seungcheol tries his best to keep his cool during arguments. he really does—he's used to the boys always getting on his nerves and carrying everyone's weight, so he likes to think if there's anyone he should be able to handle himself around, it should be you.
he knows it's futile to stop small arguments, but you both are somewhat playful when it comes to the petty, occassional fights. it comes to the rarer, more serious fights—much like the one you're having now—which seungcheol usually tries to prevent.
yelling in each other's faces is never what you want, but with cheol, it's often inevitable. heat flushes to your cheeks, and you can hardly even see him through the tears in your eyes—you know he doesn’t mean what he’s saying, you’re sure of it, but you can’t help but let the harsh words get to your head. it’s all catching up to you, and you’re finding it harder to bite back, harder to find the voice in your throat, harder to find it in you to say anything at all. after seungcheol’s finished with the tangent he’s on, he notices how you’ve stilled.
giving you a moment to respond, the silence gives you both a moment to let your emotions to sink in properly. after a few minutes of silence, both of calming down your breathing and tears, seungcheol will talk again. “baby i’m sorry.” you’re quiet for a moment before you take a deep breath.
“let’s talk about this in the morning,” you finally say, “i think we’ve both said enough tonight.” he nods in agreement as you turn on your heel to grab a blanket and pillow from your shared room, but he catches on quickly.
"baby no," he quickly remarks, grabbing the pillow from your arms. "what are you doing?"
"sleeping on the couch," you huff, trying to act more nonchalant than your heart allows. frustrated by his relentless grip, you tug your pillow harder. "let me go," you murmur, averting your gaze so you don't meet his pleading eyes.
"baby," he says quietly, trying to move closer. quickly, you shuffle away.
sighing, you reply, "let me go. i just want my space." seungcheol frowns.
"let me take the couch."
"no, let me go cheol."
"baby—"
"choi seungcheol, let me go now," you say so sternly that cheol almost jumps back. you soften upon catching the defeated look on his face. "your body doesn't even fit on the couch. let me ... let me take it for the night and we can talk in the morning, okay?" you say more softly this time, finally meeting his gaze.
"fine ..." he defeats, sulking off to the room as you turn away.
jeonghan
jeonghan would easily be one of calmest members in an argument, no matter how heated it seems to get. he's a bit goofy and playful at times, and will maybe press some of your buttons every now and then, but when he notices the cracks in your voice, the soft quiver in your lips, the glossing of your eyes, he learns to be very careful. careful of his words, he reactions, his actions, and mostly, he's careful with you.
he has you both at the dinner table, hands interlaced, and whenever you're talking and he notices you start talking faster, more angrily, more heated, he'll stroke a thumb over your knuckles. you're still a bit angry but how can you feel anything but endearment when he's doing everything in his power to understand you?
you really can't imagine any argument with jeonghan where you're both yelling and he says anything he regrets, just because he's be so perceptive and strict with himself about the course of your argument. sometimes though, he understands that some issues take more time to be resolved however if you even suggest the idea of you sleeping in a different room, he'll be very against it, insisting that wherever you're sleeping, he's sleeping.
joshua
arguments with joshua are, to say the least, rare. he's so good at that, you know? so good at catching your tears before they fall, so good at apologizing before a complaint even has the chance to escape your lips, so good at diffusing any situation before it gets out of hand—out of hand much like this one.
you always tell your girlfriends that shua knows you so well—that he knows you inside and out. it's in moments like these that you wonder if joshua knows just too well—and that when he's batting, he’ll be ready to strike where it hurts, throwing out words he wouldn’t imagine saying if he was in his right mind.
you aren't used to joshua like this—mean, sharp, and worst of all: cold. you’re not sure how to handle this, because as far as you know, the shua you know and love is not the same as the man frowning deeply in front of you know.
it's when he's spitting out something that you'd never in a million years think he'd ever say that you start go quiet, letting his words sink in to both of your minds. you're suddenly wiping away at your cheeks, furiously trying to get your tears to stop because you're mind is just so clouded and scrambled that you can hardly think.
"baby, i—" joshua's voice is softer the next time he speaks after realized just exactly what he's said, but you cut him off.
"i'm—" you start with a shaky breath, "—i'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight." joshua physically winces at your proposition but he also knows that he brought this upon himself, so he doesn't protest, rather collecting himself and using his time alone tonight to think about how to approach this situation the next morning. he doesn't say anything more, knowing that it'll only be poking the bear.
a/n: life falling apart, romance dead, bladee on repeat, perfect conditions to write some angsty slop
♡ pairing: lee jihoon x f!reader
♡ theme: smut [18+mdni]
♡ wc: 1.5k
♡ warnings: sexting/phone sex, dirty talk, semi-public, masturbation, cum eating
♡ a/n: happy birthday woozi i hope u like this filth i thought of at like 1am the other night love u <3
SYNOPSIS: You send a scandalous voice message to your boyfriend while he’s at work.
Jihoon is about to pull his hair out.
He stares dully at his laptop, rereading the email on his screen for the third time. The email asking him a question he already covered in the meeting this morning. Irritating.
With a deep sigh he hits the reply button and begins typing.
As discussed in this morning's team meeting, the Q3 revenue reports won't be available until next week due to a delay in invoicing on Finance's end.
-Jihoon
A much more polite response than is deserved, but whatever. He's about to return to his spreadsheets when a small flash in his periphery catches his attention. He reaches for his phone, the screen lit up with a notification from you. He opens his messages to see a nearly 10-minute long voice memo, followed by a text that says Don't listen without headphones 😘.
He has about a thousand things to do, but he figures he can listen to your message like a podcast while he works. Grabbing his AirPods, he pops the left one into his ear and hits play as he resumes typing formulas into Excel.
"Hey baby," your voice croons into his ear. "I really miss you right now."
He freezes. You like to send voice messages pretty often, usually if you're on the go or you want to tell him a story that would be too long to type out. Jihoon is a fairly quiet person — a stark contrast to your bubbly personality — and though you haven't been dating too long he really really likes you. So he's always happy to listen to you yap about anything and everything.
But your tone here is different.
"I've been thinking about you," you mutter sultrily, and like a dumbass it finally hits him that this is no ordinary voice memo.
"Been thinking about the way your hands feel on me," you say. He hears a soft swishing noise, immediately picturing your hand sliding down your body. "Thinking about the way you touch me…"
You let out a soft moan. Jihoon's cheeks start to burn hot at the realization that you're touching yourself. You're jerking off to the thought of him and recording it, and now he's sitting here in his stupid office listening to it. He's extremely glad he heeded your headphone warning, but he simply cannot having you moaning in his ear while he's supposed to be working. He glances at the clock: 4:32pm. So fucking close to the end of the day. He just has to make it another 30 minutes…
knock knock knock
Jihoon nearly jumps out of his skin at the rapping on his office door. He quickly locks his phone and tosses it in his bag as the door swings open.
"Got a minute?" the company VP asks chipperly as she pokes her head in.
"Sure," he answers reluctantly. As she steps into the office he realizes, to his horror, that the voice memo is still playing.
"I'm so wet, baby," you whimper in his ear as the VP starts asking him about some missing invoices. Apparently, locking his phone was not enough to pause the voice message; he glances over to his backpack on the floor, hoping to see his phone at the top, but a faint glow from the bottom of the open compartment tells him it has fallen deep within the bag. He knows he should just quickly retreive the phone so he can stop the audio, but the VP is notorious for scolding employees for being on their phones on the clock — and he does not want her to ask questions.
"Fuckkkk, feels so good," you groan as you slip your fingers into your cunt. "Wish it was your hands though…"
Jihoon's feels his ears turning ruby red, silently praying his longer-than-usual hair is enough to conceal his flustered state. He wants more than anything to yank the AirPod out of his ear and throw it into the bag with his phone. But what if the AirPod disconnects and it starts playing out loud? says a little anxious voice in the back of his mind. That would be infinitely worse, and — if he had to guess — probably a fireable offence.
He musters all of his brain power to focus on what the VP is asking him, somehow answering her questions well enough despite you moaning incessantly in his ear. She appears to be satisfied with his response, and turns to exit the office.
"Oh, by the way," she says spinning back around on her heel. "About the client meeting tomorrow…"
Jihoon shifts in his seat, scooting his chair closer into his desk, praying to god that it's enough to conceal the obvious bulge developing in his khakis.
"I miss your cock, wish I was choking on it right now," you whine as the VP goes on and on about meeting details Jihoon is already well aware of. He wonders what he did to deserve this kind of personal torture.
"I want to feel it deep in my throat. Wanna choke on you until you're about to cum, then I wanna ride you until I cum on your fat cock," you continue relentlessly as you fuck yourself with your fingers. "I want you to fill me up with your cum…"
"Are you alright?" the VP suddenly asks, launching Jihoon back to reality. "You look like you're going to be sick."
"Oh, um, I'm not feeling too great," he lies. "But I'll be okay." He glances at the clock: 4:37pm. He's only been here five minutes, but it's been the longest five minutes of his fucking life.
"Ohhh," you moan in his ear, growing louder as you become more and more aroused. He imagines sitting in front of you, watching you stroke your clit as he jerks his cock in his hand. He tries to shove the thought back into the recesses of his mind, but his mouth is watering at the thought of your pussy, wet and warm and delicious—
"You should go home," he hears the VP say to him from a million miles away. "The day's almost over anyway, and I don't want you throwing up at your desk."
"Um, yeah," he agrees. "I think I'll do that."
"Oh, by the way, I'm moving our afternoon meeting tomorrow to 8am," she says as she walks out of the door, seemingly unfazed by Jihoon's miserable state. "See you bright and early!"
The moment the door shuts behind her Jihoon flops back into his seat, letting out a deep exhale as he rubs his eyes in distress. He looks down at the thick protrusion of his fully-hard cock, straining to be contained in his pants.
"I'm gonna cum soon, baby," you whimper. He thinks for a moment, knowing he should just turn it off and go home — but then decides, fuck it. He gets up and quickly locks his office door, plopping back in his seat as he finally retrieves his damn phone from his bag. He sees there's about three and a half minutes left to your voice memo, but at this point, that's more time than he even needs.
"I'm so close," your voice wavers. Jihoon unzips his pants, reaching in and wrapping his hand around his stiffened length. He strokes himself slowly, his tip leaking as his cock throbs in his grip. Your cries grow louder, and he knows he's not going to last much longer. He stops for half a second to open the front camera and take a quick photo, sending the blurry picture of his lap with his cock in his fist to you.
Look what you did to me, he types.
A few strokes more and he's on the verge of busting already. No time to find a tissue, he cups his free hand over the head of his cock, cumming into his palm as his orgasm takes over. His eyes roll back, his bottom lip between his teeth as he struggles to remain quiet, a few pathetic whimpers escaping from his throat as he listens to your symphony of moans in his ear. His head spins as he slowly comes back down to earth, listening to your heavy breaths as you too recover from your high. He releases his grip on his spent cock, bringing the hand filled with his release up to his mouth, slowly licking his own cum off his palm.
"Come over after work baby, I love you."
Your diabolical voice memo finally ends, leaving Jihoon with only the sound of his own heavy breaths. He quickly tucks his dick back into his pants, gathering his things in preparation to sprint out of the office before anyone can stop him. He pauses at the door, typing out a quick text to you.
member — fwb!vernon x f reader
genre — smut, like a little tiny bit of angst? with a happy ending
word count — 2.4k
synopsis — so what if calling your fuck buddy every other day is a little excessive? maybe you're just in love with him.
smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, lots and lots of kissing, some dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, begging, creampie
warnings — vernon is called hansol - i don't usually do that but just go with it; vernon is kind of a sweetheart tbh this ended up being pretty soft
notes — june is back !! i've really been struggling to write these past few months so i'm actually super proud that i was able to sit down and write this as fast as i did. i can't promise another fic anytime soon or any kind of consistent uploads, but i hope you enjoy this meager offering! thanks for the support even while i've been gone :) also this is based on a dream i had about vernon the other day and i could not stop thinking about it it was driving me crazy, so everyone say thank you to my brain or the sandman or whoever put that idea in my dreams because this fic is a result of it. if there are mistakes pls ignore i wrote this at 2am
the thing you remember most about hansol is his lips.
the first time you kissed him was like opening a door to a world you'd never known existed. your past hookups had been terrible kissers, or even worse—hadn't even tried to kiss you at all. you were sick of the boring, underwhelming sex with men who couldn't care less if you got off or not. but some god or being in the universe must've been looking out for you, because finding hansol was nothing short of a miracle.
it was so good, you weren't even that embarrassed when you'd desperately texted him a couple of nights later, practically begging him to come over and fuck you again. he was burned into your brain, the feeling of his mouth locked with yours seared so deep in your memory you couldn't erase him if you tried, but it wasn't exactly like you wanted to.
he hadn't explicitly said you would only be a one night stand, but you usually didn't hang around the same guy for too long, and he didn't really seem like the commitment type anyway. but when you find something this good, you don't let it go, and somehow you both knew that whatever this was, it was too good to pass up on.
so it wasn't really a surprise when you found yourself on his couch, straddling his lap in the late hours of the night for the third time this week.
like you remembered, his lips were warm and soft, his cheek brushing against yours as you melted into him. you could kiss him for hours and not notice the time passing at all, so focused on the rhythm of his mouth working you up more than anything you'd done with any man you'd slept with before.
the heat of his hands resting on your hips sends shivers up and down your spine, unconsciously arching towards him as his tongue pushes into your mouth.
one gentle hand travels carefully up beneath your shirt, tracing the skin of your stomach before stopping at your breast, your heartbeat racing beneath his palm.
your breath is hot on his cheek as you readjust your position, slipping your knees onto either side of his hips and sinking down to straddle his lap. your clothed cunt throbs as he presses his bulge against the inside of your thigh, and you don't hold back the open-mouthed moan that escapes you as his other hand quickly reaches up to angle your jaw and guide your lips back to his.
you push your hips down a little harder on him and his nails dig into your breast. his grip tightens a little as his hips cant up against you, desperate for more pressure against his strained cock.
your eyelids flutter as his other hand tilts your chin upwards, finally breaking away from your mouth only to reattach his lips at the base of your jaw. his tongue laves over your skin before he starts to suck, and you shiver when he pulls back and cold air hits the wet patch of spit on your neck.
you have to focus hard not to drool when you open your eyes and catch a glimpse of his face, lust-glazed eyes staring up at you through his long, thick lashes, his intense gaze fixed on you.
if you ever get past this weird in-between stage of talking but not talking, maybe you'll tell him how jealous you are of his beautiful, natural eyelashes. if you ever actually get to have a conversation with him outside of calling to hook up, maybe you'll tell him how nice his lips are. you'll tell him how soft his hands are and how he's by far the best person you've ever slept with, leaps and bounds better than all the rest, and—
before you fully realize what's happening, you feel your shirt being pulled over your head and hansol's lips have made their way down to your chest. without a sound his hands roam your body, fingers drawing invisible lines over your bare skin and leaving trails of goosebumps with every touch.
he doesn't talk much during sex, or maybe you just don't know each other well enough yet for him to have much to say. aside from the way he occasionally murmurs about how perfect you are — an oddly intimate thing to say to someone who's just a friend with benefits, but coming from him it sounds so casual — the only words you ever get out of him are curses and whimpered pleas.
the only words he ever gets out of you are shamelessly begging him, please kiss me again, please, hansol; and you're always too far gone to care about how whiny you sound, because you need his lips on you so fucking bad you think you might just die without them. but he always obliges, quickening the speed of his thrusts and wrapping his arms around you tighter so he can kiss you deeper, until your lips are numb and you can still feel the weight of him holding you even hours after he's gone.
so maybe you do have a teeny tiny crush on hansol. anyone in their right mind would, and when he's finished with you tonight you're sure you won't have much mind left to even think about it. certainly this is a problem for another day, a day when you'll inevitably call him again so he can make you lose your mind all over again and you won't have to think about how much you like him, and you'll continue like that for who knows how long.
maybe he'll get bored of you, or find someone else, or move to another city too far for you to justify travelling for a relationship that isn't even a relationship…
… but then he lets out a little groan and you fall back into reality, the reality where you've been making out with him for the past half hour and he quietly but confidently lets you know if he doesn't get his dick out soon he's definitely going to cum in his pants and not only will it make him look like a loser but he also won't get to fuck you, which is the whole reason you asked him to meet up tonight, right?
well, yeah, you guess, but a part of you knows there's more to it than that. but that's not really a conversation for right now.
you lean down to press another chaste kiss against those lips that you can't stop thinking about, and your fingers pull his t-shirt over his head before finding their way down to the button at the top of his jeans.
you've had his cock inside you more times than you think you deserve, but still your stomach bubbles with excitement as he lifts his hips and shimmies out of his pants, the outline against his briefs more than enough to make your mouth water before he slips those off, too.
for tonight, you're the recipient of his undivided attention. you alone get to have him and his perfect cock all to yourself; maybe not forever, but for right now, and that's all you really need.
he presses his hand against his bulge, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure as you stand up from his lap to kick off your pants and underwear.
you must have been taking too long for his liking, though, because as soon as you're fully nude his hands tug impatiently at your waist and pull you back down onto him.
he lets out a heavy sigh, the head of his cock pressed deliciously against your clit as you start to rock your hips back and forth.
but before long his hands bring you to a stop and he lets out his usual string of pleas to let him fuck you, and now it's your turn to sigh in relief as he pushes into you, the stretch so natural like he was the only one who was made to sit you on his lap.
he doesn't move right away. he never moves right away, whether to give you a chance to adjust or maybe because he himself can't handle the feeling. either way, you always struggle to take in a shaky breath as your walls flutter around him, perfectly thick and long that you could probably cum untouched like this if you sat there for long enough.
but as badly as you want to never move and let him cockwarm you for hours, he always eventually moves.
he starts out slow, just a few inches at a time, a gentle in and out that's almost romantic until you feel like you can breathe normally again— right before he knocks the breath out of you, increasing his pace until the room is filled with the loud sounds of skin against skin.
he always fucks you like it's been months since he's came, even though you know for a fact it was last thursday and all over your stomach. all you can do now is hang onto his broad shoulders for dear life, nails scratching helplessly at his muscles as he carries you up and over the edge, pushing you into the first of many orgasms tonight.
sometimes he'll make a comment about how wet you get when he fucks you like this, rough and fast as he pounds into you like there's no tomorrow. and that's when you'll agree, yes you love it so much, yes he's so good, yes you need more and please, please keep going.
if it were anyone else they'd probably smirk at that, satisfied with the momentary boost to their ego. but that's what you love about hansol, is that he's not anyone else: he'll take those words and use them to somehow fuck you even rougher and even faster, so rough and so fast that sometimes tears will start to roll down your cheeks, and that's usually about when you start begging him to kiss you.
you can't help it. the way he bounces you so effortlessly on his cock, his lips parted and beads of sweat trickling down his neck, you need him bad. you want to be closer to him, closer than you know is physically possible but damn if you won't try anyway.
throwing your hands around his neck and falling against his chest, tears still streaming from your eyes as you plead with him, repeating his name over and over and over like you've lost your mind and he's the only thing left. in all honesty, maybe he is.
he quietly shushes you and tilts his chin up to capture your lips in the kiss you so badly crave, and it's everything you need and more and somehow still not enough but you can't think straight anymore when his cock is hitting you just right and his mouth is also just right and each vein, each curve, each ridge, drags perfectly along your walls and he's splitting you open and goddamn you are ruined for anybody else.
you feel like you're skirting in and out of consciousness when you cum again, squeezing around his cock so tight that even his powerful thrusts can't continue at their current pace.
it isn't long before he lets go too, holding you flush against his body as he fills you up, painting your insides white with a breathy moan, and in a weird way it makes you feel kind of proud.
you both sit there for a moment, panting as you start to come down.
without even standing up you already know your legs are jell-o, but you don't really have time to think about that as hansol lifts you off his lap and sets you carefully on the couch, leaving you with another kiss before he stands up and disappears down the hall, returning seconds later with a towel that looks suspiciously new.
you'd asked him about his bathroom towels last time you'd been over at his place. a mismatched collection of white and brown and aquamarine that he'd taken with him when he'd moved out of his parent's house, he said, he'd never really had a reason to buy a set of his own.
the grey cloth in his hand now that he uses to gently wipe between your legs is one you don't remember seeing.
he finishes and you want him to kiss you again, but you're too shy to ask now so he leaves you again with just a kind smile this time.
you've put most of your wrinkled clothes back on by the time he comes back. he offers to drive you home every time afterwards, but you always insisted you were fine, already feeling like you'd overstayed your welcome.
this time he doesn't offer, though, just quietly sits down next to you to pull on his own clothes until you're both fully dressed.
he speaks before the awkward silence has time to set in.
"have you been seeing anybody else?" he asks, and it's probably the longest sentence he's spoken to you outside of when he's fucking you.
it takes you a couple seconds to say no. god, you sound like a loser, but you couldn't lie to him. since the very first time with hansol the thought of seeing anyone besides him hadn't even crossed your mind. just like you thought; ruined.
it takes him a couple seconds to reply, too.
"good," he says, and you could almost swear his cheeks are pinker than usual as he admits that he hasn't been with anyone, either. "could we keep it that way?"
your breath catches a little. "yeah?"
"yeah," he answers. "whatever… this is, i like it. and i like you."
and just like that, things make sense.
"maybe, would you, y'know, wanna stay this time?" he asks, and you can't hide the grin on your face as you lean over and kiss him again, your answer evident in the way your hand falls against his warm chest and your fingers weave gently through his hair.
everything is so simple with hansol.
i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!
seungcheol's hand curls around your own as he tugs it over to him with no resistance, leaving you to try and type one-handed at your laptop for the moment. you don't ask questions (seungcheol has always been the kind to surprise you with little things like this), but you do look over to see that he's sporting his own matching ring to the one he's sliding onto one of your fingers. he looks up at you, hair hanging in his eyes, and grins before pressing his lips against the ring.
"it reminded me of you, so i got it." he lets go of your hand, and you hold it up to survey the ring. the pattern does seem like something you'd like, and this is far from the first pair of rings the two of you have bought for one another, so it's a perfect fit. "do you like it?"
"it's pretty," you hum, and your hand cups his jaw. "not as pretty as you, but pretty."
he just scrunches his nose in response, smiling as best as he can when you squish his face a little bit more. seungcheol frees himself easily enough, leaning over just to press a lingering kiss against the side of your face before he gets back up to go put away the rest of his little shopping haul. he'll tell you about the time he spent with friends once you're done with your work.
but you wait until he gets a few steps away to call out, "you don't love me enough to kiss me right?"
all it takes is the sound of his thundering steps for you to know you've got him, hook, line, and sinker. he leans over your chair to kiss you properly, and you feel the way he smiles against your lips before pulling away again with that damn twinkle in his eyes. "hi," he says softly. "i love you."
he's too easy sometimes to tease. you just smile, blowing him a kiss as he walks away. "love you, too, silly."
PAIRING: Minghao x f. reader
SUMMARY: As the second daughter to one of the most powerful businesses under the Choi Syndicate, you’ve always lived your life free of responsibility - until your sister dies and you become the heir. So when your family announces one of your new responsibilities as heir is an engagement to the son of a powerful shipping conglomerate, it comes should come as no shock. Minghao, however, is full of surprises, each one of them more deadly than the last.
WC: 33,779
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Arranged Marriage
GENRE: Smut, Angst
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Graphic violence and assassination attempts, descriptions of blood and on screen murder (two with a knife, one with a garrote), mentions of off page deaths of a sibling and a parent (one via suicide), references to organized crime/syndicates with political marriages, power plays, and illegal activities, references to physical abuse from a family member but honestly very vague and ambiguous, hemes of grief, trauma, deception, and identity secrets, some power imbalances throughout, lots of showcasing of disparity of wealth throughout, some angst and a lot of lying, reader is kidnapped, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms/positions, uhhhhh I think that's it. It's a Syndicates fic y'all, as always read with caution. Smut is warned in-text when it starts and stops.
A/N: I have been working on this chapter since November 2025 and it is finally here. I'm going to apologize in advanced if the plot seems a bit twisty turny or if the motives are a bit weak - taking that long between the first 15k I wrote for this fic and the second 15k I wrote for this resulted in me writing a completely different story than what I started with. Also - reader was supposed to be a lot more mystical but it's just sort of vague in this. She is not literally magical in a fantasy sense, but rather the same way that there are mysteries of the universe and energies etc. i really hope this makes sense - thank you for being patient with me as I put this chapter out. I think I like this one... maybe. Also, we are introduced to three new characters who are relevant in the rest of the series - especially Kero :) This fic takes place during the events of Baby for your timeline purposes.
A/N 2: It is recommend you read the other works of the Syndicates collection before you read this fic - specifically Baby. You don't have to read the others to understand the fic as I try to sum up the world and plot well, but I'm not perfect so ready this totally separate of the other stories might not be as easy as I crack it up to be!
A/N 3: This is un-beta'd we die like men.
COLLECTION | ASK | NOW PLAYING: UNTIL DEATH | SYNDICATES WORLD GUIDE
THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.
It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.
You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.
Again.
To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.
Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.
Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.
The world, reversed.
-
The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.
Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.
You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.
Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.
The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.
People like you.
You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.
Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.
The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.
A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.
The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.
Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.
One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.
You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.
Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.
Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.
Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.
He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.
And extremely intimidating.
"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.
The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.
Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.
Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.
Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.
"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."
Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."
"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."
Jian bows his head and agrees.
You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.
Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.
In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.
"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."
No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.
"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."
You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.
The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.
Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."
This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.
Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.
Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.
"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."
"The Observatory?"
"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."
"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."
You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.
"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."
Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."
"What is your security like?"
Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.
"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.
"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."
His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.
"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."
His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."
Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."
The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.
"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."
"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."
Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."
Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.
Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place.
When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.
"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"
She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.
It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.
"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"
The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.
"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."
"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."
"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"
You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"
Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.
"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."
"I would prefer-"
"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."
Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.
You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.
"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."
Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"
"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."
Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."
"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"
Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."
Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.
After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."
Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."
The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.
Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.
Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.
You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.
"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.
Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.
You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.
People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.
You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.
Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.
You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.
Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.
You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.
The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.
It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.
You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.
Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.
"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."
Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.
"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"
"You know what they are?"
"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."
You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."
"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"
"Yes."
He hums. "Keep going."
"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."
"I see. And Death?"
"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."
Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.
"You're practiced at reading these, then?"
"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."
"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."
—
The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.
Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.
Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.
Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.
A statement night, really.
You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.
A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.
Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.
"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."
You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."
His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.
"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."
"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."
"And what is it you practice?"
"None of your business."
He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."
"If you're trying to upset me-"
"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."
"I am unhappy."
He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."
In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.
Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.
You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.
The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.
Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.
As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.
A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.
A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.
The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.
"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."
"Why?"
"They seem normal."
"They are."
Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?
The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.
You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."
"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."
"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."
"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"
A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.
"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."
Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.
"Observant."
"I have to be."
"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."
He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.
"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."
"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."
"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"
Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.
Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.
You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.
Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.
"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."
You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."
Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."
Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.
The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.
Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?
It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.
You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."
Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."
With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.
Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.
Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.
-
Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.
The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.
The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.
Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.
It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.
No words. Nothing.
You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.
The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.
As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.
You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.
As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.
He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.
Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.
"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.
You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.
Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.
Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.
"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."
"Where are you going?"
"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."
"Pardon?"
"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."
You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."
His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"
You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.
-
"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."
It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.
His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.
He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.
“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."
"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."
Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."
"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."
Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.
"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."
"Don't read too much into it."
"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."
For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.
-
When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.
This wedding is not that.
The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.
Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.
You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.
A small win.
Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.
The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.
Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.
You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.
Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.
A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.
“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."
You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.
It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.
Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.
Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.
Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.
Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.
Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.
When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.
His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."
You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.
Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.
Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.
Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.
"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.
"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."
Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."
"It's-"
He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."
Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.
The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.
Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.
-
The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.
You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.
You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.
"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."
He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."
You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.
For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat.
A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.
Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.
A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"
No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.
Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.
Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.
The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.
"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.
No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.
There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.
You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.
Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.
You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.
A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.
Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.
And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.
The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.
You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.
The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.
The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.
Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.
Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.
Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.
More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.
Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”
The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.
Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.
“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."
Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.
“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."
You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"
"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"
"Cuts on my arms."
"Deep? Tell me ba-"
Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"
“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”
The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.
Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."
"I don't care-"
"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”
Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.
Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.
"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."
She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.
Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.
You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.
"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."
“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.
Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."
Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.
Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.
Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.
Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.
“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.
Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.
Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.
The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.
Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.
Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.
You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.
You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”
Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."
The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.
You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.
“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."
Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”
The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.
Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.
You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.
"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”
Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.
"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."
Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.
“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”
The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.
Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.
The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.
When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.
A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.
“Status?” Minghao asks them.
“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”
Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.
Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.
He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.
“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”
You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”
Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”
"What are you about to go do?"
"Something very violent."
The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.
Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."
He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."
You nod. "Be careful. Please."
Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.
He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."
He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.
The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.
Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."
You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.
None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.
You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.
You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.
-
Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.
He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.
Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.
Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.
But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.
And tonight, someone tried to kill you.
He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.
Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.
Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.
He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.
Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.
One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.
"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.
The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.
Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.
He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.
You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.
The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.
Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.
Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."
“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."
A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”
Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."
"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."
"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."
"It will be done."
In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.
Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.
Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.
Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.
His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."
"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."
"You sound fond."
Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.
He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.
"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."
His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”
"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”
Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.
You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.
This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.
Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.
He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.
For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.
Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.
-
Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.
He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.
Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.
“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.
“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."
Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.
"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."
Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”
“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."
Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.
Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.
Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.
He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.
When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.
He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.
It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.
A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.
Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.
They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.
He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.
An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.
Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.
Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.
His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.
Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.
Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.
If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.
How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.
The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.
You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.
For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.
Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.
-
The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.
Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.
Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.
Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.
Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.
Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.
You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.
Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.
Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.
Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.
Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.
Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.
The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.
Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."
You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."
"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."
You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.
The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.
"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."
Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”
Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."
Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"
"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"
Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.
"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."
A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”
You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.
“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”
Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.
"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.
A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.
Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.
And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.
“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”
Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”
The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.
A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.
Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.
Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”
“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”
He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.
The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.
Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”
"Hush."
You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.
The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.
You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.
Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”
You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.
"Well?" Minghao asks again.
You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"
"Who?"
You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."
Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"
"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."
Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"
"Yes."
A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."
Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.
-
Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.
Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.
You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.
Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.
Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.
Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.
The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.
Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.
Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.
The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.
Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.
Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.
“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”
The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.
"Try again," you say through your teeth.
She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."
"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."
She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."
"Are you going to do the search or not?"
She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."
"That's it?"
"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."
You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."
As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.
"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."
You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”
"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."
The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.
It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”
The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.
Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."
He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.
-
Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.
Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.
Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.
It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.
Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.
Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.
Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.
He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.
"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.
Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."
“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."
"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."
“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”
Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.
“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."
"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"
"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."
"And yet you think she's wicked."
"I never said wicked. She's just strange."
Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.
"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."
"Minghao-"
"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"
"Son…"
"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."
Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.
“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”
The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.
"Who was he?" He asks.
"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."
“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.
“I became pregnant.”
The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.
“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”
"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"
She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."
Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.
In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.
It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.
He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.
If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.
“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.
“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."
Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.
As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.
Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.
Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.
He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.
"I have to handle this," he mutters.
"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"
"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."
"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."
Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."
Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.
"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."
"Blood for blood," she agrees.
As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.
Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.
But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.
-
Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.
Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.
The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.
A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.
She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.
You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.
Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?
It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.
Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.
The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.
"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"
“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”
Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.
"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.
"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."
The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.
"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."
She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.
Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.
The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.
Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.
Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.
“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"
"Who says I'm in trouble?"
"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."
You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”
Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”
“Not everything.”
"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."
"So you know who I am?"
Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.
“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”
"No."
"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."
You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”
The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.
"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."
She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"
You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"
Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"
"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”
Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.
“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”
"I don't know what the Virate is."
"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."
You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.
Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.
"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.
"Yes."
Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.
“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”
"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."
She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."
You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.
"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"
"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."
"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."
You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"
"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."
Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.
The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.
Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."
You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.
“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."
Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”
“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”
Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”
“I appreciate it.”
Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."
A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."
You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."
Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.
Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.
In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.
The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.
Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.
Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.
The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.
You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.
Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.
You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.
Still, the feeling follows.
Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.
Sato Ken.
The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.
You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.
Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.
A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.
It rings once. Twice.
“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.
Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.
The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"
You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.
"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."
"Wicked-"
"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."
Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.
“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."
Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.
When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.
"Is your husband coming?"
"Yes."
He nods. "Good."
-
Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.
This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.
Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.
Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.
Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.
He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.
You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.
Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.
The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.
Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.
Blood for blood.
It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.
"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.
As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.
"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"
Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”
Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"
"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."
"I'm listening."
"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."
Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"
"Agree to it before I say anything."
Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"
"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."
The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.
The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."
“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."
A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.
“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”
The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.
"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"
“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”
“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."
Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."
"Sure."
Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.
The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."
“Understood, sir.”
Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.
His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.
-
Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.
Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.
Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.
You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.
Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.
"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."
You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.
"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."
His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."
"I'm not worried."
"You think your husband is coming?"
"I know so."
He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"
“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"
His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."
“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”
Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.
“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”
“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"
"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."
The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.
Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."
The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.
"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."
It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.
"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."
Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.
Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.
"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.
You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.
"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"
You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.
“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”
Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."
Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”
“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”
Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”
Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.
You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.
The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.
Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.
Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.
Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.
"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."
Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.
Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.
Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.
"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.
Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.
Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair
His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.
"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."
Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.
“I’m okay," you whisper.
Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.
It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.
“You’re bleeding-"
“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."
"Minghao, you need stitches."
“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”
The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.
“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.
“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."
“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”
A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”
He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.
Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.
“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”
You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.
“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”
He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.
-
Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below
The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”
Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”
The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.
Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.
You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.
He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.
“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."
He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”
His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.
“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”
"So have them," you murmur.
He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.
The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"
“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.
Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.
He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.
“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.
Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.
“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.
He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.
“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”
Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.
“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.
He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”
Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.
He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.
“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.
He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.
He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.
“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”
He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.
“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"
Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.
The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.
"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”
You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.
He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.
“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”
You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.
Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.
"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."
You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.
You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.
After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.
“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."
"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."
Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.
-
The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.
This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.
You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.
A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.
“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."
part one • series masterlist • part two • part three
🔞 18+, minors DNI 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab
As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.
Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.
♫ Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now Starship
F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC
PAIRING: joshua x fem!reader
WC: 16.3k / 93.9k (complete)
TAGS: coworkers to best friends to ???, reader faces the typical misogyny you would expect in a male-dominated sport, nauseating levels of girl power, flashbacks (tags for whole fic can be found on the series masterlist)
A/N: there’s one thing i’m constantly clowning joshua for, and it’s his interview with mingyu for cosmopolitan where he’s like, “yeah, i’m fluent in spanish bc i took a year and a half of it in high school” and when mingyu tells him to speak, he goes, “hola! … joshua!” anyway. there’s your context for the flashback LOL. also, if you’ve been seeing what’s happening on my blog, you’ll understand why i don’t want to directly @ these people, but i wanted to thank them anyway. this update is brought to you by C for keeping me excited about writing this even when life was getting crazy; alta, hana, bee, and em for sprinting with me for hours; everyone in c&e who’s just been lifting my spirits the past few days (esp the above mentioned people + cam, celeste, ema, hali, jewel, bennie, jo, jess, tomo, and viv); and the amazing people who have been in my asks and inbox. y’all are what make this corner of caratblr lovely. i know i said i’d be posting weekly, but i will be taking a break after this update. more about that in the second a/n at the end. for now, enjoy!
SPANISH GRAND PRIX 2018
“Did you know I’m fluent in Spanish?”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, I studied it in high school.”
“Okay, say something.”
“Hola, soy Joshua.”
You wait a few moments for him to continue, but he doesn’t. You frown. “Is… is that all…?”
He doesn’t dignify that with a proper answer. “¿Cómo estás?”
“Estoy bien pero un poco cansada. ¿Y tu?”
“Bien!”
You’re willing to bet a month’s salary that Joshua had no idea what the first part of your response meant, but you let him keep his ruse up for a little longer. “Ah, me da gusto saberlo.” You watch as he closes in on Mercedes. “Podrás pasarlo en la siguiente recta.”
“Uh…”
You and Wonwoo both erupt into laughter at the way your driver’s brain immediately stalls. “You can pass Mercedes on the next straight.”
Once he does as he’s told, he sighs and says, “Okay, so I’m rusty.”
“Right.”
“I swear I’m fluent.”
“Sure.”
“How do you know Spanish?” he asks suddenly and in an accusatory tone. You can picture him narrowing his eyes at you in suspicion. You grin.
“I’ve picked up my fair share of languages traveling as much as we do for the job,” you explain. “Spanish, Italian, and French came easily. I’m sure you understand why—as a fluent Spanish-speaking citizen of the world, of course.”
Joshua scoffs loudly. “Of course! They all came from Latin. I’m not a complete idiot.”
“I never said you were,” you say, trying to suppress more laughter. “You’re 0.4 seconds from P5.”
“Copy.” After a moment, he asks, “Would you rather be able to know every language in the world or be able to talk to animals?”
You snort. “What?”
“Would you rather—”
“No, sorry, I heard you,” you clarify. “I guess your idea of race talk just surprised me. If racing at speeds upwards of 200mph has you bored, I can put your precious Maroon 5 on.”
“I’m not bored!” he protests, sighing dramatically when P5 defends his spot. “I’m just getting to know you.”
You don’t bother to point out that it’s only the ninth race of the season, and he already knows more about you than anyone else does. It’s nice to have someone who cares to ask you about yourself beyond the track. “P5 is going wide on the turns,” you inform Joshua before you say, “Talk to animals. I at least have the opportunity to learn every language if I wanted to, but I can’t learn to talk to animals. How about you?”
“Okay, fair,” he cuts himself off with a grunt as he overtakes P5. He continues like he’s not racing the Spanish Grand Prix for the first time ever right now. “But with our schedules, we probably wouldn’t be able to learn another language, and I’m not around enough animals, so… I’d choose to know every language in the world.”
“Also fair,” you nod as you look over his stats on your monitor. “Then you’d finally know Spanish.”
“I know Spanish!” he protests, seemingly more impassioned by convincing you he’s fluent in the language than he is about competing in F1 right now.
“Lo que tú digas.” You don’t give him a chance to pretend to know it means whatever you say. “Gap to P4 is 1.1. Leaders are head-to-head with P1-3 all nose to tail. If we box now, we can get you fresh rubber and fuel to last to the end.”
“Tires still feel… bien,” he mutters, at least having the good sense to sound embarrassed. You cover your face with your palm for a brief moment to keep from laughing. “I think I can stretch it.”
“Copy, but you’re about…” you glance at the performance engineer for a confirmation of the number you want to give Joshua, “six-tenths off our target pace right now. If you stay out, you risk giving P5 back to Williams.”
“Copy. We’ll be ahead of P4 after the pit stop?”
“Yup,” you say before Wonwoo gives you a look. “Affirmative,” you correct yourself quickly. “Then, we’ll have you attacking for the podium.”
“Okay, okay, got it, boss. Boxing now.” Joshua pulls into the pit lane and you swivel in your seat toward him to wave from the pit wall like you have been for every single pit stop he’s had since his debut. And just like every other time, you hear him huff a laugh as he waves back, the crew descending on his car like vultures. “Hola.”
“Oh my god, give it up,” you laugh, shaking your head. His eyes make crescents, crinkling in the corners and letting you know he’s smiling under his helmet.
“Fine. Maybe I need a tutor,” he admits, his car shaking him around as his tires are changed out. “Are you free?”
Just as fast as he came in, he’s being cleared to leave and he doesn’t hesitate, throwing a hand up at you in goodbye as he zooms past. You scoff. “To be your tutor? Not only do I not know enough Spanish to be your tutor, I also am not paid enough to add another thing to my plate.”
“What, you don’t like your entire life having to revolve around my wellbeing and success?” he asks sarcastically. You roll your eyes but smile all the same.
It’s not an exaggeration of what your job is, to be honest. Sure, most of your responsibilities that involved Joshua were on the track, but with how insistent the man was that you two stuck together for every waking moment you had at the McLaren facility, everyone had come to know you as Joshua’s person. If someone needed to get something to him and couldn’t find him, it went to you instead. If Joshua’s performance on the simulator was below target, you were expected to talk to him and figure out the issue, even if it meant he was just tired and needed to sleep (yes, you were expected to force him to leave the facility to rest and no, he would never leave, instead opting to nap on the couch in Wonwoo’s garage). As sarcastic as he’s being now, your life has very much become about Joshua Hong’s wellbeing and success.
“Clear to overtake P4, gap to leaders will be 0.7,” you say before sighing and leaning forward on your elbows to study the monitor. It’s a miracle you’ve learned to read it while Joshua spends every race yapping in your ear. “I guess I don’t mind it. Aside from your weird lucky helmets, you’re not too high maintenance.”
“You can’t hate my lucky helmets; you’re literally the reason I have my lucky helmets,” he tells you.
Wonwoo looks at you like you’re responsible for a crime against humanity. “You told him his helmets were lucky?!”
“I did no such thing,” you mutter, throwing a hand up lazily to wave him off. Joshua’s lucky helmets have been somewhat of a sore spot for the team—mostly because not enough people knew he was near neurotic about it and would get their grubby hands all over his precious helmet. “I’ll bite, Hong. What the hell are you talking about?”
He giggles like a delighted child as he takes P4, making the team smile at their monitors in endearment. When he regains his composure, he explains, “Melbourne. You were the last person to touch my helmet, and I became the first rookie to win their debut race.”
“Pfft, Wonwoo also touched your helmet,” you point out. He had handed you the helmet to hand to Joshua. After all, it seemed that no one bothered to do anything directly with the driver anymore now that you were considered an extension of him.
“Yeah, which is why only you two are allowed to touch my helmets,” he says as he closes in on P3, putting all four cars head to tail with both Ferrari drivers leading, Mercedes in the middle, and Joshua at the end. “The next race, someone else handed it to me, and I didn’t make the podium.”
“A little dramatic, but whatever,” you mumble as you set aside all the small talk. “This is going to be a hard podium to crack, Shua. You have two vets and Choi at P2.”
You hear the shift in his voice immediately as he locks back into being the competitive racer you know he is at his core. “Copy. I think I can overtake P3.”
“Agreed. His rears are fading,” you say as various stats are recited to you by the performance engineer. “You can take him on the final chicane if you stay on his ass; he’s been slow out of Turns 14 and 15.”
“Copy.” You watch as the podium leads Joshua into the final chicane, leaving close to no breathing room for the Mercedes vet in P3.
“Keep it clean…” you mutter quietly, mostly to yourself. Your driver seems to know that because he doesn’t entertain you with a response. All four cars play it safe, decelerating considerably on the chicane. Once they’re on the straight, you tell your driver, “You’re within DRS.”
He activates DRS as they approach the next turn, brakes late, and moves on the inside, easily and cleanly taking P3. You whistle as he announces, “Got through.”
“Amazing work, Shua,” you praise him as you turn your sights on Choi Seungcheol of Ferrari. “Podium at Barcelona-Catalunya for a rookie would be quite the achievement. Only one other driver has done it.”
“And how many drivers have cinched first?”
You sigh heavily, making Wonwoo laugh. “What, you expect him to settle for third?”
“I mean, it would be nice to sit back and take a break,” you joke with your boss. You like to pretend that your job would be easier if Joshua would just be happy with any spot on the podium, but Wonwoo knows better than anyone else how badly you need Joshua to get as many first place finishes as possible. He’s the only one that knows your contract is in jeopardy.
“Well?” Joshua probes you to answer a question he clearly already knows the answer to.
“None, Joshua,” you deadpan. “No rookies have gotten first place on this circuit.”
“Okay, relax,” he scoffs, most likely referring to your use of his full name. “Holding steady. What’s Choi’s deal?”
If it were up to you, the rundown you have on Choi Seungcheol would go something like this: Joshua’s fellow rookie driver is a Leo. His MBTI is ISTP. He’s 5’10”. He’s got a twin sister he’s fiercely protective of. He’s widely known to have the fattest, juiciest ass in F1 (the amount of edits online are both insane and awe-inspiring). He told Buzzfeed that his type is someone who’s into cars, understands the demand of his career, and is passionate about their own hobbies and interests. You think that sounds like you, but that’s definitely not what your driver is asking for right now. So instead of saying any of that and getting yourself fired, your eyes slide over to your performance engineer.
“P2’s front left tire is overheating, dropping his speed into turns,” he reports. “He’s also been prioritizing defending the inside of Turn 1 every single lap.”
“You’re on fresher rubber than he is,” you answer Joshua. “His front left is overheating and he’s covering the inside at Turn 1.”
“Leaving him slow on the next turns.”
“Exactly. Your window is going to be at Turn 4 next lap or the one after. Pressure him into Turn 1, he’ll defend the inside hard, and we’ll set it up for 4.”
“Copy.” He does exactly as you say when the time comes, even doing the things you didn’t have to say. Joshua baits Seungcheol by feigning an attack on the inside of Turn 1, just to back out at the last moment when the Ferrari driver brakes a little earlier than usual in an attempt to defend the inside. He enters and exits Turn 2 with his speed compromised, and when he tries to accelerate to make up for it into Turn 3, his front left tire slides a bit just like your team predicted it would.
“Okay, here it is,” you say as Joshua closes in on Seungcheol, even less room than he afforded Mercedes earlier. “Stay tight. He’s going to defend the inside line. Your tires have more traction; you’ll be able to take him on the outside.”
The only acknowledgment you get now is his driving. The two rookies go head to head on the apex of Turn 4, and when Seungcheol’s tires can’t hold traction as well, Joshua advances forward, edging him out on the exit and taking P2.
“Woo!” He immediately starts whooping and shouting, though by now, you’ve come to expect it and know to turn his volume down right before he takes spots close to first. “Through on P2!”
“Copy, you’re on your way to first, Hong.”
“All in a day’s work,” he says boastfully. He must know you’re rolling your eyes again because he follows it with “just kidding” fairly quickly after. “Choi is really giving me a run for my money.”
You hum as you watch Ferrari box Seungcheol. If you can get Joshua to overtake the other Ferrari driver, though, he won’t have time to catch up on the new tires. “Two remarkable rookies to watch in a season… it’s rare, but we know who the better one is.”
“We do,” Joshua agrees, “but just to be abundantly clear, I’d love to hear you say who you think that rookie is.”
You smirk because you want to choose Seungcheol just for the fact that his ass is so delectable in his race suit, but the clear answer is your driver. “Gotta be you. You have the best race engineer on the grid, after all.”
Anyone else probably would’ve scoffed and teased you for having a big head, but Joshua just hums in complete seriousness before saying, “Damn right.”
“You know…” you say as Joshua closes the gap between him and P1, “for someone I’d assume is under an immense amount of pressure, you’re so levelheaded and… casual during these things. Except when it comes to your helmets. Not-at-all levelheaded or casual.”
“Enough with the helmets,” he barks, though you hear the amusement in his voice. “Sorry, am I mistaken or do you want a high-strung driver?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He laughs. “Well, I guess it’s easy to stay this cool when you’re having this much fun,” he says just as he reaches P1’s tail.
Your job is the most fun you have, so you understand that, but at the same time, you don’t think anything is ever fun enough to forget about the nerves that come with being on the track with millions of eyes all over the world watching. You’re not even the one driving and you’re constantly getting pre-race jitters. The only thing that has calmed you down has been Joshua’s insistence that you two talk almost the entire race—save for his precious Maroon 5 breaks.
“Wow, your love for this sport never fails to astound me.”
He snorts. “Right. The sport.”
Before you can even think about wanting more clarification, the side of your brain focused on getting Joshua first place kicks into gear and your mouth is moving on its own. “P1 pushed hard fighting to keep this spot, Shua. If he doesn’t box soon, he’s going to be on dead tires, and there are only six laps left; they’re not going to risk boxing him now.” The only logical reason they have to box Seungcheol is to make sure he keeps P3 from Mercedes.
“He’s not going to give me an inch.”
“Just hold it steady. Don’t get too close. I think I have an idea.”
The Ferrari veteran is most definitely not going to give your driver an inch. When Joshua won Melbourne over this veteran, his post-race interview told you everything you needed to know about him. The words ring in your head now: I’ve been racing these tracks for more than a decade. I’ve had my fair share of overeager rookies who burn bright and fast. I’m not worried. Well, you decide for him now that he should be.
Unfortunately, it does take three laps for you to grasp a plan that will squeeze Joshua in.
“Okay, thank you for holding; I appreciate your patience,” you joke like you’re a customer service representative.
“Oh, no problem at all,” Joshua plays along even though any other driver probably would’ve been panicking with three laps to go and no word from their engineer. Instead, you can hear his smile through the radio. “Maybe next time, instead of leaving me with the voices in my head, you can play elevator music, though?”
“Noted,” you bite down a laugh. “This driver expects you to be aggressive and overeager, but we’ve kept you at a safe distance the last few laps. His guard is down and he’s going to expect you to attack at all the usual turns.” Joshua hums his understanding. “But you’re going to attack mid-lap. He’s not defending Turn 10.”
He barks his laughter at you. “You want me attacking on ten?!” It’s the most difficult turn on the circuit and everyone on the pit wall knows that. You get a few skeptical looks, but Wonwoo doesn’t even bother, his faith in you (as usual) completely unwavering.
“Ten,” you confirm. “With the heavy braking, he’s not going to expect you to try and take him there.” Joshua exits Turn 6, the two drivers quickly approaching the corner in question. “He’s convinced you’re going to pull the same thing you did with Choi—he keeps defending Turns 1-4 and leaving mid-lap open. I’m telling you: with your newer tires and his ego, you’re going to take it easily.”
Joshua sighs but other than that, he doesn’t place any doubt on you. “Copy. Ten.”
As they approach the most notorious turn at Circuit de Barcelon-Catalunya, you feel your palms get clammy, your body getting nervous enough for both you and Joshua. “He’s relaxing his line,” you inform him once P1 has his guard down. “The zone is open. Take your shot.”
“Copy,” he breathes. “Here goes.” It’s the first time you hear a bit of anxiety in the driver’s voice, and you know it’s because this has every opportunity to go badly if either driver loses their nerve. It’s too easy for accidents to happen at Turn 10.
“You got this, Shua,” you remind him quietly. “Best rookie on the grid.” He entertains you with a small exhale of laughter as he goes for it. You watch, dumbfounded, as Joshua easily passes the veteran up on the turn, his mastery of his car’s acceleration and deceleration so clear, it makes your pride swell uncontrollably. It’s obvious from the ease he took P1 with that the Ferrari driver didn’t even consider being overtaken on Turn 10 an option. He practically gave it to you two. “Woo! Easy!”
“Okay, let’s add psychology to the tutoring list,” Joshua breathes after laughing like a maniac. “How the hell did you know that was going to be so easy?”
“I’m magic” is all you offer. You grin wider when you hear commentary from the broadcast. What a masterclass in patience and timing. Hong and his race engineer are really shaping up to be this season’s dream team. Let's listen to the transmission leading up to that play.
“You certainly are,” Joshua agrees easily.
When the race is over, and the craziness of celebrating a rookie winning the Spanish Grand Prix for the first time passes, Joshua finds you the way he always does, wrapping you tightly in his sweaty hug that you never mind, his chin hooking over the crown of your head as he sways you both back and forth.
“Thank you for being as brilliant as always,” he says, pulling away. You grin back up at him.
“Thank you,” you say for the first time since he’s started this tradition of thanking you post-race. He looks at you quizzically and you explain, “You have so much fun out there that this has become fun for me too. I’m not going to pretend like I still don’t get anxious, but you bring a lot of joy into the sport. And I love it even more now because of you.”
His face softens at the words, his eyes getting so impossibly warm, you swear you’ll melt under his gaze. They search your face for a few moments, and just before you’re about to ask him what he’s looking at, his lips curl into a gentle smile, and you make a noise of surprise when he pulls you into another brief, tight hug. When he releases you, you add one more thing.
“Also, I don’t say this enough, but I’m so proud of you, Shua. Barcelona isn't an easy one, and you killed it out there. I’m so impressed.”
“Whoa, okay, enough,” he says, blushing as he does. You laugh as he huffs. “Don’t praise me so much or else I’ll have no choice but to win this circuit for you every year.”
You shrug a shoulder. “Eh. That would be a cake walk for you.” You falter a little when you notice the way his eyes don’t leave you—the way it almost feels like he wouldn’t be able to look away even if he desperately wanted to. “What?” you ask this time.
“Nothing,” he says quietly, shaking his head once and smiling that wide, beautiful smile of his. “Just enjoying the moment.”
“You and your moments,” you sigh. “Come on. Vamos a comer.”
“Oh, I know what that one means!” Joshua exclaims excitedly as he wraps an arm around your shoulder and you both walk toward the garage.
You hook your hand on his waist and roll your eyes. “Of course you do.”
“We’re going to go get our grub on!”
The months leading to the Academy’s season fly by faster than you’re ready for them to. It’s not that you’re surprised; after all, busy seasons of your life tend to go by quickly. It’s not that you’re nervous for the girls either because their stats have improved an unfathomable amount under Joshua’s tutelage. It’s the fact that with the start of the season upon you, you realize that you have a ticking clock until it’s time to bid Joshua farewell again. And after three months of spending practically every waking moment with him, you’re finding the idea more and more gut-wrenching than you already thought it before.
Since you both mustered up the courage to talk about Abu Dhabi, you’ve been glued to the hip—not that you weren’t already. But something opened up with Joshua after that night; he smiled more widely, laughed a lot harder, and (mortifyingly enough) showed affection with you more freely. Your nerves were frayed from having to anticipate his touches and refraining from flinching every time. Jihyo’s eyebrows were in danger of falling off her face from the constant wiggling they were doing in your direction when no one was looking. To top it all off, Eunchae’s comments were reaching a fever pitch alongside everything else; it was all, “Wow, ML, you look so pretty! Anybody would be so lucky to have you!” “I hope I find a best friendship like you two someday,” and “I watched an old race of yours, Josh! Your chemistry with ML is amazing—yes, of course, that’s what I meant! On-track chemistry! What else would I have meant?” And you’re not dumb; a part of you realizes this must be happening because you’re being too obvious. Maybe you didn’t need to have lunch with him every day. Maybe you didn’t need to have combined classes at least twice a week. Maybe you didn’t need to keep communicating via telepathy, as Eunchae would put it. But you also couldn’t stop. Time with Joshua felt like drugs to you, and you let yourself be greedy with it.
Every day after classes, if the two of you weren’t staying at the Academy working late, he’d come to your place to hang out or you'd show him around the city. More often than not, he was crashing in your second bedroom (an upgrade from the couch). It started with him passing out in your home in his outside clothes with only a spare travel toothbrush you found under your sink to brush his teeth. Then, one day, without either of you really noticing, he started keeping clothes at your place, even helping you do laundry on the weekends. Decided to leave a toothbrush in your bathroom. Got a spare key from you. It was clear to anyone with a pulse—none more so than to Jihyo—that he was practically moving in, but you held out on formally asking him anyway because that just blurred the lines for you too much. Even if it was temporary and even if he was going back home to Barcelona at the end of this, the mere idea of having him formally living in your apartment as your roommate had the potential to send you running to another country again. And you can’t run again because you promised Joshua you wouldn’t. But as you see it, the only way you’ll be able to give him a proper goodbye this time around is if you hold him at arm’s length. If you stop freely giving him all your time, if you stop getting used to having unlimited access to him, if you stop yourself from falling deeper and deeper in love the way you have been every day since he came back to London with you… then maybe you have a chance of saying goodbye without your heart being totally shattered into teeny tiny pieces.
Because that’s the point of all this. The entire point of getting him to the Academy wasn’t so Jihyo could have a star instructor; when you found him in Barcelona, you promised yourself you were going to make Joshua fall in love with racing again. And if you succeed—and you still fully plan on succeeding—saying goodbye is mandatory.
So that’s what you do. You hold him at arm’s length. One month from the girls’ first race of the season, you start drawing lines between you and Joshua. When he asks what you two are doing for lunch at the Academy, you make the excuse of having office hours with the girls or having to meet with Jihyo. When he shows up at your office at the end of the day ready to walk out together, you feign having too much work and stubbornly deny letting him stay to help you. When he tells you he misses your breakfasts, you remind him they can’t be better than room service at a 5-star hotel. When he says he needs to stop by to get something he left at your place, you tell him you’ll just gather up all his stuff and bring it in the next day. That last one seems to do the trick because beyond giving you a hurt look that threatens to crush your soul, he also stops coming by to check in as often, several times a day dwindling down to one or two.
Now, it’s time to go to Shanghai for the girls’ first race weekend, and you’re seated next to Jihyo after you pretended not to notice that Joshua saved the seat next to him for you. A seat that is now occupied by Eunchae, who won’t stop talking (loudly) about you.
“I know what you’re doing,” Jihyo says about an hour into the flight, when the girls’ conversations have settled down to a low murmur and the plane is cruising.
“Hm?” you hum as you pretend to be busy on your phone.
“I know what you’re doing!” she repeats, letting her irritation color her voice as she snatches your phone out of your hand. You scoff in surprise and look up at her to find her glaring at you. It’s a feat to keep from cringing away under the intensity of it. “Why are you avoiding him?” The question at least comes out in a low whisper no one else will hear.
“I don’t know what—”
“Yes you do, let’s skip that bullshit,” Jihyo interjects. “What’s going on with you two? Did you finally touch lips? Did you get freaked out?”
You hate that you wish that’s what it was even though that would just complicate everything even more. “No, we did not touch lips, you weirdo. We really need a better HR department, by the way.” Jihyo rolls her eyes at that one but her glare doesn’t let up. You sigh. “I’m just… thinking about how we’ll have to say bye again at the end of the season, and I’m making it a little easier on myself.”
Jihyo’s expression softens into something a little less severe. She leans back in her seat as her mouth makes a small o of understanding. “You’re pushing him away before he can say bye.” She doesn’t wait for you to confirm or deny it. “God, you’re so dumb.”
“What?!” you squeak loud enough that Joshua’s gaze slides from Eunchae to you. You accidentally meet it before looking away quickly. “What do you mean I’m dumb?” you ask in a whisper this time. “I’m just a woman protecting her heart! You monster.”
“You’re a coward who can’t communicate her feelings properly, so instead, you childishly—and unfairly, I might add—ice your best friend out. You monster.”
“I’m not icing him out,” you protest. “I still talk to him and see him every day.” You wouldn’t be able to fully ice Joshua Hong out if you wanted to. The man was constantly in your office even with the millions of excuses you’ve used at this point. “I’m just trying to limit the amount of time I do those things.”
“And that’s unfair.”
“Why is it unfair?”
“Because he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away!” she points out. “Look at him—okay, well don’t look at him right now; he’s looking over here. But the man is clearly distraught over the sudden limits you’ve single-handedly placed on your friendship. Even if I weren’t shipping the hell out of you two—and rest assured, I absolutely still am—I would still tell you what you’re doing isn’t very nice.”
It’s an admonishment you expect from a kindergarten teacher to a toddler, but it works. An ugly, tight ball of shame forms at the bottom of your stomach. You look up at Jihyo earnestly, as a friend and not as your boss. “Jiji…” you sigh. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” she says plainly. “It’s a scary thing. But isn’t it nice that you two have cleared the air and become even closer? Don’t you think that the goodbye at the end of this season will be a lot better than the one in Abu Dhabi? This one won’t feel so final. You’ll be able to text and call and video chat and visit. It doesn’t have to feel like forever this time.”
She’s right, and it’s something you’ve tried to tell yourself too, but the truth is, nothing compares to having Joshua to yourself all hours of the day. You’re just stopping yourself before you become too codependent.
“It’s not going to work,” Jihyo says bluntly when you don’t respond. “It’s going to hurt even more because he’ll leave, and sure, the goodbye might feel less significant, but when he’s not here, you’ll miss him, and you’ll regret losing out on all the time you could’ve just enjoyed together.” She hands you your phone back and shakes her head. “It’s not going to work.”
“You’re the one that always warns us not to let men distract us,” you point out petulantly, having run out of valid counterpoints. She snorts and rolls her eyes.
“First of all, I say that to teenage girls who have yet to fully develop frontal lobes that will allow them to distinguish men of quality from men who will derail their lives.” Fair, you hate to admit it so you don’t. “Second of all, look me in the eye and tell me you really think Joshua Hong is just a distraction.” When you stay silent for several moments, she smirks and slips her eye mask over her face, seemingly in favor of a nap over continuing to berate some sense into you. “I rest my case. Stop ignoring the guy.”
That guy is persistent in not letting you ignore him because when Saki, who was seated across the aisle from you, stands to use the restroom about a half hour later, her seat is quickly replaced by your best friend. You startle a little, reluctantly moving one headphone aside so that it’s no longer covering the ear closest to him. When you look over, he has one elbow on the armrest, his other hand resting on his wrist as he leans over toward you, a small smile on his lips.
“Need any dramamine? I’m stocked up,” he informs you. You almost want to groan and scream at him to stop being so thoughtful and sweet and heartbreakingly perfect. Only he would remember to buy dramamine despite having zero issues with motion sickness himself. He only ever brought it on trips for you.
And you hate that you have to say, “Actually, yes” because you forgot to bring some yourself. Like you always do. His smile grows and he reaches into his pocket, producing a small tube of the pills and handing them to you. “Thank you,” you mutter as you take one. When you try to hand the tube back, he shakes his head and gestures for you to keep it. You stifle the urge to yell at him.
“So,” he says slowly, his lips curling into a smirk, “how do you like sitting next to Jihyo?” You follow his gaze to find Jihyo with her head tilted back, mouth wide open as she slumbers. You turn back and bite back a sigh.
“It’s fine,” you lie. “Peaceful, I guess.”
“Must be nice,” he grumbles as you both look back to his seat partner to find Eunchae trying to look nonchalant as she sneaks glances at the two of you. She’s failing. “Do you even realize how much that girl loves you? She will not stop talking about you.” Your cheeks burn because you know Eunchae is not chatting Joshua’s ear off about you just because she loves you (though you don’t doubt she does). “And I get it, I assume I’m like that too when you’re not around, but I really think she thinks it’s a competition… and that she can actually beat me. Which, she can’t. Obviously.”
“Oh, shut up,” you say, trying not to smile at the thought of Joshua talking about you whenever you’re not around. It’s astounding, actually, that you can dodge him for weeks on end, and all it takes is a few words from him to have you blushing like this.
He grins. “Any chance I can convince you to trade seat partners?”
“I don’t know that Eunchae wants to sit next to her CEO,” you say truthfully because you know she’ll spend the rest of the 12-hour flight trying not to breathe wrong.
“Who said anything about Eunchae sitting next to Jihyo?” he snorts. “I meant you take the chatter box, and I take Sleeping Beauty over here. I could use the silence.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes your mouth then. You catch Eunchae tamping down her own smile as she looks away from her two teachers. “Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I think I like my seat.”
He sighs, faking a pout. “Fine. And I take it you won’t switch with Eunchae either?” he asks, the hope in his voice potent. You shake your head again and he nods in defeat. “Worth a try.” You hum and silence falls over you. You watch as Saki exits the restroom, stopping at Eunchae’s row to talk to her when she notices Joshua in her own seat. “Hey.” His voice suddenly turns serious. “I miss you.”
You look away from the two girls to look at Joshua. His eyes are big and shiny and a little sad, and you feel an immense pang of guilt. You brought him to London and you insisted this would be good for him. And even though you get the feeling you’re reigniting his love for his sport, you should also be doing everything to make sure he’s having a good time, even if that means you’re left behind with a broken heart at the end. Jihyo is right. It’s just going to hurt more when you’ve actually run out of time with him and realize you’ve spent it so poorly. Still, you can’t bring yourself to admit that right now. Not 10,000 feet up in the air at least.
“I’m right here,” you say, hoping it will suffice until you can properly sort through your feelings.
He watches you for a moment more like he’s trying to discern whether or not you really believe that—that you’re here and present with him right now. You know he sees right through you, but he doesn’t call you out on it. He just gives you a tight smile before exhaling forcefully through his nose and standing. “I’ll see you when we land, then.”
Saki is back in her seat moments after that and although she’s not as forward as Eunchae, you don’t miss the way she side-eyes you like she knows you’ve been acting weird and she’s trying to make sure you’re okay. You’re not sure you are.
Joshua was serious in his insistence that he “see you when we land” because as soon as you’re all given the go-ahead to get up and out of your seats around 10 hours later, the man is retrieving your carry-on from your overhead for you, holding it the whole way to baggage claim, lugging your suitcase from the carousel, and basically strongarming you into a window seat on the shuttle to the hotel, trapping you in when he slouches into the aisle seat. You simply stare at his knee pressed up against yours to accommodate how spread his legs are.
“What are you up to tonight?” he asks casually. You watch as Jihyo makes her way down the aisle, willing her to look at you and see the silent cry for help you’re sending. She doesn’t even breathe in your direction, though you know she’s well aware of your predicament because she struggles to hide her amused smirk as she moves along.
“Uh…” You try to stall because the truth is you have absolutely no plans, and saying “work” isn’t going to cut it because Joshua knows that the entire staff is free to do as they please. You curse Jihyo for the millionth time as you think back to her reminding everyone to stay away from work and relax since it’s basically the only night anyone will be able to. “Sleeping.”
“It’s 2 p.m.”
“Jet lag.”
“And the best way to beat jet lag is to stay up.”
You try your best not to bite your knuckle and scream from how hard he’s making this—as if it isn’t already impossible to begin with. “Is it?” you ask, tilting your head and averting your eyes from his knee. “I feel like I could probably sleep all the way through to the morning.” It’s not a complete lie. You are exhausted. Mostly from the emotional labor of avoiding Joshua.
When he doesn’t respond, you look over to find his eyes narrowed at you. “Okay,” he says slowly, elongating the word so that you know he doesn’t buy anything you say for a moment. You just narrow your eyes back at him. “Well, you at least need to eat.”
“I was just going to do room s—”
“Y’know, you’re really testing my patience.”
You stop speaking, leaning back a little in surprise. In all the years you’ve known Joshua, he’s never snapped at you off the track; even on the track, the times he “lost it” were fairly mild.
“What?”
He laughs through his nose, and you honestly can’t tell if it’s humorless or if he’s genuinely laughing at how difficult you’re being. He shakes his head and smiles. “Nothing. Here.”
He hands you one of his earbuds before situating himself so he’s half turned away from you, and because your feelings can’t make up their mind, you have the audacity to feel affronted at the literal cold shoulder. You look down at the earbud, a little confused until you realize your own headphones are in your carry-on… which he packed away for you in the shuttle’s luggage bay. As always, heartbreakingly perfect.
After the first two songs, you sigh and nudge his knee. At first, he clearly pretends to ignore it, but you just shove him harder. He glances at you, not even having it in him to properly glare at you.
“I can do dinner.”
He grins widely. “Perfect.”
The Academy’s race weekend, like it often does, coincides with F1’s. Usually, on weekends that overlapped, you spent the day feeling a little anxious. Two years had gone by without you ever running into Joshua, or anyone else from McLaren for that matter, but you always went into the weekend with a tiny ball of dread in the pit of your stomach. You would see his face everywhere—on posters, on the broadcast, on fans’ signs, shirts, and merch—but never in person, and every time, instead of feeling relieved over it, you’d feel a little disappointed.
Now, you’re at Shanghai International Circuit, your eyes trained right on the driving instructor as you stand next to your CEO, and you’re confused to find that you still feel those lingering bits of anxiety. This time, because you have no idea what to do with him—how to move forward with him. Do you just lean right back in? Go back to spending all hours of the day together? It would be easy to. After your shuttle ride to the hotel two days ago, the two of you spent the afternoon together settling in and wandering around the hotel until dinner, which lasted three hours with all the talking you two did—talking that made your food go cold before either of you fully enjoyed it.
Or, is there a way to do this so that you can still protect your heart without hurting him? Do you try to draw fairer boundaries? Boundaries that you can discuss together instead of imposing by yourself? But how do you talk to Joshua about boundaries without having to explain to him it’s because you’re in love with him?
As you stand next to Jihyo, showing your support while the girls do their pre-practice huddle with their driving instructor, you’re riddled with a million more questions than answers. And they all fly right out of your head whenever you lay eyes on him. The F1 driver is in a moisture-wicking tee that sports the Academy’s colors and fits his biceps and pecs entirely too well, carving out every dip and curve deliciously. He’s in black fitted joggers, sneakers you know are more expensive than your entire outfit, and an Academy-branded cap to match the shirt, his sunglasses resting on top of the cap’s lid so that he can, you assume, make eye contact with his students. You hate that you’re thrilled every time he makes eye contact with you, though, and it happens enough times that you’re leaning more toward spending all hours of the day together again.
Shanghai International Circuit is buzzing with the excitement of thousands of people—hundreds of them right there in the paddocks with the students, who are all awestruck by the commotion of this side of the world. The deafening roar of the cars as they whiz by, the pit crews taking note of their equipment, the drivers shouting over the noise about what is and isn’t working with their cars, the VIPs boisterously laughing and shrieking, no doubt already drunk this early in the day—it’s all new to the girls, and you can see in their eyes just how badly they want to be a part of all of it.
To be fair, Joshua had their attention for a good ten minutes, until the F1 drivers’ FP1 ended. After that, you watch in sheer amusement as he tries and fails to keep the girls’ focus for more than a second; there are just too many stars passing by for them to give their teacher anything other than distracted glances. The man constantly has to repeat himself, answer the same questions over and over again, and deal with students asking—screaming—about every famous driver that walks by.
“Wait, is that Choi Seungcheol?”
“Oh my god!”
“That’s totally S. Coups! I know F1’s ass when I see it!”
“Josh! Do you know him? Is he as dark and broody as he seems?”
“Is his ass as plump as it looks?”
“How would Josh know that?”
“Girls, please don’t objectify the drivers. We—”
“Oh my god! He’s coming this way!”
“Choi Seung—”
“Shut up, Sophia! Have some decorum! You can’t just scr—OH MY GOD, KWON SOONYOUNG?! KWON SOONYOUNG!”
“Soonyoung! Soonyoung! I love you!”
“Jesus Christ,” Joshua mutters as he pulls the lid of his cap lower over his face like that will hide him from his peers.
You think it might’ve been a good idea for the girls to have one or two sessions with the Academy’s PR team, but that ship has sailed and you’re thoroughly delighted by the faces Joshua makes as he tries to figure out how to best navigate the hormones of teen girls.
“You see why I tell these little gremlins to mind their distractions?” Jihyo mutters without looking at you. “Frontal lobes. Underdeveloped and obsessed with the likes of Kwon Soonyoung. Silly.”
“He’s cute,” you mutter, shrugging as you watch the driver in question turn at the commotion, smiling widely at the girls and nodding once before continuing on to the McLaren garage. He is cute. Not Joshua Hong cute. But he’s cute.
“Right. A cute crashout waiting to happen,” Jihyo scoffs. “Not sure why they’d still be letting him race.” You don’t respond because Joshua’s voice is suddenly doubling in volume.
“Girls!” he shouts just as Eunchae gets her hand around Sophia’s mouth, wrestling her away from the outskirts of the group, where all the F1 drivers are walking by. Eunchae rips her hand away in disgust and Sophia laughs, obviously having licked her palm. “I hate to be this guy, but if I need to ask CEO Park over there to remind you all about distractions, I’m not above that,” he says, tilting his head back so he can cock an eyebrow at the group from under his cap.
All heads snap back toward you and Jihyo, and several girls wince when they inadvertently crack their necks doing so. Jihyo gives them a flat stare, and the next response Joshua gets is their wide eyes and their silence. He smiles at them.
“Perfect!” He claps once. “Now, FP1 starts in just 30 minutes, which means I want you in your cars and ready to go in 15. You’ll connect with your engineer on the wall, you’ll take a formation lap, and whenever the two of you are ready, you’ll go ahead and take as many laps as you need. Just remember, you only get 40 minutes. When you get into F1 someday, it’ll be one, full hour.”
He does that with everything he says to the girls; he teaches them Academy standards, then never forgets to teach them what it will be like when they reach F1—never if, always when. You never miss the ambitious glint in the students’ eyes whenever he says it too. It’s infectious and it reminds you of what it feels like to chase a dream.
“After FP1, we’ll break for adjustments and lunch, and then you girls go into your first-ever Qualifying! How are we all feeling? Excited, hopefully?” You see Joshua’s own elation shining in his eyes as he looks around expectantly. It’s how you know this is all working; his help with the girls is reminding him how much he loves the thrill of the race.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” Megan grumbles. It’s just a passing comment, but Joshua takes it seriously, nodding. His hand disappears into the pocket of his joggers, and when it comes back out, he has a small piece of candy in it. He steps forward and hands it to her.
“Ginger chew,” he explains when she takes it with wide eyes. “They help with nausea.”
“Aw,” Megan coos mostly to herself as she immediately unwraps it and pops it in her mouth. “Thanks, Josh.”
“Don’t sweat it,” he smiles before looking at the other girls. “I have an obscene amount of those ginger chews in my backpack, so if anyone else thinks they’re going to throw up—which, completely fine, completely normal—”
Jihyo laughs and leans over to whisper, “He’s so good with the girls.” It’s an observation that anyone would be able to make, but for some reason, it makes you feel warm. He is so good with the girls—maybe even better than you are.
“Let me know and I’ll grab you one,” he says, pausing to make sure the girls nod their understanding before he continues. “Other than that, how are we?”
“I hate that we’re competing with each other,” a student named Lexie says from the back, a scowl on her face. “These are my friends.”
Joshua purses his lips, nodding slowly as he clearly tries to figure out what he wants to say. You and Jihyo could easily step in here to talk about the complexities of having to compete with other girls when it feels like there’s already so little space for women in the sport as it is; the two of you have had to discuss it several times with the current and past classes anyway. But Joshua doesn’t give either of you the chance to do so. Instead, he tackles the sentiment with grace and elegance and with no help from you or his CEO.
“I’m not going to pretend like I understand how frustrating it is to be pit against each other like this,” he says. “No one needs to remind you that, yes, I am a man.”
“And we’ve already forgiven you for that, Josh,” Sophia assures him, the other girls nodding along seriously.
He laughs. “Thanks, Soph.” He gathers his thoughts before proceeding. “I am familiar with the awkwardness of competing against friends; I did it every day. But I know the fact that you’re all young women adds an extra layer of… difficulty to this.” He sighs and steps forward, waving the girls to form a tighter circle around him. You and Jihyo join them, too curious about what he’s going to say to keep the distance you have been up until now. “Look, I’m going to be real with you. I know you all feel like there’s only room for one driver in the Academy to advance to F3, F2, and F1, and I don’t blame you. That thought has probably been drilled into your heads relentlessly since first stepping foot in London.
“I’ve seen and heard firsthand how hard it is for women in this sport.” His eyes flitting to you super briefly. The girls catch it, though, and some of them look over at you, expressions a mixture of respect and sympathy. “I know firsthand there are too many people—too many men here that don’t want to see you join their ranks. They’ll tell you they support this program and that they’re excited for the day women are more widespread in F1, just to insist there’s only space for one of you in the same breath.
“Do not—do not ever let them convince you that’s true,” Joshua says with a vehemence so fierce, it threatens to make you cry. “If you learn just one thing from me this season, I want it to be this: this seems like a competition now, but there’s room for every single one of you. This is my sport. This is my track. This is my world.”
The confidence that Joshua says those words with fills you with so much relief, you could fall to your knees. He used present tense. He knows this is still his if he wants it.
“I’m more than qualified to tell you that there isn’t a student in this season who doesn’t deserve to enter F1. You’d give some of these same men you’re screaming over some real competition.” Several students grin widely, like the idea of beating Seungcheol’s ass on the track is now a lot more appealing than seeing how plump that same ass is. “Give it your all on the track, and don’t leave any room for regrets, but know that when you all get out of those cars, you’re all still going to have something a lot of these guys don’t even have: best friends to lean on and turn to,” he assures the students. “What do you guys always call it… girlhood. I’m lucky enough to witness how precious that is every day in class with you. Don’t let them take that away from you. Don’t let them tell you it has to be F1 or your friend.”
The words strike you personally because isn’t that exactly what you did? Didn’t you tell yourself it was F1 or Joshua? And you both know what you chose. You try to imagine what a world where you had both looked like. You can’t, not at McLaren, anyway. The CEO had been too eager to cast you out in those first few months as a race engineer, and you didn’t doubt that your situation would have been reason enough for him to fire you and give some other family member a try.
“Josh,” Eunchae says quietly, almost drowned out by the noises that score race weekend. “You’re a great teacher. You’re really for the girls.”
Every student nods her head in agreement, and you find yourself and Jihyo following suit. A soft pink dusts over Joshua’s cheeks, and he smiles, his eyes twinkling with gratitude at the appreciation. “Thank you, Eunchae. I’m not entirely sure what that last part means, but I’m 90% sure I appreciate it.”
“You should 100% appreciate it!” someone claims. There’s a chorus of affirmations and he grins.
“Okay, well then thank you, girls. You all make teaching very easy. And thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. If any more pop up, or if you want to talk without an audience, let me know, alright?” He nods and looks down at his phone, scrolling through his notes. “Just a few logistical reminders before we head over…”
“God, have these always been so emotional?” Jihyo asks as he lists the housekeeping items. The CEO sniffles as she shoves her oversized glasses up the bridge of her nose violently. You try not to gawk at her and when she notices you staring, she turns her hand palm up, wrist going limp as she wiggles her head at you. “What? It was emotional.”
“No, yeah, for sure, it was emotional,” you agree. “I’m just… I am not used to—” she shoots you a look you can tell is severe even with the sunglasses. “Nothing. I’m not used to nothing.”
Happy with that response, she nods once and turns back toward the driving instructor.
A few moments later, Joshua suddenly calls your name and you feel like a student getting called on for a question when you were just nodding off to sleep—except instead of sleeping, you’re thinking about how Jihyo was right; pre-practice huddles have never been that emotional—not the first of the season or even the last of the season. You’re thinking about how this might be the most confident an Academy class has ever been going into their first race. You’re thinking about how perfect Joshua is for this role. You’re thinking about Joshua, period. He gestures to you and the girls look back.
“Can you give us a reminder of what we should be paying attention to during FP1?” he asks, giving you an unrestrained smile. It only took some of your time and attention to do that; before your dinner together, those smiles were much smaller. Much more… joyless.
You nod. “Um. Yes, of course. Just—uh, spend the first few laps working with your engineer on getting your setup right. You can be 100% on the simulator and completely blow it on the track if you overestimate your familiarity and neglect the fine tuning. Get to know the circuit—every crack, bump, turn—get a hang of how your tires feel, and when in doubt, ask your engineer.”
“And when your engineer asks for a radio check, make sure you sing them a good song,” Joshua adds. “I recommend Sunday Morning.” You bite your lip to control your smile.
“What’s that?” Eunchae asks.
Joshua’s mouth falls open. “Sunday Morning? By Maroon 5?” He’s met with blank looks.
“Okay, old man, go get your students ready,” Jihyo says, waving a hand and trying not to laugh. Joshua sighs and obliges, turning without another word and waving for his students to follow. “Good luck, everyone! You’re gonna do awesome!”
“Remember everything you learned in evaluations!” you add as they all start to follow Joshua away.
“Let’s kick ass, ladies!” Sophia whoops, jumping and clapping, very clearly hyped after Joshua’s pep talk. Her classmates echo that energy, and you’re warmhearted to watch them all leave, their spirits high.
“Thanks, Mick! Thank you, CEO Park.”
“Thanks, ML!”
“Thank you, both!”
When they’ve all filed away, Jihyo turns to you, a small pout on her lips. You would guess your face is doing the same thing. “He’s perfect for this.”
“I know,” you sigh, the previous fear that drove you to holding him at arm’s length wiggling its way back into your chest. You try your best to ignore it. “I can’t believe it’s only for one season.”
Jihyo doesn’t respond right away, just watching you carefully. Finally, she smiles and completely changes the topic. “So I see you are no longer ignoring the love of your life.”
You try your best not to sigh deeply. She can read you like an open book, and it’s both touching and grating. “Again… I was not ignoring him; I was drawing boundaries on our friendship.” She stares at you blankly. “But yeah, I’m not ignoring him anymore.”
She grins and claps a few times before she starts walking toward the pit wall. You fall into step beside her. “It’s kind of crazy seeing how different the vibes can change with you two.”
“What do you mean?” you ask even though you think you know. It was in the way Joshua’s smile changed in the span of two days. It was in the way you felt lighter and happier. The way even the girls seemed to have let out a breath they were all holding. You still want to hear someone confirm your own thoughts, though.
“I mean, it’s been so… dismal being around you both this past month,” she says bluntly. “Also, I’m just gonna be so incredibly honest with you… you guys slip on the quality of your work when you’re sad.”
That stops you mid-step and she turns, startled to see you stopped in the middle of a high-traffic area, several people having to step around the two of you. “Excuse me?” you squeak. You have never gotten feedback about the quality of your work slipping. “What do you mean the quality of my work slipped?”
“Babe,” Jihyo laughs a little as she retraces her steps to meet you once more. “The spreadsheets you sent me two weeks ago for the girls’ latest grades? You remember that?” You nod, still looking at her like she’s grown two extra heads. “You left Saki’s row completely blank. I didn’t bother asking you because I know she’s your top student, but… hello?” You balk at her. There’s no way you completely missed that. “On top of that, you forgot to change the file name from your very cleverly titled, ‘girls just wanna have F1.’”
Your palm meets your forehead before she even finishes her sentence. “Oh my god. I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jihyo snorts, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand back down to your side. “If it were an issue, I would’ve talked to both of you. But I knew you two were just being weirdos. Besides, they weren’t even huge mistakes.” She loops her arm through yours, ushering you to keep walking alongside her.
“Well, what were Joshua’s mistakes?” you ask, feeling guilty that he was distracted enough to make a mistake because of you. Joshua did everything in his life to near perfection; it’s why you two worked so well together. It was excellence or nothing.
“Nothing too important. Forgot a 1:1 meeting we had scheduled… sent me an email meant for someone else,” she says. The smile on her lips tells you she’s not being entirely truthful. But you reach the pit wall and the girls’ FP1 starts soon. You have a job to do, so you let her have her secret for now, making a note to yourself to ask her again later; you’ve learned enough about Jihyo to know to be most suspicious of her when she’s quiet.
The girls’ very first FP1 goes smoothly, mostly without any issues aside from some nerves and jumpy driving. By the time they go into Qualifying, not only are they warmed up; they’re out for blood. F4 cars are, on average, 50-70mph slower than F1 cars, but even with as seasoned as you are, it’s hard to tell the difference with your naked eye. It always makes you a little nervous, especially with nothing to do other than supervise, to watch teenage girls going at neck-breaking speeds and listening to them laughing and shrieking like little, adrenaline-crazed banshees. Thankfully, no one crashes (or crashes out), and although there are somber faces, there are no tears at the end of the race. You think you can attribute that to Joshua’s pep talk.
By the end of the day, the three drivers at the top of the lineup are Saki, a student named Lara, and Megan, who thankfully, did not throw up and was absolutely convinced ginger chews were witchcraft. You’re in the Academy suite, refilling your water bottle, when Eunchae, Sophia, and Saki come into the room, heads frantically snapping back and forth as they look for someone. When they gasp at you at the water cooler, you know you’re that someone.
“Can I help you, ladies?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at them.
“Josh is taking all the students out to dinner to congratulate us on our first track run!” Sophia nearly screams. You smile as you bring your bottle up to your lips for a sip. The first round of the season is always funny because the adrenaline seemingly never leaves the girls’ systems all weekend, resulting in a lot of screeching.
“Aw, that sounds fun,” you comment as you go toward the break table to grab your laptop and backpack. “I know the man is loaded but please have some manners and refrain from draining his bank account, okay?”
“No promises,” Saki says quietly, her energy much more subdued than the other two but buzzing all the same.
“Well, he asked us to come get you!” Eunchae informs you. Your eyebrows raise as you throw your backpack on. “He went ahead to the restaurant to reserve tables! All the other drivers are waiting for the four of us at the shuttle! We’ll go back to the hotel to freshen up first then meet at the restaurant.”
“Oh, girls, I don’t know, I’m tired and I have jet lag and…” you trail off, shrugging your shoulders and hoping that will be enough, but these are teenage girls with no tact so of course it’s not.
“And…?!” Sophia taunts. “Come on Mick, we just raced for the first time! Celebrate with us!”
“Technically, your first race isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Oh my god,” Eunchae groans, inadvertently shaking Saki, who her arm is interlocked with, when she stomps her foot in protest. “You know what we mean, ML! Come on. Come with us! Please?” She elongates the word and you know what comes next.
Both Sophia and Saki take it as their cue to join in, all three of them parroting the word PLEASE at you at varying levels of volume, elongation, and desperation.
“Joshua told us not to come back without you!” Sophia pleads.
“He told us we can’t come at all unless we get you to come too!” Eunchae adds. Both Sophia and Saki falter at that, throwing their friend an incredulous look.
You laugh at that. Joshua would never withhold that kind of happiness from the girls. You tell her just as much. “Okay, he would never say that. Besides, I think he’ll understand that I’m tired, and—”
“He will not!” the youngest disagrees, shaking her head vehemently, her bangs still sticking to her forehead with sweat. “We’re a team! The team is not complete without our ML!”
It touches your heart in ways you can’t explain with words. You always got close to every season of girls, but there was something about this year’s class. Maybe it’s that they’ve been so devoted to befriending not only each other but the staff as well—to degrees previous classes didn’t bother with. Whatever it was, Eunchae knew you had a soft spot for them and she constantly abused it.
“Okay, so then is CEO Park invited?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at them, knowing they would sooner release you from dinner obligations than have to sit and worry about acting appropriately in front of the Academy’s big boss. They all stop their chorus of begging and stare at you like you’ve just doused them with cold water. “She’s a part of the team too, no? And the rest of the pit wall? The crew?”
“Well,” Sophia clears her throat when Eunchae looks to her for help. “Um… Josh didn’t quite say?” She squints at the ceiling like she knows it’s not a good enough explanation for why only you’re invited.
“You told us not to break Joshua’s bank,” Saki points out. “So we’re keeping it as minimal as possible.” She counts on her fingers. “Students, Joshua, you. It would be a little rude to invite people Joshua didn’t give us permission to invite, right? Maybe we can have a bigger team dinner with everyone after the actual races… on the company card!”
You sigh. These two would bring the one student with them that could talk her way out of that. “And you’re sure I can’t just join you for that post-race dinner?”
They all shake their heads resolutely. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Joshua, right?”
“Joshua?” you repeat, frowning. “Why would that disappoi—”
“Us,” Sophia corrects Eunchae, pinching the elbow she has her arm looped through without looking at her. “She meant you wouldn’t want to disappoint us, right, Mickie? We really want you there.”
They look at you with their huge, shiny eyes and you know you’re done. You heave a sigh, and just like their CEO, they don’t have the modesty to at least wait for you to vocalize your surrender. They immediately erupt into victorious cheers, Eunchae and Sophia untangling from each other to squeeze you between them, their arms linking with yours.
“Yay! Let’s go!” Sophia screams, probably shattering your ear drums.
Joshua either knows someone at the restaurant or he promised them his first-born child because when you all arrive, the establishment—beautiful, chic, and in the heart of the city—is teeming with patrons, the ambiance bright, fun, and lively. And despite the wait being over two hours with not a single open table in sight, the driving instructor managed to snag a private room. And that private room is in a greenhouse patio with the most beautiful view of the city’s lights.
“Holy shit?” someone mutters just ahead of you when you follow the group and the restaurant's host into the room reserved for Hong. You don’t even berate whoever it is for her language; you heard way worse over the radio today, and you share her sentiment. Holy shit is the only proper reaction.
“Hey!” Joshua exclaims, rising from his seat, where he was scrolling on his phone. He spreads his arms out wide, very clearly proud of snagging the room. He’s freshly showered, hair still a little wet and pushed away from his bare face. He’s in white sweats, an oversized white tee, and his glasses once again. “Well? Isn’t it pretty? Not bad for a congratulatory dinner, no?”
“Yes!” Lara exclaims softly, eyes huge as she looks around, mouth slightly ajar in awe. “It's gorg!”
“Sit, sit!” he says, gesturing to the open seats. “I already ordered basically the whole menu—don’t worry! All allergies taken into account!”
“Oh my god, the March photo dump is gonna go so crazy,” Sophia murmurs, already straying from the others, who start to take their seats, to take several photos of the view.
When the group separates to claim their seats (with Eunchae not-so-subtly shoving girls away from the seat across from Joshua at the end of the table), the instructor’s eyes rise up to meet yours as you walk up to the spot you know the student is saving for you. It only takes one look at the astounded expression on your best friend’s face for you to realize that same student blatantly lied to you about Joshua inviting you.
He breathes your name in surprise, eyes widening. “Hey! Oh my god, hey,” he repeats, rounding the corner and enveloping you in his arms. He smells faintly of body wash, none of any of the colognes he usually wears.
“Sorry,” you apologize in embarrassment. “Someone told me I was invited, but it’s clear you had no idea I was coming.” You glare at Eunchae, who was just about to take the seat next to you. Upon hearing you, she pauses mid-sit without meeting your eyes and rises again, promptly finding another seat far from you.
“What?” he laughs, scoffing a little as he steps around you to pull your chair out for you. You try not to seem too flustered as you take your seat. He helps you scoot the chair in before leaning down, his mouth too close to your ear to keep goosebumps from erupting all over your body. “You, Y/N,” he whispers, “are always invited wherever I am. You should know that by now.”
He straightens and sits across from you, somehow looking even happier than when the girls first walked into the room.
“And no,” he admits, shaking his head. “I had no idea you were coming, but I’m very happy you’re here. I would’ve told you myself but I figured you’d be tired and want to go back to your room to sleep for 14 straight hours.” Even when you want to be a little wounded that he didn’t actually invite you, he still finds a way to make you feel seen.
“Yeah, well. I would’ve fallen asleep in my bathrobe if the girls didn’t come by to drag me back out of my room.” Your smile reflects his without your permission, making your cheeks hurt a little. The two of you just stare at each other for a moment, and you know he’s logging this away as a memory he enjoyed, like he always does.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says again.
“Swanky place,” you say instead of what you actually want to respond with. Why? Why are you happy I’m here? Is it anything like the happiness I feel around you? “What did you do to get this room last minute?”
He grins and shakes his head, the movement loosening a strand of hair so that it forms the shape of a comma on his forehead. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“If it’s more than my rent, then no, I probably wouldn’t like to know.”
“So then maybe we won't talk about it.”
You whistle and he laughs. “Got it.”
When the entire group is seated, you find Megan, Saki, and Sophia sitting at your end of the table, and as the dinner goes on, they’re not-at-all shy about including you in their conversation, telling you two all about their troubles (which range from transmission issues on their cars to their individual icks when dating), teasing Joshua about how lovely his pre-practice huddle speech was, and asking you about the car you’ve been restoring in your garage at the Academy since you were first hired. It turns out to be quite the lovely dinner, packed to the brim with drunken chicken, ma lan tou, spiced tofu, braised pork belly, sautéed clover, and all kinds of stir fry. Like most events you originally didn’t want to go to, you find yourself grateful you did go by the end of the night.
As you’re waiting for the check, the girls ask you and Joshua about your own F1 war stories, and you both gladly get lost in the memories of working together. You tell them all kinds of things, the two of you sighing heavily over how much you miss those times, scoffing at all the annoying people you came across in those five years, and laughing so hard at memories you’d tucked away, you’re almost crying. The girls are absolutely enthralled, buzzing with an anxious and excited energy that only a race can bring, and the questions don’t stop coming. Did either of you cry when he became a world champion? What was it like being the first rookie to win their first race? Do you guys have any pre-race rituals? Surprisingly, it’s Saki that asks the question that inspires a hundred of your own questions.
“What was your favorite race?”
It’s not the question itself, though that’s plenty mortifying for you too because honestly, your answer is that last one in Spain. It was still one of the scariest nights in your life, watching Joshua avoid an accident so narrowly, but it was also the night he held you like you were his. It was the night you allowed yourself to pretend like you were just two people in Barcelona in love. But it’s not the question that gets you feeling cagey. It’s Joshua’s answer.
“Spanish Grand Prix in 2018,” he says easily and without hesitation. It’s clear Saki—ever the true, die-hard F1 fan—is trying to remember that race, and when she does, you see that she remembers what anyone else would: it was a great performance—a historic one even—but compared to all the other objectively crazy things Joshua accomplished in his career, nothing really edge-of-your-seat exciting happened.
“Why?” she asks, head tilting a little.
His eyes go to you now, unrelenting as he obviously turns his answer over in his head, and although you’ve already gotten acclimated to his persistent staring again since breaking your self-imposed siege on your friendship, you still squirm.
“Josh?” Sophia calls his name when he says nothing.
“I fell in love during that race,” he answers Saki’s question, eyes refusing to leave you as he does. Your stomach drops the way it would on a free-fall ride, and you immediately feel sick.
The sounds that come out of the girls' mouths make you look toward them. They’re all frozen, eyes wide, mouths hanging open, desserts completely forgotten as their eyes dart between you like they would at a tennis match. It’s confirmation they heard the same thing you did.
He fell in love? What the fuck does he mean he fell in love? Your brain frantically tries to remember what happened during his first race in Spain. Did he meet someone? No, any time he wasn’t on the actual track, he was doing his interviews, photos, or stuck to you. He literally made you hang out in his suite with him until you both fell asleep and you forced yourself to get back to your own room when you woke up in the middle of the night. When would he have found the time to fall in love?
“Um,” Eunchae coughs, suddenly appearing on Sophia’s other side. You’re a little startled, but it’s the one time you’re thankful she’s so nosy and a serial eavesdropper. “Uh, sorry. What do you mean you fell in love?”
Your eyes go back to Joshua to find that he’s still staring at you intently. His eyes are dark and his lips aren’t upturned in his usual resting smile, and it makes you feel naked under his gaze. There are a few beats of silence, just you two in this bustling restaurant, completely alone even with the entire Academy class at the same table as you, even with all of Shanghai twinkling right outside the greenhouse panels. Can he see the panic you feel? Panic that maybe he found and had someone that entire time? That maybe that’s why he moved to Barcelona? For some he fell in love with?
He breaks out of the trance first, clearing his throat and smiling tightly as he turns to Eunchae. “I fell in love with the track.”
“The… track…” the student repeats, one eyebrow rising to show him just how unconvinced she is.
“Yup, Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya,” he says like anyone needs clarification. “I fell in love… with… the circuit.” He clears his throat again.
“The circuit.” It’s Megan’s turn to repeat what he just said, a look on her face as equally befuddled as the one on Eunchae’s.
The silence tells you no one at this end of the table believes him. Saki is the one that puts him out of his misery. “Oh… cool! Um, what do you like about the track?”
Joshua smiles thankfully at her. “A lot. More than anything… it was just fun.” You frown slightly, another memory you tucked away stirring in the back of your mind. You can’t quite grasp it, though. He watches you struggle with it as he says, “It brought so much more joy to the sport.” He blinks several times and forces himself to look away from you. He looks back at Saki. “You’ll understand once you find your circuit. Once you find the one for you.”
The check comes out after that, and the girls are all ushered out of the restaurant and into the Academy’s appointed shuttle ahead of you and Joshua. You stop before fully entering the bus, turning over your shoulder to glance at him. He raises his eyebrows at you in question. You’re on the first step of the shuttle, and he has one foot on the same step, the other foot on the curb. His hands are wrapped around the handrails on either side of you, and he looks up at you patiently even though the driver is waiting for you two to board.
You want to ask him if he was serious; did he really fall in love with the circuit, or did he find someone all the way back in 2018? Did he find someone right under your nose? Had he been with them for seven years at this point? Was that why he was always so crazy about winning Barcelona? Was that why he moved? Was that why he was still living there?
In the end, you don’t have the guts to ask, nor is it the right time or place to. So you cover up your hesitation with another, less daunting question. “Want to split the dinner? That had to have been a painful bill.”
He snorts, shaking his head and releasing one railing to press his hand to the small of your back gently and guide you further into the shuttle. The touch makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand. “Shut up,” he says, laughing.
You sigh. “It was worth a try,” you grumble. In the five years you worked together, the driver never let you pay for a single thing. You knew he wouldn’t start now, but it was all you could pull out of your ass instead of begging him to tell you he wasn’t secretly married with five kids.
The shuttle to the hotel is quiet, the girls finally letting the exhaustion of the day blanket them. They sleepily pad past the two of you once you arrive, quietly muttering good nights to the both of you as they all go their separate ways to the rooms they’re sharing with each other.
Megan is the last to say good night, but before she walks away, she looks at the two of you and smiles softly—a little deliriously, like she’s already half asleep. “I’m glad you two are talking again,” she says, her voice hoarse with fatigue. Both you and Joshua tense a little, but of course, she doesn’t notice. “Everything feels right again.” She starts walking away even though she’s still muttering, her voice gradually getting less audible the farther she gets. “Everything feels better when you two are together. My favorite teachers, for real. Good night.”
“Um, good night, Megan,” you call after her. She waves a hand over her head without turning back, following Saki to their shared room.
You look over at your best friend to find his eyes on the floor. He glances at you when he notices you turn toward him, but he doesn’t say anything, simply offering a tiny smile as you both begin to walk in the other direction, the staff’s rooms on the opposite side of the floor as the students'. You two seem committed to ignoring Megan’s nighttime soliloquy as you walk in silence, and you don’t notice that that’s probably a weird occurrence for him as the more talkative one in your friendship. You’re too preoccupied with which flavor of Ben & Jerry’s you’ll be demolishing in one sitting when you find out that Joshua has a Spanish wife and perfect, Korean-Spanish children who look just like their stunning dad and their bombshell mother waiting for him at home.
You arrive at your room first, and you reach for your handle, the words “good night” already out of your mouth when he cuts off your access to your own door, stepping between you and the only way into the room. Your hand accidentally presses up against his hipbone from where you were reaching for the door handle, and you quickly take it back, muttering an apology as your cheeks are set ablaze.
He tucks his hands into his sweats and leans against your door, crossing his legs at the ankles. You want to scoff at how casual and unbothered he looks when you, on the other hand, are a single jumped conclusion away from being sent to a psych ward.
“I am not hanging out in your room, Shua,” you say, a yawn interrupting you toward the end. “I’m tired.”
He doesn’t laugh, just shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to ask you to hang out. I just have a question to ask you before we go to bed.”
“Pfft,” you blow a raspberry before you can stop yourself. “I have quite a few questions myself.” You don’t know why you say it because it’s not like you’re ready to ask him about it right now.
Joshua’s eyes study you, but for once, he surprisingly doesn’t cater to you first. He asks his own question instead of encouraging you to move forward with yours, which is what you had been expecting—not that you wanted him to do that. You have no idea how to ask about his Spanish wife and Korean-Spanish kids.
“Why were you avoiding me?” he asks, obviously still thinking about what Megan said while you were freaking out about a Grand Prix that happened seven years ago.
The question makes every muscle in your body lock with anxiety, expelling all the sleepiness you had been slowly succumbing to since boarding the shuttle. You’d gotten so lost in making up a fake family for Joshua that even with Megan’s reminder, you forgot that just two days ago, you were committed to staying away from him.
“I wasn’t avoiding you, Shua.” Even you can hear how weak a lie it is when the words leave your mouth. “Things were just so busy.”
He sighs through his nose, softly leaning his head back against the door to your room. “We’ve been busy the entire time we’ve known each other,” he says, eyes searching yours. “Try another one.” The words aren’t resentful or angry or hurt. They’re just as gentle as they always are, like he’s actually encouraging you to cycle through your lies until you finally land on the truth. You save both of you the trouble.
“I was just… a little tired,” you say truthfully. It’s as honest as you can stomach being right now. You open and close your mouth a few times to add more because you know you should, but nothing comes out.
He purses his lips momentarily, averting and narrowing his eyes a little as he nods to himself like he’s sifting through his own rolodex of responses. When he’s done, he looks back at you, his eyebrows pinching with worry, and he asks, “Of what? Me?”
“No, no, of course not,” you say quickly because you would rather have your heart ripped clean out of your chest at the end of the season than let Joshua ever think you’ve grown tired of him.
“You understand why I might think that, though, right?” he asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle. “I can’t help but feel like you were actively pushing me away, and you only stopped when you thought I was mad.” He pauses to lick his lips nervously. You’re realizing that Joshua is so much more astute when it comes to your thought process than you ever gave him credit for. “I… I just… I don’t want to feel the way I did back in Abu Dhabi at the end of this season.”
You’re not sure why it didn’t occur to you that while you were losing your mind over how afraid you were about having to say bye to Joshua at the end of the season, he was spending that time equally afraid that you wouldn’t be saying bye at all. Of course he’s afraid you’re going to wordlessly bail again. You haven’t given him much reason to believe otherwise, especially in the last month.
“Joshua,” you start, trying to breathe evenly. He lifts his head up off your door and shoots you a flat look. You correct yourself without rolling your eyes the way you normally would. “Shua. I was avoiding you.”
He heaves a short laugh and nods. “I know.” His smile slowly fades. “Why?”
“I’m… the season came so fast, didn’t it?” you mutter, wringing your hands in front of you like you’re trying to squeeze the anxiety out of your body through your fingertips. “It came so fast, and it will be over so fast, and your sabbatical will end with you back in Barcelona…” With your wife and kids, you think bitterly, “and… I’ll…”
“You’ll be here,” he finishes, nodding like he finally understands why you were acting the way you were. “I’ll be in Barcelona, and you’ll be here.”
You nod wordlessly. Just the thought being voiced out loud by him creates a knot in your throat. He gently pushes himself fully off the door now, taking a small step toward you. You swallow around the knot as you challenge yourself to stay rooted in place. At his full height, you have to tilt your head back a bit to maintain eye contact. His glasses slide back down a little as he looks down at you, but he doesn’t bother fixing them this time, watching you over the frames of them.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you admit easily. “I am. Of what, I don’t know.” Another lie. How many more of those can you speak before he’s pulling the real truth out of you? Are you willing to give that to him tonight? If at all? Do you have a choice?
“Could it be that you’re maybe scared of losing me?” he asks, head slightly tilting to the side as he shuffles closer. “Because…” he clears his throat. “I know I’m scared of losing you.”
You swear your heart is beating hard enough that if Joshua really concentrated, he’d be able to see the shape of it slamming up against your chest. The lump in your throat is threatening to choke you and you suddenly lose the ability to speak. The best you can do is give him a small, meek shrug of one shoulder as you look down at the ground.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly, even closer now—so close, you watch as his feet slot between yours. So close you can feel his breath on your hairline as he speaks. If you leaned forward just a tiny bit, your forehead could rest on his shoulder. His hands cover yours—big and cool and soothing—and he separates them from each other, cradling them as he rubs circles into your skin with his thumbs. Each circle wipes away every dumb doubt you had about Joshua and his fake family. “We’re almost there.” His voice sounds a little pained, a little desperate. “Don’t pull away now, not when we’re almost there.”
You furrow your eyebrows as you continue staring at the ground. You think you know what he means—or at least, you know what you hope he means—but you can’t afford to be wrong. You could assume to know, and you could operate on the deliriously lovely idea of Joshua returning your feelings—the idea that he’s returned them for as long as you’ve had them, and that he’s waited just as long as you have. That maybe he feels like this is the moment you two tell each other the truth. What you want him to mean is: Don’t pull away when we’re almost ready to say it all out loud.
You’re not ready to say it out loud, but in this moment, as you watch Joshua’s fingers thread through yours, you remember that your best friend has hardly ever been ready for anything you’ve thrown at him. He wasn’t ready for you to leave McLaren, he wasn’t ready for you to show up on his doorstep in Barcelona, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready to drop everything and follow you to London to become a teacher to 17 teenage girls when he had zero teaching experience. And he still trusted you enough to let you take the lead each time, with no question and no hesitation. Maybe it’s time for you to do something you aren’t ready for. Maybe it’s the least you owe him.
“Yeah,” you finally breathe after several moments. “I am. I’m fucking terrified.” He brings your joined hands up until he’s holding them against his chest. It feels safe here. It feels like you’re allowed to say something you’ve held close to your own chest for years. “You’re my best friend, Shua. You’ve become the most important person in my life—you have been since that very first year. Even through the years we didn’t talk… you were still on my mind every day. And these past three months… I’ve had so much fun. I’ve loved every moment of it. But we’re on borrowed time, and I’m… I’m panicking.” He squeezes your hands to remind you he’s there, even if you refuse to look him in the eye. “Because I’ll have to say goodbye, and you’ll leave, and I’ll just… I’ll feel as heartbroken as I always do whenever you’re not near me. And I don’t know how to do all of that a second time.”
There. It’s out. It’s not what you meant to say, and it’s not a complete portrayal of how deep your love for him runs, but it’s the best you can do.
His hold on you falters a little and it takes everything to keep from pushing past him, letting yourself into your hotel room, holing up in there, and refusing to come out for the rest of the season. But then he squeezes again, and lifts even higher, until his lips are pressed against your fingertips. You look up at him to find his eyes still trained on you over his glasses, soft and so full of love, as he takes his time bringing each finger to his lips. When he’s done, he pulls you closer, placing your hands around his waist and only letting go when he’s sure you’re not going to remove them. You flatten your hands against his back, and if you weren’t so flabbergasted about touching Joshua so intimately right now, you’d be squealing about the way you can feel the hard, taut muscles under his skin—muscles he trained from his time in F1 with you. He brings his hands to your face, holding it so delicately, you could probably convince yourself he’s not even there—that he’s not real at all.
His gaze skitters around your face like it does whenever he’s committing something to memory.
“Thank you,” he whispers, breath grazing your lips as he cranes his head down toward you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. Your eyes flutter a bit without your permission, the feeling making you dizzy all of a sudden.
“For what?” you ask, eyes closing and fingers gripping the back of his shirt when you sway a little from the feeling of having so much of Joshua’s skin touching so much of yours.
“For not pulling away,” he answers. You open your eyes, and when you meet his half-lidded stare, he smiles a little. You were right. You weren’t ready to make the assumption but you made it anyway, and you were right.
Joshua tilts his head, leans forward, and closes the distance between you two. He stops just short of your lips like he’s still giving you the chance to pull away. When you don’t, his smile widens to its full capacity—the one you love so fucking much—and he surges forward, pressing his lips to yours.
It’s warm, it tastes a little like the sweet bean from the sesame balls you all had for dessert, and it feels a lot like watching Joshua’s car cut through the smoke. It feels like Joshua’s hand hooking around your neck to hug you closer to him and his mother. Like successfully navigating him through a hard line on the track. Like watching him change 17 young women’s lives forever.
It’s a moment that cuts through all the noise and quiets everything else. You think it’s the first time you’ve truly understood Joshua’s compulsion to stop, take everything in, and file a memory away for safekeeping. It’s a moment you want to remember forever.
He keeps one hand on your face, his thumb caressing your cheek and fingers hugging the curve of your neck, threading into your hair, and massaging gently. His other hand comes down and snakes around your waist to pull you even closer. You bring your arms up and around his neck to allow yourself the space to press your body completely flush to his, from chest to thighs, your body on fire everywhere Joshua is.
You don’t know when, but he turns both of you around at some point, and you don’t fully realize it until your back is pressed against your own door, his body trapping you there against the wood as he wastes no time starting to lick into your mouth like he’s waited far too long to do exactly that. In fact, he kisses you with the fervor of someone who waited as long as you have.
“Um,” you breathe when his mouth leaves yours for just a brief moment. But then they’re on you again, swallowing whatever it was you were going to say—you’re not even sure what it was. It’s not until he’s kissing up and down your jaw and your neck a few moments later that you remember. “Joshua,” you breathe.
“I don’t think so,” he mutters, voice husky with want as he skims his nose against the skin where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Shua,” you try again. You feel him smirk into your skin before pressing his lips to you. You try your best not to shudder, your chest already heaving and giving you and your desire away. “So you don’t have a Spanish wife and Korean-Spanish kids?”
He practically rips his head away from your neck, leaning back to look at you incredulously. “What?”
You grin. His reaction is enough of an answer for you. You shake your head. “Nothing. Come here.”
You envelope his lips with yours once more, and he doesn’t protest or press you to clarify what the fuck your question meant. Instead, he helps you find your hotel key when he notices you frantically trying to get it out of your purse, both of you stubbornly refusing to stop kissing for even a second to look at what you’re doing. And after several pathetic tries, you’re finally successfully shoving it into the slot without leaving each other’s lips, and you stumble into your hotel room, giggling like kids—like you’re still a rookie driver and a rookie race engineer except this time, you’re both brave enough to take what you want.
And you’re tired of suppressing that part of you. You’re going to be brave because all you want is Joshua.
A/N: this was only supposed to be half of part two, but it got way too long. so now, it's been split into a part 2 and a part 3, then we'll have a part 4/epilogue rolled into one! i know i said this is updating weekly, but tumblr has exhausted the fuck out of me this past week, and i am actually going to go on a mini hiatus and remind myself how much i love my life outside of the hellhole that is the internet LMAO. i hope you'll understand. it won't be long, and i'll be right back to updating this once i'm back.
as always, comment to join the tag list for this series. or you can join my permanent tag list below to be notified of anything i write! if you signed up to be tagged through the c&e form, but do NOT want to be tagged by me, drop me a DM or an ask and i'll remove you; no questions or hard feelings!
pairing: xu minghao x f!reader
rating: R | minors do not interact! 18+ ONLY
warnings: best friends/coworkers to lovers, whole lot of yearning, angst, minghao is a stupid man, yn has moments of insecurity regarding her being plus size, SMUT: fingering, oral (f and m receiving), p in v protected sex, missionary, ankle kissing, thigh biting, slight hair pulling. doyoung makes a return appearance as a bartender, small bit of donghyuck x reader.
wc: 15.2k
synopsis: loosely based in part on a storyline that happens to Penelope Garcia in season 3 of Criminal Minds: Technical Analyst LN YN and FBI Agent Xu Minghao are known in the BAU as a dynamic duo. A duo full of reportable comments, inappropriate nicknames and so much warmth. Anyone with eyes can see that YN is in love with Minghao and it's likely that he's in love with her too. What happens when tensions finally bubble over? When someone else is introduced to the story?
*this fic is a part of the blockbusters collab hosted by @nerdycheol, @belovedgyu and @jakedustry | support the other authors of the collab here
listen while reading
It's another day in Virginia. The winter this year is biting and you're too happy to scurry inside the BAU office to keep yourself from freezing. Chan, the security guard who always had a smile on his face, wishes you a good morning as you flash your badge at him. As you're waiting for the elevator up to your office, you reminisce about your beginnings at the BAU. Once the hunted, you had been working as a hacker under an alias that eluded this very department years ago. You were untouchable, called the best for a reason. It wasn't until you had a falling out with a network partner that you were in the claws of the department you'd been playing tag with. You remember it clear as day; the flashing red and blues lighting up the walls of your apartment, the cold chill of the interrogation room, and him.
[flashback]
The only sound that could be heard in your apartment was the furious typing coming from your keyboard. The code you had meticulously been working on for the last month all of a sudden wasn't running properly.
"C'mon you rat bastard, where are you hiding," you mutter out. You chewed on your bottom lip, dedicated to find the one piece of syntax ruining what was bound to be a big payout for you.
A month ago, you'd been tagged to do another hit on some confidential FBI files. The network you worked for was made aware by an informant that there were case files being built against the network. Being the resident hacker within the network meant that this task was immediately handed to you. This wasn't your first go at hacking the Federal Bureau of Investigations and you certainly didn't think it was going to be your last. You loved playing tag with the CyberSec department in the Quantico office. Imagining the look of shock when the analysts in their cushy lil offices realize that files were corrupted or missing. For a bunch of highly paid, well-resourced government officials, jobs that involved the FBI felt like taking candy from a baby.
Your search continued, scouring through what felt like endless lines of code, until your phone rang. Taking a look at the Caller ID, a chill ran through your body.
It's an unlisted number. To the ordinary person, it would look like an unknown caller. But not to you. No, you knew this number by heart. You gingerly pressed the answer button.
"YN, a pleasure."
You found it weird that he was using your actual name given everyone in the network typically used an alias. You figured he was in a secure enough location, so you didn't pursue this line of thought any further.
"Jackson. What can I do for you? I'm working right now." Every ounce of you fought to keep your words unwavered. A small chuckle came from the other end of the line.
"Just wanted to check in. Make sure you're holding up your end of the bargain." This caught you off guard.
Jackson was a higher up in your network, always the one doling out your assignments, but never one to double check your work. You'd proven yourself to be irreplaceable in the last three years of working for the Caissa. Why was he asking about this now?
"In the three years I've been doing your work, when have you ever known me to not hold up my end of the deal?" You questioned, a slight edge in your voice.
Even with your "boss" on the line, there was a deadline to meet and your code was still not running properly. Your hand moved to press a button on your phone and you placed Jackson on speakerphone. As the search for the bug resumed, you explained to Jackson that what he wanted should be finished within the next two hours.
"Remind me again, what is it I'm paying you for?" In hindsight, this question should have been ringing the loudest bells in your head. Jackson had the tendency to be aloof and a bit forgetful given he worked with multiple people, but not ever to this degree. But the damn bug making your code not work took up all of your attention.
"What are you talking about Jackson, did you seriously forget that you tasked me to wipe the case files being built against the Caissa? What, did you forget to take your pills today old man?" Another laugh came. It's uneasy but of course you were too wrapped up in fixing the code to notice the difference.
"Jeez Rook, I'm just testing you."
"I think I've outgrown that nickname, don't you Jackson? Was this really all you called me for?" You were getting annoyed now. There was a crunch for this code to be finished and here was your boss actively wasting your time. Again in hindsight this should have tipped you off. There's a bit of noise from the other end of the line before Jackson responds.
"YN?"
"What is it, Jackson?"
"The Grandmaster sends his regards." The mention of the kingpin of your network made your back straighten. Before you could ask what the hell Jackson meant, the line died. Your monitor went next. There wasn't enough time for you to make sense of anything before you heard the sirens surrounding your apartment and your front door being busted open. Everything after this point happened in slow motion, you moved like molasses. Only a few things in your vision were in focus: the reds and blues of cop car lights shining on the poster covered walls of your apartment, the condensation ring from the iced coffee you'd been nursing, a trinket of your favorite animal shattered from the impact of your front door.
You didn't resist any of the officers taking you into their custody. Your mind was otherwise preoccupied. The second your door was cracked down, the puzzle pieces connected: Jackson and the network had cut you loose and turned you in. Racking your brain for any possible reason why, you come up with the conclusion that the feds were getting too close and they cut the newest recruit on the team.
Last one in, first one out.
The interrogation room was bone-chilling and reeked of the worst kind of drip coffee. Agent after agent came in, but your mind couldn't focus. Every time they talked to you it sounded like Charlie Brown's parents were speaking to you. Your entire world had come crashing down. The network that had protected you for so long, had all of a sudden delivered you right to the FBI's front door, the team that had spent the better part of a year trying to track you down.
The door to the interrogation room opened again and you were about to tell the next agent that they were going to waste their time because you weren't going to spill a word. But when you lifted your head, you see him and the air shifts. You feel the static neurons become charged with something you can't quite place.
[end of flashback]
Speak of the devil.
The ding of the elevator doors snaps you out of your recollection and there stands Xu Minghao. The guy, who for a lack of a better explanation, is your knight in shining armor. Minghao was the one that broke through your walls that day in the interrogation room. The one that turned you from hunted to hunter. Every other agent they'd sent in to question you weren't able to hammer away at the walls you'd built, but he did. He walked in, the definition of nonchalance and arrogance. Taking your walls apart brick by brick like it was nothing with cologne that enveloped the whole room and would linger. The same one currently wafting in your nose as he's waving you into the elevator.
"Good morning babygirl," he says, pearly-white teeth shining right into your heart. It has been five years since the day Minghao cut you a deal and your partnership with him and the FBI had started. Five years since he gave you a chance to turn your life around and not rot in prison. Five years since he started calling you that nickname. The nickname that never failed to dust a deep shade of pink across your cheeks.
"Morning, White Rabbit," you chirp out, adding the delicious milk candy to the list of nicknames you have for the profiler. This was your banter, everyone in the office knew it. Everyone in the office was also sick of it. A prime example comes in the form of Dr. Jeon Wonwoo, resident know-it-all. He constantly commented on your relationship; labeling it grossly inappropriate for the office and requesting that it be taken outside of work. Both of your responses to him matching as you stick your tongue out, blowing raspberries at him.
"What's on your mind pretty?" Minghao questions. You wave him off, telling him that you'd been thinking about the day that you first met.
"Was it love at first sight?" He teases. You give him a slight push and tell him to shove it where the sun doesn't shine. The ride up to the office is silent, but it's comfortable. The kind of comfortable you can only get when you've built a relationship with someone. The elevator doors whoosh open signaling that your moment of peace is over and it was time to get to work. You start the short trek to your "cave of darkness", as the rest of the team calls it, but Minghao catches your wrist before you even make it another step.
"Here," he places a coffee cup in your hand, "Honey vanilla latte for the sweetest honey in my life."
There it is again. The blood rushes to your cheeks, covering it with a rosy haze. Minghao is still holding onto your wrist and you're painfully aware of everything happening right now. But you let yourself get lost in the feeling for a bit. Fantasizing that this is more than the usual nice banter between the two of you. That he got you a latte because he was thinking about you at the cafe you both frequent. That he knows your order because he learned it the first time the both of you had been to said cafe and not because you'd made him order it for you a billion times.
Wonwoo, who had been behind the both of you in the elevator, clears his throat to get through and the facade breaks. Minghao gives you a wink, then moves back to let him step between the two of you. Raising the warm coffee cup towards him, you bid Wonwoo goodbye and the two of you make your way down to your office. As you come down the hallway one of the other analysts, Maeve, falls in step with you. Her strong gourmand scent hits you before her greeting does. The three of you talk about recent case loads and what you had been up to the past weekend. She casually jokes that the intense amount of snow should be keeping the streets crime free, but the files coming across the desks say otherwise. Synced laughs of agreement come from you and him. Minghao replies that there isn't enough coffee in the world. Without any real thought, you say,
"Thank God for Minghao. I don't know what I'd do if he didn't get me this coffee." She coos at you, agreeing that it was really nice of him do so, but then she makes a comment that stutters your thoughts.
"God I wish I had a boyfriend that worked with me so I could get personally delivered coffee. You two are so cute together."
"Oh, no-" You begin to stop her.
"It's not like that." You pretend the emphasis Minghao places on the last word doesn't sting.
"We're not-"
The two of you stumble over each other to tell your coworker that you aren't dating. When she hears this, there's a look of surprise on her face, but she doesn't say anything else. She's too busy watching the two of you staring at each other, trying to find the hidden conversation in raised brows. You'd never been more thankful in your life to be right in front of your office door. Minghao quietly excuses himself and walks towards the bullpen. While your coworker chats you up, you're still staring at the back of Minghao, noticing how he rubbed the back of his neck as he walked away from the two of you.
"Helloooo? Earth to YN!" Your focus shifts to her hand waving in front of your face. Apologizing to her, you ask her to repeat herself. She talks about needing help on figuring out how to run a code to aggregate the encrypted files your team has been getting with the caseload. You relax, this is an easy task, you could write code in your sleep, this was something that won't distract you. Asking her for more metrics, your eyes light up at the chance to talk about coding — the only thing that has kept you alive all these years. As you're going over proper formatting syntax, she makes a silly joke that for some reason really just hit you, so you find yourself doubled over in laughter.
What you don't notice is that your coworker makes sudden eye contact with Minghao, who perks up and whips his head towards your direction at the sound of your laughter. You couldn't see it, but his gaze brims with adoration. The mere sound of your laugh, infectious, getting the corners of his lips to tug up. Maeve gives Minghao a questioning smirk, he then stutters and forces himself back into the conversation with Wonwoo. She continues your conversation by asking how to run newly written code without ruining encrypted files.
You lift yourself back up and continue your explanation of performing test runs on old files to Maeve. As you do so, you feel the air change and something in you tells your brain to look beyond Maeve. Cocking your head to the side, you see that Minghao has Wonwoo in a headlock. You try to hide your smile, but fail as Maeve traces your sight line. She shakes her head and jokes that it's really hard to believe that the two of you aren't together, with the way you steal glances like lovesick puppies. Suddenly, Minghao looks up and you immediately move your head back to its original position, not wanting him to catch you staring. Maeve watches this exchange with the biggest smirk on her face. Thanking you for the advice on writing code, she walks away to her office muttering something that you couldn't make out.
As you settle into your office, a sigh pushes through your entire body. Minghao's comment and gesture sticks with you for the rest of the day, the drink actually making it all the way home with you. Spending what others would diagnose as an "unhealthy" amount of time staring at the coffee cup, trying to will the fantasy in your head to life. So many things are swimming around in your mind right now. As you get lost in writing code, Minghao's question of love at first sight is ringing in your ears. You were telling the truth, you found him incredibly annoying at first. Your first month he did nothing but gloat that he was the one to bring you in; that if it wasn't for him there wouldn't be progress on the Caissa file. But something changed in the years of you working together and you're left remembering when exactly it was that he completely broke your heart open for him.
[flashback]
It's your first winter in Virginia. Adjusting to the non-criminal life has been easier than you expected. Who knew you could breathe easier when not working for the digital underworld and not having to look over your shoulder all the time. Regular civilian life wasn't something you steadily had access to in your formative years and you're finding yourself mourning that younger version of you.
Idyllic. Not hard. A version of you that didn't have to put up walls yet.
A particularly nasty case made its way to the top of your team's list, leaving you all to work past normal hours. You'd moved out of your office into the bullpen to make sharing information easier. The office is fairly silent, the only symphony playing is the shuffle of papers and the scuffle of your team walking around. You'd been knee deep in assembling a list of victim profiles to help look for the unsub's MO. You fired off a couple lines of code that you think will help you narrow something down, only to be hit with a big red flashing "ERROR". You slam your laptop down and exhale in frustration, the sound of it drawing everyone's eyes on you. You feel his eyes before you could see them. Flashing everyone a quick smile of apology, you excuse yourself to take a lap around and get a breather.
You stop by your office to grab your water bottle and on your way out you see Minghao. He smirks when he makes eye contact and you immediately brace yourself for whatever smart ass comment he had waiting for you.
"Taking a break already? Wouldn't have pegged you as the quitting type," he jokes. You mockingly laugh back and roll your eyes. The two of you were a duo that no one ever expected. You'd find this out much later, but there were bets going around the office for how long Minghao would last before you ripped his head off. You and Minghao got the last laugh as the two of you gelled together after you dished his smugness back to him. Fairly soon after, you became the insufferable duo that everyone was familiar with.
The two of you finish a lap around the office in complete sync, quietly returning to the makeshift workstation that was set up in the bullpen. You stretch your neck out before sitting back down to read over the case files in the hopes that you could pinpoint parameters that would get your team closer to solving this case. Line after line swims through your brain and nothing seems to stick. It's like suddenly all the ridges in your brain have disappeared and the receptors have melted.
Behind you, you hear someone yell that they're going on a coffee run, then you feel a tap on your elbow. Turning your head, you see Minghao with a questioning look in his eye. Without a word, you knew exactly what he was asking.
Want a coffee?
You immediately shake your head no, not wanting to deal with the effects of caffeine later. He gives you a curt nod and calls out to the person leaving the office to wait for him. He brushes behind you and you catch a whiff of him — sandalwood and something smoky — he smells like comfort. The scent of him lingers around you like an unspoken message from him:
Be back soon.
For the hundredth time, you turn your eyes back to the files hoping that this time you wouldn't come up empty. Taking a breath, you repeat a silent prayer in your head, one that wishes you are able to find anything that could help. Three folders of files later, you feel Minghao sliding into the seat next to you. You don't have to look up from the mountain of paper to know it's him. You just do.
As you're flipping over to the next page, you sense something warm near your left hand. You move your hand to find the source of heat and see that Minghao has placed a cup next to you. The logo of the coffee shop from down the street adorns the cupsleeve. Acknowledging him with a nod, you wrap both your hands around the cup and bring it in front of you.
I didn't ask for this. You say with a raise of your brow.
I know. He shrugs in response.
Drawing the cup to your mouth, the sweet scent of honey and vanilla fills the space around you as you blow on it. You were expecting the strong bitter aroma of coffee to invade your nose so when you smell the indicators of your regular order, your head whips back to him. You're staring at him with delighted surprise in your eyes. He squeezes your shoulder and shoots the warmest smile when he meets your gaze. You thank him by taking a drink, contently sighing at the sweet taste on your tongue.
When you open your eyes, you find a different pair of eyes staring at you.
"Can I help you, Dr. Jeon?"
"Just observing," he says, his eyes flitting between you and the man beside you.
"Find anything worth sharing?" You muse, tucking your chin on top of your hands.
While flipping through a case file, Wonwoo shakes his head no. You don't believe him for a second, which you make known by giving him a scrutinizing look. But you don't press him any further, opting to return to your work instead.
Minghao suddenly gets up and walks over to the board, presumably to pin something he found.
"He's never brought anyone coffee," Wonwoo says, breaking your concentration. You look at the doctorate in front of you with a deadpan look. One that prompts him to elaborate his point.
He leans forward and in a quiet tone explains that in the time that the two of them have worked together, he's never seen Minghao willingly get anyone coffee. Usually opting to joke that whoever asks has legs and can get the drink themselves. He also guessed by the look of your first sip that Minghao didn't just grab you any coffee, he purposefully got your specific coffee order.
There's a feeling in your stomach you can't place when you hear this. As Wonwoo drones on, you find your gaze naturally moving to where Minghao is. You can only see his back, but you can tell he's concentrating on something from the way his head is slightly tilted.
"And then there's the twin telepathy thing," Wonwoo quips. This breaks your stare.
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh c'mon! The two of you just had a full blown conversation without uttering a single word."
You scoff and wave him off, telling him that it doesn't mean anything. Defending your friendship, you deflect and mock the young doctor. He returns your scoff with his own and leans back in his chair.
To anyone that asked, you would always deny it. You and Minghao, were friends, nothing else. But after Wonwoo's line of questioning, you wonder if he's maybe just named the intense feelings that you've been unable to.
Returning your gaze to Minghao, your head is swimming with the thoughts Wonwoo's seemingly planted. He turns to call out for Wonwoo to join him. Your eyes meet Minghao's and he gives you a smile that makes your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. It's a smile laced with a check in. Like somehow he knows you might not be all there.
And suddenly you realize it.
Fuck.
You like Xu Minghao.
[end of flashback]
A soft knock breaks your mindless (but correct) code writing and you smile as you see Minghao waving through the window. You push the memory from three years ago to the deep recesses of your mind. He pushes the door slightly open and pokes his head in, weary smile following. You know what this look means; it's wheels up for the team, time for them to fly somewhere to solve a case, time for him to leave.
"Hey, I'm heading out. I'll see you soon, yeah?"
"Safe flight, call me for any expert information pulling," you joke as he pulls off from your door.
"There isn't anyone else I would want to call babygirl," he calls out as he jogs to catch up with the rest of the team flying out. You smile watching him bounce away.
Unfortunately for you, that moment was the last time you would physically see Minghao for the next week. This was the norm for the two of you. You hardly ever joined in the field, and to be completely honest you preferred it that way. With your history, you decided (along with some urging from your boss) that it was probably better that you stayed behind for cases.
You do get to talk to him mid-week when an important piece of information comes across your desk.
"Tell me something I wanna hear," he exhales. You can hear the exhaustion and frustration in his voice.
"Anyone ever tell you, you have a great ass? Cause you do," you tease, trying to lighten the mood. Hearing him smile from the other side of the line makes you feel better.
"Tell me something I don't know pretty girl," he jokes back. You boo him, whining that he always spoils your fun.
"Don't make me spank you."
"Mmm, don't tempt me with a good time Agent," you say in a lower tone, feigning seduction. With a click of his tongue, he tells you to quit playing around. You sigh and acquiesce him, sharing that the unsub and his victims had a shared history. Grimacing as you shakily recount horrifying details, you wrap up your information dump with a sigh and a promise that this information would be sent over asap.
"Look up the words hot and magnificent in that magic box of yours and tell me what comes up," you hear the smirk and pride on Minghao's face loud and clear. Luck was on your side today as no one could see the rouge tint splayed across your face and on the tips of your ears.
"Would ya look at that? A picture of me popped up." You replied, emphasizing the p in the last word with a popping sound. Inside you are fighting every nerve in your body.
"You are the love of my life, gorgeous! Good job, see ya when we're back." The click of the line rescues you from having to repsond. Your hand is still wrapped around the receiver as you let out a breath. An involuntary groan comes from you. It's the kind of groan you let out when you know you're absolutely smitten and can't do jack all about it. The silence in your office cloaks you in your own feelings, the next words that come out of your mouth barely break the sound barrier.
"I wish you meant that, Hao."
It wasn't till Friday afternoon that the rest of the team was flying in after wrapping up another horrifying but solved case.
The clock ticks a quarter till five and you shoot a text to your cat-eyed partner in crime, asking him if he needed a round (or more) once he landed. An immediate ping returns with a resounding yes and that he'd head straight to Rummo's. Wrapping up a report, you lock up and head to the elevator to meet with Minghao. The ride down takes longer than you want it to, but the doors finally ding open and you're basically skipping out the exit.
"Have a good weekend YN," Chan smiles at you as he holds the door open for you.
"Thanks Channie! I'll see ya Monday!"
"Rummo's tonight? I didn't see the team come in this morning." You nod back.
"Is tonight the night?" He asks with expectant eyes. While everyone in the office basically knew about the budding relationship between you and Minghao, Chan was the only one who ever said anything to you about it. He was also the only one who knew about how much you truly longed for Minghao. It wasn't like you paraded around declaring your love for the profiler, but anyone who looked hard enough could see it. You cared about Minghao in the way that you didn't about anyone else. Sometimes more than yourself. You shoot Chan a look with a hopeful gleam and he responds back with a thumbs up. The week spent in the office alone (along with a phone call from your mother regarding your love life) had forced you to evaluate your relationship with Minghao. Years of noticing the small things that make him tick. Simply put, after years of yearning for the man who broke you down with a whiff of his cologne, you came to the conclusion that you couldn't bear to wait any longer. You needed him to know how you felt and more importantly how he made you feel.
You send a quick text to him that you'd be at your favorite bar in less than ten minutes. As you're walking past storefronts you check your reflection in the glass. No biggie, you're just confessing your feelings to the most important person in your life and your hair is a tangled mess and the mascara on your eyelashes smudged from the strain of staring at a computer all day. You do your best to smooth down the frizz of your hair and you pray to whatever god above that you can fix yourself up before Minghao spots you.
It's half past five by the time you get to Rummo's and it seems like every other office worker in the vicinity had the same idea because your favorite local bar is packed with people in suits. You thank your lucky stars and make a beeline for the bathroom to fix yourself up. You assess the damage as you take a look at the mirror and you wish you hadn't.
Your top fits a little funny because of how blessed you are in the chest department. Your trousers suddenly feel a bit tight and you tune into how the button seems to dig into your stomach. You try to move your clothes around a bit to make it look more flattering against your shape and notice that the seams of your pants have left imprints on your hips. The movement (and your awful anxiety) have made the tiny bathroom even tinier and you feel like the temperature inside has gotten warmer.
Taking a shallow breath you move on to take a look at your hair but before you can do anything about it, a knock on the door alerts you to someone who had been waiting on you. You push the door open to the bathroom and apologize to the person on the other side and look for Minghao. Your confidence is lower than when you walked in, but you were still determined to tell him how you felt tonight.
The smell of his cologne, hidden behind copious amounts of whiskey, hits you before you even lay your eyes on him. You square your shoulders back, plaster on a smile and clap him on the back when you approach. He turns to you, a tinge of pink dotted across his cheeks and eyes in the shape of crescent moons. A quick glance at the three empty glasses next to him tells you all you need to know — this case was horrific and he needed a break from reality. You don't think you'll get to tell him anything tonight.
"There's my babygirl," he swoons excitedly reaching out to you. Your heart leaps out of your chest and it aches. It kills you to not focus on the inflection behind the "my".
"Hey Hao— Whoa," you lean forward as he almost falls out of the bar stool. A giggle comes spilling out of him when he wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into your shoulder. You help him sit back upright and he scrambles to remove his jacket from the seat next to him, ushering you to sit next to him. Doyoung, the usual barback who tends to your crew, places a drink in front of you. Thanking him with a nod, you down the drink to match Hao's level of drunkenness. The night is filled with him drunkenly egging you on to drink more and you making sure that he's also drinking water so he doesn't absolutely perish the next day.
Suddenly Minghao, who had previously been slumped over the bar, sits straight up and grabs your face. He brings it close to his and you genuinely are unable to tell if you're currently hallucinating. He pores over your face with a scrutinizing look in his eyes. His gaze lands on your lips and stays for a while. Longer than what is appropriate between two best friends. Two coworkers. Your lips are inches away and the alcohol you've consumed silences the alarm bells going off in your head. You hadn't expected this at all, the second you had seen him downing drinks you quickly pivoted away from the original intention you had tonight. You let your eyes flutter shut and enjoy the warmth of his hands, you also pick up on the scent of whiskey and mint on his breath. There's a ringing in your ears and it isn't the alarm bells of your barely functioning brain. No, it's the ringing that happens when the one person who turns your world upside down is about to kiss you. But the moment never comes.
You open your eyes and find him studying your face. Irises wide (probably from the whiskey) and mapping spots on your face.
"Hao?" You ask as you place one of your hands on his, you're hyper aware of the small jolt of electricity that happens on your cheek when your hands touch.
"Mmm?" He hums, absolute glee hidden behind the smile on his face. You tap the hand on your left cheek, asking him if there was something he needed to tell you.
"You remind me of her." The shape of his eyes still crescent moons, his cheeks even pinker. From the alcohol or the confession you weren't able to tell.
"Hmm?" You say giggly.
"The girl I'm in love with— you remind me of her." He says like he isn't absolutely shattering your entire world right now.
"Oh." You could only respond in a monosyllabic manner, the entire situation quickly sobering you from your fantasy. You grab his hands and gingerly fold them into his lap.
He giggles to himself at your short response. Your mind is spinning and the three heavy-handed drinks Doyoung poured you certainly weren't helping. It isn't till Minghao waves his hand in your face that you realize he'd asked you a question. You apologize and he asks you again what you think. It felt like an impossible question to answer; your heart was absolutely shattered but as his best friend you needed to at least seem supportive.
"Whoever she is, she's a lucky girl," you respond, the fake smile on your face hurting your jaw.
"You think so?" He asks, blissfully drunk and unaware.
You nod, trying to will the tears in your eyes to not spill. Your barback slides the two of you tall glasses of water and your tab. The time had passed by and the time on the receipt told you that the bar was nearing closing time. Downing your water like a camel, you gear up to play another heartbreaking game of pretend. Quickly you get Minghao to drink his water, slide some cash to Doyoung, and move the drunk cat that is your coworker outside the bar to wait for a cab. Puffs of your breath can be seen against the night sky and the two of you stand close to each other to get some warmth. It doesn't prove to be very effective as shivers run through your body. Perceptive as he is, Minghao wordlessly shrugs his black coat off and threads your arms through the sleeves.
"Hao, what are you doing? Take your coat back. It's below freezing," you say through chattering teeth.
You roll your eyes and start to remove the very warm coat off you. The unmistakable shake of his earrings rings through the air as he hushes you and forces the coat around you again, this time closing the buttons to make sure you stay put. A frustrated sigh comes from you, made evident by the puff of steam flowing in front of you. You silently thank him with a swift nod of your head. Some minutes tick by and suddenly you feel a cold hand slip into the pocket and close over your balled up fist.
A hollow ache is forming in your chest. Your hand instinctively unfurls and the second it does, Minghao threads his fingers through yours. Wetness pools around the rim of your eyes when you feel the shape of figure eights rubbing against the back of your hand. Silently, you thank the cold weather as you sniffle the tears back. If he noticed what was wrong, you could immediately blame it on the chill. You stare up at the sky, hoping to find something that could distract you from your wailing thoughts. But you're met with nothing, not a single star in sight. Not a constellation in the sky to use as small talk. So you stand and let your heart ache, because this might be the last time you have a moment like this with him.
You're also trying to make sure Minghao doesn't crumple to the floor. He whines telling you that he's tired of standing and he clings onto you like a koala, telling you that you felt like a plush radiator. You blow off his comment and wave down the bright yellow cab who had just dropped off someone down the street. With as much strength you can muster you push Minghao into the cab and give directions to the driver to his place.
"Wait, you're not coming with me?" He pouts, hanging his head out the window.
You hated yourself for how much you wanted to still kiss him. Shaking your head no, you tell him you'll see him later. He pouts some more and even whines a little, making your heart swell and ache simultaneously. You tilt his head up a little and drill into him that he needs to drink water when he gets home. He gives you a little salute and slumps his back in his seat. The cab begins to drive away and you wave even though you know Minghao can't see you. Suddenly he sticks his head out the window again and yells at you.
"Don't tell the girl at work that I'm in love with her!" And just like that Xu Minghao shatters your heart for the second time.
Saturdays are reserved for shitty movies and wasting away at your place. In the last year, Minghao has been a welcome addition to your long standing tradition, but you wake up today (still slightly hungover) remembering every single thing that happened last night and can't bear the thought of seeing him. You send him a text that you aren't feeling well and need to just sleep the nausea and hangover away. It wasn't completely a lie, you genuinely did have a hangover and you felt sick to your stomach at his confession. The confession that broke your heart and had you questioning your own self worth. Who were you kidding, no guy like Minghao could have ever been into you. He could have his pick of girls, so of course he was pining for someone else. You mostly felt so dumb that you even held the fantasy for so long. Minghao doesn't reply back right away, you assume he's probably still asleep and decide that a small nap might help you feel better.
You wake up to the sound of knocking at your front door and grumble, throwing the blanket over your head, hoping that whoever is at your door will just go away. You're not expecting any guests so you definitely were not getting up for anyone right now. Unfortunately, your attempt to ignore them does not work as the knocking gets louder and more aggressive. Throwing your blanket around you, you groan and stomp to your front door. The knocking keeps going and you finally swing your door open, ready to yell at whoever is fucking disturbing your peace right now.
"Jesus Christ! What do you wa— Minghao? What the fuck?!"
"Me what the fuck? I think I should be saying that to you. It's Saturday, our day remember?" You wince at the decibel he's at. Shooting him a glare with the force of a thousand daggers, you whip out your phone and show him the text of you canceling.
He sticks his tongue out and pushes into your apartment, blabbering about how you couldn't let a couple drinks interrupt the tradition. A trail of his things follow behind him as he makes himself completely at home on your couch. He spots his coat from the night before and jokes that he wondered where it ended up. Your nose scrunches up in annoyance and you can't find it within yourself to pretend to be fine with him being here. One by one you pick up his things and launch them at him, each landing getting a complaint. You coldly tell him to take his things and leave.
"Haha very funny babygirl. C'mon," he pats the spot next to him, "It's movie time. I'm thinking comedy because you're being so gru-"
"Minghao. I'm not kidding. I don't feel good, I'm going back to bed, please take your shit and go home."
You don't even wait for a response, you quickly spin on your heel and head back to your room. You don't even have it in you to close the door on him, you just slip back into your bed. Burying yourself under the covers, the tears in your eyes are hot and you try to blink them back. It isn't until you hear the muffled click of your front door that you let the tears stream down your face, effectively dehydrating you even more.
This year's winter was giving unsubs harsh brutality a run for their money. In the five years since you've lived in Virginia, you'd never felt such an arctic winter. Roads constantly slick with ice, the chill in the air absolutely biting. The only thing rivaling the intensity of this winter was how hard your head had been thinking about your relationship with Minghao. After what you thought would have been the moment, you decided that you couldn't wait forever anymore. You couldn't waste time on the cat-eyed profiler anymore. Knowing he'd had ample time in the years of you working together to say something. The years filled of stolen glances during team debriefs, of flirty comments that would gave HR a heart attack, of him using a nickname reserved only for you. Even on that night, he had the entire night to say something, anything. Instead you were met with a confession that crushed any hope you had as well as your self esteem.
This was the third week of you silently mending the heart he'd unknowingly broken. You could absolutely feel the difference in the interactions, but the profiler for all his ability to read humans, was none the wiser. The list of your names for him continued, but never with the same vibrancy you'd always envelope them in. You were facing a silent fight, the only person who only noticed your off kilter demeanor, was Chan. The first week of your moping he initially let you be, only ever giving a skeptic raise of his brow when you'd brush off his comments regarding your well-being. By the second week, he knew you'd been lying and figuratively backed you into a corner.
You had been drowning in case files and your eyes were starting to dry out. You make your way out of your office and to the bathroom on your floor, but you sharply make a right towards the elevator when you see Minghao heading in the same direction. The door is about to close and you call out to the group to hold the doors open for you. In your absolute panic, you don't realize how loud your voice was. What you also miss when you push yourself into the elevator is Minghao frantically searching for you across the office when he heard you.
You make your way to the back of the elevator and pinch the bridge of your nose as you lean your head back against the wall. Your eyes are closed for the entire ride and it's only when the automated voice of the elevator bell announces the floor, that you realized you took the elevator all the way down to the main lobby. Remembering what your actual purpose of leaving the office was, you make a beeline for the bathroom. You weren't explicitly avoiding Chan, but you knew you couldn't hold out much longer until you cracked under his constant questions.
On your way out from the restroom, you hear a sharp whistle come from behind. Whipping your head around, you see Chan waving you over. Timidly you walk over. You know that he's going to ask what's up with you, so you mentally prepare your responses on your way to him. Sure enough his first question after greeting each other is why you aren't your normal bubbly self. You lie and say that you haven't been feeling well, which he immediately clocks, urging you to not lie to him.
"Come on sweetheart. I haven't seen the two of you walk in together in weeks, almost a month. And if I'm noticing it, it's only a matter of time before everyone else in the office notices it too."
You say nothing and just look at him with pleading eyes, trying to communicate that you don't really feel like talking about this. But of course he doesn't see it or he adamantly ignores it because he presses you even further. Arguing that he definitely knows something is wrong because he hasn't heard a complaint from Dr. Jeon about the out of line comments that are always coming from the two of you.
"Seriously seeing his face scrunch up at the two of you is the only real bit of entertainment I get around here. So spill it sweetheart, what the heck happened at Rummo's?"
You don't know if it's his persistence, the threat that your multi-doctorate coworker would eventually put the pieces together, or the idea that you were tired of holding everything in, but you give in and run down the details of that heartbreaking Friday night. You don't even notice that you're speaking in hushed tones until Chan leans in closer and asks you to repeat certain parts of the story. As you move along the details, you notice his shoulders visibly lower, like he's physically taking the weight of your pain. When you finish, you're full on silently crying and the first thing he does is fish a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. The whimsical dinosaur print makes you giggle and he tells you that it belongs to his kid. You look at him incredulously, you were not prepared for this lore drop about your favored security guard.
"You have a kid?!"
"You're not the only one with secrets around here," he says with a wink.
You hit him in the arm and beg him to show you pictures. Further prodding him about the fact that he has a kid, leading into the fact that he has a whole family that you didn't know about. He pulls out his wallet and shows you several polaroids of the sweetest little girl. She is the spitting image of him, even in her young age she smiles just as big as her dad. While you're leafing through the pictures, Chan starts to talk about your situation. He comforts you, assuring that your reaction to the whole confession was normal. That the ache you feel is what everyone would feel and comes with the territory. He starts the next sentence, but pauses, chewing on his bottom lip.
"I can tell you're trying to fit a sentence together, what is it Chan?"
"I'm just not 100% convinced…" Your brows knit together in confusion. You stay quiet to signal him to continue his thought. He then asks if you're sure of what he said to you the night at the bar.
"I mean I don't think I'll ever forget him breaking my heart like that," you say solemnly.
"Look sweetheart, I'm not saying I know anything about how he really feels…"
"But?"
"But I've seen the way you two look at each other. More importantly I've seen the way he looks at you. The way he looks at you isn't the way you look at someone who's just a friend."
"How does he look at me then? If you don't think he looks at me like a friend, then how?" You arms are crossed as you scrutinize him with your eyes.
Chan sighs and takes the pile of polaroids from your hands. You whine in protest. He goes through them one by one, seemingly looking for something specific. He finally lands on the polaroid he's looking for and takes a big pause. You feel him take your hand and he places it face down on your palm. Flipping it over, your heart aches. It's a candid family picture; Chan's wife is cooing at their daughter, giving her a kiss on the cheek, and Chan is off to the side smiling wide. At first glance you'd think he's smiling at his daughter, but at a closer look you can see that the smile isn't for his kid, it's for his wife. He is looking at her with so much love, if he was a cartoon there would pink and red hearts in his eyes.
"That's how he looks at you. The way I look at my wife. You told me what he said that night, I don't know. I just don't believe it."
You let out a huff of disapproval and he throws his hands up in defense, offering that these were only his thoughts. Your shoulders slump back down and you squeeze the bridge of your nose. Chan offers a comforting rub of your shoulder and suggests that maybe it would be good for you to get out of the office for a bit, or at the very least finding a quiet place to let your thoughts run wild so you can come back and focus on your work.
Deciding that the thing you needed to help you clear your head was a warm cup of coffee, you brave the flurry of snow and take a quick walk to your usual cafe, a ten minute walk from the office. As you're wrapping a scarf around yourself, a gust of wind knocks the fabric out of your hand and straight into the face of a person who was heading into same cafe.
"I am so sorry!" You call out, rushing over to the being whose face was currently trapped in your bright yellow scarf.
A muffled laugh comes from behind your scarf, a leather gloved hand bunches it up to pull it away, and what's revealed is the face of an absolutely breathtaking man. His skin glowing like he'd been kissed by the sun, even in this dreary winter. You notice the moles that decorate his golden skin, like stars had placed themselves there. Eyes the color of coal but the coal that still feels warm even after the fire stopped burning. He flashes a smile at you, the kind that that radiates heat in your stomach, one that you're sure could melt all the snow fluttering around you.
"It's alright, honestly it's my fault I walked into your scarf," he chuckles, folding up your scarf, handing it back to you.
He then opens the door to the cafe, gesturing inside. You basically float inside, the flutters in your tummy carrying you in. You walk up to the counter and order your usual — honey vanilla latte. There's something about this drink that just feels like the warmest and most comforting hug. As you pull out your card to pay, you hear someone behind you request a red eye added to that order. The speed at which you whip your head is probably faster than lightning. Ready to lay into the person who thought they could sneak in on your coffee order, you take a breath, but nothing comes out when you realize it's the guy who got a face full of your scarf earlier.
"Oh, it's just you," you say meekly.
"Just me? Ouch, I haven't even given you my name yet," he teases. You feel warmth grace the tips of your ears and cheeks. Chuckling at you, he reaches into his pocket and hands the barista behind you a ten dollar bill. Your eyes go wide, indicating a protest at his action. He shrugs and walks to an empty table, he looks up at you then shifts his gaze to the seat in front of him. After an internal conflict, you figure that a conversation with the cute stranger who just paid for your coffee wouldn't hurt. Thanking him for the coffee, he shrugs and leans back in his seat. He replies that its not a big deal and the two of you begin to talk as you wait for your coffee to be ready.
You learn his name is Donghyuck but most of his friends call him Hyuck. He moved to Virginia from California a couple months ago after picking a random spot on the map. He's a piano teacher to the children in his neighborhood. You jokingly ask if he would extend lessons to adults and he jokes back that you would be the only person he'd consider doing it for. Before you can reply, the barista calls out that your drinks are ready. Beating him to the punch, you pick up both of your drinks and take it back to the table.
Sliding his drink toward him, you circle back to him teaching piano lessons. Your hands touch when he wraps his hand around the cup and it lingers for just a moment. At a simple glance, no one would have noticed it. You do and you fight the smile that begs to come out. Luckily for you, the warm cup of coffee in your hands was a great way to cover it up. You take a small sip and feel yourself melt into the drink.
"Is your drink as sweet as you are?" He says as you put the cup down. It takes everything in you to not choke on the hot liquid. Cheesy lines like this don't typically work on you, but there's something about Donghyuck that just feels true and intentional. After years of pining over someone else, why not allow yourself to be chosen first? Chosen boldly?
As you're about to return the flirty comment, your phone pings. Shooting him an apologetic look, you flip your phone open to see that you've gotten a text from an analyst on your team asking where you were. You looked at the time and realized that you'd been gone for three quarters of an hour.
"Shoot, I'm sorry I have to go back to work," you say, shoving your arms through your coat. Scooting out of your chair you stand up and hurriedly rush towards the door.
"Hold on," he calls out after you. Turning around you notice that he has your scarf in his hand. You reach out your hand to accept it, but instead of handing it to you, he unravels the golden fabric. He wraps the scarf around you and once it's fixed to his liking, he steps back with a smile.
"Perfect."
Your eyes fall to the floor and you feel the prick of heat warming the tips of your ears. He slips something into your hand and you barely catch what he says, too distracted by the gesture. You know it was a question so you nod your head and promptly head out the door. It's not until you're halfway back to the building that you realize he gave you a coffee sleeve with his number written on it. Shaking your head, you laugh to yourself and slide the sleeve into your purse.
You return to the office in an absolute daze. Your steps feel lighter and so does your chest. The ache of Minghao's wreckage still sings, but the volume is currently softened. There's a smile hiding in your cheeks, you zip past security so you can calm yourself down in your office.
"Good morning!" The profiler chirps, coffee in hand.
"Morning." You push past, head down trying to avoid eye contact.
"Hold it," he stops you before you can get too far, "Ease off the gas there Zug."
You freeze.
You hadn't heard that name in years. Five to be exact. And he was the last one to call you that.
The nickname was a reference to your alias when you worked with the Caissa network. The network itself was named after the Greek dryad of chess and every network player had some kind of chess term as an alias. Yours was "Zugzwang" — a term to describe when a player is put at a disadvantage by having to make a move. Appropriate because when you trapped someone into your game any move they made was a losing one. When you were at odds with the government, they fell for the trap every time. But now, because of Minghao, you'd been using your evil genius for good.
"Every day."
"Every day what?"
"Every day I say good morning . Every day you say, 'it is now that I've seen you' or another quirky comment that would make Dr. Jeon turn the color of your sparkle pen. Where have you been?"
Your eyes form into lines as you scrutinize him. Pretending to straightening the ID badge affixed to his shirt pocket, you kiss your teeth with a click. He continues on talking about how he's noticed that you've been passing off delivering case reports and sitting out of team meetings.
"You profilers and your behavioral analysis. You ever take a break?" Inside you're screaming. Now he has the sense to finally notice the difference?!
"If I took a break, who'd catch all the bad guys? 'Fess up pretty."
You roll your eyes and land a soft smack on his shoulder.
"Fine. I met a guy," you admit, a dreamy smile breaking out of the corners of your lips.
For a second there is a look of shock displayed on Minghao's face. He quickly fixes his face, but you definitely notice. You always noticed the small changes, even when you tried not to. You try not to think too much of it as he digs you for more details. You recap the interaction from this morning. Spilling small details about Donghyuck in a dreamy daze. Not forgetting to comment on how handsome and hot you think he is. Twice. There's a beat of silence, a look of pondering etched across his face, before he nods to himself.
"Alright, yeah that happens." He gives you a pat on the shoulder and starts to walk to his office, but you don't miss the purse of his lips.
"Not to me it doesn't." He stops and turns around.
"Come again?"
"Look Hao, let's not kid ourselves. I'm not the kind of girl who turns heads when she walks into a room—"
"Babygirl—"
"No. It's okay. I do well enough on my own. I'm a big girl, literally. I can pull, it just isn't always instantly, y'know? I gotta get them to look past the space I take up first." He hesitates to nod. Another small moment of quiet, the effort of piecing together his next sentence apparent in the crease of his brows. Before he can say anything you beat him to breaking the silence.
"I mean, what do you think Hao?"
"I'd say trust your gut princess. If the guy feels too good to be true, he probably is. Best to move on yeah?"
"Well—
Before you can answer, Hyeri the case liaison walks in, arms chock full of files.
"Team brief now. It's bad."
"Clearly."
The two of you follow her into the conference room, something indescribable weighs heavy on your shoulders.
The team debrief makes you feel nauseous. And it's not because of the bloody gruesome details of the latest unsub that Hyeri had briefed the team on. Minghao's words keep ringing in your ear. The rest of the team made their way out to the Florida site and here you were in your office replaying the peculiar conversation the two of you had. You're trying to make sense of his reactions but you're unable to get very far. To ease your mind, you turn to work and get to compiling and cross-referencing the victim list that the team had drawn up with the information the local police department had just sent over.
Knee deep in a list of mugshots, your office phone trills to break your concentration.
"You know who you've reached. Speak," your tone monotonous as you try to continue your focus on your job. Minghao is on the other end asking for an update. You frown at his voice, something that in the past rarely happened. But his comment, along with everything else that transpired between the two of you, were creeping under your skin. The reaction he had to Donghyuck was off and it was beginning to irritate you. Why did he care so much about you meeting a guy, much less a dreamy one like Hyuck? Shouldn't he be whisking away the girl he's supposedly in love with? As he continues to feed you more information, you cut him off telling him you've identified the victims and a locale parameter that the unsub is using as their hunting ground.
"Damn woman, you blow my mind." He whistles, the tone of his voice reading impressed at how fast you were able to narrow things down.
"Yeah, I'm efficient. Gotta go" You quip, not wanting to keep this conversation any longer than it needs to be.
"Whoa, whoa, that's the second time today. No fiery comment? No 'I'll show you what else I can blow'.
"Not today, Minghao." You sigh, rolling your eyes.
"Full government? What's going on?" He never called you by your full name either.
"I'm gonna tell the hot coffee shop guy no. I'm taking your advice, you were right he's probably too good to be true."
"Oh.. Um.. Well that was definitely a smart move." Adds insult to injury by saying there was probably, definitely something wrong with him. Fire starts to run through your veins.
"Huh. Guess that's why they pay you the big bucks." You snort under you breath.
"Come again?" The defensiveness in his voice ignites the fire inside you to roar.
"What was it Minghao? What tipped you off about him? I gave you an ounce of info about him and suddenly you can tell everything about him?!" You're sure that at the decibel you were screamng at, those standing out in the bullpen could hear you.
"Babygirl I-"
"No, humor me for a sec Mr. Profiler, was it how dashingly handsome he was or how interested he was in me that screamed wrong to you?"
"Wait—"
"Just because YOU wouldn't cross a crowded room to hit on me, doesn't mean that someone else— someone less frivolous and not so damn full of themselves wouldn't. You want fiery Xu? How's this: You're a fucking coward."
You slam the receiver down and the dam bursts. You call for one of the other analysts to take over your casework for the day and rush home. As you're heading out, your boss catches you and you quickly tell him to expect a call once you get home explaining why you're leaving midday in the middle of the week. The elevator ride feels like agonizing hours, your anxiety spreading itself like wildfire across your body. You thank every star above that Chan was on his break because you didn't want to face him, mostly because you didn't want to break down at the entrance of your building where you could be perceived. It's only while you're driving home, in the quiet of midday traffic, do you let yourself actually cry. The tears making stoplights and street signs blurs of reds and greens. The rest of the afternoon is spent rotting on your couch, sniffling over the man who caused your heart to splinter.
When you're sure you've cried all the water out of you, you get up to get some water. A chill has landed in your apartment and you resort to wrapping your softest blanket around you. Grabbing your blanket ends up knocking over your purse and its contents spill out onto your carpet. The whine that comes out of you mirrors a petulant child and you kneel down to gather the mess up. When you think that you've returned everything into your purse, you notice a crumpled cupsleeve from the cafe you frequent. You pick it up and head to the kitchen to throw it in the trash, but before you drop into the plastic, you notice the handwriting on the back of it. You get a closer look and see that the mess of scribble is actually Donghyuck's number.
You don't know if it's rage, revenge, or purely just needing a distraction but suddenly you're grabbing your phone and dialing the number. After three rings, the call connects and you hear his smile before his voice.
"Hello?"
"Hi Donghyuck?"
"Ah the girl whose drink matches her voice!" You smile at his words and even giggle a little. You share that work had you pre-occupied (not a lie, but not the truth). The laughter on the other end of the line gives you butterflies.
"Are you free this weekend?" you blurt out. Immediately realizing how sudden it might seem you stutter out, "To pay you b-back for coffee, of course!" Your voice squeaks at the end and you roll your eyes at how pathetic you probably look right now.
"Saturday for dinner work for you gorgeous?"
You bite your lip at the nickname, feeling like you were back in elementary school waiting for your crush to read your note. Telling him that Saturday was perfect, he affirms by telling you he'll pick you up around eight o'clock.
Saturday rolls around and you're getting ready for your date with Donghyuck, but there's a twinge of something wrong in the air. Something in your gut isn't settling well.
Everything reminded you of him.
The outfit you were wearing? The first time you'd worn the ensemble, Minghao had said that the color made your eyes shine like galaxies.
The bangle hanging off your right hand? A present from him after your first year at the BAU. "A celebration — to turning a new leaf", he said as he closed the clasp around your wrist. You unconsciously rub your fingers around the metal band surrounding your forearm. The indentation of your favorite flowers etched in intricate detail, providing a sense of familiarity and emptiness.
The color on your lips, painted the same color the night you two almost kissed. The color he said was downright sinful but made you look like you had been plucked straight from heaven.
The moisture in your eyes isn't apparent until you're staring back at your blurry reflection. The soft ambient lighting in your apartment becomes unclear in the mirror. A groan erupts from the back of your throat as you blink the tears back, not wanting to ruin the makeup you'd spent way too much time on.
You felt him everywhere and it was suffocating. It became loud and clear that your heart still beats for one person and one person only. Your heart takes over your body and you reach for your phone to cancel your plans with Donghyuck. Before you can even press the call icon, a knock on your door startles you.
He's here? Already? You could've sworn that you had agreed on 8 pm and your clock only read quarter past 7. A quick swipe of your phone confirms that there were no new messages from Hyuck. You shrug, assuming that maybe he had just decided to come early. You let out a huff, realizing that the hot guy from the cafe is probably standing outside of your apartment, minutes after you'd come to the earth shattering realization that you were still hung up on the profiler you'd been avoiding for weeks. This was going to be really awkward.
Men and their awful fucking timing.
You grab a sweater to shield yourself from the inevitable chill that opening your front door would allow in. But what awaits you on the other side of your cherry red door isn't something that your sweater could've prepared you for.
"Minghao?"
The tips of his ears and his entire nose as bright as your door. Puffs of his breath coming out in short bursts. His chest was heaving. Did he run over here?
"What are you doing here?" You're staring at him in bewilderment.
It had been a while since you had last been face to face. The last time you'd seen him was the day you told him about Donghyuck. The last time you'd actually spoken to him was during the Florida case. Where he'd unknowingly planted a hurtful comment inside of you. You'd ignored his invite to the bar the day that he returned. The tradition of movie night on Saturdays had been skipped the last couple of weekends, with whatever excuse you could come up with. It took a lot of convincing on your end, but your boss allowed you to sit out on team briefs just so you didn't have to be in the same room as Minghao. One of the things that stayed with you from your past life was the ability to determine who was walking by based only on their tread. This came in especially handy on the days that you couldn't work from home. That skill escaped you in this very moment.
Because here he is. Right outside your apartment.
You say nothing and cross your arms with an air of ignorance.
"You said I wouldn't cross a crowded room to hit on you and you're right." You roll your eyes and start to close the door but he stops it. He pushes the door back open and lets himself into your apartment. Your eyes are wide, staring at his audacity.
"I'd do more." Kicking off his boots, he stalks further into your apartment. The nerve he has to make himself familiar in your sanctuary. What infuriates you further is how devastatingly handsome he looks. Hair the color of onyx, perfectly windswept, the tips of them covered in half melted snowflakes. You can see under his black trench coat, a black ribbed tank, showing off his stupidly perfect collarbones and the small layer of sheen from what you assume is the result of him running to your place.
"What?" The look on your face is a combination of bewilderment and annoyance. Minghao across your living room, huffs out and crosses to you.
He cradles your face then presses his forehead against yours.
"I'm sorry I was a coward."
Seconds that feel like hours pass and he finally kisses you. And of course it's perfect, the kind of kiss that you dream of when kissing the person that holds your entire heart. The perfect clash of passion. The kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more. The kind that leaves the both of you panting as you pull away for air.
"God for a profiler, you were really unable to read me for the longest time."
"I don't use my skills for personal gain, babygirl."
"Maybe you should…" The lilt in your voice is teasing.
"You think so?" You flash him a grin, one that's inviting in nature.
"So… When you said you'd do more, what did that exactly entail?" You tease, fisting your hands in his tank as you pull him in for another kiss. His hands hadn't left your face, thumbs caressing your cheeks as he returns your advance.
There is fire behind both of your lips, you can feel the rawness as the two of you clumsily fight for dominance. Minghao fists a hand in your hair and gently tugs, exposing your neck to him. He trails kisses down to your collarbone, each touch igniting the flame inside your stomach. He's got you pushed up against the wall, placing marks across your chest. Desire is pooling at the apex of your thighs and like moth to a flame, Minghao senses it. His free hands makes its way down your body, down to where you wanted to feel him the most. Pushing up your dress, he dreamily sighs at the sight that beholds him: red mesh underwear that leaves little to the imagination. The minx that he is skirts around your pulsing clit, the tips of his fingers flirting around your bundle of nerves through the thin layer of fabric. You whine against his lips, hips involuntarily pushing into his hand. The sound of his smile against your lips is intoxicating and the smokiness of his rasp is sinful.
"C'mon babygirl, use your words and tell me what you want."
Your eyes roll back in pleasure as he weaponizes his nickname for you. You can't help but whimper when he slides your underwear to the side and makes brief contact with your clit, an unrecognizable pitch coming from you. His lips have returned to your neck and your hands find purchase in his locks.
"Fuck Minghao. Please" You beg. The lack of touch driving you to the brink of insanity. He moves his hands, but in the opposite direction of what you want. A pout forms on your lips and another whine spills past. He pulls you away from the wall and kisses you again, hands roaming, like he was mapping every part of you he wanted to devour. They stop at your ass where he grabs a handful, the groan that follows sending heat straight to your belly. In between lip locks, he lightly taps the backs of your thighs and in a low register laced with sin, commanded
"Jump."
Your body moved faster than your mind, wrapping your legs around his waist. The simple ask sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. He carries you with ease to your bedroom, whose door he kicks open. You tell him this later but this very simple act of carrying you like you were weightless made you want to praise him like a god. Laying you at the edge of your bed, he stands back to drink the sight of you in. What he sees is feminine divine: your hair flowing like you were Aphrodite herself, remnants of your lipstick looking decadent on your lips, the way you're chewing on your bottom lip the very definition of sin. You prop yourself up on your elbows, completely in your head. You, the girl who was often passed over, almost always the second choice, felt the voices of doubt nipping at your skin. Even now as he towers over you, in your bedroom, you're avoiding his gaze and you can feel yourself shrinking.
"Hey, no. None of that pretty," he takes your chin in your hand and focuses your gaze on him. He kisses you, softly, waxing poetic of your beauty in between breaths. You mentally thank your past self for choosing a dress with buttons in the front as he begins to fumble with them. He doesn't get very far and out of frustration rips the front of your dress open, buttons flying in every direction. A sound of protest comes from you, but Minghao is immediately shutting you up by telling you he'll buy you another one. The other thing that shuts you up is his arms as he removes his trench coat. You'd always known his arms were thick, the lines of them defined in the button ups he'd wear to work, but seeing them bare confirmed your beliefs. The stretch of his biceps as he took his tank off making you dizzy.
There was no doubt about the hunger in his eyes as they raked down your body, the smirk forming when he realized that your bra matched your underwear. For a swift second, there's a tinge of darkness in them that chills your spine. The sound that comes from him can be described as nothing but feral when he leans over you and pushes your bra down. A mix of cold air and his warm wet mouth around your nipple makes you hiss. Your hands lock him to your chest and your hips are bucking up into him. His free hand reaches up and two fingers graze your lips and push into your open mouth. You feel Minghao smile against your chest when you swirl your tongue against his fingers. Pulling his fingers out of your mouth, he dances a line down to your core, sliding them through your wet folds. The sensation elicits a sound that vibrates through your chest and you buck your hips against his palm, signaling your desire. He picks up on your cue and slides two fingers into you, the sensation stinging in the best way possible.Bucking your hips up into the air with wanton need, you lay a message for him to find in your moans — keep going.
The telepathic connection you two have proves to still be fully functional as he continues his pace. Curling his long, slender fingers into a spot that makes you feel like he's bringing down the stars just for you. Warmth is spreading all over your body, the band in your core beginning to tighten up. Your breath is getting shallower, your moans are barely sounds.
"Let go for me babygirl."
"Let me feel it," He urges and you can't do anything but oblige.
The coil snaps and the pleasure is white-hot. You cry his name out as you squeeze around his fingers. The bliss you feel pushes you to drag his face up to you and capture his lips. You snake a free hand down to his pants and palm his length, a moan coming out when you feel how hard he is. Switching positions, you get yourself on top of him and grind on him to try and cure the ache in your core. He makes space between the two of you and undresses his lower half for you.
You're slightly ashamed for how you drool when his length flops up and smacks against his toned stomach, but that feeling quickly disappears. There's a split second where you pout when you take in how well endowed Minghao is. Mentally whining that he was blessed in every department, you wrap your hand around his length and you hear him grit his teeth. There's a glint in your eye as you shimmy down and take his leaking head in your mouth. It's almost automatic how his hand flies and threads into your scalp. A groan escapes him and that encourages you to take his length even deeper. This action gets him to throw his head back and in turn pulling your hair. The sting from that sends waves of heat to your core.
"Fuck pretty girl, I knew your mouth was filthy but holy fu-" He doesn't finish his sentence because you take him in fully and he hits the back of your throat. You look up at him and the way his face twists in pleasure has you sucking harder. This proves to be enjoyable for him because you feel him trying not to buck his hips up into your mouth.
"Fuck. Fuck baby, hold on. I don't-" You pull off him, a look of worry in your eyes, eyelashes wet from your actions. He instantly assures you that nothing is wrong, he just embarrassingly doesn't want to cum too early. His ears twinge pink and you giggle at him, coming back up and placing a kiss on his nose.
"You have no idea, how long…" he stops himself, but you give his hand a squeeze, telling him you understand. He kisses you lightly and before you two get lost in the heat, he pulls away then pats on your bed. Getting the hint, you climb onto your bed and wait for him. Turning over sits in front of you, drinking in the sight of you once again. There's lust in his eyes, yours too, but there's warmth behind the gaze.
Taking your left leg in his hand, he places a kiss on your ankle. The fire inside you burns brighter. Switching to your right leg, he does the same. There's hunger that radiates off him as he gets to your thigh and lands a big bite. He sucks at a spot close to where you ache for him the most. Pulling his hair in response, but he toys with you further and continues to bite and leave marks all over your thighs. He continues peppering kisses up along your body, maneuvering himself left and right, until he gets to your face where he places a soft kiss on your lips.
He reaches down to palm himself and the very real fact that the two of you are about to have sex, hits you.
"Wait, Hao," you say softly. He hums in response and you're trying to figure out how to ask for what you want without ruining the mood. In true fashion, Minghao senses your brain running wild and tilts your chin to look up at him.
"Where's your head at pretty?" He brushes your cheek with this thumb. Blushing is the name of the game and you have Olympic gold without even trying. Shyly you express that you haven't been with anyone in a while, which meant that you hadn't been on birth control. Your face is beet red as you're about to ask him for a condom, but he stops you in your tracks.
"Baby, you never have to feel weird about asking me to put on a condom," he murmurs as he presses a kiss to your forehead. He pulls back and looks straight into your eyes,
"Your comfort isn't optional. Ever."
He leans over to where he dropped his pants and fishes out a condom. He slips it on and returns to hover over you. Spreading your legs open with his knee, a sharp inhale comes from him when his eyes drop to your pussy, still glistening and pulsing from earlier. Reaching his hand down, he wraps his hand around himself and plays with your folds. Still sensitive from his fingers, you jump a bit at the contact. After a beat, he slides himself in with ease. Once he's bottomed out, you pull his face to yours to kiss him.
The two of you are a mix of groans as Minghao picks up the pace. One of his hands rolls a nipple in between his finger and thumb. The room feels hot, you feel sweat prickle at the base of your neck and the backs of your knees. Both of your hands are fisted into the sheets, toes curling at the height of pleasure he's bringing you to. You're begging him for more with your moans, you can feel your throat beginning to get sore.
When he suddenly slides out of you, you whimper at how empty you feel. The feeling only lasts for a second as he takes your left leg and throws it over his shoulder and sliding right back in. The new angle that he's fucking you with makes you dizzy with pleasure. Broken cries come out of your throat. His right hand grips your hip harshly as he pummels into you. Taking your left leg, he pulls it straight up by the calf and starts kissing your ankle again. The sensation sending fire straight to your core, prompting you to squeeze tightly around him. In reaction he lets out a low growl and nips at your ankle.
"Fuck Mingh-hao. Feels so good!" The room is filled with the noises of him slamming against your pussy and the chorus of your voices ringing out in pleasure. You know your neighbors are gonna hate you, but you quickly stop caring as Minghao continues rutting into you.
He moans against your calf in response, you feel the vibrations in your belly. The pace of his thrusts are starting to slow and you can feel that he's close. Arching your back off the bed, the angle is deeper and kisses the tip of your cervix. You know that you're gonna feel it tomorrow, but this was another thing that future you could worry about. This is Minghao's downfall as the new angle has you squeezing him tighter. Your second orgasm crashes over you and he catches the swell with the ease of a veteran surfer.
"Fu-fu-fuck, baby I'm cumming," he groans as he lets your leg go. You wrap both of your legs around his waist and cradle him as he collapses on top of you and spills into the condom. The two of you stay like this for a few moments, until Minghao slowly pulls out of you. Immediately feeling the sensitivity, you let out a small hiss as he slides out. He peppers your face with kisses to help as he slips the condom off.
After the two of you get cleaned up, you both lay under your sheets — legs tangled, your breaths matching each others, his hand drawing random shapes on your upper arm. The silence that falls over you two is comfortable, but there's something waiting to break the quiet.
"We did this totally backwards," Minghao giggles. You look up at him with wide eyes, a bit in shock with his choice of his words. Realizing that, he immediately presses a kiss to your nose to calm you.
"What I meant was that I would've at least liked to take you on a date first." It was Minghao's turn to blush. You giggle and place a soft kiss on his lips.
"We've never been the kind to go about things the typical way Hao," you quip. The smile he gives you makes your heart sing and swell. It's the type of smile that you'd spend the rest of your life preserving. The kind people fought wars for.
"That's true… In that case, wanna be my girlfriend?"
You hit his chest softly and he places his hand over yours. You kiss his hand and you know that he knows the answer to his question.
Yes.
It's a new week of work and you and Minghao walk into the building, hand in hand. Your favorite security guard makes no verbal mention of it when you walk past him, but you do not miss the giant grin plastered on his face as he hands the two of you your badges.
"You get up to anything fun this weekend?" The smugness incredibly evident on his face. You shrug, pretending to be absolutely aloof. In your periphery, you see the tips of Minghao's ears turn pink. Collecting your badges from Chan's hands, you nudge Minghao in the direction of the elevator. Once inside, you let out the laugh you'd been holding in, clutching your your sides. He looks at you like you've grown two heads. You wipe your tears and explain to him that Chan knew about the feelings you'd been harboring for the last five years.
"Chan was probably thinking 'Finally'." You shake your head, chuckling. As soon the two of you step off the elevator, you hear a shriek and suddenly you're pulled away from Minghao. You get wrapped into a tight hug by Hyeri, who sounds absolutely hysterical.
"Hi! What's this for? Don't get me wrong I quite love everything that is happening, but Ri you never hug me." She hits your arm, sniffling, warning you to not joke around.
The rest of the team surrounds you, thanking the heavens that you were alright. You and Minghao share the same questioning look. Your resident boy-genius fills you in by directing your eyes to the TV behind him. Your boss, Agent Choi Seungcheol is leading a press conference. Your eyebrows scrunch in even more confusion and then you read the byline at the bottom of the screen: "Caissa Networks sends clear message to the FBI". Hyeri finally lets you go, her eyes rimmed with red and damp. She continues scolding you for not answering any of her calls over the weekend. She rambles on about the fact that there was a threatening letter left on the doorstep of your boss' door with your name on it.
The bullpen is quiet until Dr. Jeon breaks the silence.
"What did happen to you this weekend?" You shake your head, shifting your eyes to Minghao. Neither of you talked about whether or not you were gonna tell everyone the second you came back to the office. You were both otherwise preoccupied. Before either of you can fumble through some awkward explanation, Seungcheol walks in, the poster boy for stoicism.
"Team meeting. 10 minutes," is all he says as he walks by. Like ducklings following their mother, the rest of the team tails behind him. Wonwoo narrows his eyes at the two of you before following suit. Silence falls between you and Minghao. You can hear the corners of his mouth turning up, ready to interrupt the quiet.
"So… You gonna tell the truth and say it was love at first sight?" The smugness is radiating off of him. You roll your eyes and mockingly tell him that he's not funny.
The smile on his face is annoyingly wide, but also dazzling. Not wanting to dignify him with a response, you turn on your heel and walk towards the conference room.
"C'moooon. It's a little bit funny!" He whispers into your ear.
"Pissing me off this early in the morning and in our relationship is not a smart move, Xu." You grumble quietly as you enter the conference room. Minghao's right behind you, sheepish grin as Seungcheol raises his brow at the two of you.
The rest of the meeting is spent trying to keep your focus as Minghao draws circles on your thigh underneath the table. You know it's his special way of apologizing and buttering you up. You make eye contact with Hyeri at some point and from across the table she mouths, "Girlfriend?!" referring to your comment from earlier. A look that says "I'll explain everything later" dances in your eyes and she returns a quick nod. There's a smile hidden behind your eyes, giddy at the memory of Minghao asking you to be his girlfriend.
a/n: this is my longest fic so far, this was such a labor of love and i am so excited to share it with everyone! this fic would not exist without the beautiful brains behind this collab: luna, rae and izzy — thank you for bringing everyone together and giving us new writers a space to feel comfy and welcomed.
to @livmarauder, @luvrung and @belovedgyu thank you for beta reading and helping this fic shine even brighter!
a special dedication to my 8stars always!
as always rbs are appreciated and rb's with your comments/tags are welcomed ♡
divider cred: @bunnytoppop