute.

“Who’s going first?” David asks. Silence. You feel your hand lift before your brain fully catches up. “I’ll go,” you hear yourself say.

Wonwoo huffs a soft laugh under his breath, like, of course you will. You ignore him. You stand, unplug your laptop and move to the front of the room. The screen behind you is blank, your reflection faint in the glass. Five minutes. You breathe once, in and out, and begin.

“Mythfall: Eclipse,” you say, “is a co-op action RPG about what happens when the stories that shaped your world break… and you and your friends have to decide what replaces them.” That gets their attention.

Words fall into the space between you and the table. You talk about colliding pantheons and a sky full of dead constellations. About player characters who grew up praying to certain gods and now have to fight them. You anchor everything in co-op — not just as a feature, but as the heart of the experience. “Every big decision,” you say, “isn’t just ‘press A or B.’ It’s something you have to live with together. If you sacrifice a city to save a god, that’s not just a cutscene. That’s a thing your party remembers, brings up later, colours how NPCs talk to you.”

You outline your three pillars in plain language, watching their faces as you do. “Shared fate, shared story,” you say. “The game remembers what you and your friends did together, not just what you did alone.”

“Myths in freefall. The world is collapsing under the weight of all these pantheons smashing into each other. You’re not chosen ones so much as… the last ones who still care.”

“And every fight tells a story. Combat isn’t a separate thing from narrative; it’s where your character’s beliefs show up. A healer who’s lost faith in their god doesn’t cast the same way as one who’s still devout.”

You walk them through one key moment: a crumbling temple, a dying war deity chained to their own throne, a village on the edge of starvation outside. The choice: channel the last of the god’s power into the land to save the harvest, effectively killing the deity… or spare them, preserving a dangerous, wounded god whose followers will remember your mercy.

“Either way,” you say, “the map changes. The way enemies behave, the rumours you hear in taverns, the dreams your characters have — all of that shifts based on that choice. And because it’s co-op, there’s space for people to disagree. Maybe one of you wanted mercy and got outvoted. That friction is part of the story.” Then you ground it in play.

You outline the combat loop: learn, react, retaliate. Fewer inputs, more meaningful windows. You sketch how co-op skills could kick in — one player pinning an enemy in a beam of starlight while the other shatters it, the timing requiring communication, not just number crunching. You don’t look at your notes. You don’t look at Wonwoo. You look at Jisoo.

Her eyes have warmed, that faint, sharp smile tugging at her lips when you describe co-op dialogue that unlocks only if players have made certain choices together. You see little sparks of oh, I could write that lighting in her gaze. Raj’s expression is harder to read, but he leans forward when you talk about fights evolving based on past choices — enemies adapting to your party’s habits, not just their level. You make it clear you’re not pitching a bottomless pit of bespoke encounters; you’re pitching a framework. You wrap up just shy of five minutes.

“…Mythfall: Eclipse should feel like you and your friends carved your own constellation into a broken sky,” you finish. “And you’re the only ones who know what you sacrificed to make it shine.”

For a second, the room is quiet in a way that isn’t empty. Then Jisoo speaks. “I like the emphasis on shared memory,” she says. “A lot of co-op games are about sharing a space, but not a story. This would give us… teeth.” You blink. Your lungs remember how to work.

Raj taps his pen on the table. “If we start tying combat AI behaviour to narrative choices,” he says, “how many distinct states are you imagining?” There it is. You don’t pretend you have every answer, but you talk through modular behaviours, categories of outcomes instead of one-off snowflakes. You frame it as adjustable: test with a smaller matrix, expand if it works. Raj doesn’t smile, exactly, but he stops tapping.

Kaito’s questions are all about scope and pipeline. You acknowledge the risks, point to places the system can scale, and promise you’re not secretly trying to kill his schedule. David hasn’t looked away once. When you’re done, he tilts his head. “You’ve thought about this,” he says. “Good. I hate vague.” You sit down on legs that feel faintly like someone swapped your bones for jelly.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything as you slide into your chair, but his pen stops spinning for a heartbeat. His gaze flicks over your face, then back to his notebook. The tiniest nod, like he’s marking down “respectable.”

One by one, the others present. Mina’s pitch leans into exploration and environmental storytelling — ruins that tell their own myths if you’re paying attention. Felix’s is systems-heavy, all elegant loops and progression paths. Yoohyeon’s is full of mood and texture, leaning into horror edges. Then it’s Wonwoo’s turn.

“Mythfall: Eclipse,” he says, “is a game about learning to read an enemy that doesn’t want you to.” He goes straight for the jugular: combat.

Not just numbers and cooldowns, but rhythm. He describes enemies as “conversations you have with violence.” Bosses who “remember” what you did last time and punish you if you try the same trick twice. Patrols whose route changes if you’ve been sloppy, mini-bosses that gain new abilities when their god dies or survives. If you talked about consequences on the macro level, he’s drilling into the moment-to-moment. “The core loop is simple,” he says. “See. Survive. Solve. First attempts are about staying alive long enough to understand what the hell this thing is doing. Once you’ve read it, you start rewriting the fight. That’s where mastery lives.” You watch Raj’s eyes brighten like someone plugged him in. To your surprise, Wonwoo doesn’t ignore narrative entirely. He frames it differently.

“The story is what explains why the enemies change,” he says. “If players killed a storm goddess in one region, storms everywhere get weirder. Enemies with lightning-based attacks behave differently. We tie myth states into the AI so the world’s response to what you’ve done isn’t just flavour text; it’s trying to kill you in new ways.”

There it is: the overlap. Where your pitch leaned into the emotional and social consequences of shared choices, his leans into the mechanical consequences. You’re talking about the same coin from opposite sides. You hate how satisfying that is.

From your angle, you can see his one-page document on the table — clean, dense handwriting, a little sketch of a boss arena with arrows showing attack patterns shifting over time. You clock phrases that echo your own thoughts: “player habits,” “party behaviour,” “myth-state driven modifiers.” You also notice what isn’t there: no mention of specific character arcs, no example of how two players might feel differently about the same fight based on their backstory. His story is the world. Yours is the people in it.

“So in your version,” David says when he’s done, “the gods die, the weather freaks out, and the world starts fighting back using your own habits against you.” Wonwoo lifts a shoulder. “Players get lazy if we let them,” he says. “We shouldn’t.” Raj looks openly delighted. “Punishing predictable play is my love language,” he says. “I like this. A lot.”

Jisoo’s expression is thoughtful. “It’s very strong on the ‘what you fight,’” she says. “I’d want to make sure we don’t end up with a technically brilliant game where players can’t remember a single character’s name.”

“We wouldn’t,” Wonwoo says easily. “As long as someone who cares about that is in the room.” His gaze flicks, briefly and unmistakably, toward you.

David sees it. Of course he does. “Interesting,” he says, clasping his hands. “We’ve got one pitch where story is the skeleton and combat is the muscle…” His attention moves to you. “…and one where combat is the skeleton and story is the connective tissue.” He looks back at Wonwoo. “If I locked the two of you in a room and told you to come out with a single vision, would we get a masterpiece or a murder trial?”

“Depends who gets the whiteboard,” you say before you can stop yourself. A couple of people laugh. Wonwoo’s mouth curves. “She can have the whiteboard,” he says. “I’ll take the controller.”

David’s smile says he got exactly what he wanted out of that. “Noted,” he says. “Either way, that was fun. Go eat. Check the portal this afternoon for Trial Two.”

By the time you get home, you feel like someone stretched your nerves out on a rack and then told you to “just relax.”

You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and slide bonelessly onto the couch while your brain replays the day on loop: your own voice pitching into the room, Jisoo’s interest, Raj’s questions, the way Wonwoo’s ideas slotted uncomfortably well next to yours without actually overlapping. Combat as conversation. Shared fate as story.

It should be validating that your instincts line up with his on the big picture: myths reacting, world state changing, co-op actually mattering. Instead, it makes your chest feel tight. You need to stop thinking. Or at least think about something that can’t email you back.

You get up, shuffle to your desk, and boot up Aetherion.

You log in, watch Nyx shimmer into existence in the middle of a crowded plaza, the usual swirl of players flitting past, and feel your shoulders loosen a notch. You don’t move her right away.

Your fingers hover over the keys as you stare at the minimap, debating. You could run a quick dungeon, do your dailies, mindlessly farm materials while your brain chews on David’s smug face and Raj’s questions. You could wander the fields alone and pull too many mobs just to feel something. Your friends list blips. KadeLocke is now online. Almost immediately, a whisper pops up. Kade: You look like someone standing in town and pretending they know what they’re planning to do.

You blink. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t typed. The accuracy is unsettling.

Nyx: Wow, psychic. Or are you stalking the login feed now?

Kade: You log in at weird hours and then stand still for a full minute. I’m allowed to draw conclusions. A beat. You busy?

You glance at your very empty, very Mythfall-filled real-life calendar and snort softly. Nyx: Busy spiralling. Why?

Kade: Tower challenge unlocked for me today. Two-player run. Want in?

You pull up the dungeon list automatically. The Tower icon pulses at the edge of the map – high difficulty, recommended party size: 2–3. You’ve never clicked it before. Nyx: Never done it. Thought it was one of those “sweaty tryhard” things.

Kade: It is. I’m inviting you anyway. A party invite pops. You hesitate for half a heartbeat, then accept. The UI shifts to show just two frames: KadeLocke and MidnightNyx.

Kade: Ready?

Nyx: Define “ready.”

Kade: You know your buttons. I know the layout. I’ll tell you where to stand and what to stab. Try not to improvise too much on the first pull.

You roll your eyes even as you move toward the teleport glyph. You step into the portal. The world dissolves in a flare of light, then reforms as a high tower lined with glowing runes and platforms suspended in midair. Far below, mist swirls in a bottomless drop. Above, you can just make out the silhouette of something huge moving in the clouds. You tighten your grip on your mouse. Nyx spawns beside Kade’s avatar on a wide, circular platform. His greatsword rests casually against his shoulder; his cape flutters in some dramatic wind the engine insisted on rendering.

Nyx: Okay. Mildly terrifying.

Kade: It’s worse if you look down. Don’t look down. A pause. First rule: stay on my left unless I tell you otherwise. Second rule: if the floor glows, move. Third rule: if you’re not sure what to do, ask. Don’t guess. You bristle automatically. Nyx: You know I’ve played this game before, right?

Kade: I know you have good instincts and a bit of a chaos streak. I’m accommodating both.

You open your mouth to type something sharp and entirely unconvincing about not having a chaos streak, but the pull timer appears before you can. You exhale, shake your hands out, and ready your daggers.

The first wave hits like a test you didn’t study for: enemies blink into existence around the edge of the platform, beams of light sweep across the floor in predictable-but-not-obvious patterns, and runes start charging under your feet. You dart forward on reflex.

Kade: Left. Now. You jerk Nyx in the indicated direction just as a beam carves through the space you were about to occupy. A rune explodes where you had been standing, showering the area with crackling energy. Okay. Maybe letting him lead isn’t the worst idea. He moves with that same calm precision you remember from the raid — no wasted motion, no panic. He kites enemies into tidy clusters; you slip in and out of their blind spots, carving them down. Every time something new appears — floating orbs, tether mechanics, lines aiming at your feet — his text pops up a fraction of a second before your brain finishes parsing what’s happening.

Kade: Ignore orbs, they’re bait. Hit the casters. Platform’s going to tilt in 3… 2… jump on my ping.

You jump when he pings. The platform shifts on its axis like a seesaw. For a sick second, you’re sure you mistimed it, and you’re going to slide off into the void, but Kade’s avatar slams his sword into the stone at the edge, anchoring himself, and your character bumps into his collision box instead of gravity. You land in a heap against him, metaphorically speaking. Nyx: Did you just body-check physics for me?

Kade: You were about to meet the bottom of the tower. I need you alive for at least one phase.

Your cheeks heat even though there’s nobody here to see you. You push off him and keep going, adrenaline slowly shifting into something steadier. The higher you climb, platform by platform, the less you hesitate, and the more you anticipate where he’s going to be. He calls less; you move more. When he does call, you listen, even if you grumble about it in chat.

On one particularly nasty platform, lines of magic crisscross the floor like a laser grid while enemies fling projectiles from the far side. You start to dart through an opening that looks safe.

Kade: Stop. You halt Nyx mid-step. A beam slices through the space in front of you a heartbeat later. Nyx: You’re no fun.

Kade: Fun is surviving long enough to brag about this. Move when I move.

He waits. You wait with him. When he lunges forward, you follow, toes skimming the edge of danger, heart thudding. It works. It’s infuriating. By the time you reach the top platform, your palms are slick, and your pulse is high, and you kind of hate how much you… trust him?

The final boss materialises in a flare of light and thunder: some towering construct woven from broken runes and discarded god-armor, eyes burning bright. You swallow. Nyx: So what’s the fun surprise here?

Kade: Don’t die. And when it splits into three, take the one that mirrors you. Shadow twin. You’ll know it when you see it.

You want to argue that this is unhelpfully cryptic. Then the fight starts, and you don’t have time. The construct slams its fists down, platforms appear and vanish, the whole top of the tower becomes a dance floor for people with a death wish. Halfway through, the boss shatters into three smaller versions; one of them moves exactly like you do — same skills, same dash, a twisted echo of Nyx. You swear under your breath and go after it. Kade doesn’t micromanage. He tanks his own twin with grim efficiency and throws you the occasional text when something truly unfamiliar appears, but otherwise, he lets you figure it out. You make mistakes, you adjust, you get better fast. When the last shard of the boss explodes, and the Tower falls quiet, your hands are shaking a little.

Loot appears in a tidy chest at the centre. You exhale slowly, the adrenaline high morphing into something warm and fizzy. A private message pops. Kade: You handle vertical runs better than most. Didn’t even try to swan-dive off the top platform once.

You let Nyx idle, daggers sheathed, while you reply. Nyx: I like to keep my dramatic exits for when someone deserves it.

Kade: Good to know. I’ll make sure I’m never standing near the edge if I piss you off. You pause, then let your fingers wander a little closer to the line. Nyx: Bold of you to assume you’d see it coming. I’m sneaky, remember.

Kade: Then I guess I’ll just have to keep you where I can see you.

A flicker of heat runs through you at that, entirely disproportionate to a handful of text characters. You push it, just a bit. Nyx: That sounds suspiciously like you enjoy being in charge.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over Enter, then hit it anyway, heart ticking up a notch. If he gets weird about it, you can always blame it on sleep deprivation and never queue with him again. The reply comes faster than you expect. Kade: I enjoy it when people follow instructions. Everything else is a bonus. And you strike me as someone who needs very specific directions, or you’ll start trouble on purpose.

You stare at that, surprised laughter bubbling up in your chest. He’s… not wrong. Nyx: Are you calling me a handful?

Kade: I’m saying if I tell you “stand here, hit that, don’t lick the glowing floor,” you’ll do the first two and then ask what I’ll give you if you obey the third.

Your face heats. Okay, you walked into that one. Nyx: Depends. What are the rewards for good behaviour?

You send it before you can talk yourself out of it, suddenly very aware of how quiet your apartment is. There’s a longer pause. Long enough that you wonder if you pushed too far, if you’ve misread the tone and he’s going to bail. Then, Kade: Clean clears. No repair bills. Maybe I’ll even say “good job” without sarcasm. Another line appears before you can respond: Start with that. We can renegotiate your perks later if you behave.

Something tightens pleasantly under your ribs. It’s not explicit. It’s barely suggestive. But there’s a shape to the way he phrases things — steady, teasing, a little bossy — that hits a very particular switch in your brain you try not to examine too closely. You type with fingers that feel slightly less steady. Nyx: Wow. High praise. Guess I’ll have to earn it.

Kade: You’re doing fine so far. But don’t let it go to your head.

You open his profile without thinking about it this time, skimming raid stats and titles. Whoever he is, he’s good. Better than good. The kind of player you’d happily trust to lead you through something brutal. He sends another whisper before you can fall too deep into the numbers. Kade: You on around this time often? I’d rather stack the party with people who can take a joke and a mechanic.

You roll your eyes even as your chest warms. Nyx: I keep weird hours. Freelancer life. But yeah, I’ll probably be around. Why, miss me already? You wince the second you hit Enter. That was… bolder than you meant it to be. The answer comes back, cool and easy.

Kade: I miss not wanting to yeet half my raid into the sun. You make that easier. I’m being practical. A half-second later: But if your ego needs the other answer, you can have that too. Your mouth curves helplessly.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. It’s later than you thought. Tomorrow’s brief will hit. Trial Two will start. David will smirk. Raj will poke holes. Wonwoo will be there, spinning his pen, acting like pressure is something that only happens to other people.

Right now, though, your world has shrunk to a little chat window and a name glowing quietly on your friends list. You tap out one last message. Nyx: Fine. Be practical. Just remember you asked for more time with me when I start “accidentally” pulling extra mobs.

Kade: If you do that, I’m putting you on callout duty so everyone knows exactly who to blame. Deal?

Nyx: Deal.

You sit there for another moment, watching the empty chat box, the way Nyx shifts her weight from foot to foot on the screen, Tower music still echoing faintly in your head. Then you log out. The game melts away into your desktop. Your room is quiet again, save for the soft whir of your PC fans.

You close the laptop with a soft click and let your head fall back, eyes slipping shut, the phantom sensation of standing on a narrow platform with nothing but open air below you lingering just long enough to make your stomach flip.

Raj is waiting for you when you walk into the meeting room the next morning, which is not a sentence you ever expected to think.

He’s usually glued to his seat beside Jisoo and Kaito, half a step removed from everyone, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Today, he’s leaning back in a chair at the far end of the table with a tablet in his lap and a coffee cup that says “I BREAK LOOPS FOR FUN” in chipped letters. He looks up as you come in. “Good timing,” he says. “Sit.” You obey mostly because your body is too tired to disobey this early.

“Did I miss an email?” you ask, dropping your bag and sliding into the chair next to him. “Portal update at six,” he says. “I thought I’d save you the joy of reading through production boilerplate and just give you the actual task.”

He hands you the tablet. On it, a document is open with a single bold title: TRIAL TWO – ROLE SWAP

FOCUS: COMBAT ENCOUNTER DESIGN Design a self-contained combat encounter for Mythfall: Eclipse. Deliverables (max 2 pages): – Encounter fantasy – Enemy types & abilities – Arena layout – Difficulty curve (phases, tuning goals) Narrative dressing is optional but not required. Encounter must stand on its own as a “fun fight” in test harness.

You reread “narrative dressing optional but not required” three times, like if you stare at it long enough, it will turn into “please write us a monologue.” It doesn’t.

“So,” you say slowly, “you want me to design a fight with no story.”

Raj shrugs. “You can hang some story on it if you want,” he says. “But if I strip all your flavour text out and drop this into a greybox test build, it should still be fun. That’s the assignment.”

It’s like asking you to write a symphony using only drums. You like drums. You respect drums. You just also like… melody. Lyrics. Feelings.

“And I assume Wonwoo is writing a heartwarming branching quest about a puppy,” you say before you can stop yourself. Raj’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “You said that, not me,” he replies. “But yeah. He’s on narrative. You’re on combat. I want to see you both out of your comfort zones.” That stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You scroll further down. At the bottom, in small text:

Evaluation focus: clarity of encounter vision, readability of mechanics, pacing, difficulty curve, player learning moments.

No mention of “did this make anyone cry in a good way.” No space for your usual metrics. “Duration?” you ask.

“Short,” Raj says. “Think single dungeon boss or a set-piece fight. Ten minutes tops for an average group. Ideally, less.” You nod, throat tight.

“You’ve got two days,” he adds, standing. “Ask questions if you need to. I mean about the doc. Not about your feelings.” You blink. “What if my feelings are about the doc?” He gives you a flat look that softens at the edges. “Then write a good fight,” he says. “It’ll help.”

Trial Two is like being handed someone else’s toolkit and told to build the same house.

Your next forty-eight hours are a blur of spreadsheets, dev wikis, and documents with titles like “Enemy AI Behaviour: Beginner-Friendly Patterns” and “Damage Per Second Tuning – Internal Guidelines (Do Not Share Externally).” You learn how Raj and his team talk about fights: openings, checks, punish windows, soft enrages. You learn there are words for things you’ve always felt when playing, but never had to label in quite this way. You also learn that half your instincts are illegal.

Your first draft has three enemy types, a shifting arena floor, and a mechanic where the boss “remembers” which player took which action in earlier phases and punishes patterns. You show it to Raj in a one-on-one review. He skims, eyebrows rising. “This is cool,” he says. “It’s also three encounters stapled together and a QA nightmare.”

“I like to aim high,” you mutter. He pushes the tablet back across the table. “Cut it in half,” he says. “Then cut it in half again. Think of it like writing — this is your first draft. You’re not killing the idea; you’re putting it on a diet.” You go back to your desk and put it on a diet. Reluctantly.

You strip out one mechanic, then another, until what’s left is a tight, focused fight: a fractured avatar of a god of echoes, a circular arena with shifting safe zones, a loop that teaches players to listen and watch before punishing them for flailing. You still sneak story in. You can’t help it. The boss’s abilities are named like lines of a poem. When it splits into mirrored copies, you note how they repeat players’ own moves back at them. Raj might not care, but it helps you care. You fall asleep on your keyboard once and wake up with ASDF imprinted on your forehead.

In between coffee refills, you hear whispers. Someone mentions in the kitchen that “Jeon’s questline wrecked Jisoo.” Someone else says, “I heard she had to leave the room for a second.” You pretend not to listen as you stir powdered creamer into your mug. Later, you pass Jisoo in the hall. Her eyes are a little pink. She’s smiling, though. Wonwoo walks behind her, one hand in his hoodie pocket, notebook tucked under his arm. He looks like he always does — composed, maybe a little tired, hair falling into his eyes.

“Nice work,” Jisoo says to him as they head toward a meeting room. “I’m stealing at least half of that, just so you know.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “As long as you make it better,” he replies. You walk by them with your mug, heart doing something unpleasant. He doesn’t look your way; you don’t give him the satisfaction of glancing over your shoulder. It doesn’t bother you. It absolutely, one hundred percent does.

Two days later, you present your combat encounter to Raj and a couple of designers he’s dragooned into a small review. You stand at the front of a smaller room this time, whiteboard behind you, your spec open on the screen. No David. No David-related theatrics. Just Raj, Jisoo, and one gameplay engineer with tired eyes.

“Echo Warden,” you say, and launch in.

You outline the fantasy first: a broken fragment of a god that repeats everything it hears, stuck in a loop of its own prayers. You emphasise the mechanics more than the lore. Phase one: teach players to follow safe zones. Phase two: punish them if they just chase the same pattern. The boss starts mimicking the party’s positioning, forcing them to break their habits. You talk tuning goals: a group that learns quickly clears in five minutes; a group that doesn’t dies in three. You talk about telegraphs that are readable but not clownishly obvious. You talk about giving melee and ranged different jobs so nobody feels useless. Raj interrupts with questions. You’re ready for most of them. The ones you’re not, you attack sideways, using examples from other games and the internal docs you memorised at three in the morning. At the end, he nods once, slowly.

“You overcomplicate things,” he says. “But you cut back. That’s good. The core loop is solid. Pacing might need adjustment — I’d want to see it in a prototype — but this is… yeah. This is real combat design.” A strange warmth spreads through your chest at that last sentence.

Jisoo chimes in. “I like how you’re already thinking about what the fight is saying about the god,” she says. “Even without story text, you’d still feel like this thing is… stuck. That’s useful for us later.” You exhale. Your shoulders drop half an inch. It’s not your natural habitat, but you didn’t drown.

By the time you drag yourself home that night, your brain is buzzing with numbers instead of feelings. Every time you close your eyes, you see telegraphs and phase transitions and Raj actually called it solid playing on repeat. You should sleep. You open Aetherion instead.

Nyx appears in a familiar city square. Before you can decide whether to do anything, your friends’ list pings. KadeLocke is now online. Right on cue, a whisper pops. Kade: You’re logging in later and later. Should I be worried you got abducted by “real life”?

You huff, but it comes out more like a sigh than a laugh. Nyx: Real life would have to pry my keyboard from my cold, carpal-tunnelled hands. Just… long day.

There’s a longer pause than usual before his next message. Kade: You sound tired even in text. That’s a talent.

Kade: Was gonna ask if you wanted to do something dumb and dangerous, but I’m downgrading that to “chill and mildly hazardous.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitch. Nyx: My brain is soup, but I could maybe manage “mildly hazardous.” Nothing too sweaty, or I’m just going to feed the floor.

Kade: Noted. Come somewhere quiet with me, then. Less chaos, more me telling you where to go while you complain about it.

You hesitate over the keys, then type, Nyx: Bossy and comforting. Multitasking, huh?

His reply comes almost immediately. Kade: Text is slow if you’re wiped. You wanna try voice in-game? I use a modulator. Keeps things less weird. You can just follow my lead and save your energy for being a menace.

You stare at the message. You’ve been running content together for days now — raids, dungeons, the occasional open-world nonsense when you both needed to switch your brains off. You’ve talked about sleep schedules (bad), vague “projects” (worse), favourite snacks (you argued for a solid ten minutes about the correct ratio of chocolate to cookie in ice cream).

You know his timing, his playstyle, the way he reacts when things go wrong. You know he’s steady, that he doesn’t tilt, that he doesn’t yell at people when they screw up. You do not know what his voice sounds like. Or where he lives. Or his real name. Sharing your voice feels… weirdly intimate. Like handing over a piece of yourself you can’t take back. You chew your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’s been respectful. Funny. Reliable. Never once pushed when you dodged personal questions. Never once got gross when you made a joke that could have gone sideways. If this goes weird, you can hang up. You can mute. You can block. You are not trapped. You take a breath.

Nyx: Sure. If you sound like a 12-year-old, I’m disconnecting.

Kade: Fair. Join party. I’ll drag you through something interesting while we test it. A party invite appears. You accept before you can overthink it.

The party UI slides into place; a little voice icon glows to indicate an open channel. Your pulse kicks up a notch. You drag your headset over your ears, thumb hovering over your mouse for a second, then click to join.

There’s a soft crackle, the faint hiss of open mic, and then his voice comes through — filtered by the modulator, a touch lower and smoother than it probably really is. You can hear the whisper of fabric, a chair creaking as he shifts. It still sounds like him somehow. Calm. Steady. Threaded with that quiet amusement you’ve already learned to recognise in his text. “Nyx?” he says.

“Yeah,” you answer, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near it. “Hey.” There’s a small pause, like he’s calibrating. “Okay,” he says. “Not twelve. Good start.” You huff a laugh, the knot between your shoulders loosening just a little.

“Neither are you,” you say. “You sound like… the voice of a very smug tutorial.” He laughs, low in your ear. The modulator doesn’t hide the warmth. “I’ll take ‘smug tutorial’ over ‘nasal gremlin,’” he says. “You sound more awake than your messages.”

“Lies,” you reply. “I’m eighty percent caffeine and bad decisions right now.”

“Then no raids,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Come outside the city gate. I’ll show you something low-effort and pretty. You can pretend it’s a walk and not a carry.”

“Wow,” you say. “Already planning to drag me around?”

“You said your brain’s soup,” he reminds you. “You point, mash a few buttons, I’ll do the heavy lifting. It’s called party synergy.”

You make an exaggerated little tsk noise. “Bossy,” you say. “Functional,” he counters, and you can hear the smile.

You guide Nyx out through the city archways, past the usual crowd of players advertising dungeon runs and trading items. A ping appears on your map, marking his position just outside the walls. He’s waiting on a small hill overlooking the road, his greatsword planted tip-down in the grass, his avatar leaning on the hilt like it’s a posing stick. When Nyx jogs up, he turns to face you, gives a short bow emote, and then starts running toward the far-off line of cliffs. You fall into step beside him. “So,” you say, eyes on the screen. “Where exactly are we going, oh mysterious guide?”

“There’s a glade most people ignore because it doesn’t drop gear,” he says. “Fireflies, skybox, zero pressure. You can stab a few things if it makes you feel better.”

“You say that like I have a problem,” you protest. “You logged in to hit things after a long day,” he points out. “It’s not exactly a mystery, Nyx.” You open your mouth to argue, then close it again.

Bits of countryside roll past as you run — ruined stone arches, wandering NPCs, the occasional player sprinting by on some oversized mount. Every so often, a stray enemy spawns too close; Kade lazily swings once and deletes it before you can even target it. “I could’ve handled that,” you say eventually. “I know,” he replies. “Tonight you don’t have to.”

The words land heavier than they have any right to. You clear your throat and nudge Nyx closer, hip-checking his avatar with yours. On screen, your character brushes his shoulder, the collision box making him shift a step. “Careful,” you say. “Keep shielding me like that, and I’ll get spoiled.”

“You already are,” he says mildly. “You just hide it behind all that ‘I can do it myself’ energy.”

You want to argue. You don’t. He leads you off the main road, through a narrow canyon that opens into a hidden hollow: a small lake ringed with luminous trees, their branches glowing softly in blues and purples. Fireflies drift in dense clouds over the water, reflecting like scattered stars. The in-game soundtrack shifts to something softer — strings, a lone flute. You stop Nyx at the edge of the lake. “Okay,” you admit. “This is… obnoxiously pretty.”

“Mm,” he says, and the sound through your headset is oddly pleased. “Sit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hit the sit emote,” he clarifies, unbothered. “Before you decide to jump in and aggro the fish or something.”

You scoff. “I’m not that bad.”

“You pushed a cursed button just to see what would happen last time,” he reminds you. “I’m learning from experience.”

You roll your eyes, but Nyx drops into a sit at the water’s edge anyway, knees drawn up, daggers resting across her lap. Kade’s avatar sits beside her a heartbeat later, sword laid on the ground within arm’s reach. On screen, their shoulders almost touch. There’s a small, quiet space in your chest that you hadn’t realised was clenched until now. It eases, just a fraction. “So,” you say. “Do you bring all your exhausted carries here, or am I special?”

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re the first one who complains this much and still shows up for hard content,” he says. “Makes you… unique.”

“Wow,” you say. “Swoon.”

“Careful,” he replies. “Your standards are showing.”

A few low-level mobs wander near the tree line. When they stray too close, he stands, dispatches them with lazy efficiency, and sits back down without comment. “You know, you don’t have to nanny me,” you say, watching him.

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m optimising. You’re not at full capacity. No point wasting resources.”

“Reducing me to resource management. How romantic.”

“You want romantic, go stand under the virtual moon,” he says. “You want to log off less cranky than you logged on, listen to me.”

You feel your lips curve despite the words. “You realise you’re bossing me around while also telling me to relax,” you point out. “It’s a confusing brand.”

“You logged in sounding like you’d faceplant mid-raid,” he says calmly. “So I brought you somewhere you can sit down while I kill things. It’s not that complicated, Nyx.” There’s your name again, familiar now.

You watch the fireflies drift, tiny particles dancing across your monitor. After a while, you realise you’re just… sitting there. Not tabbing out to check your email, not mentally rehearsing how you’re going to defend your tuning decisions tomorrow. Just existing, with his voice a steady background presence as he talks about nothing and everything.

He tells you about some spectacular bug he saw that turned every enemy in a dungeon into spinning cubes. You rant about a client who decided you now care deeply about damage spreadsheets. You argue the merits of crunchy versus chewy cookies. You laugh more than you mean to. At one point, you yawn, the sound pulled out of you before you can smother it. He stops mid-sentence. “There it is,” he says. “That’s my cue.”

“I can keep going,” you protest automatically. “I’m—”

“Tired,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You’re clipping the ends off your sentences. Your camera movements slowed down by, like, half a second. Go to bed.” You blink. “You were timing my camera moves?”

“I was watching my party member,” he says simply. “I don’t need a wipe to tell me when someone’s out of gas.” Something in your chest twists at the casual way he says “my party member,” like that’s a position with responsibilities attached. You try to deflect with a joke. “You’re very bossy for a stranger on the internet,” you say.

“You keep logging in at stupid o’clock and following me into content,” he replies. “At some point, that becomes my problem too.” You stare at Nyx and Kade sitting side by side on the bank, fireflies drifting lazily around them. Your cursor hovers over the disconnect button. You don’t click it.

“Hey, Kade?” you say. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then lean in anyway. “You give surprisingly good directions,” you say. “For a control freak.” He laughs, the sound low and warm in your ears. “And you follow them better than you pretend to,” he answers. “For a menace.” You grin, too tired to hide how much that pleases you.

“Don’t get used to it,” you warn. “Too late,” he says.

You disconnect from voice before you can say something softer and more dangerous, then log out of the game entirely.

Your room is suddenly too quiet. No ambient lake sounds, no modulated baritone in your ears, no bright UI demanding decisions. You shut your laptop and stretch out, the day replaying in flickers: Raj calling your fight “real combat design” with that reluctant approval, Kade’s calm “Tonight you don’t have to,” when he helped you relax. You’re not sure which one is going to echo louder in your head as you finally, finally drift toward sleep.

David waits until everyone’s seated to drop it on you.

The room is smaller this time, with fewer chairs. The roster has already been whittled down; Mina and Felix are gone, casualties of Trial Two. Nobody says it out loud, but the absence sits heavy at the edges of the table. You, Wonwoo, Baekhyun, and Yoohyeon sit opposite Jisoo, Raj, and Kaito. David leans against the screen at the front like he’s about to introduce a new trailer instead of your impending breakdown.

“Trial Three,” he says, smile bright and sharp. “Vertical slice.”

The screen behind him flickers to life, showing a simple list:

TRIAL THREE – CO-OP VERTICAL SLICE Duration: 5 days Teams: 2 Deliverable: Playable slice + pitch

“We’ve seen what you can do in your own lanes,” David continues. “We’ve seen you swap lanes and not crash the car.” His gaze flicks over you, then Wonwoo. “Now we want to see if you can drive together without killing each other.” You do not like where this is going.

David lifts his tablet, scrolling. “Team one…” he says. “Baekhyun and Yoohyeon.” They exchange a quick look — a mix of nerves and determination.

“Team two…” David’s eyes find yours. “…our favourite civil war: Wonwoo and his Pixie.” For a heartbeat, the room feels too small.

You feel Wonwoo’s attention like a prickle on your skin. You turn your head; he’s already looking at you, expression unreadable, pen still in his hand. “You’re kidding,” you say before you can stop yourself.

David’s smile widens, all teeth. “If either of you wants to lead at Titan Forge,” he says, “you need to show you can co-lead. This is a co-op game. We’re not hiring a lone wolf and letting them dictate from a tower.”

Raj snorts quietly. Jisoo hides a smile behind her coffee cup.

“You’ll each get a war room,” David goes on, tapping his tablet to bring up a diagram. “Whiteboards, pinned builds, your own branch in our repo, access to a small strike team for support — programmers, artists, whatever you need within reason.” He slides a folder across the table toward you and Wonwoo.

“The slice is a single mission,” he says. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. We want to see combat, story, co-op mechanics, and how you onboard players to your weird ideas. Five days. Internal playtest at the end. Don’t embarrass us.”

You flip open the folder. There’s a loose prompt on the first page: “First contact with a failing god. Co-op decision. Mid-tier difficulty. Must support two players and scale to four.” You glance sideways at Wonwoo. His jaw is set. He taps his pen against the folder once, twice, then stops, catching you looking. “Don’t worry, Pixie,” he says under his breath. “I’ll use small words when we talk about frame data.”

You smile sweetly. “That’s cute,” you murmur back. “I was just wondering how I’m going to explain to you what feelings are.”

David claps his hands once. “Keys to the war rooms at the front,” he says. “Shared drives are already set up. Go figure out if you’re soulmates or mutually assured destruction.”

Your war room looks like a crime board from a detective show. By the end of the first day, anyway.

It starts clean: a long table, three whiteboards, a couple of monitors on rolling stands, a window that looks out over the city and the neighbouring rooftop gardens. Two chairs on opposite sides of the table, like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release. You dump your laptop bag on one chair. Wonwoo drops his notebook on the other. For a few seconds, you just… look at each other. “Ground rules?” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Don’t waste time,” he says. “Don’t sand down anything interesting just to be polite.”

“I wasn’t planning to be polite,” you reply.

“Good,” he says mildly. “Then we’re aligned.”

You start by carving the prompt up into chunks. A god that’s failing. First contact. Co-op choice. You sketch a rough mission spine on the whiteboard: approach, first fight, narrative beat, second fight, choice, fallout. Wonwoo marks combat beats in red over your black storyline. That’s where the friction starts.

“Your cutscene here is too long,” he says, tapping the section you’ve labelled “confrontation.” “Players will be mashing skip.”

“It’s thirty seconds,” you say. “They can survive thirty seconds of emotional context before they go back to hitting things.”

“Thirty seconds before the boss, thirty seconds after the boss, a dialogue choice in the middle,” he says. “Pacing matters. They’ll feel the drag.”

You plant the marker on your hip. “Maybe if your boss fight had any emotional stakes,” you shoot back, “they’d want to see what they’re fighting about.”

His mouth tugs sideways. “It has stakes,” he says. “Failing god, collapsing arena, co-op mechanics that change based on who takes damage and when.”

“Mechanical stakes,” you counter. “I’m talking about something more than ‘health bar go down.’”

He watches you for a heartbeat, then sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Sell me.”

You blink. “What?”

“Sell me,” he repeats, leaning back against the table. “Why should I care about this cutscene when I’m the player? Don’t say ‘because narrative.’”

Fine. You pace once in front of the board, words lining up in your head.

“Because this is the first time the players see a god scared,” you say. “Up until now, gods are this untouchable environmental thing. Here, the god is cracked. Their voice glitches. They offer the players a deal — keep the worship flowing and they’ll keep the sky from falling over this region.”

You sketch with your marker as you talk, lines turning into rough silhouettes. “One player wants to take the deal. The other doesn’t,” you continue. “Or they both disagree with each other about how. That’s conflict before you start swinging. So when they do, it’s not just ‘we’re killing a thing.’ It’s ‘we’re killing something we might have needed.’ That makes the fight feel different.”

Wonwoo’s gaze tracks your motion, thoughtful. “What’s the co-op hook?” he asks. “Beyond ‘we voted differently.’”

You grin. “In the fight, the god only targets the player who argued against them,” you say. “The one who refused the deal takes more aggro, more direct hits. The other player gets all the buffs — damage, shields, healing. Narratively, the god is punishing the defiant one and rewarding the obedient one even as you’re killing them.”

He goes still. You see the exact moment it clicks in his head. “So if I was the one who told the god to fuck off, I’m the one getting smashed into the floor,” he says slowly. “And if my co-op partner told them ‘yes,’ they get to feel strong because I’m suffering.”

“Exactly,” you say, heart beating faster as the pieces line up. “It creates friction between players beyond ‘you didn’t dodge.’ They chose this dynamic.” He exhales once, sharply, like a laugh he doesn’t want to give you. “That’s… not bad,” he admits. He reaches past you, uncaps a red marker, and starts annotating the fight beats you’d sketched in black.

“If we do that,” he says, “we need to make sure the punished player isn’t just miserable. Give them tools. Let them redirect some of that damage back, or convert pain into a big finisher if their partner times something with them.”

You blink. “Hurt/comfort but make it gameplay,” you say.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You would put it that way,” he says.

The rest of the day goes like that. Friction, then connection. You argue about enemy counts, about how much information to put in UI versus VO, about whether the god should recognise each player individually or just the party as a unit. He tells you your first draft of encounter callouts sounds too “pretty” and not enough “actionable.” You tell him his initial co-op mechanic reads like a spreadsheet and needs one emotional hook, or you’ll fall asleep. Underneath the barbs, you start to spot the pattern.

His arenas carve out little pockets of story space for you — choke points that feel like altars, environmental hazards that tie into the god’s mythology. Your characters give his systems purpose — lines of dialogue that make the co-op mechanics feel personal instead of arbitrary. At one point, you’re both standing in front of the monitor, watching a quick blockout build one of the level designers put together from your notes: rough geometry, grey textures, placeholder god model. The fight’s barebones, but the shape is there.

The god slams a hand down. The floor fractures. One player’s health spikes; the other’s buffs flare. Kaito’s borrowed QA guy moves both characters through the motions while you and Wonwoo talk over each other, calling changes. “That spike is too harsh, they won’t recover—” you say. “Make the tell on the second slam clearer, they’ll think it’s random—” he says at the same time. You both stop. You look at him. He looks at you.

It should feel like you’re clashing. Instead, weirdly, it feels like you’re harmonising. Different instruments, same song. You hate how satisfying that is.

By the end of the day, your war room smells like coffee and whiteboard marker. The walls are covered in diagrams and snippets of dialogue, sticky notes stuck at every angle. A shared drive full of docs and reference videos hums on the monitor. You should probably go home and sleep. You go home and log into Aetherion instead.

Nyx appears in the city square. Before you can move, your voice channel pings — Kade inviting you into a call as casually as if he’d nudged your elbow. You accept.

“Hey,” he says, modulated voice sliding into your ears as the game finishes loading. “You sound like ten percent less dead today.”

You flop back in your chair. “That’s because I’m currently powered by spite and a very unhealthy amount of validation,” you say. “How’s your evening?”

“About to improve,” he replies. “Queue up. There’s a new story chain. Co-op only. Figured I’d try it with my resident menace.”

You smirk. “Flatterer,” you say. “Lead the way, Tutorial.” He laughs, low and warm.

You follow his party ping to a quest giver on the edge of the map — an old NPC Hermit perched near a cliff, exclamation mark hovering over his head. Text scrolls about “shadows gathering” and “only those bound by trust may face what lies ahead.”

“Subtle,” you say. “Very understated writing.”

“Some narrative designer got paid by the metaphor,” Kade says. “Accept it. Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

The quest chain takes you both through a series of short encounters — ambushes where you have to cover each other’s blind spots, puzzles that only trigger if you step on pressure plates at the same time. At the end, a prompt flashes: New Campfire Scene Unlocked: “Between Battles”. [Play now with your party member?]

“Ooh,” you murmur. “Fancy.”

“Hit yes,” Kade says. “If it’s boring, we can bail.” You both confirm.

The world fades out and reforms in a small, quiet clearing — a tucked-away grove beneath a massive tree, moonlight pouring through the branches. A campfire crackles at the centre, logs placed around it. Your UI melts away until only minimal prompts remain. Nyx and Kade stand a few feet apart, idle animations softer now, shoulders relaxed.

A prompt appears at the bottom of the screen: [Press X to sit]

You hit it. Nyx crosses the distance and drops onto one of the logs by the fire. Kade’s avatar moves a second later, taking the space beside her. Your characters’ knees almost touch. A dialogue choice pops, classic Aetherion style — three options on a radial wheel, each with a short line.

You read them out. “Option one: ‘Long day.’ Two: ‘Nice spot.’ Three: ‘Don’t get used to sitting this close.’” You say.

Kade huffs. “Three,” he says immediately.

“Of course you’d pick the one with attitude,” you reply. “Look who I’m sitting next to,” he says.

You select the third option. Nyx shifts, leaning back on her hands, eyes half-lidded as she glances sideways at Kade. Text scrolls at the bottom.

Nyx: Don’t get used to sitting this close. I might decide you need personal space. Kade: You say that like you didn’t pick this log when there were others.

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “Wow,” you say. “They coded mutual calling-out. I feel seen.”

“You feel attacked,” Kade corrects. “Which, to be fair, is your baseline.”

Another set of options appears. You read them out again, more amused now. “Okay, new choices: ‘Is that your way of saying you like me here?’ / ‘Don’t read into it.’ / ‘Shut up and enjoy the fire.’”

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the wheel. The safest one is obvious. You don’t pick it. “First?” you suggest, feigning lightness. “Or is that too forward for you?”

“No,” he says, almost before you finish. “Hit it.” Surprise fizzes in your chest. You choose it. Nyx shifts a little closer, one shoulder bumping his.

Nyx: Is that your way of saying you like me here? Kade: If I didn’t, you’d be on the other side of the clearing.

The camera pans in slightly, framing their profiles, the glow of the fire casting warm light over armour and skin. Under your headset, your heartbeat ticks up. “Didn’t know this game had romance options in co-op,” you say, half joking, half not.

“Apparently, we unlocked the DLC,” Kade replies. His voice is lighter than usual, but there’s something under it — a note you haven’t heard before. “You complaining?”

Your mouth is suddenly dry. “No,” you say. Your voice comes out softer than you meant. “I’m not.” On-screen, another prompt fades in, different this time — a single, simple option on its own little button: [Lean closer]-[Change subject]

You stare at it. You could click away. Laugh. Make a bit out of it. Your finger moves almost of its own accord. You choose [Lean closer].

Nyx shifts, folding her legs under her, turning to face him more fully. Their shoulders press together now; the firelight makes the metal of his armour gleam where it brushes the leather of hers. The camera lingers. You can hear your own breathing in your headset. “Oh,” you say, eloquent as ever.

Another prompt: [Touch his hand] - [Nudge his shoulder]

“They really went all in, huh?” Kade says, a low thread of laughter in his voice. “What do you want to do, troublemaker?”

You swallow. “You choose,” you say. “You’re the one who dragged me out here. Take responsibility.” There’s a faint noise through the modulator — a small exhale. “All right,” he says. “Hit the hand.”

You select: [Touch his hand].

Nyx’s fingers slide over, resting lightly on the back of Kade’s gauntlet. His avatar turns his hand palm-up, their fingers slotting together for a brief, deliberate squeeze before they relax against each other.

It’s a ridiculously simple animation. No moaning violins, no sparkly hearts. Just two characters sitting too close by a fire, hands touching. Your heart is hammering like you’re about to present a pitch to David again.

And then, like the game has been waiting for this moment, the real option appears: [Kiss Kade] - [Stay like this]

You suck in a breath. “Oh,” you say again, even less eloquent. Kade chuckles softly. “Panicking?” he asks. “No,” you lie.

You stare at the screen. It’s pixels. Animation. A pre-written scene. This is not actually doing anything in the real world. But it feels like choosing something anyway. You drag the cursor to [Kiss Kade] and hover.

“If this is weird, we can back out,” Kade says gently. “Pick the other one, we’ll tease the game for being thirsty and move on.” The fact that he gives you the out makes something in your chest unclench. You think about the way he’s been with you in runs — never pushing when you joked around a boundary. The way his voice softened last time when he said, “I brought you somewhere you can sit down while I kill things.” The way he calls you menace like it’s a compliment.

“I’m not panicking,” you say, more certain now. “I’m… deciding.” A beat passes. “Decide faster,” he says quietly. “You’re killing me here.”

The words send heat curling low in your stomach. You click.

Nyx leans in first, which you appreciate on a spiritual level. She tilts her head, eyes fluttering half-shut, and presses her mouth to Kade’s in a slow, clearly animated kiss. He meets her halfway, hand lifting to rest at the back of her neck. The camera pulls in, then stops just shy of full close-up—enough to see it, not enough to make it awkward. The fire pops in the background. Fireflies drift lazily overhead. It’s all code. Your heart doesn’t seem to care.

The scene lingers for a few seconds, then eases them back into their seated positions, shoulders still pressed together, fingers still loosely linked. Text scrolls at the bottom.

Kade: You know this means I’m going to expect you to stick around after the next raid, too, right? Nyx: Guess you’ll just have to keep giving me reasons.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. On the other end of the call, Kade clears his throat. “Well,” he says, tone light but a shade rougher. “That’s one way to test co-op features.”

You laugh, a little shaky. “Think we passed?” you ask.

“You tell me,” he replies. “How’s the pacing?”

“Honestly?” you say. “Pretty good.” You don’t add: and I kind of want to hit replay.

You sit there a moment longer, watching your avatars by the fire, heat still simmering under your skin for no good reason.

You just watched your character close the distance with someone whose voice you only just learned this week — someone who keeps catching you when you’re about to fall into traps, in-game and out, and acts like it’s just part of the job.

You’re not sure what this is yet. You are sure, when Kade quietly says, “Queue another campfire after the next raid?” That your answer comes a little too quickly. “Yeah,” you say, smiling at your monitor. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Trial Three crunch is the kind that eats time. Five days sounds generous on paper. In practice, it’s a blink.

Morning to night, you live in the war room with Wonwoo. Whiteboards fill, empty, fill again. Builds go up, crash, and get patched. You mainline Titan Forge coffee and half-stale pastries, your brain flickering between dialogue and damage numbers.

Raj wants the boss to be tougher. “Phase two is a victory lap,” he says in one review, flicking through the combat log. “If they don’t feel like they might wipe, they’ll get bored.”

Jisoo wants the scene more grounded. “The god doesn’t need a monologue,” she says, brow furrowed. “A few sharper lines will hurt more. Right now they sound like they’re auditioning for ‘Tragic Deity of the Year.’”

Kaito wants it all yesterday. “You are stacking new systems on new systems,” he tells you both, expression pinched. “We cannot build an entire religion and its AI in five days. Pick the one thing you want to prove and cut the rest.” Every note is fair. That doesn’t make them hurt less.

By the evening of day four, you’re frayed down to the wire.

The internal playtest build judders on the big screen while David and the others watch, controllers in hand, QA driving. The fight plays. The cutscene hits. The fight plays again. When the lights come up, you’re already braced. The feedback comes in low blows and body shots.

“Telegraph on the second slam is still muddy.”

“I don’t buy the god switching on the player that fast emotionally.”

“If this were a real milestone, I’d be yelling about scope creep.”

You nod. You take notes. You feel each comment slot into your already-overloaded brain like another brick on a tottering Jenga tower. Then Kaito says, almost offhand, “Right now, it feels like we’re playing two different slices stapled together. It’s… disjointed.”

Something in you snaps. “Because we keep cutting connective tissue,” you say, sharper than you meant to. “Every time we add a mechanic, something has to give, and it’s never the numbers.”

Raj’s brows lift. You can feel Wonwoo go still beside you.

“We don’t need more connective tissue,” Wonwoo says coolly. “We need the fight to feel coherent. The narrative padding is what’s making it drag.”

You turn to him. “Padding.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, jaw tight. “If players are dying because they’re watching a god act instead of reading the floor, they’re gonna get pissed.”

Heat flares in your chest. “If players don’t care why they’re fighting, they won’t remember the encounter in a month,” you fire back. “But sure, let’s just make it another pretty arena to wipe in.”

“I’m the one making sure they don’t wipe in the first thirty seconds,” he snaps. “Yeah, and I’m the one making sure they don’t alt-tab during the cutscene.”

The room goes very quiet. You realise, too late, that you’re arguing in front of David and the leads like this is a Slack thread and not your entire future. Kaito clears his throat.

“Okay,” David says lightly, but there’s steel under it. “This is good. Passionate. I’d rather see you fight for the slice than shrug at it.” You can’t tell if he’s sincere. “Take the notes,” he continues. “Cut one thing each. Combat, narrative. Meet in the middle like grown-ups. You’ve got… twelve hours.” You swallow down the sting. The meeting breaks. Chairs scrape. People file out. You stay long enough to collect your laptop, keeping your eyes glued to the table. You can feel Wonwoo’s presence like static beside you. “Pixie—” he starts.

“Don’t,” you say, sharper than you intend. You sling your bag over your shoulder. “I have to go make my padding less offensive.” You don’t wait for an answer.

You don’t remember the commute home.

One minute, you’re in Titan Forge’s elevator, badge still clipped crookedly to your shirt. The next, you’re in your apartment, keys on the counter, shoes half-kicked off, the room dim except for the glow from your monitors. You don’t change. You don’t shower. You don’t even take your badge off. You sit. You boot Aetherion.

Nyx materialises in a familiar forest — the crystalline one where you first really noticed Kade’s calm callouts. Fireflies bob between trees; particle-lit leaves sway in an endless digital breeze. The moment you load in, your voice channel pings. You accept on instinct.

“Hey,” he says, modulated voice sliding into your ears like you’ve been waiting for it. Then he goes quiet for a beat. “Rough day.”

It’s not a question. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “You have no idea,” you breathe.

“Try me.”

You move Nyx forward a few steps, then let her stop under a glowing tree. Your fingers hover uselessly over your keys. You don’t give details. You talk in vague, jagged shapes. “There’s this boss,” you say. “And he won’t stay dead the way I need him to.”

“Bad tuning?” Kade asks.

“Bad… everything,” you say. “Every time we fix one thing, something else breaks. And my co-lead—” you bite the word. “He’s brilliant and infuriating and somehow always exactly where the problem is, but he makes me feel like I’m just sprinkling glitter on top of his work.”

Silence, but not empty. Nyx idles on the screen, cloak fluttering. “Sounds like the boss isn’t the only thing that needs tuning,” Kade says eventually.

“He just… got under my skin today,” you admit. “We snapped at each other in front of everyone. I know better. I’m supposed to be… professional. Cool. Whatever.”

“You’re supposed to be human,” he says. “News flash, menace: humans lose it sometimes when they’re pushed.”

You swallow. “They’re only seeing the cracks,” you murmur. “Not the hundred things we did right. And he’ll be fine. He always is. I’m the one who looks… emotional.”

The word tastes sour. Kade exhales quietly.

“You’re carrying different things,” he says. “Both matter. One’s just easier to chart in a spreadsheet.” You blink back an unexpected burn in your eyes. “You’re very wise for someone who threatened to report me to floor safety,” you say. He laughs, low and warm. “I contain multitudes,” he says. “Come on. Walk with me.”

He pings a direction. You follow, letting Nyx fall in beside his avatar as he leads you off the usual path, deeper into the forest where the crystals grow taller and the ambient sound softens. He doesn’t try to fill every silence. He lets you vent in half-sentences and unfinished metaphors about bosses and deadlines and the way it feels to pour your whole heart into something and then watch people poke holes in it. When you crack a self-deprecating joke about “maybe I’m just not as good as I thought,” his voice cuts in, flat and sure.

“No,” he says. “That’s not it.”

You falter. “You don’t even know what I do,” you say.

“I know how you talk about it,” he replies. “I know how your brain works when we’re learning a fight. You look for angles other people miss. You see the story, not just the pattern. That doesn’t sound like ‘not good enough’ to me.”

Heat pricks behind your eyes. You tilt your head back in your chair, stare at the ceiling, and blink hard. “You’re very… soothing,” you say, trying to make it a tease so it doesn’t feel like a confession. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says. “They’ll expect me to start a support group.”

You laugh, real this time. The sharp edge in your chest shifts into something else. Softer. Sharper, too, in a different way. You’re aware of him in your ears, of the low rumble of his voice, of the way he keeps nudging you gently out of spirals and into smaller, safer topics — food, a bug he hit in another game, an NPC you both hate. The flirting that’s been threading through your conversations lately doesn’t disappear. It just evolves. When you grumble about your co-lead always being right in the most annoying way, Kade says, “Sounds like you need someone else to listen to you for a change.”

You shoot back, “Oh, so you’re volunteering for the job?” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Already doing it,” he says. “You’re just slow to accept my application.”

Later, when you call yourself “a disaster with a keyboard,” he says, “You’re not a disaster. You’re… high difficulty content.” You snort. “Is that your way of telling me I’m a pain in the ass?”

“It’s my way of telling you you’re worth the effort,” he says.

There’s a beat of quiet. Your heartbeat stutters. You find yourself wanting… more. More of that voice closer in your ear. More of his attention focused squarely on you and not filtered through a game lobby. More of this feeling of being guided and held together when you’re fraying apart. You don’t say it. You hover on the edge of it, teeth worrying your lower lip, fingers playing with your headset cord.

He gets there first. “Check your whispers,” Kade says suddenly.

You frown at your screen and open the chat. A private message blinks at the bottom. Kade: If I give you my number, you gonna use it?

Your pulse spikes. It’s reckless. It’s also the first thing you’ve wanted all week that feels like it’s just for you. Your fingers shake a little as you type. Nyx: Maybe. If you’re not a serial killer.

Kade: Too busy raiding to murder anyone.

You huff, breathless. You trade a few more lines — nothing identifying, just a string of digits and a “don’t be weird” from you, answered with a dry “no promises” from him.

When you finally log off, the forest dissolving into your desktop, the number is already in your contacts under: Kade. You stare at it for a long time.

Later, you lie in bed in the dark, in your T-shirt and panties, hair a little damp from the shower you barely remember taking. Your badge is on the nightstand, the screen of your phone the only light in the room as you scroll through nothing, thoughts chasing themselves in useless circles.

You flip to your contacts. Kade sits there like a dare. You should not. You really, really should not. Your phone vibrates in your hand.

Kade – Incoming call.

Your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts. You stare at the screen for two rings, three. You swipe to accept. “Hey,” you whisper, voice smaller in the dark than it ever is in daylight.

There’s a crackle, a breath, then his voice — softer than in-game, the modulation gone but worn down to a quiet rasp by the late hour and whatever he’s feeling. He’s whispering too, low enough that the edges of his words blur, like he’s sitting just out of sight instead of however many miles away. “Hey,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

You huff out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“You still sounded wired when you logged off,” he says. “Figured you’d either be lying in the dark replaying everything, or doomscrolling. Thought I’d offer a third option.”

You shift onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “What option is that?” you ask. When he speaks again, his tone is different — lower, careful, edged with something you’ve only heard in brief flashes before.

“Let me get you out of your head for a while,” he says quietly. “If you want.” Heat curls low in your belly at the way he says it. Not pushy. Not coy. Just sure. You swallow. You could laugh it off. Make a joke. Change the subject. You don’t.

“And how exactly are you planning to do that, Tutorial?” you murmur, aiming for teasing and missing the mark, landing somewhere breathier.

You hear the faintest hitch in his breathing. “You trust me?” he asks.

The question hangs there, heavy and electric.

You think of how easily your body has learned to respond to his voice in-game — left, now, wait, with me — and how today, when everything else felt like it was slipping, that steadiness was the only thing that made you feel held together. You swallow. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

There’s a quiet exhale on his side of the line, like something in him unwinds. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then here’s what you’re going to do for me, Nyx.” Your name in that tone sends a shiver racing down your spine.

“Lie back,” he says softly. “All the way. Head on the pillow. I want you comfortable.” You obey, shifting until you’re sprawled on your back, phone resting against your ear, the cotton of your T-shirt whispering against your skin. “Done,” you say, a little breathless already.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “No screens. No ceiling. Just your body and my voice. Okay?” You let your eyes slip shut. The darkness comes in, thick and soft. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Now breathe for me. In… and out.”

You inhale slowly, chest lifting, then exhale, letting it all out. He counts it out for you, low and steady. “Again,” he says. “In… hold… out… Good.”

You focus on his voice, on the rhythm he sets. Gradually, the edges of your thoughts blur, the endless loop of feedback and whiteboards and sharp looks fading to background static. When your breathing has evened out, his tone shifts again — still soft, but more deliberate.

“Put your hand on your throat,” he says quietly. “Not hard. Just… there.”

Your fingers lift, drifting up to rest lightly against the hollow at the base of your throat. You can feel your own pulse hammering under your touch.

“Feel that?” he asks. “That’s how wound up you are. You’ve been holding everything right there all day.” You swallow under your own hand.

“Slide down,” he murmurs. “Slow. Over your neck. Your collarbones.”

You obey, fingertips gliding down, following the line of your skin, over the small dip at the centre of your chest. The simple motion sends a shiver through you; you’re too keyed up for anything to feel casual. He hears the tiny intake of breath you make. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “Just like that. Take your time.”

Your hand drifts lower, skating over the top of your chest. Even through your shirt, every brush feels magnified. You hesitate there, fingers resting, not quite squeezing. “You know what’s next,” he says, voice gone rougher. “Go ahead. Touch yourself how you like it. Over your shirt first.”

Your cheeks flame, alone in the dark, but you do it — carefully cupping your breast through the fabric, testing how sensitive you are. The answer is: very. Your back arches a little without your permission. A soft, involuntary sound slips out of you. He hears it.

You hear him react — a muffled curse, the kind you’ve only ever seen as text, now breathed into your ear. “Fuck,” he mutters, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Your stomach tightens. “You okay over there?” you whisper, voice shaky. There’s a rustle of fabric, the faint drag of something over skin. “Yeah,” he says, but the word comes out rough. “Just… appreciating the audio.”

You can picture him, suddenly, lying on his own bed somewhere, phone at his ear, hand not exactly idle. The thought sends another jolt of heat through you.

You roll your nipple gently between your fingers, breath catching, everything buzzing. “Spend a minute there,” he tells you. “You’ve been ignoring your own body. Make it up to yourself.”

You follow his lead, letting each slow touch build on the last until it’s almost too much. You’re panting softly now, the room feeling smaller, heavier.

“Lower,” he says at last, voice a little strained. “Hand down. Over your ribs. Your stomach.” Your palm drifts down, gliding over your torso, skin hot beneath the thin shirt, the muscles there jumping under your touch.

“Under the waistband,” he adds, quieter. “Don’t rush. Just get your hand where it wants to be.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You slip your fingers beneath the elastic, the contrast between air and warmth making you shiver. Just having your hand there, grazing lightly over your clit, pulls a soft, helpless sigh from you. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I can hear how badly you needed this.”

Your fingers start to circle on instinct, ready to chase what’s coiled so tight inside you, but his voice stops you. “Slow,” he says. “Start with just… exploring. Light pressure. See how sensitive you already are.”

You obey, fingers gliding in careful, teasing passes over the already sensitive nub. It’s not much, but it turns the volume up on everything; even the smallest stroke makes your thighs tense, your toes curl.

Your breath grows uneven, little gasps hitting the speaker.

On the other end, his breathing changes with yours. You hear the faint rhythm of movement, the slightest catch in his inhale now and then.

“You touching yourself too?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

There’s a pause. Then: “Yeah,” he says, honest and low. “I am.”

The admission sends a sharp pulse through you. You press down on your clit a bit harder, your hips giving a tiny jerk. He groans quietly, like the image in his head just shifted into focus. “Tell me what you’re doing,” he murmurs.

Your face burns, but you give him something — that your hand is moving in slow, careful circles over your clit, that every pass makes your breath stutter, that it’s not enough and somehow already too much.

It stays like that for a while.

You touch yourself the way he tells you to: small circles when you want to drag your hand, slow passes between your folds when your instinct is to grind down, the occasional shallow dip of your fingers into your heat that makes your whole body jump. Every time you try to speed up, he reins you back, murmuring “Not yet,” and you find yourself obeying even as you whine. The restraint makes everything sharper.

At one point, when the need to move harder is almost painful, he says, “Put me on speaker.”

You blink up at the ceiling. “What?”

“Speaker,” he repeats, steady. “Phone on the pillow. You’ll want both hands in a minute.”

Your pulse spikes again, but you do it — pull the phone slightly away, tap the screen until his voice fills the room instead of just your ear, set it on the pillow beside you. He sounds closer now, somehow bigger, every sound magnified. “Good,” he says. “Now you don’t have to hold back.”

You slide your other hand down to join the first. Where your left stays on your clit, the digits of your other hand move through your folds and over your entrance. The extra freedom makes your movements bolder, less restrained. Finally, you dip two of them inside, feeling the wetness and your tightening walls around them. When you curve them upwards, rubbing the spongey part on your upper wall, another sound escapes, something between a raw little gasp and a broken sigh.

“You hear yourself?” he asks, voice gone almost hoarse. “You have no idea what that’s doing to me.”

You do, actually. Because you can hear him now, too — the slick rhythm of his hand, the quiet curses slipping between his teeth, the way he has to stop talking for a second when you moan a little too loudly. “Tell me what you’re doing,” you manage, turning his earlier request back on him. “I want to know.”

He hesitates, then gives you just enough: “My hand’s around my cock,” he says, the vulgarity somehow making your whole body heat. “Palming the head, slowly. I’m trying to not let myself get ahead of you.”

The mental picture hits you like a punch. Your next moan comes out louder than you meant; you bite your lip, but it’s too late. He swears again, softly, like he’s the one being wrecked by the sound.

The tension builds and builds, each deliberate stroke of your fingers inside your hole dragging you closer. Your legs are trembling now, stomach tight, breath catching with every movement of your hands. You’re not even really thinking anymore; you’re just chasing what you need, guided by his voice.

“Kade,” you whisper, almost shocked at how wrecked you sound. “I’m… I’m close.” There’s a raw exhale from the speaker.

“Yeah?” he says, voice shredded around the edges. “Me too.”

You can hear it — the way his breathing has gone shallow, the way his rhythm has gone a little messy, like he’s barely holding on.

For a few seconds, neither of you talks. You just move, the room filled with the sounds of your shared urgency: your ragged breaths, his groans, the faint slide of skin on skin, the muffled wet squelch of your pussy.

You’re right on the edge, everything inside you drawn tight as a bowstring. He must hear the change in your breathing, because he finds his voice again, pushing the words out around his own impending end.

“All right,” he says, low and rough. “Now. Give it to yourself. Come for me.”

The command tips you over. You break apart with a soft, strangled cry, thigh muscles locking, back arching off the mattress as pleasure slams through you in sharp, blinding waves. Both hands stutter and then keep moving, drawn along by sheer momentum and his voice in your room saying, “That’s it. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

Somewhere in the middle of your own unravelling, you hear him let go. A rough, bitten-off groan, a rush of air, a muttered curse that blurs into a sound you’ve never heard from him before — not a word, just a noise dragged up from somewhere deep.

For a few long moments, all that exists is the echo of that peak and the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe. Slowly, your body loosens, muscles unwinding, hands falling still. You collapse back into the mattress, chest heaving, every inch of you feeling oddly light and heavy at the same time. His breathing is still coming hard through the speaker, a little ragged, but softening. You stare at the dark ceiling, fingers still twitching faintly, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He’s the first to speak, voice softer now, edges sanded down.

“You back with me?” he asks.

You swallow, licking your lips. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I… yeah.”

You hear him smile “Good,” he says.

There’s a pause. Then, lightly: “On a scale from one to ‘still thinking about your boss,’ where are we?” You let out a breathless laugh that feels more like a sob turned sideways. “I have no idea what my boss looks like,” you admit. “Or my own name.” He chuckles, warm and smug and weirdly fond.

“Mission accomplished, then,” he says.

You lie there in the dark, sweat cooling on your skin, pulse slowly working its way back down. The knot between your shoulders feels looser. The buzzing panic in your chest has been swapped out for a warm, heavy ache. Guilt tries to poke its head in — about work, about lines you’ve blurred, about how you’re letting a stranger talk to you like this.

It doesn’t stick. Mostly, you feel… lighter.

“You okay?” he asks after a stretch of quiet. “Yeah,” you say, this time without hesitation. “Better than okay.”

“Good,” he says again, a little hum in the word. “Then you’re going to drink some water, maybe wash up, and then you’re going to sleep. That’s an order.”

“Bossy,” you murmur.

“Effective,” he counters, back in that dry, familiar cadence. “Can you do that for me, menace?” Your chest squeezes. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I can do that.”

“Text me if your brain starts doing the spiral thing again,” he adds. “I can’t promise I’ll always pick up, but… I’ll try.”

Warmth blooms under your sternum. “Kade?” you say.

“Mm?”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For… all of it.” You hear the smile in his reply. “Anytime,” he says. “Now hang up before I start liking you too much and say something embarrassing.” You laugh, soft and stunned. “Too late,” you say.

You end the call before you can hear his response.

You drag yourself up, drink water straight from a glass, stand under too-hot water until your skin prickles and your legs feel a little weak for more than one reason, then crawl back into bed, phone on the pillow beside you. As sleep starts to pull at you, you glance at the screen one last time.

One new message: Sleep, Nyx. You’ve got bosses to kill tomorrow.

You fall asleep with his words in your ear and the ghost of his voice still telling you what to do, for once not minding in the slightest.

The morning after, you’re wrecked and glowing in equal measure.

You wake up to your alarm feeling like someone unplugged your bones and put them back in slightly wrong, every muscle loose and heavy. Your body is tired; your brain is oddly quiet. Like somebody cleared the cache overnight.

You drag yourself through a shower and into vaguely clean clothes on autopilot, trying very hard not to think about how you got here — the way Kade’s voice had wrapped around your nerves, the way he’d pulled that earth-shattering orgasm out of you over the phone, like it was nothing.

You fail, obviously.

Every time you close your eyes too long in the elevator up to Titan Forge, you hear him again. “Give it to yourself. Come for me.” You almost miss your floor.

Wonwoo’s already in the war room when you walk in, standing by the whiteboard, one hand braced on the table, the other wrapped around a coffee like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

He looks tired. Not his usual “up late thinking about enemy AI” tired. His hoodie is rumpled, hair messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and caffeine is only barely keeping him upright.

When you step inside, he glances up. Your gazes catch.

Something flickers across his face — a flash of something unreadable— before he looks away a fraction too quickly, taking a long swallow of coffee. You tell yourself the weird lurch in your chest is leftover vulnerability from last night, not anything to do with him.

“Morning,” you say, dumping your bag in your usual spot. “Barely,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes. You arch a brow. “Did the combat doc keep you up that late?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that,” he says, voice a shade rougher than usual. “You ready to make this god bleed for the playtest?” You grab a marker, capping it off with more force than necessary. “Born ready,” you say. “Let’s go break our own hearts before everyone else gets a turn.”

Between bug reports, tuning passes, and Jisoo poking her head in to ask for “just one more line” that will “totally make that cutscene land,” you barely have time to breathe. On your first coffee break, your phone buzzes in your pocket as you stand in the kitchen staring at the sad remains of a pastry tray. You fish it out.

Kade: “How’s your ‘colleague’ today?”

Your lips twitch. You glance at the doorway, half-expecting someone to be watching you. The kitchen is empty except for the hum of the fridge. You lean your hip against the counter and type back.

You: “Annoying. Smug. Infuriatingly good at his job.”. Kade: “Sounds like you want to strangle him or sit on his lap.”

Heat flashes under your skin so fast you almost drop your coffee. You bite your cheek, thumbs moving before your brain can meddle.

You: “Bold of you to assume it’s not both.” Kade: “There’s that bratty streak. Save some attitude for tonight.”

Your stomach does a slow, traitorous flip. You stare at the screen a second too long. A voice behind you makes you jump. “Coffee machine’s not a puzzle, you know.” You twist around.

Wonwoo’s standing in the doorway, mug in hand, watching you with that flat, unreadable look. Up close, the tiredness is even more obvious — the way his shoulders slump a little, the faint redness at the corner of his eyes, like he rubbed them too hard. You thumb your phone screen off and push the kettle button. “I was psyching myself up,” you say. “Trial Three, final day. Feels like a boss rush.”

He moves past you to the machine, sleeve brushing your arm. It shouldn’t register. Your skin registers it anyway. “At least on boss rushes you get loot,” he says. “If we survive this, I demand loot,” you reply. “Bare minimum: one nap and something with melted cheese.”

He huffs something that might resemble a laugh. “Aim high, Pixie,” he says. You don’t let your brain linger on how your nickname sounds in his sleep-rough voice.

The hours blur. You and Wonwoo fall into an uneasy, surprisingly efficient rhythm. He tweaks timings in the fight script; you adjust lines to match the new pacing. You suggest one more tiny reaction shot on the god when the choice lands; he grumbles about scope and then works the animation team to squeeze it in anyway. At one point, when Raj swings by to ask about the spike damage in phase two, you start to answer, and Wonwoo cuts in. “That tuning pass was mine,” he says before you can open your mouth. “If it feels unfair, blame me, not her.”

You blink at him. Raj squints, then shrugs. “It’s not unfair,” he says. “Just mean. I like it.”

He leaves. You glance sidelong at Wonwoo. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say. He keeps his eyes on his laptop. “You didn’t,” he says, “when they said the cutscene was too long. You argued it down to shaving five seconds instead of twenty. Call it even.”

You don’t have an answer to that, so you pretend to be very invested in your line spacing. You press your lips together, refusing to smile. It doesn’t work.

By midday, the war room looks like you detonated a design doc bomb.

Sticky notes bloom in clusters on every available surface. One whiteboard is entirely “CUT” and “KEEP” columns; another is scribbled with a half-dozen variations of one line of god dialogue.

You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Wonwoo in front of the build monitor as the latest version of the fight plays back. The QA tester controlling the characters executes your “punished vs. rewarded” dynamic perfectly — one player glowing with buffs, the other staggering under repeated hits.

When the god finally falls, the cutscene triggers. The new, sharpened version hits harder than you expected.

The god looks directly at the defiant player and whispers the line you fought for — the one about “you’ll carry this choice even when my voice is gone.” The look they give each other just before the screen fades out punches you in the chest.

You glance sideways. Wonwoo’s lips press together in what might be grudging satisfaction. “It works,” he says.

“You sound surprised,” you say.

He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “I’m surprised we got it to work in time,” he says. “Not that it works.”

You’re definitely too sleep-deprived, because your brain momentarily short-circuits at that. Before you can unpack it, your stomach growls loud enough to be embarrassing. He actually cracks a small smile at that.

“Go eat,” he says. “I’ll push this build to the playtest branch.”

You hesitate. “You should eat too,” you reply. “You look like you might ascend if someone breathes on you too hard.”

His mouth twitches. “If I ascend, you don’t get your cutscene,” he says. “Go.” You point two fingers at your eyes and then at him in a “this isn’t over” gesture, then back out of the room, phone already in your hand.

In the hallway, the fluorescent lights are a little too bright as you unlock your phone.

You: “We’re almost at presentation. I’m fifty percent adrenaline, fifty percent spite.” You: “If this goes badly, I’m blaming you retroactively.”

He doesn’t make you wait long.

Kade: “Bold, blaming your emotional support raid lead.” Kade: “How bad on a scale from ‘mildly annoying’ to ‘I need to set something on fire’?”

You glance down the hallway toward the war room and smile despite yourself.

You: “Hovering around ‘light arson.’” You: “But the project is finally behaving. The flow feels good. It might actually… be something.” Kade: “Of course it is. You touched it.”

Your breath catches. You stare at that for a second, feeling something warm and weird spread under your ribs. The dots keep bouncing.

Kade: “You pour yourself into things. It shows. Even from here.” Kade: “Worst case, if they don’t get it, they’re wrong.” You: “You’re dangerously close to being sappy.” You: “That’s my job.” Kade: “Relax, menace. I can be sappy and tell you what to do.” Kade: “Speaking of. Deep breath. Shoulders down. Drop your jaw.”

You roll your eyes but follow the instructions, exhaling slowly, unclenching muscles you didn’t even realise were clenched.

Kade: “Better?” You: “Hate that you’re effective from another timezone.” You: “But yeah. A little.”

The reply this time is slower, the dots lingering.

When it comes, the tone has shifted — lighter, teasing, the kind of playful edge that makes your pulse tick up.

Kade: “Good.” Kade: “Now go impress them so I can ruin your composure again later.”

You choke on nothing.

You: “You’re very confident.” Kade: “Last night says I’m allowed to be.”

Heat streaks through you at the reminder. You lock your phone before you can type something incriminating in the middle of Titan Forge’s hallway.

The internal playtest and presentation take place in the same big conference room where your earlier trials happened, but it feels different with a build you actually believe in. QA runs the slice while David, Raj, Jisoo, Kaito and a handful of other leads watch, controllers in their hands. You and Wonwoo stand side by side at the front, laptops open to your notes, pretending your hearts aren’t banging against your ribs in sync.

The fight plays. The mechanics land. There are wipes, but fair ones. The co-op dynamic between the “defiant” and “obedient” players sparks arguments and laughter in all the right places. The cutscene at the end hits; you see it in the way Jisoo goes very still, in the little “ohhh” murmured around the room when the god spits their last line.

Lights up. For a moment, nobody talks.

Then Raj lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like he’s been holding it the whole time. “That phase two pattern is nasty,” he says. “In a good way.” He looks at Wonwoo. “I like how the punished player gets just enough tools that you want to be the one taking the hits.”

Wonwoo nods once. “Pain loop needed a reward,” he says.

Jisoo looks at you. “And the choice,” she says. “Tying the aggro mechanic to who argued with the god—that’s mean. I love it.”

You smile, shaky and a little relieved. “It felt right,” you say. “If they’re going to commit to defiance, the world should respond. Even if it’s inconvenient.” Kaito scrolls through notes on his tablet. “For a five-day slice,” he says slowly, “this is… ambitious. But it’s coherent. The systems and story are actually talking to each other.”

David has been quiet, watching you both instead of the screen. Now he straightens from where he’d been leaning against the table.

“It’s good,” he says. “Rough around the edges, sure, but the spine is strong. I can see the game in this.” Relief washes through you, sharp and dizzying. Then he smiles that sharp little smile that makes you nervous.

“Whose idea was the punished/rewarded co-op split?” he asks, eyes flicking between you and Wonwoo. “Combat or narrative?”

You open your mouth automatically. Wonwoo beats you to it. “Both,” he says. You blink at him. “She pitched the emotional hook,” he continues, nodding in your direction. “I built the numbers around it. You rip either side out, and it falls apart.” You catch up, mouth catching up to brain. “He’s the one who made it actually work,” you add. “If I’d tuned it alone, it would’ve been a story beat that accidentally killed everyone.”

David’s gaze moves back and forth between you like a metronome. “Cute,” he says. “You’ve discovered teamwork.” There’s a faint edge there you can’t quite parse. “If we had to ship this slice as-is,” he goes on, “I’d be yelling at you about scope, but I wouldn’t be ashamed of it. That’s… not nothing.”

Raj closes his notebook. “You two actually managed to make co-op feel like it matters,” he says. “That’s the thing I was most worried about when we started this project. I’m… impressed.”

You glance at Wonwoo. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw relaxed for the first time in days. When he notices you watching, he flicks a brief look your way. You share a small, tired smile. It feels oddly like a truce.

Later, after the room has emptied and the war room is in that strange limbo between “still yours” and “soon someone else’s mess,” you sit at the table with your laptop open, mostly for show. You know you should go home. Sleep. Eat real food.

Your phone buzzes. You don’t even pretend you’re not waiting for it.

Kade: “How’d it go?” You: “We didn’t crash and burn. Presentation played all the way through. People made noises, I think, that were good.” You: “Someone difficult even said he was impressed.” You: “I might frame that sentence.” Kade: “You should.” Kade: “Told you. You touch something, it turns into something good.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

You: “Careful. I’ll start believing you.” Kade: “Good.” Kade: “I want you thinking about what you did right today when I tell you what else I want you to do later.”

Your breath hitches. You glance reflexively at the door. Still empty.

You: “You’re very sure there’s going to be a ‘later.’” Kade: “I believe the odds are in my favour.” Kade: “Unless you regret it?”

You chew your lip and type.

You: “No.” You: “Definitely not.” You: “You?”

The answer comes fast.

Kade: “Not even a little.” Kade: “But if you ever do, we stop. No questions. That’s the deal.” You: “That’s very responsible of you, Tutorial.” Kade: “Don’t get used to it.” Kade: “I still plan on bossing you around mercilessly.”

You grin at your screen. Footsteps sound in the hallway. You lock your phone on reflex just before Wonwoo pushes the door open, a folder tucked under his arm, his phone in his hand. “Jisoo wants our notes for the presentation doc,” he says, crossing the room as he types something. “She’s doing a postmortem write-up.”

You nod, closing your laptop. Your phone buzzes again on the table, screen lighting up with Kade’s name for a second before going dark.

Wonwoo’s eyes flick to it, then away just as quickly, expression unreadable. “Big plans tonight?” he asks casually. You swallow, hoping your face isn’t doing anything incriminating.

“Sleep,” you say. “Maybe forgetting my own name for ten hours.”

His mouth twists like he’s suppressing a comment. “Try not to die before Trial Four,” he says instead. “I’d hate to have to steal your ideas posthumously.” You snort. “You’d miss me.”

He doesn’t look at you when he answers, putting his phone away instead. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I would.”

Before you can respond, he drops the folder on the table and leaves again, the door swinging shut behind him. Your phone buzzes one more time. You pick it up, a little faster than before.

Kade: “Tonight I want you on call, no game. Just you and me.” Kade: “Think you can be good for me twice in a row?”

You stare at the words, heat flooding your lower stomach. Between two fires, you think. One rival who makes you want to prove yourself every time he looks at you. One disembodied voice who sees right through you even without a name.

You: “No promises on being ‘good.’” You: “But I’ll pick up.”

You set your phone down, the war room spinning quietly around you, and realise that, for the first time in days, you’re not just surviving the crunch. You’re looking forward to something. Even if you have no idea how dangerously tangled those two parts of your life could get.

Trial Four comes and goes in a blur of pitch decks, leadership questionnaires, and David using phrases like “scalability of vision” until the words mean nothing.

By the time the dust settles, the roster has shrunk again. Baekhyun and Yoohyeon are cut post-Trial Three, with a quick “thank you for your time” and corporate smiles that don’t reach anyone’s eyes. Now it’s just you and Wonwoo. Two names on the board. Two badges in the war room. You thought it would feel triumphant. Mostly, it feels like the world is narrowing to a single point.

You notice it slowly at first — little shifts around the edges.

In one review, David circles your cutscene outline with a red pen. “We could trim here,” he says. “Skip straight from the god’s first line to the choice prompt. Keep the pacing tight. What do you think, Jeon?”

Wonwoo twirls his pen once between his fingers, eyes flicking from the page to the whiteboard where your emotional beats are mapped out. “If you cut that line,” he says, “the god’s turn comes out of nowhere. The player needs the hesitation to believe the threat.”

David lifts his brows. “We can show that in gameplay,” he says. “No need to over-explain.”

“We are showing it in gameplay,” Wonwoo replies, tone even. “That line lets them feel it before they see it. It’s doing work. I’d cut the second reaction shot instead.” David looks between you, clearly weighing how much blood he can squeeze from both stones.

“You okay with that, Pixie?” he asks you. You’re still stuck on the we in “we are showing it.”

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “We cut the second reaction shot, we keep the line.”

David’s mouth twists. “You two are getting very good at presenting a united front,” he says lightly. “Dangerous.”

Later, in a systems meeting, David tries again. He leans back in his chair, hands steepled. “If we were going to ship this,” he says, “I want to know whose name goes on the credits as lead. Narrative or combat. You can’t both be in charge.” He watches the words land, eyes bright like he’s waiting for sparks. You open your mouth, defences already snapping into place.

Wonwoo speaks first. “Pick whoever pisses you off less,” he says dryly. “It won’t change how we designed this. The slice is both of us.” You blink at him, caught flat-footed. David’s gaze sharpens. “You’re really okay with that?” he asks. “Even if the role lands on her?”

Wonwoo doesn’t flinch. “If she’s lead, I still get to build fights,” he says. “If I’m lead, she still gets to make people cry. Either way, you get a better game using both.”

You just stare at him. He feels it, finally glancing your way. “Don’t look so shocked, Pixie,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not a complete villain.” Your mouth opens. Closes. You look back at your laptop because looking at him suddenly feels dangerously complicated.

The days grow stranger by degrees. You and Wonwoo still bicker, but the barbs land softer now, wrapped in a layer of something almost like fondness. He still pokes holes in your logic, still rolls his eyes when you get too poetic on a first pass, still mutters “scope” under his breath whenever you pitch something ambitious.

But when David tries to pin a problem on you alone, Wonwoo steps in with a steady “that one’s on me.” When someone suggests cutting a narrative beat you love, he backs you up with combat justification. When you’re too fried to translate Raj’s tuning complaints into story terms, he quietly rephrases them until they make sense. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to pull away, to remind you this is still a competition, that only one of you walks away with Titan Forge on your CV. He doesn’t.

Meanwhile, your phone has become a second heartbeat. You don’t text Kade in the war room. Not when Wonwoo’s there. Not when anyone’s there. But the second you step away — into the hallway, into the stairwell, outside to gulp cold air on the rooftop — the buzz starts.

Kade: “Project update?” You: “Internal politics worse than external action. Send help.” Kade: “Kill them with charm. Or, failing that, numbers.” You: “Charm stat is low. Spite stat is maxed.” Kade: “Spite is a perfectly valid build.”

The sexting thread slithers between the jokes now, woven through the mundane.

Kade: “What are you wearing?” You: “Corporate casual and despair.” Kade: “Hot.” Kade: “Lose the despair later. Keep the rest on until I tell you.”

Your cheeks burn on the rooftop, wind biting at your ears. You type with your back to the door.

You: “You’re very sure I’ll do what you say.” Kade: “You say that every time, and then you do exactly what I tell you.” Kade: “Eventually.”

You hate how true that feels. You love how true that feels. You delete three responses that are essentially variations of “fuck you” and settle on:

You: “You’re lucky you’re good at this.” Kade: “I am. And so are you.”

You go back inside with your pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the final trial brief sitting on your desk.

In Aetherion, the boundary between “game” and “something else” keeps dissolving.

You and Kade finished the main story content weeks ago, but the devs keep patching in co-op vignettes — little side scenes, optional story nodes that only trigger if two players have a high enough “bond” score. You’ve unlocked almost all of them.

Campfires under different skies. Quiet nights in hidden shrines. Short quests where your characters work together to fix small, almost domestic problems — an NPC’s broken cart, a haunted well, a lost kid who won’t talk to anyone but Nyx. Tonight, you’re tucked into your usual corner of the crystalline forest, Nyx and Kade sitting on a log, a new “Between Wars” scene flickering to life around them.

You’ve both set your controllers down. At some point, the active playing stops and the two of you default to just talking. The conversation drifts like it always does.

Music first — soundtracks you love, tracks you loop when you’re playing or working. Then favourite boss designs, the ones that made you swear out loud in the best way. “The first time I beat that fight,” Kade says, “I screamed so loud my neighbour knocked on the wall.”

“Did you apologise?” you ask. “No,” he replies. “I asked if they wanted the build.” You laugh until your sides hurt.

That slides into childhood games — cartridges and cracked CDs, memories of borrowed consoles and staying up too late, the first time you realised you could be in a story instead of just reading it. You describe playing an ancient fantasy RPG on a hand-me-down system with a broken save battery, having to keep it paused for hours because turning it off meant losing everything. “That explains so much about your personality,” Kade says. “Early exposure to high stakes.”

“Says the man who thinks floor traps are a fun learning tool,” you shoot back. “They are,” he insists. “Pain is an excellent teacher.”

His voice is warm, amused, threaded with that intimacy that comes from too many hours spent comfortingly in each other’s ears.

At some point, you realise you’re lying sideways on your couch, phone in one hand, controller barely touched in the other, just watching Nyx and Kade’s idle animations flicker by the campfire. The game has become scenery. He has become the main thing.

The thoughts that have been circling for days finally break the surface three nights later.

You stall for a bit — talk about a minor NPC, toss a few jokes out, let them fall. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you blurt: “There’s someone at work I can’t stand.”

You hear him go quiet, the soft crackle from his mic shifting as he settles more fully into listening mode. “The same one you mentioned before?” he asks. “The ‘annoyingly talented’ one?”

You exhale, long and uneven. “Yeah,” you say. “Him.”

You pick at a loose thread on the couch with your free hand.

“He drives me insane,” you continue. “He’s smug, and infuriating, and he always seems… collected. Even when I’m falling apart. He used to act like I wasn’t even a threat. Like I was just… there.”

“Used to?” Kade prompts gently.

You think of Wonwoo taking the blame in front of Raj. Of him backing your line against David. Of his quiet “If she’s lead, I still get to build fights” like your success doesn’t diminish his. Think of the way he said, “Yeah. I think I would,” when you joked he’d miss you.

“Lately he’s been… different,” you say slowly. “Backing me up in meetings. Deflecting shit that isn’t my fault. It’s like he decided not to be an ass overnight, and my brain hasn’t caught up.”

You swallow. The words feel like they’re scraping on the way out.

“And I think I might also…” You force yourself to say it, “…be kind of into him, which is very annoying.”

When Kade finally laughs in reply, it’s not cruel. It’s strained, like he’s trying very hard to keep something steady. “Enemies-to-lovers is a classic trope for a reason,” he says lightly. You groan, dropping your forearm over your eyes. “This isn’t a romance novel,” you protest. “He’s— I mean, we’re competing. For the same project. He’s my rival.”

“Rivals to lovers,” Kade corrects. “Also a classic.” You make an inarticulate noise of despair. “You’re not helping.”

There’s a soft exhale on the other end. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped — not into the commanding cadence he uses when he’s telling you where to stand, but into something lower, more careful. “You sure?” he asks.

“Sure about what?”

“That this isn’t a romance novel,” he says quietly. “Feels like it from over here.”

You want to argue. You also want to crawl into your own hoodie and never come out. “You’re romanticising this,” you grumble. “You don’t know him.”

“I know you,” he says. “You light up when you talk about work. Even when you’re pissed off. You wouldn’t waste this much energy on someone you didn’t… care about, on some level.”

You chew on that, on the word care, on the possibility that your anger has been hiding something else. It’s too much. So you dodge. “So what, I’m just supposed to confess my undying love in the next meeting?” you say. “Wear a shirt that says ‘I hate how attractive your brain is’?”

He laughs, the tension in his voice easing a fraction. “I mean, I’d pay to see that,” he says. “But no. I’m saying you don’t have to have it all sorted right now. You’re allowed to want to throttle someone and kiss them at the same time.” The worst part is that you’ve already told him that exact thing — about your colleague — in texts. You’ve practically written your own trope label. You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “You’re infuriatingly reasonable,” you say.

“I contain multitudes,” he replies.

You can hear him smile, but there’s still something tight underneath, like holding this conversation is scraping against a nerve you can’t see.

On screen, Nyx shifts closer to Kade by the campfire, their idle animation nudging them nearly shoulder to shoulder. You watch them, heart thudding, as Kade says, almost too casually, “For what it’s worth?”

“Yeah?”

“Whoever he is,” Kade says, “he’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what he’s got in front of him.”

Your throat closes up for a second. You swallow around it. “Yeah, well,” you say, voice coming out softer than you like. “Good thing you’re not an idiot, then.” There’s a tiny, startled pause. Then he laughs, low and a little shaky. “Working on it,” he murmurs.

You log off hours later with your head spinning, your heart sore, and a growing suspicion that you’re in way over yours.

In one world, you’re gearing up for the final trial against the man who’s been an accidental measuring stick for your entire career, who has started quietly stepping into your corner when it counts.

In another, you’re falling asleep with your phone on the pillow beside you, waiting for a notification from the voice that can pull you apart and put you back together from miles away.

The lines between them blur a little more every day.

Trial Five doesn’t feel like a trial. It feels like a war of attrition.

You and Wonwoo are basically living at Titan Forge. Someone wheels a spare couch into your war room; it becomes a graveyard for hoodies and half-finished coffee cups. The blinds stay half-closed because the outside world is starting to feel like an optional DLC you didn’t purchase.

The brief is simple and cruel: “Pitch a three-year roadmap for Mythfall: Eclipse and then, in a live scenario, rescope that roadmap when we throw crises at you. Show us how you think, how you cut, how you lead.”

You’re not just designing a game anymore. You’re designing a future.

And David is done pretending he’s rooting for you both.

It starts with the one-on-ones. He frames them like standard check-ins.

“Just to make sure you’re both supported,” he says, smiling bright and harmless. “We don’t want you burning out before you even get the job.”

You go first.

David’s office is smaller than you thought it would be. Crammed with shelves, concept art pinned everywhere, a whiteboard full of half-erased scribbles. His desk is cleared, though — tablet, a little stack of sticky notes, your file. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You’ve done good work, Pixie,” he says. “Mythfall’s heartbeat? A lot of that is you.”

The compliment lands, then immediately feels suspicious. “Thanks,” you say carefully. He nods, like he expected the caution. “But you know how this works,” he goes on. “We can’t have two leads on one title. Someone has to own the final call. Someone has to be willing to say ‘no’ when everyone wants ‘yes.’”

“I can do that,” you say. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking if you’re willing to out-think Jeon,” David says, sharp now. “Because he’s very good at what he does and he’s talking about a solo vision in his meetings.” Your heart stutters. “Solo vision?” David shrugs, casual. “Not in those words,” he says. “But you know how combat people are. Systems-first. He’s got strong opinions about how this game should play and end. I need to know you’re not going to just… orbit him. That you can bring something equally sharp to the table.” You sit a little straighter, pulse beating in your ears. “I’m not orbiting anyone,” you say before you can soften it. “I have a vision. Our slice works because I fought for it. I can fight for the larger picture too.” His eyes warm. “Good,” he says. “Show me that tomorrow. Show me where you would push back if he gets stubborn. We need different perspectives. That’s the best-case scenario — not two versions of the same mind.” You leave feeling like you’ve swallowed a live wire.

You don’t see Wonwoo’s one-on-one. But you see him come out.

You’re walking past the row of glass offices with a printout in your hand when his door opens. He steps into the hallway, face set in that neutral, unreadable way you’re starting to recognise as his version of upset.

David’s voice carries through the cracked door, too loud to pretend you don’t hear. “—just don’t get blindsided, okay? She’s smart. She’s already talking about pitching a separate direction. I’d hate for you to assume you’re on the same page when you’re not.”

Heat floods your face. You don’t stop walking. You don’t look at either of them. You keep going until you’re around the corner, then press your back to the wall and stare at the printer paper in your hand without seeing it.

Separate direction. You replay the conversation in David’s office. The way he framed his concern. The way he twisted “I need you to be strong” into “he wants to lead alone.” The way he’s now telling Wonwoo you might split.

The next two days are a mess of splinters.

You and Wonwoo are still working together, but the soft goodwill that started to build after Trial Three now has hairline cracks running through it. When you push for a narrative-heavy arc in Year Two, you catch him hesitating before he backs you up. When he sketches a system for rotating co-op alliances in Year Three, you hear yourself ask, sharper than you meant, “And where exactly does that leave story continuity?”

You both apologise, quickly and awkwardly, but the apologies feel thin over the tension buzzing underneath. Tiny misunderstandings, yesterday’s nothing, turn into petty frustrations today. You find out, during a review, that he moved one set piece on your Year One roadmap to fit a boss he’s been dreaming up. He finds out, during a call, that you rewrote some flavour text for his combat trees without telling him because “it fit better tonally.” Each time, you both say “It’s fine,” and neither of you sounds like you mean it.

The blowup happens at 1:17 a.m.

The war room is lit only by two desk lamps and the blue glow of the big screen. Everyone else on your floor went home hours ago. Even the cleaning staff have passed through twice and left. There’s an empty pizza box on the table, three coffee cups, two energy drink cans, and one very frayed patience between you. You’d crashed on the couch for “ten minutes” and woken up forty minutes later, neck stiff, mouth dry. You push yourself up, scrub a hand over your face, and stagger toward your laptop. Wonwoo’s already there.

He’s standing at your side of the table, eyes on your screen, fingers moving over your keyboard. For a moment, your half-sleeping brain can’t parse it. Then your stomach drops. Your roadmap document is open. The Year Two narrative section — your section, the one you stayed up to write, the one about fractured pantheons and co-op betrayals — is on the screen.

Words have changed. Sentences shortened. Bullet points rearranged. One of your carefully built emotional beats has become a single bland phrase: “relationship fallout.” Something hot and ugly surges up your throat. “What are you doing?”

He looks up, startled. “Editing,” he says. “The wording was a little—”

“I didn’t ask you to touch that,” you snap, stepping closer. “That’s my section.” His brows draw together. “You were asleep on the couch,” he says. “The deck needs to go to Kaito by eight. I was trying to make sure it’s coherent.”

“By stripping all the specificity out of my pitch?” you demand. “Turning ‘the party has to live with the cost of sparing a god’ into ‘relationship fallout’?” You jab a finger at the screen. “Do you have any idea how hard I fought for that arc when Jisoo thought it was too dark?”

He sets his hands on the table, jaw tightening. “Yes,” he says. “I’m the one who backed you when she wanted to cut it.”

“And now you’re rewriting it while I’m unconscious,” you throw back. “So which is it, Jeon? Support or sabotage?” The air between you goes very still.

He straightens slowly. “You can’t be serious,” he says.

You laugh, harshly, too loud in the small room. “David told me you’ve been talking about your ‘solo vision,’” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “That you need to know you can lead this game on your own.”

Something flickers across his face — genuine surprise, then anger. “And he told me you were considering pitching a separate direction so I shouldn’t get blindsided,” he says, voice cool. “So forgive me for wanting to make sure our names are attached to something that actually fits together.”

You stare at him. You’re too tired. Too raw. Too used to being made to feel like the emotional one, the one who can’t take criticism, the one whose work is “padding” until proven otherwise. All you see is your document on the screen under his hands.

“If you wanted to ‘make sure it fits,’ you could’ve woken me up,” you say, hurt sharpening every syllable. “Instead of quietly sanding down my work until it looks more like yours.”

His expression shutters. “If I’d known you were going to accuse me of sabotage every time I tried to help,” he says, voice flattening, “maybe I shouldn’t have started helping at all, Pixie.”

The nickname lands like a slap. You cross your arms over your chest, nails biting into your skin. “Nobody asked you to start,” you shoot back.

He flinches. It’s small. A tightening around his eyes, a tiny shift in his stance. If you weren’t staring at him, you might miss it.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The war room hums quietly around you — computer fans, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the ghost of someone’s laughter from three days ago stuck in the walls.

You break first. “I’m going home,” you say, snatching your laptop cord out of the wall. “You clearly have this under control.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, exasperation slipping into his tone. “We have a deadline. We don’t have time for—”

“For me to be upset about you rewriting my work?” you cut in. “No, of course we don’t. That would be inconvenient.”

You stuff your laptop into your bag, way rougher than necessary.

He runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling for patience. “What do you want me to say?” he asks. “That I won’t touch anything that isn’t mine, even if the whole thing sinks because of it? Congratulations, you’re lead then. Alone.”

The worst part is that a piece of you hates how much that hurts. You yank your bag onto your shoulder. “Goodnight, Jeon.”

You’re halfway out the door when he says, quieter, “You know that’s not what I meant.” You don’t look back. If you do, you might crumble.

Your apartment feels foreign when you stumble in.

You drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off hard enough that one skids under the table. Your Titan Forge badge lands on the counter with a clatter. You pace the length of your living room three times, pulse still hammering in your ears. You’re furious. You’re exhausted. You’re hurt.

That last one feels like betrayal.

You scrub a hand over your face, breathing hard. Your gaze lands on your PC. You know you should just go to bed, let the anger burn itself out, deal with the fallout tomorrow like a professional adult.

Instead, your fingers move on autopilot. You boot Aetherion.

Nyx materialises in the crystalline forest, same as always. The world is quiet, glowing, almost gentle. Your voice chat icon lights up almost immediately. You accept before you can reconsider.

“Hey,” Kade says. Usually, there’s a smile in his voice when he greets you. Tonight, there’s something else too — a thread of concern.

“You’re on late,” he adds. “Even for you.”

You don’t bother pretending otherwise. “Big surprise,” you say. “Work imploded.” You move Nyx without thinking, running her in circles under the trees, needing the motion.

“Walk or hit things?” he asks.

“Both,” you say. “At the same time.”

He chuckles softly. “Come on, then,” he says. “There’s a patrol route with some elites that deserve it.” He pings a spot. You follow, falling into the familiar pattern — Nyx at his flank, his greatsword a constant weight at the edge of your vision.

Your hands know what to do. Your brain does not. You take a hit you normally would’ve dodged. Miss an obvious telegraph. Overextend into a pack and eat a stun to the face. Kade notices.

“Nyx,” he says, after you faceplant into the same cone twice in a row. “You’re playing like someone swapped your dexterity for salt.”

“Maybe I did,” you mutter. He keeps his tone light, but there’s a hint of steel underneath now — the same edge he uses when a raid is one mistake away from a wipe.

“Talk to me,” he says. “What happened?”

You don’t want to talk. You also kind of want to scream. Instead, you give him the redacted version: the project, the roadmap, the one-on-ones that feel more like trap rooms, the late-night scene in the war room with your “colleague” at your laptop. You still can’t say Wonwoo’s name here. It doesn’t matter. You talk in silhouettes; Kade connects the lines.

“He rewrote my work while I was asleep,” you say, fingers tight on your mouse. “Then acted like I was overreacting for being pissed about it.”

On screen, Nyx lunges forward at the wrong moment. You notice too late; a phantom’s blade kisses her health bar. Kade swings in, intercepting, catching the enemy’s attention before it finishes the combo. “Of course you’re pissed,” he says. “Anyone would be. That’s your name on the doc.”

“David’s already trying to pit us against each other,” you push on, anger rising with your words. “I’m supposed to be his co-lead, and I feel like I’m constantly fighting for my own oxygen. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

You take another hit. Kade yanks the mob off you again, but his voice is less smooth now. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he says. “You’ve been holding half the project together by force of will.”

“Hasn’t felt like it,” you say bitterly. “Feels like I’m either in the way or being used as decoration.” You rush into the next pack too early, ignoring the patrol path you usually follow. Three enemies turn at once, converging on you. Kade curses under his breath and dives in after you, sword flashing. “Nyx,” he says, firmer now. “Back up. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” you snap, dashing anyway. Your screen floods with damage numbers. He burns cooldowns to keep you from eating dirt. “I care,” he says. “Fall. Back.” Something in you bristles at the command.

You do it anyway, because your health bar is screaming and he’s clearly not about to let you die on his watch. You kite backward, breath too fast in your own ears. “You can’t keep charging red telegraphs and then get mad when you get hit,” he says tightly. “That’s not how this works.”

“Wow,” you say, the bitter laugh scraping out of your chest. “Thanks for the life lesson.”

“You wanted to hit things,” he reminds you. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t wipe in the process.”

The words land wrong tonight. You hear I’m trying to show you how to do it right. You hear you can’t handle this without me. You know that’s not what he said. It doesn’t matter.

“Maybe I’m just an idiot,” you say, fingers clenching around your mouse. “For talking to someone I don’t actually know. For letting some guy on the other end of a phone tell me what to do like he knows best.”

There’s a small, sharp silence. You hear his exhale, short and disbelieving. “Wow,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

You push on, because it’s easier than stopping. “You’re not the one who has to deal with the fallout if this blows up in my face,” you say. “You’re not the one with your real career on the line while you—” You cut yourself off before you say too much. The damage is done anyway. “Nyx,” he says, and there’s a warning in it now. “That’s not fair.”

You laugh, the sound sharp. “What part?” you demand. “The part where I rearrange my sleep to match your raid times? The part where you tell me how to breathe, how to touch myself, how to—” you choke on the memory, “—and I just… listen, because you’re so calm and sure and it’s easier than trusting my own judgment?”

Your vision blurs for a second. You blink hard. On screen, the last enemy dies. Loot explodes around you in a shimmer of colour. Neither of you moves to pick it up. His voice comes back, rougher. “You know me better than you think,” he says. “This isn’t just some game to me.”

You freeze. Something under your ribs twists. He keeps going, words tripping a little. “I’ve been here,” he says. “Every night you’ve wanted to scream. Every time you’ve doubted yourself. I know how you think about fights. I know how you talk when you’re stressed, when you’re happy, when you’re about to do something reckless. I know you.”

The hurt from the war room flares again, now tinged with something like panic. “Do I?” you ask, voice low and shaking. “Know you?”

You stare at Nyx and Kade on the screen — two avatars shoulder to shoulder, weapons sheathed, both idle animations breathing in sync. You realise, abruptly, that if he disappeared tomorrow, you don’t have a last name. You don’t have a face. You don’t have anything but a voice, a handle, and the mess he’s made of your heart. “Because from where I’m standing,” you say, “you’re just another guy who gets to be mysterious and in control and take what he wants and call it ‘help.’”

You can hear his breath on the line, sharp once, then pulled in. When he speaks, his voice is very, very controlled. “That’s what you think I’m doing?” he asks quietly. “Taking?”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust what will come out if you open your mouth. You hit escape. The menu fills your screen. You see his avatar turn toward you, as if he knows what you’re about to do even without mechanics for it. “Nyx,” he says, and there’s something in his tone you haven’t heard before — not command, not teasing, something brittle. “Don’t log off angry. Talk to me.”

Your cursor hovers over “Log Out.” Your eyes sting. You do it anyway. The world blinks out to the character select screen, then to desktop. His voice cuts off mid-breath.

Your room rushes in — the hum of your PC, the tick of your wall clock, the too-loud sound of your own heartbeat. You sit there in the dark, headset still on, fingers pressed white-knuckled into your thighs, breathing like you just wiped to a boss at one percent. You tell yourself you’re justified. That it’s good to remember you don’t really know him. That you’re protecting yourself. You tell yourself a lot of things. None of them makes your chest hurt less.

You rip the headset off and toss it onto the couch, then crawl into bed without showering, without brushing your teeth, without turning your phone face-up on the pillow like you usually do. You don’t want to see his name. You don’t want to see if it doesn’t appear.

In the dark, with your eyes burning and your throat tight, one thought echoes louder than the rest: In one world, you just accused your co-lead of trying to cut you out. In another, you just shoved away the only person who’s been holding you together when you felt like you were coming apart.

For the first time since this all started, it feels like you might have done real damage in both.

The next day, the whole building feels off-kilter.

The air in Titan Forge’s hallway is too dry, the fluorescents too bright, the hum of servers too loud. Every sound seems to scrape along your nerves. You step into the war room and feel it immediately: the shift.

Wonwoo’s already there, standing by the big screen, flipping through printouts. His hoodie is cleaner than yesterday’s, hair pulled back off his face, badge clipped straight. He looks composed. You do not feel composed. He glances up when you enter. For one suspended heartbeat, you meet each other’s eyes. There’s a flicker there—regret, maybe, or just the echo of yesterday’s fight—but he’s the one who looks away first, gaze dropping back to the paper in his hand. “Morning,” he says, neutral. “Sure,” you answer, just as flat. You take your seat at the table. He stays by the screen. You talk only when you have to.

“Slide eight needs numbers.” “Already added them.”

“We’re missing milestones for Year Two.” “Check the second tab.”

Voices clipped, eyes skimming past each other, never lingering. On paper, nothing is wrong. The deck is getting done. The roadmap is tightening. The final trial is tomorrow. Underneath, it’s all shattered.

Last night sits between you: you finding him over your document; his face when you accused him; your own words, sharp and ugly. The slam of the door when you walked out. You don’t know what to do with any of it.

You don’t know what to do with Kade, either. Your phone stayed face down on your nightstand, buzzing once, then silent. You didn’t look. You can’t now. Not with Wonwoo ten feet away. You dig your nails into your palm and focus on the work.

Today is “final prep day,” according to David. Polish. No surprises. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s, make sure the build and the deck and your brains all say the same thing. It feels less like polish and more like threading a needle during an earthquake.

You and Wonwoo spend the morning in the war room scrubbing the roadmap slides until they gleam. You tighten the wording on your emotional beats; he reworks a couple of graphs so they’re legible from the back row. You trim one story example; he trims two features and then adds a line to your slide so you can point to how story and systems saved scope together. In the afternoon, you move to the big conference room you’ll use tomorrow. Kaito’s assistant booked it for your “tech check and rehearsal.” It feels like walking onto a stage before the curtain.

You plug in the laptop. The title slide for your deck—Mythfall: Eclipse – Three-Year Vision—fills the big screen. You and Wonwoo take turns at the front, clicking through, talking to empty chairs. “Year One is about promises,” you say, gesturing to the map. “We teach players what this world honours and what it punishes.”

“Year Two is about consequences,” he adds, when the slide shifts. “We start cashing checks we wrote in Year One. Systemically and emotionally.”

You time yourselves. You tweak transitions. You add two backup slides for the live Q&A. You scribble a list of potential “crises” they might throw at you tomorrow and argue through how you’ll answer each one so you don’t contradict each other in front of the leads. Sometime around nine, David sticks his head in. “You two still here?” he asks, sounding more amused than surprised. You click out of slideshow mode; the fluorescent lights feel harsher when the screen isn’t filling your vision. “Just making sure nothing explodes when we hook it up tomorrow,” you say.

He glances at the screen, at the neatly ordered thumbnails in the sidebar, at the whiteboards with timelines still half-erased. “Looks thorough,” he says. “Get some rest. Don’t over-rehearse. I want your brains sharp tomorrow, not fried.” You fight the urge to snort.

“We’ll head out soon,” Wonwoo says instead. David gives you both a quick, bright smile that somehow still feels like a test. “Big day,” he says. “Try not to think about it.” Then he’s gone, door swinging shut, leaving you in the echo of his advice. You and Wonwoo run the deck one more time anyway. Just once more.

By the end of it, your throat is scratchy and your shoulders ache. The clock on the wall says 11:34 p.m. The rest of the floor is dark. You start packing up—closing your laptop, stacking your printouts into a neat pile that immediately slouches sideways, capping the last dry-erase marker. Chair scrapes as you push yours in. “See you tomorrow,” you say, without looking up. You don’t wait for an answer. You head for the door, letting it swing shut behind you, never checking whether his footsteps follow or if he stays behind in the empty room.

You make it all the way down the hallway before you realise something’s missing. You stop dead. Your phone. You remember setting it on the table beside your laptop before you started rehearsing. You remember telling yourself you’d deal with Kade’s existence later. You did not remember picking it back up. “Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You pivot and head back.

The corridor is dark now, most of the floor already shut down for the night. Only the conference room door glows with light under the frame. You hesitate for half a second, then push it open. Your phone sits near the far end of the table, exactly where you left it. Right next to Wonwoo.

He’s in the chair you vacated, hunched over the table, elbows braced, face in his hands. His phone lies just off to the side, screen dark.

He jerks upright when the door opens. You both freeze. For a moment, you just look at each other, lit by the overheads and the flicker from the screensaver on the big monitor. You open your mouth to say something neutral—forgot my phone, or didn’t know you were still here—when you notice your screen is already lit. You cross the room automatically, reaching for it, then stop when you see what’s on the lock screen. A text preview, right there in familiar formatting.

Kade: “I’m sorry about last night, Pixie. I pushed too hard.”

You stare at the words, at the nickname. Pixie. You feel it like a physical impact: the word, the timing, the apologetic tone that matches the one you’ve come to know from his texts and calls. Your head snaps up. Wonwoo is watching you. You catch the movement as he slides his own phone into his back pocket, the guilty tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingers there a second too long, like he’s just shoved something incriminating out of sight.

The puzzle pieces don’t fall into place so much as smash together.

The nickname. The way Kade has always understood your stress too well. The raid schedule that magically fit your crunch. The little phrases that echoed things Wonwoo said in person. The way he knew how fried you were before you even spoke some nights. Your stomach drops, molten and cold all at once. You reach for your phone with numb fingers, staring at the message, praying it might rearrange itself if you look hard enough. It doesn’t. Your voice, when it comes, sounds distant to your own ears. “It was you.”

You swallow, throat burning. “This whole time,” you whisper, “it was you.”

He flinches like you hit him. “Pixie—”

“Don’t,” you snap, the word cracking on the way out. “Do not call me that right now.” Silence slams down. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Somewhere, faintly, the elevator dings in the distance. Wonwoo stands slowly, palms flat on the table like he’s afraid to move too fast. “I was going to tell you,” he says, voice low. “I just—”

You laugh, short and ugly. “When?” you demand. “Before or after we fucked on the phone again? Before or after I cried about you to you?” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t use my name,” he says. “You never said it was me.”

“Because I didn’t know,” you spit. “Because I thought I was safe there. That Kade was—” You break off, biting the name in half. He winces.

“I figured it out after Trial Three,” he says quietly. “When I brought Jisoo’s file, and you left your phone on the table.”

Images slam into your mind: that evening in this same room, your phone lying next to your laptop, the soft buzz as a notification lit the screen; Kade’s name flashing for a heartbeat; the way you’d flipped it facedown a second too late as Wonwoo walked in with a folder under his arm. You grip your phone tighter, knuckles white.

“So you knew,” you say slowly, “for days, that I was Nyx.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you didn’t say anything?”

He deflates a little, shoulders sagging. “You hated me,” he says simply. “Here.” He gestures around the room. “You barely tolerated me during Trial One. I thought if I told you I was Kade, you’d cut me off in both places. I… didn’t want to lose you.”

Something in your chest twists. “So you lied instead.”

“I never lied,” he says. “Not to you. I just… didn’t correct your assumptions.”

You stare at him. The distinction feels paper-thin. “You let me talk about you,” you say, voice shaking now. “You let me complain about my ‘colleague’ being dismissive and infuriating and… and you listened as if you were someone else. You didn’t even—” you swallow hard, “—you didn’t even try to defend yourself.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I liked how you talk about me when you forget you’re supposed to hate me,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “I liked hearing what I was getting wrong. I wanted to fix it.”

You shake your head, anger spiking through the hurt. “You wanted to have it both ways,” you snap. “You wanted me as your rival and your raid partner. You got to be the asshole who made me doubt myself and the voice who put me back together at night. Do you have any idea how messed up that is?” His expression breaks, just a little.

“Of course I do,” he says. “You think I haven’t been calling myself every name you just did? I thought I’d get a chance to explain before… this.”

He waves a hand between you, helpless. Your eyes burn. You take a step toward him before you realise you’re moving. “Explain, then,” you say, bitter. “Explain the part where you also decided to sext me for weeks without telling me who you were.”

Colour climbs his throat. He doesn’t look away. “I didn’t plan that,” he says hoarsely. “I wasn’t sitting here thinking, ‘how do I trick her into phone sex?’ I was already gone for you before I knew you were Nyx.”

You choke on a disbelieving sound. “Gone for me,” you repeat. He nods once.

“I’ve had a crush on you for years,” he says, words coming faster now like he’s afraid that if he stops, he won’t be able to start again. “Back when you were doing little indie visual novels, and everyone wrote you off as ‘the feelings girl.’ I watched you eat people alive with your writing. I watched you win awards I wanted and clapped for you from the back row.” Your heart lurches, confused. He keeps going, voice rough.

“And every time I tried to talk to you at a con, I said something stupid, and you looked at me like I was bored. So I did the only thing I know how to do when I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling.”

He gives a humourless huff. “I acted like you weren’t a threat,” he says. “Like I barely noticed you. It was a shitty defence mechanism. I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, I’d stop thinking about you every time I opened a new brief.” You stare at him, chest heaving. Something cracks open under your ribs. “Spoiler,” he adds quietly. “It didn’t work.”

You let out a wild, half-hysterical laugh. “So instead,” you say, “you went with secret alt and made me fall for you there.”

“I didn’t think you’d…” he trails off, eyes closing briefly. “I just liked talking to you without the history. You liked me there. Or at least you didn’t hate me.” His gaze finds yours again, raw. “I meant every word I said to you as Kade,” he says. “Every apology, every compliment, every time I told you I was proud of you. That was me. I just… didn’t know how to be that guy with my own face.”

He looks wrecked—eyes too bright, shoulders hunched like he’s braced for impact. You feel like you’re going to fly apart. Anger, betrayal, want, old hurt, new hurt—it all churns inside you until you can’t tell one from the other. “You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. He frowns. “Do what?”

“Be both,” you say, gesturing wildly. “You don’t get to be the man who made me feel small for years and the man who held me together in my headphones and—” your voice cracks, “—and the man who made me come late at night with his voice and then text me like nothing happened. You don’t get to be all of that and expect me to just… slot it into one person and be fine.” You see his hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

“I don’t expect you to be fine,” he says, quiet and fierce. “I expected you to be furious. You should be. I deserve that.”

You close the distance between you without meaning to. You’re close enough now to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his pupils are blown wide, the tension in his neck. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You hate him. You want him. The contradictions tear at you, each one feeding the other. Your hand moves before your brain catches up. You shove at his chest. He rocks back a step, not because you’re strong enough to move him, but because he lets you.

“You made me feel crazy,” you say, shoving him again. “I thought I was losing my mind because I was falling for a guy I’d never seen while I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing my rival at work.” He catches your wrist before you can shove him a third time—not hard, just enough to halt the motion. “You’re not crazy,” he says. “You were falling for the same idiot twice.” That does it.

You surge forward, grabbing the front of his hoodie, and crash your mouth into his. The kiss lands messy, teeth clacking, too much force and no finesse. It feels less like affection and more like a collision. He makes a low sound in his throat, like he’s been waiting for this and is still somehow surprised. Then he’s kissing you back, just as rough. His free hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He yanks you closer, mouth moving over yours with an intensity that borders on feral. You bite his bottom lip, hard enough to make him gasp. He hisses between his teeth, grip in your hair tightening just shy of painful.

“Careful,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You keep that up, and I’m not going to be gentle.”

“Maybe I don’t want gentle,” you snap.

Something in his eyes darkens. He searches your face, breathing ragged. “You sure?” he asks, voice low. “You say ‘stop’, and we stop. I don’t care how pissed you are.”

Your whole body is buzzing, every nerve screaming. Logic tells you that this is a terrible idea—that you are too angry, too hurt, too everything. Your mouth doesn’t listen. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper.

Whatever thin leash he had on himself snaps. He backs you up until your hips bump the edge of the conference table, never breaking the kiss, hands all over you now—at your waist, your ribs, sliding up your sides like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You tug his hoodie down his shoulders, grabbing at cotton and heat, needing him closer, needing something to hold onto before you come apart. He obliges, stepping between your legs, his body slotting against yours like it was always meant to fit there. Your hands find his hair, sinking in, tugging hard. He groans, the sound vibrating against your mouth. “Brat,” he breathes. “Of course you are.”

He drags his mouth down your jaw to the spot under your ear that makes your knees threaten to give out. His teeth graze your skin; his lips soothe the sting. The conference room around you falls away. There’s only the harsh sound of your breathing, the scrape of his stubble against your neck, the solid weight of him pinning you to the table. One of his hands slides up, skimming your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He just rests his fingers there, a firm, possessive circle that makes your pulse trip under his touch. You shudder. He feels it. “Okay?” he asks, voice suddenly very careful. You nod, too fast, words tangling. “Use your words,” he says, even now, even like this. You exhale shakily. “Yeah,” you manage. “I’m… good.”

His answering sound is halfway between relief and hunger. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. Your insides twist. You grab his wrist, not to pull him away but to anchor yourself, nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds your hip, fingers biting in.

Clothes shift and tangle. Buttons fumble as both your pants come undone. There’s the thud of your back hitting the table, the drag of his hands over your newly bared skin, the rasp of his breath as he curses softly into your mouth.

At one point, you spin him, shoving him back against the table, palms flat on his chest. “You don’t get to be in charge of everything,” you pant. His mouth curves, even now. “You keep saying that,” he says, “and then you keep doing exactly what I tell you.” You answer by biting his shoulder. He laughs, short and breathless.

He pushes you back to the table anyway, rougher now, turning you, bending you forward until your palms hit the cool surface. Your heart rabbit-kicks against your ribs. He pauses. You feel his hand splay over your lower back, steady and warm, holding you in place without holding you down. “Last chance to tap out,” he says, voice wrecked. “Tell me if this is just anger and you’ll hate me for it tomorrow.” You look back over your shoulder, hair wild around your face, lips swollen, eyes blazing.

You’ve never wanted anything as much as you want him in this exact, terrible, perfect moment. “I already hate you,” you say, breath shaking. “Do something about it.” Something breaks in his demeanour. He bends over you, his chest warm at your back, his cock hard against your ass cheeks, breath ghosting over your ear as his hand slides from your spine down, around your hip. His fingers slip between your thighs, knuckles brushing your sensitive, aching core he’s already worked up. You jolt, a broken sound catching in your throat. “God—” He groans quietly, like the confirmation hurts him.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Look at you.”

He starts to touch you there, fast and deliberate, drawing tight little circles on your clit that make your legs shake. It’s too much and not enough, heat building in dizzying waves. “Wonwoo,” you gasp, fingers clawing at the edge of the table. “I— I’m ready, just— please, I need—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to. He stills instantly. “Yeah?” he asks, voice wrecked, checking one last time. “You sure?” You nod frantically, words tumbling. “Stop teasing,” you snap, desperate. “Now.”

He swears under his breath, the sound rough and reverent all at once. Then he presses forward, fitting his hard cock against your entrance in one slow, inexorable push that knocks the air from your lungs. The stretch, the pressure, the sheer presence of him hits you like a shockwave. You choke on a strangled moan, fingers white-knuckled on the table. He exhales a ragged curse.

For a second, he just holds there, buried deep inside your cunt, both of you shaking. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—” He cuts himself off with a shaky laugh. “Of course you do. Of course you’re like this.”

You rock back on instinct, testing him. He gets the hint. The first thrusts inside you are measured, like he’s making himself count. Each snap of his hips drives you forward, your palms sliding on the smooth surface, the bite of the table’s edge at your thighs grounding you even as everything else spins. He’s not gentle. You didn’t ask him to be. He’s not careless, either.

Every time your breath stutters wrong, he eases up. Every time your fingers claw at the table like you’re slipping, he steadies you—one hand banded tight around your hip, guiding you back to meet him; the other roaming, finding your ribs, your stomach, the base of your throat, touch firm and anchoring. You push right back, refusing to just take what he gives you. You meet every thrust with your own, gasping curses into the tabletop, chasing your own pleasure as fiercely as he drives you toward it.

The room fills with it: the obscene slap of your bodies meeting, the creak of the table, the scrape of a chair knocked sideways, your broken little sounds spilling out despite your best effort to stay quiet, his low, filthy praise in your ear. “Look at you,” he grits out at one point when you turn your head enough to catch his eye over your shoulder. “Still arguing with me even when you’re about to fall apart.”

“Shut up,” you gasp, words punched out of you. He laughs, breathless, sweat-dark hair falling into his eyes. “Make me,” he says.

You try. You shove back harder, changing the angle, dragging a ragged groan out of him that sounds suspiciously like surrender. He adjusts his grip, and suddenly his hand is fisting in your hair again, not cruel, but firm enough to tip your head back. He uses the hold to pull you upright, peeling you off the table until your spine is flush to his chest, his mouth at your ear. The new angle punches a startled cry out of you. He swallows it with a groan, hips jolting. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, voice shredded. “Take it. You’re doing so fucking well for me.”

The hand in your hair loosens, slides down, wraps back around your throat—fingers spread, thumb under your jaw, holding you there. Not choking, just owning, a perfect, unbearable collar. You whine, the sound high and broken. He feels it vibrate under his palm and shudders. “Okay?” he manages again, even now. You nod, too far gone to be anything but honest. “Harder,” you whisper. “Please.” You feel, more than hear, the way he swears at that, the way his control frays.

His free hand drags back down, over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, until he finds your clit again, fingers slipping down to work in ruthless counterpoint to his thrusts. You almost come right then. The pleasure spikes so sharply you have to grab his wrist, nails digging into his skin to keep yourself tethered. Your moans get louder, spilling out of you unchecked, echoing embarrassingly off the glass walls. Panic and arousal tangle. Without thinking, you grab his wrist where it’s banded around your throat and drag his hand upward, pressing his palm over your own mouth.

It muffles the next broken sound that tears out of you. It also gives you something to bite. You clamp down when the first wave of your orgasm hits—teeth sinking into the heel of his hand as your body seizes, vision sparking white at the edges. He groans, the noise punched out of him, hips stuttering. The combination—the way your walls clamp around him, the way your teeth mark his skin, the way you tremble against his chest—is what finally yanks him over the edge with you. He spills into you with a hoarse curse against your shoulder, thrusts stuttering, both of you shaking through it, riding out the aftershocks tangled together—your mouth still pressed to his palm, his chest a rough, solid drum against your back.

For a while, there’s nothing but the ringing in your ears, the burn in your lungs, and the heavy, shuddering weight of him braced around you as the storm you both started finally, finally breaks.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus. Your hands hurt from how hard you’ve been gripping the edge of the table. Your knees feel unreliable. Your clothes are a mess. You become acutely aware of exactly where you are: Titan Forge conference room, table still scattered with notes and printouts. Security cameras might be off at this hour. You don’t know and don’t particularly want to know.

Wonwoo eases back, gentle now, hands suddenly careful like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he moves too fast. He helps you straighten, fingers automatically reaching to adjust your shirt, pull up your pants, smooth your hair, thumb barely brushing the marks he left on your throat. You flinch away from the touch like it burns. His hands fall. “Pixie,” he says softly.

You shake your head, staring at the table, at your phone lying there with that text still on the lock screen. Your body is humming, boneless, satisfied in a way that makes your brain want to crawl out of itself.

Your heart is a wreck. “Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “I can’t— I don’t know what any of this is, okay? I don’t know how to be around you when you’re… all of that at once.”

He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Then let’s figure it out,” he says. “Talk to me. Yell at me. Ask me anything. Just… don’t walk away without giving me a chance to be honest with you, for once.”

You want to. Some part of you wants to curl up on this stupid table, let him confess every stupid feeling, let yourself admit your own. The rest of you is too raw, too exposed, nerves stripped bare. If you stay, you’re going to say something you can’t take back. You scoop up your phone with shaking fingers and shove it into your pocket. You don’t look at Kade’s apology again. You don’t look at Wonwoo.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper. You grab your bag from the chair, sling it over your shoulder, and head for the door. He doesn’t try to stop you. He just stands there, chest heaving, watching you go with something like devastation in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly, just before you cross the threshold. “In either place.”

You don’t answer. You leave him in the conference room—hair mussed, hoodie askew, notes scattered, the ghost of you still on his skin—while you walk out into the empty hallway, legs unsteady, mouth still tasting like him and your heart a tangle of love and fury you’re not ready to name.

The elevator doors slide shut in front of you. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t look.

You last exactly three minutes in front of your bathroom mirror before you decide to quit.

The first thirty seconds are just an assessment. Your eyes are ringed with exhaustion. There are faint bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in; a scatter of marks along your throat that your collar can almost hide. Your lipstick from last night is long gone, but your mouth still looks swollen, like your body remembers what it was doing on that conference table.

Your brain insists on replaying it in high definition: Wonwoo’s hand in your hair. Kade’s voice in your ear. The same man, the same mouth, the same hands. Your rival. Your crush. Your online almost-boyfriend. All stacked into one very real, very complicated person.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until little sparks dance. This was supposed to be simple. Titan Forge was supposed to be simple: win the contract or don’t. Get the credit or move on. Instead, you’ve acquired:

One crushed childhood dream brand

One emotional disaster of a dual-identity situationship

One very vivid mental catalogue of Jeon Wonwoo’s dick

You stare yourself down in the mirror. “Fuck my career,” you tell your reflection. You mean it. You’re not doing this. You’re not going to chain yourself to a project where the director pits you against your partner, and your partner is also the person who knows exactly how you sound when you come apart for him. You’re going to go in, tell David he can keep his title, and walk. You throw on the first halfway-clean shirt that doesn’t show your throat, yank your hair up, and head out.

By the time you swipe into Titan Forge, your resolve is layered over with a thin film of nausea. The lobby is its usual sleek, intimidating self. The Mythfall: Eclipse key art looms on the big screen—your god, your pantheon, your systems and story, all rendered in glossy concept art that now makes your stomach twist. You ride the elevator up alone, rehearsing lines. “I’m withdrawing from consideration.”/ “I’m grateful for the opportunity, but this isn’t the right fit.”/ “No, I don’t want your NDA-locked ‘consultancy’ crumbs, thanks.” The doors slide open onto your floor.

Before you can head for the war room, your phone buzzes with a calendar notification. Mandatory check-in – 15 min. Of fucking course. You sigh, stuff the phone back into your pocket, and change course for the big conference room. If nothing else, you can quit with an audience.

Everyone’s already there when you arrive. David stands at the head of the table, tie loosened, hands clasped like a man who’s about to deliver Very Important News™. Raj sits halfway down, arms folded, expression wary. Jisoo has a notebook open, pen twirling in her fingers. Kaito’s tablet is on the table in front of him, screen dark for once. Wonwoo is at the far end, one elbow on the table, fingers pressed to his mouth. His eyes flick up when you walk in. For one suspended second, everything that happened last night flashes between you like a glitch—his hands on your hips, your teeth in his palm, the way you’d both been shaking after. The way you’d walked out anyway.He looks wrecked and put-together at the same time: freshly washed hair, clean hoodie, bruised half-moons under his eyes. You take the empty chair at the other end of the table. You don’t look at him again.

David clears his throat. “Thanks for coming in early,” he says. “I’ll keep this brief. I know you’ve both been burning hard.” You fold your hands in your lap to stop them from balling into fists. This is it, you think. You open your mouth. He beats you to it.

“First,” David says, “I want to thank you both for your incredible contributions over the past weeks. What you’ve built for Mythfall: Eclipse is—genuinely—some of the strongest design work I’ve seen at this studio in years.” Your heart doesn’t even have the decency to flutter at the compliment. It just waits.

“Unfortunately,” he continues, and there it is, “due to some… unexpected shifts in budget and restructuring at the executive level, we’re not going to be hiring an external lead for this title after all.” For a moment, you’re sure you misheard him. The words land, rearrange themselves, refuse to make sense. He keeps talking. “The board has decided we’ll be internalising direction for Mythfall,” he says. “We’ll fold the frameworks you’ve both developed into our existing leadership structure.” Internalising. What the fuck?

“That doesn’t mean your work isn’t valued,” David adds quickly. “Far from it. We’ll absolutely be discussing consultancy fees, maybe ongoing advisory roles as things progress. Your names will be in the ‘Special Thanks’ without question.”

Special Thanks. You hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Five trials. Weeks of unpaid crunch. Your systems. Your narrative. Your fights. Your god. No lead role. No credit that actually matters. Just a vague promise of “maybe” money and a scroll at the end of the credits where your names get a half-second of blur. You realise, very calmly, that he never planned to hire either of you. The trials weren’t auditions. They were an extraction.

You feel your chair scrape back before you realise you’ve pushed it. “So that’s it?” you ask, your voice eerily steady. “We put everything on the table for you and you just… internalise it?”

David’s smile tightens. “I understand this is disappointing,” he says. “But this is the reality of triple-A right now. We have to make hard calls. You’ll still have the prestige of having shaped a Titan Forge flagship title.”

“Without a title,” you say. He shrugs, palms up. “Titles are fluid,” he says. “Impact is what counts.” Your vision goes a little white around the edges.

Maybe this is where you flip the table. Maybe this is where you walk out without another word. You’re right on the verge of one or both when Wonwoo speaks. His chair doesn’t scrape. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just says, very calmly, “No, you won’t.” Every head turns. David blinks. “Excuse me?”

Wonwoo straightens, rolling his shoulders back, and for the first time since you met him, he looks like he’s stepped fully into a role that fits: not the aloof rival, not the bored genius, but someone who knows exactly what he has and exactly what he’s willing to do to protect it. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a thin folder, a sheaf of stapled printouts, and his phone. “I had a bad feeling about this,” he says, flipping the folder open. “So during Trial Three, I filed provisional patents on the co-op systems we built, and registered copyright for the narrative framework and key beats.” He slides one of the pages down the table toward David. Your name is on it. So is his.

You blink. “You what?” He doesn’t look at you yet. “Under both our names,” he says, still watching David. “As joint creators. As independent contractors, not employees. The NDA you had us sign is for evaluation, not work-for-hire.” David’s expression curdles. “That IP was developed on our premises, using our tools,” he says. “With our staff overseeing. It belongs to Titan Forge.”

Kaito shifts in his chair. “Not automatically,” he says mildly. “Not without a specific assignment clause, which isn’t in the documents you had Legal send them.” David throws him a look. “Kaito—”

“I read what I sign,” Kaito replies. “And what I ask others to sign.”

Wonwoo taps his phone, bringing up an email thread. You can see the subject line from here: Re: Provisional Filing – Cooperative Risk/Reward Narrative Loop. He angles the screen toward David.

“My lawyer timestamped the submissions and acknowledgements,” he says. “We filed on the underlying mechanics and the specific expression of the narrative—two-player punished/rewarded dynamic, pantheon collapse beats, branching co-op romance structure, the whole package.”

He finally glances your way. There’s apology in his eyes, but also something like pride. “Titan Forge can’t legally ship this game as pitched without us,” he says. “Not without paying through the nose and crediting us as co-creators.”

The floor tilts under your feet. You grab the back of your chair, knuckles whitening, brain scrambling to catch up. He did this. Quietly. During Trial Three. When you were still trying not to kill each other over cutscenes and boss patterns. And he put your name on everything.

You turn to David. Your anger sharpens into something clean. “You used us,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake this time. “You dangled a title every developer in the city would kill for, made us jump through hoops, pitted us against each other, and you never intended to hire either of us.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not—”

“You thought we’d be grateful for scraps,” you cut in. “For ‘Special Thanks’ and ‘maybe some consultancy fees’ while you shipped our work under someone else’s name.” You take a breath that feels like stepping off a ledge. “We’re not.”

A beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, Raj speaks up. He leans forward, forearms on the table, gaze fixed on David. “I signed on for a tough evaluation,” he says. “Not for exploiting candidates’ work and cutting them out of leadership entirely. If we ship their design without them, I’m not putting my name on it.”

Jisoo’s pen, which has been motionless for the last few minutes, starts to move again. “And I’m not rewriting their story to make it just different enough to dodge the legal filings,” she says calmly. “You’d feel every compromise. The players would too.”

Kaito sighs, rubbing his temples. “We can’t afford this,” he says quietly. “If they walk and this goes public, the narrative becomes ‘Titan Forge runs unpaid lead design gauntlets and steals pitches.’ That’s a PR nightmare. Especially with the way hiring practices are under a microscope right now.” David looks between the three of them like he’s suddenly found himself outnumbered on a board he thought he controlled. “Nobody is talking about stealing,” he says, too quickly. “We were always going to compensate them—”

“With what, exactly?” you ask. “Because all I’ve heard is ‘maybe’ fees and ‘special thanks.’ No title. No real ownership. Just enough to shut us up.”

Wonwoo’s voice is quiet, but it carries. “If Titan Forge wants Mythfall: Eclipse as it exists now,” he says, “we talk proper contracts. Co-lead or co-director credits. Ownership percentages. Real money. Otherwise, we take our ideas somewhere else, and we call it something else.”

David snorts. “Good luck getting this scope off the ground without our resources,” he says. “You’ll be pitching for years.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not. But here’s the thing, David: we’d rather spend years pitching than hand you the keys to something you don’t respect enough to pay for.” You meet his gaze, steady.

“And if we do go somewhere else, we’ll have a hell of a story to tell about how this process went. About five ‘trials’ that were really free labour. I’m sure a few outlets would be very interested.” His face goes chalk-white, then mottled. “Are you threatening me?” he asks.

“We’re outlining consequences,” Wonwoo says before you can answer. “Which is what good designers do.” Silence stretches.

David looks at each of you. He sees no allies. Just a narrative lead, a combat lead, and a producer who don’t want their names on a theft; two designers who own the skeleton of the game he wants; and a potential scandal breathing down his neck. The fight goes out of his shoulders all at once. He exhales, long and disgusted. “Fine,” he grinds out. “We’ll revisit the roadmap internally. Shelve this version for now.” He flicks a tight look at you and Wonwoo. “Legal will be in touch about formalising whatever we used,” he adds. “If we use it.”

You know what that means. They’re not going to ship your blueprint. Not like this. They might try to rebuild something from scratch later, but it won’t be your pantheon, your punished-and-rewarded co-op dynamic, your particular mix of systems and story. They can’t, not without you. Good. “We’ll look forward to hearing from them,” Wonwoo says, polite and icy.

The meeting dissolves in slow motion. Raj gives you both a short, respectful nod on his way out. Jisoo squeezes your shoulder as she passes, eyes soft. Kaito mutters something about “coffee and a long talk later” and follows David out, tablet already in his hand, damage control mode engaged. Then it’s just you and Wonwoo and the ghost of a game that doesn’t belong to Titan Forge anymore. You stare at the empty doorway. You feel hollow. Furious. Relieved. Terrified. Weirdly, also free.

You’re ready to walk. You head for the door. He falls into step beside you without asking. The lobby is quieter on the way out than it was coming in. No one stops you. No one knows yet that a whole possible future just imploded on the top floor. You swipe your badge one last time. The reader beeps green. The turnstile clicks. You step through. So does he.

Outside, the city air is cool, cutting through the leftover heat in your skin. People move past on the sidewalk, oblivious. Cars hiss by on wet asphalt. The Titan Forge logo glows above you, massive and smug. You stare up at it. Then you flip it off. Wonwoo huffs out a laugh beside you.

“That’s mature,” he says. You lower your hand. “Thanks,” you say. “I work with what I’ve got.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just you and him, side by side on the pavement, not as candidate and rival, not as winner and loser, but as two people who just told one of the biggest studios in the industry to choke. Your pulse hasn’t quite settled. Your brain hasn’t picked a lane on him yet. He shifts his weight.

“So,” he says quietly. “Do you hate me?”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I tried to,” you admit. “Really hard. For a long time.” You meet his eyes. “It’s not… working out.”

Something in his expression loosens. The corner of his mouth lifts, small and disbelieving. “Good,” he says. “Because I don’t think I can do this solo mode thing anymore.” You snort. “You’re not exactly built for it,” you say. “Mr. ‘let me tune the whole fight around my co-op partner.’”

He shrugs, a little helpless. “You’re not exactly built for it either,” he says. “Ms. ‘I accidentally wrote a love story into every mechanic.’” You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. “What do you want?” you ask, before you can overthink it. “With… all of this. The game. Us. Whatever we are.” He looks at you like he’s cataloguing every possible answer, then discarding all but the most honest one.

“I want to build something with you,” he says. “That nobody else gets to claim. Not a company, not a director, not some faceless board.” His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. His voice goes quieter. “And I want to see where this goes,” he adds. “All of it. If you’ll let me.”

You think about all the versions of him you’ve known: the dismissive rival at cons; the bored genius in black hoodies; the stranger in a fantasy forest who told you where to stand and who to stab; the man who just stood up to his own dream job for you. You think about yourself, too, and how you’ve felt more seen in the last few weeks—by him as Kade, by him as Wonwoo—than you have in years.

“Professionally,” you say slowly, “we already have a game. We just can’t call it Mythfall: Eclipse.” He nods. “Different pantheon,” he says. “Numbers filed off. Better anyway.”

“Indie scale,” you add. “Smaller scope. Tighter focus. No trials where people try to steal it.” His mouth twitches. “Co-op studio,” he says. “Just us. Maybe a few other masochists.” The thought scares you. It also lights you up in a way Titan Forge never quite managed to, even at its brightest. You take a breath.

“Romantically,” you say, and the word feels huge in your mouth, “we’re a mess.” He winces, accepting it. “Accurate,” he says.

“You lied by omission,” you go on. “You hid behind an alt. You let me say things to you as Kade I never would’ve said to you as Wonwoo.” He nods, jaw tight. “I know,” he says. “And I’ll spend as long as it takes proving I can be the same person in both places.”

“You… also backed me in every meeting you didn’t have to,” you say quietly. “You filed IP under my name without telling me because you wanted to protect my work. You sat on calls with me at stupid o’clock and told me I wasn’t crazy when I felt like I was.” His eyes go soft, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to list his good points out loud.

“You make me better at what I do,” you say. “You piss me off. You challenge me. You make me feel… big. Not small. I haven’t had that in a while.” His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale. “So,” you finish, heart hammering, “no, I don’t hate you. I just need you to be honest. No more masks. No more secret alts.” He nods immediately. “Deal,” he says. “Full co-op mode. No splitscreen bullshit.” You snort, a startled laugh bursting out of you. “You’re such a nerd,” you say.

“You knew that already,” he replies.

You stand there, facing each other in the shadow of the building that just rejected you and tried to rob you, and realise that for the first time since this whole thing started, you’re not waiting for someone else’s verdict.

You get to decide. “So,” you say, voice lighter now, “are you going to kiss me like my rival or my raid lead?” His grin flashes, small but real. “Both,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

You don’t say yes. You step into him instead, fisting your hand in the front of his hoodie and tugging him down. He meets you halfway.

The kiss is nothing like the one in the conference room. It’s slower. Softer. Still a little messy—your noses bump, you both smile into it—but there’s no desperation in it this time. Just warmth, and the dizzying feeling of your two lives finally, properly slotting together. Rival and partner. Kade and Wonwoo. Nyx and you.

When you break apart, you’re breathing a little harder, but the world hasn’t tilted off its axis. It’s just bigger. More possible. He rests his forehead against yours. “We really did just tell Titan Forge to fuck off,” he murmurs.

“We did,” you say. “And we still have a game.”

“And a name,” he adds. “For the studio.” You pull back, brow arching. “Oh?”

“Co-Op Mode,” he says. “Seems on the nose.” You roll your eyes, but your smile is helpless. “We’ll workshop it,” you say. “We will,” he agrees. “Together.” You lace your fingers through his, turn your back on the giant Titan Forge logo, and start walking.

You might have lost the contract. But as you step into the future with him—equal, chosen, finally on the same side—you have a strong suspicion this is the biggest win of your career.

A/N: Thanks to 76% of the 130 votes on my last poll, I present you my latest fic. I was inspired after finishing Ali Hazelwood's 'Two Can Play' and thought this would be an easy write. Joke's on me because I had to restart it three times. Oh well, hope you like this version. 💟

Taglist: @igetcarriedawaywithyou - @amazinggraxia

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)

[joonsytip]

Beyond the Transcripts || Wonwoo - Part 1

Pairings: Ceo!Wonwoo x Legal Head!Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers au, second chances au.

Synopsis: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much.

Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours.

Warnings: Themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, wonwoo suffers from hyperventilation once, reader suffers from gastroenteritis, reader questions herself a lot, secret identity, workplace jargons.

Word Count: 11k

This fic is a part of THAT'S SHOWBIZ, BABY! Collab which also marks my first time participating in an event. Please support all the fics in the Collab!

Thanks again to @lovetaroandtaemin , Ally for coming up with this beautiful banner!

[ SVT Masterlist ] [ SVT Flick - Fic Masterlist]

Teaser | Part 1 | Final

“What are you doing here alone, little guy?”

Wonwoo wasn't supposed to visit the headquarters today but a sudden rescheduling of an important meeting had him rushing in.

With the meeting ending sooner than expected, he decides to spend some time in the gaming zone, in hopes of not to be seen by any of the employees.

And to his surprise, it isn't an employee he bumps into, it is a little boy wearing specs bigger than the size of his face.

And he reminds Wonwoo so much of himself.

Wonwoo crouches down to his level and asks, “Are you lost? Who did you come here with?”

The boy looks at him wide eyed.

“I'll contact the security team.”, his secretary, Mr. Jung informs promptly.

Wonwoo smiles as he ruffles the boy’s hair. It's astonishing, the way he feels extremely inclined towards the tiny human.

“What's your name?”

Seeing the reluctance, he decides to approach the boy with something that might pique his interest.

“Do you like playing games?”

And that works, the boy nods politely as his eyes light up and Wonwoo fights off all his urges to squish his cheeks.

“Let's play until that uncle”, he points towards Mr. Jung, “finds your family or relatives to get you.”

It was supposed to be a normal busy day at the company. The edifice echoes constant clicking of shoes, hushed murmurs and flipping of pages.

It is all good so far until a phrase starts spreading floor by floor, gets passed up in the canteen, being told in the cubicles.

‘Did you see a kid roaming in the building? He looks like a little carbon copy of our CEO, Mr. Jeon.’

Your heart thumps as you overhear your colleagues from behind the closed bathroom door. It can't be, you say to yourself. You pull up your phone to read the clauses stated in the company portal under the tab ‘Policies’. You are not allowed to bring your family to the premises unless there's an occasion or you're explicitly required and instructed to do so, states the rules.

Relief floods your senses, there's no way your son would be brought and led inside the building on a regular workday, that too without your knowledge or consent.

The day goes on as you submerge yourself in preparing a lawsuit against an accuser for trying to damage the reputation of the company and sabotaging the career of an artist under it by staging false allegations.

It's lunchtime and you're still reviewing the drafts when there's a knock on the cabin door. Your gaze doesn't even lift from the screen when Mr. Joo enters. You suppress your urge to roll your eyes, preparing yourself to be bombed with another set of misogynistic slurs being inserted after each line the old man says.

You've been recruited as the head of the legal department for unarguably the best in the entertainment and music industry, The Carat Company, eight months ago. And Mr. Joo who was so sure about getting promoted as the head, the position he eyed for (more than worked for) couldn't quite accept an outsider that too a woman who's much younger than him to snatch something from him which was never his to begin with.

You wonder how long until your tolerance runs dry and the man in front gets slammed by a lawsuit which wouldn't only end up with him losing his job.

After a draining ten minutes conversation with Mr. Joo, you head towards the canteen. You find your group at the table, as always saving you a seat.

“My son has a fancy dress competition at his school today. He went dressed up as Harry Potter.”, Sunjae from the IT department recites, taking out his phone and showing the pictures his wife has sent him. Everyone at the table coos at the cuteness.

The chattering continues with you all catching up on work, workplace gossip and family tales.

“My daughter hasn't been feeling well, I'll be clocking out early today.”, Sooji from the marketing department says, concern evident in her voice. You all nod in unison, even urging her to leave post lunch.

A sad smile splits onto your lips. You too want to show how cute Wonjae looked when you dressed him up for the picnic you both went to last week. Everyone knows that you're a single mother and that you've a son. That he's an intelligent kid, that he's the bundle of joy that shines in your life. But that's all they get to know because you want to keep it lowkey.

How could you show him to them when he looks exactly like his father? That he's more like Wonwoo than Wonwoo himself. Same Wonwoo, who's also the CEO of the company you are working at. Records would give away that you both attended the same university, practically batchmates, shared lectures. You're afraid of any digital footprints either of you could have left behind. You can't afford to shake up any rumours.

Prior to applying for this job, you had taken time, there were months of mental preparation before you sent across the application. You had no choice but to succumb to this economy and walk into the lion’s den.

Now everyday before leaving the house, you pray not to cross paths with Wonwoo. You wonder if he'd even recognise you, you don't want him to but there's an ache in your heart at the thought of it.

“I saw a kid roaming in our block. You won't believe at a glance I thought he's the son of Mr. Jeon.”, Sunjae recollects.

“Mr. Jeon isn't even married.”, Yoongi, from finance deadpans, “Though you don't need to be married to make a–”

Collective shushes make him shut up.

It piques your interest, you wonder who it could be until your phone buzzes with a call from Jihoon, the HR Manager.

And you're panting, down on your knees as you see your son, Wonjae standing in front of you.

“How did you get here?”, you ask the little boy, who stares at you with glossy eyes and jutted lips.

“Are you angry at me, mama?”, he asks with a quiver in his voice and your heart sinks.

You give him soft kisses on his forehead, patting his arms gently, “Jae, I'm not angry, I just want to know what happened.”

“I brought him here, Y/N.”, Jeonghan steps up and says with his head hung low, “I'm sorry.”

You sigh and get up rubbing your temples.

“Jae said he wanted to see the place where you work. I thought I could give him a quick tour, as getting permission won't be a problem.”, Jeonghan continues, “I brought him here only after confirming that Wonwoo won't come to office today.”

“And you didn't think of informing me?”, you ask using your strict voice, causing Jeonghan to cower a bit, “How did he end up roaming alone around the entire office?”

“I got a call when I was walking him through the gaming zone and it went on for a while. When I hung up, he was gone. After searching for a bit, I had to run by the security division and found him through the CCTVs.”, Jeonghan grimaces, “I'm really sorry, Y/N.”

Jeonghan and you, go way back. He's a prominent and popular artist under the company but you were friends, well to be precise he was Wonwoo's friend and you knew Jeonghan through him during the university days. Then circumstances caused you to cut ties with him. It was two weeks ago when Jeonghan (another person you wanted to avoid) found you while taking the same elevator.

And he didn't let you slip away. You hated how persuasive he was because he made you spill your life out which you don't do with others. It enraged you that he didn't even have to be perceptive to know who Wonjae’s father was.

“The entire office is talking about him, Jeonghan.”, you whine out in defeat.

“And that's not the worst part, Y/N.”, Jihoon who was watching the scene, the one who called you, the only one in the office who without any prior connection to you knows about your situation, articulates, “I found Wonjae inside the CEO’s office. He was playing Jenga with Mr. Jeon. I took him by saying he's the son of one of the new crew members.”

The ground beneath you slips. Everyone watches you holding their breaths. Your mind runs miles, producing hundreds and thousands of thoughts. And this moment of truth makes you question everything.

Were you too numbed by the pain of your miseries that you neglected your son's wants? What if he wants his father in his life? What if he hates you for not letting him be with his father? What if–

A little pair of hands grabbing yours, breaks your reverie.

“Mama, I'm sorry.”, Wonjae cries, waddling a bit towards you, hugging your legs.

You collapse on the floor, embracing your son tighter, letting your own tears fall. You rarely cry, tears are a luxury, you think. But today, maybe the tears are falling because you can't bottle up anymore.

You pull away, wiping his tears, “Shhh. Don't cry, I'm not upset.”

The trembles subsides and Wonjae hugs you again, face planted against your chest. It's a habit, he hides his face and complains, “Papa bumped into me, I almost fell.”

You listen quietly, caressing his back.

“Then he took me to his office.”, you see him swaying his right hand in the air, “I told him my name and age but I didn't tell him about you, mama.”

Wonjae takes a lot after his father, in his appearance, stances and habits. He is calm, patient and has better intelligence and emotional quotient compared to the kids of this age. He knows about his father, he understands that there must be a reason behind his parents not living together unlike his friends’.

And most importantly, he trusts you. He knows whatever you do, it will be for his good, so he's compliant and obedient.

“Mama, can we go home?”, he says yawning, “I want to sleep.”

You understand, you get it. Wonjae has seen his father countless times on the screens and the covers but today was the first time he met him. Knowing your little guy, you know that he has used all of his brain capacities today in spending time with his father. So you'd let him rest today.

The conversation you want to have with him, has to be shelved tonight. It's something you'd have to thread carefully with Wonjae.

And after dinner when your son falls asleep, you stay wide awake.

Maybe, you can't avoid Wonwoo all your life. And maybe, you shouldn't avoid Wonwoo anymore.

You wonder if certain strings of incidents are bound to happen. It was last week only when your son met his father and today, it seems you'd be meeting your past lover.

A sudden allegation about copyrights being charged against the company, an emergency board meeting and now a briefing about the legal action items to dissolve the matter.

And being the legal head, you'd be leading the meeting. You look at your reflection in the mirror, chanting the same words in your mind. You understand the gravity of the situation, the urgency it holds because within the months of your joining, this is the first time you'll be directly reporting to the CEO.

You think Wonwoo wouldn't recognise you. A mere fling, that's what you were to him after all. And even if he does, it would be best in his interest to ignore.

Wonwoo enters the meeting room and you find your gaze fixated upon him and it brings back all the memories.

You don't meet his eyes when his secretary introduces you both but you do feel the touch of his hand lingering longer on yours.

The meeting goes on and you're proud of yourself for not becoming a mess under his gaze. There are no questions from him, he just listens to what you offer and you take it as a good sign.

“I'll prepare the draft version of the clauses and send across to you, Mr. Jung.”, you say standing up from your seat while sizing the papers laying on the table, “It shouldn't be a major threat because I have found some discrepancies in their lawsuit, they most probably want to stir up some buzz about themselves and make some money out of it.”

Mr. Jung nods, “I'll be expecting the final draft today, we can discuss it further.”

You take it as a sign to take a leave. You walk out of the meeting room only to slide into the next empty one you found because your legs almost give up. You take deep breaths, drink water and assure yourself that it's not a big deal. You're sure that Wonwoo would want no business with–

The door opens and you freeze.

It's Wonwoo who's standing on the threshold.

“Y/N”, he calls out your name with so much vulnerability that it makes your heart twist with an ache.

“I never thought I'd find you again.”, he says almost breathlessly.

“Sorry, I know seeing me again caused a lot of disappointment.”, you blurt out even before thinking and sigh, “I did apply here knowing that it's your company but be assured I didn't come here because of you.”

You could see his face drop and he's about to open his mouth to speak again but you beat him, saying, “Mr. Jeon, if you'd excuse me, I have a meeting in five minutes.”

Wonwoo says nothing but just as you cross him to walk out of the room, he grabs your arm.

And he looks at you holding an unspoken plea in his eyes, while yours glare back at him. Your eyes hold the same intensity, Wonwoo thinks.

“I don't think what you're doing is appropriate, Mr. Jeon.”, you articulate, trying to free your arm from his firm grip, “Let me go.”

While you successfully yank out your arm, his next words leave your head spinning.

“I'll let you go now but we'll be seeing each other often from now on, Y/N.”

And he is true to his words.

The employees are confused, the legal department is in uproar. Why is the CEO visiting their department every other day?

“Y/N, is there something serious going on within your department?”, Yoongi asks oneday, during lunch, “I thought the copyright allegation lawsuit was resolved.”

You feel like banging your head on the very first surface you lay your eyes on. Wonwoo has been trying to talk to you and honestly if he wanted he could summon you anytime and you would have no other choice but to oblige. But you don't get what he's trying to establish by making trips throughout the office, especially the legal department.

“There are some ongoing issues which might escalate if not taken care of right now, so we're having rounds of discussion.”, you lie through your teeth, hoping for Yoongi to believe it.

Yoongi nods but he in fact does not believe it. Because you may not be aware, but he is, aware of the fact that you have a son, about whom when asked you always dodge the topic. He has seen Wonjae one night walking down the streets of the market with you. It wasn't something very peculiar until he found out that you have studied at the same university as Wonwoo, the graduation year matching as well. He didn't make his presence known, he just watched. He has a hunch that there's a past that you've been trying to bury so earnestly. That's why he doesn't pry.

Work is done for the day and you drive to your favourite spot, in hopes of getting a breather, a break from all the chaos.

“Sorry to interrupt your alone time.”, you hear a very familiar voice and smile instantly.

“You're not interrupting anything if we had decided to meet here, Chanie.”

Chan walks upto beside and leans against the railing, watching the city lights blaze underneath.

“How's everything going?”

“I don't know, but one thing for sure, this is something I don't want to do at all.”, he answers with a tinge of agony in his voice.

Lee Chan is the CEO of Sebong Corp., the company known to be a rival of The carat company. He is definitely someone who shouldn't have anything to do with you but you both go way long back. When he was still a student and you were just a law major who was working multiple part times while searching for a job.

You took pity on a student who always looked lost and saved him the food packets hiding from your boss only to give it to him when he made a routine tour to the store.

And that student almost cried out of gratitude whenever the pregnant worker sneaked him food late at night.

It goes on for a few months, until Chan reveals that he's actually a chaebol and in line to inherit the family business.

You were rendered speechless. But Chan was annoyingly sticky, he appeared whenever you worked begging for forgiveness until you gave in.

You wonder if you attract these kinda people.

Apart from Mina, he's the one who stayed by your side, always offering help if you ever needed and spoiling Wonjae whenever you would let him.

You are proud of how Chan is handling everything and still staying rooted to the ground.

“Next time, let me take you and Jae to a nice restaurant to eat.”, he suggests but frowns the next moment, “I doubt he'd even remember his one and only favourite uncle, it's been so long since we met.”

“True, why don't you come home over this weekend? I'll make you your favourite dishes.”

“Deal done.”, he beams and you turn to him and open your arms.

He instantly hugs you and you pat his back, “I'm so proud of you, Chanie. You're doing so well.”

He sighs, all the tension leaving his body, “Needed to hear this today, thanks.”

Not every bond has to be blood related, some go beyond everything.

“What's going on, Mr. Jeon?”, Mr. Jung asks as he notices Wonwoo spacing out again.

“You can drop the honorifics, Uncle.”, Wonwoo says in a lite tone. He slumps against the chair, his eyes fixating against the white wall of the ceiling, “It's her, Uncle. I had no idea she was working here.”

Mr. Jung’s expression solemns, “It explains your erratic behaviour. Did you get a chance to talk to her? Instead of going around the office, you could just summon her.”

“I have a lot to tell her, but where do I start?”, Wonwoo grimaces, “Wouldn't it be an abuse of authority to summon her for any personal agenda.”

Mr. Jung just nods.

“I have so much to say but at the same time I don't have any words that I could give out.”, He rubs his eyes, they're glistening, “Maybe, I just want to know how she has been because I am a selfish prick who needs to hear that the girl he dumped back then is unscathed so that he can be guilt ridden.”

He lets out a chuckle, “Honestly, I am just parading around the legal department because I get to see her, hear her voice and sometimes we even have a conversation because of work.”

“You say that you don't regret the choices you made. It certainly doesn't seem so.”

Wonwoo doesn't reply, he doesn't have an answer. He was doing just fine, living his life, doing his work diligently non stop for years. So what changes now?

It's late in the evening as the office empties out. There's a cramping pain in your stomach and you curse out when you discover that you've forgotten the medicines at home. You feel nauseous, there's a throbbing ache in your head and it intensifies everytime you look at the long chains of emails that sit inside the folders, all labelled with high importance and needing to be made some progress today.

You walk out of your cabin and enter the cafeteria to get some cookies as you call your son to inform him that you'll be going home late tonight. You tell him to do his homework and heat the food before eating. You also tell him to not wait for you and go to bed.

“Check the monitor first. Don't open the door to strangers.”, you remind him, “I love you, Bye.”

You hang up and get the fright of your life when you see Wonwoo standing beside you.

“Who was it?”, Wonwoo asks, his brows raised and arms crossed over his chest.

“W-What are you doing here?”, you ask panicked as you try to peep behind him, hoping no one sees the two of you.

“Let’s go to your cabin, I need to talk to you.”, he says and waits for your rejection because he knows there's no way you're willing to talk to him.

But you agree and now you're both inside your cabin, standing facing each other.

“What do you want?”, your voice comes out strained as you clutch your stomach, supporting yourself against the table.

“Are you okay?”, Wonwoo asks, concerned, “You're sweating and–”

“What did you want to talk about?”, you cut him off, “It’s surprising because I thought we're done for this lifetime. You made it pretty clear that time.”

Wonwoo winces at your verbal jab.

“And if it's something trivial, if you're trying to apologize or bring up our past then don't. I have moved past everything and I'm quite content in my life now, Mr. Jeon.”, you try to speak, emphasizing each word but they come out in ragged breaths.

The more Wonwoo observes you, the more he gets worried, he picks up the water bottle from the table and uncaps it to hand it to you, urging you to sit down.

There's a sharp sting in your stomach and you crouch down. When your vision fades you manage to utter, “M-Mr. Jeon, Amaris Hospital...”

And that's what Wonwoo hears before he watches your body go limp as you collapse on the floor.

Wonwoo watches your unconscious figure laying on the hospital bed as he stands outside the VVIP ward. His mind races miles after the conversation he had with the doctor.

He gets to know that you've been suffering from severe gastroenteritis which you've acquired post pregnancy. He is baffled, his mind can't comprehend and in the heat of the moment he makes an unethical request to have your medical records, the request which he takes back immediately, apologizing.

Mr. Jung rushes to the hospital with the information Wonwoo has asked him to get. 

“Y/N, has only one person registered as her family in the records.”, he informs, “It's her son. She has her friend as an emergency contact and I've called her. She should be here anytime.”

What comes as a greater shock to Wonwoo after sometime is seeing Jeonghan rushing towards the ward, holding hands with a little boy whom even though he has seen only ones but remembers vividly.

“How is Y/N, Wonu?”, Jeonghan asks as he pants.

Wonwoo is frozen, he's not present at the moment. There are gears running in his head, there's vigorous thumping in his heart.

“She's fine now. The doctor said she'd be discharged tomorrow. She'll wake up once the effects of sedation wears off.”, Mr. Jung answers.

“Thanks for admitting her. I'm Mina.”, your friend says.

Jeonghan picks up Wonjae in his arms, they both look at your sleeping form from outside the ward.

“Mama will be okay right uncle Jeonghan?”, Wonjae asks and Jeonghan and Mina assure him immediately.

“Wonjae… Jeon Wonjae….”

All heads turn as Wonwoo keeps on mumbling the name. Every dot connects. Wonjae carries his surname, he looks like him and he's seven years old. The last time he saw you, before he left you, was eight years ago.

He walks towards Wonjae as Jeonghan lets him down.

“He is mine, isn't he?”, Wonwoo asks Jeonghan before crouching down in front of him.

Jeonghan stays quiet, so does Mina when Wonwoo looks at her.

And when he finally locks his gaze on his son, he breaks down in tears. He sobs hugging him. 

Wonjae, seeing his father, cries as well.

“Don't cry, Papa.”, he says as his tiny hands try to wipe the tears from his father's face. And the more Wonwoo sees him, hears him call him as father, the more his sobs turn into wails.

Your body feels heavy, your head feels weighed. There are some whispers that reach your ears but you can't quite make sense out of it. Slowly opening your eyes, you see the white ceilings, the monitor beeping and then Wonwoo.

And by the demeanor, you guess that he has figured out something.

“Mr. Jeon...”

Wonwoo perks up at your voice and when your gazes meet, you see a fresh bout of tear pooling in his eyes.

And all he says is, “We have a son, Y/N. Wonjae is mine, he's ours…”

You inhale shakily. Out of all the possible ways you imagined that he'd react when he finds out about Wonjae, this isn't the one you thought of. Why does the CEO of the most successful entertainment company seem in distraught? Definitely, he's unpredictable and you're scared of what's to come next.

You crane your neck to look at Wonwoo, “Mr. Jeon, I'd like to discuss some things with you, could you please make some time out of your schedule for me?”

Wonwoo feels the distance between you two. It twinges, it gnaws at him. 

“Get rest first. I have sent Wonjae with Jeonghan, he'll be staying at his house. Mina is still here and we'll talk once you get better.”, Wonwoo assures you, “You can find me anytime.”

You close your eyes, mind pondering about what's to come.

Your fingers hover against the door. You could feel the weight of the documents clouding over the entire span of you've spent to raise your son.

On the opposite side, behind the closed doors, waiting for you, is the man you once loved. The father of the child you birthed seven years ago. The chief executive officer of the company you're currently working at.

Also the man, who had broken your heart, had left you alone to pick up the pieces on your own.

You knew that this day would come. You have spent years preparing to face him one day. Over the years you've seen this face everywhere, be it on magazines or billboards or be it glorified on media but why is your chest caving in as you stand on the threshold, a moment away to see him again?

Taking a deep breath, you pitch your face into the most neutral expression you could bear. You won't deter, you won't step back.

Your knuckles give two swift knocks on the door and the secretary opens it for you, letting you in and stepping out once you enter.

At the sound of the door closing, your gaze lifts.

Wonwoo walks towards you, in large but steady strides, just as you have remembered. He stands in front of you, at a distance. Your gazes meet and the time stops.

Because this time unlike all the previous encounters, you are not avoiding him. This time you take time to observe him.

Wonwoo hasn't changed much, his eyes hold the same depth. He, you assume, still likes his hair side parted with locks clipped so they don't fall on his face. The scent of the same perfume lingers in the air, the one which he had always claimed as his signature. The frame of his glasses aren't geometric anymore, he goes with pilot nowadays.

And before your mind could trace back on the memory lane deeper, you decide to slip back into the momentum.

“Mr. Jeon”, you bow to him, giving a small smile. Your heart beats erratically, as you continue to speak, “You must be busy so I won't take much of your time.”

The title you call him by is foreign to Wonwoo's ear. It has been bothering him a lot. It always used to be strings of sickly sweet nicknames. 

He watches the changes time has brought upon you. You no longer seem like the carefree law major from back then. You no longer are the girl who'd cry over smallest things, speak the first thought that came to your mind.

While Wonwoo loses touch with the current predicament, you line up several documents on his desk in specific order.

It's exacting because you used to know him so well, maybe even know if he hasn't emerged entirely as a different person. You see the way his eyes are on you but the dilated pupils give away the fact that he's running miles in his head.

So you wait, wait for him to come back to the present, to this moment. 

And he does, a few minutes later. You can tell it by the way his gaze locks into yours right away, his lips curling down in slightest.

“How have you been, Y/N?”

His voice strikes a chord in your heart, before it reaches your ear. The voice that you used to love so much, the voice that sung you to sleep on restless nights, the same voice which when called your name, it summoned your soul.

Years of preparation goes down in the trench as you're about to break down at the first set of words you hear from him today.

But you can't, you're not the same vulnerable Y/N, who used to strip bare in front of her lover.

“I think we have more important matters to discuss, Mr. Jeon.”, you speak through your gritted teeth.

“But you promised you'd answer all my questions.”, Wonwoo reminds you calmly.

“And this is what you want to know?”

“Out of all things, first and foremost, yes this is what I want to know.”

You find it ironic, trapped in by his words, you answer truthfully, “I just can't sum up everything but I have been holding it in, thanks to Wonjae.”

Wonwoo perks at the mention of your son's name, well his as well.

“The first document is about me as Wonjae’s legal guardian, consenting to you conducting a DNA test.”, your gaze is gentle as you point at the bunched papers, “I don't want any questions, any fingers raised at my son in future.”

“But I don't–”

“I request you to conduct one.”

Your sharp tone shuts up Wonwoo completely, though not willing, he nods.

His gaze sweeps across the rest of the document which promotes him to ask, “What are the rest of these documents for?"

Your eyes turn somber. You've studied law, practised it. You know all the nooks and crannies and you're a mother who is raising her son against all odds.

“The second document is a contract that states that if you don't want to be associated with Wonjae then the fact that he’s your son will be concealed and never brought up by me. If I ever do so”, you turn the pages and show him the space left blank, “You can fill up the breach statement and penalties in this section, I have left it blank.”

Wonwoo gapes at you in disbelief, “What do you think you're trying to pull here?”, he speaks in a low tone but you can hear the agitation ringing in it, “What do you think of me, Y/N?”

You don't deem it necessary to answer his questions and proceed further to explain the contents of the last document.

“If you have any concerns about me working in your company and see me as a threat or identify me as someone who has the potential of stirring up trouble then you can ask me to resign but under the conditions that I work here until I find another job.”, you attitude has shimmered down from being hyper to nonchalant, now that you have done your part.

Wonwoo observes you, in disbelief and at himself in distaste because he's the reason behind the version you are currently showcasing.

“Also, I have prepared the clauses for custody just in case you're willing to share responsibilities in future. I'll bring it to you if you decide to be a part of Wonjae's life.”

You say terms, speak things all in legal language and Wonwoo just listens.

“I would have suggested you to run these documents by your legal team to cite any negotiations or catch any flaws but unfortunately, it would mean that I'd be the person you'll need to work with.”, you smile sardonically, “So it would be better if you contact someone who's not affiliated to this company.”

He wonders if things would have been different if he stayed and in the midst of the storm that whirlwinds in his head, he asks, “Why didn't you tell me that you were pregnant?”

What a simple question to ask. Are all questions meant to have an answer? 

“Would you have stayed?”

Silence falls upon. 

You give him a knowing smile, “Just when you were leaving, I asked you something, do you remember?”

Yes, he remembers, all of it. The way you had chased him to the station, your face wet, eyes bloodshot from crying. The way you just stood in front of him, mumbling the last question you had as the train entered the platform.

“What if I have something important to tell you? Would it make you stay?”

“There’s nothing left to salvage. Nothing's gonna stop me from leaving. This is the end for us.”

It answers his previous question. It makes sense now, he didn't only leave you, he had abandoned his unborn child as well. 

Some fences can't be mended, some bridges can't be cemented, just like this relationship, which once bloomed beautifully, is now wilted.

“Do you have anything else to ask, Mr. Jeon? If not I'll be taking my leave.”, you say arranging all the documents, “I'll leave the documents here with you. We can meet once you have gone through these and made a decision.”

Wonwoo observes you, he can't even fathom the hurt you've gone through. He knows he's the reason for your suffering, he's grateful that you've been raising his son with so much love.

“I'll get back to you, Y/N.”

That's all he says and expects you to leave but what you do next tears him apart.

You are kneeling down, in front of him. Your head hangs low as you plead, your voice quivering, “Mr. Jeon, you can have everything you want at your feet but Wonjae is the only one I have. You have the power, money and capability to do anything. So I beg you, please don't take my son away from me, he's the sole reason I'm living this life.”

Wonwoo fists his hands, he feels insulted. How low do you think of him? But again, is it your fault that you don't trust him, because if it was in the past you used to trust him more than yourself.

He bends and holds your shoulder firmly as he helps you get on your feet.

“I'd rather perish than to do something like that to you or our son.”, Wonwoo grabs your chin to make you look at him, “We made him with love, Y/N.”

A tear falls down your eye, “Did you ever love me?”

His hands leave you, he looks at you with dejection.

“Love is built on trust but you never trusted me. Not enough to let me know your actual identity. You hid the fact that you are an heir to the Jeon estate. I get it, you didn't slip initially but we dated for 4 years. You even knew about my cousin’s best friend but I didn't even know about your closest family.”

You let out a bitter chuckle, “It's all in the past now. Let's focus on Wonjae, if you want to be a part of his life.”

“I want to be a good father to him.”, Wonwoo says sincerely, “Help me, Y/N, please.”

You nod while wiping your tears, “Jae is just like you. It's like my genes didn't even try.”, you breathe out a smile, “He likes you, I can see the way he lights up when he sees you on the Tv or covers. Please don't disappoint him, please be there for him. If you're going to do it, please do it right.”

And Wonwoo is determined.

“I already got your number from Jeonghan, I'll call you later.”, you tell him, “And if you want to meet Jae, come over this weekend, I'll text you my address.”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

“You're welcome.”

It's going well, though Wonjae was hesitant initially, he is delighted to have his father in his life which makes you wonder if all these years you have been doing things right. You'd admit that you're jealous seeing the father-son duo because they blend in so well, it's like they've never been apart. But you're happy for Wonjae.

“Don't spoil him too much.”, comes your warning one day when you spot Wonwoo setting up the new gaming devices in your son’s room, which you recollect your son has been wanting for long.

“I'll keep it in check.”, Wonwoo answers, “But let me make up at least a little for the lost time.”

Your heart swells when you enter the room an hour later only to see your son perched on his father's lap, both of them equally invested in the game, same face, same expression and same mind.

“He goes to karate classes every friday.”, you say rummaging through the drawers one evening and Wonwoo adds it as a reminder in his calendar.

“He goes to painting class on Tuesdays and his music classes are on Wednesday and Saturday. He learns to swim on Mondays and he rests on Thursdays. Sundays are reserved for his weekly shenanigans, he suggests random activity and we do it throughout the day.”

Wonwoo is half amused, half concerned and you see it on his face vividly.

“And no he doesn't get tired, it's not too much for him. It's his idea to explore all the fields and go ahead with the ones he finds interesting. The list of curricular activities was way long, we have trimmed it down to these and it may shorten further.”, you explain in a breath and hand him the timetable you finally found after almost turning the room upside down.

“He may look like me but he's just like you, Y/N.”, Wonwoo smiles looking at the paper in his hand, “You used to be like this.”

Used to be, not anymore, you think. The past you were totally a different person, she wouldn't even recognise the present you, you're so different now. 

Wonwoo lays the paper flat on the table as he meticulously inputs each activity in his calendar. You watch him in silence, watch the man you had once wanted to spend your entire life with.

“Are you planning to let everyone know about Wonjae?”, you ask Wonwoo, later that night anxiously after he puts your son to sleep.

It had been gnawing at you relentlessly. Wonwoo notices the nervousness, he walks into the kitchen and makes you a cup of coffee.

“You’re the favourite celebrity of the nation, a long line of influential people are waiting to get their daughter married to you and if you suddenly declare that you have a child…”, you look at him with glassy eyes, “I'm afraid that people will target Jae. I don't care if I am subjected to any kind of ridicule or threat–”

“Y/N, calm down.”, he says calmly, “For now I have decided it to be not known. I have tightened the security and been careful but”, he assures you, “if it gets known I'll protect you both.”

“You don't have to protect me, Mr. Jeon.”, your voice drops an octave, a sign of your defensiveness, “Just take care of Jae.”

“I'm sorry, Y/N.”, he just says it, for the present, for the past, “I had a reason to leave though it wouldn't justify what I did. I'm really sorry.”

“Jae has fallen asleep, I think you should leave now.”, you get up from where you're sitting, “You're my employer and let's try to stick to the dynamics.”

Wonwoo watches quietly as you retreat back to your room. You have changed, a lot, thanks to him.

“Won! You won't believe what happened.”, you jump onto his lap as soon as you spot him sitting on the sofa.

Wonwoo smiles, ruffling your hair as he secures his arms around your waist, “What happened, love?”

You press a quick kiss to his lips, smiling, “While returning back from the University I saw an old man selling some stuff at a very cheap price. And I was shocked when I saw the limited edition cassettes, you know the ones I've been collecting recently. I bought all of them! My collection is complete!”

“Woah, I'm so proud of you.”, Wonwoo kisses the side of your head.

“I got you a metal pick, because you keep losing them. Also, I got us matching rings!”

Wonwoo looks at you in awe as you put the ring on his pinky.

He puts his hand over the suit pocket and feels the ring as he presses over it through the layers of fabrics. A look at the closed door and he's out the next moment.

“I am guessing the matters are resolved now.”, Yoongi says one day during lunchtime, “Mr. Ceo is not seen as much around the office nowadays.”

“Yes, it is resolved.”, you say monotonously.

Yoongi hums, “Good then. Let me know if you need my help for anything.”

You squint your eyes, smiling, “You don't know shit about law, Yoongi.”

“Oh but I do know about a thing or two outside law, Y/N.”

“You have a misconception about yourself, I see.”, you chuckle when Yoongi glares at you.

And that glare turns into a fond smile while you eat off his ears about a character of the show you don't like.

Wonwoo, who happens to pass by the area, doesn't quite like the way whoever the guy sitting beside you is looking at you. That afternoon, he didn't have lunch, apparently due to loss of appetite.

He has been trying to make space for himself in your life but you're rigid. He shudders at the thought of your angry face whenever he subtly tries to bounce off the wall you've built around yourself. You only pay him mind when you discuss about Wonjae with him, otherwise he's just sidelined.

He has zero interest in work today, his mind keeps playing the incidents from the previous night.

He was supposed to drop by your apartment as usual to spend some time with Jae and you.

He punches the passcode and is met by a startled you.

“Jae would be staying at Mina’s tonight, I had already sent you a text regarding this.”, you say and wait. Wait for him to leave.

“Oh sorry, I didn't get a chance to check my phone.”

Lies. Wonwoo is at your place today with just one motive, to talk to you.

There's a moment of silence and you're just about to show him the way out, he asks, “Can we talk?”

“We don't have anything to talk about, Mr. Jeon–”

“Stop calling me that!”, he hisses and closes the distance between the two of you, “Call me Wonu, Won, Woni anything, please.”

You look at him incredulously, “But that's not what I should be calling my employer, isn't it?”

“I'm not just your employer.”, his voice drops an octave, “I was your lover, I am the father of your child.”

“What are you doing?”, you ask wearily when he grabs your arm and pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you.

He rests his forehead against you, closing his eyes, “Please, let me hold you for a moment.”

You are confused, you don't want yourself anywhere near him but your body betrays you, it seeks comfort into the embrace of your past lover, it's just like returning to an old habit.

“I never stopped loving you, Y/N.”, he confesses, opening his eyes to see your wide ones, “I did leave you at my own will but it wasn't because I fell out of love.”

“It doesn't matter anymore.”, you say trying to push him away but his grip is too strong, “All I wanted was a closure when you left but you didn't even consider me worthy of that. I didn't know who you actually were, didn't get the reason behind your abrupt decision of breaking up and now you decide you wanna do the truth drop just because we have a son.”, you shake your head, “That's not how it works. I know I'm just a baggage that comes with Jae, I know my place, you had made it clear then, so you don't have to do all of this.”

He frees you, his eyes holding depths of oceans before retreating to stand by the window, facing away from you.

“I am the youngest within the Jeon household. I was loved, always getting what I wanted and never put on the pedestal because I have an older brother. I was always used to getting away with whatever, while he was dumped with all the expectations, afterall he was supposed to take over the Jeon empire.”

There's a pause before he continues, “He looked like he belonged to the limelight while I was the opposite, always preferred to be in the shadows. It was a blessing, to have a big brother like him, to have such loving parents who never tried to load their expectations on me. I expressed my desire to get enrolled into the University under the plain disguise and pursue a degree I wanted.”

He turns to look at you, “That's when I met you and we fell in love. I was so happy, happiest I'd say because you saw me for me, I was grateful that you made me a part of your life but it kept bugging me that I was hiding my identity.”, his voice cracks, “I was afraid, what if after learning everything, you make a decision to leave me? But that's when the incident happened.”

“My brother finally snapped. He couldn't take the pressure, couldn't bear the heaviness of the expectations anymore so he tried to step down. But my parents wouldn't let him, for them their pride mattered the most. They couldn't just let people think that they raised a failure in the Jeon household.”

You listen silently.

“My brother left. He disappeared without any trace, no goodbyes, nothing. I was heartbroken, my parents were inconsolable. Until a few months passed and they recovered. And that's the first time I got to witness the true nature of my parents. They only saw me as a replacement to my brother. It was so evident, I was thrusted into grooming sessions to be the acting director. It was so sudden, it felt nauseous because I have always seen myself out of those scenes, to me they were for my brother. No one cared, the expectations were projected onto me and that's when I started missing the classes and I got to see you less. My mind started to shift, it was messed up and after pondering for weeks, I chose to be an obedient child to my parents and leave behind everything I was associated with, including you.”, he looks at you apologetically, “I'm sorry.”

“I can't forgive you.”, comes your immediate and stern reply, “I hope you realise that out of all the things you could have done, you decided to abandon me.”

Wonwoo freezes at your words, the truth hits him in the gut.

“You didn't even seek for me for all these years.”, your voice cracks with the hurt, “You know about Jae because I decided it to be known. So don't you dare come here pretending like a good person as the world believes you to be. I know who you are, what you are.”

“You're right.”, Wonwoo says, more to himself, “I am really an awful person.”

And then he leaves and doesn't come back for days until your son calls him just because he misses his father.

The weekend follows and the doorbell rings. Before you could reach, you see your son jumping towards the door, his smile widening when he sees his father on the monitor.

It's a mundane Saturday, except you're building a fort in the living room with your son and Wonwoo. It's simple actually, you've built it for Wonjae many times but today something is hindering it and you figure out that the reason is Wonwoo.

He's absolutely clueless, he's not helping, he rather needs help.

“Papa, you are so bad at it.”, Wonjae calls him out and you bite your lips to suppress the laugh bubbling in your throat.

Wonwoo with a very childish frown on his face, refutes the claim, “I am just giving you both a chance to showcase your skills.”

You roll your eyes, focusing on assembling the fort while the two guys bicker on the backdrop.

“Mama, save me!”

You turn back to see Wonjae tackled on the ground as Wonwoo tickles him. A laugh bubbles out of your throat, you feel good in the moment. After all, this was something you've always wanted, to get married and start a family with the man you once loved so much.

“Woni, let's get married.”, you declare, out of nowhere, “I want to marry you immediately.”

Wonwoo laughs, “You speak out the very first thought that comes to your mind.”, he caresses your cheeks fondly, “Let’s get married once we settle in our careers.”

“You don't have to work, I'll take care of you.”, you say sincerely, “Just be mine, please.”

“That's not what you said last time, as far as I can recollect.”, Wonwoo squints his eyes at you, “You said that you don't want to work, you just want to be my wife, the mother to my kids.”

“And I meant it!”, you cross your heart.

“Which one did you mean? Because both are pretty contradictory to me.”

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”, you admit, a soft smile spreading on your lips.

And in the moment, Wonwoo falls in love with you all over again. He leans in, eyes never leaving yours as he closes the gap between you two.

The phone rings and you both groan.

“It's my dad, let me take this one.”, you say, pulling back as you check the caller Id.

He nods but does exactly the opposite by pulling you by your neck and planting his lips on yours for a kiss that takes your breath away.

The ringing of the phone eventually stops but Wonwoo doesn't.

A soft sigh escapes from within you and your mood shifts. There's no point in dwelling in the past now.

Yoongi paces nervously as he awaits you. A sudden click and he sees you entering through the door and from behind you, emerges Jihoon.

Yoongi pulls you aside and whispers, “What's the HR guy doing here, Y/N?”

“He's trustable.”, you assure him and introduce them to each other.

Yoongi exhales sharply, he sweeps a glance at the two of you and speaks, “I think there may be some fund embezzlement going on and for long.”, he takes out his phone and shows some the snaps he has taken, “While I was accessing some documents for the recent staffing activities, I came across this.”

“How did you get access to this? Shouldn't this be requiring credentials of Senior Managers?”, Jihoon asks, eyeing Yoongi suspiciously.

Yoongi scoffs and looks at you, “Look at your trustable guy, he's doubting me.”

You glare at Jihoon and then look back at Yoongi, “Don't mind him, Yoongi, tell us the entire thing.”

He nods, “So the exchange receipts you're seeing, on the surface they're all going to different accounts but when I traced back the companies turned out to be paper companies. Someone has to be in the directorial position to pull this without getting noticed. I had even dropped an anonymous tip to the auditor's office but surprisingly or not, no action was taken.”

“This is concerning.”, Jihoon ponders over, “Does anyone else know about this?”

“I'm not aware.”, Yoongi answers truthfully, “This shouldn't be of my concern but I can't get it out of my head and I think if I try to poke again they'll be on my tail.”

“We definitely need someone from the Audit team on our side, someone who's trustworthy and holds power.”, you say, “But it doesn't seem plausible.”

“I'll see what I can do.”, you assure both of them, “Yoongi, please send those evidences and Jihoon, could you check if you could link any of these account owners to anyone from the company?”

While you walk out of the room with a lot on your mind, you get a call from your son and he has some requests.

Wonwoo punches the code hurriedly as his heart races after getting a sketchy text from his son. He manages to enter your apartment only to find it pitch black and eerily silent.

“Y/N? Jae?”, he calls out through the passage and he keeps calling as he makes his way to the hallway.

Suddenly the light goes on, the whistles blow and confetti flies.

Wonwoo stands wide eyed, as he sees the banner reading a ‘Happy Father's Day!’ and looks at Jae holding a cake smiling while you, Jeonghan and Mina stand behind him each wearing a party hat and funny accessories.

You observe quietly, the way your son is beaming in happiness when his father appreciates and voices out all the praises on receiving the gifts.

You're proud of your son, he's empathetic, he's kind and he's all you could ever want. When he called you at work, which was rare, with a hesitant voice and a wish to celebrate the day because he recently learnt that his father's birthday had already passed, you agreed immediately, because he loves to celebrate special days.

You're setting the table, faint sounds of laughter reaching your ears.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

You look up to see Wonwoo looming over your frame.

“It was all Jae’s idea, you should be thanking your son.”, you say light heartedly, “I didn't even remember.”

Wonwoo looks at you surprised, “You forgot? Didn't uncle always nag when you don't wish him? You should give him a call–”

He halts when he sees you go stiff.

“Is everything alright, Y/N?”, Wonwoo asks, now alarmed, “Are your parents fine?”

“They should be.”, you answer vaguely, before busying yourself back on plating the food, “You should go back, Jae must be looking for you.”

The dinner is going well with Wonwoo mostly talking with Jae and Jeonghan while Mina chimes in only when she feels like it.

Your mood has dampened ever since Wonwoo has brought up your father so you're just present, not involved in whatever is being discussed.

When Jae hops off to take a washroom break, Jeonghan takes the chance to ask you, “Are you seeing someone, Y/N.”

You shake your head, “There's a lot on my plate already and I'm content with Jae in my life.”

Though it is an open secret, Wonwoo feels relief flood in his chest.

“Didn't even seek?”, Jeonghan probes further.

You sigh, “Actively no. But I did go on a couple of dates, even the blind dates Mina set me up for, but”, your gaze drops, “All of them backed out as soon as they learnt about Jae. Guess, no one wants a woman like me. So I have given up on it.”

There are words on the tip of Wonwoo's tongue, he wants to say that you're everything one could ever want, then why did he leave you in the first place?

Your mind lingers back to that phase where your self esteem had hit rock bottom because of some failed dates with men you didn't even know. Might sound funny but the canon balls life had thrown at you combined with ‘nothing has ever gone right’ made you falter.

Jae comes back and the topic is dropped off the table, it's all laugh and chatters until Jeonghan decides to tease you for fun, with the help of his beloved nephew. He loves teasing the heck out of people whom he dear and has engulfed the little boy into this as well. He murmurs something into Jae’s ear without you noticing.

Jeonghan gives a sly grin as he sweeps a gaze round the table and asks Jae, “Jae, tell us who you love more, Mama or Papa?”

A classic trick question to which people tend to avoid answering.

But Jae is giggling as he answers almost immediately, “Papa!”

It is supposed to be a stick to tease you but your heart drops. There's a sudden shift in your demeanor and it's noticeable.

There's a screeching sound as you stand up abruptly and walk into your room, closing the door behind.

“Everything is not made to be a joke about.”, Mina hisses, glaring at Jeonghan.

“Did I hurt, Mama?”, Jae asks, tears already pooling in his eyes.

“Yes, you did. This is not something I expected from you.”, Mina answers him, trying to tone down her anger, “Go to your room, we'll talk tomorrow about it.”

Wonjae follows obediently.

“I'm sorry, I was just trying to–”

“You should leave if you're done.”

It hits a nerve and Jeonghan tries to defend himself which leads to a heated exchange between both.

“Aren't you being too much here, Mina?”, Jeonghan raises his voice with accusations.

“Oh maybe I am because you and him”, she sweeps a glance at Wonwoo, “weren't there during her pregnancy phase. Neither of you are aware of what she had to go through, that her parents disowned her, that she almost lost her life while giving birth to Jae due to excessive bleeding and all other complications.”

Both the men freeze and Mina heaves out a breath.

“You might think, Y/N is getting sensitive over a joke but you guys need to understand that she has her entire life built around Jae, she has always tried to be the best parent to him so if he suddenly says he loves his found father more over her even as a joke, she would begin questioning whatever she has ever done for Jae and whether she went wrong somewhere.”

“Can I go and talk to her?”, Wonwoo asks, his voice shaky holding the pleading tone.

“Do whatever you want, just don't hurt her anymore.”, she says, grabbing her belongings and exiting the apartment.

“Go talk to her.”, Jeonghan adds, “I'm leaving, call me if you need me.”

You sit quietly at the corner of your bed, your mind empty. Your fingers fidget among themselves and all you are trying to remember is why you left the table. Why did it sting so much? Wonjae has always longed for his father ever since he knew about him so it was given and there's nothing to be upset about it.

But maybe you're easy to be left behind, maybe not choosing you is easier than staying. You feel tears streaming down your face, you feel your heart constricting in pain.

Wonwoo enters the room crouches in front of you.

“I'm sorry”, you say, as soon as you feel his presence, avoiding his gaze, “I overreacted over a small matter–”

And you halt when you hear a choked sob.

“No I'm so so sorry.”, he hiccups through every word he tries to speak, “I– You had to suffer so much and I wasn't even by your side. I can't even turn back time, I can't take away your pain.”

You wipe his tears and he leans against your palm.

“I left when you needed me the most. You had to make a lot of sacrifices, while I was just– I'm sorry, Y/N.”

Wonwoo's crying and you watch in shock as he goes into hyperventilation. He grasps at your arm as he tries to breathe but it doesn't work. You hurriedly take off his glasses, loosen his tie and unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt.

“Wonwoo, calm down”, you say, grabbing his face, “Look at me and try breathing. Inhale through your nose and exhale slowly through pursed lips as if blowing out a candle.”

“I-I can't–”, he manages to speak between the ragged breaths.

Then you do what your mind prompts you to, you press your hands near to his mouth which makes his lips pucker and you plant yours on them.

You kiss him tenderly, caress his arms gently with the motive of calming the neurotransmitters in his brain and it works, you feel Wonwoo taking slow breaths as his mind distracts and body eases in the moment.

You pull away, searching for his eyes, “Better now?”

He nods, breathing heavily. You don't let him leave in the middle of the night, offering him to sleep in your bedroom. Once you both kiss your son’s sleeping form goodnight, the two of you settle in an awkward stance.

“Jae doesn't like sharing his bed, so you take my bed and I'll take the couch.”

But somehow you end up in your bed with Wonwoo as he invades your personal space and holds you in his arms like he always used to do.

There's intimacy in the moment which makes you spill your heart out, you tell him how your orthodox parents cut ties with you when you told them about your pregnancy. They never reached out to you after that. You tell him how haunting it was for you to go through it alone. How tiring it was to support yourself by working multiple part time jobs while preparing for interviews and managing the pregnancy and that you believe that Mina is godsend because she's the nurse at the hospital you were brought to when you had fainted at work once and since then she stayed and looked over you like a godmother.

“Aren't you uncomfortable in those clothes?”, you ask, eyes droopy.

“With you in my arms, these clothes are the least of my concern.”, he smiles stroking your hair, “I could do this all my life.”

“I missed you, Won.”, the nickname slips out of you naturally, “When it was unbearable, when I had something to share but no one was there to listen, when while giving birth I thought I wouldn't be able to live through.”, you hide your face in his chest, trying to blink away the tears, “I wished you were there when I held Jae in my arms for the first time, when he grew up to be so much like you.”

Your words turn into sleepy mumbles until they stop.

And once you fall asleep, his floodgates open again, Wonwoo cries the more he looks at you, apologizing a thousand times. He promises to keep you and Jae safe and now all he wants is to take the weight off your shoulders.

Morning comes with the rays of sun peeking through the curtains. You turn within the sheets, having the best sleep in a while as you hug the side pillow, throwing a leg over it. Ten more minutes you promise to yourself as you snuggle closer, a familiar Cologne hitting your nose. You frown, running your hands over the pillow only to find it moving as well.

Your eyes fly open and reality comes crashing down, the pillow you're grabbing is a certain Jeon Wonwoo, who is currently staring down at you with fond eyes and a soft smile.

“Good morning.”, he greets and all you try to do is get away from the proximity. But your baby daddy has other plans.

With a swift swig, he pulls you closer by your middle and pecks your forehead. You go stiff as he eyes your lips and leans in but you don't stop him.

“I think Jae is calling me.”, you say, getting your senses back and wriggling out of his grip, running out of the room.

Wonwoo sits disappointed but his heart is eased.

“Are you sure, you don't wanna inform Mr. Jeon yet?”, Jihoon asks as his eyes almost pierces through the documents, “I got hold of Jimin from the Auditor’s team and he's digging up the history it seems.”

“We can't go up to him just with these documents. We need concrete proof because seemingly we are up against a bunch of influential people. Let Jimin come back with something.”

As you fish out your phone to call Yoongi, the said man appears looking very distraught.

“Guys, it's not only embezzlement, they're planning to upsurge the ownership of this company.”, he informs, leaving the rest of you shocked, “They are on move to convince the shareholders about transferring the shares but given our CEO’s clean image, it won't be easy, what could they be upto?”

“How do you know so much?”, Jihoon asks Yoongi and the latter rolls his eyes.

“Put your mind to come up with something useful.”, comes Yoongi’s snarky remark.

And while the two snide at each other, you ponder on whether to inform Wonwoo about the matter or wait a bit more.

But time doesn't wait and so doesn't the conspirators because a few days later all you see is yours and Jae’s face on every article, all the news bulletins linking the two of you with Wonwoo.

And your heart drops when you realize they're going to use you to tarnish Wonwoo's image.

→ Do not copy, re-post, translate, or share any of my works on other platforms! All stories are copyrighted, joonsytip. ©️

[wontonon]

🎮 ⌇ nerdybf! wonwoo headcanons

pairings: nerdybf!wonwoo x baddiegf!reader

genre: fluffy, smut

minnie's note: BRING MY MAN BACK 😭🙏🏻

nerdybf!wonwoo who sends you 10-minute long voice notes while you’re at your nail appointment, breaking down the complex lore of a game he just finished because "you’re the only one who actually listens to my theories."

nerdybf!wonwoo who has a very specific, ritualistic way of making coffee in the morning by using scales and thermometers like a chemistry experiment, just to make sure your iced americano is "mathematically perfect."

nerdybf!wonwoo who keeps your favorite snacks stashed in his tote bag at all times because he knows you’re "too cool" to carry a lunchbox but you get "hangry" exactly at 3pm

nerdybf!wonwoo who gets flustered when you call him your "personal wikipedia" because he accidentally went on a 20 minute talk about the architectural history of the campus library.

nerdybf!wonwoo who is a total type A planner who handles every single travel detail, from the color-coded spreadsheets and flight check-ins to the hotel bookings—just so you can show up for the vibes, look stunning, and never have to worry about a thing because he’s already thought of everything for you.

nsfw

nerdybf!wonwoo whom you regretted not giving him a chance early on cause he turns into a whole different person once the glasses come off, that deep voice drops even lower when he’s murmuring filthy things against your neck.

nerdybf!wonwoo whose gaming sessions turn into you on your knees under his desk, giving him a head, while he tries (and fails) to keep his voice steady on call with the members. “y-yeah, i’m still here… no, everything’s fine—”

nerdybf!wonwoo after a loss, wonwoo pins your face to the mattress, ass up high. he spanks your cheeks raw, tongue-fucks your puckered hole sloppy, then rams his cock balls-deep into your pussy, growling filthy commands as he floods you with cum, plugging it shut

nerdybf!wonwoo who loves shower sex where you soap up his lean muscles, dropping to your knees to suck his cock sloppy and deep, water cascading over you. he threads fingers in your wet hair, thrusting until he cums down your throat, then eats your pussy against the tiles till your legs shake while groping your soapy tits

nerdybf!wonwoo who is a post-exam freakout where blindfolds you with his tie, cuffs your hands behind with zip ties from his desk drawer. he edges your nipples with ice cubes, then vibrates your pussy till you're sobbing, finally mounting you doggy-style, his cock bullying brutally till he breeds your spasming hole.

[straylightdream]

my dearest,

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: professor! jeon wonwoo x f.reader

he’s has a debt to one of the richest men in the city, with ties to the mafia. he offered a lifeline he can’t turn down. marry the daughter to the man he’s in debt to. they’re both two people thrown into a marriage they never planned. the only way to survive is to stick together and protect each other.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): arranged marriage, smut, romance, angst

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): 1920’s

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 12.6k

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: arrange marriage, violence, mentions of murder, blackmail, illegal activities (alcohol, gambling, speakeasies), mc dad is bad man and is connected to the mob.

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: multiple sex scenes, virgin reader, virginity loss, unprotected sex, oral (fem rec), fingering, creampie, breeding kink, praise kink, multiple orgasms, big dick wonwoo, intense sex, pussy stretching, hair pulling, wonwoo really talks his wife through it, multiple sex scenes, pregnancy, nicknames: lucky, baby, darling (hers) baby, woo, won (his)

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+

𝐚𝐧: this is apart of @studiosvt ✨Puttin' on the Ritz✨ collab. thank you @aeristudios for helping me figure this one out. Thank you @coupsalchemy for beta reading.

🎧 - you make me a man - jackson wang | chains of love - charli xcx

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

THE UNLUCKIEST MAN AND HIS LUCKY CHARM

In the bustling city in the height of 1921, you were considered to be the prize many men sought after. The eldest daughter, the golden child of the richest family in New York City. You not only brought a social status, you brought what was believed to be generational wealth with you. Your father’s means of making money have been connected to the dark underbelly of the city. Your father is the richest, and the most feared man in the whole city.

Your whole life you were raised with the intention of being nothing more than a trophy wife. Something for your future husband to show off. This never sat right with you. You dream of a life away from all of this. You dream of truly living your own life. You're hopeful maybe one day you can find true love.

Life hasn’t always been easy for Jeon Wonwoo. He’s been struggling to get by for as long as he can remember. He thought once he graduated and started his career things would be easier. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case, he still feels as if he’s drowning out in the freezing cold Atlantic Ocean.

He spends his days on the university campus teaching, making just enough to get by. His debt started to grow massively after he got sick during college. A bad case of influenza left him out of work struggling to get by. He started gambling to make some money, but it didn't work. He thought he made friends in high places when a man offered to loan him money. That man ended up being one of the higher up men who work for the richest man in the city, your father. The loan was never an act of kindness, it was just as a power play. Your father was known to pray on people in need. He would offer them loans to make the pawns.

One night coming home from work he ran into the man he owed money to. Wonwoo that night finds himself in a position he feared he would end up in. Tied to an expensive leather chair, he’s been beaten with in an inch of his life. The man who controls the city is standing in front of him. He's given an offer he can't turn down.

From that moment on everything changed, not only for him but for you.

-

It's a week after he's been offered life line. He's awoke at five in the morning by your father's goons. Wonwoo is dragged to your family's home to tell you about your impending marriage. His bruising has started to fade. He's left with a light water color of yellows and greens around his eyes. Luckily his glasses help hide it a little. He can't bury the feeling of shame eating away at him.

Early in the morning you're awoken to commotion downstairs.

Crawling out of bed you grab your silk robe. Wrapping it around your body you head down the hallway. You hear more commotion and yelling. Your mother meets you at the top of the stairs. She grabs your hand stopping you. “It’s your father. Please just agree to anything he asks you to do.” What on earth could your father possibly ask you to do at barely six in the morning? “Darling, I just spoke to him. Please don’t fight with him.” Knitting your brows together, you have no clue what is going on.

Practically running down the stairs you find your father and his men in the foyer. The dim light of the chandelier above casting a shadow down on them.

Your bare feet pad down the stairs. You're greeted to the sight of not only your father and his men, but a man you've never seen before. He's clearly sporting two black eyes that are healing and a busted lip.

"Father?"

Your father turns to you, giving you a wicked grin. Your stomach flips, feeling instantly nervous. "Darling, say hello to professor Jeon Wonwoo your soon to be husband."

You knew this day would come. One day your father was going to set you up to marry someone. You thought maybe deep down inside you would have a say in who you married.

"Why him?"

"Because my darling daughter, if you marry him, I will have full control over both of you." You're instantly reminded how evil your father can truly be.

The moment both your eyes lock, you know you must protect each other. He looks just as scared as you are.

"Jack prep the townhouse on fourth street for the soon to newlyweds."

Wonwoo doesn't say anything, he just silently stares at you with a look of sorrow in his eyes. No matter how hard you try you can't stop the tears from sliding down your cheeks.

"You'll be married in two weeks. You'll move into the townhouse together."

Your father leaves taking his men with him. You're left standing there with the man you're supposed to marry. Reaching up you push away your tears. You want to be mad and blame him, but you can't be. You know he truly had no say in this. He looks just as terrified as you.

A sob breaks in your chest. You fall to the overwhelmed. Silently Wonwoo scrambles over to you. He drops down to his knees in front of you. He hesitates for a moment, before resting his hand on your cheek. Slowly he drags his thumb across the delicate skin of your cheek. Pushing away your tears.

"I'm sorry," you cry.

"This is my fault. You shouldn't be sorry," this is the first time you've heard him speak. His deep voice is soothing.

"Why did he pick you?" You need to know what he's done, so you can try and protect him.

"I owe your father a lot of money."

You push yourself up a little. Looking at him, you try to study his face. He's extremely handsome, even if he is covered in bruises and a busted lip. You can't help but wonder what a professor did to be in debt to your father.

"I'm _____, but a lot of people call me lucky. My mother says it's because I'm a good luck charm."

A smile tugs at his lips. Mindlessly he drags his thumb across you cheek. "I'm going to need a lucky charm."

"Wonwoo, we're a team now. There is no way out of this. We have to get married, but just know I'll be loyal to you."

He knits his brows together. "Loyal?"

"Yes, I'll protect you from my father. Just promise me, you'll try and learn to love me."

Silently he blinks at you a few times, processing your statement. "I will."

A DIAMOND RING AND SADNESS

The wedding your father planned for you is being held in ritzy hotel in the heart of the city. Your vows will be exchanged in ballroom, and the other will host a lavish reception.

When you were younger you always imagined your wedding. You assumed you would walk down the aisle and find the man of your dreams standing there waiting for you. Turns out in the end there stands a man you've known for only two weeks.

Wonwoo is the definition of handsome, and he seems like a great man, but you don't love him, and he doesn't love you. He doesn't even really know you.

Everything about your wedding feels like a blur. The wedding is considered to be the event of the decade. All richest and most elite people are in attendance.

You're dressed in a very elborate white beaded dress. Adorning a long white veil. You've cried more today then you have in your whole life. You manage to gather yourself as your repeat your vows to Wonwoo.

Your eyes stay focused on Wonwoo, trying to tune out the sea of people watching you. Everything feels numb, this is suppose to be the happiest day of your life, and you feel nothing.

"I pronounce you husband and wife." A tear slides down your cheek. Without even thinking Wonwoo reaches out, resting his hand on your cheek. He slowly brushes away your tear as the priest says, "you may now kiss the bride."

Everything feels silent, the whole room feels as if the oxygen has been sucked out. Wonwoo is completely still. He's just silently staring at you, almost as if he's asking for permission. Your lips part slightly, taking in a small breath. He leans in a little closer. This feels like a like a lifetime, when in all reality maybe thirty seconds has passed.

Closing your eyes he leans in all the way. Your lips touch for the first time, and this isn't some spark filled moment. It's just a moment between two sad people fighting for their lives, and trying their hardest to protect each other.

Pulling away his hand still lingers on your cheek. The room erupts into deafening cheers, but you can openly focus on the man staring back at you.

Taking your hand he turns you both so you're facing the crowd. There in the front row is your father's menacing presences. He watches both you and Wonwoo with a calculated look. Wonwoo squeezes your hand capturing your attention. He leads you down the aisle. Everyone cheers and claps applauding what they think is a happily newly wed couple.

The moment you're out of the ballroom, he pulls you off to the dressing room you got ready in. He never lets go of your hand. He locks the door and you both stand there for a moment, just silently staring at each other. Without even thinking you throw yourself into him. Your wraps your arms around his waist and cling to him.

Your chest shake, as a sob threatens to break. "It's okay." He says softly, his hand running up and down your back, helping to soothe you.

"I'm sorry." You cry.

"You don't need to be sorry, I'm sorry, lucky." Him calling you lucky, makes you smile, even while you're crying.

"It's almost over." He whispers.

"It's not though, we still have the reception."

There is a pounding on the door. Pulling away from Wonwoo you look at the door. "Mr and Mrs. Jeon, you're being called." You here the familiar voice of one of your fathers men, Tae.

"Mrs. Jeon?" You repeat loud enough for just the two of you to hear.

"I'm sorry." He's said this so many times since that early morning you met.

"Enough, we can't keep apologizing." You pull away from him. You brush the front of your bead encrusted dress.

His brows knit together. He pulls his wired frame cheaters off. You watch him silently for a moment.

There is another knock on the door. "One moment," Wonwoo yells.

Wonwoo laces his fingers with yours, leading you out of the powder room. The entry way to the ballrooms is sparse with people. Everyone is inside waiting for you.

The two door men open the doors. The ballroom is lively with jazz music and a sea of people. The moment the crowd is made aware of your entrance everyone cheers as Wonwoo leads you inside.

Soon food is passed around and you're both dragged on to the dance floor. You cling to Wonwoo, swaying to the beat of the jazz music.

"Lucky." He says loud enough just for you to hear.

"Yes?"

"We'll figure this out."

Without thinking you lean up and press your lips to his for a quick kiss, earning applause from the crowd.

It's not long before your father leads you around introducing you to influential people. Wonwoo takes a chance to step away, claiming he needed to speak to the dean from his university, who is attending the wedding.

He stands by the dean attempting to listen to him. He’s more focused on watching as you talk to who he assumes is your best friend. He sees you light up for the first time. The way you smile as you speak to her is absolutely mesmerizing. He can’t help but smile as he watches you. You’re absolutely beautiful, any man would be lucky to share this day with you. Hopefully one day you’ll light up like that for him.

Wonwoo makes small talk with the dean before he finds Mingyu standing on the balcony. His friend is leaning against the railing smoking a cigarette.

Mingyu puffs out a cloud of smoke. He reaches into his suit jacket pocket pulling out his carton of cigarettes. Wonwoo grabs one. Mingyu lights a match holding it out towards him.

"Does your wife care if you smoke?" Mingyu asks before taking another puff.

"I'm not sure." Wonwoo stares at the cigarette before taking a hit. He takes a long deep breath inhaling the bitter smoke.

"I can't believe you're married." Mingyu was shocked when Wonwoo told him about his impending marriage.

"It wasn't either of our choice." He takes another hit. Wonwoo leans against the railing. He looks into the busy ballroom. He watches as your father parades you around.

"Do you like her?" Mingyu nudges him.

"I could. We don't know each other yet."

"Do you already carry a torch for her?" Mingyu can't help but smile.

Wonwoo focuses on you, barely hearing anything Mingyu is saying. "It's a crush."

"A crush?"

"She's beautiful, and kind." He barely knows you, but he can tell you're beautiful inside and out.

"You sound like a like a love sick fool." Mingyu drops his cigarette on the floor, and steps on it.

"Knock it off." Wonwoo nudges his friend.

"I didn't tell you, you clean up nice, you look spiffy."

The doors open and you step outside. Mingyu smiles over at Wonwoo before he bows to you. "You look beautiful Mrs. Jeon." Mingyu can't miss an opportunity to tease his best friend.

"Thank you." You bow your head a little.

Mingyu gives you a bow before heading back inside. You step closer to your new husband. Your nose scrunches at the scent of his cigarette. Immediately he drops to the floor.

"Not a fan of smoking?"

"No, my father smokes." That's all you need to tell him.

"I won't smoke around you."

You move so you're leaning against the railing next to him. He reaches over, lacing his fingers with yours.

"We can leave in an hour, my father told Jack to have a car waiting outside for us. We're going to our new town house."

Wonwoo doesn't know much about the house your father set up. He just knows it's property your father owns. From what little he knows, he does know it's located on the fancier side of town.

"How many rooms is the town house?"

"Two, they've fully furnished it for us. One room was turned into an office for you." He knits his brow together. He didn't expect you to give him space for an office.

"Is Mingyu upset you're moving out?"

"I think he's pleased he'll have the place to himself ."

"Is it safe to say Mingyu is a lounge lizard?"

Wonwoo bites his bottom lip holding back a smile. "The ladies love Mingyu."

You want to ask him about his past with women, but you aren't sure if that would be crossing a line. "Do the ladies love you?"

He lets the corners of his mouth turn up, with an small smile. "Not nearly as much as Mingyu."

"You aren't a lounge lizard?"

"No."

"Oh." A silence takes over. Nothing is said as you both watch the party unfolding on the other side of the glass.

"I'm not some ladies man, who chases women."

You look over him. He looks so embarrassed. "It's okay if you were."

The door opens and your mother pops out. "Come back inside, people are asking where the bride and groom are."

Your fingers are laced together the rest of the time you spend at your wedding. You're putting on quite the show for the guest. From the outside looking in, it appears you are a couple who has been together for a while. The constant touching, and the not so subtle longing looks between the two of you.

Once it's finally time to call it a night, the band plays you out as you make your grand exit. Your father has a car waiting for you. Wonwoo drives the two of you away from the luxurious hotel. Your guest cheer as you drive away.

The whole way home Wonwoo keeps glancing over at you. Nothing is said between you the whole drive.

Arriving at your new shared home, Wonwoo helps you out of the car. Walking up the couple of steps to the door, Wonwoo is right behind you. You freeze staring at the door. You always imagined on your wedding day your husband would carry you over the threshold.

Wonwoo steps next to you, and reaches out unlocking the front door. Walking in slowly, you realize this is your new home. Stepping inside behind you, Wonwoo locks the door. He looks around and see a fully furnished home for you. This place is nicer then the place he shares with Mingyu near the university. You've grown up with two different tax brackets. The couch near the window looks to be an expensive Italian leather.

You walk away from him. You must know the layout of this place. You head up stairs and head off to the bedroom. Wonwoo follows behind you.

Wonwoo is suddenly aware that this place only has one bedroom with a bed in it.

Heading off to the en-suite bathroom you struggle to remove your dress. Wonwoo hears your struggling and peaks his head in. You immediately notice the absences of most his clothing, he's just in his dress pants. You can't help it as your eyes wander his torso. It takes everything in you not to reach out and touch the outline of his abs. Your face flushes with embarrassment instantly.

"Are you okay?"

"I need help." You sound completely defeated.

He steps close to you. Hesitatingly he reaches out. He takes his time unbuttoning the buttons that run up your spine. He works cautiously, he's trying to make this as easy on you as possible.

The final button is undone, he looks away and steps back trying to give you privacy.

"I can sleep on the couch." He knows there isn't another bed here.

The beaded dress falls to the floor, leaving you standing in a pool of fabric. You're left standing there in your silk white undergarments.

"I would prefer I don't spend my wedding night alone in bed."

Wonwoo catches sight of your exposed body through mirror. His cheeks flush and the tips of his ears turn red. He's seen his fair share of women even more exposed than this, but this feel incredibly more intimate.

Wonwoo doesn't know much about you, but something tells him that you're very much a virgin. The way you reacted to his bare torso.

Laying in bed you can't help but feel sad. You always imagined your honeymoon would be some, grand romantic night. You always thought this wojld be the night you lose your virginity. Instead you find yourself laying in bed fully dressed in a nightgown staring at a man you barely know.

He looks just as sad and hollow as you do. His lips part as he goes to say something, but nothing comes out.

Reaching out, you rest your hand next to him. Tears slowly slide down your cheek, landing on the cotton sheets below you.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"We have to protect each other."

"I'll do anything to keep you safe." He reaches out, pulling your body close to his. He doesn't say anything else as you fall asleep crying in his arms.

NOTHING IS EASY ABOUT FALLING IN LOVE

A week into being married and it feels as if you're just roommates. Wonwoo has work at the university five or six days a week, and you find yourself spending time alone more often than not.

Your days at home are spent attempting to find a hobby. Before all of this you had a passion for painting. You've found yourself most days setting up an esel and painting in front of the living room window.

It's normally quite late by the time Wonwoo arrives home from the university campus. You've tried to have a home cooked meal waiting for him every night. You hope that maybe having dinner together every night can help build your relationship.You learned very quickly that you still don't know much about each other. You were strangers thrown together, and even with the little time that had passed he still practically feels like a stranger.

You've learned his mother and father live in a different state. Wonwoo only moved here for college and to work at the university. You've learned that Mingyu is the closest thing he has to a family in the city.

After a few late nights of Wonwoo coming home, you're terrified he's off in a speakeasy gambling or possibly seeing someone else. You're not able to protect him from your father if he keeps losing money, or if he's having an affair.

It's close to ten at night when Wonwoo finally arrives at home. You're sitting on the couch with a book in your lap. Wonwoo comes in looking deshevled and exhausted. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is loosened.

He's startled at the sight of you waiting up for him. "You waited up for me?"

"I was concerned about where you were."

"It's Mingyu's birthday. I stopped by his place to have dinner with him and Soonyoung."

"Oh." You close the book and stand up. "I would have appreciated if you let me know if you won't be home for dinner. I spent an hour cooking. I even waited up for you."

"I didn't think you would care if I missed dinner." He sighs, dropping briefcase down on the floor.

Taking a deep breath you stand up. You refuse to be stuck in a strained marriage, just like your parents. "Wonwoo, I understand that we didn't chose this marriage, but I desperately want to try and make this work."

He pushes his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Okay."

"So, please just communicate with me." Your eyes brim with tears. Your emotions and stress are getting the best of you.

His stomach twist seeing you, once again upset, because of him.

"I'm sorry." He steps closer to you.

"I should get some sleep." You're exhausted and you don't want to have this conversation anymore.

Laying in bed you stare at the door. You wish more than anything Wonwoo would walk through it, and join you in bed. Since your wedding night you've slept fully alone. Wonwoo has been sleeping on the living room couch. Your bedroom, you are supposed to share feels lonely. He only comes in here when he needs to get clothing from the closet.

The longer you stare at the door the more you start to cry. You cry yourself to sleep once again.

Walking out of the bedroom in the morning you're greeted to the sound of a silent home. You already know Wonwoo is gone before you reach the living room. In the kitchen you find a letter in a cream envelope with "My Dearest" written on the front.

Opening the letter you immediately feel your heart squeezes at the sight of Wonwoo's penmanship.

My Dearest,

I want to apologize for being so distant. I'm aware that all your troubles have been because of me. I sincerely want to be a better man. I want to learn to be a good husband, and learn to fall in love with you. I know before this we didn't know each other, and because of my disgressions in life, you're now tied to me. I want to make a promise to you, I'll try my hardest to make this work. I have stopped gambling, and have stayed away from anything related to your father. I want to prove to you, that I can be a good man. The one thing I ask for time, please let me learn to navigate all this.

I do have one last request, have dinner with me tomorrow night.

Always,

Wonwoo

You hope that he's being truthful about wanting to grow and be a better man, and that he truly does want to learn to fall in love with you. The idea of being stuck in a loveless marriage is terrifying to you. You've seen too many people you know get stuck in those types of marriage.

Wonwoo is true to his word. At six pm sharp he walks through the front door. He find you standing in front of the window working on a painting.

"Hello." He says pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Hello." You turn away from your painting. "I made dinner earlier, we just need to heat it up. I thought soup would be nice, after a cold day."

Wonwoo heads off to the closet that's near the door, and hangs up his coat. Heading off to the kitchen and start putting the soup back on the stove. Aimlessly you stir the soup. Wonwoo's foot steps catch your attention.

Wonwoo silently starts setting the table to the two of you. You glance up at him, slowly stirring the soup.

"It smells delicious." He says glancing over at you.

"Do you mind bringing the bowls in here, so I can dish us?"

He brings you two bowls, you pour the savory soup, serving both of you. Wonwoo walks them back to the table.

Sitting at the table you watch him slowly eat. He's such a handsome man, you can't imagine women didn't chase after him. "Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever courted someone before?"

"Yes." He suddenly feels embarrassed and he doesn't know why. "Have you ever been courted?"

"I was secretly seeing someone once." You were so young and naive back then. You were barely twenty-one when you started an innocent affair with one of your father's men.

"Who was it?" He suddenly feels jealous at the idea of someone being with you. He hates this feeling. He has absolutely no right to feel this way.

"Johnny, one of my fathers men."

"Oh." That's definitely not what he wanted to hear.

"Nothing happened, we never consummated our relationship or anything like that. I ran away before anything could happen." That was back when you desperately wanted to escape this life.

"You ran away?" He had absolutely no idea you ran away.

"It was back when I was twenty-one. I had enough of how controlling my father was. Honestly it's a story for a different time." You still remember the fear you lived in while you were on the run.

Wonwoo wants to ask you more questions, but can immediately tell this is a touchy subject. "Okay, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

You both silently eat together for a little bit. Even though neither of you are really saying much, it's just nice to have company. You can't take this feeling of being alone.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the letter."

"It's the least I could do." He sets his spoon down. He gives you a sad smile. "I know I'm the reason things haven't been easy for you. I promise I'm going to try my best."

"I appreciate that. I meant it when I said, we're a team. As along as you are trying that's all I ask "

He reaches out and takes your hand. This is the first time he's properly touched your, since your wedding night. He bring the top of your hand to his lips, and presses a soft kiss there.

Tonight might just be a small step in the right direction, but at least things are changing.

Things after that night feel like they’re heading in the right direction. Wonwoo makes sure he's home for dinner. He’s actively getting to know you. You’ve learned so much about him.

On Sundays you’ve even started going for evening strolls together. You look forward to any time you get to spend by his side. Even if you weren’t forced together, you feel as if Wonwoo is someone you would have easily fallen for. You often wonder if he feels the same about you.

You’re hopeful things will keep going smoothly.

THE MARRIED VIRGIN

It's been four long months of marriage. You thought maybe things would get easier the longer you have been married. But it turns out they haven't. The threat of your father hanging over your head, while you're attempting to make your marriage work, hasn't been easy. Wonwoo has gotten so much better at communicating, and he's gone out of his way to work on getting to know you.

The true issue other then the ever looming threat of your father hanging over your head is, the fact Wonwoo won't share a bed with you. Wonwoo sleeping on the couch is starting to drive you mad. You’ve been married for four months and he won’t even touch you, other then a holding your hand or a kiss on the cheek. He is so respectful of you and polite you can’t even be mad. He's been a gentleman in every sense of the word. The fact that you're a married woman and still a virgin is maddening.

You've decided to spend this Saturday morning shopping with your best friend. She's mentioned needing to find a dress for an upcoming party her and Joshua, her husband are attending.

Looking through dresses hanging on the wall you're listening to her ramble on about nonsensical things. Her newest fascination is the fact that Wonwoo won't touch you in any sort of romantic way.

"Four months and you're still virgin?" Jewel sounds appalled at the idea of you still being untouched.

Your best friend Jewel has given you pointers on how to seduce your husband, but your inexperience with men, has left you too shy to try. You've heard about all the dirty details about her sexual escapades with her husband Joshua.

"It's not from lack of trying on my part. It's a delicate subject. I'm not sure how to approach him with the idea, that I would like to consummate our marriage." Your face is bright with embarrassment.

"Lucky, you just need to tell him. Tell him being a married virgin is strange."

The door to the store opens and you pay no mind to it as you look through the beautiful dresses. Someone clears their throat and you turn around to see one of your father's men Tae standing there.

"Miss, your father sent me to give you this." He holds out an expensive looking envelope with a gold wax seal on it. He hands one to you and one to Jewel.

He stands there waiting for you to open it. Pealing away the seal you find an invitation for art auction. Your father has been known to host these, you just didn't expect him to have one of his men give you a personal invite.

"Your father has requested you and your husband Mr. Jeon attend." Your stomach twist at him mentioning Wonwoo your father is up to something, but you aren't sure what.

Jewel is standing next to your protectively. "Tae, how did you find us?" Jewel grew up down the street from Tae so she has no problem sassing him.

"Mrs. Jeon's father is friends with the owner of this store." You glance up at the store owner to see him intently watching your conversation.

Shoving the invitation back in the envelope you glance up at Tae. You aren't sure what your father has up his sleeve, but he's playing some sort of game, you'll play along.

Tae leaves and you're left feeling uneasy. Jewel can immediately tell the day has been soured. "Should we call it day?"

"Yes, I should speak to Wonwoo."

Walking into your home you find Wonwoo in the living room. He’s standing in front of the window holding a book watching the rain fall. He’s dressed in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt. He seems more distracted than normal today.

“Wonwoo,” you say, earning his attention.

“Hi,” he closes the book and turns to fully face you.

“We have an event we have to attend,” you hold out your invitation that Tae dropped while you were shopping downtown with Jewel.

He pads across the living room and takes the invitation. His eyes brows knit together as he intently reads it.

“Why are we invited to an art auction?”

“I don’t know what his game plan is,” you sigh. Your father always has something up his sleeve. He’s always ten steps ahead of you. “I just don’t trust him. He has something planned.”

“What happened when you ran away?” Wonwoo asked, sitting down on the couch. You never planned on telling anyone about your attempt to run away. You realized after getting married, you can't keep secrets from Wonwoo. The only way you can keep each other safe, is if you're both open and honest.

You take a deep breath remembering the night you finally had enough and called Seokmin to help pack your bags while you attempt to get out of the state. “My father had someone find me.”

You shiver thinking about the constant fear you lived in waiting to be found. You finally had enough of being controlled and left in the middle of the night. With money you had been saving you ran away. You got to a different state. Your original plan was to get a new identity and start over, but you never got that far.

“Who found you?”

“Johnny." You vividly remember him breaking down the door to the apartment you were in. You had a short fling with Johnny before your father sent him to track him down. He didn’t think twice about turning his back on you to listen to your father.

“Did he hurt you,” he gently rests his hand on your thigh.

“No he didn’t. I knew what he was capable of, I didn’t give him the chance to even hurt me." Johnny might have cared for you before you left, but the moment you ran away you became nothing more than a job to him. "I made it to Chicago when he tracked me down."

“Were you planning on leaving again before that night you met me?”

“I wanted to, that’s why my father forced you to marry me. My father needed me to have someone who could be collateral damage for any mistakes I could make. You’re meant to anchor me here. If I leave he’ll kill you and not think twice about it.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. The heavy feeling in your chest hasn’t left you since Wonwoo arrived at your family home, early that morning many months back.

“It’s not your fault. I got myself into this situation too.”

“You stopped gambling right?” you ask praying he didn’t get himself into any more of a mess.

“I stopped. I try to avoid anything connected to your father at all costs. I hasn't step foot in a speakeasy since that night." He pushes his fingers through his dark hair. “If you want to try and run away again I’ll go with you and we can try to fully disappear again.” At this point Wonwoo would do anything to keep you safe.

You can’t believe he just offered to risk his life for you. You couldn’t ever ask him to put his life on the line for you like that. You know you could never fully disappear. Once Johnny or Tae did find you, they would make sure they killed Wonwoo in front of you.

“We can’t do that Wonwoo, I care about you too much for you to risk your life for me.”

“We’re a team right?” He says leaning in before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah we’re a team.” Closing your eyes you lean into his touch. You’ve fallen hard for your husband, you pray he feels the same way towards you. “Wonwoo—" You want to ask him to sleep in your room. There is a desperate feeling you have, to share some sort of intimacy with him. Even if it’s just sharing a bed and sleeping near him. “Please stop sleeping in the living room. I want to sleep in the same bed as you.”

Looking at you he cocks his head to the side as his eyebrows knit together. “Is that something you truly want?”

“Yes. I fully understand if you want to stay out here. But we’re married and I don’t really see you as just my roommate." You're putting yourself on the line here.

“I’ve tried really hard to be respectful because you didn’t choose me. It’s not like I was courting you before.” He reaches out, taking your hand. You move so you’re facing him sitting on the couch next to him.

“I might not have chosen you, but I care about you and I have feelings for you. I would like to be your wife, not just on paper.”

“Lucky, I would like to be your actual husband not just in name,” he whispers leaning forward.

“Okay good,” your nose brushes against his.

Leaning forward your lips touch for the first time since your wedding night. His soft lips are gentle for the first part of the kiss. He pulls away with his lips barely away from yours. “I have wanted to kiss you for so long, He whispers. You crash your lips into his for a heated kiss. You kiss him like you need him to breathe. He’s the air that fills your lungs in the suffocating ocean your father has brought you into.

He grabs your hips pulling you onto his lap. His hand rests on your soft sides as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he says.

"Wonwoo—" You're quite inexperienced in most aspects of a sexual relationship. You and Johnny did fool around some back in the day, but you are still very much a virgin.

"Yes?" He pulls back a little bit.

"I'm a virgin." Your face immediately flushes. You shouldn't feel embarrassed admitting that, but for some reason you are. You stomach knots as he just blankly stares at you for a long moment.

The corners of his lips, tug into a smile. "Sweetheart, that's fine. You have nothing to be embarrassed about." He reaches up, resting his hand on your cheek. "I'll take care of you."

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip. Your lips part slightly, as your stare at him with lust filled eyes. "We should move to the bedroom."

Crawling off of him, you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. His lips move against your as he slowly works on removing all the delicate layers of your clothes.

Laying on the bed completely bare you watch him, slowly take off if his own clothes. His glasses have been discarded, they're sitting in the dresser. His eyes stayed locked on you only focused on you as he strips away his clothes.

You've never properly seen a man naked before, but you know just by the glorious sight of his naked body, Wonwoo is no average man. His abs that line his stomach are absolutely mouth watering. The small trial of hair that leads down his navel to the promise land, leaves you awestruck. His cock is much bigger then you expected. It's a large and girthy. His length is a rosy color, and it curves up slightly. Maybe another time, you'll take your time exploring his body.

Wonwoo crawls on the bed slowly. You expect him to move so he's hovering over you. You're caught off guard when he lays down in front of you, with his face right in front of your needy core.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows you look down at him confused. You know Jewel has mentioned Joshua is a fan of cunnilingus, but she said not all men like it.

Wonwoo places a kiss on top of your mound. Your eyes are blown wide, unsure of what to expect. "Wonwoo?"

"Yes darling?"

"What are you doing?"

"It's your first time, I need to prepare you." What does he mean, prepare you? "I want you to have at least one orgasm, before you can take me." He slowly runs his pointer finger through your wet folds. "Have you ever had an orgasm before?"

Your face burns with embarrassment thinking about the few times you've touched yourself, and the one time you found your release rutting against Johnny's thigh.

"Yes."

"Relax and let me take care of you."

Leaning in close he starts, lazily licking your sensitive clit, while he toy with your entrance.

"You taste so sweet," he moans against your clit.

Your finger grip the cotton sheets below. He sucks on your clit like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

Dropping back down to the bed, you moan out. Your fingers grip the sheets, desperately trying to ground yourself.

You can't help but squirm as you suck in your tummy. All the senses in your body are on high alert.

"Won—" you can't think of any other words then his name, in that moment.

He moans against your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the cliff. You free fall in the deep abyss. Your walls flutter around his fingers like a heartbeat.

He pulls away with a lazy smile, and his eyes half lidded. He wiped your release off with his fingers. Sticking them in his mouth he licks your sweet release off.

"You sound so pretty when you cum."

He moves so he's sitting on his knees, between your spread legs. Your chest rises and falls, your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wonwoo's strong hand rubs your thigh, helping to soothe you. "Are you okay to keep going? We can stop if you're not ready for more."

Desperately you reach for him. You can't bare for him to stop once you've had him. "please, I need you."

He nods. "Okay, darling."

He moves so he's hovering over you. Reaching between you, he takes his length in hand. He runs bulbous tip through your wet folds, collecting some of your release.

"This might hurt a little. If it hurts too much or you're uncomfortable, please tell me."

He enters you at an excruciatingly slow pace. Pushing in inch by inch, giving you a chance to adjust to the sheer sizes of him. The feeling of him stretching you, is like nothing you've ever experienced.

He fills you to the brim, practically kissing your cervix. He holds completely still, sitting on his knees, hovering over you. One of your hands holds his shoulder needing something to ground yourself.

"How does it feel?" He asks.

"Strange, it kinda of hurts, but not in a bad way."

"We can stop."

"I don't want to."

Reaching out, he laces his fingers with yours. he pins your hand, next to your head. Leaning down he connects his lips to yours for an intoxicating kiss. His tongue slides across you bottom lip, asking for access. Your tongues move together, helping to distract you, as Wonwoo slowly starts to move.

The first few shallow thrust feel strange. With each slow movement your body starts adjusting more and more.

"You feel so good." He moans against your lips.

Tangling your fingers in his hair you hold his face close to yours. "oh—" your moan is nothing more than a breathy whimper.

"You're doing so good." Hearing him praise you, does something to you.

With each slow thrust the pain starts to dissipate. The steady feeling of pleasure starts to take over.

"Feels good." The coil in your stomach starts to tighten.

Nose rest against yours. "Can you cum again?"

Wordlessly you nod.

"You're doing so good." He repeats. This thrust have grown deeper and steadier.

Your breathing feels shaky as you approach the edge of the cliff. Every thrust brings you a step closer.

Your eyes roll back, and your body free falls into the icy cold abyss. This orgasm feels like nothing you have experienced before. Your walls flutter around his length, that doesn't stop moving. Moaning his name loudly you squeeze his hand that is pining yours to the bed.

"Wonwoo—" you cry.

"Fuck." He swears with a moan.

"You're squeezing me." His thrust have lost their rhythm. His own release is rapidly approaching."I'm going to cum, where should I?" He's on the brink of falling apart.

The logical part of your brain should tell him to pull out, that you haven't discussed children. But that part of your brain isn't in charge right now. Your fingers cling to his back as your practically cry. "Inside."

He picks up his pace, chasing his high. He moans your name like a sinful prayer as he paints your walls with his milky release. He ruts his hips into your, helping each of you, ride out your high.

He drops down to his elbows, he's practically plastered against you. Every aspect of him, feels so consuming to you. Reaching up, you run your fingers through his dark hair.

"Did I hurt you?" He doesn't think he could live with himself if he hurt you.

"No, I'm a little sore, but that was wonderful."

Leaning down he presses his lips to yours. You want to say the three words out loud that are stuck in your throat, but you can't. Not until you're sure he feels the same way.

"I need to clean you up." He pulls away from you. You want to beg him not to leave, but you know he's trying to take care of you.

He leaves the room long enough to come back with a wet cloth to clean you up. Laying the bed he takes his time wiping away his release that slowly leaking out of you.

"We've never discussed having children." He says looking at your core.

"I know."

"I've always wanted to be a father." He knits his brows together and looks away from you.

"I think you would be a good father." Wonwoo is kind, caring and very intelligent. His one flaw is gambling issue, that he's seemed to have gotten under control.

"Do you want to be a mother?"

You can't help but smile. "I would like to be one."

Wonwoo disposes the cloth, before he crawls into bed with you. He pulls you close to him. You're both still naked, neither of you have a desire to get dressed. Your head rest on his chest. Gently he rubs your side helping to soothe you to sleep. For the first time in a longtime, you no longer feel lonely.

-

The day of the art auction, you can't get rid of the anxious feeling eating away at you. It's a Saturday so luckily Wonwoo has the day off. He's sitting in the living room reading a book while you're on the verge of a panic picking a dress to wear.

You settle on an emerald beaded gown. You call for Wonwoo, needing his help to button your dress. He walks in and is immediately taken a back at how beautiful you are.

He takes his time individually buttoning the back of your dress. Finishing up, he steps back to admire how beautiful you are.

"You're so beautiful."

"Thank you. You should get dressed."

Wonwoo heads off and gets dressed in his three piece suit you got him. He looks absolutely incredible my handsome. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You eyes roam his body.

"Were quite the pair Mr. Jeon."

"It helps that Mrs. Jeon is gorgeous."

Arriving at the ballroom. There is a lavish entry filled with the richest and the most elite people in the city. Wonwoo takes your hand, leading you past the sea people.

A jazz band plays on stage. Looking around you see paintings lining the wall with people staring at them.

You catch sight of Joshua and Jewel speaking with one of Joshua's friends Seungkwan. Wonwoo releases your hand long enough to to track you down something to drink.

Jewel grabs your arm leading you away from the boys. "You look beautiful." She says to you, leading you towards the paintings that line the wall.

Your heart sinks staring at the black and white paintings. They're all reminiscent of the street in Chicago you ran away to. There a few details that leave you absolutely sick. Walking closer to you see red paint splattered in some, that resembles blood, and another has a pair of broken glasses, that look exactly like Wonwoo's

Instinctively your hand clutches your pearl necklace. Your eyes are wide as your try not to cry. This art auction is truly nothing more then a warning to you from your father.

"Lucky?" Jewel immediately knows something is wrong.

"I need my husband." Turning on your heels you speed walk over to Wonwoo.

You practically throw yourself into his arms. He can immediately tell you're extremely upset. He looks at the paintings where you just were. He releases you and pulls back. His hand rest on your cheek. The slow drag of his thumb acrossed your delicate skin, is helping to soothe you.

"What's wrong?"

"The painting are a message to me." Pulling away you search for your father, but he's nowhere to be seen.

It's clear your father wants to play a game, and you're not a about to become a a pawn again.

The band plays a song loudly. You look around and find Jewel and Joshua standing near. Wonwoo's hand is protectively on your back.

There is about an hour you play the role of the socialite. You lead Wonwoo around to speaking to old friends, and people connected to your family. Everyone is very interested and learning about your new husband and his job as a professor. The whole time you're making your rounds you watch out for your father close circle of men. You know if you spot Johnny, Tae or Jack your father is near.

Wonwoo leans in close and whispers in your ear, "your father is here."

Looking across the room you see your father for the first time. You know your mother and sister are somewhere here, but you don't have time to look for them.

"Wonwoo stay here." You lean up to give him a quick kiss.

He looks over his glasses and finds your father intently watching both of you. "I can go with you."

"No. Let me handle him." You step away from him, but before you can get more then a step away he pulls you back. You can tell by the look in his eyes, he's scared just like you are. "Wonwoo, I'll be okay."

He doesn't say anything, he just leans down and presses his lips to yours. "I'll be waiting for you."

Taking a deep breath you make your way across the crowded room.

"Father." You walk up to him. The man standing next to him in and expensive suit takes this as his sign to walk away.

"My darling daughter. It's clear your husband is already keen on you." Your father's eyes are locked on Wonwoo while he stands next to Jewel and Joshua.

"He's a good husband."

"You're fooling nobody. It's clear you've fallen in love with him. Seems he's serving his propose already." His words are menacing.

"His purpose?" You need to play dumb, so your father shows his hand.

"If you love him, you'll do anything you can to keep him safe. If you leave, I'll make him suffer, while you watch." His hand grips your heart, and he squeezes tighter and tighter with each pointed word.

"Leave him alone." Each one of your words is pointed.

"As long as you behave, nothing will happen to your husband."

"I'm not going to run again. I have him, and I'm happy. Leave us alone."

Your father lets out a little laugh. "You know Wonwoo has some good genes. He's handsome, and extremely intelligent. His only issue is his eye sight, and him wearing those cheaters." His eyes are locked on Wonwoo. "I would love grandchildren. Maybe I should tell your husband that it's time to make you a mother." Bile starts to crawl up your throat. If you have children one day, you want to keep them far away from your father.

"Leave him alone."

"Maybe marriage wasn't good for you. Suddenly you think you're able to talk back to me."

"Stop it." You've had enough of his threatening words.

"You should find your mother. She's been looking for you all night."

"Goodbye father." You step away.

"Just remember, even if you love him, that won't stop me from using him to keep you in line."

With each step you take, you fight to hold back tears. Looking up you see Wonwoo watching you. As he goes to take a step, you shake your head. You don't want him anywhere close to your father.

Jewel and Joshua watch as you rush to Wonwoo. The second you're close enough he grabs your hand, pulling you toward him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you bury your face in his chest. Desperately you try and fight back tears. You pull away from him slowly. He rests his hand on your cheek. He drags his thumb across the delicate skin on your cheek.

"We should leave." You can't stay here any longer.

"Lucky, are you okay?" Joshua seems just as concerned as his wife.

"Mr. Jeon." You're father's menacing voice echoes behind you.

Wonwoo pulls back a little, dropping your hand. His eyes stayed locked on your, you can instantly see he's scared. Reaching down you grab his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

"Sir." Wonwoo responds.

Your fathers give him a menacing smile, stepping closer. "Do you like the art?"

Squeezing his hand, you let him know he's not alone. "it's quite unique."

"I found an artist who is great at drawing cities."

"So it seems." Wonwoo responds.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" Your father mentioning the name of the city you ran away to sends a chill down your spine.

"No sir."

"I've heard it's beautiful, you should ask my daughter about it."

The loud room instantly feels silent. A ringing takes over you ears. You stomach knots, staring at your father.

Wonwoo squeezes your hand, snapping you out of it. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"I don't think that's necessary." Wonwoo says.

Shame suddenly takes over you. You feel incredibly small under the crushing gaze your father is giving you. Whatever sick and twisted game he wants to play, he's winning.

Tae walks over capturing your fathers attention. He whispers something in his ear.

"I must take my leave. Lucky, tell your husband about Chicago." He walks away, leaving you feeling sick.

Stepping back, you hold back your tears. Wonwoo doesn't let you go far. He desperately clings to your had.

"Lucky." Jewel rushes towards you, with Joshua right behind her.

"Do you want to go home?" Wonwoo asked.

"Yes, I'm ready to leave." He just bibs his farewell and leads you out of the ballroom.

You flee with the party, clinging to your husband. You desperately want to escape this personal hell, your father has made for you.

The whole ride home Wonwoo doesn't try to make small talk, his silence is comforting.

Arriving at home Wonwoo takes his time to help unbotton your dress. Once the last button is undone, he presses his lips to your bare shoulder.

"Are you okay?" He knows it's a loaded question.

"No, but I will be."

TEAR STAINED CHEEKS AND SWEET KISSES

Six months into marriage things between you and Wonwoo are fantastic. You've fallen head over heels more and more in love with him.

He does anything he possibly can do to make you happy. There is a little part of him that is constantly reminding, that in some way he will let you down. He's known for awhile at some point he's going to need to take the train back home to see his family. In an ideal situation, he would be able to take you with him. He knows deep down inside he can't.

After a long day at work, Wonwoo finds you painting in the living room. Painting has consumed your free time. Wonwoo often finds you like this after work. He loves watching you paint. You seem so incredibly happy when you're lost in your painting.

"Hi, my dearest."

You turn and find him standing there looking so handsome. In these last few months you haven't been able to keep your hands to yourself. You just can't get enough of him.

"I need to take a trip home to see my parents." That wasn't what you expected him to say.

"Oh?"

"I would love for them to meet you, I'm just worried if you go, your father will assume we're up to something." Wonwoo tries to act strong when it comes to anything involving your father, but you know he's just as terrified as you.

"Are you asking me to stay home?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'll only be gone a week. I asked Mingyu to keep an eye on you, as well as Joshua and Jewel." Your face falls, and Wonwoo feels his stomach twist. He can't stand seeing you sad.

"Wonwoo I don't like the idea of staying home." You aren't used to being alone anymore.

He rushes over to you. "I know, I hate it too. I'm just scared of you go with me, your father will follow us."

"When do you leave?"

"In a week. I'm going to take the train to Philly."

"Okay."

"Lucky, please don't be mad. I'm trying to keep us safe."

"I want to meet your family." You hate the idea that Wonwoo's family wasn't even at his wedding. They have no idea what you're like. Apart of you is terrified they'll hate you for bringing Wonwoo into your mess of a family.

"I want you to meet them too. We just need to wait."

"Wonwoo do they know why we got married?"

He pushes your hair behind your ear. "No, I just told them I fell in love with you. That we had a whirlwind romance and I begged you to marry me."

"When did you tell them that?"

"That week I wrote you that letter. I sent them a letter telling them about our marriage."

You try to go about your night normally, but the aching feeling in your chest still lingers. Even married your father continues to control your life. A normal married couple would be able to travel to see their in laws, but you simply can not do that.

Laying in bed you stare at the wall. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop the tears from falling. The bathroom door opens, and Wonwoo steps into the bedroom.

There is a long beat of silence before Wonwoo slides into bed. Without saying a word, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your body close to his. He presses his lips to the exposed delicate skin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He hates that he keeps hurting you.

"It's not your fault, it's my fathers fault."

"I still hurt you though. I want you to meet my family."

"I know."

He hand kneads your stomach, helping to relax you. "I love you." He says those three words you've been dying to say for months.

"I love you too."

Mindlessly he starts kissing the side of you neck. Soft moans pass your lips, as he focuses on the sensitive area under your ear.

"Darling, can you lay on your back for me?"

He pulls away, giving you space to move. Laying on your back, you look over at him. He sits on his knees, he takes a moment to pull off his shirt. This body is mouth watering. Recently you can't seem to get enough of him. Pushing yourself up, you pull off your night gown. Lifting your hips, you shimmy out of your panties. You're left laying on the bed completely bare.

Wonwoo hops off the bed long enough to remove his pants. He's already hard, his large lenght is already leaking.

Slowly he crawls onto the bed towards you. He takes his time lowering himself onto the bed in front of you. Leaving a trail of wet kisses across your inner thigh.

Hw kisses the top of your mound before he dives in, like a man straved. He knows exactly what you need to push you over the edge. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, holding him close. Without even thinking your hips rut towards his face.

He laughs against your core, at how needy you are for him. He adores seeing you desperate for your release.

"You sound so pretty." He moans.

"Won—" you all but cry, practically on the edge.

"Can you cum?"

Rapidly you not your head. "Yes."

"Okay, darling." He goes back to sucking on your clit. He works you closer and closer to the edge. His finger work in tandem with his mouth. He thrust two finger in and out of you, over and over again.

Your orgasm feel like a white hot wave. Releasing your fingers from his hair, you go limp against the bed. Your whole body feels as light as a feather.

He pulls back, sporting a grin. Silently he licks his fingers clean of your release. "You taste so good."

Your eyes can’t help but focus on the way his hard cock is leaking. He moves so he’s hovering over you. He’s pressing his lips anywhere he can reach. Without thinking you reach between you. You start pumping his velvety length.

“Fuck—“ he moans.

“Wonwoo, I need you.”

“You can have me.” He removes your hand from him. He takes his cock and guides it to your entrance. A gasp passes your lips as his mushroom tip slips in. No matter how many times you do this, you need a few moments to adjust to the sheer size of him. He pushes in inch by inch.

The moment you’re filled to the brim he looks down at you. He looks at you as if you hung the stars and the moon. Reaching up, resting your hand on his cheek.

“My darling wife, you’re my everything.”

Your heart squeezes. Tears brim your eyes once again. Wonwoo loves you so much, and in turn you’re head over heels for him.

“I love you.” You whisper.

He pulls back slowly, before pushing his hips forward. He makes love to you slowly. His lips are all over your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. Your hands touch anywhere they possibly can. You want to touch anywhere and everywhere you can reach.

With each slow and deep thrust he’s brushing that spot inside of you, that has you seeing stars.

The room is filled with echoing sounds of your moans and whimpers, and his groans against your skin. There is a sound of squelching from your release.

“Im gonna—“ your brain can't even process how to finish that sentence.

“You can do it baby.” He pulls back slightly.

“Won—“ you cry out. You release hits you hard and fast, the air feels as if it’s been knocked out of your lungs.

Your walls flutter around his length like a heartbeat. Your fingers cling to him, holding him close. His thrust has lost its rhythm. His own release is rapidly approaching. His moaning your name like a sinful prayer.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to—“ his hips stutter. With one practically deep thrust he spills his milky release.

His forehead rests against yours. His eyes are squeezed shut. Slowly he rocks his hips into you, helping each of you ride out your highs.

“I love you.” He whispers with his lips brushing yours.

HIS LUCKY CHARM

You've been feeling off for a few weeks, and the entire time Wonwoo has been gone you've been nauseous and throwing up. You're pretty sure you're pregnant. You want to be a mother, and you know Wonwoo would be an amazing father, but you're scared.

You've spent the whole time pretending you're okay in front of Mingyu, Joshua and Jewel. You don't want anyone to know you're pregnant until you tell Wonwoo.

The whole time he's gone, you miss him dearly. One evening you finally decide you feel well enough to paint. You open your box of paints, and find a letter from your husband.

My Dearest,

I hope you find this letter. I hate that I wasn't able to bring you along. Just know I did it to protect you. I know we did originally chose each other, but that didn't stop me from falling in love with you. You're the sun to my moon. You're the reason breathe each day. I love you so much, and I can't want until we're reunited.

Love, your husband.

You never thought you would find love like you have with Wonwoo.

You spend your time alone painting for ready some of the books Wonwoo keeps in a bookshelf. Jewel and Joshua often invite you over for dinner, or Mingyu comes around, so you aren't alone.

The amount of nausea you're experiencing is a firm reminder you're indeed pregnant. You and Wonwoo haven't done anything to prevent pregnancy, so you aren't surprised.

It's the day Wonwoo is finally serving back home. Sitting on the bathroom floor you wonder how Wonwoo will react to the news.

Your plans for cook dinner tonight have long gone out the window.

The sound of the front door closings catches your attention. You hear your name called in the distance. You're barely able to yell out for your husband, before you throw up again.

He finds you with your head in the toliet, spilling the contents of your stomach. Instantly he squats down next to you, and starts rubbing your back. Helping to soothe you.

"Darling, what's wrong."

"I think I'm pregnant." You pull back sitting on your knees looking over at him.

Wonwoo suddenly feels a mixture of excitement and terror. The idea of your father using his child as a pawn against both of you is absolutely terrifying.

He's lost all the color in his face as he stares at you. "Wonwoo?"

"Lucky, that's amazing, darling."

Placing his hand on your cheek he leans in and rest his nose against yours. Even thought the circumstances that led to your marriage aren't normal, he can't deny how much he loves you.

"You're going to be an amazing mother."

"I hope I am." You never wanted to raise a child anywhere near your father. The idea of bringing a child into this world is terrifying.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. He ever so slowly pushes your hair away from your face. "Darling, let me make you some tea to soothe your stomach."

He helps you stand up, and gives you a chance to clean up. Heading off to the kitchen he focuses on making you a cup of tea.

Walking into the kitchen you find Wonwoo focused on making you a cup of tea. Walking up behind him, you wrap your arms around his stomach. Resting your cheek against his back. You missed him so much.

"Next time you go on a trip, can we try and see if I can go with you." His absence made you realize, you don't want to live a life where Wonwoo isn't by your side.

He pulls away and spins around. Wrapping his arms around you, he holds you close. "I missed you so much." He leans down pressing his lips to yours for a gentle kiss.

"I missed you too."

"I saw your painting by the window."

You pull back giving him a soft smile. "In your absence, I distracted myself with painting."

He reaches out resting his hand on your stomach. "Maybe you could paint our beautiful baby something for their nursery?"

He's always encouraging you to paint. He always says, he loves watching you light up painting. Since everything unfolded that morning where you met Wonwoo, painting has brighten you so much joy.

"I would love to do that."

Sitting at the kitchen table sipping on tea, Wonwoo tells you all about his visit to see his family. He lights up, mentioning how his mother says she wants to meet you, and when she says she wants grandchildren. Instinctively you rest your hand on your stomach.

Unfortunately Wonwoo's parents won't be the only set of grandparents in your child's life. You know your mother will be a great grandmother, you're just terrified of your father.

For the longest time you have been sitting on lots of information about your fathers illegal activities. It seems the time has finally come to let your father know he won't be controlling your family you've built with Wonwoo.

Looking at Wonwoo you can see the way he looks at you. You're his everything, and in turn he's your everything. You stand by your promise you made to him, you'll protect him. The only way you can truly protect him, is by telling your father to leave you alone.

Your first evening home with Wonwoo ends with you laying in bed together. His head rest near your stomach. You can't help but smile as he talks to your baby. You both know there is no way your very small child can possibly hear him, but it doesn't matter. His actions makes both of you happy.

"I'm going to love you so much. You're momma is the best thing that ever happened to me." His sweet words make your eyes water.

"They're going to love you just as much." You respond.

-

Two weeks pass until you're finally ready to speak to your father. You make sure not to tell Wonwoo, and you plan your trip for when he's at work at the university. You made sure to inform Jewel of your location, incase your father tries to pull anything.

It's a chilly autumn morning as you make your way through the city. Your families home is located on the upper fancy side of the city. You hold your close to your body, protecting yourself from the breezy.

Walking into your family home, you find your mother in the foyer. She lights at the sight of you. She pulls you into a tight hug.

"Lucky, I didn't know you were coming by." She immediately helps your remove your coat.

"Wonwoo is at work, and I need to talk to father."

She pulls back and looks at you with worried eyes. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be." You step back.

"He's in the dining room. He just finished up a meeting ."

Walking through the the living room, you enter the dining room. Your father is sitting alone. In front of him is a plate with steak and a glass of what looks like whiskey. One of the men he met with must of brought him the illegal brown colored liquor.

"Father."

"My darling daughter." You hate that he always speaks to you in a condescending tone.

You pull out a chair and sit down across from him."I shouldn't be here long. I'm stopping by to let you know, I'm with child."

He narrows his eyes at you, clearly processing what you just told him."You're pregnant?"

"Yes, and I'm letting you know now." You pause. This is your chance to finally be brave. "If you ever want to see me or your grandchild you will leave me and Wonwoo alone. This isn't a threat, but a promise. If you so much as touch one hair on Wonwoo's head, I will burn down everything you have worked for. You just won't see me or my child ever again. I will burn down your empire." You've spent years paying attention to all the illegal things your fathers does.

He barks out a bitter laugh. "Know your place, child."

"I'm not a child. I'm giving you a chance to know your grandchild."

He grabs the expensive glass, an takes a drink of the whiskey. "You're threatening me."

"No I'm promising you, that if you hurt my husband or try to control me, I'll end everything." You've been paying close attention to your father's illegal activities since your were an adult.

"Where is your beloved husband?" He leans forward, resting his arms on the table.

"Thats none of you business."

"You wouldn't do anything."

"I think Bureau of Investigation would love to know about the speakeasy on twelveth street. Or about your money moving store fronts." You have no issues laying your cards out on the table.

"You love the professor so much you would throw away your family that gave you everything." He's switching to a tactic of guilting you.

"I would do anything for him and our child." Instinctively you rest your hand on your stomach.

He doesn't say anything he just leans back in his chair. His eyes are burning into you. "It's time I leave now. I'm going on a trip with my husband. I better not encounter any of your men."

"Are you running away?"

"No, I'm going on a much needed trip. Don't worry I'll be back."

Walking out of the dining room you find your sister and mother standing there. Both of them practically in tears. This isn't how you wanted either of them to find out.

"You're pregnant?" Your mother asks.

"Yes." You can't stop the tears that start falling.

"Does Wonwoo know?" Your sister asks.

"Yes, and he's very happy."

Your mother wraps her arms around you, pulling you close. "I'm so happy for you, Lucky. Maybe you were his lucky charm."

You think about this often. You've always been called Lucky, because your mother says you're a lucky charm, and maybe she's right. Wonwoo and you being thrown together changed his life. He's even says you're his lucky charm.

"I think he's mine."

-

EPILOGUE: SNOWFALL

Two month later you find yourself stepping off a train with Wonwoo by your side. This is your first time traveling since that faithful trip to Chicago. Wonwoo holds your hand tight as you make your way through the crowd. One of your hands rest on your round stomach.

Philadelphia is beautiful in the winter. According to Wonwoo his parents live about a five minute walk from the the train station.

He lights up looking around the city called home for most his life. "I used to walk this way to school everyday."

Arriving at the house he grew up in he stops. He looks over at you and gives you a smile. "I always dreamed of bringing the love of my life home to meet my parents."

"Is that what I am?"

"Yes, you're the love of my life, and the mother of my child."

Walking up the lightly snow covered path, you feel slightly anxious. Wonwoo knocks on the door and his mother quickly opens the door. She lights up at the sight of both of you.

His family immediately walk you in with open arms. His mother waste no time pulling you into a hug before taking you inside. Wonwoo watches with the biggest smile on his face. He was already hopelessly in love with you. But seeing you pregnant and glowing with a smile plastered on your face, reminds him that you're truly the love of his life.

You might have not chosen each other, but maybe you were always supposed to end up together.

[iadoresora]

never let go/wonwoo

pairing- boyfriend wonwoo x f! reader genre-angst with comfort, misunderstanding, almost breakup,healing though presence wc- 1.3k synopsis- after a midnight argument you walk out angry but wonwoo follows you afraid this goodbye might become permanent. a/n- would recommend listening to never let go by lngshot and ican’teven by the neighbourhood

2:02 AM

The apartment felt too small for the silence growing between you and Wonwoo.

Rain tapped against the windows in uneven rhythms, and the green digits on the digital clock glowed 2:02 AM, sharp and unforgiving. The living room light was warm, but the air felt cold. You stood near the couch with your arms folded tightly across your chest, while Wonwoo leaned against the kitchen counter, watching you quietly as if searching for the safest words to say.

“You always do this,” you said, your voice tight with frustration as you looked directly at him. Your tone was controlled, but your eyes were already shining with hurt. “You shut down when things start to matter.”

Wonwoo lifted his gaze slowly. He spoke softly, almost careful, as if each word needed permission to exist. “I’m listening,” he said in a calm, low voice, his expression restrained but not indifferent.

You shook your head, letting out a shaky breath. “It doesn’t feel like it,” you replied, sounding exhausted more than angry.

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, hesitant. “I don’t know what you want me to say right now,” he admitted, avoiding your eyes for a second.

You laughed once, bitter and small, turning away as frustration spilled over. “Exactly,” you said, the word heavy with disappointment.

You grabbed your jacket from the chair. The sudden movement made him straighten, concern flickering across his usually calm face.

“Where are you going?” Wonwoo asked, his voice slightly sharper now, his worry for you was slipping through the calm.

“Obviously, going out,” you answered quickly, refusing to look at him. “I need space.”

“You don’t have to leave,” he said softly, taking one step forward as if unsure whether he should follow.

“Yes, I do,” you replied, your voice firm but trembling at the edges. "Fresh air is calling for me.”

The silence that followed felt louder than the rain outside. You reached for the door but deep down you expected Wonwoo to say something but he didn’t. He stood still.

“Fine,” you said quietly, turning back just enough for him to hear. Your voice softened into hurt. “If you don’t know what to say, then don’t say anything.”

The door closed behind you with a sharper sound than you intended.

The rain swallowed you immediately as you stepped out onto the street.Cold drops soaked through your clothes within seconds as you walked fast down the empty street. Streetlights blurred into golden halos on the wet pavement. Your anger burned hot for a moment, then slowly dissolved into something heavier.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking, breathing unevenly.

Behind you, footsteps splashed through puddles.

“Wait,” a voice called out to you, breathless and urgent.

You stopped and turned. Wonwoo was running toward you without an umbrella, hair damp, his thick rim glasses foggy and clinging to his forehead, his usually composed expression softened by urgency.

“You shouldn’t be out here like this,” he said once he reached you, breathing harder than usual. His voice was low but sincere, filled with concern obvious in the way his eyes searched your face.

You frowned, rain dripping down your lashes. “You followed me?” you asked, your tone defensive but quieter than before.

“I didn’t want you walking alone,” he answered immediately, speaking with quiet certainty.

You looked away, hurt resurfacing. “You didn’t look like you cared back there,” you said softly, your voice cracking slightly.

“I did,” he said quickly, stepping closer. His tone carried more emotion now, less restraint.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, turning back to face him. Your words came out tired rather than accusing.

He opened his mouth but paused, then closed it again. The hesitation stung.

You shook your head and started to walk past him. “Forget it,” you muttered in a way your voice sounded small and defeated. You started walking again but then, you felt a hand reaching out instinctively and wrapped gently around your wrist. It was Wonwoo’s, his touch was warm despite the rain, it felt careful and a bit hesitant rather than forceful.

“Please,” Wonwoo said softly, his voice almost swallowed by the storm. His eyes held yours, vulnerable and earnest. “Don’t go angry.”

You froze.

You glanced down at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not angry,” you whispered, though your tone betrayed uncertainty.

He let out a quiet breath, almost a sad laugh. “You’re walking through heavy rain at two in the morning,” he said gently, his voice laced with worry. “You’re not okay.”

The rain fell harder around you, but neither of you moved.

“You shut me out,” you said after a long pause, your voice softer now, eyes lowered. “I never know what you’re feeling.”

Wonwoo’s grip loosened slightly, his thumb brushing your wrist unconsciously. He spoke slowly, choosing honesty over perfection. “I go quiet because I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing,” he confessed, his voice barely above the rain.

“That silence feels like distance,” you replied, looking up at him with tired eyes.

“I know,” he said, nodding once. His voice carried quiet regret.

He swallowed before continuing, his gaze steady now. “When you’re upset, I start thinking about how to fix it. Then I overthink everything… and I freeze.”

You studied him, your anger slowly melting into understanding and patience with him.

“You make it hard to read you,” you said softly, your voice gentler now. “Sometimes I think you don’t care.”

His expression shifted, pain flickering briefly across his face. “I care too much,” he said quietly, his voice thick with honesty.

The words settled heavily between you.

Rain dripped from his lashes as he stepped closer. His voice softened further. “When you walked out, it felt like something was slipping away. I couldn’t just stand there.”

Your breath caught.

The city felt distant, muted by the storm. His hand moved from your wrist to your hand, fingers intertwining carefully, as if asking permission without words.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” you murmured, your tone gentle now.

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he replied softly, looking directly into your eyes. “I just didn’t want you to leave like that.”

The rain cooled your skin, but warmth spread through your chest.

“So what now?” you asked quietly, voice small and uncertain.

He hesitated, then answered honestly, his voice calm but emotional underneath. “Now we stand here until you’re ready to come back.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite everything.

You stepped closer without thinking. His free hand lifted slowly, brushing wet hair away from your face with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

Neither of you kissed because the moment felt too fragile for that.

You leaned your forehead lightly against his shoulder. He exhaled slowly, relief softening his posture.

“I’m still upset,” you whispered, your voice muffled but honest.

“That’s okay,” he said quietly, his tone warm and steady. “Just don’t disappear.”

The rain continued around you, heavy but no longer harsh.

After a while, you started walking back together, hands still linked. Your footsteps fell into the same rhythm, quiet and unspoken.

No apologies were spoken aloud and no confessions were fully finished.

But when your fingers tightened around his hand, he squeezed back instantly, as if promising silently that he was still there.

And this time, neither of you let go.

[kozukensgf]

boyfriend texts with wonwoo! nana tour edition

genre! smau, fluff, crack, one shots, fake texts

note! highly recommend for u to watch nana tour first since most of this text is done based on real life events (on that show)

masterlist | nana tour masterlist

taglist 🫶🏻

@worldpeaceforyoongi @sunooslover @forever-atiny @qockiestt @mystverse @blaycke @jaslwr @weird-bookworm @clownprincehoeshi @aaa-sia @http-mewchuu @heeseungthel0ml

@toplinehyunjin @aervera @arkynz @Hawshiiiii @jenowithjaem @chhnc @do-you-remember-summer-127 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @lesuneczka @tinyelfperson @Codeinebelle @fr-freak-blog @cherrylvrr @dcrlingyou @hq3lo @jkbabiey @sarabencze @gyuguys @dunixxd @glitterhosh @jihoonsbbygirl @tacosandbitch @dwaekki-bee @darkypooo @theidontknowmehn @ma-riiii @elein041 @enchantingellee @yejisuu @seungkwansflower @enhacolor @nctwishstan @jelliblue54-blog @wakandabiitch2 @tastyluvr @zerowantstobattle @ilivelaughlovewoozi @hannah81141418 @evangeline6243 @codeinebelle @perfectiondazesworld

@starniras @kwonhs96 @jiabae @bella-feed @paradiseoflosers @smiileflower @verogonewild @naykzz1

[imnotshua]

as seen on screen | jww (part 3/3)

٠࣪⭑ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem reader ٠࣪⭑ summary: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say. ٠࣪⭑ genre: coworkers au. smut, angst, enemies to lovers ٠࣪⭑ rating: explicit. minors do not interact, i’ll block you. ٠࣪⭑ chapter warnings: smut, drinking, swearing, smoking, reader and wonwoo won't admit they like each other, mentions of revenge p*rn (stranger vs wonwoo), annoying characters (i cannot stress this enough). UNBETA'D because this is so long and so late and i'm impatient to post ٠࣪⭑ smut contents: fingering, protected sex, unprotected sex, oral (both receiving), outercourse, cum eating, nipple play, pet name (baby) if you think i’ve forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post! ٠࣪⭑ wc: 31k 😑😑😑 NO ONE LOOK AT ME ٠࣪⭑ a/n: well fellas, this is it. i thought this was finished at 18k but i asked 2 days ago if you'd mind if i wrote 2k more- and then i guess i blacked out lmao. thank you to @starlightkyeom and @100vern in particular, who have listened to me complain about this fic for too long and are always kind, and everyone in C&E who sprinted with me. you're the best. ٠࣪⭑ written for: the Lights Out collab hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me join in! please look out for the rest of the fics 💕

Even after a long, cold shower, sleep is proving impossible. The air conditioning hums too loud, doing nothing to cool the embarrassment that has taken over Wonwoo’s body. Every time he closes his eyes, the moment in the elevator replays– how close he got, how your eyes flickered down to his lips as he spoke, the way water beaded down the long line of your neck. How badly he wanted to touch you.He spends too long trying to convince himself it was just the wine that brought down your defenses, but your last glass was emptied over an hour before you almost let him kiss you. God. You almost let him kiss you. He lets out a bitter laugh as he imagines you talking about what a PR disaster that would be, had the moment played out.

Unable to sleep, he reaches for his phone and pulls up Instagram. He doesn’t follow you, never thought you’d want him to, but lately he’s found himself looking up your profile all the same. Your posts are all books he wants to ask you about, views from hotel rooms, occasional pictures with friends at dinner– half of the group mid-sentence with drinks in their hands, a stray cat you’re attempting to stroke in Rome, an occasional selfie in front of somewhere beautiful, mussed sheets bathed in sunlight captioned “home”. Try as he might, he can’t imagine where you live. An apartment in the city? A villa in the hills? 

There’s one photo of you he particularly likes he found in a carousel of someone else's wedding– you’re a bridesmaid in a lilac dress, sitting on a wall, feet resting on the thighs of a man (a friend? Someone more?) cropped out of the picture, heels abandoned on the floor. You have a cigarette in your hand, and your eyes are scrunched shut, and you’re blowing a kiss to the camera. He thinks about that photo a lot, and how he hasn’t truly seen that side of you in person. The closest he got was all those years ago, when he talked with you in a bar and your smile almost ruined him with the lightness of it. His crush on you was too obvious back then. Embarrassing. If he scrolls further down, Wonwoo would find photos nameless people have taken of you, candid and laughing at the person behind the camera, and he wonders if they were taken by friends, or given their replacement with selfies, an old partner. 

But he’s not scrolling tonight. Wonwoo is frozen, thumb hovering over the highlighted ring around your profile picture. He hasn’t seen you post a story yet and he’s so, so tempted to see what you won’t immortalise on your grid. He glances at your follower account. Small enough that you’d notice his name amongst the viewers. 

Fuck it. 

His breath catches in his throat. A brief video of you posted an hour ago, in the mirror of your bathroom with the patter of the shower running in the background. You’re still wearing that red bikini and looking like an image conjured from his teenage wet dreams, angling your hip to the side so he can just see the curve of your ass. He swallows hard, entranced in the way your manicured fingernails brush across your collarbone, palm conveniently covering the chain that sits at the base of your throat. Is his ring still on it? Is this meant for him? Should he message you? Did you touch yourself in the shower? Wonwoo’s head buzzes with questions, not knowing that just a floor away, you’re sliding your nightdress up over your hips.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re desperately fighting away the image your mind conjures of him, careful and meticulous, doing it for you. And as you brush your hand over your thigh, you try not to think of his doing the same. And when you circle your fingers over your clit, you suck in a small breath, and give up trying not to remember that dream you once had of him making you come with long fingers buried deep in your wet cunt. Can still feel his fingers on your cheeks, thumb angling your chin up just to– your mouth waters. God. God, you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this. 

Your phone buzzes under your pillow, and you drag your hand from between your legs, flip the skirt of your nightdress back down and turn on your side. You pull out your phone– two notifications. 

The first is your friend.

Bridget [22:19] who is THAT thirst trap for Bridget [22:19] nvm I can guess You [22:20] Bitch <3 Bridget [22:20] slut <3 The second is him. A like left on the same story you’d hoped he would see. It’s stupid, you think, the way this small thing makes you feel. Stupid, because him liking you (or your body, who’s to know, really?) should have no bearing on how you feel about him. How do you feel about him, besides irritated most of the time? Sure, he’s attractive. Anyone with eyes would admit it. And sure, years ago you liked the way his eyes lit up when he talked with you over drinks. But there’s been an entire lifetime between then and now. 

He said he hated you too, so what’s changed? Nothing, as far as you can tell. All that’s different is the proximity, working in close quarters, and you knowing things about him that you probably shouldn’t. A shameful memory of that video brings heat over your body, because you know the way he groans when he–

You shake the thought. The Wonwoo you know in 2025 is cold, closed off, and distrustful. Nothing in the past few hours has given new insight into his personality, just that he’s not immune to finding you attractive on some basic level. You release a heavy sigh, toying with his ring, still sitting heavy on the chain around your neck.

Nothing has changed. 

Wonwoo will behave how Wonwoo does. You close your eyes in the hope that sleep will finally come, and take this night away from you. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re late getting ready for dinner. A call with Rolex and the potential for a brand ambassadorship ran over, but a meeting is finally booked for Tuesday. You call Inès while doing your make-up in the bathroom, and ask her to rearrange yours and Wonwoo’s flights for Zurich, first thing Monday morning. 

The restaurant Bridget has booked means a dress and heels, neither of which you had packed since you don’t have any sponsor dinners this week in Miami, so you have to send out for a personal shopper while you’re tied up with the press. Out of three options, two have necklines that can only be considered appropriate for the club, and one isn’t ideal for dinner with friends, but it’ll do. Soft, pale yellow. The back is lower than you’d like for tonight, dipping elegantly at the small of your back. At least your areolas won’t be visible in this one. 

At six-fifty five, you slip on your heels and rush out the door down the hall to call for the elevator. The wait for it to reach your floor takes an age, and you’re checking your watch when it dings to announce its arrival. The doors slide open, and there’s a small intake of breath. You look up to see Wonwoo straightening his spine, his eyes flitting up at you, down at the phone in his hand, and up again. He’s in a white buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled halfway, black trousers that make his legs look so long, and a long black coat folded over his arm. Looks like something from an old movie, so handsome when he wears his glasses. Your breaths go shallow as you will your fickle heartbeat to relax. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in this same lift and he almost– you almost–

“Are you getting in or what?” he mutters. 

“Sorry.” You shake your head a little and step inside, tucking yourself into the opposite corner. 

The lift rumbles into motion, and the two of you stand in silence. You know his eyes are on you occasionally, lingering glances caught in your peripherals. If he’s not going to mention your almost kiss, your Instagram story, then neither will you. Leaves you feeling off-centre. Unbalanced. But you refuse to be the first to lose your cool. 

“You didn’t bring a jacket,” he says suddenly. An observation, not a question. “It’s cold outside.”

“It’s Miami,” you retort. “How cold can it get?”

There’s a brief moment where it looks like he’s about to argue with you, but it seems he changes his mind when his eyes drop to your neck. “Where’s my ring?”

You slipped it off the chain this morning. Thought it best you stopped carrying it around everywhere you go. 

“In the safe in my room,” you say flatly. “I’ll fetch it for you tomorrow.” 

“Good,” he says, folding his arms. “I missed it.”

Ever since you’ve been tasked with taking care of it, you’ve wanted to ask what it means to him, why he’s so attached, but the two of you fall into uncomfortable silence once again. Finally, finally, the doors slide open to the lobby, where Carlos is already waiting for you. He lifts his hand in a friendly wave, and when you walk over to meet him, Wonwoo falls into step beside you. 

“You look nice,” Carlos says as you greet him. And to Wonwoo– “Doesn’t she look lovely?” 

Wonwoo stiffens. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Good… uh– good dress.”

Hardly looks at you as he says it, and you feel the prickle of annoyance rising up your spine again. Can’t mean it, surely, but he’s hardly going to insult you to your face, not in front of Carlos. 

Carlos slips an arm around your waist. “When was the last time you wore a dress, huh? I didn’t even know you owned one.”

You catch it, the way Wonwoo sneaks a sideways glance, then trains his narrowed eyes forward to focus on the elevators. “Liar, how many times have we had sponsor dinners?” You laugh, shoving Carlos off. “Anyway, what’s this?” you ask, plucking at his Williams puffer jacket over a light blue shirt. “You know we’re going somewhere grossly expensive, right?”

His smile splits his face as he laughs. “I need to rep the team, so I’ve been told.”

“Ah–” you say knowingly. “Can’t fault you for that, I suppose.”

Wonwoo clears his throat, and while you pointedly ignore the interruption, Carlos turns his attention on him. “What are your plans tonight?”

“Me?” says Wonwoo, distracted, scanning the faces exiting the elevator into the lobby. “I don’t know. Mingyu mentioned dinner with someone he knows.”

Your phone buzzes. You fish it out, and see that your driver is pulling up. “Uber’s close by,” you say to Carlos. “We should head outside.”

“Sure,” he says to you with a smile, and to Wonwoo– “Have a good night, mate.”

You don’t wait for Wonwoo’s reply. Just link arms with Carlos and walk out into the night. Unfortunately, Wonwoo is right. It’s cold. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bridget is positively giddy as enter the restaurant. You put it down to her new boyfriend, Eric, who is very sweet and completely enamoured with both her and Carlos. As you’re shown to your table and settle into your seat, you look at her questioningly. 

“Do we have two more coming?” you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs– one beside you, and the other on the other side of the table, beside Bridget.

“Oh, just a couple of friends!” she says, a tiny smile playing on her lips, focusing very hard on her menu. “Very last minute, hope you understand.”

You narrow your eyes. “Well, who is it?”

Bridget doesn’t need to answer, because you catch the movement of the hostess behind you, showing an equally blindsided Wonwoo, and a smiling (like a cat who got the canary) Mingyu, who winks at your horrible, evil, sneaky friend. You’re cutting them both off your Christmas card list.

Mingyu slips into the seat beside Bridget before Wonwoo has a chance to react, leaving him with no other option than to sink into the chair next to yours. It’s crowded, the table is meant for five instead of six, too small for this many people. Wonwoo’s arm brushes yours. 

“They couldn’t sit two celebrities at a bigger table?” you grumble.

Bridget grins devilishly. “I prefer it like this,” she says (in your head you’re calling her a liar). “Very cosy, don’t you think?” She touches Mingyu’s arm gently. “Thanks for coming, darling,” she says.

Carlos leans over you to ask– “Wonwoo, why didn’t you tell us you were coming earlier?”

Wonwoo looks at him, then slides earnest eyes over to you. “I didn’t know.” And then quieter– “Honestly.” 

Bridget claps her hands together, grinning wide at you, daring you to say something. “We couldn’t have it looking like a double date, now, could we?” You hide your burning face in your menu. “No offence, Carlos, but wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“No FIA rules about who dates who,” teases Carlos, raising an eyebrow at you. 

You roll your eyes. “You all know fine well that I don’t date my colleagues.” You feel Wonwoo shift next to you, but you won’t pay him any attention. “Too messy.” 

Carlos waves his hand dismissively. “It’s only messy if your last name is Horner.”

There’s stunned laughter around the table, even Wonwoo covers his mouth with his hand to stop his laugh escaping.

“Or if you’re accused of sharing information,” you say, smiling. “PR disaster.”

Bridget tilts her head to the side, like an innocent puppy you know she isn't. “Maybe you should date someone from Ferrari instead.” 

You try to press sharp on her toe under the table but you get Eric instead, who yelps. Bridget grins. You feign innocence. “Maybe I shouldn’t date at all.”

Time moves like molasses. Bridget and Mingyu seem to take extra time choosing their drinks (she has the same gimlet she always has. Mingyu has a beer), ordering their meals (Mingyu asks for a few more minutes twice) and when your espresso martini is placed in front of you, everyone (including the waiter) turns to look at you bemused, as you knock it back and order another. 

“What?” you say, wiping the foam from the corner of your mouth with your ring finger. “It’s been a long week.”

Dinner moves slower, if at all possible. By the time Bridget finishes picking at her starter, you’ve finished your second drink and you’re signaling to the waiter for a third. You sneak subtle glances at Wonwoo when you think he’s not looking. He’s only half listening to the animated conversation playing out in front of you, going between looking down at his plate and staring off into space. Every time either of you move, your skin brushes his, and it’s just enough to drive you crazy. 

You pick at your food. Truth be told, you shouldn’t let Bridget’s meddling get the better of your mood, since there’s no possibility of anything between you and Wonwoo anyway, because–

You work together

He hated you for years

What happened last night was the result of too many drinks on your part, and him mistaking frustration and friction for sexual tension, or something

He’s only a man, after all. Don’t they all think with their dicks?​​

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Whatever Bridget and Mingyu were pulling hasn’t worked, because the night ends with you outside waiting for your uber, tipsy and shivering in the wind. The others are still inside, trying to decide which bar they want to try next, and you said your goodbyes early on account of an early start tomorrow morning. Carlos is staying put, sitting at the bar and flirting with a model who turns out to be a friend of a friend of a friend. He’s given you his jacket though, and you’ve pulled it around your body tight to keep the chill of the wind out. 

There’s the noise of the door behind you and you turn to see Wonwoo watching you, and you almost snap your neck turning back to face the road again. Wonwoo comes to stand at your side. Too close. Close enough that you can catch his cologne on the wind. 

“You need to take this off.”

You nearly choke on air as you whip your head around to look at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Carlos’ jacket,” he says, raising an eyebrow and casting his eyes down over your form. “You’re wearing a competitor's merchandise.”

He’s right. It looks questionable if twisted a certain way, but it’s easily explained. “I’m cold,” you say simply, looking back out to the road again, looking for any sign of your uber. 

“Well, I warned you,” he chides.

“I didn’t bring anything warm that’d go with this anyway.”

“Here,” he starts. You catch movement in the corner of your eye. He shrugs off his jacket, turns to you, and tugs on the sleeve of yours, and moves into your space. You swallow thick. “Have mine. Can’t have our Head of Communications caught up in a dating scandal, can we?”

“I think I’m safe, with Carlos inside chasing models.” You laugh, though you let him slide the Williams jacket down your arms. The wind makes you shiver, but he’s got you. He slips his (still warm from his own body) coat over your shoulders. It shrouds you. He shrouds you, still up in your personal space, still not stepping back to give you room to breathe. 

“What about you?” you ask, and the concern evident in your voice surprises you. “Aren’t you cold now?” 

Wonwoo huffs a gentle laugh. “I’m okay.”

“Did you get the feeling we’re being set up?” he asks quietly. 

“Hmm,” you agree, keeping your eyes trained on the road. “Bridget’s as subtle as a brick through a window.”

“Mingyu too.” Wonwoo chuckles. He sounds fond for once. “I’m sorry, you know?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t kn–”

“No–” he interrupts. There’s a long pause. You can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him. You’ve had a little too much to drink and you know yourself. Know you’ll lean into a moment if he lays it out for you. Best not to look at all. “I mean about last night. I shouldn’t have tried to–”

“Right–” you cut him off back. He must regret it, and the decision on how to handle these brewing feelings has been snatched from your hands. “No. No, it's fine.” Your voice is too tight to feign feeling normal about the direction this conversation went. “Let’s forget about it.” 

As soon as you say that you have the urge to take it back, but God, it’s too embarrassing. It feels like you’ve lost a game you didn’t know you were playing, and fuck, do you hate to lose. 

Until quietly, he says, “I’m gonna go and give this back to Carlos.”

The sound of the door leaves you alone with your swirling thoughts and the lump in your throat. It doesn’t matter. In fact, this is good, right? Because nothing actually happened and he’s not even interested. It was just… you don’t know what it was. Your uber pulls up, and before you close the car door you look through the window to see Wonwoo being clapped on the shoulder by Carlos, and being introduced to the model, and the model’s equally beautiful friend. Wonwoo smiles wide at her, brilliant and blinding. 

He’s not interested in you. He’s got no reason to be. This is– this is good, right? So why does the scene unfolding before your very eyes make you crave a cigarette, and another drink?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo’s laying in bed reading his book when there’s a noise outside his door– not a knock, sounds like someone trying to get in. He stands, wary, watches the handle jiggle, and moves over to look through the peephole. It’s you, except you’re moving away, trying the door across the hall. 

Wonwoo pulls the door open, calls your name questioningly. When you turn you almost topple over, so you brace yourself backwards on the opposite wall. You look at him with slow surprise and a loll of your head, and he wonders if you’ve been drinking alone this whole time. He’d intended to hitch a ride back to the hotel with you, but in the few minutes it took to give Carlos back his jacket and sign an autograph for his new ‘friends’, you had disappeared. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

You rush toward him, stumble over your own feet as you clamp your hand over his mouth. “Shhhhh,” you whisper. Wonwoo freezes, save for his deepening frown, because you don’t seem the slightest bit disconcerted by the fact he’s having to hold you steady. “I lo– lost m’room. Everythin’ looks the same.” 

“Jesus– how much did you drink?”

Your hand slips from his mouth, dragging clumsily along his jaw, before you let it fall against his chest. He catches your wrist gently before you can lose your footing again.

“En-enough,” you say, interrupted by hiccups, eyes slipping shut for a second too long. “Needed to cl–clear my head. M’all muddled.”

He exhales, long and tight, and glances down the corridor– empty, thank God. “Come on. You’ll wake up the whole floor.”

“Ugh.” You shake your head, stubborn even like this. “M– my room’s right here, ‘swear.” You slip out of his grip, try swiping your keycard on the door across the hall. The light blinks red.

“Not yours,” Wonwoo mutters, catching your elbow before you smack it into the wall. “Just come in, we’ll call reception and figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

You blink up at him, lashes heavy. “With you?”

“Yes, with me.” His voice grits low. “Unless you want to roam the halls all night?”

Something about that makes you laugh– too loud, and you slap your own hand over your mouth to muffle it. He drags you inside quickly, kicks the door shut with his heel, and for the first time tonight you look flustered. It’s somewhat reminiscent of the night before in the elevator, and Wonwoo isn’t sure how to take it. Your disregard for him today showed Wonwoo you clearly don’t think of him in the same way he thinks of you. But the way you’re looking at him now, with the tension positively tangible, radiating from your body– it has him at a loss. 

And then you shrug out of his touch again and the moment is dissolved. You sway once, twice, before letting yourself collapse onto the end of his bed, dumping your clutch on the floor, and struggling with the strap on your heel. He stands there for a moment watching your usual grace reduced to clumsiness, and he pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses before kneeling to the floor in front of you. He takes your heel onto his thigh to help unbuckle the strap, pointedly ignoring the way you stiffen under his touch, the sharp intake of your breath. He can’t let himself read into it.

“Why’re you being s’nice to me?” you ask, softer now. He slips the heel from your foot, then repeats the action with the other. Your breath shudders. 

He runs a hand through his hair, lets your bare foot slip from his thigh to the floor, exhales soft. “I’m always nice.”

“No you’re not.” Your lips twitch, the faintest smile, and you lean back on your elbows, head tipping back and exposing the long line of skin that Wonwoo has thought too much about. His eyes fall back to his knees, your ankles either side. Being between your legs like this isn’t what he imagined. “You snap at me. And when you’re not snapping you ignore me.”

There have been certain moments in Wonwoo’s life when he has remained silent when he shouldn’t have. He knows, in hindsight, that what he regrets most are only actions not taken, words left unsaid. So–

“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”

“But you don’t wanna kiss me?” You say, and the words come soured.

Wonwoo’s breath hitches in his throat, but when he glances up, your head is falling back into the sheets, body too heavy to prop up any longer, pretty eyes fluttering shut as you finally surrender to exhaustion. 

He’s not sure how to handle this. At first he tries to wake you, but you’re dead to the world. He calls Mingyu to ask if he’s still with Bridget (he isn’t). He calls reception to try and figure out your room number (they won’t give it). He thinks better of asking the staff to help you to your room because (a) leaving you drunk and in the care of strangers doesn’t sit right with him, and (b) you’d pull out the pear of anguish for him if this out of character behaviour brought any bad press on either of you. 

Wonwoo settles for pulling the blanket over you gently, letting you sleep it off as long as you need. He switches off the lamp, sets himself stiffly in the armchair by the window, and resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. At least tomorrow is only free practice.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Deft hands skate across your skin, slipping down your leg, and massaging his fingers into the arch of your foot. He brings it up, presses his lips to your sole, circles long fingers around your ankle and drags his nose up your calf, mouths at the skin as he goes. He hooks your knee over his shoulder, nudges your thighs apart, wants easy access, wants you pliant, wants you open, wants you bear. Nips at your inner thigh on one side and slides his hand up the other, and works his way up in little circles, slow slow slow. He starts to lick, gathers spit on his tongue and laves it over your skin, blows cool air across the warmth he brings. Casts his eyes up as he gets ever closer to where you need him, takes in the way your chest rises quick quick quick with each shallow breath, smirks soft as your breath hitches when he just barely brushes his fingers over your cotton clad cunt. Smiles wide when you shudder as he does it again, and again. Makes a low, appreciative sound when you get needy, grind against his fingers and chase the little friction he allows you. Frustrated, you whine his name–

“Wonwoo–”

You startle yourself awake to the bed smelling both unfamiliar and not, still wearing the dress from the night before. You blink the sleep from your eyes, push yourself up to sit and freeze when you spot him sitting in the armchair, straightening his spine and blinking slowly, the early morning sun filtering through the gap in the curtains lays a slice of light across his face. He looks as dazed as you feel.

“Did you–” he starts, voice rasped with sleep. “Do you dream of me?”

You suck in a sharp breath. Bite your lip to stop them from betraying you further.

“What did you dream about?” he asks, firm and insistent. 

“Nothing,” you blurt out. “Work. Why am I here, Wonwoo?”

The question is both feigned and pointless because although your memories swirl, you can piece it together. You remember his touch, his polite concern, the disappointment you felt when he didn’t touch you the way you truly wanted in your drunken stupor.

“You’re lying,” he breathes, watching you with the sort of look you’ve only seen on him just before he pulls on his helmet– entirely focused. “I heard you. I hear you all the time.”

Embarrassment crawls up your neck. You want to laugh, to deny, to point out how ridiculous this is, but words only fail you. The memory of the dream, of being teased and drawn out and brought to the edge, sits heavy and slick behind your ribs. Your mind spins. He hears you? Heard what? God, it’s just a dream. They’re just dreams! They have no bearing on reality and they certainly don’t change whatever the fuck is happening here.

“Wonwoo– I– I can’t,” you start desperately, and you watch his face sag. “I don’t know–”

There is no strategy for this. No neat line to cross with a chequered flag. You fall back down, dragging the duvet up over your face, and he remains where he is. 

“You don’t know what?” he asks, voice thick.

“What to think, I guess?” you admit, voice muffled beneath the duvet. A pause. “You’re– you’re confusing me.”

He huffs a begrudging laugh, and quietly, he replies– “You’ve confused me for ages.” 

You fall into a wooden silence yet again, your face growing warmer and warmer beneath the sheets, until you push them down and take in a cooling, heavy breath. 

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Too early,” he murmurs, settling back into his chair. He must be so uncomfortable. “Sleep a bit more.”

What you want: 

Invite him in. (The bed is big enough for the two of you to lay side by side with a gap to rival the size of the Grand Canyon between you.) Slip a hand into his and lay there, figure out if this is a good idea or not. If it’s smart. If it could work. Whatever it is. 

What you really want is to kiss. Deep and languid and slow. What you want is to know how he’d really touch you, if it’s the same as it is deep in your subconscious. What you want is him. Exactly as he is. 

What you do:

Slip out of bed, find your shoes and your clutch neatly placed next to the nightstand, offer quiet apologies for taking up his time, his bed, for dreaming of him (you don’t say that last part), insist you go when he protests, because he’s got practice later today and it’s more important he’s well rested than you. You rush out the door without looking back, and once it clicks closed you scarper down the hall into the elevator and jab the button for the ground floor, and press your burning forehead against the mirror on the back wall. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Avoiding Wonwoo proves difficult. On Friday, you task your team with recording his every move for social media, you wrangle more time with Netflix so they’re following him everywhere but the toilet, even find that guy who asks nonsensical questions for YouTube and all but physically push him in Wonwoo’s direction. As for yourself, you throw yourself into work and keep company everywhere you go, so even when Wonwoo falls into step beside you as you rush through the paddock, there’s no gap in the conversation for him to occupy. When you’re seeking out Edoardo in the garage, it’s Wonwoo who helps you find him, even while cameras are on him. If he notices the way you’re doing your best to cut him out, he doesn’t mention it, he’s just ever present, always in the corner of your eye. 

The trouble is, even if you avoid his actual presence, he takes up every crevice of your mind anyway. If you’re not working on his campaigns, or his interviews, or talking about him (and Charles) with the team, then your recent dreams swim back into your vision and you forget what you’re supposed to be doing entirely. This is exactly why you don’t mess around with someone at work. Too much mess for what it’s worth. 

On Saturday, qualifying goes so badly Wonwoo places P13 on the grid, and Charles places P9. There’s an issue with Charles’ car, and Wonwoo’s is perfectly fine. Not the worst, but certainly not living up to his track record. Edoardo is all foul language and irritation, and while he’s in this mood every member of the team that can slip away does so, moving slow to remain unnoticed. You hold your ground, because dealing with men in power and their tempers is nothing new– your dad, your old boss, your current boss. They’re all the same. Overgrown babies throwing their toys out of the pram. You usher him into the backroom and close the door to keep away prying eyes while Edoardo rants at the air in four different languages. You spend the time going through your emails as you wait for Edoardo to run out of steam, and eventually while he’s catching his breath, you casually ask if he’d like a cup of tea. Edoardo sighs. He would, thank you. 

Outside the garage is where you bump into Wonwoo, closely followed by a couple of social media admins with cameras. 

“Give it five minutes before you go in,” you say.

Wonwoo looks over your head at the garage. “He’s upset?”

“Upset is a euphemism,” you mutter. “But if you go in now he’ll lose a lung. Go take a break,” you say gently to the admins. Nothing Edoardo has to say to Wonwoo should be caught on film anyway. They say polite goodbyes as they scarper the other way, but Wonwoo doesn’t linger by the garage as you head in the direction of the hospitality unit. No, he falls into step beside you. 

“You’re avoiding me,” he says, after you look at him with pointed disdain.

“I’m working.” You walk faster, but Wonwoo and his ridiculous long legs can easily match your pace. 

“Haven’t you delegated everything by now?” He scoffs. “Weren’t you supposed to be covering my interviews while Jeonghan’s with Gabriella, why’s Carmen doing it?”

“I’m busy.”

“And you’ve got these kids following me around with cameras all day asking me to be their performing monkey.”

“So perform,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap. “This is part of your job whether you like it or not, and we need to catch up with our competitors on social media. We’re falling behind.” 

“Hold on– can we just–” In one swift motion he moves in front of you, brings you to a sudden halt with his hands on your arms and you jolt back out of his touch. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You glare at him because God, you’re not having this conversation here. “It had better be about work,” you hiss. “Because I’ll kill you if you make another scene like you did in the e–”

“No– no, I–” he pauses and sucks in a breath. He drags his gaze away from your face then, fixing on something over your head. Pink creeps over his cheeks, there’s sweat drying on his neck, the under-suit turtleneck hardly hiding the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. It’s almost endearing, but Christ, you want to shake the words out of him.

“Could you wear my ring again?”

Your lips part, but no words come out at first. Of all the things he could’ve said, this wasn’t what you would ever have expected. “Uh–”

“I was doing better when you had it on.”

Your eyes narrow. “I never had you down as the superstitious type.”

“I’m not, really. But I’ll take any good luck charm if it helps me win.”

You blink. 

“I’m not your talisman,” you laugh, incredulous. “You think I’m the problem with your qualifying? That you dropped so far on the grid because I wasn’t wearing your fucking ring?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not the problem. Just– when you wore it, I was doing so well, and I liked knowing you had it safe with you.” His hands twitch uselessly at his sides. “And when I asked you to take it off– I didn’t even want it back. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

The admission sits between you, heavy, sticky. All these years he’s made excuses to do the exact opposite and you can’t pinpoint when it changed. Heat crawls up your throat. For a moment you forget where you are, the sharp smell of rubber and petrol, the low rumble of engines starting up somewhere nearby. All you see is him– sweat still drying at his temple, pink at his ears, eyes shining in a way that’s too close to an admission of feeling.

You glance over his shoulder, subtly checking to make sure no cameras are near enough to catch this conversation. “I’ll wear it on one condition.”

He exhales, almost sounding relieved. “What?”

“You’ll do everything I ask.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “I already do that.”

“You do not. The admins have been telling me you’re being uncooperative when they’re trying to make content.”

Wonwoo crosses his arms. “Well you’re not the one asking.”

You roll your eyes. “It comes from me and you know it.” Wonwoo doesn’t answer, just scrunches up his nose in that way he does. “Come on, Wonwoo,” you say, voice low. “Perform for me.”

A barely there flicker of a smile, a small nod, and he’s moving out of your space. Wonwoo jogs back towards the garage and Edoardo, race-suit slung low around his hips. You wonder if this is what it feels like when you both win.

Later when you’re laying in bed, Wonwoo’s ring back on the chain around your neck, you check Tiktok. There’s a new video with over a million views since it was posted this afternoon, captioned ‘Outtakes with Jeon Wonwoo.’

It’s silly. Just spliced together clips of him sighing dramatically, more of him being told to pose for the camera and his lovely natural smile goes all wooden as he holds up his thumb, hugging Charles with a confused “–no idea what you’re telling me to do? Put my hands where? On his butt?” and Charles desperately trying to contain his laughter. Cut to another clip captioned ‘break time’– Wonwoo sitting on a high stool, staring absentmindedly, kicking his legs and eating a banana. When he catches sight of the camera on him he swallows the rest of the banana whole, and almost chokes on it.

It’s so silly, but it has over a million views since it was posted earlier today, and the comments are awash with fangirls saying he’s effortlessly funny and his english is soooooo cute and TIL THE DENTIST KNOWS ITS HIM– which is a little odd considering the whole thing gave you the most sickening cuteness aggression. How mortifying.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

On Sunday night, when you’re working from your hotel bed in your pyjamas, you get a text.

Wonwoo [21:14] I’m assuming you wore it?

Despite yourself, a half smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You lean back against the headboard and snap a quick photo of his ring, resting perfectly between your collarbones, grainy in the dim light from your laptop screen. 

You [21:15] Congratulations on P2. Still can’t say I had much to do with it You [21:15] IMG_4286

Wonwoo [21:15] I appreciate it anyway Wonwoo [21:15] Why don’t you come celebrate with us? Wonwoo [21:15] IMG_1938

It’s a dimly lit photo of his own, him and Max (who took P1) and George (P3) in a bar, and they’re all smiling wide at the camera. There are others at the table with them– you recognise a strategist from Red Bull, some staff from Mercedes. No one but Wonwoo from Ferrari. Wonwoo’s glasses are slipping down his nose, and he’s in a baggy white t-shirt rolled at the sleeves, with his hair pushed back like he’s walked straight out of a shampoo commercial. His glass halfway to his mouth.

You [21:15] Can’t. Got an early flight. We both do

Wonwoo [21:16] Maybe Inès has us next to each other again

You laugh. Nearly text back ‘God forbid’ before something has you deleting it.

You [21:16] Maybe cool it with the beer You [21:16] I couldn’t bear it if you smelled of alcohol right next to me so early in the morning You [21:16] And we don’t want a repeat of the last couple of times either of us got drunk

The reply is almost instantaneous. 

Wonwoo [21:16] Who’s we? I was gonna ask if I could come see you

Your breath sticks in your throat. Images of your recent dreams flashing through your imagination that you shake away. You lock your phone and unlock it within seconds. Read the message a third, a fourth, a fifth time, and you still can’t think of a reason why he’d want to leave his friends to seek out your company if it’s not for–

Another text vibrates you out of the fog. 

Wonwoo [21:18] What's your name? Why’s Wonwoo got you saved as Taskmaster? Is he dumping us to go hang out with you?

You [21:18] Who’s this?

Wonwoo [21:18] George. Your turn

You [21:18] Do me a favour, would you George?

Wonwoo [21:18] Anything for the woman he’s been agonising over texting for the last hour Wonwoo [21:18] Or man. I’m an ally 🫶

Your heart hammers in your chest. You’re being reckless, you know, but you just want to see if he’ll live up to his word. If he’ll do as you say. 

You [21:18] Tell Wonwoo if he wants my room number he’s going to have to work for it

Wonwoo [21:18] Saucy 

Across town, Wonwoo is wrestling with George to get his phone back. The others look on, laughing and jeering, but with a sharp twist to George’s nipple through his shirt, Wonwoo’s phone finally slips from his grip. Wonwoo takes off to the bar to collect himself. 

Wonwoo [21:20] They took my phone out of my pocket. Ignore them Wonwoo [21:20] Wait. Work for it how?

You [21:20] Your fangirls on TikTok are saying it’s been forever since you posted a selfie. They’re desperate for one. They need food for their edits of you

Three little dots appear and disappear in quick succession. A full five minutes goes by before you get a notification from Wonwoo on Instagram– he’s sent you his story. 

There is safety in the privacy of your room, but still you feel the need to slip down and hide your shamefully heated face under the duvet. You click the story, and it’s just a mirror selfie. Pretty face half obscured by his phone, but his sleeves are rolled just high enough that you can see the definition in his arms, the veins in his hands, and how broad his shoulders are. Caption in the corner, a simple ‘only got podium because of you’ and it’s not for you since he’s posted for all his 9.4 million followers to see, but it’s got your gross smile widening anyway. 

Wonwoo [21:26] Well?

You [21:26] Good job You [21:26] 8/10 

Wonwoo [21:27] Your turn

You blink stupidly at your screen. 

You [21:28] My turn to what?

Wonwoo [21:28] Post a selfie on instagram

You [21:28] I hardly think my measly 214 followers are interested in me bare faced in my pyjamas  

Wonwoo [21:28] At least one is

You [21:28] You don’t follow me

Wonwoo [21:28] Who said I meant me

Your face flames, but the everyone_woo started following you notification comes through only seconds later, and it’s ridiculous the way it makes your pulse skip. You glance at the mirror on the wardrobe across the room, at the mess of your hair, your soft pink pyjama shorts, the matching tank top sans bra. He couldn’t have messaged you an hour ago?

You grab your phone and slip into the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. It isn’t forgiving, so you switch on the mirror light instead. Better. You fix your hair, tilt your chin, let the strap of your pyjama top slide off your shoulder, and lean a little forward on the counter. Not too posed, but obvious. One quick snap, and the reflection of the flash across your collarbones makes his ring gleam. 

You deliberate for a good thirty seconds before posting it to your story. Caption: early flight club ✈️

It’s out there. Your stomach twists in anticipation of his response, and you lock your phone, slide across the counter lest you seem too eager to read any reply he might send. You splash water on your face, take longer than necessary to brush your teeth (for the second time tonight) just for something to occupy you for a moment longer. 

When you’re back in bed, you finally dare to look at your phone again, and there it is, amongst a few likes and a reply from Bridget with a bunch of aubergine and squirt emojis.

Wonwoo [21:31] Cute

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumbs still damp as you type.

You [21:33] Not what I was going for

Wonwoo [21:34] Well I didn’t want to be too forward

You stare at that for too long, the simple weight of it pressing down on your chest. You can’t imagine what he’d say if there wasn’t this strange tension between you. What he’d tell you if neither of you were inclined to hold back. 

You [21:34] Tell me

Wonwoo [21:34] Rather tell you in person

Your breath stutters. You almost ask him to come to you, tell you anything he wants, but instead you chicken out and send–

You [21:36] Shouldn’t you be celebrating instead of texting me?

Wonwoo [21:39] Like you said, got an early flight. On my way back to the hotel

Another pause. Your throat goes dry as you stare at yourself in the mirror of the vanity and wonder if you can really do this.

Wonwoo [21:41] I’ll be back in twenty minutes Wonwoo [21:41] If you want to come up

You can feel yourself teetering recklessly on the edge. You could. There’s nothing but your own arbitrary rules to stop you. You’ve been telling yourself you’re only curious to experience it, you just want to see what it’s like, just to try him on for size. It’s not like you like him. And it feels beyond reason, the way want drives you to type ‘yes, I’ll be there’ only for the message to remain unsent. Still– there’s the unsettling anxiety rolling in the pit of your stomach. You delete the message. Type it again. End up sending nothing at all.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The plane is mercifully quiet at dawn since most of the team have a later flight out but even through your haze of too-little sleep and too-much coffee, you spot him immediately. Brim of his bucket hat tugged low, hoodie zipped up, mask over his face. Inès has done it again. Two seats, side by side.

You stow your bag in the overhead locker and settle into your seat, pull your book from your bag just for something to do. Wonwoo doesn’t even say hello. He keeps his eyes down, thumbs busy with his phone. You tell yourself you don’t care. If he’s disappointed about last night he can sulk if he wants to. But the silence feels all wrong now.

By the time you're in the air and the seatbelt light clicks off, you can’t take it anymore. “You don’t have to sit next to me, you know,” you mutter, eyes still on the same page. “If I’ve pissed you off that much.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You could swap seats. The plane’s half empty.” You set your book in your lap and turn to look at him. He’s pulled his mask down over his chin, watching you with a cautious expression. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. So let’s just pretend we didn’t–” Flirt you almost say, but the word lodges in your throat. “–talk. We made a mistake.”

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. He leans back in his seat, finding sudden fascination with the buttons on the side of his armrest.

“You’d been drinking, I shouldn’t have–” you start, but falter in lieu of words you can’t find to accurately describe the shift in tension the last few days have brought about. “I shouldn’t have encouraged whatever we were doing.”

“I see,” he seethes, red creeping over his ears. 

You bristle. “You’re angry with me?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? Jesus Christ, I’m embarrassed that I–” He breaks off, lowering his voice to a hiss. “You think I’m annoyed because you didn’t show up?”

Your pulse hammers. “Aren’t you?”

“God, you’re impossible,” he whispers, sharp enough to make you flinch, then pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“For fucks sake, Wonwoo.” You lean just far enough toward him that your shoulders brush. “I’m soooo sorry for not throwing myself at you just because you were horny and drunk,” you hiss in his ear, ignoring the heat radiating off him. 

His jaw tightens. “That’s not– I had two dri– you were the one who–” He exhales hard, shaking his head. “Forget it. You’re determined to misunderstand me anyway.”

“Fine.” You slam your book shut, shove it into the seat pocket with more force than necessary. “Consider me misunderstood.”

The silence after that is brutal. He angles his body away, arms crossed, staring out the window at nothing but ocean. You turn on your side to face the aisle as best you can, scrunch your eyes shut and pretend to sleep, but every minute of his quiet only tightens the knots in your stomach. Only twelve hours to go. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Forty minutes in and the aircon cuts out. The cabin heats fast without it. Wonwoo shrugs off his hoodie, and you do the same– wishing you’d worn a day-old t-shirt rather than the only clean thing you had left in your suitcase, a satin camisole with a too-low neckline. You’ve got to find a new assistant who cares about your professional reputation. 

Fifteen minutes later, when the cabin is already sweltering and your skin is going slick with sweat, the announcement comes. You have to make an emergency landing in the Bahamas, and they’ll either fix the plane or rebook your flight. 

It’s fine. It’s okay. This happens all the time. Doesn’t stop your nerves from spiking because fuck do you hate when plans go awry. Beside you, Wonwoo is unperturbed. Of course he doesn’t give a shit if you have to cancel a six-million euro meeting with Rolex if it gives him an easy out. 

The descent is bumpy. You keep your hands folded tight in your lap, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. Wonwoo notices– and out of the corner of your eye you think you see his hand almost reach for you. You blink. Must be the heat fucking with you, because when you sneak a sideways glance again, his hand is resting as it was before on the armrest.

On the tarmac, the captain’s apology is drowned out by the sound of the ground crew and the complaints of your increasingly stressed fellow passengers. The press of heat makes you feel sick. They keep you confined to your seats while they work, handing out bottles of water that do little to cool your sweat slick bodies. Wonwoo’s hat and mask have long been shed, and he sits with his head tipped back, neck long and lovely and wet, eyes closed so his pretty eyelashes fan over pinked cheeks.  

After an hour on the ground, you’re starting to feel dizzy. You focus on a bead of sweat that’s sliding slowly down his temple and over the curve of his jaw. You hitch your breath as it catches in the hollow of his neck before disappearing into the collar of his wet shirt. You stare longer than you mean to. Takes a little longer for you to realise he’s caught you looking.

Doesn’t say anything, but he holds your gaze for a moment too long, and the look on his face sucks the air from your lungs faster than the heat. 

Wonwoo clears his throat. “You look terrible.”

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice is ragged with heat and exhaustion.

“You’re sweating through your clothes.”

“So don’t look.” Pervert.

“Here, have some of my water.”

You lazily shove the bottle in his outstretched hand away. “I said I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth.

Wonwoo swears under his breath. “Would you stop being so fucking stubborn for once?”

Your mouth opens, ready to berate him for pushing your buttons for no good reason, but nothing comes out. Just caught by the way his heavy lidded eyes flicker to your lips, and further, to your camisole sticking to your dampened skin, and the way your chest rises faster, harder than you’d like. The way he looks at you in this moment is a beautiful knife, cutting right through you. He swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. You both look away at the same time.

It’s clear the plane isn’t going anywhere within another twenty agonising minutes. The captain breaks the news: the flight’s canceled, the next direct to Zurich isn’t until tomorrow night. Unless you’d like to take three connections and spend the next thirty-six hours pinging around North America and Europe, this is it. When the announcement lands, your stomach flips. Wonwoo just leans back, unreadable, while you call Inès and ask her to make sure you’re on the flight out of here, and find you both somewhere to stay for a night. 

Another twenty minutes and they’re finally bringing the plane up to the gate. Your vision swims when you stand and reach up to open the overhead locker, and you stumble against the seat across the aisle from yours. Wonwoo makes a soft sound of admonishment before standing to guide you back to your seat with gentle hands on your arms. Everything feels foggy, the way he whispers your name, the way he holds a water bottle against your neck, the way his hands aren’t cold at all, right now. He must be suffering in this heat too, but you can hardly speak. All you can do is nod vacantly, when he says it’s okay, it’s okay, they’re letting us off soon. Let me go talk to someone– don’t move, okay? Okay?

You can’t tell if it’s been seconds or thirty minutes by the time you hear Wonwoo calling your name again. He sounds far away, underwater almost, but he’s touching your arm. Slowly blinking your eyes open, he’s right there with a stewardess and a wheelchair, and he’s leaning down, saying something like c’mon, can you put your arms around me? And when you do, when you circle your arms around his neck, his cheek presses against yours and he’s lifting you out of your seat and into the chair and it’s hard to let go– you don’t want to let go, you cling and sob and he’s saying it’s okay, you’re okay, I promise. It’s the closest you’ve ever been. And God, how utterly mortifying this whole ordeal has become. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Bahamas

The airport passes by in a blur. The staff help you through passport control while Wonwoo follows closely behind with your bags, and with another twenty minutes of the sweet luxury of air conditioning in baggage claim, you slowly come back to your senses. Wonwoo floats the idea of going to hospital but you’ve got enough strength back to firmly refuse any notion of that. Even so, Wonwoo won’t let you out of the wheelchair while he waits to collect your suitcases. Without the worry you’re going to pass out, the two of you are back to a terse silence, but you catch him watching you once, then twice, like he wants to talk but doesn’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say either. Just want to wash the humiliation and the drying sweat from your skin. 

Inès calls you back while Wonwoo is pushing you toward the cafe and a member of airport staff follows behind with your bags, he sits you at a table and rushes off to the counter to buy something, anything, with ice. Your freedom will be brief, so you take the opportunity to stand and stretch your legs, albeit bracing yourself on the table for support. You’ll do much better once Wonwoo stops treating you like you’re made of glass. 

“Rolex said they’ll get back to me later today to reschedule,” Inès says. “I’ve found you both a hotel thirty minutes away from the airport. Will that do? Would you like one room or two?”

You briefly wonder if you’re still out of it. “What?” you ask, sliding into a chair and pushing the wheelchair away from your table with your foot. “Two, Inès. Two rooms, please.” 

“Two rooms, got it,” she says, and you can hear the clacking of keys under her long nails. “Are you okay? You sound–”

“I’m fine–” you say, sharply cutting her off. “You’ll send me the details?”

“You’ll have the email in a few minutes,” she says. And then she apologises for the travel delay as if it were her fault, and clicks off. True to her word, the email confirmation comes through by the time Wonwoo is back with several bottles of water in a bag and a huge to-go cup filled with ice in his hand. 

“Where’s your wheelchair?”

“Wonwoo, seriously, I’m fine now. Let’s leave it for someone who really needs it, yeah? 

Wonwoo appraises you quietly. You sigh, stand (carefully) and pluck an ice cube from the top of the cup, hold it against your chest and let it melt over your skin. “Come on, let’s find a taxi.”

Even still, Wonwoo won’t let you take the luggage trolley from the staff. He takes it, balances the bag of water bottles precariously on top, pointedly ignoring your rolled eyes and ‘for God’s sake, I can carry ONE bag!’ and heads in the direction of the taxi rank, back outside in the heat. You act like you don’t care for the way he’s looking out for you, but he’s making it so difficult.

The torture of still, hot air is thankfully brief, but the next agony is the crawling traffic. A thirty minute drive stretches into forty, then fifty, then an hour. Wonwoo keeps his eyes fixed on the window, but his knee bounces, a quiet tell. You scroll your phone, feigning disinterest, though your pulse ratchets every time his thigh shifts closer to yours on the cramped backseat.

The hotel is pristine. Floors so perfect you could do your make-up in the reflection, and you make a mental note to buy Inès the prettiest flowers for booking you into luxury after the morning you’ve had. Check-in takes forever and all you can think about is the shower you’re going to have as soon as you’re in the room. The receptionist smiles brightly as you give her both your names, says of course without qualm when you ask for an afternoon check out, and she hands over your keys– 207 and 208. Of course. Whatever. Doesn’t mean you have to see each other again tonight. You send off some of your clothes to be laundered, Wonwoo too, and make your way to the elevator.

“Are you feeling better?” Wonwoo asks once inside, as he presses the button for your floor.

“Yes, thanks,” you say. Embarrassing the way he took care of you. Not that you’re not grateful, but that he had to at all. “I’ll be right as rain as soon as I’m clean.” 

Upstairs, you swipe into your room, drop your bag by the door, and cross to the curtains to find the balcony. Wide, white stone, overlooking the pool below, and ocean a little behind the line of trees. And when you slide open the glass doors to catch your breath, you see him. Standing exactly where the gap should be. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you. His hair is damp at the nape, clinging to his neck. The line of his back is taut, his t-shirt wrinkled from hours in the heat. Then he glances sideways. Catches you there, frozen, one hand still on the doorframe.

You turn, an inconceivable thought taking over, and make your way over to the bathroom, yank the door open and gasp when you see Wonwoo in a mirror image of you, having had exactly the same notion. He meets your eyes across the room, a crooked, incredulous smile spreading on his beautiful face, and says “Do you want to shower first or should I?”

A laugh falls out of you before you can stop it. Fuck Inès’ flowers because at this point she has to be pranking you. Her and Bridget and the universe have joined forces to shove you and Wonwoo together at every opportunity. Wonwoo’s laughing in disbelief too, and he looks so lovely and light like that, you can hardly breathe.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The shower is heaven– steam curling under the soft lights, high-pressured water washing away the stickiness of the day. You take your time, working the soaped cloth into your skin, towel off, massage your skin lotion until the scent of jasmine sits heavy in the air and your skin feels softer than ever. You wipe away the condensation in the mirror, do your skincare in the mirror, tug on last night's pyjamas, and knock on Wonwoo’s door to let him know the bathroom is all his, before crawling beneath the covers of what feels like the comfiest bed you’ve ever laid on. Sleep takes you quickly.

When you wake, the light is fading, the sky outside a soft pink. Your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand:

Wonwoo [19:14] Are you feeling better? Wonwoo [19:14] Should we get dinner? You didn’t eat all day

You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, and then you lock the screen. You roll over, bury your face in the cool side of the pillow, and will yourself not to think about him laying on the other side of this wall, waiting for your answer. You push away the thought, grab your book instead just to find something to lose yourself in.

Another buzz from your phone comes a little later, and for a fleeting moment you hope he’s trying to persuade you, but it’s just Bridget, with a link to an Instagram post. You bolt upright in bed so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. 

[DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE] JEON WONWOO’S NEW BEAU? A FORBIDDEN WORKPLACE ROMANCE, STEAMY MOMENTS, AND A CONFUSING TIMELINE 

It’s a fan-submitted post– four images on a carousel. The first being a shot of the two of you outside the restaurant, he’s standing close, wrapping his coat around your shoulders. Easily explained, you think, no matter what your pounding heart says.

The second is less so: you and Wonwoo in the pool last week, bodies suspiciously close, both of you staring intensely at one another. It’s grainy, poorly lit, but it’s obviously you. 

Next: paparazzi shots from Saturday, his hands on your arms as he stopped you from walking. You remember the taut conversation, but in this snapshot it looks like he’s looking directly at your cleavage. 

And last: a black and white still from the CCTV camera in the hotel elevator– your hands clasping the bare skin of his waist, his cradling your face, and worse still, the unmistakable look of desire in your eyes.

Formula One star Jeon Wonwoo spotted getting cozy with Ferrari’s Head of Communications– timeline of their new relationship? Read more on the Deuxmoi website… link in bio. 

Your blood goes ice cold. Before you can stop to think, you’re out of bed, book falling loudly to the floor, phone in hand, padding across the carpet and into the shared bathroom. A few quick strides and you’re hammering on his door. He answers quickly, barefoot, shirtless (of course. Any other time you’d roll your eyes but this time you shoulder past him into the room), hair still damp from the shower, grey sweats low on his hips. His eyes widen when he sees the wild look on your face.

You shove your phone at him. “Look at this.”

He takes it, flicks back and forth through the photos, jaw tightening. Then he looks back at you, expression unreadable. “It’s nothing, isn’t it? You’ve dealt with worse.”

“Nothing? I’m not the celebrity here, scandal doesn’t usually involve me.” Your voice spikes, and you sink down to sit on the edge of his bed, holding your head in your hands. “Wonwoo, this is Deuxmoi. Deuxmoi! They think we’re in a relationship. That’s crazy.”

There’s a flash of something like hurt on his face, but it’s gone before you can register it. He exhales, long and steady, and tosses your phone back. “Look, we’ll handle it, okay? We’ll handle it however you want.”

You blink. “What does that even mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, calm in the face of your panic. “If you want me to deny it, I will. If you want me to say nothing, I’ll keep quiet. If you want me to–” He stops, runs his tongue over his bottom lip, thinking better of the words he was about to say. “Whatever you want.”

You groan frustrated, falling back on the bed, throwing your arms over your face. Your stomach rumbles, and Wonwoo sighs, grabs a t-shirt from the back of the chair and shrugs it on, before coming to sit next to you on the edge of the bed. Quietly, you say, “I guess dinner’s off the table now.”

“Funny,” he scoffs. “I figured you weren’t interested when you left me on read.”

“That’s not funny at all.” You swallow hard, trying to mask the crack in your voice. 

“Notice how I’m not laughing?”

He isn’t. And somehow, that’s worse. There’s a brief silence, punctuated only by the sound of another embarrassing rumble of your stomach. “We could order room service?” you offer, voice coming out more pathetic than you’d like. Wonwoo huffs a small, rueful laugh and stretches across the bed for the phone on the nightstand. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re on the balcony when the food comes, two bowls of risotto, a coconut panna cotta for you, a strawberry mousse for him, and a bottle of champagne you didn’t order. Someone probably recognised Wonwoo’s name. The server barely has time to roll in the cart before you hear Wonwoo ushering him out again, large tip pressed into his palm. 

He brings the cart out to you on the balcony, the humid night air soft against your skin, the pool below lit turquoise, the sound of birds settling in for the night in the trees. Wonwoo settles into the chair next to you at the little white table.

For a while, it’s quiet, only punctuated by the pop of the champagne cork and the scrape of cutlery. Your stomach eases with the first real meal of the day, and you’re glad for the dim light– grateful he doesn’t seem to notice how often your eyes flick up to him, to the slope of his throat, the perfect shape of his mouth, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he bends over his plate.

Your phone buzzes just before you start your dessert, and Wonwoo fills your empty glass while you check it. It’s Jeonghan, nothing but the same link Bridget sent and a series of question marks. You sigh, and lock your phone again, pulling your plate toward you. 

“It’s not just me you ignore then?” Wonwoo asks, tone deceptively mild, toying with his half-eaten dessert. That’s rich of him to ask, given your history. 

“Excuse me?”

He rolls his head to the side with a hesitant sigh, an endearing pink blooming on his skin. “I keep wanting to talk to you,” he says. “But I can’t figure out if you’d rather I leave you alone.”

Your heartbeat suddenly feels so loud in your ears, but you keep your face composed. It’s hard to know, lately. If you fed into this, you can guess where it’ll lead, but your reputation at work is more important than whatever this might be. “I don’t know, Wonwoo,” you say quietly, honestly. “You confuse me.”

He glances up, eyes wide and a little surprised. “I’m the one who’s confused.” 

“I think about you all the time,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, before you let yourself consider the consequences, and those few little words silence you both. You set down your spoon and fiddle restlessly with the napkin on the table, but Wonwoo’s reaching over to still your hand with his. 

Your breath stutters. “Your hands are cold,” you say. 

Time moves like honey, and the air between you hums with electricity. You can feel his eyes on you but you can’t look because if you do– instead you push your plate aside and stand, moving over to lean on the balcony wall, taking in slow, steadying breaths in a desperate bid for the night air to cool you, palms flat against the stone.

Wonwoo joins you after a beat. Stands close behind and cages you against the wall with his arms. Rests his hands on top of yours and you let him twine your fingers together. Your eyes flutter shut as he leans closer, bodies mere millimetres apart, ghosts his lips across the shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t. You can’t. “This is stupid,” you mutter, as his breath warms your neck, tip of his nose feather light over your skin. Desire licks up your spine. “We’re being stupid.”

The problem with kissing is that it’s your downfall. Just one and everything comes tumbling down, so when he says ‘yeah, I know’ voice low and ragged as he breathes the word into your skin, and presses a soft, lingering kiss onto your shoulder, you know you’re fucked. What Wonwoo does with his lips should be none of your concern.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“This has to stay here, okay?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Just once.”

“Uh huh,” he says, lying through his teeth. Wonwoo has a taste of the feeling now and can’t give you up. He already knows he’s going to want this again and again, but he’ll agree to anything you say right now. You could ask him to capture the moonlight and he’d find a way to bottle it. 

Wonwoo had wanted to start careful. Knows you frighten easily and he doesn’t want to cut this night short on account of his haste to touch you, but God, he can feel the desperation on you because it matches his. Your tiny exhale when he drags his lips over your neck tells him it’s okay to keep going, and he leaves another gentle kiss there, almost verging on tender. You angle your head toward him, cheek against his temple and he slides a hand up your arm, warming the skin. Your now free hand reaches back to twist into his t-shirt and drag him flush against your body. 

Your ass against his crotch leaves nothing for your imagination, and your soft pleased noise pleased only has him reaching down your body, slipping his hand under your pyjama top and splaying it wide over your stomach, rubs a calloused thumb over the expanse of soft, pretty skin. Catches the hitch of your breath as you cant your hips against his hard cock and presses his whimper into the crook of your neck. “Kiss me,” you whisper. He looks up at you, twisted at the waist to watch him, lips full and slightly parted, heavy lidded eyes clouded with hunger. “Before we change our minds.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. Not likely for him, he thinks about saying, but you’re reaching up to catch his chin in curled fingers, tug him up just to let him chase your lips. Fuck. The tentative caution unravels into something hungry, desperate. His hand comes to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he draws you closer. When you finally kiss him deep and open, tongue sliding across his own something dirty, he’s too desperate and too obvious but he can’t find it in him to care. You whine into his mouth when he nips at your bottom lip, and he wonders if you’ll make the same noises when you come. 

The strap of your pyjama top slips from your shoulder, and he uses the opportunity. Slips his hand from yours and peels your top down on one side over your breast, breaks the kiss just to watch your nipple pebble in the cooling night air. “You’re so pretty,” he coos, cupping the swell of your tit, leaning back down to lave another wet kiss on your shoulder. His other hand ventures lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pink pyjama shorts, dips low enough just to tease at your folds. “Thought about taking this off you last night,” he admits. “Why didn’t you come?”

“Wanted to,” you whisper, angling your hips forward, chasing more of his touch. “S’bad idea.” 

He laughs against your skin, low and derisive. “God, you’re so fucking annoying.”

You hum, wiggle torturously against his aching cock. “Aren’t you one to t–” you’re cut off by your own choked exhale when he slides a long finger over your clit.

“Oh?” he whispers coyly against your neck. “Are you sensitive?”

“Shut up,” you manage, but you’re tipping your head back against his shoulder and your pretty eyelashes fan over the apples of your cheeks as you lose yourself in the feeling of him circling your sensitive bud, gasp as he gathers wetness from your entrance and smoothes it back over your clit. He presses his lips, soft, against your temple. “Fuck.”

God, he wants to hear you say that while deep inside your cunt. His pets grow frenzied, slipping his finger over in tight circles drawing pretty little noises from your perfect lips, and he loves the way you claw at his arm when he dips two fingers shallow inside, out, then deep. His vision goes clouded when you get so wet it coats his knuckles, likes the way you admonish him when he draws his fingers out of your pussy to bring them to your mouth. Feels like he’s losing his mind when he watches you open up for him, slide your wet, pink tongue over his fingers and moan at the taste of yourself on his skin. Finds it so obscenely hot that he buries his head in the crook of his neck just to hide his face, sucks a purple bruise over your pulse point before you drag your fingers from his mouth and twist to face him. Below, the quiet is punctuated with someone’s laugh in the pool, the sound faint and distant. His hands fall to your waist, your palms flat against his chest, and though he can see you’re about to speak he cuts you off– leans in to capture your lips with his, slides his tongue over yours, wet and heated, until you’re breaking off with a gasp. 

“Wait–” you say, but he’s chasing your lips. “Wonwoo, stop.” He swallows uneasily as you slip out of his grip, chest heaving, and he’s taken aback for a second until you’re tugging at the crook of his arm. “Can’t get caught with your dick in my mouth out here.”

“Oh.” He blinks stupidly, and you laugh at him, sending sparks through his veins. 

“C’mon,” you say, pulling him by the wrist into your room. Once inside you don’t look back at him as you ask, “Close the curtains?” 

While he draws the curtains, you rush over to your suitcase, dig through it as he takes his place on your bed, leaning back against the headboard, and tries to decide what he should do with his clothes (he leaves them on) until you come up triumphant with a little box of condoms. 

“Might keep this assistant after all,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Sorry?” 

“Nothing,” you say, glancing up at him. “Why are you still dressed?”

“I thought you could help me,” he tries in some stupid attempt to sound sexy. You laugh again, that lovely sound. You don’t laugh around him enough, he thinks, and he’s swallowing his embarrassment down because you’re gonna fuck him anyway. You climb into his lap, smooth bare legs straddled over his hips, damp crotch of your shorts against the thick bulge in his sweats, giving an experimental grind that draws small gasps from both of you. 

And then you’re tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, saying “Off.” He helps you drag it over his head, plucks off his glasses and casts them to the side, uncaring that they clatter to the floor. You leave a trail of soft kisses over his jaw and down his neck, a tentative suck over his collarbone leaving a barely there bruise, and harsher over his chest. You scratch lightly over the tattoo on his ribs and he shudders. “I think I hate this,” you say into his skin. 

He nods, dumbstruck. Yeah. Yeah, he’s been hating it for a while too. “Getting rid of it,” he pants.

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “First laser appointment is next week.”

“Ah,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.” He loves the way you look at him, eyes big and earnest, and (dare he say?) pleased to hear it’ll soon be gone. 

You kneel above him to give him enough room to shed his sweats and boxers at the same time– thick, hard cock bobs against the hard line of his stomach. Feels a little fucked up when you settle on his thighs, hand sliding down his body, electric over his skin, fingers curling around his cock and he watches, enraptured, as you gather spit on your tongue and lean over to let it pool onto the head of his cock. He sucks in a ragged breath, hands flying to your hips when you work it over him, twisting tight over the head. Humiliating, the way he fucks up into your circled fingers. Humbling, when he surges forward to kiss you desperate just for you to dodge him, sweet, evil smile playing on your lips. Ever since he’s known you he’s always felt a step behind, and this is no different. 

You move down down down, and meet your glassy eyes with his as you lick a thick, wet stripe up his length. Shudders as you take him in the slick heat of your pretty mouth, cheeks hollowed out, pulling back just to lave your tongue over the head and lap away the precum beading there. He’s always loved the way your mouth moves, when you speak languages he doesn’t understand, when you’re subconsciously worrying your bottom lip as you pour over your book, the occasional times you wear that deep red lipstick (he wants to ruin it), and especially now– lips pink and kiss swollen and wet with spit and his pre-cum, with his cock slipping between your lips. 

He’s giving himself away, the way he groans, but it’s only got you more eager, and you’re humming self-satisfied around his cock. Nearly loses his mind as he catches your hand slipping between your legs, pushing your shorts to the side to play with your clit, view hidden from him under the bunched cotton. Infuriation flares inside his chest. Wants to see. Needs that pleasure for himself, really, because he can’t have you taking control of this too. He reaches over, hand slipping flat past the waistband of those shorts and onto the flesh of the ass he’s been desperate to touch, and he echoes your order from earlier. “Off. Wanna see you.”

You’re still stubborn. Watch him with half-lidded, fucked out eyes as you sink your mouth further over him, feels you sigh out through your nose as you push past your gag reflex and he groans so pornographic. You hold there for a moment, eyes flutter closed, and Wonwoo’s brow pinches in pleasure, feels the tightness all over his skin. “Off,” he insists, pulling you off him with a dirty pop. “Don’t wanna cum yet.” 

He almost gives in when you pout, look up at him with those big beautiful eyes just to make him weak. “I wanted you to cum,” you complain, but he’s ignoring you, rolling you off him to the side and dragging your shorts down your legs just to slot between them. 

Nudges your thighs apart with his knees and he groans again at the sight of your wetness making your flesh shine. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin. “Always thought that.” Mouths rough at your thigh, swipes your wetness away with his tongue and revels in the way your breath hitches when he rolls the pad of his thumb over your clit. “Fuck,” he coos, between gentle nips at your skin, using his other hand to slide up your body and push up your top over your breasts, and you tug it off over your head. Feels a little breathless seeing his ring sit gleaming at your throat, while you’re exposed beneath him. In nothing but your jewellery and his. Dips his head and drags his tongue over your core, and watches your hands find purchase in the stark white sheets. Wants them in his hair, in his mouth, back around his cock while he drowns himself in the taste of you and your sweet little sounds. “You taste so good, baby.” 

Your brow furrows. “Don’t call me that,” you complain, but you’re reaching over to touch his face so gently. “M’not yours to call baby.” 

He holds in his frustration, buries it deep in his bones, channels the feeling into a harsh suck over your clit and takes pleasure in your resulting needy whine. Not yet is what he’d say if he were braver. Soon is what he’d say if he were a few drinks deep. Be my baby is what he’d say if he were sure. Instead he settles on pressing your whispered name into your skin as he slips his fingers into your tight, blinding heat and rolls his tongue over your clit. Reclaims his confidence in the pretty noises he draws from your lips. If you’re not gonna be his then he’ll settle for occupying your thoughts for as long as he can. 

Wonwoo laps at the juncture of his fingers in your cunt, peppers feather light kisses over your clit, teases his tongue in tiny, slow, circles until your fingers find purchase in his hair and he moans loud as you drag his face harder against your body, grinding his nose over your clit, your patience with him wearing thin yet again. Makes him feral– fucks eager fingers into you, makes a little o with his mouth and hums over your clit, sucks gently, drawing desperate, panted breaths from your lungs. Knows how he must look to you, watching him with lust clouded eyes over the expanse of your body, lets his eyes close as he loses himself in the taste of you. He moans with you as he crooks his fingers at that perfect spot to make your legs shake, and fucks his aching cock against the mattress when his mind fogs over as you soak his chin. With a choked sob your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands twist in his hair and he groans, self-satisfied, at the sharp pain. He keeps fucking his fingers into you, working you through it, keeps licking at your clit until you shove him off with a broken cry. 

He sits back on his calves, running soothing hands over your thighs while you come down from your high, wants to kiss you through it so badly but you’re already turning onto your side, fumbling clumsily for the condom box and tossing it toward him. Wonwoo makes quick work of it while you turn onto your front, rest your forehead on your crossed arms– he finds one his size and rolls it on, and you raise your ass into the air, giving him a mind-numbing view of your pulsing, sopping core. Feels as though he’s had the air knocked out of him. “Please, Wonwoo,” you beg, head falling to the side so you can watch him line himself up against your core. “Give it to me.”

Wonwoo knows this is the most perfect moment. Tries to feel wholly present as he sinks his length deep into your tight, hot cunt, and knows that this night will come back to haunt him if it only happens once. If he can only piece together the memory of your touch, and not live it over and over again, it’ll be his undoing. Pushes your body down with his hands on your hips, flush against the mattress and you tilt up your hips, and he lays over you, both moaning loud and unabashed in tandem, feeling that delicious pressure take over. “Feels good, Wonwoo,” you murmur. You sound drunk on it. On him. Shit.

“M’not gonna last,” Wonwoo says, the heat of equal measures embarrassment and desire on his face.

“S’okay,” you say gently. “Just wanna feel you.”

Wonwoo trails his lips over your shoulder as he fucks into you slow and hard and desperate, breathes fractured moans into the shell of your ear and the wetness seeping out of your soaked cunt coats the back of your thighs and the front of his, makes obscene noises that only drives him to fuck you harder. Pushes the air out of your lungs until you’re gasping, anguished, and he’s kissing over your neck, your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth and you’re twisted at what must be a torturous angle just to kiss him lazy and messy but it’s perfect. You’re perfect. 

You’re sliding out a hand from beneath your head, grasping at his hip as he fucks into you, nails digging crescent moons into his skin. Wonwoo covers it with his own, twines your fingers together and pants your name into your cheek. Nearly whites out as your cunt clenches exquisitely around him and you’re crying out again, sharp and punctured. Chases his own end as you babble, catches his name on your lips and comes hard, rolling his hips deep deep deep and empties into the condom. 

Already knows he can’t let this be the end as he sags his sweat slick body against yours. Can’t carry on working alongside you, without burying his cock to the hilt in your body when you’re alone. Can’t sit next to you on yet another long haul flight without taking your hand in his. He already can’t win a race without searching for your face in the sea of people crowding him. How could he do it now, knowing this was how good you were together?

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Wonwoo,” you say, once your voice comes back to you. “You’re heavy.”

He nods, sated, against your back, pulls his cock from your body and the emptiness makes the ache evident. Rolls off you to the side, and already you miss the weight of him, but he keeps his palm flat over the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh. You keep your head turned the other way. Know if you look at him like this it’ll make you delirious, so you won’t. He’s trailing his fingers along your spine, leaving gentle kisses across the bruising sucks he’d already bloomed on your skin.

“Be right back,” you say, shifting away from his touch. 

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, concern obvious in his tone. 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just wanna clean off.”

You slip away barefoot to the bathroom, where you collect yourself against the door for a moment, before moving to the skin to splash water on your face to cool the burn. God. God. 

The mirror is still fogged from his shower earlier, the faint trace of his soap clinging to the steam-slick tiles. You brace your hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging. Your body is buzzing– every nerve still alight, every inch of you aching in the most devastating way.

It was supposed to be once. A release of pent up energy, an inevitability you’d both been circling. So good that even now, your thighs tremble and your skin prickles at the memory of his mouth on your throat, the way your name burned on his lips while he was buried inside you.

You splash more cold water over your face, over your chest, try to scrub away the heat. You can’t walk into the paddock with this in your head. You can’t look at him across a conference table and pretend you don’t know how he sounds when he loses control, how his hands mould perfectly desperate around your hips, or how he looks so fucked out when he’s got you close to the edge.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, pressing the towel hard against your face. What were you thinking?

The trouble is you’re not thinking at all. You haven’t been. For weeks, you’ve been trying to push the feeling away, trying not to want, and now you’ve gone and done the worst possible thing by giving in to him.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “You okay?” Wonwoo’s voice, low and quiet, like he knows you’re freaking out. Like he feels it too.

Your heart lurches, traitorous. You grip the counter tighter, force your voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“Can I come inside?” he asks, and you’re taken aback that you want to let him in. Your imagination races– flashes of him fucking you in the fogged up mirror, washing away your sins in the shower, sharing the stream and more of those torturously languid kisses. You can’t. Once was a bad idea to begin with, it has to end here. 

“No. I’ll be out in a minute,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. “Wait– can you bring my pyjamas please?”

“Sure,” he says, and you can hear his retreating footsteps. 

You busy yourself with soaking a washcloth in warm water, slipping it between your legs and rinsing away the evidence of your need for him. There’s another knock at the door, and Wonwoo says through it, “Your shorts are kind of– they’re–” he falters, but you get it. “I got you this instead.” And he’s opening the door just a crack to slot his arm through– the t-shirt he was wearing, a pair of his shorts, and a pair of white cotton briefs from your suitcase. 

You pad over to take them from him. “What about you?”

“I don’t wear anything to sleep anyway.”

You close your eyes, inhale a steadying slow breath, because tomorrow you’ll have to go back to normal, somehow pretending this never happened. How, you don’t know. And then he’s pulling the door closed again with a soft click, so you shrug on his clothes, appraise yourself in the mirror. Everything in it is his.

You slip back into the bedroom, his shirt brushing mid-thigh, the cotton carrying the faint warmth of his skin. Wonwoo’s pulled on his sweats again, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows propped on his knees, head bowed in his hands. When he glances up at you, his expression is unreadable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, sliding beneath the covers on your side, pulling the duvet over your lap. The sheets are warm from his body. Yours too. 

“No problem,” he says. Gets to his feet, slow and deliberate.

For a beat you stare, heart caught in your throat. The sight of him standing there– broad shoulders, hair mussed from your touch, the waistband of his sweats hanging low on his hips– sends your stomach tumbling. Panic prickles under your skin. 

“Oh. You’re– heading back to your room?” 

He looks at you with something akin to dull surprise. Blinks it away in a moment. “I suppose so,” he says, voice clipped. And then he’s making his way into the shared bathroom, door pulled sharply closed behind him, and you hear the running water of the tap, and after a minute, the soft click of the door on the other side. 

You sink down into the sheets, stare at the ceiling, wringing your hands under the covers. Regret floods hot and fast, tangling with frustration. Why didn’t you just tell him to stay? Why didn’t you admit that you wanted the heat of his chest pressed to your back again, with his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin until you fell asleep?

Instead, you lie awake, replaying every second in torturous detail. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. And now– the silence is too loud.

On the other side of the wall, Wonwoo lies flat on his back, one arm slung over his eyes. He can still smell you on him, can still hear the soft gasp you made when he pushed into you, can still feel the trembling in your thighs when you broke apart under him. You didn’t want him to stay. He pushed too far, too soon, and now he’s ruined the fragile thing between you.

Neither of you sleep. You, chest tight with words you can’t bring yourself to say. Him, staring at the ceiling in the dark, mind spinning with the same question on loop: how the fuck can we go back to normal?

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The vibration of your phone drags you out of a shallow, fractured sleep. It’s still dark, just a smear of light starting to edge over the horizon. You fumble for it on the nightstand, eyes squinting against the too-bright glow at the notifications on your screen.

Edoardo [05:32] Are you already handling this or do I need to be concerned?

Your chest tightens, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you can fully process it, another buzz–

Bridget [05:34] How’re you doing darling?

And as if the universe has decided that sleeping in is not in the cards today– an email notification from Inès pings through. Rolex has offered to reschedule for Thursday, 11:00. Your flight should get in at 06:35, but let me know if you’d like to push for later. 

PS - you should know everyone in the office is talking about you and Wonwoo. 

You toss the phone to the side and drag both hands over your face. Sunrise isn’t even here yet and already you’re cornered on all sides.

Room service answers on the first ring, your voice hoarse when you order a pot of tea and nothing else. You set your laptop under your arm and slip outside barefoot. The balcony stones are cool, damp with morning air. You fold yourself into the corner chair, prop your feet on the wall, and watch the sky soften from violet to peach while birds chatter in the trees below.

For a few blessed minutes, it’s just you, the smell of Wonwoo’s soap still clinging faintly to your skin, the promise of hot tea on its way. You tell yourself you’ll figure it out. That you’ve handled worse fires than this.

The door beside you slides open, and Wonwoo steps out, hair a mess, glasses lopsided on his nose, eyes shadowed from the same restless night, he scrunches his eyes together in the dim morning light and he’s so sweet that you’re hit with a pang of longing. He leans one hand against the balcony rail, phone in the other. His voice is flat when he says, “Mingyu woke me up. Said my face is everywhere.”

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth, glance back at your screen. “Edoardo’s already on me too.”

He hums, too tired to talk it out, sinks down into the chair beside you. For a moment you both just sit there, brittle in the hush of this early hour. You steal a sideways glance at Wonwoo, who’s looking out over the water. The way he shines in the morning is something worthy of poetry.

“Last night was a mistake,” you say finally, staring at the way the rising sun casts amber light over the ocean. 

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either. Just exhales and rubs a hand over his neck. “But you don’t regret it?”

Your head snaps toward him, heart stumbling. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something raw there, a glimmer that leaves your throat dry.

“I regret how complicated it is,” you murmur.

That earns the faintest twist of his mouth, not quite a smile. “I can live with complicated.”

The words hit you like a strike to the sternum. Live with complicated. You tell yourself not to read into it, not to let your brain chase down every possible meaning hiding under his quiet delivery, but your pulse betrays you. A part of you wants to laugh, because complicated is such an absurd understatement for the mess you’ve just made together. Another part aches– sharp and insistent– because if he can live with it, maybe you could too. Maybe it isn’t just the gravity of last night that’s keeping you tethered here beside him. The silence stretches again. The sky blushes gold, the air turns warmer, and for the first time since yesterday you don’t feel like you’re on the verge of breaking, every which way.

Room service arrives, a quiet knock at your door. You regret not having ordered enough for two but after your first few warming sips, you offer him some from your mug, and he takes it gratefully, fingers brushing yours over the handle. 

“Rolex meeting’s not for two days,” you say. “But we’ll have to call into the office today once we figure out how we’re going to play it.”

“Are you going to tell them?” he asks.

“That we had sex?” you laugh bitterly around a yawn. “God no.” He nods sagely, takes a long gulp of tea and it makes you wonder if he’s just doing it to hide his face. “The worst one is from the CCTV in the elevator. Anything else can be easily explained as friendship.” You sigh heavy. 

“We could tell them I liked you,” he offers, still staring into the mug. “And that you rejected me. Ask them to release the rest of the footage.”

Your breath hitches. Liked. Again. “I suppose,” you agree, voice flat.

“It’s close enough to the truth,” he says, and you suddenly can’t speak. What was last night if the like is past tense? And it’s almost like he can sense it, the way your pulse spikes and the tension knotting your spine, because he tacks on, “They don’t need to know I still do. Like you– I mean.”

“Oh.”

The word feels too small and stupid in the quiet between you. You want to reach for something clever, something equal, but your mind is a blank page except for the echo of I still do.

It loops over and over, burrowing under your ribs, muddling every careful line you’ve drawn between want and work, need and denial. Last night was supposed to be once. A mistake you could compartmentalise, shove into the dark corner of your brain labelled things we don’t think about at the office. But now– now he’s cracked the door wider, and you don’t know how to walk through it without leaving behind what you’ve built.

Your chest feels hot, your throat tight. You take the mug back from him just so you have something to hold, fingers wrapping hard around the ceramic, grounding yourself in the warmth. He doesn’t press, doesn’t even look at you, and somehow that only makes the confession feel heavier.

You tilt your face toward the sunrise, blinking hard against the tears pricking at the corners of your tired eyes, and tell yourself the heaviness in your body is just lack of sleep.

Your laptop pings with another email– but you can barely read the subject line from Gabriella before Wonwoo is pushing your laptop closed. “Hey!” you admonish. “That could be important, I need to–”

“Sleep,” he interrupts. His tone is soft, persuasive. “Come on. They can handle things without us for a little longer.”

You open your mouth to argue, but your body betrays you with a yawn, aching bone-deep from exhaustion. He sets the mug down on the table before extending his hand to you, and you stare at it for a long moment before giving in without a fight, slipping your fingers into his. Wonwoo guides you gently through his door. His bed is unmade, sheets tangled from his apparent restless night. You crawl in beside him, he sets his glasses on the nightstands and draws the covers over both of you, and the room feels impossibly still. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd– just settles close enough that your shoulders touch, hands still clasped beneath the sheets. 

“Just a few hours,” he murmurs, already sinking into sleep, thumb stroking absentmindedly over yours. 

“Just a few,” you whisper back, though you know the world outside will come crashing in soon enough.

For now, the sunrise paints the ceiling in soft gold, a warm breeze filters in through the open door, and you turn onto your side, tuck your body against the quiet warmth of him. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s the startling vibration that drags you out of the depths of sleep, a muffled buzz rattling atop the nightstand. You blink against the pull of your eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, and it takes you a moment to even register that the sound is your phone.

You shift to reach for it– only to still when you realise Wonwoo’s arm is heavy across your waist. His chest flush against your back, his breath measured and warm at the curve of your neck. And lower– he’s hard, thick against your thigh through the thin barrier of fabric.

The call clicks off. Blessed silence. But before you can let relief settle, the phone starts buzzing again, shrill in the quiet of the room. You should get it. You need to get it. Instead, you stay perfectly still, heart pounding, because the pressure of him against you is enough to short-circuit every thought in your head.

Wonwoo stirs, makes a low noise in his throat that sounds too close to a groan, the noise absentminded and unintentional– but it sparks fire anyway. His nose brushes the back of your shoulder, lips grazing skin in a touch so deliberate it sends a lick of need up your spine. The phone is still buzzing but by the time you rouse from the bed, with Wonwoo grumbling behind you, it rings off again. You look over your shoulder and Wonwoo has rolled onto his back, hair mussed, eyes hazy with sleep but dark with something heavier. 

Your phone rings again, but you don’t care now, because your hand finds the line of his jaw, the other sliding over the nape of his neck, and you’re pulling him up to you. His mouth crushes into yours, clumsy with sleep and hunger for touch, and you hum into his mouth, fingers twisting into his hair. The sound he makes when you part your lips for him is wrecked, needy, and it only unravels you more.

He guides your leg over his lap, holds your hips down, keeps you grinding against him, until you slide a hand between your bodies and bunch the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free his cock. He whines, delicious, as you circle your fingers around him and drag. Every careful argument you’ve rehearsed since last night burns away in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his body against yours. Your phone stops, mercifully, only for the silence to throb with urgency. Whoever it is will call again. You know it. 

“Listen–” you try, breaking off from his mouth with a sharp breath.

“I’m listening,” Wonwoo says, then scrapes his teeth along your jaw. One of his hands rags down your body, slipping under the hem of his t-shirt that you still wear, dancing his fingers over soft skin, finds your naked waist and grips it, slender fingers digging so desperate, and he trails further until he’s cupping your breast, running his thumb over the swell of flesh.

“You’re obviously not,” you chide. You can feel him hard against your clothed cunt, and you press against him, giving an experimental grind. Fuck. 

Wonwoo tsks. “You haven’t said anything yet.” He’s kissing down your neck. “How can you tell whether I’m listening or not?” 

“You’re distracted,” you say, and he’s pulling his t-shirt off your body, tosses it to the floor.

He huffs a laugh, rolls his hips to drag the thick, hard line of his cock against your cotton clad pussy, already dampening the material. “You’re not exactly making it easy for me.” 

This conversation is a thin veneer– for the desire you hold within you, for the convoluted mess of feelings you’re trying to keep bottled. What Wonwoo will do with his body will haunt you, as he already does in your dreams, but you’re letting it happen anyway, despite the words you said yesterday. You whine as he rolls his hips again, fucking his cock slow against your core, walls clenching around nothing. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you getting wet.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” you pant. You’re moving over him now, sliding your needy clit over his length. The condoms are in your room, but breaking apart to fetch them would break the moment too. So you lean, brace your palms on his knees and let him tug your sodden underwear to the side. Moans come broken and in tandem as he dips two long fingers inside, crooks them and draws your wetness out. He smears it over your folds, over the juncture of your thighs, dips again to gather more as works it over his cock. 

Wonwoo uses his thumb to press his length hard against your cunt and slides slow, and it’s so so much better without the barrier of your underwear. Can feel the heat of him better. You like the way he watches where your bodies meet, his hunger pure and open, and more still when his eyes meet yours and he searches your face for all your tells as he fucks his length against you, cockhead bumping over your clit. The crotch of your underwear slips back over you, over his cock against you and he moans again, desperate, as his pre-cum seeps through along with your juices, making the thin white cotton sopping wet, and almost sheer. Can see the slit of the head of his cock every time he slides up. 

It’s a crude display you fear you’ll never recover from, but that doesn’t still your hips. Doesn’t stop your eyes from clouding over with hazy lust and insatiable need. Doesn’t stop Wonwoo from littering praise with his lips pressed into your skin– how hot you are, how he’s needed this, how you feel so fucking good, baby. Baby. Doesn’t snap you from your reverie, this time, only makes you dizzy. 

“Oh God,” you babble, and he’s nodding along with you. He lifts your chin with his hand, tugs you toward him to kiss you deep, and he flops backwards onto the bed dragging you forward, his dirty groan sending shivers down your spine. “Wan’ you inside. Now.” 

“Yeah?” he pants, but you’re already slipping a hand behind, lining him up against your pulsing entrance and sinking onto him. His sounds spur you on, so good you want to sink your teeth into them. You ride him hard and cant your hips in a way that makes the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, makes him hold you down, grind the base of his cock against your clit to draw littered moans from your kiss-bitten lips. He’s digging his fingers into your hips so hard you’ll surely bruise, but this is how you want it. Frenzied and raw and so hard it’ll leave you sore for days afterward. 

Tears prick at your eyes when your hips falter out of their rhythm, but Wonwoo’s taking over, fucking up into you from below. “Fill me up so good,” you whine. 

One of his hands moves, loops a circle around your wrist, and he drags it to his mouth. Presses a kiss to the pulse point there. “Tell me what you feel.”

You sigh, the pleasure wracking through you still, makes it hard to understand what he wants.

You laugh, unsure. “I– I feel like I’m gonna come soo–”

“No. Tell me you like me,” he whispers into your skin, so quiet you almost miss it over the obscene sound of the slide of his cock inside you. He slows your hips to a halt, cock buried to the hilt. Without the movement you can feel how the wetness has pooled on his skin. God. Fuck, the feeling of him so deep makes you squirm in his lap, but he holds you tight. “Wanna hear you say it.” 

He must know, surely. How could he not, because you wouldn’t have taken in your body if you didn’t have some feeling for him. What difference does saying it aloud make? “I like you,” you confess, breathing hard, but the weight of it in your chest is already lightening. 

“Yeah?” You nod, and then he’s moving again hips slower this time, taking one hand and slipping it between your bodies, teasing with your clit. That, along with the look on his face, mouth parted and pretty, eyes dark with lust, has your end rocketing toward you. 

You cock an eyebrow. “You’re gonna make me say it and then not say it back?”

He smiles wide. “I like you t–” He’s cut off by a moan, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Shit– fuck, baby. Just got so tight.” 

He’s sitting up again, manoeuvring your legs so they cross at your ankles behind his back, and this new angle makes you cry out with pleasure. You’re soaking into his lap, the wet slap of skin, the bite of your bunched underwear pushed thoughtlessly to the side, and the drag of his thick cock inside your tight, wet heat, has you so fucking close. 

“Ah– so good,” you whine, a fractured, pathetic sound. “Gonna come, Wonwoo, I’m coming– God–”

“Cum on my cock, yeah, fuck– just like that,” he pleads. “You feel so fucking good. You’re so good.” His body moves charged under your touch as he works you through it, kisses your open mouth as you cry out, swallows your pretty sounds with his mouth as his own hips begin to stutter, muscles taut and corded and he’s panting “Fuck. Fuck– yeah, baby, me too,” into your skin. Comes so hard inside your body that it has you swearing you can see stars, hands carding through his hair, sweat beading on his forehead that you sweep away with your lips.

When he pulls his cock from your pussy, your underwear slotted back in place, his cum and yours seeps out of you, thick through the material, and Wonwoo groans at the filthy sight of it. Drags two fingers through, gathers a little and brings them to your mouth. You open without question, and your eyes flutter closed in bliss when he presses them into your wet, hot mouth, tongue curling around his fingertips, lapping away the taste of you both together. 

“Is it good?” he whispers. 

“Mhm,” you murmur. “So good.” 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He holds you in his lap like this, letting you come down slowly, hands sliding over the smooth skin of your back, and he trails his lips along your collarbone. You cradle his head in your arms, cheek resting heavy against his temple, fingers gently toying the hair at the nape of his neck. He loves the softness of it, hasn’t been touched this delicately in years, and right now, if asked, he’d confess he wants to live like this, wrapped up in each other.

“Can I ask you something?” he whispers into your skin.

“Mhm,” you murmur back, too fucked out to form words.

“Does it need to stay here?” 

You sigh. “You know it does. We’re too messy. We can hardly get along most of the time.”

“That was before,” he presses.

“Maybe,” you say, leaning back to look at him, hands smoothing over his shoulders. You’ve got that reluctant look on your face that pricks his nerves. “But you don’t know. We hardly know each other properly.” 

“So let me know you properly.” He pouts, draws you back in to press a kiss to your cheek. “What should we do today? Should we go to the beach?”

You let out a sad little laugh. “I’ve got work.” 

He sighs, frustrated. “You never stop working. Take a day off.” 

You lean back away from him again, frowning, hands pressed flat over his shoulders. “Did you forget the two of us are caught in a dating scandal? Back to back with your sex tape this isn’t an ideal time to take a day off.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and he feels you bristle under his touch. “What does it matter if it’s true? We’re not doing anything wrong. Let them talk.”

You scoff. “It’s not true, though, is it? We’re not dating. We just fucked.”

“Twice.”

“That’s not th–”

“And I don’t want it to stay here,” he cuts you off, hands falling to your hips in the hope he can anchor you here with him, voice growing more insistent. “Just say you want this as much as I do.”

He’d hoped you’d give in, but you’re pushing off him and tucking your head down, avoiding his eyes. He goes for your hand but you move out of reach, and grab his t-shirt to pull it over your head and hide his marks left on your skin. 

And as you both go quiet, and your sated bodies sag against each other, you think this is it. It’s a bitter twist to break him free from the haze that took over. You’re insistent you’ve let this thing between you run its course, and now it has to stay here, in this room. But at least he’ll always know how he could undo you, and you in turn him, the mess he made of your body is proof of it.

And then you’re picking up your phone, frown tightening and your breath quickens. The glow of the screen washes your face ashen. You exhale hard, thumb skimming over the notifications, expression clouding.

Wonwoo hates it instantly. Hates how quickly your focus shifts away from him. He moves closer, mattress dipping under the weight, wrapping his arms back around your waist, nose brushing the divot in your neck. “Ignore it.”

“I can’t.” There’s reluctance in your voice that he holds onto. 

“Tell them you’re sick.” His voice dips, coaxing. He’s pulling you back down against him. “What do we even have to do today? Nothing. Let’s walk on the beach. Or– or get coffee. Pretend we’re not us for a while.”

The fantasy is so vivid in his mind he almost believes it could happen. But you’re shaking your head, standing up and slipping out of his arms. “I’ve got to call Edoardo back. And Gabriella.”

He watches you scroll through messages, and feels the pout tug at his mouth before he can stop it. “You’re so stubborn.”

Your eyes flick to him, and despite yourself, your expression softens a little. “And you’re annoying,” you say softly, reaching out to run a soft thumb over his bottom lip, pushing his sullenness away. “At least you’re cute.”

It warms him more than it should. But you’re already moving toward the balcony door, phone pressed to your ear. 

“Francesca, ciao. Mi dispiace, non sono stata bene. Puoi passarmi Edoardo?” You step out into the bright sunshine, lighting up your anxiety ridden face, door clicking shut behind you, and Wonwoo is left alone with his thoughts.

The echo of your earlier confession still pulses in his head, but now it mixes with the reminder that although your world has been taken over by him and his reputation, it’s still so much bigger than him. And he doesn’t like sharing.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your last call ends and you’re left staring at your own reflection in the black glass of your phone screen, Gabriella’s voice still needling at the edges of your skull. There’s laughter down below from the pool, at a bitter contrast with the kind of anger that coils tight in your chest.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, try to work your way through the disbelief of it all, trying to make sense of why she would have turned herself in after dragging it on for so long. It feels– pointless. Was the goal to just set fire to his life, and her own in turn? You want to scream. Instead you shove back from the balcony chair, slide the door open with more force than you mean to.

Wonwoo’s just stepped out of the bathroom, wiping the condensation from his glasses and pushing them back on. His hair is damp, towel slung low around his hips. Steam clings to his skin, the scent of his soap curling through the air, and he smiles soft and unguarded at the sight of you, falters when he takes in your expression– it almost undoes you. You want to cross the room, put your arms around him, hold him against you until the tension in your body melts away. But you can’t. Not when the truth tastes this bitter on your tongue, not when his fucking cum still dampens your underwear. Shit, you need to shower so badly.

His brows knit together, cautious. “What did they say?”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, dig your nails into your palms until it hurts. “It was your ex,” you bite out. “She’s the one who leaked the tape.”

The words hang heavy, souring the air between you. His body goes taut, mouth parts in surprise. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and that silence cuts deeper than any outburst could.

“She turned herself in this morning,” you continue. “It’s being kept under wraps for now, but it’ll break soon, Wonwoo. You should stay offline.”

There’s a sharp tick in his jaw. He drags a hand through his wet hair, exhales heavy, like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. You ache to touch him, to soften the edges, but you keep your hands to yourself. This isn’t your place.

“Say something,” you whisper, because the silence is too much. “Why would she do that?” Wonwoo doesn’t look like he understands it either for a minute, and then you see something click in his eyes. “What is it?”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get the details fourth-hand: the police to Jeonghan to Gabriella to you. Wonwoo was right– it was just a pathetic bid for his attention. The ‘ex’ she supposedly cheated on him with doesn’t even exist, and the profile Gabriella had for him on Instagram belonged to her. Turns out love really can make you crazy.

She’d told him several months ago that she wanted to get back together, spent a few weeks pleading her case over texts and voicemail– all while Wonwoo shut her out, uninterested in rekindling their relationship– until she went dead silent. Later, she leaked the photos knowing it would bring her character into question in her industry, in the hope he’d reach out (and of course you’d been against it) so on the back of your advice and Mingyu’s, he’d blocked her number. 

After the Vanity Fair cover came out, every trace of her across Wonwoo’s ribs erased, she uploaded the video, a last ditch effort that only fucked her over worse than him. She hadn’t said why she chose to turn herself in, but Wonwoo wonders if it was the DeuxMoi post, if seeing him move on with someone new made her realise her efforts were fruitless. You almost feel sorry for her.

Wonwoo’s kind of fucked up over it, doesn’t know whether to unblock her and try to talk it out, nods in agreement when you tell him that’s a bad idea. Kind of stings that he wants to talk to her at all, because if it were you you’d haul them over hot coals through the courts. Still. It’s not your place. You’re there for his reputation and not his feelings. 

You still need to shower away the mess he made of you earlier, so you leave him with his mood and take to the bathroom where you stand under the stream for a long time, and hope it does something to soothe the ache in your chest. It doesn’t. Your freshly laundered clothes are delivered in the meantime, thank God, because you can’t go the whole day wearing stuff that smells of him. You pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, the weather too warm for working from the balcony in much else. 

With Edoardo assured you’re handling the DeuxMoi issue, you’re determined to fix it before the story takes on a life of its own. It starts with calling Jeonghan back, who asks how you want to play it. 

Truth be told, you’re tired of being the one who makes all the decisions, who has to look at every action from every possible angle, to figure out if a look could be misconstrued or words twisted. And before all this, you loved your job, but now it feels like you’re flailing, having made mistake after mistake where Wonwoo is concerned, letting him bleed through the gaps of the line you drew between work and your emotions. It’d be nice to have another assistant to help compartmentalise your life, as well as your suitcase. You’ll just have to do it yourself.

Wonwoo’s words from earlier swim back to you. He’s right, it’s closest to the truth. Nobody needs to know it went further than your argument in the elevator if nothing more is going to happen. 

“Call on the hotel staff who leaked the still to post the rest of the footage, and they’ll see us having a dispute and me going to my hotel room alone. Say we’re close friends as well as colleagues and unfortunately we’d both had a couple of drinks, but now it’s resolved, and Wonwoo is entirely focused on the upcoming Grand Prix.” 

There’s a long silence at the end of the line, but eventually Jeonghan says, “Are you sure?”

You blink. “Why would I not be sure?”

“We all thought you and Wonwoo–”

You cut him off– “Who’s we?”

“Well–” he starts, uncertain. Another pause. “Listen, if I tell you, you have to promise not to cut my bonus.”

You laugh, a little irritated now. “What if I push you off a cliff instead?”

“That’s fine so long as you still pay me,” he retorts.

“Spit it out, Jeonghan,” you say shortly, growing ever frustrated. 

“We had a betting pool in the office. How long it’d take you two to get together.”

Your voice drops. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

Jeonghan chuckles nervously. “Mingyu let slip that Wonwoo had a little crush on you, and everyone got really excited for a big enemies to lovers thing. Honestly most of us were rooting for you.” 

You’ve no idea how to answer him, completely lost for words. You sit frozen, phone pressed to your ear, Jeonghan’s words echoing in your head. A little crush. 

“Rooting for us,” you repeat, voice hollow.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan says quickly, as if padding it with cheer will soften the blow. “You should’ve seen Inès– she nearly cried when she saw DeuxMoi’s post and we all thought it was happening.”

“Inès is in on this too?” 

“Why do you think you’ve been sat next to each other on every flight since the start of the season?”

You’re going to burn the entire office to the ground, you think. You shut your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. The ache in your chest spreads sharper, like something’s cracking open. It’s stupid– you know it’s stupid– but hearing it out loud, that Wonwoo liked you, that your colleagues are silently cheering for you, it makes the memory of last night coil differently in your stomach.

“Right,” you manage. “Well, tell Inès to save her tears. There’s nothing to root for.”

“That’s not what it looks like from the outside,” Jeonghan says gently.

“Well none of you know what’s happening on the inside, do you?” you snap, harsher than he deserves. “It was one mistake, Jeonghan–” you falter, nearly giving the game away. “In the elevator, I mean. And you’d better not let the betting pool bullshit get to Edoardo if you want to keep your head, or your precious bonus.”

“Actually–”

“Promise me, Jeonghan,” you hiss.

He laughs nervously again, mutters something about you having his undying loyalty, then promises to draft the response exactly as you instructed. You end the call before he can say anything else, flop into the padded chair behind you. 

“Shit,” you whisper, dragging both hands down your face.

Behind the door to Wonwoo’s room, you hear the dull thud of a drawer closing, the shuffle of him moving around, and for a second you’re tempted to march in there and beg him to tell you what to do. How to navigate this uncommon ground, to ask if he regrets it, and see if he thinks this is as impossible as you do. But you can’t. Because it isn’t your job to give in to your every desire. It’s your job to clean this mess before it buries you both alive. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo feels unsure interrupting your work, has done his best to avoid you all morning, but it’s getting into the afternoon, and neither of you have had anything but tea and water since the early hours. You’re out on the balcony still, legs stretched out, bare feet resting in the other chair, laptop balanced on your lap. Your face set in that frown you wear when you’re trying to hold the world together.

“Do you want to get lunch?” he asks. Tries to keep his voice casual, but the tentative intention behind it is obvious.

Your eyes don’t leave the screen, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “It’d be foolish to be seen together right now,” you say, voice flat. 

Right. Of course. Wonwoo shifts, presses his palms against the stone wall, and exhales slow through his nose. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “Room service?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

What he wants is to throw your laptop in the fucking pool. What he wants is to pull you outside, make you forget work and just be with him, here in this beautiful place. Wonwoo disappears back inside, orders without asking your preference– he’s already noticed what you’ll actually eat and what you’ll push around a plate until it goes cold. When he comes back, you’re still typing furiously, shoulders tense, and worrying your lip so hard he thinks you’ll surely bite through it.

“Take a break,” he says quietly. “Your eyes will go bad if you keep staring at a screen like that.”

Finally, you twist to look at him, lips quirking at the corners, a drop of mirth in your tired, pretty eyes. “Oh really? Is that what happened to you?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, the ghost of a smile. “Yup. I learned the hard way.”

For a moment, the weight between you lightens, like if he leaned a little closer, you’d meet him in the middle instead of pushing him away. But then your laptop pings again, and your gaze flicks back to the screen.

Wonwoo straightens, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t push further. He can’t. Not when you’re still holding him at arm’s length, even as you wade through the mess that is his personal life and try to salvage something worthwhile from the wreck. Your food will come soon, and he’ll be damned if he lets you work through that too. Until then, he’ll stay quiet enough that you let him keep your company. He shifts your feet off the chair and over his lap as he settles into it, and you give him a pointed look before drawing your legs away, setting your feet on the ground instead. 

After a while, a knock at the door breaks the silence. Wonwoo moves to answer it, relief and dread mingling in his chest. He tips the server and wheels the tray outside. You close the laptop at last, though not without a little sigh of resignation, and set it on the table beside you. Wonwoo notices– the way your shoulders sag, the way your face softens just a fraction without the harshness of the screen glaring at you.

He uncovers the dishes. “C’mon. Eat,” he says simply, handing you the plate he knew you’d prefer.

Your eyebrow quirks, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”

“Didn’t you once say you’d move to Italy just for the pasta?” he replies, a little pride flaring in his belly when it elicits a laugh from you.

You take a cautious bite, and then another, appetite sneaking up on you now that food is in front of you. Wonwoo eats slowly, quietly, watching you more than his own plate, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around the fork, the faint hum you make when you’re satisfied. For a little while, it feels like a ceasefire. The pressure of DeuxMoi, his ex, the lies– it all fades to the edges as you both pick at your plates in a rhythm that feels almost normal.

You break it first, of course. “Room service three times in less than twenty-four hours. The staff are going to think we’re sex obsessed freaks.”

Wonwoo snorts softly. “They’ll think we’re busy. They don’t care what people do in their own rooms.”

“They do when one of them is famous.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Okay, so let them call me a sex freak.”

You laugh, swatting gently at his arm. “God, Wonwoo, I’m begging you to make my job a little easier for once.” 

He grabs your retreating hand, tugs it up to brush his lips over your knuckles. “I’m begging you to make my job easier,” he says. “I try to concentrate on the race and all I’m thinking about is y–” 

He stops short when he sees your wide smile falter, the sudden shallow breaths. Wonwoo wants to reach across the table, shake you by the shoulders out of your hidden world and ask when you’ll let him kiss you again. Instead, he lets your hand drop from his and the conversation stutters there, you finish the rest of your meals in silence, eyes decidedly cast down.

When you’re finished you load the tray with your empty plates, tuck your laptop under your arm, and tell him you’re going to pack up, get ready for the airport. Wonwoo nods, says he’ll do the same, even though his suitcase has been ready beside the door for the last three hours. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The taxi ride is suffocating. The humid air pressing through the vents, the slow traffic outside, the driver’s radio tuned low. You sit with your knees angled toward the window, your face carefully arranged into neutrality. Wonwoo watches the side of your face instead of the buildings flashing past, his chest tight with everything unsaid. 

He should’ve brought this up earlier. Wants to know if last night was only a mistake to you, if you’re really capable of walking away like it was nothing. His hand twitches against his thigh. 

“About last night–” he begins, quiet.

You cut him a sharp look, flicking your eyes pointedly toward the driver before staring back out the window. Wonwoo closes his mouth. Stares down at his hands, jaw tight, and the silence gnaws at his gut all the way to the airport.

The lounge is cooler, a little more privacy with people sitting further away, busy with their work or their own conversations, but you’re no more forgiving. You sit across from him, your laptop open again, and he feels the wall between you rising brick by brick. It makes him restless, anxiety lacing through his veins.

Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We need to talk,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up, eyes firm. “Not here,” you hiss. “Someone might hear.”

“So what?” He snaps back. “Let them hear.”

“Are you insane?” you whisper back through your teeth. “Do you want to hand them another scandal on a silver platter? Jeon Wonwoo fights with girlfriend in airport lounge?” 

The word girlfriend draws a bitter laugh from him and you scowl. Wonwoo swears under his breath. He doesn’t care about the headlines, about DeuxMoi, about the vultures waiting for another scrap of drama. What he cares about is the potential of you and him, slipping further away with every cautious word.

Wonwoo pushes up from the chair. “Come with me.”

You hesitate, glance around, then rise reluctantly, laptop tucked under your arm. He leads you through the lounge, weaving past clusters of businessmen and couples until he finds a corner leading to an emergency exit, half-hidden by a structural column, tucked away out of sight.

“Wonwoo–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Will you kiss me again?” His voice is ragged, raw. He’s close enough now that he can see the brief tremble of your bottom lip, the way your fingers tighten around your laptop. “I don’t want this to end before it’s even started.”

Your lips part, the air between you charged and taut. For a beat, you don’t move. Then you surge forward, press your mouth to his, and the dam breaks.

It’s frenzied, sharp teeth nipping at his lip, the hot slide of his tongue over yours, your laptop nearly tumbling from your grip as his hand anchors the back of your neck. His other hand finds your waist, hauling you closer, and he kisses you like he's drowning. The taste of you, the heat of your body, your quickened breath reminds him of last night, and again this morning. It’s too much and not enough.

It deepens too fast, spirals until you’re breathing hard against his lips, chest heaving. You tear yourself back with a gasp, eyes dark and clouded, almost mournful.

“This is it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I’m sorry I broke my own rules, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Wonwoo’s chest constricts. He shakes his head, wanting to argue, but you force a crooked, brittle smile. “Maybe in ten years or so, if I quit or you retire, we can pick it back up.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pretend to find humour in it.. His eyes bore into yours, silent and wounded, because to him, none of this is a joke.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Modena, Italy

On your return after the meeting with Rolex (terse between you and Wonwoo, friendly in the face of others) you’d given him back his ring on the promise that you’d wear it on Grand Prix weekends, if his superstition still called for that. He’d protested, but you argued it wouldn’t be a good idea to wear it day to day now, since it turned out everyone at work had bets riding on the two of you. 

You’d also told Inès, in no uncertain terms, that you didn’t want to be seated next to Wonwoo again, and she delivered: separate schedules, separate briefings, separate transport when necessary. You only cross paths in rooms where it would be impossible not to, and there, the two of you perform as colleagues and nothing more.

It’s worked, that’s for sure. The storm DeuxMoi stirred up has quietened. The rumors faded, drowned under fresher scandals, more salacious fodder. Online, at least, the world has moved on.

But you– you’ve thrown yourself into work, into emails, into KPIs, and career development programs for your subordinates, favouring schedules with Charles over Wonwoo, and rewriting Edoardo’s speeches until the cadence rings smooth. You keep your head down and mind your business, but still, you can feel his absence like a phantom limb, an itch unscratched.

Edoardo notices. He doesn’t bring it up for a while, but you catch the way his brow furrows when Wonwoo’s attention lags in meetings, when his performance during practice sessions falls flat. “Something’s off with him,” he muttered once, voice low. “What on earth happened between you?” You’d bitten your tongue until it ached.

At night, the walls of your too large home seem to echo with the quiet. You lie in bed with your hand between your thighs, trying to chase the release that came so easy with him, but it can’t get there. You move your fingers the way you think he would, but it’s hollow and leaves you unsated and kicking at the sheets in frustration. He did it better. He did it so much better, and you can’t scrub the memory of it from your skin.

Sleep comes late every night, and when it does, he’s waiting there. Dreams of him fucking you into the mattress, of his voice ragged and his breath hot against the shell of your ear, of his mouth drawing out sounds from you you can hardly remember making before. You wake gasping, sheets tangled, body aching with need.

The worst part is the way he pretends. The way he hardly acknowledges your hellos in the office, just nods, a stiff dip of his chin that twists something in your chest. The way his eyes slide past you like you’re just another staff member, like the brief stay in the Bahamas never happened. It drives you half mad.

You type messages on your phone late at night. 

I think I made a mistake. 

Wonwoo, can we talk? 

I can’t stop thinking about you.

But every time your thumb hovers over send, you remember his silence in the office, his polite distance, and you wonder if he doesn’t want you anymore, and maybe you’ve ruined it for good. And so every message is discarded. Deleted and retyped and repeat. Again, and again, and again.

The days bleed together. It’s been nine days since the Bahamas, since your lips on his in the lounge, since you told him it was over before it could even begin. And now you’re on home ground, where the air is thick with history, where the ground of the city itself seems to hum with ghosts of legends, where Wonwoo’s presence surrounds you but he won’t speak. 

There’s a dinner tonight with some sponsors, you, Edoardo, the head of engineering, Charles and Wonwoo, everyone’s partners. Fourteen total. Edoardo has asked for you to host, ‘since you keep your home so beautiful!’ and he’s sure your cooking is sublime. First of all– sexist. Second– your cooking is fine but you’re tired, so you’ve hired a chef for the evening and put it on the company card. Third– it’s easy to keep a house nice when you’re never fucking home to see it. Of course you don’t say any of this to your boss. Just smile and assure him it’ll go well. 

The problem is the people coming tonight love to drag a dinner on, laden with wine and cigars and you know the night will last well into the early hours. Edoardo has already had a case of wine delivered to your house. Earlier in the week, Inès, bless her heart, had asked carefully, kindly, if you’d like her to arrange a scheduling conflict that’d get you out of it, book the others in at a nice restaurant instead, but how would that look? No, you’ll get through this like you do everything else. 

You’re blotting off your lipstick in the mirror when the doorbell rings. Not the chef, she’s already in the kitchen, not the guests– too early yet. Your assistant calls, “Lo prenderò, signorina!” from down the hall.

You hear his voice before you even step out of your bedroom. Deep and familiar, lovely in the way it snags at the fibres of your heart.

“Wonwoo?” He stands in your foyer, clutching a bouquet of snapdragons and lilacs clutched in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other, wearing something smarter than his usual casual attire, all in black. His eyes flit unsure from you, to your assistant, to the floor. Your assistant looks over him approvingly, raises her eyebrows at you and brings her fingers to her lips to kiss them. 

“I– uh. I wasn’t sure what to bring,” he says.

“Those are lovely, thank you,” you say, as your assistant takes the flowers from him and rushes off to the kitchen to arrange them in a vase. “Should we have the champagne with dinner?”

“Or you can save it,” he says, shrugging. You can hear your assistant padding upstairs. “Whatever.”

Whatever. 

“I–uh. Am I the only one here?” He lifts his watch to check the time. “Sorry. I thought it started at eight.”

“Eight-thirty,” you say. You’re not sure what else to add. He’s early, painfully so, and you haven’t had time to steel yourself against this awkwardness. You weren’t prepared to be alone with him.

“Right.” He shifts his weight on his feet, stuffs his now empty hands in his pockets, glances around your entryway. “Nice place. I’d wondered what your home would look like.”

“Yes. Well, I like it.”

When his eyes return to you, they linger a beat too long. “You look nice too.”

“Thanks.” You close your arms over yourself, hands curled over your elbows. “I had a shower and everything.”

That pulls the faintest smile from him, quick to vanish.

Your assistant is back, hovers in the doorway with a polite, curious expression. You can feel the way the room crackles with the strangeness of it, how easily could someone so removed from the situation notice the fractures between you two? “Perché non torni a casa, Elena?” you tell her gently. “Hai lavorato duramente oggi.”

Her brows lift, eager to be away. “Sei sicuro?”

“Sì, sì. Buona serata.” You give her a grateful look until she grins, gathers her things, and slips out with cheerful goodbyes. The door closes behind her with a final click that leaves you and Wonwoo alone, save for the chef in the kitchen. 

It’s almost worse without a buffer. 

“I like the way you speak,” he says. “In Italian, I mean. I still can’t get the hang of it.” 

You falter, searching for something to say that isn’t completely ridiculous. In the end you say, “I’m sure Charles wouldn’t mind helping you with it, or anyone in the office, really.” 

The silence stretches, heavy and awkward. To fill it, you gesture toward the garden. “I was about to set the table. It’s such a nice night, I thought we could eat outside.”

“I can help.”

You shouldn’t let him, but you do. Together you lay out plates, silverware, glasses, jugs of water that will likely remain untouched, and napkins folded with a precision that doesn’t really matter, since the rest of your guests will be happy and drunk in no time at all. Neither of you speak much, and the scrape of porcelain against wood fills the quiet. Occasionally you can feel his eyes on you, and having him in your home like this, helping you with the table, feels agonisingly domestic.

When you’re done you brush your hands off, and he says, out of nowhere, “Can I have a tour?”

You blink at him. “A tour?”

His mouth curves, uncertain. “I just– I want to see how you live.”

It’s not an absurd request, most other circumstances you’d have offered one anyway. It just felt odd, letting him in your space after everything, but something in his tone makes you relent. You lead him room by room, narrating stiff, like an estate agent: kitchen (he says polite hellos to the woman chopping vegetables at the island), living room, the dining room, the study with its neatly organized shelves of books high to the ceiling, the main bathroom that you’ve used exactly zero times in favour of your en-suite, two guest rooms that are often occupied with friends when you’re home after the season. He makes small comments, nods, a murmur of approval here and there. It almost feels normal.

Until you reach your bedroom. You hesitate in the doorway as he steps to the middle of it, and looks around. You follow because you can’t very well leave him standing there alone.

“It’s very you,” he says quietly, his gaze sweeping over your furniture, the artwork and photographs on the wall, the muted tones of your bedding, and the flowers he brought sitting pretty on your windowsill, the sweet scent of the lilacs drenching the room. His eyes settle on you again, softer now. 

He takes a hesitant step closer. Your breath catches, your body moving with a will that betrays your brain. A magnetic pull closing the scant inches between you, the barely there brush of the back of his hand grazing yours, his gaze flicking down to your mouth. You tilt toward him, and he toward you, almost, almost–

The doorbell rings and it startles you out of your daze, pulling back, and his mouth parts with words unsaid, eyes snapping toward the sound. You swallow hard, smooth down your dress, and say under your breath, “I’d better get that.”

His eyes fall to your lips again, for a brief moment. “What are we doing?” he asks, under his breath.

You don’t know. How can you, when he’s claiming all the space inside your head, even while you sleep? You don’t answer, just turn and make your way downstairs, to greet the rest of your guests with a big smile and go back to pretending everything is as it was. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Nine bottles are emptied by the time your mains are served, because the sponsors surely know how to put it away. It’s Peter from AWS, Sophia from the Armani Group, Stephen from Shell, and their spouses. The former two Wonwoo hardly knows, but they’ve been friendly enough. It’s only Stephen that Wonwoo has heard stories about. 

Wonwoo sits not quite across from you, close enough to watch the way your earrings dazzle in the light when you turn your head, the careful curve of your smile as you answer Sophia’s questions about your decor. Stephen flanks your other side, and Wonwoo notices how when he leans in, you shrink back, how your smile goes stiff when he talks too close in your ear. 

He notices how Stephen’s gaze lingers too long, too often. Not when his wife is speaking, of course but when she’s distracted, wine glass in hand, attention turned to Edoardo beside her. His eyes find you every time, dragging slowly over the neckline of your dress, down to where your necklace sits pretty on your collarbones. It makes Wonwoo’s stomach knot, seeing it without the ring that’s slotted back on his finger. 

Wonwoo sips at his wine, tells himself to work his expression into something lighter, because this dinner is important for the team, for the sponsors, and for you. He tells himself that this is not his business, that you’re more than capable of handling yourself. 

Still, every time Stephen leans forward, whiny voice forced smooth, gaze fixed on the contours of your body, Wonwoo has to school his expression into neutrality. He knows if he lets it slip, if he lets anyone see what he’s thinking, the whole table will know how he feels about you. Makes no sense for him to feel possessive over you, especially when it concerns someone you’re showing clear lack of comfort around, but he feels it all the same.

He has no right to say anything. Not when he’s already been told by you that this thing between you has no place in the real world. Not when you’ve been so careful to build these walls between you at work, to look through him like he could be anyone else.

And so the irritation sits like lead in his chest, and he says nothing. Instead he keeps his hands steady, bantering jovially with Charles, laughing in the right places at Edoardo’s anecdotes. Answering questions and joining in the conversation where he can. But he doesn’t miss an opportunity to meet your eyes across the table, ask silently if you’re okay, and try to take that small reassuring smile you give him as enough to convince him that you are. 

At one point Edoardo’s wife, María, remarks that everyone here is a couple, except for you and Wonwoo. She leans in, eager for gossip, and asks, “Are either of you seeing anyone? You’re too young and beautiful not to.”

The entire table turns to look at you both, and it makes Wonwoo feel like he’s under a microscope, but you just laugh it off, say your last relationship ended a few years ago, and if Edoardo keeps adding to your plate then surely you’ll never have time for a lover ever again. Edoardo gasps at that, clutches his chest and scolds you for blaming him rather than admitting you’re a workaholic. Wonwoo hides a small smile behind his glass. 

María turns her attention on him. “What about you, Wonwoo? No one special you’re keeping secret?”

Wonwoo clears his throat. “I think everyone at this table has heard more than enough about my love life.”

There’s a smatter of quiet, awkward laughter around the table. 

And María smiles sweetly, says, “I wonder what it must feel like to be single these days. All those apps, it sounds wretched.”

A louder chorus of laughter this time, and Wonwoo agrees. He takes another long sip of wine and lets the conversation move on without him. He catches your eye for a moment, and you offer him a tiny, grateful smile. 

Adrienne leans over and says, “Wonwoo, have you been here before?”

“Nope,” he says, “First time.”

“I keep telling Charles we should get somewhere like this,” she gushes, looking out over the rolling hills, all pink and orange under the setting sun. “Isn’t the view stunning?”

Wonwoo looks over at you, only to find you already watching him. “Yeah,” he says, meeting your eyes. “It is.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The sky dims to a cool blue and fills with the swirl of smoke, mixing with the silver of the thin clouds on the horizon, by the time the twelfth bottle is emptied. You tell everyone to stay put, keep drinking, keep enjoying the wine. “I’ll clear the plates,” you say, sliding to your feet.

Wonwoo stands too, almost instantly. “I’ll help.”

Adrienne smiles up at you both. “Aren’t you a sweet pair?” she sighs, eyes shining like she’s watching a romance unfold. She’s almost as drunk as the rest of them.

“We’re not a pair,” you say under your breath, but Adrienne doesn’t catch it. 

Charles tugs Adrienne more firmly into his lap. “I’d help too, but someone seems to have taken me hostage.”

Adrienne presses a kiss to his temple, giggling soft, and the other end of the table erupts in laughter at Peter’s story. You roll your eyes, a half smile on your lips in effort to play along, but your pulse is a drum in your ears as Wonwoo follows you into the kitchen, carrying a small stack of plates.

The clatter of the dinner party fades behind you, replaced by the muffled scrape of porcelain against marble as you set things down on the counter. You can feel him at your back– reaching around your body to lay his stack next to yours.  

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Of course,” he says, voice low. 

He doesn’t look at you when you turn to rinse the cutlery, just leans back against the island, and says too loud, “I don’t think much of Stephen.”

“Shhh,” you admonish, glancing toward the door, though you know they won’t hear you from all the way outside. His profile is cut sharp against the warm kitchen light, hair falling into his eyes. Makes you want to smooth it back with your hands. “You’re drunk.”

Wonwoo ignores your observation and presses on. “Does he always look at you like that?”

“He looks at everyone like that,” you whisper. “Trust me, I’m no special case.” 

“I think you’re special.”

The wine must have loosened Wonwoo’s grip on sense, because he’s leaning down behind you, but the wine must’ve loosened yours too, because you’re letting him, so pathetically desperate for him to touch you. He presses a kiss to your shoulder next to the strap of your dress. Holds there, sighs against your skin. 

“I’ve had too much time to think this week,” he says.

You huff a small laugh. “Jeonghan must be letting you off easy.”

“I’ve missed you bothering me,” he says, another soft kiss pressed to the nape of your neck. 

You tsk. “You can’t just say you missed me?”

He smiles against your skin. “Okay,” he whispers. “I missed you.” 

You can’t figure out how it starts, if it’s his hands that slide to your waist that turns you, or if you do it of your own accord. Just know that your arms wrap around his neck as he pulls your chests flush against one another. One of his hands travels up your body, trails over your shoulder, fingers delicately caress your neck. Makes you wonder if he can feel the way your heart beats faster. You just know that your mouth is already wet with want as your lips meet in the middle, slow and deliberate and deep. The taste of wine on his tongue makes you feel dizzy. The air between you hums, prickling with all the things neither of you will say, but this kiss makes up for it. The slow pull of his teeth on your bottom lip tells you he needs this. The quiet moan he presses into your open mouth says enough. The push of his hips into yours says plenty. 

A roar of laughter from outside breaks you apart, panting, and you realise with a jolt that your lipstick smears his face. You reach out to grab his jaw with your hand, and rub at it with your thumb. Fuck. Shit. You’re just making it worse but he’s smiling, pulling at your hand and pressing soft lips into your palm. 

You should say something– anything. Instead, you clear your throat, voice too soft when you manage, “They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”

“They’re drunk,” he replies simply, and it’s true. No one will notice. No one except you, heart knocking stupidly against your ribs, all too aware of the way your hand lingers too long in his grip, and of the way he watches your face for any inclination you’ll let this happen as it should. “Can I stay tonight?”

Your first instinct is to laugh, to brush it off, to remind him of the twelve drunk colleagues in your garden, that it’s barely eleven and you’ll be hard pressed to get rid of anyone before one, to remind him that they saw everything—the headlines, the photographs, the grainy image from the hotel, and they’ll be watching to see if there’s a break in the act tonight too, drunk or not. The rules you’ve set for yourself still hold purpose, to prevent this kind of mess.

But the words don’t come. His hand is still warm around yours. His thumb traces the curve of your palm like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His eyes– dark, steady, so unbearably sure– hold yours with a question that feels bigger than the one he asked.

Yes hovers on your lips. You hear yourself exhale instead, shaky and low, borrowing time. “Wonwoo…”

Another wave of laughter breaks from outside and you swallow the lump in your throat. You turn, tearing off a piece of tissue from the roll and wetting it under the tap. 

“Hold still,” you murmur, stepping back to him. His hands stay braced back against the counter, body loose but eyes pinned on you as you wipe away the telltale red smear on his lips. He leans into your touch just barely, almost like a reflex. The faintest pink blooms across his skin where you rub too hard.

“There,” you whisper, chest tight, when it’s gone. “Perfect.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move, doesn’t let his eyes leave you. Only when you step back does he shift, straightening slowly, jaw setting in a line. You gesture toward the crate of bottles, keeping your voice steady. “Can you take another out?”

He nods and reaches for a bottle. On his way back out he gets close, fingers dragging across the small of your back, nose sliding up the back of your neck, a last kiss pressed behind your ear. When he’s gone, you leave the plates where they are and slip upstairs. In the mirror of your bathroom you find your lipstick smudged, colour worn thin from his kiss. The sight alone makes your pulse spike all over again. You grip the counter hard, knuckles whitening, trying to will the heat out of your body.

So you fix your lipstick, reapply foundation where necessary. Smooth your dress, dab perfume at your pulse point like it could take away the feeling of his fingers over it. Downstairs, laughter carries in with the breeze through the open doors, Wonwoo’s voice among it.

If you let him in your bed tonight, give in yet again, could it be okay?

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo’s eyes find yours as you come outside again, lipstick re-applied, and as perfect as ever. If you’d given his request any consideration at all, there’s no indication. The seats are all shifted now, everyone settled into their post-dinner rhythm, the kind that grows easy when the food is finished and the wine has taken root. Most are at the table, still chatting lively, but Edoardo, Peter, and Stephen have trailed a little further away, standing in a small circle with their cigars and their glasses, talking intently.  

You slip into the chair beside him, legs crossing neatly, smile polite and unreadable as Adrienne laughs at something Charles mutters into her hair. Wonwoo wants that. Doesn’t see why he can’t. Doesn’t see why you wont, because every time he dares to touch you, you seem to want it as much as he does. Adrienne leans over to pluck a cigarette from the pack on the table, and Charles reaches into his pocket to find his lighter. The way they move is almost automatic, a practiced comfort after years of knowing one another. Wonwoo wants that with you. 

“May I have one?” you ask her, almost idly, like it’s nothing. Wonwoo blinks, caught off guard by the request.

Adrienne raises her brows, and slides one across to you. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“It’s been ages,” you admit, slotting it between your lips, casual. “Feels like the right kind of night for it.”

Charles flicks the lighter for Adrienne’s first, then leans across to light yours too. Wonwoo watches the glow of the flame across your face in the semi-dark, watches the way you tip your head toward the flame. Loves the way the smoke curls from your lips as you exhale, slow and steady. His throat goes dry. He shouldn’t think it’s hot, but he does. It’s devastating, the way you affect him.

The curve of your mouth, the way you draw in deep, the way your fingers rest on your lips as you take a drag, it makes something coil tight in his gut.

Without thinking, Wonwoo plucks the cigarette from your fingers as you lower it, ignoring the way your expression lifts a little in surprise. He holds your gaze as he takes a drag himself, lungs heavy with the forgotten bite of it. He hasn’t touched one in years, not since training, not since his mother made him swear to never touch one again. But with your lipstick stain on the filter, it feels more like tasting you again.

When he exhales, it’s deliberate, a slow ribbon of smoke winding into the night air.

Your brows lift, amused. “Since when?”

“I don’t,” he says, and his voice is a little rough around the edges. He passes the cigarette back to you, fingers brushing yours, letting the faintest smirk ghost across his lips. “Just felt like the kind of night.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The guests slowly filter out the front door, they pile into chauffeured cars with peals of laughter that breaks the softness of the night. Charles and Adrienne linger a little longer, but sometime after one they too announce their departure. Charles hoists Adrienne onto his back, heels dangling from the straps in her hand, and she’s laughing loud. He turns red faced with wine and effort to Wonwoo, asks if he wants to be dropped off, and Wonwoo glances sideways at you. You give an infinitesimal shake of your head. 

“Mingyu’s picking me up in a few minutes,” he lies. 

Charles looks between you, a tiny knowing smile playing on his lips, and Wonwoo can’t bring himself to care. Just wants them to go so he can kiss you without your worries taking precedent. “Okay, enjoy the rest of your night,” Charles says, and walks out the door, Adrienne clinging on to him, waving happily and yelling her thanks to you for hosting. 

When the door clicks closed and you turn to him, that polite and poised smile you’ve worn all evening is gone. Your earrings catch the light as you tilt your head, watching him with an expression that says you’re as tired of pretending as he is.

“God,” you murmur, half to yourself, slipping your heels off at the threshold. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Wonwoo huffs a laugh, low in his chest. “You handled them well.”

“You helped.” Wonwoo’s eyes flick down to your mouth yet again, remembering the feel of it in the kitchen, the lipstick, the cigarette you shared. When his eyes lift again, yours are heavy with want, drawing him in with that same gravity that’s been gnawing at him for so long.

He doesn’t move at first. Feels the moment stretch taut, like a breath held underwater. It’s you who closes the gap. You breathe in sharp and shallow as his hands fly to your waist, and yours fist in his shirt, pulling him down, and his mouth finds yours yet again.

It’s almost feral the way you kiss him, hard and messy. His hands framing your face because he needs to hold you, needs to remind himself that this is real. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and you gasp into his mouth when his hips press into yours, the proof of how much he wants this, wants you, evident in the thick length hardening beneath his trousers. 

“Fuck,” you pant when he tears his lips away to kiss down your jaw, your throat, biting lightly where your pulse hammers. “Wonwoo–”

“Don’t tell me it’s just once.” His voice is ragged against your skin. “Not again.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” You shake your head, tilting it back to give him more, letting him taste every inch of skin he wants. You shove him off after a moment, chest heaving, just to lead him upstairs. He feels sleazy as he watches your ass as you walk up the stairs, reaches out to touch, take a firm handful and pinches playful and you’re laughing, pulling at his hand and dragging him up to your room. 

In your bedroom is where he kisses you slow and dirty. You moan into his mouth when he squeezes the meat of your ass, drags down a strap of your dress to caress the skin he exposes, rolls his thumb over your puckering nipple. He groans as you press your hand over the tent in his trousers, rub firm over the length of it through the material. 

He walks you backwards across the room until the mattress dips under your shared weight, and he cages you in with his arms. Wants to keep you like this, bated breath and hot beneath him, wants to mold your body with his, make your pleasure his own, make it belong to him. Fucks him up a little, when you pull off his mouth, and your eyes go heavy and clouded with lust as your eyes zero on your own hands pull his shirt untucked, dip under the material and trail your nails over his skin, lighting little fires in their wake. Fucks him up a lot when your kiss-bitten lips fall into a pout after you drag his shirt over his head, and say “It’s unfair how hot you are. I never stood a chance.” 

Feels much the same about you, says so, calls you beautiful as he slides his hands down your thighs to pull up your knees and nudge them apart, lets the satin of your dress pool like water at your hips and exhales, satisfied, as he runs his middle fingernail over your lace covered clit, finds the material a little damp. 

“You’re so sensitive,” he observes, a pleased spark running through his veins. 

“Hardly,” you complain, sucking in a breath as his soft pets quickly turn insistent. “Couldn’t get there this week.” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice deep and thick, head swimming with the implication. “You couldn’t get yourself off? Were you thinking of me?” You nod, and he can’t fight the smug look off his face. 

“Have you touched yourself while thinking of me before?”

“Yeah–” you admit, voice tiny and embarrassed. “Have you?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, intentionally avoiding saying how often, and he loves the way you draw your bottom lip between your teeth as you picture it. “Can you do it now? Show me how you get yourself off?”

Can feel the heat flush on your body as you shake your head no. “Want you to do it.” 

He smiles. “Another time, then?” he presses, almost too casual.

“Yes. Yeah, another time,” you breathe, and he keens forward to catch your lips in another kiss. You break off, peppering your lips across his jaw, and between them you whisper, “Wonwoo, touch me.”

Wonwoo gives in to your pleas without a fight. Drags your underwear down slow over your legs, you kick them away, let your knees fall apart so he can see how wet he makes you. He circles your clit, swollen and sensitive, with a calloused thumb, hums pleased when it draws a little sigh from you. Slides down over your damp slit with two fingers and dips in, moves to line his body against yours just to mouth wet at your neck, keeps slipping his fingers in and out, too shallow to bring you close, enough to wind you tight, your harsh small breaths a giveaway it’s working as intended. 

“Don’t tease,” you beg, but he can feel the way your entrance pulses around his fingers and it sends a lick of want right through him, wants to work you up enough that he’s got you doing that on his cock. 

Wants to sink his teeth into the sounds you make, but he settles for the swell of your breast. Leaves little marks over your skin, sucks a bruise on your sternum, draws your nipples into his mouth with his tongue, one after the other, coats them in his spit and blows cool air through pursed lips, watches them pucker with a self-satisfied hum.

You turn on your side with a frustrated groan, facing away from him, but his fingers still find purchase between your legs. With a harsh suck to the crook of your neck he drives his fingers deep, crooking them firm and revelling in the way your head tips back and your breaths go shallow. At this new angle the heel of his palm rocks against your clit as he plunges his fingers inside your slick, wet cunt, driving you closer to the precipice with each thrust and curl. You whimper, legs begin to tremble, and as you get impossibly wet, he coos in your ear. “Are you close?”

“Yeah,” you pant. “Yeah m’close.”

He wants to take photographs of you like this, so pretty and fucked out over him, mouth parted in a little o as your pussy drenches his hand while he fucks his fingers into you and grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. Knows it’s a stupid thing to bring it up now so he tucks the thought away for later, for a promised another time. Feels the way you clench, hears the way you wail, broken, and your body goes all tight against him, has him fucked up, the way your eyes roll back, and he holds you closer just to rut his aching, neglected cock against your behind.

You draw in a ragged breath as your body relaxes, and he pulls his fingers from you. He takes the wetness that coats his fingers and works it over your thighs, sighs at the way they glisten in the dim light of the moon outside your window. Wonwoo breathes heavy against your skin, and you’re turning over to face him, dazed smile lighting up your beautiful face. It punches all the air out of his lungs, the way you look at him. 

He craves you, your mouth, your touch. “You’ve no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.”

You soften, look at him with something like adoration, a contented glow under your skin. He wants more of that– your smile instead of your scowl, wants to stop bringing you problems to fix, wants to share this bed with you, a year from now, two, three, a decade, and keep you sated. Keep you his. That’ll come later. Right now he wants to fuck you so full of his cum that it drips down your legs. Wants to take your sighs in his mouth and swallow them like sweet wine. Wants your release for himself again, and again. 

You’re pulling at his belt, pushing his trousers and his boxers down his thighs, and then you’re sliding your leg over his hip, trying to get the angle right so he can line his cock up with your core, make love to you like this. That’s what it feels like, this time. All that carnal, fraught need melting into tenderness as he slides inside, a blinding, tight heat that has him burying his face in the crook of your neck, the light scratch of your fingernails on his back running seams through him, makes him undone.

His arm bands around your waist as you rock against each other, skin against skin, the drag of your nipples against his chest. His lips trail over your shoulder, yours pressed into his hair, feels your breath hot and quickened against his scalp. Pushes into your open, pliant body slow slow slow, the achingly deep, wet slide tightening the coil in his gut. Hears your broken sob and feels the clench of your pussy simultaneously. Nearly comes apart with it himself, but he keeps rolling into you, with firm, slow strokes. Feels your lips ghosting against his forehead, whispering sweet nothings into his skin. 

Wonwoo can feel you hurtling toward your end, wants to claim it as his. “You like how good I fuck you?” he rasps. You answer with a broken moan. “Yeah– shit, tell me you’re mine, baby, tell me–”

“M’yours,” you gasp, words shallow and half formed on the back of a twisted guttural sound. “M’yours, Wonwoo.”

Electric in his veins, he gasps too as you clench his cock so tight. “Yeah– yeah you fuckin’ are.” Works a hand awkwardly between your bodies to toy with your clit, draw your earlobe between his lips just to sink his teeth into it, and you keen, nails digging into his skin. You cry out, babbling his name while you ride on the wave of your release. “Coming– fuck, Wonwoo.” You whine through it, a gush of wetness soaks him and the sheets below and his vision nearly whites out. 

“Oh my God,” he groans. Your pussy pulses around him, rolls you onto your back and himself on top, hiking both your legs around his waist just so he can drive into you with hastened, erratic thrusts, each one punctuated with breathless grunts. 

“Wan’ it in me,” you slur. “Fill me up– please, please, Wonwoo– fuck–”

Pleasure rips through him so hard his eyes roll back, and you’re babbling praise in his ear. Comes with a force that shakes him, cock twitching desperately inside you as he empties his cum into your body, seeps out around him. You drag your fingers through the mess of your slit around his cock, bring them to your mouth and run them over your bottom lip, leaving a translucent sheen that you lick away with a quiet hum of satisfaction. “So good, Wonwoo,” you whisper, offering him a taste. “Taste it.”

“Pervert,” he teases, but he leans in anyway. Draws your wet fingers into his mouth, salted and heady slick over his tongue. Makes him woozy, the way you look at him delirious as he laps your fingers clean. 

A little later, after you’ve caught your breath, you shower together. Wonwoo presses your back against the cold tile and soaps down your body with the cloth, works his way slow and gentle over your skin, between your thighs, almost drops to his knees to lick you out when he catches your breath stutter, but you’re pulling him up, laughing into his lips and saying you can’t possibly go again before sleep. 

Afterwards, Wonwoo helps you change the sheets, and you laugh about the alien domesticity of it all. Then, as the horizon slips a pale yellow with the fast approaching dawn, you lay in bed, all shy, silly smiles and soft touches. Wonwoo asks if he can stay here again, after the race on Sunday, and you give him a forlorn little smile.

“Did you forget you’ve got a flight to catch?”

“Oh.” He laughs, disappointed. Fuck his favourite cousin for getting married right when he’s got you. “Yeah I did actually.”

You grow quiet once again, his hands smoothing over your arms, until he catches your necklace glinting in the low light, looking too bare. He reaches around your neck without asking, unclasps the chain, warm from your body, and slips his ring over it. “Need my good luck charm this weekend,” he says simply, voice slow with exhaustion, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth where a smile quirks.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm,” he says, even though he’s on the edge of sleep.

“Why’s it so special?” Your voice is low, tentative. “Did she give it to you?”

That makes him laugh. “You think I’d make you wear something my ex-girlfriend gave me? You don’t think that’s really fucked up?”

You laugh too, relieved. “I only knew that it was special. Not why.”

“It’s from my grandparents,” he says. “They took me to a bunch of races when I was a kid, made me love it. My grandfather always wanted to race but never got the chance, so when I said I wanted to drive for Ferrari one day, he put me on the karting track as soon as I turned seven. They paid for everything. Got me to where I am. They bought me this–” He touches the ring, sitting pretty in the notch between your collarbones. “–when I got my first seat.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Why don’t I ever see them at the track?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “They’re getting old, and travelling is hard for them, and they hate staying in hotels now. They come when they can.”

You’re overthinking. He can see it in the way you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. Wonwoo pulls it away with his thumb, kisses soft at the dent you made there. “Would you like to invite them here in September? For the Italian Grand Prix?”

“Here?” Wonwoo can’t fight the smile from his face. 

“I have a lovely guest room,” you say.

“You do,” he agrees, happily. Another long pause. “Are you sure?”

You nod, smiling too. “Try not to get sick of me before then?”

“I won’t,” he promises. Whispers it onto your lips, and chases it with a kiss that tastes like a promise.

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Imola, Italy

Wonwoo [16:14] You look pretty today

You [16:15] I’m just wearing the team shirt like always

Wonwoo [16:14] Yes but you look really nice in it. Good boobs

You [16:14] Pervert 😑

Wonwoo [16:14] Missed you all day Wonwoo [16:14] Can we get away for a few seconds? Wanna kiss you so bad

You [16:15] Sorry! Your schedule’s jam packed and there’s no time allotted for kissing! 

Wonwoo [16:14] Fine.

You laugh, imagining the sullen pout fixed on his face.

Wonwoo [16:14] Can I kiss you in the paddock after the race?

You [16:15] Lol no

Wonwoo [16:15] What if I get podium?

You deliberate for a minute, because a podium is entirely possible with his skill, and the more you think about kissing him in the open, the more you don’t hate the idea. Still, you’ve given in to him enough lately.

You [16:16] Get P1 and then we’ll talk 

Wonwoo [16:16] Yeah? Promise?

You [16:16] 🙄 Okay sure 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The roar of engines and cheers and clapping still thrums through the concrete, vibrating under your feet long after the chequered flag waves. The crowd is a living, breathing animal, tens of thousands of voices surging in a tide of screams and applause. Wonwoo’s car streaks past the chequered flag, a scarlet blur crossing into history before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing. The commentary over the trackside speakers rings in your ears–

 AND AS SEEN ON SCREEN, JEON WONWOO WINS THE GRAND PRIX! HIS SECOND WIN FOR FERRARI!

Your headset crackles with Edoardo’s elated shout, the engineers cheering, Charles’ laughter cutting through as he takes P2 only a hair behind and congratulates his friend. The garage explodes, mechanics jumping, hugging, slapping each other’s backs. You can’t stay composed when the very air that surrounds you buzzes with electricity, happy tears prick at the corner of your eyes and you clap and cheer along with the others. 

When the anthem plays, you watch him on the podium, hair plastered against his forehead damp with sweat. He lifts the trophy and the cameras flash, capturing him from every beautiful angle. He finds your face in the crowd and his grin spreads wide and unrestrained and proud– the kind of smile you’ve seen directed at you out here once before.

And then comes the champagne. He twists the cork, sprays the bottle wide and wild, and it arcs across Charles’ back, into the crowd, soaking anyone lucky enough to be close. And then he’s turned again, lifting the bottle high for the cameras, glory making him shine.

When he comes down, it’s chaos. Photographers swarm, Jeonghan ushers him through in your direction, and reporters shout questions over one another. He answers most of them quick, that same smile plastered across his face. He’s barely handed his bottle and trophy off to an intern before he’s pulling at his gloves, unfastening his suit around his collar, peeling it back from his body to reveal the tight turtleneck undershirt below. The press already know he’s been excused from post-race media, on account of his imminent flight to Seoul, but that doesn’t stop them from crowding him. 

Jeonghan is the first to pass you in the crowd, smile knowing and humorous playing on his lips. Then Mingyu, who claps you on the shoulder like a proud dad. Very odd. And then Wonwoo, whose eyes soften as he takes you in. He’s flushed, sweat and champagne still wet on his skin, vibrating with adrenaline. He’s beautiful. He draws you into a tight hug before you can react, one arm over your shoulder, the other slotted around your waist, and the quickened flash of cameras in your faces makes you lightheaded. 

“Guess I’ll be seeing you,” you shout over the racket. 

You can feel him nod. “If you get a chance you should come join us,” he shouts back.

You’d thought about it already, but the schedule won’t budge, so you shake your head. “Just call me when you’re back.” 

There are people everywhere and he’s lingering too long, holds his arms around you too long, though you’re not exactly letting go either. Fans are pressed against barricades, cameras still snapping, Jeonghan calling Wonwoo from across a sea of people that now separate the two of you from him. You’re standing out in the open, painfully visible. 

“Wonwoo–” You’re not sure what you want to say, what you can say with all these people here. That you’re proud? That you’re sorry you wasted all that time hating each other? “Congratulations.”

His eyes search yours, dark and steady even with his chest heaving, with sweat dripping down his temple. “Are you gonna make good on your promise or what?”

And before you can think it through, before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to draw him in, and kiss him sweet in front of everyone. 

It’s not a stolen thing this time. Not a whisper in the kitchen, not a hurried press of mouths in a quiet corner of the airport lounge. It’s full, deliberate, your hands bracing at his jaw as the world gasps and cameras click rapidfire. For half a second, he freezes. Then his hands fist in the material of your top at your back and he’s dragging you closer, kissing you back like it’s something he’s always wanted.

The crowd erupts. Someone wolf-whistles. You hear a dozen shouts in too many languages to pick out. Wonwoo pulls back, smiling so hard you want to laugh and cry at the same time. He presses his forehead to yours, breath hot, voice low enough only you can hear. “Same again next time?”

You laugh, a wet, helpless sound. “You’re an idiot.”

But you’re smiling, wide and aching, even as presses a rough kiss against your cheek one more time and pulls away, turning toward the waiting car that’ll take him to the airport. He waves once at the crowd, at Charles calling something after him, at Edoardo giving him a proud smile and a final thumbs up. And then he’s gone, the tinted window of the black car obscuring him from view.

You stand rooted in the same spot, watching until there’s nothing left to see. A familiar figure sidles up beside you. Edoardo, sleeves rolled, still holding the comms headset in his hand. He follows your gaze to where Wonwoo’s car disappeared, then looks back at you, a sly quirk tugging at his mouth.

“You kids figured it out, then?” he asks simply, like he’s asking about the weather.

You look at him, startled. “You don’t care?”

“Why would I care?” His eyes are twinkling. “You two just won me five hundred euros.”

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Several hours later, you’re in a bar celebrating the double win with some of the team, and their partners. Adrienne, Inès and several others interrogating you about Wonwoo all night, and they squeal with laughter when you refuse to answer their drunken, lewd questions, when your face burns instead. Thankfully, you’re saved by a text from him at last. 

It’s a picture. A Getty photograph of the two of you in the blurred crowd, both of you smiling into the kiss. It’s so perfect you almost want to pay the ridiculous sum to have the watermark removed and keep it framed on your nightstand. It’s absurd, the way he changed everything you thought about him out of nowhere. A Wonwoo you once thought cold and standoffish is not that at all. He’s sweet, and loving, and so, so warm. 

Another text startles you out of your fuzz.

Wonwoo [00:19] We look good together, don’t we?

Yes, you think, hearting his message and covering your beaming smile with your hand. You really do. 

​​· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

GOD I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG

thank you for reading, everyone! if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging to get it seen outside of my small following. thank u ily <3

[scarletwinterxx]

wish list - jeon wonwoo imagine

this is a part 2 of this fic: so highschool

when miss taylor dropped this song I KNEW IT, like this was sooooo perfect for this fic🥺if you get it, if you catch the reference ily😅

this took a bit of time but i hope you like it!! 🤍

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

“Have you ever thought about it?”

His brows furrowed, thumb tracing absent circles on your hip. “About what?”

You swallowed, suddenly shy, even after everything you’d just done. “About… having another one.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, it was thoughtful. His eyes searched yours, that unreadable calm of his hiding something deeper. Then his lips curved, just barely.

“Another one,” he repeated softly, like he was rolling the words around in his head. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze never leaving your face. “Baby, you mean—”

You nodded, cheeks warm, but you didn’t look away. “Yeah. I mean… a sibling. For Jiwon.”

For a moment he just held you tighter, his chest rising with a slow, deliberate breath. Then he let out a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving, “Of course I’ve thought about it,” he murmured against your lips. 

“I think about everything with you.” His forehead pressed to yours, voice low, almost a whisper 

“But hearing you say it—” he exhaled shakily, “—fuck, baby. You don’t know what that does to me.”

You smiled, curling into him, pressing your lips against his collarbone. “So… not a no?”

He chuckled, pulling you closer until you were practically crushed to his chest. “Not even close to a no.”

From that night on it felt like someone flipped a switch inside both of you but not the frantic, desperate kind of switch people imagine when they decide to “try.” It was quieter, softer, like lowering the lights and deciding to dance slowly instead of sprinting.

You stopped taking the pill the next morning 

“It’s official,” he said, the way he says something important before he makes it a joke. “We’re doing this like adults who read blogs and have spreadsheets.”

You snorted. “We’re doing this like the idiots who met behind the library.”

He squeezed your fingers. “Same idiots. Better furniture.”

Public restraint became a game. When you were out together wheter it’s parents’ meetings, PTA bake sales, grocery runs,  he would trail his hand along your lower back, fingers grazing just enough to be a secret between you. You learned how to make a full conversation while your knee bumped his under the table, how to nod like adults and then collapse into giggles in the car once the door clicked shut. 

Most times you had to swat him away when Jiwon was within earshot; her radar for “weird in public” was devastatingly accurate.

Some nights were quiet and conspiratorial. You’d lie awake tracing the map of his freckle at the base of his neck and whisper names you liked for a future baby. 

There were practical moments, too. A clinic appointment you both made one Saturday “just to be safe,” where the nurse had a cheerful folder and no urgency. The doctor’s voice was professional and calm. The words you both wanted to hear “everything looks fine” were said aloud and then repeated in the car ride home until they felt solid. 

It mattered that both of you were healthy, that you were thoughtful. But there was also no panic, no forced timeline. If it happened quickly, you promised to be grateful; if it took time, you promised to be patient.

=

It was almost comedic, the way your husband had turned into a man on a mission. Jiwon sat cross-legged on her bed, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny, blinking at her appa who was bustling around like he was packing her for a three-month overseas trip instead of a weekend with your parents.

“Appa, I don’t need that many shirts,” Jiwon deadpanned, watching Wonwoo fold and stack with military precision.

“You’ll need them,” he muttered, sliding another set of pajamas into her overnight bag. “What if you spill? What if it rains? What if—”

“Appa.” She dragged out the word, unimpressed. “It’s just two nights.”

From the doorway, you bit your lip to hold back a laugh. Because as much as Wonwoo liked to act like he was only doing this out of parental duty, you could see right through him. The way his jaw tightened with every perfectly folded t-shirt, the way his eyes flicked over to you like he was already counting down the minutes. 

The plans weren’t for Jiwon. 

They were for you.

“Wonwoo,” you finally said, arms crossed. “Why does it feel like you’re sneaking her out to summer camp?”

He didn’t even glance up. “Because I’m being thorough.”

You arched a brow. “Thorough, or desperate?”

That earned you a look, quick, sharp, one corner of his mouth tugging up just enough to make your stomach flip.

Jiwon noticed too. “Um. Ew. Stop looking at Eomma like that,” she groaned, tossing her bunny in the air dramatically. “You’re so obvious.”

Wonwoo ignored her with practiced skill, zipping the bag closed and setting it on the floor with a finality that said mission accomplished. Then he crouched in front of Jiwon, smoothing down her hair with a tenderness that contradicted the almost frantic energy he’d had seconds ago.

“You’ll be okay with Halmeoni and Harabeoji, right?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Of course, Appa. They let me eat ice cream before dinner.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

Sure enough, when Jiwon scampered off to grab her sneakers, Wonwoo straightened slowly, stalking toward you with that deliberate calm he wore when he wanted you to know he had all the time in the world. His hand brushed your waist as he leaned in, voice low enough that only you could hear:

“Two nights,” he murmured, thumb pressing into your hip. “She’s gone for two whole nights.”

You let out a laugh, shaky, already warm under his touch. “So that’s what this was all about.”

“Mm,” he hummed, lips brushing your ear. “I told you—I have plans. Big ones.”

You swallowed, heat curling at the base of your spine. “And what exactly do those plans involve?”

His grin was wicked, dangerous in its promise. “You. Just you. Every second I can get.”

Before you could answer, Jiwon came barreling back, sneakers in hand, bunny tucked under her arm. “Okay, I’m ready!” she chirped. “Don’t miss me too much!”

The weekend blurred into something you’d never ever confess to another living soul. Not your best friend, not even in a tipsy, half-truth kind of way. Some things were meant to stay between you and Wonwoo, and what happened that weekend… yeah, it belonged firmly in that vault.

It was a mess, to say the least. You’d lost track of how many times he’d dragged you across the house, how many places he’d had you against, on, or over. The only proof left was the fact that you were sore in a way that made you walk slower than usual, and that smug, quiet look on your husband’s face that screamed he knew exactly why.

By the time Sunday night rolled around, you had to physically shove him out of bed just to make him change the sheets—again. Third time in two days. You lay there, propped up on your elbows, watching him tug the corners down and yank a fresh fitted sheet into place with that calm, efficient air like he was doing nothing more scandalous than laundry.

You had just settled onto the freshly made bed, limbs still heavy from the last round, when Wonwoo’s arm slid over your waist again, tugging you closer. You immediately stiffened, smacking at his chest.

“Absolutely not, Jeon Wonwoo,” you hissed, wriggling away as much as his grip would allow. “Your daughter is on her way back and I’m pretty sure I can still feel you.”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your shoulder as he nuzzled in. “And that’s supposed to stop me?”

“Yes!” you yelped, trying to twist out of his arms, but he only rolled with you, pinning you under him again. The smug grin on his face made you shriek in indignation. “You’re insane!”

“Mm. Insanely in love with you,” he teased, leaning in to nip at your jaw, and you smacked him again, half laughing, half serious.

Before he could do more, the unmistakable sound of your daughter’s voice rang through the house clear, loud, and filled with her usual energy.

“APPA! MOM! I’M HOME!”

You froze beneath him, eyes going wide. Wonwoo paused too, shoulders tensing, before he slowly dragged his gaze back down to you. The two of you stared at each other in stunned silence for one heavy beat.

Then you shoved him hard. “I told you!” you whisper-yelled, scrambling out from under him to grab for your robe.

He was still laughing, even as he sat up and dragged a hand through his messy hair, the picture of a man caught red-handed. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered.

“Saved by your daughter, you menace,” you shot back, hastily tying your robe before heading for the door.

Behind you, you heard him chuckle again, voice dripping with smugness. “Still not stopping me later.”

=

A few weeks later. 

It started out like any other weekday morning of organized chaos. You were at the counter, slipping neatly cut fruit into Jiwon’s lunchbox, adding the sandwich she always asked for, making sure her water bottle was filled. Wonwoo hovered nearby with his coffee, checking his phone with one hand and making sure his daughter didn’t forget her soccer cleats with the other.

Everything felt normal until you caught a whiff of the tuna spread you’d just packed. Your stomach lurched. Hard.

You blinked at the lunchbox, swallowing against the sudden wave of nausea, forcing a smile when Jiwon darted past you to grab her backpack. Wonwoo didn’t notice anything—he was busy double-checking Jiwon’s schedule for the week like the protective dad he was.

You brushed it off. Maybe you hadn’t had enough breakfast. Maybe the tuna was just… too much this morning. Nothing unusual.

Except later when the house was finally quiet, Wonwoo at work and Jiwon at school and you found yourself standing in the laundry room, folding clothes. 

You grabbed one of Jiwon’s shirts, still faintly smelling of detergent, and the moment the scent hit you your stomach turned violently again. You dropped the shirt back into the basket, leaning against the washer, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead.

It wasn’t just the tuna. It wasn’t just the detergent.

Your heart gave one heavy thud.

A memory flashed unbidden: the quiet decision weeks ago, the way Wonwoo had tugged you close that night, the way you’d both stopped worrying about precautions. The way he’d looked at you, smug and hungry, like he was already imagining what if.

You swallowed hard, staring at the half-folded laundry.

“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself.

Wonwoo was at his desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned the numbers on the report in front of him. His phone buzzed across the polished surface, your name lighting up the screen.

He answered instantly, leaning back in his chair.

“Baby? Everything okay?”

You didn’t sound frantic, but he caught it something in the pause before you answered, the tightness under your words.

“Mm, yeah,” you said softly. “Could you… stop by the pharmacy before coming home?”

His brows pulled together. “Pharmacy? You’re not feeling well?”

There was a beat of silence, and then you exhaled. “I’m fine. Just—can you pick up… a test? You know. That test.”

Wonwoo froze. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering to the desk. The report in front of him blurred.

“Oh.” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “You mean… that test.”

“Yes.” Your tone was quiet, careful. He could hear you moving around the house, like you couldn’t stand still. “And… come straight home after?”

“Of course. I’ll leave now. Don’t do anything, just… wait for me, okay?”

A small laugh slipped through your nerves. “I’m not going anywhere, Wonwoo.”

“I’ll be home soon,” he promised, already shutting down his computer with clumsy hands, ignoring the unfinished report, the messages piling up. Work could burn for all he cared. Right now, there was only you.

=

The August air was warm but breezy, perfect for sports day. The field buzzed with noise teachers organizing, kids yelling, parents cheering from the sidelines. You adjusted the hem of your flowy sundress as you settled onto the bleachers, one hand instinctively brushing over the curve of your belly.

Twenty-three weeks. You were showing now, soft and round, undeniable. And your husband had barely let you carry anything from the car.

“Sit,” Wonwoo had said firmly, hands on your shoulders until you were perched on the bench. “I’ll get water. And snacks. And shade if I can find it.”

You laughed at him, tilting your face up. “Shade? What, are you going to build me a tent right here?”

He gave you a flat look, already sliding his hand across your bump with that protective, possessive touch. “If I could, I would.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing, warmth filling your chest. This side of Wonwoo—the quiet, protective man who fussed over every detail—had always been there, but with you pregnant again, it had doubled.

Jiwon’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Mom! Appa!” She came skipping toward the bleachers, soccer cleats clicking on the pavement, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was glowing with energy, her water bottle in one hand. And trailing behind her, just like always, was Jiho.

The boy had grown taller since the first time you met him. Still lanky, glasses sliding down his nose, but a little more confident now. Though, you noted with a smile, he still followed wherever Jiwon tugged him.

“Jiho!” Jiwon called, pausing mid-skip and spinning around to scold him. “You’re too slow! Come on, I want to show you where my parents are.”

Jiho gave a tiny nod, jogging the last few steps, and stood stiffly when they reached you. He bowed politely, murmuring, “Hello, Mrs. Jeon. Mr. Jeon.”

Wonwoo inclined his head in acknowledgment, his hand tightening on your shoulder like he was anchoring himself. You hid your smile, amused by how hard he was working not to glare.

“Hi, Jiho,” you said warmly. “Nice to see you again. How are you?”

Jiho blinked, as if surprised you addressed him directly. “I’m… good. Thank you.”

“Good,” you beamed, glancing at your daughter, who was already tugging on his sleeve. “Your team has a big match, right?”

“Yup!” Jiwon chirped. “And Jiho’s here to watch me. Because he’s my number one fan.” She said it so casually, tossing her ponytail, that Jiho flushed crimson to the tips of his ears.

Wonwoo’s jaw flexed beside you. You gently nudged his thigh with your knee, giving him a warning look.

“Appa,” Jiwon leaned closer, all sass and confidence, “don’t scare him. He’s shy. He’s not used to all this.”

Jiho looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him, while your daughter looped her arm through his, dragging him toward the team area again. “Come on, Jiho, let’s go. They’re going to start!”

You watched them disappear, Jiho nodding silently as Jiwon rambled, her energy filling all the space between them.

You laughed softly. “God, that’s us.”

Wonwoo groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t say that.”

You leaned over, your bump pressing into his arm, grinning. “What? It is. You, all quiet and broody. Me, running my mouth.”

He sighed, leaning back against the bleachers, muttering, “I don’t like this déjà vu.” But his hand found your belly again, thumb stroking gently over the swell.

And you just laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder, because déjà vu or not you couldn’t be happier.

The night air was cooler now, the heat of the day finally giving way to a soft breeze as the three of you strolled down the sidewalk. Dinner had been simple but filling: jjajangmyeon and tangsuyuk at Jiwon’s favorite little restaurant near the field and now she was happily swinging her arms between you and Wonwoo, her ponytail swishing behind her.

Her voice carried in that animated way only she had. “So, you know my birthday’s coming up”

You and Wonwoo both hummed at the same time, sharing a look over her head. He squeezed your hand, the other still carrying the paper bag of leftovers.

“I don’t want something big this year,” she continued, almost too casually, but you caught the way her eyes flicked up at you first, then her dad. “Actually, I was hoping… maybe… if I could go visit the aquarium.”

Wonwoo raised a brow. “The aquarium?”

“Yeah,” she nodded quickly, her lips twitching like she wanted to grin but was holding back.

“With Jiho.” There it was.

You bit your cheek, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. Wonwoo, meanwhile, went very still, like he needed a second to process.

“And of course,” Jiwon rushed on, hands flapping, “you guys can come too. I mean, duh. We can all go together if eomma isn’t too tired.” She cast you a concerned look, her gaze flickering down at your bump before brightening again. “Then afterwards, we can get food. And ice cream.”

She said it like she was bargaining for a business deal, piling on the promises of family time and sweets to cushion the Jiho part.

You chuckled softly. “That sounds lovely, Jiwon.”

Her eyes lit up, and she tugged harder on your arm. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yes, baby. I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Beside you, Wonwoo finally exhaled through his nose, muttering under his breath, “Aquarium. With Jiho.”

“Appa,” Jiwon whined instantly, catching it, “don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, far too defensively.

You giggled, nudging his side with your elbow. “Mm, yes you did. I heard it.”

He gave you a flat look, but his fingers tightened protectively over yours as Jiwon began rambling about what fish she wanted to see the most, already planning the whole day.

And though you could practically feel the storm brewing inside your husband at the mention of Jiho joining, you also knew he’d never say no, not to her. Not when she looked that excited.

Jiwon was still skipping between you and Wonwoo, humming some little tune under her breath when he cleared his throat. That serious, deep tone slipping in. The one he always used when he was trying to sound casual but was really anything but.

“You would tell us, right?” he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “If you like Jiho.”

The words hung heavy in the air

Jiwon’s head whipped up so fast her ponytail smacked her shoulder. “Appa!” she gasped, half-scandalized, half-mortified. Her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Why would you even say that?!”

Wonwoo looked entirely unbothered by her reaction, his expression calm but sharp in that way only he could pull off. “Because I should know if someone’s trying to… court my daughter.”

“Court?” Jiwon practically squeaked, covering her face with both hands. “Nobody’s courting anybody! We’re just friends!”

You had to bite back your laugh at how exactly like him she sounded right then. Softening, you leaned down to brush Jiwon’s hair back from her face. “It’s fine, baby. Really.”

She peeked through her fingers, still red.

“I had a crush on your appa, too,” you said warmly, tilting your head at the tall man beside you. “Difference, though, was that I was loud about it.”

That earned you a glare from Wonwoo and a muffled laugh from Jiwon.

“Loud?” she echoed, lowering her hands.

“Oh, so loud,” you grinned, the memories bubbling up. “I used to follow him around, remember every little thing he said, and I was shameless about telling everyone he was my favorite person. I’d wait after school just to walk with him. I even made excuses to sit near him at family gatherings.”

“Eomma!” Jiwon was giggling now, half embarrassed for you, half intrigued.

“And your appa?” you went on, side-eyeing him with a mischievous smirk. “He just… let me. All quiet and patient, never really saying anything back.”

Wonwoo’s ears turned pink, but he kept his gaze forward, lips pressed together like he was fighting to keep his cool.

“You didn’t know?” Jiwon asked, looking up at him.

Wonwoo finally sighed, eyes softening as he glanced at you, then back at his daughter. “I knew,” he admitted quietly. “I just didn’t realize until later… that I’d already fallen. Harder than she ever did.”

That stopped Jiwon in her tracks for a moment, her wide eyes flicking between you both, before she made the most dramatic gagging sound and stomped ahead, muttering, “Gross. So gross. I regret asking.”

You burst out laughing, slipping your hand into Wonwoo’s, squeezing tight. His lips curved just slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, as Jiwon pretended she didn’t see.

The three of you kept walking, the street lamps flickering on one by one as dusk settled in. Jiwon, still very much in her I’m embarrassed but also nosy mode, kept glancing between you and Wonwoo with narrowed eyes.

She finally blurted, “Wait—did you really like appa that much?”

The corner of your mouth tugged up. You gave Wonwoo’s hand a squeeze, feeling the weight of all those years. “Baby,” you said gently, tilting your head at her, “I had you at seventeen. I think it’s an understatement to say I liked him.”

You might as well have dropped a bomb. Jiwon’s mouth fell open, scandalized. Wonwoo’s ears flushed pink instantly, his eyes darting at you like really, you’re going to say that right now in front of her?

The two of them made the exact same shocked face—one horrified, one flustered—and you burst out laughing.

“I liked him from the start,” you admitted between chuckles, leaning into Wonwoo’s side as if daring him to argue.

Jiwon groaned dramatically. “Ugh, eomma. That’s… I don’t even know what that is. Gross, maybe?!”

But her curiosity still won out. She whipped her head toward her father, squinting at him like she was interrogating a suspect. “And you, appa? Was eomma not… I don’t know… too loud for you?”

The smirk that tugged at Wonwoo’s lips nearly made your knees weak it was the kind of smile that said oh, I remember every second of it. He tightened his hold on your hand, thumb brushing slow over your skin.

“She was loud,” he admitted, his voice deep and unhurried.

“Ha!” Jiwon gasped, clapping her hands together like she’d won something.

But then Wonwoo looked at you, gaze softening in a way that had your chest tightening even now after all these years. “But I didn’t want anyone or anything else,” he finished simply.

You could see your daughter short-circuiting in real time. She slapped a hand over her face and groaned so loudly that a couple walking their dog across the street looked over. “You guys are unbearable. Unbearable!”

That only made you laugh harder, bumping your hip against Wonwoo’s, your belly pressing lightly into his side. “See?” you teased, “your appa’s cooler than you think.”

“Cool?” Jiwon peeked through her fingers, rolling her eyes so hard you were afraid they might get stuck. “More like cheesy.” She stomped ahead, muttering under her breath, “First I have to deal with Jiho being all quiet and soft, now you two are being disgusting together? When does it end?”

Wonwoo squeezed your hand again, low chuckle rumbling in his chest, and you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips. And as much as Jiwon groaned and grumbled, the bounce in her step gave her away too. She loved it.

=

8 months later.

Wonwoo is sprawled on the rug in front of the couch, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie long gone, hair just a little messier from being home. And right in front of him, Woojin who is now four months old, lies on his tummy, kicking those chubby legs, drooling onto his little bib, eyes locked on his father like he’s the most entertaining thing in the entire universe.

And to Woojin, he probably is.

Wonwoo’s long fingers drum against the floor, tap-tap-tapping in rhythm, and every time he pauses dramatically, Woojin squeals like it’s the funniest trick he’s ever seen. 

Wonwoo just shakes his head, that small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re too easy,” he murmurs, tapping again, making his son squeal louder. “Too easy, Woojin-ah.”

From the kitchen, you can hear Jiwon. Well more like you can hear only Jiwon. She’s standing on a stool beside you, apron tied lopsided around her waist, her hair sticking out from a rushed ponytail. She’s supposed to be helping chop vegetables, but really she’s just telling you every single detail of her day, with no signs of slowing down.

“And then Jiho tripped but he said it wasn’t because he was looking at me, but appa , it totally was, you know how I know? Because when he got up, he—oh my god, Appa, are you listening?!”

Wonwoo glances back from the floor where he’s still lying, one arm lazily propping him up while Woojin rolls toward him. “I’m listening,” he says, though his voice is low, still soft with that trace of amusement.

“Then what did I say?” she challenges, squinting suspiciously.

“You said Jiho tripped,” he answers simply, flicking his gaze back down to Woojin who has successfully rolled halfway onto his side and is reaching for his dad’s sleeve

“That’s only half of it!” Jiwon complains, stomping on the stool like that’ll make her point stronger

You hide a laugh, nudging her with your elbow. “Baby, keep chopping or we’ll be eating raw carrots for dinner.”

“I am chopping!” she argues, holding up a crookedly cut piece. “See?”

The knife work is a little… questionable, but you accept it with a grin and pat her shoulder. “Beautiful job. Michelin star right there.”

Behind you, there’s a sudden burst of Woojin’s laughter. Loud, belly-deep giggles that make your heart stutter. You turn your head just enough to see Wonwoo, lying flat on his back now, your son planted on his chest like he owns him. Wonwoo’s holding his tiny fists, letting Woojin slap his palms against his cheeks while he pretends to wince dramatically.

“Ah, strong boy,” he murmurs, kissing one of those fists before letting Woojin squeal again. “Appa’s going to be in trouble when you grow up, huh?”

The sight makes you pause, knife dangling uselessly in your hand. There’s something about the way your baby boy lights up around him, like his world only exists when Wonwoo’s near. And your husband—stoic, quiet, guarded—melts into the softest version of himself, right there on the floor.

“Eomma, you’re smiling like that again,” Jiwon teases, pulling you back. “You’re so obvious.”

You flick a piece of carrot at her, laughing. “Obvious about what?”

She grins knowingly, sing-songing, “That you liiiiike Appa.”

Wonwoo glances up from the floor, catching your eyes. His smile is subtle, but it’s there, a silent agreement in the way his gaze lingers on you just a little longer than necessary.

Woojin babbles like he’s joining the conversation, smacking his hands against his father’s chest again, and Jiwon groans, throwing her hands up. “Oh my god, I’m surrounded! Appa and Woojin, and Eomma—you’re all on the same team! I’m doomed!”

You reach over, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You said it yourself, baby. You’ve got Jiho. Looks like you’re not that doomed after all.”

Her cheeks flush instantly, and she sputters, “Eomma! That’s not—ugh, you’re the worst!” before diving back into chopping furiously to hide her embarrassment.

Wonwoo chuckles quietly, still playing with Woojin, who has now discovered the wonder of tugging on his father’s collar. “She’s loud,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone.

“And we wouldn’t have it any other way,” you shoot back, heart full as you glance around—your daughter sulking and rambling, your husband soft on the floor, your baby boy beaming like sunshine.

This. This is home.

=

It started the moment Jiwon announced it at the dinner table—very casually, like she was telling you she needed new pens for school.

“I’m going out tomorrow,” she said, spearing her rice. “Just me and Jiho.”

And that was it.

Your husband froze mid-chew. Fork halfway to his mouth. Blinked once. Twice. Then put the fork down slowly like it suddenly weighed ten kilos.

Stage one: denial. “Alone? You mean… with his family too, right?” Wonwoo asked, staring across the table like he hadn’t heard her properly.

Jiwon rolled her eyes, already annoyed. “No, Appa. Just us. We’re going to the bookstore. Then maybe ice cream.”

You hid your smile behind your glass.

Stage two: anger.

“Absolutely not. No. You’re thirteen.” He turned to you like he was seeking backup. “She’s thirteen.”

You patted his arm sweetly. “So was I when I started going out with my friends.”

“That was different,” he hissed under his breath.

“How?” you whispered back, already amused.

“Because you were loud and your parents always knew where you were. This—this is—” He pointed at Jiwon like she was plotting a heist. “This is unacceptable.”

Stage three: bargaining.

“Okay, fine,” Wonwoo said after Jiwon gave him the deadpan teenage daughter stare. “If you want to go, then I’ll come. I’ll sit a few tables away. You won’t even notice me.”

“Appa!” Jiwon groaned, clutching her head. “That’s not the same thing at all!”

You snorted into your hand.

Stage four: depression.

He slumped back in his chair, muttering to himself. “First it’s the bookstore… then it’ll be the movies… then one day she’s moving out with Jiho and I’ll just be… alone.”

“Appa, oh my god,” Jiwon sighed, but you saw the faint blush on her cheeks.

Stage five: acceptance.

After a long pause, Wonwoo finally sighed and rubbed his face. “Fine. Fine, you can go. But—” His eyes snapped open, sharp. “Phone on. Every hour, check in. If Jiho breathes wrong, you come home. And I want his parents’ number.”

“Appa…”

“No arguments.” He jabbed a finger at her, already defeated but still trying to cling to authority.

You reached over, squeezing his hand under the table, trying not to laugh. “You’re seeing this, right?” he whispered to you. “We raised her too well. Too much confidence. That’s our mistake.”

You smiled sweetly. “Or maybe… we just raised her right.”

Jiwon shot you a grateful look before bounding off to her room.

Wonwoo, meanwhile, collapsed forward dramatically on the table, groaning. “I hate this. I hate everything about this. Why couldn’t she stay five forever?”

You rubbed his back soothingly, biting back a grin. “Relax, Appa. She’s just going out. It’s not like she’s getting married.”

“Not funny,” he muttered into the table.

You found him exactly where you knew he’d be leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him. Jiwon had gone upstairs after dinner, humming, phone in hand, already planning her bookstore date with Jiho.

You padded over, sliding into his space until you were leaning against him, shoulder nudging his. “You see too much of us in them, don’t you? That’s why you’re freaking out.”

Wonwoo let out a humorless laugh, tipping his head back against the cupboard. “Babe, I got you pregnant at seventeen.” He looked at you finally, his mouth twitching but not quite making it into a smile. “I think my worries are valid.”

You laughed softly, reaching up to flick his chin. “Hey, I was the one who jumped you at every opportunity. Let’s not rewrite history here.”

His ears flushed a little, but he didn’t look away. “Exactly. And Jiho… he’s quiet. Just like I was. You know what that means.”

You grinned, leaning closer. “That he’s already halfway gone? Wrapped around her finger? Like you were with me?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Don’t say it like that. You make it sound like she’s going to walk all over him.”

“Not walk,” you teased, lips brushing his jaw. “Skip. You know how she is.”

Finally, a reluctant laugh broke from his chest, his shoulders loosening as you pressed against him. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“A little,” you admitted, threading your arms around his waist. “She’s not us, Wonwoo. She’s got more sense, and she’s got us. You didn’t exactly have parents cheering you on, remember?”

That landed. His arms came around you, pulling you in tight. “That’s the part that kills me,” he muttered into your hair. “I want her to tell me everything. I don’t want her sneaking around like we did, or scared to admit something. But—” He broke off, sighing. “The thought of her… liking someone the way you liked me—”

“The way I still like you,” you corrected, pecking his lips.

His hand squeezed your waist. “Yeah. That. It’s terrifying.”

You softened, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You’re not terrified because she’s growing up. You’re terrified because you know exactly what it feels like to fall in love with someone and never look back.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the ceiling like he was searching for composure. “Yeah,” he admitted finally. “And if Jiho’s anything like me, then I already know how this ends. He won’t let her go.”

You smiled, half proud, half amused. “That’s not the worst thing in the world, you know. Worked out pretty well for us.”

His gaze dropped back to you, softer now, more open. “Yeah. It did.” He kissed you then, long and slow, like he was trying to remind himself why all those worries were worth it.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “So, Appa… you gonna survive her little bookstore date?”

He groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “No promises.”

It was Saturday afternoon, the kind of lazy weekend day when the air felt slow and sunlight streamed through the curtains in long golden lines. You were in the living room folding Woojin’s tiny clothes when you heard the thunder of footsteps upstairs.

Jiwon came down in her favorite sneakers, hair clipped back neatly, tote bag slung over her shoulder. She was glowing, excited, confident, completely herself.

“Eomma, Appa, I’m heading out!” she chirped, sliding her phone into her pocket like it was no big deal.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Wonwoo was already standing in the doorway to the hall, arms crossed, looking like he’d aged ten years overnight.

“Heading out where?” His voice was deceptively calm, the kind that made Jiwon roll her eyes immediately.

“Appa.” She dragged out the syllables, exasperated already. “I told you. Jiho and I are going to the bookstore, then maybe the arcade, and then we’ll grab tteokbokki. I’ll be back before dinner.”

Wonwoo blinked slowly. “Bookstore. Arcade. Street food. That’s three places.”

“Yes, very good math.” She shot him a grin, already bending down to tie her laces.

You bit your lip to hide your laugh as Wonwoo’s ears turned red. “Are his parents going?”

“Nooo, Appa.” Jiwon popped up again, tugging her bag over her shoulder. “We’re thirteen. We don’t need a chaperone for every little thing.”

“Thirteen,” Wonwoo muttered under his breath like it was a curse word. Then louder: “So you’re just going. With him.”

“Yes,” she said cheerfully, oblivious to his unraveling.

“You don’t… like him, do you?” he pressed, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he relived his own teenage downfall in real time.

Jiwon groaned. “Appa, we’re friends. Best friends. I like him the same way I like—” She paused dramatically. “—my hair straightener. Necessary. Reliable. Doesn’t talk too much.”

You snorted at that, earning a glare from Wonwoo.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then pointed at her sternly. “You’ll call me when you get there. And when you’re leaving. And if he—”

“Appa!” She flung her arms up. “He’s Jiho! He can barely talk to the cashier without turning red. What do you think he’s gonna do to me?”

“That’s what worries me,” Wonwoo muttered, pacing now, hands in his hair.

You walked over, patting his chest gently. “Babe, breathe. She’s going to the bookstore, not running away to elope.”

His glare swung to you. “That’s exactly what people said about us before you showed up pregnant at seventeen.”

You slapped his arm, choking on laughter. “Do not traumatize our child with our history!”

Jiwon rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick. “Gross. Can I go now?”

Wonwoo froze like he was about to physically barricade the door, but then Woojin babbled from his play mat in the corner, and the sound seemed to snap him back to reality. He sighed, defeated, and waved his hand.

“Fine. Go. But remember—”

“Yes, Appa, I’ll call. Yes, Appa, I’ll text. Yes, Appa, I’ll be home before dinner.” She zipped over, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “Love you, grumpy Appa.”

And then she was gone, the front door clicking shut behind her. The silence that followed was deafening.

You leaned into Wonwoo, whispering with a grin, “So… do you want me to make you tea for the meltdown, or do you just want to pace holes into the floor?”

He let out a long groan, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m going to need something stronger than tea.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s fine. Relax. She’s literally us—just smarter.”

He tilted his head back, muttering to the ceiling. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

It was barely an hour later when the front door opened. You were in the kitchen, Wonwoo trying very hard to pretend like he’d been working the whole time, when Jiwon called out, “I’m home!”

Before either of you could answer, she came bounding in, cheeks flushed, hair a little mussed from the afternoon breeze and clutching a bouquet of flowers.

Wonwoo froze. His blood pressure spiked so fast you could feel it from across the room.

“Why—” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, “—why do you have flowers?”

Jiwon blinked at him like it was the dumbest question in the world. “Oh! These? Jiho’s mom runs that little flower shop by the school, remember? He said they had extras they couldn’t sell today, so he gave me some. Aren’t they pretty?”

She held them up proudly.

You pressed your lips together to stifle a laugh, especially when you caught the way Wonwoo’s face went through about ten emotions in five seconds—suspicion, relief, then immediate panic all over again.

“Jiho’s… mom?” he asked slowly, like he was trying to confirm whether this was a trap.

“Yes, Appa,” Jiwon said, rolling her eyes. “From his mom’s shop. Geez.”

You leaned against the counter, smirking. “See? Totally innocent.”

Jiwon turned to you, dramatic. “Thank you, Eomma. At least someone trusts me.”

Wonwoo muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, I don’t trust him, but he didn’t push it further, still staring at the flowers like they’d personally offended him.

You snorted. “You should’ve seen his face when you walked in with those. Thought he was about to have a heart attack.”

“Appa!” Jiwon gasped, scandalized. “It’s flowers.”

“They’re from a boy,” he deadpanned.

“From his mom,” she shot back. The way she rolled her eyes was so sharp, you were convinced she learned it from him.

Later in the evening the house is finally quiet.  You padded quietly down the hall, peeking into Woojin’s room first. The sight made your heart ache in that soft, overflowing way it always did.

Wonwoo was sitting on the edge of the crib, still in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, one big hand resting gently on Woojin’s chest as the baby’s little fist stayed wrapped tight around his finger. 

Woojin was already half-asleep, lips parted, eyelashes fanning against his plump cheeks.

Your husband looked just as entranced, swaying ever so slightly in rhythm to the lullaby he hummed under his breath.

“You’re staring,” you whispered from the doorway.

Wonwoo glanced up, eyes warm but voice low. “How could I not? He’s perfect.”

You leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “He’s also asleep, and you’re about two minutes away from dozing off in that chair. Come on, Appa.”

He carefully freed his finger, tucking Woojin’s blanket up to his chin before brushing a kiss to his tiny forehead. By the time he joined you in the hall, you were already grinning at him.

“What?” he asked, suspicious.

“Nothing.” You shook your head, but your smile widened as you slipped your hand into his. 

“Just—you. Looking like the sweetest, softest dad in the world when thirty minutes ago you were ready to fight a bouquet of carnations.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you teased, squeezing his hand. “Honestly, I wish I had filmed it. The great Jeon Wonwoo, nearly losing his mind over flowers.”

“Flowers from a boy,” he corrected quickly.

“From. His. Mom,” you shot back, laughing.

He grumbled something under his breath, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching, betraying a smile.

By the time you both made it to your bedroom, you were still poking fun at him. He collapsed on the bed dramatically, dragging a pillow over his face. You tugged it away and crawled over him, bracing your arms on either side of his shoulders. “You know, you’re cute when you’re overprotective.”

His eyes flicked up at you, narrow. “Cute?”

“Mmhm.” You nodded, deliberately brushing your nose against his, your voice dropping. “Sexy too.”

That earned you a low chuckle, his hands sliding up your thighs. “Now you’re just buttering me up.”

“Maybe.” You smirked, letting your fingers trail down his chest. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

He hummed, pretending to think about it, then leaned up to capture your mouth in a slow, searing kiss. It started tender, the kind of kiss that said I missed you today, but quickly grew hungrier when you shifted your weight, grinding against him through his sweats.

“See?” you whispered against his lips. “Told you it works.”

He laughed, deep and low, before pulling you flush against him. “You’re trouble.”

“And you love it.”

“Unfortunately,” he murmured, kissing you again, deeper this time.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as his hands roamed your back, your thighs, tugging you closer until the both of you were grinding together in an unsteady rhythm. The kiss grew messy, all tongue and teeth and soft gasps, neither of you wanting to pull away.

When he finally broke the kiss to catch his breath, his lips hovered just at your ear. “You’re gonna distract me all night, aren’t you?”

You giggled, pressing your mouth to his jaw, nipping gently. “Mm… depends. You still too tense from earlier?”

He groaned, rolling his hips against yours so you felt just how tense he still was. “What do you think?”

You smiled against his skin, already tugging at the hem of his shirt. “I think… we’ve got a long night ahead.”

You woke slowly, body aching in every delicious way possible, the kind of soreness that reminded you of exactly what happened hours ago. Your face pressed into the warm skin of your husband’s chest, your leg still thrown over his hip.

The sheets clung damp to your skin, the air heavy with the unmistakable scent of everything you and Wonwoo had done last night. His hand, big and lazy, was resting low on your back, keeping you against him even in his sleep.

You stretched slightly, winced, then smiled as he stirred, breath warm against your hair.

“You awake?” His voice was rough, sleep-heavy, but that deep timbre made your stomach flip.

“Mm,” you hummed, tilting your face to kiss his collarbone. “My entire body hates me.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath your ear. “That’s because you begged me not to stop.”

You pinched his side weakly. “Don’t start.”

He smirked, eyes still closed, but his hand wandered down, thumb brushing your hip. “What? Just saying facts.”

Before you could sass back, there was a loud knock knock knock against the bedroom door.

“Eomma! Appa! I’m late! Did you oversleep too?!” Jiwon’s voice carried through, her impatient rhythm making the door shake.

Your blood went cold, eyes snapping open. “Shit,” you hissed, scrambling against him, but Wonwoo only groaned, burying his face in your neck like he had no intention of moving.

“Good thing we locked it,” he muttered.

You glared, whispering sharply. “Wonwoo! This is not funny. The bed—”

“—is a warzone,” he finished for you, opening one lazy eye and smirking. “Anyone could tell what happened in here the second they walked in.”

Your face burned hot. “Behave!”

“Why? You like me like this.” He rolled his hips just slightly, reminding you exactly where he still was, and you gasped, swatting his chest hard.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine,” he said smugly, kissing your forehead.

Another round of knock knock knock made you jump again.

“I swear, if you don’t get up right now—” you whispered furiously.

Wonwoo finally sighed, pulling out slowly, earning a soft whimper from you despite yourself. He smirked at your reaction, clearly proud, before slipping out of bed to grab a robe.

“Appa! Helloooo?!” Jiwon was still shouting.

“Two minutes!” he called back, voice perfectly calm, as if he wasn’t standing in a bedroom that smelled like sin and had sheets that needed to be burned.

You flopped back onto the mattress, covering your face with your hands. “God, she’s going to think we’re the worst.”

Wonwoo leaned down, tugging your hands away just to steal one more kiss, slow and lingering. “We probably are,” he murmured against your lips. “But at least you’re smiling.”

You couldn’t help it—you giggled, smacking his chest again. “Go, before she breaks down the door.”

He grinned, heading toward the bathroom to clean himself up, still muttering under his breath about how maybe next time you should’ve just let him keep going.

You gathered enough strength to drag yourself out of bed, the soreness between your thighs making you wince with every step. You tried to be subtle about it, but Wonwoo noticed, of course he did, the bastard smirking as he adjusted his sweatpants.

“You’re walking funny,” he teased, tossing a shirt over his head.

“Shut up,” you muttered, snatching a robe and heading for the bathroom with the dignity of someone who very clearly did not have dignity left.

While you disappeared to wash up, he finally opened the bedroom door. And there she was. Jiwon, thirteen years old, standing in the hallway with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, and her whole body practically vibrating with teenage judgment.

Her eyes flicked past him, into the room.

Wonwoo froze.

The sheets were everywhere. The comforter half on the floor. Pillows scattered like casualties. 

Jiwon gasped like she had just witnessed a crime. “Oh. My. God.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, standing straighter. “Good morning.”

“Morning?!” She pointed dramatically into the room. “That’s not morning, that’s— that’s— I don’t even—” She slapped a hand over her face like she was about to faint. “Do you two have no shame?!”

“Language,” Wonwoo said flatly, though his ears turned pink

“Language?! You’re worried about language when your room looks like—like a hurricane hit it?!” Jiwon shrieked, then staggered back, muttering, “Oh my God, I need to bleach my brain.”

Wonwoo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Jiwon-ah, don’t be dramatic.”

“Don’t be—?!” She waved both arms toward the room. “Appa, I’m not five anymore. I know things! I take health class, okay? I know what happens when two people—” She cut herself off, making a strangled noise before slapping her hands over her ears. “Ugh, ew, ew, ew!!”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened, but his voice was maddeningly calm. “We’re married. This is normal.”

“Normal?!” she screeched, hopping like she was trying to shake the words out of her ears 

“There is nothing normal about walking in—ugh, I don’t even wanna say it!”

Wonwoo, for the first time, looked a little cornered. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. “…We were… wrestling.”

Jiwon’s eyes snapped to him, narrow and sharp. “Appa.”

“Yes?”

“Do you hear yourself? Wrestling doesn’t leave the sheets like that! Wrestling doesn’t make eomma walk like that!”

Wonwoo froze, eyes wide. “Walk like—?!” At that exact moment, you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, cheeks flushed, tugging at your robe and limping ever so slightly.

Jiwon pointed at you like she had caught both of you red-handed. “SEE?! Case closed! I’m moving out. I’m calling Jiho. I can’t live here anymore.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop the laugh bubbling up, but it was useless—you doubled over, cackling.

“Don’t laugh!” Jiwon wailed. “This is traumatizing!”

“Baby,” you said, trying to calm her through your giggles. “It’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?!” She gasped dramatically. “You two are feral! What if Woojin grows up and—ugh, no, I can’t even think about it!”

The door to her room slammed shut a moment later. Silence fell over the hallway.

You bit your lip to stifle another laugh, eyes gleaming as you turned to your very red-eared husband. “Wrestling, huh?”

Wonwoo groaned, dragging you back into the bedroom by the waist. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

But you were already giggling into his chest. “She’s never letting you live this down.”

Later in the kitchen. You were at the stove, spatula in hand, trying to act like this was a perfectly normal Saturday morning. Bacon was sizzling, pancakes stacked on the counter, coffee brewing. 

Your husband was in the laundry room next door, running what looked like a cover-up operation.

The washing machine whirred violently as Wonwoo shoved in sheets, pillowcases, and probably his dignity along with them. You heard him mutter, “Stubborn stain my ass,” under his breath, then the lid slammed shut like he was erasing evidence of a crime.

The sound of feet stomping down the stairs made you glance up just in time to see Jiwon emerge, messy hair, oversized hoodie, and the world’s sourest expression on her face. On her hip? Woojin, wide-awake and happily babbling, completely unaware of the chaos.

“Good morning, baby,” you greeted.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me.” She plopped Woojin into his high chair with a pout. “I can’t believe this house is cursed. I live here. I have to breathe the same air as you two degenerates.”

“Degenerates?” you repeated, fighting a laugh. “Strong word for someone who just woke up.”

“Don’t even try, eomma,” she shot back, grabbing a piece of bacon off the platter. “I know. I know what you two were doing last night. It’s burned into my brain.”

At that moment, Wonwoo walked out of the laundry room, suspiciously rolling his sleeves up like he’d just committed a felony. “What’s burned into your brain?”

Jiwon spun on him, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. Oh my gosh, Appa, do not talk to me like nothing happened. I heard things.”

Wonwoo froze mid-step. “…Heard things?”

“Heard. Things.” Jiwon covered her ears, dramatically groaning. “And then I walked in and saw the room. Do you two even—ugh! Ew ew ew! Don’t tell me you do it all the time!”

The spatula in your hand paused mid-flip. Woojin banged on his high chair tray, squealing, as if he was cheering Jiwon on.

Wonwoo blinked, then calmly sat at the table, pouring himself coffee. “We’re married.”

“That’s not an answer!” Jiwon yelped, slamming both hands on the table like she was interrogating a criminal. “Do you—do you guys—” She flapped her hands in the air, searching for words, then practically screamed: “OH MY GOD, YOU TOTALLY DO, DON’T YOU?!”

You nearly dropped the spatula, choking on your laugh.

“Jiwon-ah,” Wonwoo said, tone maddeningly calm. “Eat your breakfast.”

“APPAAA!”

“Eat,” he repeated, sipping his coffee.

“I’m scarred for life!” she groaned, collapsing in her chair dramatically. “You guys are supposed to be boring parents who knit and watch dramas, not—whatever that was!”

Woojin squealed again, spraying spit bubbles, clearly entertained.

You finally set the spatula down, tears in your eyes from trying not to laugh. “Baby, it’s normal. That’s how you and Woojin even exist.”

“STOP TALKING!” Jiwon shrieked, clutching her hoodie like she was shielding herself from trauma. “I didn’t need that mental image! You two are too much! Just—ugh, eomma, appa, just stop being… you.”

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, unbothered. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“NO, I WON’T!” she shouted, stabbing a piece of pancake with her fork so aggressively it nearly tore the plate.

You had to lean against the counter, laughing helplessly. “Wonwoo, stop teasing her, she’s already traumatized.”

“I’m not teasing,” he said, voice steady as ever. “I’m telling the truth.”

Jiwon slammed her forehead down on the table with a groan loud enough to rattle the plates. Woojin immediately copied her, smacking his little forehead on the high chair tray with a delighted squeal.

Now you were really gone, clutching your stomach as you laughed.

Wonwoo gave you a long side-eye over his coffee cup. “See? You think it’s funny now, but give it a few years. Woojin will be the one asking questions.”

Jiwon popped her head up, horrified. “No. No, we’re never talking about this again. Ever.”

You grinned, wiggling your eyebrows at her. “So when you’re older and married, you’ll never—”

“EOMMA!!!”

It’s loud, it’s chaotic but you also know you won’t have it any other way. 

Looking back, this was what younger you wished for. Them. Him. This lfe. Despite the fear you felt, you and Wonwoo were just kids but he stepped up and became the man for you, for your daughter, for this family. 

While Jiwon continues on her ramble, you look over at your husband to see him already looking at you. The way he always, like the man who was always sure of what he wanted. You. 

You mouth to him, I love you

He chuckles, smiling. The kind of smile that got you chasing after him all those years ago, the very same smile you wished all your kids would have. And now they’re here.