yubin

she/her | 24

[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

NOW

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (10,8k words)

Author's note: Everyone, pls take care on this very extreme weather cause I'm getting a bit not well here. Stay safe and pls enjoy this one 💕

On paper, your life makes sense.

Your startup is thriving—your name attached to headlines as the founder and CEO of Gatherly. An app that went viral for its aesthetic at first and then as an app that turns studying into something communal, intentional, almost romantic. Eventually, the app is dubbed “Tinder for academia” as it connects people online to gather and meet — to study together. Academia loves it. Students swear by it. Investors call it visionary.

In reality, you’ve just called off your wedding.

It’s supposed to be a private decision. An ending to something that no longer fits. You announce it simply to avoid drama, no explanation beyond what’s necessary. Overnight, your name stops being attached to Gatherly first. Instead, it’s followed by words like engagement, business power couple, wedding canceled. Articles dissect the timeline like it’s a case study. Comment sections bloom with speculation. People who’ve never used your app suddenly have opinions about your life decision.

They don’t ask about the sleepless nights you spent building Gatherly. They don’t ask about the students who write to you saying your app kept them from dropping out. They don’t ask about the systems you designed to make learning feel human again.

They ask what went wrong.

They ask if you’re okay.

They ask if you’ll ever love again like that’s public property now.

Still, you smile, you stay professional, you stand at the head of glass-walled conference rooms and talk about growth, projections, and futures like your life didn’t just fall apart. Your life still works. The company is thriving. Your calendar is full. You’re successful in every way that matters to everyone else.

And yet, when the lights go out, you’re left with the realization that the thing people are most interested in is the one thing you wish they’d let you keep to yourself.

On paper, everything adds up.

In reality, something essential has been reduced to a headline and no one seems to care how much it cost you to survive it.

-

The office feels quieter after hours but it’s exactly what you need to focus on work.

You’re curled up on the sofa in your office, laptop balanced on your lap, glasses perched low on your nose. One heel has been kicked off, the other dangling uselessly from your toes. Code scrolls past your screen as you work, fingers moving non-stop, comforted by the logic of it all.

There’s a soft knock and once you give the permission, your assistant, Lucy steps in. She takes one look at you—half-curled into the cushions, hair pulled back too loosely, still working and something flickers across her face. Concern, maybe. But she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she reports a few things about deadlines, a rescheduled meeting, a finalized contract.

“Thank you, Luce,” you say without looking away from your laptop screen. “And you can go home.”

She nods but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she drifts to your desk, quietly straightening the clutter you’ve let pile up over the week. You let her and shift your focus back on your work.

After a moment, she clears her throat. “You’re staying late at work.”

“Yep,” you simply answer.

“So it means you’ve decided not to attend the school reunion?”

“Nope,” you answer immediately, eyes still fixed on your screen.

You hate that she brought it up. You hate that you feel the need to share the reason why. You sigh and close your laptop partway, rubbing at your temple. “I’m not going because I’m not in the mood to answer questions about my canceled wedding.”

Lucy tilts her head and then shrugs. “It’s been weeks. People probably forgot.”

You shake your head. “No, they didn’t.”

She looks unconvinced, so you turn the laptop toward her and pull up the article. The headline is still there, far too interested in something that was never supposed to be public.

Lucy’s mouth tightens. “That’s… invasive.”

“It’s upsetting,” you say, irritation creeping in. “I built an app that helps people, employs people. I worked hard on it but all anyone wants to talk about is who I didn’t marry.”

You turn the laptop back, swing your feet up onto the sofa again, and resume working like the conversation never happened.

Lucy hesitates but after a while, she carefully says, “Well, at some point… you should get out there again. Date. You know.”

You don’t even look up and give a strong head shake. “No.”

She tries anyway by coyly says, “I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.”

You shake your head for the last time. “I’m done with dating. And men.”

Lucy exhales slowly, conceding defeat. “Alright.”

Done with organizing your desk, Lucy walks away and then pause at the door. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“I’m okay. You can go home,” you assure her with a subtle nod.

She nods, knowing that there’s no way to insist you to go home so instead, she says, “Don’t stay too late.”

You give her a thumbs-up instead.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind her and you’re alone again. The glow of your laptop fills the room as you keep working, convincing yourself that this success is enough.

-

Silence greets you as you enter your apartment.

You kick off your shoes by the door, drop your bag on the sofa, and head straight to the kitchen. You pick up the half-finished bottle of red wine and a glass, bring them with you as you sink into the sofa like your bones are finally allowed to loosen. You open your laptop again out of habit and yes, you come home only to continue working, not because you want to but because stopping feels worse.

This time, you pour yourself a glass of wine before you start and then take a sip, let the bitterness bloom on your tongue, and scroll through emails that blur together.

Lucy’s voice somehow echoes in your head.

I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.

You almost laugh at that because the man you were going to marry had looked you in the eye and promised you a future. He’d talked about homes and children and forever like they were facts, not bait. And all the while, he was lying. Cheating. Breaking something inside you so that you’re not sure it ever grew back the same way, breaking you to the point that made you think.

That’s it. That’s the only chance you had with love.

He ruined it. He ruined everything. Your gaze drifts, unbidden, through the crack of your bedroom door, to the vanity table where the engagement ring sits there exactly where you left it, the diamond catches the light like it still has the right to be beautiful. Once, it meant trust. Commitment. Promise. Now it’s just proof of how easily those things can be destroyed. So no—you don’t believe there’s still a decent man out there for you. Not anymore.

You take another sip of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Lucy’s words echo anyway and they tangle with everything else you’ve been trying to outrun. People asking how you’re doing with that careful tone that pretends to be concern but is really curiosity. People reading articles like your heartbreak is a business update, like it’s something neat and consumable.

You trusted him with your heart. You almost gave him your forever. And now strangers get to talk about it like it’s trivia.

They don’t know how it hurt. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning and realize something inside you is permanently altered. That trust doesn’t come back the same way. That love doesn’t feel safe anymore.

You close the laptop too hard, the sound cracking through the quiet apartment.

You curl into yourself on the sofa, wine glass abandoned on the table, shoulders shaking before you can stop them. The tears come fast, chest tight, breath uneven.

This is the part no one sees.

Just you, alone at night, breaking apart with the terrifying certainty that maybe this is it. That whatever part of you believed in love was shattered beyond repair. That you’ll never love again. And no matter how impressive your life looks from the outside, no matter how many things you’ve built and led and survived—

It feels unbearably empty right now.

-

The tech expo is a welcome change.

You stand backstage with a wireless mic clipped to your blazer, listening to the low hum of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. It’s loud, but not in the suffocating way boardrooms are. This noise is anticipation. Curiosity.

You like this better than meetings.

Out there, people aren’t waiting to circle numbers in red and talks about strategies that brings the company most money. They want to know you. How you did it. How you built something from nothing and kept it alive. They want to take notes, to borrow pieces of your story and see if they fit into their own lives.

When your name is announced, the applause hits warm and immediate. You’re introduced as the founder and CEO of Gatherly with the kind of reverence that still feels unreal.

You step onto the stage and smile and this one comes easily.

You talk about the story behind Gatherly, how the app goes viral quietly at first because of clean interfaces, warm neutrals and serif fonts that feel borrowed from old books. People start calling it ‘the academia app’.

Students post their “study with me” videos on Gatherly. Aesthetic accounts post their study sessions—coffee cups, annotated notes, rain sounds. And it sticks.

But the aesthetic isn’t the point—it’s the invitation.

Gatherly works like a dating app reimagined for learning. You don’t swipe on faces; you swipe on compatibility. Subjects. Study styles. Time zones. Energy levels. Goals. The app asks who you are when you’re trying, not when you’re posing.

Users find study sessions instead of profiles. They choose where they belong. The design slows people down. It makes studying feel intentional again—like pulling an all-nighter in a library that smells faintly of paper and coffee instead of doomscrolling in isolation.

Academia loves it because it respects the process. It doesn’t gamify learning. It doesn’t shame productivity. It romanticizes effort, patience, showing up—even when you’re tired, even when you’re unsure. And somehow, that’s what makes it powerful.

Gatherly doesn’t promise success. It promises belonging. Because it was never about going viral. It was about making space for people who are trying their best and reminding them they don’t have to do it alone.

Then you talk about failure, about missteps and sleepless nights and how success rarely looks the way people expect it to. You talk about resilience, about learning when to pivot and when to stay stubborn. You talk about sharing knowledge because hoarding it never made anyone powerful—only lonely.

You see people nodding, writing things down and asks questions they’re curious about. But no one asks about your personal life. No one mentions the canceled wedding or your personal life for that matter. They ask about strategy, vision, grit. They ask how to survive doubt without letting it hollow you out and you answer honestly, passionately.

You leave the stage energized, reminded why you love this part of your life so much. Here, your story is something that helps instead of something people consume.

For a moment, you forget how heavy everything else feels and you carry that feeling with you as you step offstage.

Lucy comes up to you with a bottle of water. You have a long sip of it with a straw while staying still as a staff carefully taking off the mic and wire wrapped around you.

“Do I have anything else scheduled?” you ask Lucy as you hand her the bottle of water back.

She shakes her head. “You’re clear for the next hour.”

“Okay, good.”

The expo floor is alive with screens glowing with information on the new technologies presented in each booth, conversations overlapping in every direction. You move from booth to booth, leaning in to listen, asking questions, impressed by what people are building with nothing but curiosity and persistence.

You chat with young engineers, developers with bright eyes and nervous smiles. You find yourself especially proud when you notice how many women are here—confident, brilliant, unapologetically taking up space in a field that once tried to shut them out. It feels like progress you can see.

You’re moving toward the next booth when you think you hear your name but you keep walking because the hall is loud and you probably misheard it.

Three steps later, you hear it again. A voice you haven’t heard in years, pulling itself out of memory and into the present.  You slowly turn around and for a second, you don’t understand what you’re seeing.

There’s a man standing a few steps away from you, tall, familiar in a way that doesn’t immediately land. Your brain scrambles, flipping through faces that almost fit but don’t quite click. He looks older. Broader. Different. Then he starts walking toward you.

And when he puts on a toothy grin, it finally hits.

“Aaron?” you breathe.

He laughs, eyes lighting up like no time has passed at all. “Wow. You still recognize me?”

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Of all places. Of all people. High school feels impossibly far away and suddenly right in front of you.

-

In a different building, in a much quieter space at a café, you sit across from Aaron with a cup of coffee warming your hands, still trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the boy from your memory. He’s older now with facial hair neatly trimmed, shoulders broader, dressed in a fitted shirt and a tie. Someone who grew into himself.

“So,” you say, half-laughing, half-in disbelief, “I really didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. That hurts.”

“No—wait,” you rush to explain. “I just thought you’d still be on a field. Juggling a ball with your feet to dazzle some girls.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I charm people into buying cars now.”

You nod. “So you’re handling the family business now?”

“It’s legacy,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “Also, because soccer was never really my thing. I wasn’t as talented as Chris.”

Your heart tightens at the mention of his name. You keep your face neutral, lift your cup, take a careful sip of coffee that suddenly feels too hot going down.

Aaron watches you for a second longer than necessary. “You still in contact with him?”

You swallow hard. Nod once. Then shake your head. “No,” you say.

Thankfully, he doesn’t push. He only nods, lifting his own cup. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

A beat passes before he adds casually, “He’s coming to the city this weekend.”

“Oh,” you say lightly. “Yeah?”

“The team he’s coaching has a match here.”

You nod, eyes on your coffee. Pretend you’re uninterested. Pretend this is just trivia.

Aaron smirks as he teases, “You’re probably too busy anyway, huh?”

You scoff. “I’m not that busy.”

As if summoned by the universe, Lucy appears beside you, leaning down to whisper, “You have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

You nod. “Got it.”

When you look back up, Aaron is barely holding in his laugh. “Not that busy, huh?”

You shake your head, conceding the loss.

He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a name card, sliding it across the table. “Call me if you ever need to buy a car.”

You smile, taking it, eyes skimming his name and number. “Do I get a discount?”

He looks offended. “I’ll double the price first. Then discount it.”

You glare at him as he laughs, and the sound of it pulls you backward to lunch breaks, noisy hallways, the humiliating walks to class with his arm around your shoulders.

And then—

Chris.

Your smile fades before you can stop it. You quickly glance at the time and stand. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

“It’s fine,” Aaron says easily. “I should get back to my booth anyway.”

“Next time,” you say, “I’ll treat you something better than coffee.”

He points at you. “Hey. You promised.”

You laugh, step in for a quick hug, then pull away. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Aaron says back with a smile.

You wave once before turning and walking off, leaving him behind, leaving the memories with him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you walk away.

-

It’s been a long day but even exhaustion can’t quiet your mind.

Meeting Aaron keeps looping you back to high school bleachers. Lunch breaks in the school yard. Names you haven’t said in years. You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia but it clings to you anyway, stubborn and unresolved.

“Do I have anything this weekend?” you absentmindedly ask, leaning your head back against the seat.

“I think there’s an event. A banquet.” She pauses to reaches for her tablet. “Let me check.”

“Can I see?” You reach over and take it from her hands before she can scroll too far. There it is, a banquet, neatly slotted, labeled with polite importance.

“It’s just a social thing, right?” you murmur.

“Well, yeah,” Lucy says, unsure.

You hand the tablet back. “Can we cancel it? I want to rest this weekend.”

Lucy nods, already typing, flagging the change and alerting the organizer without a question.

“Okay,” she says.

You turn back toward the window as the car slows at a red light, the city glowing back at you. You can’t quite name what you’re feeling but there’s a pull there, undeniable, tangled with hesitation.

You know what you’re going to do this weekend. You just don’t know if you should. And the uncertainty sits with you all the way home.

-

The car has been parked for a while now.

You sit there with your hands resting uselessly on the steering wheel, Sunday afternoon light spilling through the windshield, the stadium looming ahead of you like it’s waiting to be decided on. You could still leave. You could turn the engine on, drive back home, pretend this was just another bad idea you almost followed through with. But you don’t.

What brought you here isn’t courage. It isn’t hope. It’s quiet yet persistent curiosity. The need to know that he’s okay. That despite everything, he landed on his feet.

You inhale air, steady yourself, and step out of the car. The crowd swells around you immediately as you join the queue to enter the stadium. You blend in easily, ticket clutched in your hand, heart beating a little too fast for someone who keeps telling herself this means nothing.

When your ticket is stubbed, you head for the upper rows—high enough to see the whole field, close enough to recognize faces. You sit and you patiently wait until the game starts.

When both teams are being called to the field, you raise from your feet, neck craning to find a face. After a moment, he finally appears and your heart sinks.

Chris stands near the sideline, older now—his face more defined, time etched into sharper lines around his eyes and jaw. But his smile is the same. Full. Warm. Those dimples still sink deep into his cheeks just the way you remember it.

He leans in to talk to one of his players, whispers something you can’t hear, then taps the younger man’s shoulder encouragingly. The player laughs, nods, straightening like he’s been given permission to believe in himself.

Your mouth parts before you realize it and for half a second, you almost call his name. However, the roar of the crowd swallows the impulse whole so you sink back into your seat, hands clenched together as the match begins. You really try to follow the ball, the flow of the game, but all you see is him.

Chris watches the field with total focus, shouting directions and encouragements, clapping enthusiastically, pacing the sideline. He tugs at the tie around his collar now and then, loosening it as the game intensifies with each passing second. He looks at home there. Certain. Alive.

You have to fight the urge to stand up, to run down the steps, to close the distance that ten years have stretched thin but never erased. You tell yourself to sit still, to let this be what it is. A proof that he is here, still doing what he loves — only differently.

Eventually, you manage to focus on the second half of the match. You follow the passes, the rhythm of the game, the tension that builds and releases in waves. You catch yourself leaning forward, breath held, reacting without thinking. For a while, it’s just a match again. Just soccer. Just noise and movement and hope shifting back and forth across the field. Then, the whistle blows for the final time.

Everything stills and then Chris breaks into a wide, brilliant grin. The kind that lights up his whole face. He runs straight into the nearest player and pulls him into a hug, laughing as the rest of the team swarms in. Arms tangle around shoulders. Someone shouts. Someone else jumps. They gather around him like he’s the center of gravity, like he belongs there.

You don’t think about it but rise from your seat and clap, cheering with the rest of the stadium, voice swallowed by the crowd but heart loud enough for you to hear it.

You’re happy. Genuinely, achingly happy. Because good things happened to him. Because he looks proud and fulfilled and surrounded by people who believe in him. Because whatever paths you took, whatever distance grew between you, this is something he earned.

You clap until your hands sting, smiling through the tightness in your chest and for a moment, the ache softens.

For a moment, happiness is enough.

-

The stadium has mostly emptied now and you’re back inside your parked car. Across the lot, the team bus idles near the other exit, red and black paint catching the glow of the floodlights.

You wait because you want to see him—just once, just briefly. Proof that this wasn’t only for you and that he’s real and fine and right there.

Eventually, the players spill out in small groups, freshly showered, hair damp, dressed down but still wearing their varsity jackets like a shared identity. They laugh, shove each other lightly, carry duffel bags over their shoulders.

You step out of your car before you can overthink it, you start walking. Your heart beating too loudly in your ears as you move toward the bus. You already know how this goes as Chris is always the last to come out. Always lingering, talking to someone, making sure everyone else is settled.

As expected, there he is. He stands near the exit, his stance is relaxed and confident, head tilted as he listens to someone out of frame. The sight of him draws a smile from you before you can stop it— it’s automatic, reflexive, dangerous.

You take another step and then another. Your mouth opens, breath pulled in, his name right there on the tip of your tongue—

“Chris!”

It’s not your voice and you stop short.

He turns immediately, expression softening into a smile that isn’t meant for you. A girl jogs up to him, her ponytail bouncing, laughter already on her lips.

He grins wider as he warmly says, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She giggles, cheeks pink from the cold or something warmer. When she reaches him, he slips an arm around her shoulders without hesitation. They turn together toward the bus, talking over each other, laughing as they climb the steps.

Their voices echo briefly in the emptying parking lot and you take a step back. Then another. Your smile gone now, replaced by something hollow. You watch him disappear into the bus and the door folding shut behind them.

With one last look—just long enough to hurt—you turn away and you walk back to your car, carrying the weight of what you came here to see, and what you didn’t expect to lose all over again.

-

Another day passes, and you tell yourself that work will help you forget what you saw and heard yesterday.

You sit at your desk with your laptop open, office washed in late-morning light, Gatherly dashboards and reports waiting patiently for your attention. You should be focused. You are usually focused.

Somehow your screen shows a search result for Chris. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for anymore. Proof, maybe. Reassurance. Or punishment. You hesitate only a second before clicking the link at the top.

His social media loads and it’s mostly soccer—practice sessions, candid shots from the sidelines, photos of him standing shoulder to shoulder with his team. There’s one from last weekend, all of them grinning, arms slung around each other.

He looks good and happy. At ease. You continue scrolling and there she is. The girl who walked with Chris yesterday, you click on her profile to find out that she’s assistant coach. Still, there’s no clear sign on whether he’s married or dating someone. Nothing to confirm or deny it.

You close the page and return to the search results when you spot an older article. The one about the injury he sustained in his second year defending his university’s soccer team. A severe one to the knee and the surgeries done to it, the one that eventually forced him into early retirement.

Guilt coils tight, making you feel sick from the inside out. Your chest aches, heart shrinking as if it’s trying to fold in on itself. You stare at the words too long, each sentence a reminder of how much he lost. Of how much he gave up.

You close the tab abruptly and lean back in your chair. Maybe this is the universe reminding you of something. A boundary. A warning. That whatever this pull is, whatever thread still ties you to him, crossing paths again would only reopen wounds that never fully healed.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself.

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together as the sting builds behind them. You breathe through it, steadying yourself, forcing the tears back down.

A knock sounds at your door.

You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into something calm and slip back into professionalism. “Come in,” you say.

Lucy steps inside with a folder tucked against her chest. She hands you documents to sign, waits patiently as you do. She lists things to approve, questions to answer, confirmations to give.

You respond but only halfway. Your voice is distant, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Lucy pauses, studying you. “Are you okay?”

There’s no point pretending, no point on hiding it so you admit quietly, “I don’t feel well. Is it possible for me to leave early today?”

She checks your schedule quickly. “You don’t have anything critical.”

You nod. “But let me know if something comes up.”

She smiles, gentle and understanding. “Of course.”

Lucy cradles her tablet close to her chest and offers you a soft smile, “I’ll get the car ready for you,” she says before leaving your office.

You sit there for a moment longer, alone in your office, wondering when exactly doing the right thing started to feel so heavy.

-

The elevator ride is quiet in the way that makes your thoughts louder. You lean back against the mirrored wall, watching your reflection blur past floors you barely register. You didn’t do much at work today but you feel wrung out anyway. Tired. Restless. Like your body is moving forward while something inside you keeps snagging on something.

When the doors open to your floor, you step out and walk toward your apartment on autopilot. You unlock the door and stop when you notice someone is in your apartment.

An open suitcase sits on your sofa, clothes folded inside with a care that feels almost insulting and standing beside is the last person you want to see today, of all days — Cole, your ex-fiancé.

Your eyes meet, and the air goes cold. He sighs before quickly explaining. “You told me to get my things while you were at work. I didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

You don’t answer, don’t even acknowledge him but walk past him without a word and head straight into your bedroom. You don’t want to talk to him. You don’t want to hear his voice. You especially don’t want to see that.

The engagement ring. It sits on your vanity, exactly where you left it. Small. Gleaming. A reminder why you don’t want to see him. You grab the box and turn back around.

Cole is zipping up his suitcase when you reappear. He looks surprised when you hold the box out to him.

“Take it,” you say flatly. “Take the ring too.”

He frowns and pushes it back toward you. “I gave that to you. It’s yours.”

“No,” you insist, shoving it into his chest. “Take it back.”

“I’m not taking it,” he snaps. “I meant it when I gave it to you.”

“And I meant it when I said I don’t want it.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re really going to do this right now?”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You’re packing up our life in my living room. When exactly would you prefer?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’re acting like I’m the only one at fault here.”

“Oh, don’t,” you say, anger flaring hot and sudden. “Do not do that.”

“You weren’t there,” he fires back. “You were always working. Always choosing your company over us.”

You scoff. “Right. So you cheated.”

“I cheated because of you.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Oh, yeah, right, blame my career, blame my success.”

“That’s not what this is about,” he snaps. “I always knew you weren’t sure. You never fully committed to marrying me.”

You shake your head. “Those are excuses. You’re trying to justify what you did.”

He laughs bitterly. “Fine. Yeah. I cheated. But it was because I knew you never believed I was the right one for you.”

You don’t hesitate when you retort. “And turns out I was right.”

The words land hard. Cole drops the suitcase with a thud and steps toward you, voice low and tight. “At least I’m not a hypocrite. You just don’t want to admit that I’m right. That you never been and never will be sure about me.”

Your eyes burn, your hand shoots out, pointing the front door. “Get out.”

He turns toward the door without waiting.

“Never speak to me again,” you shout, tears spilling over now. “Do you hear me?”

“That won’t be hard,” he says without turning back.

“I never want to see you again,” you shout, your voice strained in anger.

His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back but he doesn’t say it. He just opens the door, drags the suitcase behind him, and leaves.

The door clicks shut and, in that moment, you break. You sink where you stand, sobbing into the quiet apartment, grief and anger and humiliation crashing over you all at once. The life you thought you were building collapses in on itself, leaving you alone with the echo of slammed doors and promises that never stood a chance.

You cry until it hurts.

Until you’re empty.

Until the silence is all that’s left.

-

You had a hard time sleeping but you wake to the sound of the door opening.

For a moment, you don’t move. You stare at the ceiling, eyes still burn, body sore in a way sleep didn’t fix. You already know who it is since Lucy is the only other person with the spare code.

You consider staying there anyway but lying still leaves too much room for thinking, and thinking feels dangerous today. So you push yourself up, drag yourself out of bed, and tell yourself it’s better to stay busy. Work is easier than sitting alone with everything you don’t want to feel.

When you step into the living room, Lucy is already setting things down on the coffee table—your breakfast, a cup of coffee exactly the way you like it. In her other hand, she’s holding a garment bag wrapped neatly in white.

“Good morning,” she says gently, smiling like she’s trying not to startle you.

You sink onto the sofa as she hands you your schedule for the day. You lift your coffee and glance at it without really reading. She disappears into your bedroom to hang the clothes, moving around your space as it is routine to her at this point.

When she comes back, she exhales dramatically. “I almost had a heart attack when the tailor forgot where he put your altered suits.”

You hum in response, sipping your coffee. It tastes right. You barely notice.

Lucy watches you for a beat too long. “Is something wrong?” she asks in genuine concern.

“Nothing,” you say automatically, lifting the cup again. “I’m just tired.”

Lucy has been working for you for two years, long enough to notice when you’re just tired or something truly bothers you. But she doesn’t ask but looks at you, patiently waiting for you to decide whether you’re going to tell her or not.

You decide on the former, shoulders slumping just a little. “Cole came by last night and we… we had a fight.”

Lucy’s expression softens immediately as she comes to sit beside you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t look fine. You shouldn’t be working today.”

“I can’t not work,” you reply, sharper than you mean to. “I don’t want people thinking I can’t handle this. That I’m not professional.”

Lucy meets your gaze, steady. “At the end of the day, you’re just human. You don’t have to carry everything at once.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Do you?” she asks quietly. “Can you even work properly like this?”

You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out. The silence answers for you.

Lucy reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Take a few days off,” she says. “Go somewhere. Get out of here.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “You mean… A vacation?”

“Yes,” she answers without a beat.

“What about the company?”

“Herman can handle it,” she says without hesitation. “That’s literally his job.”

She’s right. You know she’s right. Herman is the COO and you’re sure he can handle the company for a few days. And still, the idea of stepping away feels terrifying and yet, oddly relieving.

You look down at your coffee, at your hands, at how tired you feel all the way through. “I don’t think I can get through today,” you honestly admit.

Lucy nods. “Then don’t.”

You exhale slowly. “Maybe I’ll go home. See my mom.”

Her smile is immediate. “That’s a good idea.”

For the first time in a while, it feels like the right decision. You haven’t taken time for yourself, not since you called off the wedding. Not since everything started unraveling.

Lucy squeezes your hand again. “Take your time. Rest. Come back when you’re ready.”

You nod.

And this time, you let yourself believe that stepping away might not be failure but survival.

-

Lucy stayed for another hour before leaving to arrange things for your absent in the company.

You pack a bag with essentials only—clothes folded without care, toiletries tossed in last, phone charger, laptop you debate leaving behind but don’t. The apartment feels strangely quiet as you move through it, like it’s watching you go. You lock the door and don’t look back.

The train station is bustling with people. You buy a ticket, board when they call your line, and sink into a window seat like you’ve been holding yourself upright for too long. When the train finally lurches forward, something in your chest loosens.

The city slowly gives way. Buildings thin out. Noise softens. The view outside the window turns into stretches of green, houses tucked into quiet corners, sky opening wider than you remember. You rest your forehead lightly against the glass and let yourself watch.

You can’t remember the last time you did this. Really watched, really sat still without checking emails, without thinking five steps ahead, without measuring time in productivity. Somewhere along the way, you stopped allowing yourself moments like this and only now do you realize how much you’ve missed.

The way sunlight hits trees at this hour. The way the world moves when you’re not trying to control it. The comfort of going somewhere familiar without needing a reason. It suddenly makes sense why you’ve been craving familiarity, why your chest aches for places and people that existed before everything became so complicated. You miss home. You miss warmth. You miss the version of yourself who wasn’t always bracing for impact.

The memories come gently, uninvited but not unwelcome. And as the train carries you farther away from the life you built and closer to the one that shaped you, you close your eyes and let the motion lull you into something that feels almost like peace.

-

By the time you reach your hometown, the day has thinned into evening.

The train, the taxi ride after, they all blur together until you’re standing on the familiar porch, suitcase at your side, heart oddly hopeful. You knock, already imagining your mom’s surprised gasp, the way she’ll scold you for not calling first and then pull you into a hug anyway. But there’s no answer.

You knock again and still nothing. The house is too quiet. You peer through the window, expecting to see a light on, some movement inside but there’s nothing. She can’t be at the bakery because it’s closed at night. A knot forms in your chest as you pull out your phone and call her. It rings and rings.

On the second try, she finally picks up. “Hello?”

“Mom,” you say, relief flooding you. “Are you home?”

There’s a pause. Then a small laugh. “Oh, honey. I’m on the cruise.”

The words take a moment to land because you don’t remember hearing your mom going on a cruise trip. “The cruise?” you repeat.

“The one you got me for my birthday,” she reminds you gently. “A day before I left, I told you on our phone call.”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You must have missed it. Or heard it and forgotten. Either way, it’s your fault.

She doesn’t dwell on it. “What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m just taking a few days off work,” you say quickly. “I wanted to come home for a bit.”

“Are you alright?” she presses because she knows. Mothers always know.

“I’m okay,” you assure her. “I’m just needing some time alone but don’t worry about me. Enjoy your vacation.”

She sounds unconvinced, but she lets it go. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be home soon,” she says softly.

“Okay,” you reply. “Oh—do you still have the spare key somewhere?”

“Yes. Under one of the potted plants.”

You smile faintly. “Enjoy your trip, Mom.”

“I will. Bye, sweetheart.”

With that, the call ends and you crouch down by the pots, fingers brushing against cool ceramic until you find the spare key. You unlock the door and step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you.

The house wraps around you immediately. Warm. Familiar. Lived-in. Changing but also the same — in a way. You stand there for a moment, taking it all in—the faint scent of home, the quiet that isn’t lonely. Then you head upstairs, each step echoing with memory, until you reach your room.

It’s just as you left it. Your books are still lining the shelf, your desk still organized the way you like it, the bedsheets are the same but you catch the smell of detergent, your mom must have washed it like she knows that you’ll come home.

You drop your bag and collapse onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up to you. The mattress welcomes you like it always has, and before you can think too much, you drift into an easy, dreamless sleep.

-

You wake up late the next day, sunlight spilling lazily across your room.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are and a second later, it settles. You’re home. You’re in the bedroom where you grew up with the quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. You stretch beneath the blankets and realize, with mild surprise, that you feel… good.

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in a long time. Deep and uninterrupted, without dreams tugging you awake or your mind racing ahead to the next obligation. You lie there a little longer, staring at nothing, and it feels strange not having to immediately decide what to do next.

Your phone is silent because Lucy has always been good at shielding you when you need it most. No emails. No calls. No emergencies sneaking their way through. Eventually, you get up and wander downstairs, padding into the kitchen for a late breakfast.

You eat slowly, realizing halfway through that the fridge is mostly empty. You should probably do some grocery shopping. The thought doesn’t stress you out. It almost feels… normal.

In the afternoon, you take your mom’s car and drive with the windows down, letting the town guide you. Streets curve into familiarity, muscle memory taking over as if you never left. You pull over across from your old high school without really meaning to.

The soccer field is alive with players running drills, voices carrying faintly through the air. You watch from the car, smiling softly as memories surface. Sitting on the bleachers. Lunch breaks spent laughing. Watching Chris practice while pretending you weren’t. Aaron and Walcott being loud and impossible.

It feels distant, but not gone.

You start the car again and keep driving. You stop for a quick lunch and coffee, savoring both without rushing, then head to the supermarket, listless but content. You push the trolley down the aisles without much thought, tossing things in as they catch your eye.

Snacks you haven’t had in years. Drinks your mom always said were too sweet. Something frozen, something indulgent, something you’ll probably regret later. You don’t stop yourself. You’re not meal-planning. You’re just… choosing.

Only when the trolley starts to look a little ridiculous do you pause and squint at it. You’re grocery shopping like a kid with adult money.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Maybe some fruits.”

Balance. As someone would say.

You steer toward the fresh produce aisle, grab a thin plastic bag and start filling it with tangerines, testing their weight in your palm, choosing out of instinct instead of skill.

That’s when you think you hear your name and you ignore it because this town is full of echoes and old memories. You focus on twisting the bag closed when a trolley skids to a stop just a little too close to yours.

You slowly turn to the side and find someone smiling at you like she’s been sure all along.

“I knew it was you,” Celia says.

Your face breaks open immediately. “Oh my God—Celia!”

You step forward without thinking and pull her into a hug, the kind that’s easy and warm and unguarded, like no time has passed at all. You linger there with Celia between the rows of fruit, trolleys forgotten, talking like no time ever slipped through your fingers.

She asks about your work first and you give her the light version because you don’t want to give the impression that you’re bragging about your success, and she listens with genuine interest, nodding along like she always did.

Then she tells you about her life. About settling down. About how different things feel now, quieter but fuller. She laughs as she talks, eyes bright, and at some point she reaches out and holds both of your hands.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says softly. “I was so surprised when I saw you.”

“I’m taking some time off work,” you explain. “Just… breathing for a bit.”

Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Carefully, gently, she says, “I heard about the news.”

You don’t have to asks to know what she means. You nod once. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry,” she adds, squeezing your hands.

“It’s okay,” you say, and you mean it enough.

Thankfully, she doesn’t linger there. Instead, her face lights up like she’s been holding onto something exciting. “Oh! I’m having a baby shower tomorrow afternoon.”

It’s only then that you really look at her and notice the curve beneath her sweater.

“Oh my god,” you coo, instinctive and soft. “Celia. Congratulations.”

She laughs, cheeks pink, squeezing your hands tighter. “Please come tomorrow. I really want you there.”

“I’d love to,” you say, then hesitate. “But are you sure it’s okay?”

“Of course it is,” she says immediately. “It’ll be fun. Please?”

You can’t bring yourself to say no when she looks at you like that. And maybe—maybe you do need this. Time with someone who knows you, who remembers you from before everything got complicated.

For old time’s sake, you smile and nod. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Her smile blooms on the heart-shaped face, the same as it was back in high school. It strikes you then how some people don’t change much at all.

You help her load her grocery bags into the back of her car, chatting about nothing and everything. Before she gets in, she reminds you once more about tomorrow, pointing playfully at you like she doesn’t trust you not to forget.

You promise you won’t and with that, she waves as she drives off, leaving you standing there with your trolley and a warmth in your chest you didn’t expect.

Maybe coming home was the right idea after all.

-

Later that night, you eat dinner at the small kitchen table—something you cooked yourself, thrown together without a recipe or much thought. It’s probably not the healthiest thing you’ve ever made, but it’s warm and filling and yours. You actually enjoy it, which surprises you.

Afterward, you open a bottle of wine. You pour yourself a glass and carry it to the sofa, settling in with your legs tucked beneath you. It’s funny that you almost forgot how to spend your free time.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, you call Lucy and she picks up immediately. “Just so you know, the company is doing just fine without you.”

You chuckle. “I figured.”

She gives you a quick rundown anyway. Just enough to reassure you that the world hasn’t ended because you stepped away for a few days.

“So,” she says at last, “how’s your vacation?”

You swirl the wine in your glass. “I forgot I sent my mom on a cruise for her birthday, so I’m alone.”

She laughs softly. “That tracks.”

You hesitate, then add, “The bad news is… everyone knows about the canceled wedding.”

“That means you’re famous,” Lucy simply comments. “So what’s the other good news?”

You smile faintly. “I ran into a friend from high school. She invited me to her baby shower tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Lucy says easily.

“I think so too.” You pause to put away your glass of wine. “Can you help me figure out what to get her? I’m terrible at baby gifts.”

“I’ll make you a list,” she promises. “Send you options.”

“Thank you.”

“And,” Lucy adds gently, “enjoy your time there.”

You nod even though she can’t see it. “I will. Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends, and the quiet settles back in. You sip your wine slowly, alone again and then the thought slips in, uninvited.

If Celia knows about your canceled wedding… does Chris know too?

-

The bell above the door chimes softly when you step into the flower shop, the air thick with the scent of fresh blooms. You wander between buckets of flowers, fingers brushing over petals, eventually settling on something bright and gentle that feels right for Celia.

The florist wraps the bouquet carefully. You thank them, step back outside, and unlock your car.

That’s when you see him or think you do.

Across the street, between rows of small shops, there’s a familiar shape. Broad shoulders. An easy stride. For half a second, your breath catches. Your eyes follow instinctively as the man turns, the profile almost right, almost unmistakable—

But then he steps into a café and the glass door swinging shut before you can take a good look at the person. You stand there, bouquet cradled in your arms, heart thudding far too fast for something that’s probably nothing. But then, this town is full of people who resemble memories if you stare long enough. So you tell yourself it’s not him. It can’t be. It’s just coincidence. You shake your head lightly, dismiss the thought, and slide into your car.

Fifteen minutes later, you pull up in front of Celia’s house and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. A few cars are already parked along the curb. Laughter spills faintly from inside. You exhale, feeling suddenly out of place. Crowds like this still make you uneasy—you’d rather be in a room full of businessmen where motives are clear and conversations are transactional. This kind of gathering comes with expectations you’re never quite sure how to meet.

Still, you step inside, scanning the room instinctively for Celia first. You find her near a growing pile of gifts, glowing in a floral dress that hugs her baby bump beautifully. She’s mid-conversation when you call her name softly, trying to be mindful as to not interrupt.

Her face lights up instantly and pulls you into a quick hug, presses her cheek to yours, and laughs softly. You hand her the bouquet you picked up on the way over.

“Your baby shower gift is still on the way so I bought this,” you say apologetically.

“Thank you for even coming,” she waves it off. “And this is perfect.”

She looks around to find someone and when she finally does, she calls someone over—a tall man with kind eyes and neatly kept facial hair. She pulls him to her side before introducing you, and he smiles warmly, shaking your hand.

Celia steers you toward the refreshment table and pours you a drink. You lean closer to her, lowering your voice. “It’s funny—I ran into Aaron a couple of weeks ago.”

Her brows lift in surprise but her smile never wavers for a second.

You hesitate, then add, “I always thought you two were endgame.”

She chuckles softly. “We did pretty good. We made it through college but then broke up not long after because he got busy with his family business.”

You nod because you understand too well what distance can do. So are time and space.

Then, gently, she asks, “What about you and Chris?”

You blink, feigning innocence. “What about us?”

She scoffs playfully. “Please. There was always something about you two.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Well, you know, nothing happened. We went our separate ways.”

Her smile softens in understanding. Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t linger. She places a comforting hand at the small of your back and guides you toward the living room where the other guests are gathering.

You recognize a few faces from high school who mostly came here with their spouses, children, or both. But the ones gathered in this room are women as the men takes over the back yard with the children.

You softly greet the people you know and offer a polite smile to the ones you’ve just met. Your smile drops just slightly when you see her. Cheryl. Older now, but the smugness hasn’t faded.

You sit on the far end of the sofa with Celia beside you, as far from Cheryl as possible. You decide to not acknowledge her presence and take a sip of your drink, briefly wishing it contained alcohol.

Conversation drifts easily but they’re mostly about children, marriages, routines. You lean toward Celia and whisper, “I didn’t know you were friends with Cheryl.”

Celia murmurs back, “She’s married to the mayor’s son so I kind of invited her out of courtesy.”

You nod, understanding.

Cheryl soon launches into a story about her family—how her son is a spitting image of his father, how accomplished her husband is, how impressive his family’s influence has become. The others nod politely, murmuring praise. And then, she turns to you.

“And you? Do you have anything to share?” she asks.

“Not much,” you reply calmly. “Work keeps me busy.”

She tilts her head, feigning sympathy. “I heard about your canceled wedding. That must’ve been… sad.”

You kind of expected that to happen because some people only change shape but they’re the same inside. And apparently, Cheryl still has a bully mentality. Instead of stooping to her level, you remain calm and unfazed.

“I appreciate your concern,” you say evenly. “But it’s behind me now. I’m focusing on my career.”

You think that’s the end of it and that everyone in this room is grown and mature enough not to cause drama.

“I think it’s just sad,” Cheryl continues, “that you don’t get to experience being a wife. Or a mother.”

Celia stiffens beside you, about to speak but you gently place a hand on her arm. Giving her a look that says I’ve got this. You meet Cheryl’s gaze and smile before speaking.

“Yeah. I’m single. Not married. No kids.” You honestly admit because there’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. “But I’ve built something I’m proud of. I created an app that helps people, employs people. My company is thriving. And most importantly, I’m no longer insecure enough to tear someone else down just to feel better about myself.”

Silence.

A few women shift uncomfortably. Someone clears their throat. Others sip their drinks, faint smiles tugging at their lips. Cheryl doesn’t say another word but you notice the way she purses her lips together like she’s holding herself back from exploding.

Celia squeezes your hand gratefully and stands, clapping her hands together. “Alright, ladies. Let’s start opening gifts!”

The room softens once the gifts are opened. You watch Celia glow as she unwraps tiny clothes and thoughtful presents, her smile full in a way that makes you happy for her without the ache you expected.

You stay for another hour after that, enjoying the food and drinks, talking with people you know from school. When the afternoon begins to wind down, you step aside with Celia.

“I had a really nice time,” you tell her honestly.

She exhales, then leans in a little closer. “I’m sorry about Cheryl.”

You smile softly. “It’s okay.”

She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “Just so you know, most of the guests don’t like her either.”

That makes you laugh and you hold her hand as you remind her once again. “My gift is still on the way.”

She squeezes your hands back as she talks. “Thank you. Really. For even showing up and let me brag about having a successful friend like you.”

Right on cue, her husband joins you, slipping an arm around her waist. You take the chance to thank them properly—for the invitation, for the warmth, for making you feel welcome.

“Thank you for having me,” you say.

They both smile, sincere and kind. In that moment, you can see why they’re married and very certain about it.

“Thank you for coming,” Celia’s husband says with a kind smile.

You wish them a goodnight, one last congratulations, and then you’re back outside, the evening air cool against your skin. You get into your car and sit there for a moment before starting the engine, feeling lighter than you did when you arrived.

And you honestly enjoyed the baby shower. More than that—you enjoyed standing your ground. Not because you’ve been holding onto resentment, but because Cheryl pushed, and for once, you didn’t fold. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t swallow it down and pretend it didn’t hurt. Looking back at it, you don’t know why you were so afraid to stand up for yourself but now, you’re glad you did.

You smile to yourself as the road stretches ahead, then realize there’s no one to share that small, quiet victory with. So you call Lucy and put her on speaker, the phone resting in the cup holder.

The second she picks up, you don’t even say hello. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.”

She laughs. “The baby shower?”

“It was actually… really nice,” you admit. “Celia and her husband were so welcoming. They’re genuinely happy, Lucy. It was—nice to see.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums knowingly. “… And?”

You scoff. “Cheryl the bully was there.”

“Of course she was.”

“She’s still the same bitter girl,” you continue, turning onto your block. “But I didn’t let her get away with it this time. I didn’t even raise my voice. I just—”

Your words trail off as you notice a car parked outside the house. It’s one that you know for sure doesn’t belong to one of your neighbors. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel, alarmed.

“Lucy,” you say quickly, eyes narrowing. “I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, what—”

You hang up to focus on pulling into the driveway slowly, heart starting to beat a little faster now. You turn the engine off, gather your bag, and step out of the car.

You sprint to your porch so if anything happens, you’ll make it safely into your house. As you unlock the door, you’re squinting through the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the unfamiliar car. Then—

You see movements from inside the car and then a soft click. The car door swings open and someone steps out from the driver’s side.

You can’t see this person. Just a silhouette shifting, coming closer. You have your hand on the doorknob, ready to slip into the house. But then the person takes a few more steps forward, into the spill of light from your front porch.

Your heart skips a beat the second you recognize him. Chris. And your heart starts beating even faster.

You stand there on the porch as Chris climbs the steps slowly, like he’s not entirely sure that it’s really you. The porch light catches his face properly now—older, sharper around the edges, but unmistakably him. His brows knit together, eyes searching yours like he needs confirmation.

He exhales, almost to himself. “It’s really you.”

You don’t think he means for you to hear it, but you do. A smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Hi,” you manage, the word catching awkwardly in your throat.

“Hey.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the door behind you. “I was downtown earlier and saw your mom’s bakery was closed, so I thought I’d stop by. Didn’t expect to—” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. “—see you.”

Oh, God, you were right. It was him you were seeing earlier downtown. You hold back from smiling and calm yourself down. “I’m taking a few days off work,” you simply explain. “I’m home for a bit.”

He nods, and something softens in his expression—surprise, yes, but also relief. “I’m… glad you’re here.”

You swallow and mindlessly answer, “Me too.”

The awkwardness settles between you, thick but not unpleasant. It makes sense. Years don’t disappear just because you’re standing on the same porch again. He seems to feel it too, letting out a quiet chuckle.

“I should probably go.”

“Do you want to come in?”

You and Chris say at the same time and a second later, you both burst into soft laughter.

“You first,” he says with a soft, almost shy smile.

“Do you want to come in?”

He looks at you, then grins. God. You missed that grin. “I think this has been sufficiently awkward for one night and I parked too long outside your house so I should probably go.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah. Fair.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. If you don’t have plans. We could… try this again.” He pauses. “Or if you do have plans—”

“I don’t,” you say too quickly. “I don’t have anything planned.”

His smile widens. “Cool. Tomorrow afternoon works for you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’ll pick you up then,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” you echo.

He looks like he wants to say more from the way his mouth opens, then closes. Instead, he steps down one stair, turns back, and says quietly, sincerely, “I’m really happy to see you.”

Your voice trembles just a little. “I’m really happy to see you too.”

Your eyes meet, and the moment stretches—full of everything you don’t say, everything you’re afraid to name. Then he smiles, softer now.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He walks down the rest of the steps. You stay where you are, watching as he reaches his car. Before getting in, he turns back and lifts a hand in a small wave.

You wave back and don’t move until his car pulls away and disappears down the street, leaving you alone on the porch with a racing heart, a promise for tomorrow, and the unmistakable feeling that something long buried has just begun to breathe again.

-

The next day, afternoon slips by in a blur of indecision.

You change outfits more times than you’d ever admit to anyone, muttering under your breath as you stare at the limited selection hanging in your childhood closet. You curse yourself for not packing more or better clothes. And you don’t even know what this is. A hangout. A reunion. Something in between. Is it casual or…

Anyway, you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. But you also don’t want to look like you didn’t try at all.

Eventually, you settle on something simple—a floral dress and white sneakers. Casual but also cute. For the first time in a long while, you actually do your hair, blow-drying it carefully, watching yourself in the mirror with a focus you haven’t given your reflection in months.

You’re not sure what time Chris will come by, but you want to be ready anyway.

So you wait downstairs. You snack on grapes straight from the bowl, pacing between the kitchen and the window, glancing outside far too often. You repeatedly tell yourself that this is probably nothing. Just two old friends catching up. Dinner, maybe. Conversation.

That shouldn’t make you this nervous but when a car finally pulls into the driveway, your heart lurches violently. You nearly choke on a grape, coughing as you scramble for a glass of water to wash it down. You smooth your dress, wipe your hands on your jeans, and school your expression into something calm like you absolutely did not just wait for him for the last hour.

The knock comes and you wait a beat to seem normal before opening the door with a smile. “Oh,” you say lightly, feigning surprise, “you’re here.”

Chris grins. “Hi.”

“Please, come in,” you say as you step aside, opening the door wider. And it feels strange to say it since Chris used to come in like he owns the house.

He walks in, and for a second, the air is thick with things that you can’t name.

Before it can turn awkward, you offer quickly, “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” he kindly refuses with a soft smile.

“Well, uh… I just need to grab my bag upstairs,” you tell him.

“I’ll be waiting.”

With that, you head up the stairs. In your room, you pause at the vanity, applying a fresh layer of lipstick, spritzing a little more perfume than necessary. You grab your bag and take a breath before heading back down. Your heart starts to race again when you see him waiting at the base of the stairs.

He looks good—effortlessly so—in a dark sweater and blue jeans. You stop for a moment, just long enough to take him in, before continuing down. He looks up and smiles when he sees you.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, pulse fluttering in your chest. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

-

✨ EVENTUALLY: FOREVER is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

@abiaswreck @yubinism @iknow-uknow-leeknow @biribarabiribbaem @leewayout @fancypeacepersona @just-here4funsies @piwonchi @godyongbok @strywme @ihateetoadmit @enchantedlov3r2 @superboywife @foxinnie8 @ilovebooksandstories @gwinamlvr @lenfilms @niku0704 @taekwondoe @staytinyluva @velvetmoonlght @myminlee @cassie264 @tboboee

[yubinism]

excuse meee for the upcoming blabber but IVE GOT SO MUCH TO SAY!!

i am actually staring at my wall right now because what did you just do to me 😭

the way you write timing and regret is genuinely insane. this isn’t just a story about two people who broke up—it feels like a story about mourning the version of yourself that only ever existed with one person. that’s what completely got me. it isn’t just losing them, it’s realizing that in choosing the life you thought you wanted, you also left behind a version of yourself you’ll never be able to return to.

the contrast between who chris and the fmc were versus who they became because of their choices was so quietly heartbreaking. neither of them made the “wrong” decision, and i think that’s what hurts the most. there isn’t really anyone to blame, which somehow makes the grief feel even heavier. every conversation between them felt like they were carrying years of things they never let themselves say, and you could feel all that history sitting between them in every pause.

what really stuck with me was this underlying idea of trying to grieve something you willingly walked away from. how do you mourn a life you chose not to have? how do you move on when you’re the reason you had to? i don’t think enough stories explore that kind of loss, and you handled it so beautifully. they both moved forward, they built the lives they thought they were supposed to, but emotionally they never really left that moment behind. it felt like they’d been surviving instead of living.

and your dialogue… my god. it’s so grounded, but everything they’re not saying somehow says even more. i love writers who trust their readers enough to sit with the silence instead of filling every emotional gap, and you do that so incredibly well. the restraint in your writing is honestly one of its biggest strengths.

also your prose?? it’s beautiful without ever trying too hard to be beautiful. it never feels like it’s reaching for a big emotional moment, but somehow it sneaks up on you anyway, and then suddenly i’m sitting here questioning every life decision i’ve ever made.

your mind is genuinely huge for this. effie my dear, please take care of yourself and get some rest because wow… this is one of those stories that’s going to linger in the back of my mind for a very long time 😟

[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

THEN

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (11,3k words)

Author's note: From my Patreon's unreleased. I once mentioned that it was meant to be fluff so yeah, expect the spicy part in the later part. But I hope you enjoy this one too ❣️

Mornings always started the same way back then.

You stood in front of the mirror, slipping your arms into the sleeves of your jacket, fixing your hair, backpack already waiting by the door. You were halfway through zipping your bag when the sound of a car horn cut through the quiet. Three rapid honks. Impatient in a way that was never actually impatient. Chris.

You took one last glance around the room to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything. Then you grabbed your backpack and ran down the stairs. You made a turn toward the kitchen to snatch the lunchboxes your mom had packed early in the morning before she left to open the bakery—two of them, stacked neatly together. The strap of your backpack slid down your arm as you locked the door, and you safely tucked the keys into your jacket pocket afterward.

On the driveway, Chris was leaning halfway out of the driver’s seat of his car, one arm draped casually over the door. His varsity jacket was slightly rumpled, his hair a little messy, like he’d rolled out of bed and forgotten to tame his wild curls.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said easily, flashing that dimpled grin of his.

You barely acknowledged it and slid into the passenger seat. Instead, you asked, “Did you finish your homework?”

He laughed, already reaching for his bag. “I knew you were gonna ask.”

Chris handed you his notebook without hesitation, like this was just another part of the routine. He started the engine and slowly backed out of the driveway as you flipped through the pages, scanning his answers. He watched you with quiet patience, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as the car glided through the neighborhood streets.

“It’s fine,” you finally said, satisfied, sliding the notebook back into his bag. “You didn’t mess it up this time.”

“See? All thanks to my personal tutor,” he grinned, relief painted across his face. Only then did he pick up the speed of his driving.

The drive to school was filled with half-finished conversations and Chris’s designated going-to-school playlist playing in the background. He parked in his usual spot—right next to the school field. Chris slung his bag over one shoulder and waited on the side of the car for you.

Three steps into the school building, he was already drawing attention as people started calling his name from every direction.

“Chris, my man!” “Hey, Capt!” “Let’s crush it at practice later!”

He responded to all of it with smiles, nods, and a quick joke here and there. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him.

But honestly, you always dreaded this part—you and him walking the school hallways together. The attention. All the pairs of eyes looking in your direction. The whispered secrets being exchanged when they saw you walking next to him.

In fact, this was the only time you weren’t invisible to the rest of the school, as the girl known only—strictly—as Chris’s nerdy friend.

That was what they called you. Not cruelly—just factually. The girl who helped him study. The girl who’d been around since elementary school. The girl no one imagined he’d ever date—not when there were popular girls openly crushing on him, not when he could have anyone he wanted. And honestly, you didn’t even dare to imagine it either.

In homeroom, you slid into your seat near the front. Chris took the desk behind you, stretching his legs out comfortably. When the teacher wasn’t looking, you felt that familiar weight as he gently placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Canteen today?” he murmured, launching straight into a discussion about where to have lunch later.

You tilted your head slightly. “Maybe. Or the bleachers if it’s not too hot.”

“Yard?” he suggested.

You hummed while keeping your eyes on your homeroom teacher. “We’ll see.”

He squeezed your shoulder once before pulling his hand away like he always did, like it didn’t mean anything more than friendship.

The bell rang, and the students dispersed, beginning to move toward their next classes. The two of you stood, already knowing what came next. Different classes. Different hallways.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Chris said, slinging his bag back onto his shoulder.

“Don’t make me wait,” you warned him.

“I won’t,” he said with an easy grin.

You watched him disappear into the crowd before turning in the opposite direction, hugging your books to your chest and blending in with the other students, becoming invisible once more.

-

The lunchtime noise buzzed around you, but you were only half paying attention. You sat on the bench just outside the canteen, one leg tucked beneath you, a book resting open in your hands. You’d already read the same paragraph twice, kept getting distracted by the fact that Chris had made you wait despite his promise.

You decided to send another text. Where are you?

Barely a second passed before a shadow fell over the page.

“I’m here.”

Chris’s head appeared far too close to yours, his cheek nearly brushing your temple, his dimpled grin already in place like he’d planned the timing just to scare you.

You jolted, nearly dropping the book. “Chris—!”

He laughed under his breath, settling beside you like nothing had happened.

“You’re late,” you grumbled, snapping the book shut. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

“Forever?” he echoed, amused. “It’s been, like, three minutes.”

“That’s forever in lunchtime,” you shot back.

He only grinned wider, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the bench. He waited until you finished huffing before turning to you with a softer smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said thoughtfully, and he placed your favorites on the table like a peace offering—a can of sparkling cider and a pack of M&Ms. A carton of pineapple juice sat in front of him.

Then he leaned close and sweetly asked, “Now, can we eat in peace?”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand was already reaching into your bag. You pulled out the two lunchboxes your mother had packed, placing one between you before pushing the other toward him.

Chris’s eyes lit up as he opened the lid, nodding in approval at what your mom had packed for today’s lunch. He practically shouted a thank-you in the direction of your house, palms pressed together dramatically before digging in with unrestrained enthusiasm.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, just as you opened your own lunch—

“Wow.” A voice cut in.

You looked up to see Aaron and Walcott—Chris’s friends and fellow soccer team members—sliding onto the bench, trays of school lunch in hand.

Aaron stared openly at the lunchboxes, eyes full of envy. “Please, pack lunches for us too.”

You shot him a look. “And what do I get in return?”

Aaron leaned back cockily, cupping his own face with both hands. “You get to see my charming face for free the whole lunch break.”

You groaned because not only were they wearing the same varsity jackets, but they also shared the same level of smugness and cockiness. “You’re all the same, I swear.”

Chris laughed, nearly choking on his food, while Walcott just grinned, stealing a bite out of Chris’s sandwich.

Conversation drifted easily as they talked about practice, the upcoming match, and the soccer match that had happened last night. You listened more than you talked, used to this dynamic.

Then a girl approached and stopped in front of Chris, holding out a cold can of soda. You knew her as one of the popular girls at school—Cheryl. She smiled brightly, eyes fixed on Chris, as she sweetly said, “Good luck on the upcoming match.”

Chris blinked, surprised, then smiled politely as he accepted it. “Uh—thanks. I appreciate it.”

As soon as she walked away, Aaron leaned in with a knowing grin. “Told you, man. She’s into you.”

“Just date her already,” Walcott added, squeezing his shoulder hard.

“Just stop,” Chris said firmly, sliding the soda toward Walcott, who was more than happy to receive it.

That, apparently, was invitation enough for the boys to spiral into teasing and listing the girls who had been hitting on Chris. You focused very intently on your lunch, but inside, you were annoyed by these girls who didn’t even do the bare minimum of knowing that Chris didn’t even drink soda.

When the bell rang, they all stood as you did, gathering your bag and book in your arms.

“We’ll walk you,” Aaron declared.

“I’m fine,” you protested immediately. “I can go alone.”

Your protest didn’t mean anything to them, as Walcott slung an arm around your shoulders, steering you down the hallway. Every time you tried to shake him off, he only tightened his hold.

“Stop,” you hissed.

“Nope.”

You eventually gave up and once again dreaded the way people stared—not at them, but at you. You kept your head down, heat crawling up your neck.

When you finally reached your classroom, you let out a breath of relief, but they lingered in the doorway, waving exaggeratedly, calling your name just to make it worse.

“Have a great class, sweetie,” Walcott shouted teasingly.

Chris grabbed the back of both of Aaron and Walcott’s jackets and pulled them away to make them stop. It was too late. Everyone witnessed it. You groaned, hiding your face as they laughed their way down the hall. However, Chris glancing back once, waving his hand and flashing you his dimpled grin before walking away.

-

After the final bell rang, you made your way toward the field without really thinking about it. Your steps felt automatic, like your body already knew where it wanted to be.

Practice was already underway when you arrived. You could spot him easily — Chris in his school soccer jersey, the fabric darkened slightly with sweat, his dark hair flopping over his forehead as he moved. You slowed near the bleachers, dropping your bag beside you before sitting down.

You watched him juggle the ball effortlessly at his feet—once, twice, three times—before sending it flying cleanly to the other end of the field. He moved with a kind of confidence that only came from years of practice and hard work, from knowing exactly what his body could do. You stayed there for a long moment, feeling content from just watching.

When he finally jogged off to the side for water, you stood and made your way down the bleachers. Gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you approached.

Chris noticed you almost immediately. His face lit up in surprise. “You’re still here?”

You smiled, tilting your head. “Just wanted to check if you’re still good.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Rude. I’m amazing.”

You snorted. Hate that he was right.

As he took another drink, his expression softened. “Sorry I can’t drive you home today,” he said.

“It’s fine,” you waved him off easily. “I’ll just take the bus.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there, the sounds of the field fading into the background and Chris looked at you like he wanted to say something else, like the words were sitting right at the edge of his mouth.

Your fingers fiddled with the strap of your backpack and broke the silence first. “Are you still coming over later to study?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. If practice ends in time, I’ll come.”

“Okay.”

You hoisted your bag higher on your shoulder and took a step back. “Have a good practice.”

“You too—” He stopped himself, smiling. “Be careful on the way home.”

You nodded, turning on your heel.

You could feel his eyes on you as you walked away, the awareness warm and strangely heavy in your chest. You didn’t look back right away. You waited until you reached the edge of the field.

When you finally turned, Chris had already pivoted back toward the game, jogging to rejoin his friends like nothing had happened at all.

And yet, the feeling lingered.

-

You were halfway through highlighting a paragraph in your textbook when the sound of a car pulling into the driveway reached your room. You didn’t need to know who it is.

A moment later, the front door opened, followed by a warm, polite voice, just a little louder than necessary.

“Good evening, Ma’am!”

You smiled to yourself as you kept reading. You could hear him laying it on thick like he always did, thanking your mother for the lunchbox, complimenting the food, promising he ate everything. He had perfected the art of charming adults, and your mom adored him for it.

Footsteps followed soon after, taking the stairs two at a time. Chris didn’t knock but pushed through your bedroom door without ceremony. He dropped his bag by the wall before collapsing onto your bed with a dramatic groan.

“Chris,” you sighed without looking up. “You know you’re supposed to knock.”

He rolled to the side and coyly shrugged. “I know you’re just studying.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stood, walked over, and grabbed his arm, dragging him off the bed despite his half-hearted protests until he was sitting on the carpeted floor.

“No outside clothes on my bed,” you reminded him.

Chris grinned up at you, mischievous. “Then I’ll just take my clothes off.”

You took his bag and dropped it onto his lap. “Start studying,” you deadpanned.

Chris huffed but reaching into his bag. He moved slower now, fatigue evident in the way his shoulders slumped as he pulled out his book. Up close, you noticed his hair was still slightly damp, dark strands falling messily over his forehead. He smelled like soap and his musky cologne you’d grown used to without realizing when it happened.

He leaned back against the edge of your bed, flipping to the page he needed. “This part,” he said, pointing. “I don’t get it.”

You grabbed your notebook and pencils, sliding down to sit beside him on the floor, your shoulder brushing his as you leaned against the mattress too. You walked him through it step by step, slowly and patiently explaining it the way you always did.

Chris really listened. His brow furrowed in concentration, eyes following your pencil as it moved. He asked questions. He corrected himself when he realized his mistake.

You watched him, quietly admiring the effort. You knew he had to be exhausted. School, practice, expectations. And still, he showed up. Still sat on your bedroom floor, trying his best to understand something he didn’t have to care about.

It was one of the things you liked most about him among other things. You just didn’t tell him because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, make him cockier than he already was.

The room was quiet except for the scratch of pencil against paper as you waited while Chris finished the last of his practice questions, knees tucked to your chest, back resting against the bed.

“Are you done?” you asked after a while.

“Not yet,” he answered halfheartedly.

It took longer than it should have. Suspicious, you leaned forward, peering over his shoulder. Chris was lying on his stomach now, notebook angled slightly away from you and he was very clearly not doing math.

You slapped his shoulder. “Chris!”

He laughed, twisting onto his side and holding the notebook up proudly with tongue slightly peeking out from the corner of his mouth. “Look.”

You frowned at the page. “…What is that?”

“A dinosaur,” he said confidently.

You scoffed. “You made me wait so you could draw?”

Before you could scold him further, he flipped the page. “All done,” he said smugly.

You stared at the finished questions, then glared at him. “You could’ve said that instead of wasting my time.”

Your argument dissolved quickly into a mess of laughter and shoving, hands pushing shoulders, legs tangling until you were both rolling on the carpet.

“Kids,” your mom stood in the doorway, shaking her head in amusement, taking in the sight of the two of you wrestling on the floor.

“She started it,” Chris said immediately, index finger pointed at you.

You smacked him lightly on the chest and he yelped in exaggeration.

“Your daughter practicing violence instead of studying,” he added solemnly while rubbing his chest.

Your mom laughed, setting a tray of cut fruit and snacks down beside you. “Behave,” she said lightly before leaving you to it.

Chris wasted no time grabbing a handful of grapes, leaning onto his side with one elbow propped against the floor as he popped one into his mouth. Even with his dishevelled hair and the dark t-shirt rode up his waist, he looked like he’s posing for a magazine.

You quickly shifted your focus back to studying. You picked up your pen and his notebook, carefully checking his answers.

One after another—correct. All ten.

You paused, surprised, then cleared your throat and kept your expression neutral. “Well done.”

Chris smirked, popping the last grape into his mouth. “See? I get it.”

You gathered your things, returning them to your desk but stayed seated on the floor next to him.

Chris rolled onto his stomach and reached for a few crackers, chewing thoughtfully. “Studying after school is boring,” he complained.

“You could hang out with your soccer mates instead. I’m sure they’re much more fun than me,” you teased as you bite into sliced apple.

He turned his head toward you. “How about we go see a movie this weekend?” he asked rather too casually.

You assumed the usual, that Chris will bring along his friends and watch the movie together. He’d done it before. “Oh, yeah. I’d love to hear Walcott’s commentary the whole time,” you said dryly.

He frowned. “No. Just you and me.”

You stopped chewing for a second. “Just… us?”

“Yeah,” he nodded like it was obvious.

You schooled your face to remain calm. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t. You told yourself it was just two friends going to a movie together. Nothing more.

“Yeah, sure,” you said lightly.

“Cool,” he smiled while subtly nodding. “I’ll pick you up at seven then.”

Later, you walked him out. He charmed your mom once more in the living room before heading for the door, waving at you as he climbed into his car. You stood there until his headlights disappeared down the street. Only then did you go back inside and couldn’t stop yourself from hiding your smile anymore.

-

You stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary, changing in and out of clothes for a few times. All this effort… You told yourself you were just making sure you looked presentable.

A presence lingered at the doorway as you adjusted the collar of your top. Your mother leaned against the frame, watching you with a knowing smile. “Where are you going?”

“To the movies,” you answered, eyes still on your reflection.

“With who?”

“Chris.”

Her eyebrow lifted slowly. Deliberately. “Oh? Is this… a date?” she teased, delighted.

“No,” you answered without a beat and groaned for giving yourself away.

You calmed your face before turning toward her and tried again. “It’s not a date. We’re just going to the movies.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced.

You busied yourself by combing your hair with your fingers. “We’re just friends. That’s all.”

She chuckled softly, then gestured toward your closet. “Date or not, I think you should wear that cute top.”

You followed her finger to the white blouse hanging neatly among your clothes. The one she bought for you as Christmas gift. The one you hadn’t worn ever since.

“Mom…” you groaned for unknown reason.

“I’m just saying,” she said, picking up the laundry basket from your room and took it with her.

You stared at your reflection again, doubt creeping in as you kept glancing at that white top. With a dramatic sigh, you reached into your closet, took the blouse off the hanger, and changed into it.

You know. Just in case.

-

Chris’s car pulled up right on time.

You grabbed your bag and headed for the door, only for your mom to beat you to it. She leaned casually against the frame as Chris stepped out of the car, greeting her with his usual easy smile.

“Hey, Chris,” she greeted him brightly. “You look dazzling.”

The compliment made him a bit flustered as he grinned, ears reddening. “Thanks, Ma’am.”

You hurriedly made your way out of the door before your mom could tease either you or Chris. Or both.

“Have a great time, you two,” she said brightly.

“I’ll have her home before curfew,” Chris promised without hesitation.

Your mom laughed. “Oh, you can take her out all night. I’m fine with that.”

“Mom!” you groaned, mortified.

Chris laughed but before you could recover, he grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the car.

“Goodnight!” He called over his shoulder at your mom.

You barely had time to protest before you were guided into the car, his hand warm around yours as he opened the passenger door for you.

The car ride to the movies was filled with his voice. Chris rambled easily about the movie options, about how one had better reviews and the other had cooler trailers. You nodded along, half listening, suddenly very aware of how he looked.

He’d dressed nicely in simple dark shirt, blue jeans. His hair was styled, pushed away from his face in a way that made your chest feel oddly tight. And when he leaned over to adjust the volume, the scent of his cologne filled the space between you, familiar but sharper tonight.

Somehow, you thought about what your mom had said and how you told yourself after. Just friends. Still, you wondered if this was really just the two of you going to the movies as Chris kept talking, oblivious, one hand on the wheel as he smiled to himself. You stared out the window, something tugging at your chest and tried not to think too hard about it.

The two of you ended up choosing a rom-com because the other options were horror and thrillers, and despite Chris’s image as this badass, confident soccer captain, he absolutely could not stomach those kinds of movies.

“I’m not watching something that makes me jump every five minutes,” he said flatly.

You smirked. “You can be honest with me and say that you’re scared.”

“I’m sensible,” he corrected.

Tickets bought, the two of you joined the queue for snacks next. What started as a simple decision quickly turned into a heated yet entirely unserious argument.

“We don’t need nachos and popcorn,” you insisted.

“Yes, we do. It’s all about balance,” Chris argued.

“That’s not how balance works.”

Before you could respond, someone stepped into his line of sight.

“Hi, Chris!”

It was Cheryl—the one who’d given him a drink the other day. She smiled, eyes fixed on him and only him, barely sparing you a glance. You were used to it so you did what you always do in this situation, eliminating yourself from it. You stepped forward in the queue, giving them space, and focused on the menu.

By the time it was your turn to order, Chris reappeared beside you, casually slipping an arm around your shoulders.

“Popcorn,” he said to the cashier, “and sparkling cider. And M&M’s.”

You turned to him. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “You always get the usual.”

You scoffed, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Don’t act like you know me.”

He only smiled wider and continued ordering more snacks for him. Then insisted on paying the whole thing.

Inside the theater, you barely had time to sit before Chris was already reaching into the popcorn.

“Hey,” you scolded, lightly slapped his hand. “It’s gonna be gone before the movie starts.”

He pouted dramatically but stopped. “Can I have some of your M&M’s then?”

You poured some onto your hand and handed him a few.

He frowned. “Why are they all brown?”

“Because the colored ones have artificial dyes,” you said seriously. “Bad for your athlete body. I’m basically giving you the best ones.”

He paused, genuinely considering this. Then nodded. “Fair.”

You turned back to the screen just in time to see him lifting an entire handful of M&M’s toward his mouth.

“Chris!” you hissed, grabbing his wrist. “One at a time!”

“Stop scolding me,” he whispered back.

The lights dimmed and everyone in the theatre immediately stopped shifting, turning quiet.

“Shh,” you hurriedly whispered, settling back into your seat.

At the same time, you both let out suppressed laughter, shoulders shaking in the dark. And for the first time that night, you didn’t think about labels. You just leaned back and let yourself enjoy being there with him.

-

The movie played on, soft music filling the theater as the story unfolded. You tried to focus on the screen, on the predictable banter and the slow build between the characters, but Chris kept moving. Not a lot. Just enough for you to notice.

He leaned over to grab popcorn from the bucket resting on your lap, his arm brushing yours every time. At first, you stiffened, then you forced yourself to relax, pretending it didn’t register. His hand settled on the armrest between you, palm turned upward, open and close enough that you were painfully aware of the space it occupied. Too close to be nothing. Too far to be something.

A few times, you felt his gaze on you, and when you glanced back, he looked away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, his attention snapping back to the screen.

The movie reached the part you knew was coming. The characters finally stopped pretending. They stood too close, voices dropping, eyes searching each other’s faces. When they kissed, it was soft and inevitable, and the theater went quiet in that shared, collective stillness.

You felt warm all of a sudden. You shifted in your seat, trying to act casual, like the scene didn’t affect you at all. Like you weren’t imagining what it would be like if it were you and Chris instead—if his hand on the armrest moved just a little, if he leaned in the way the actor did.

You had to actively tell your brain not to look at him and forced your eyes on the screen instead, heart beating a little faster than it should, telling yourself again and again that this was just a movie. It was the proximity, the dark playing tricks on you.

Still, when Chris’s fingers curled slightly on the armrest, you felt the unspoken invitation to put your hand on his, slipping your fingers between the gaps and intertwining them together.

God, you wondered…

And yet, you didn’t dare to move.

-

When the credits rolled, the lights slowly came back on. You stretched, blinking as the theater filled with movement again.

“I’m going to go to the restroom,” you told Chris, already standing.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said easily.

You nodded and slipped away. Inside, the restroom hummed with the sounds of people shuffling in and out of the stalls, footsteps against tile, the rush of water, the harsh whine of the hand dryer. You ducked into a stall, shutting the door quietly behind you, taking a breath.

The sounds faded one by one until it was quiet. You took a moment to relish everything—the moments you’d quietly shared with Chris in the darkened room. You smiled to yourself as you recalled and questioned everything at once.

Then you heard voices, and you recognized them immediately. It was Cheryl and the friend she’d come to the movie with.

“At first I thought I was seeing things,” Cheryl said with a scoff. “But it was Chris. With her.”

Your stomach tightened, your breath slowed, realizing she was talking about you.

Another girl hummed in response, uninterested but listening.

“I mean—how does that even make sense? What does he even see in her? She’s not… like—” Cheryl trailed off, sounding distracted for a second before finishing the sentence. “She’s not fit for him.”

Your fingers curled against your thigh, nails digging through the denim. You pressed your lips together to keep from making any sound, exposing yourself for listening in on their conversation.

The second girl laughed softly. “She probably thinks she has a chance.”

They giggled, the sound echoing in the quiet room, endlessly mocking you.

“Like some hopeless wannabe Chris’s girlfriend,” Cheryl said with a sharper scoff. “As if.”

“So… pathetic,” the other added and they burst into laughter. Like the words they’d said were harmless. Like the very person they were talking about couldn’t hear it.

You sat back on the toilet lid, heart pounding, staring at the stall door as if it might give you away. You didn’t move. You didn’t say anything, because interrupting would hurt worse. You just waited in silence as your heart grew heavier, sinking deeper and deeper.

Eventually, their voices faded. You heard the door open and close. Then silence.

You waited a few more seconds before stepping out and walking to the sink. You turned the faucet on and stared at your reflection. You looked the same as you always did. The same face Chris had known since you were six. The same girl who packed lunchboxes and tutored him on bedroom floors.

And suddenly, you felt foolish for fixing your hair, for changing your top, for thinking—just for a moment—that this night meant something. What a fool you were to believe someone like Chris would ever look at you that way. To imagine you could be enough. To even let the thought exist.

The doubt spiraled fast, relentless, pulling you under until you couldn’t tell which parts were theirs and which parts were yours. You dried your hands slowly, fought the tears stinging your eyes, swallowed the lump forming in your throat. And when you looked at your reflection in the mirror again, you convinced yourself you were okay and walked toward the door.

Chris was leaning against the wall when you came out of the restroom, phone in hand. He looked up immediately, a smile breaking across his face like nothing in the world could be wrong.

“Hey,” he said, falling into step beside you. “Let’s go grab something to eat before we head home? I’m thinking something greasy, so… burgers?”

“I just want to go home,” you said.

He paused, glancing at you. “What? Why—are you sick?”

“No. I think all that romance just made my stomach sick,” you joked weakly and managed a faint smile. “Probably hormones. Or my period.”

Chris grimaced in sympathy, concern flickering across his face before he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll take you home.”

The drive was quiet, but your head was loud instead—those words replaying over and over, sinking deeper every second. Not fit for him. Wannabe. Hopeless. Pathetic. They echoed until it was hard to hear anything else. Hard for you to ignore.

Chris glanced over at you. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m just sleepy,” you lied easily, staring out the window.

He checked the time. 10.03 p.m. “Wow. Yeah, it’s way past your bedtime.”

You let out a small chuckle, hoping it sounded convincing enough while still avoiding his eyes.

When the car stopped in front of your house, you forced a smile and reached for the door. “Goodnight.”

“That’s it? No goodnight kiss for me?” he teased, dimples sinking deep into his cheeks as he grinned.

You glared at him. “Goodnight, Chris.”

He laughed as you closed the door, and you could feel his eyes on you as you walked toward the house—but this time, you didn’t turn around. You kept walking until you were inside, until the door shut behind you.

Your mom looked up from the living room. “Hey, honey. How was the movie?”

You didn’t answer and headed straight for the stairs, feet heavy, chest tight. Once inside your room, you dropped your bag and collapsed onto the bed, curling into a ball as the tears finally spilled over.

Your mom’s footsteps approached, and not long after, the door creaked open. “I didn’t expect you home so—” She stopped when she saw you.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, immediately sitting on the edge of your bed, her hand rubbing slow circles against your back. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Everything, you answered inside your head. Instead, you shook your head, crying harder.

“Are you hurt?” she asked gently.

All over. Yet you shook your head again.

She was quiet for a moment before asking softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You lifted your face just enough to whisper, “I just want to be alone.”

She nodded, understanding without pressing. “Okay. You tell me if you need anything, alright?”

You nodded as you hid your face behind the pillow.

“I love you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before leaving you alone in the dim quiet of your room.

And you cried and cried until the night felt too big to hold.

-

After that night, you learned how to draw lines.

Not the obvious kind, just invisible ones you kept reminding yourself not to cross. You told yourself, over and over, that you were just Chris’s friend. That you had always been just that, and that it would stay that way. You became good at repeating it until it sounded true.

School kept moving whether you wanted it to or not. Classes piled up, deadlines crept closer, graduation looming on the horizon like something unreal. You threw yourself into your studies because it was easier to focus on grades and schedules than on the way your chest still tightened whenever Chris smiled, or grinned, or leaned too close. Or how he made jokes just to make you smile.

Some part never really changed. You still talked to him every day. He still drove you to school, still had lunch together with you, still texted you memes at midnight like nothing had shifted. And maybe nothing had—not for him, anyway.

You learned to swallow the ache and answer him like everything was normal. Because friends did that.

You watched him live his life—soccer practices, matches, teammates, people who orbited around him so naturally it made you feel like you were standing just outside the frame. You reminded yourself that he was allowed to have a world that didn’t revolve around you, that you weren’t entitled to more.

So you chose yourself instead. You stayed up late to study, headphones in, notes spread out across the table. You started thinking about the future, about colleges, about leaving, about who you could be when high school was finally over. You told yourself that that feelings were temporary, just things you outgrew if you ignored them long enough.

Some days, it almost worked. Other days, you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, and your heart stumbled all over itself. And on those days, you looked away first and locked your heart shut.

You learned how to want him quietly. You learned how to be his friend without asking for more, how to smile without letting it show how much it cost you. And somewhere along the way, you convinced yourself that this was safer.

High school would end. You would move on. And Chris would just be someone you once loved in a way you never said out loud.

-

The box of sandwiches was warm against your stomach, the paper bags crinkling softly with every step. Your mom had woken up early to make them because it was something she liked to do as a form of contribution and also because it was the last match of the season—the last time this team would play wearing the school’s colors.

The second you pushed open the locker room door, the noise hit you.

“YEAHHH—!”

Cheers erupted like they’d been waiting for you. It seemed like they had been, in fact, expecting you. Someone whistled. Someone else clapped. Aaron was the loudest of all, already halfway across the room with his arms in the air.

“Our favorite person is here!” he announced, dramatic as ever.

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Don’t eat them yet. These are for after warm-ups,” you warned, narrowing your eyes while holding the box away from him.

A collective groan filled the room, followed by laughter. You scanned the space out of habit, craning your neck to look between the rows of lockers and through the chaos of a room full of testosterone. You noticed the absence of one person.

“Where’s Chris?” you asked, turning back to Aaron.

He jerked his thumb toward the hallway. “He got called to the coach’s office earlier.”

Your brows knit together, confused and slightly concerned. “Why? Is he in trouble?”

Aaron snorted like the idea was offensive. “Please. Chris? Trouble?”

You hummed, unconvinced, but before you could say more, you gestured toward the door. “Can you help me grab the boxes from the car? There’s more. My mom went all out.”

Aaron’s eyes lit up at the mention of more food. “Say less.”

The two of you headed out to the parking lot, the late afternoon sun hanging low and golden. Aaron hoisted the box like it weighed nothing, chatting as easily as he always did.

“So,” you said casually—maybe too casually—“do you know why Chris was called in?”

Aaron scoffed again, like the answer should have been obvious. “Scouts.”

Your feet skidded to a stop as you used the chance to adjust your grip around the box of cookies. “Scouts?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back at you, grinning. “He’s been getting offers from universities to join their soccer teams. Big ones. They’ve been watching him for a while.”

Your chest tightened because Chris had never told you any of it. “Oh.”

It wasn’t really a surprise. You’d always known this was coming. You’d seen the hours he put in, the way he treated the field like something sacred. Chris was good. Everyone knew it.

“Do you think he’ll take it?” you asked, even though part of you already knew the answer.

Aaron gave you a look. “Of course he will. It would be stupid not to take it.”

You nodded slowly, your steps falling back into rhythm beside him. “Yeah. Right.”

Chris was smart. He knew what he wanted. He knew how hard he’d worked for this. You pictured him in a different jersey, on a different field, chasing the same dream he’d always had—and instead of sadness, what rose first was pride.

You smiled to yourself as you walked back toward the locker room, because good things were happening to good people. And even if your place in his life had shifted, even if it hurt sometimes, you were still happy for him.

That was what you did. That was what friends did.

-

The bleachers were already packed by the time you and your mom squeezed into a spot halfway up.

It felt like the whole town had shown up tonight. Familiar faces from school, parents, kids with painted cheeks, even shop owners who definitely should’ve still been working—your mom included. She’d closed the bakery early to watch her charming boy, Chris, play his last match defending the school.

“This is a big one,” she said, more to herself than to you.

When the team finally ran out, the crowd erupted. The sound was almost physical, vibrating through the metal bleachers beneath your feet. You leaned forward automatically, eyes sweeping the field, and you spotted him immediately.

Chris jogged out with the rest of the team, jersey clinging to his shoulders, hair already a little wild. Then he slowed, craning his neck, scanning the bleachers like he was searching for something—or someone.

Your heart stuttered when his eyes landed on you and his face broke into that dimpled grin you knew too well, the one that felt like it was meant just for you. He lifted a hand and waved, a little shy despite everything.

You laughed softly and waved back, mouthing good luck with an exaggerated thumbs-up. Your mom squeezed in beside you, also waving and wishing him luck.

He nodded, eyes lingering for half a second longer, before turning back to his teammates and taking his position on the field.

A moment later, the whistle blew and suddenly you weren’t thinking about anything else. You gripped the edge of the bleacher, breath caught in your throat as the ball moved back and forth across the field. You sucked in a sharp breath when Chris nearly scored, your mom clutching your arm at the same time.

When he got tackled, you gasped, half-rising from your seat until he pushed himself back up, shaking it off like it was nothing.

With only a few minutes left in the second half, the ball arced perfectly, Chris moved on instinct, and when it hit the back of the net—GOAL!

You were on your feet before you realized it and the crowd exploded in cheers, whistles, screams. You were shouting too, hands clapping, heart pounding as you watched Chris throw his arms up, his teammates swarming him in celebration. He’d done it. They’d won.

When the final whistle blew, the noise became deafening. The team piled together at the center of the field, laughter and shouts and pure, unfiltered joy spilling out of them.

You watched Chris in the middle of it all, sweat-soaked and glowing, smiling like this moment was everything he’d ever worked for.

And it hit you all at once.

You were happy—so happy—for the way he’d grown into this person, for the way his hard work had finally paid off, for the future opening up in front of him, wide and bright. But tucked into that happiness was a tint of ache.

High school was ending. This chapter was closing. Soon, the paths you’d been walking side by side would start to drift apart, each of you following your own direction. The realization was bittersweet, but even as your eyes burned, even as a tear slipped free, you smiled anyway because this moment deserved joy.

And you let yourself feel all of it at once.

-

The car ride felt much quieter after all the loud, deafening cheers from the soccer match earlier. Your mom hummed along to the song playing on the radio, hands steady on the steering wheel as she pulled into the diner’s parking lot. The neon sign buzzed softly, the place already glowing with noise and a growing crowd.

“Okay, we’re here,” she announced, slowing to a stop.

You nodded, gathering your phone and jacket. You paused with your hand on the door handle, then turned back. “I’ll be back before curfew.”

Your mom snorted. “You’re eighteen. You don’t have a curfew.”

“I’ll be back before curfew anyway,” you said with a grin.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Just have fun. You earned it.”

You pretended to think about it, eyes drifting up as if considering something monumental. “Hmm… nope. I’ll be back before curfew.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “Just be safe, okay?”

“I will.” You leaned over, gave her a quick hug, and murmured, “Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight,” she replied, watching you fondly as you stepped out of the car.

The diner was already packed, booths full, laughter bouncing off the walls. As soon as you stepped inside, you spotted Aaron’s girlfriend, Celia, waving both hands enthusiastically from a booth near the back.

“Over here!” she called.

You weaved through the crowd and slid in beside her, passing the time chatting about the match earlier.

A moment later, the front door burst open and the team stormed in like a parade—a sea of blue and black varsity jackets, loud and chaotic. The entire diner erupted into cheers, people clapping and whistling as if the match were still happening. You laughed as Aaron and Walcott hoisted Chris into the air, leading everyone to chant:

“Best captain! Best captain! Best captain!”

Chris groaned, ears and face reddening as he laughed and squirmed. “Put me down—guys—guys—”

They finally released him after throwing him into the air once, and he stumbled back to the ground, still smiling like he didn’t know what to do with all the attention.

Once everyone settled into booths, plates of burgers, fries, and sodas crowded the tables. Chris slid in next to you without thinking, his shoulder brushing yours as he grabbed a fry from his plate.

“Great match!” you praised genuinely, a hand gently placed on his shoulder. “Great play. All of you!”

“Thank you,” Chris said with his mouth full.

“My mom cheered so hard I think she’s legally allowed to adopt you now.”

He laughed, ducking his head. “Whoo! Free bread for life.”

“Not bad, right?”

Still, he couldn’t help himself. “I should’ve passed earlier in the second half. And my timing on that last run—”

You cut him off with a look. “You played great. The team won. That’s the part that matters.”

He exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

With that, he took a bite of his burger, chewing at ease. And you wanted to ask about the scouts or the offers he’d received so far—but you figured it wasn’t the best time. Not here. And definitely not when everyone was celebrating.

Across the table, Aaron and Celia suddenly leaned in at the same time, muttering something to each other before their lips met in an innocent kiss—and when they kissed again, it escalated into a full-on make-out within seconds. You and Chris groaned in perfect sync.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, looking away in disgust.

“Get a room!” Chris groaned as he grabbed a fry and tossed it. It bounced off Aaron’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Aaron laughed, holding up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay—no violence from the captain.”

Celia only giggled as Aaron wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Then he eyed Chris. “After-party at my place?”

Chris shrugged, then tilted his head toward you. “I gotta drive her home. She has curfew.”

You elbowed his side. “I’m eighteen. I don’t have a curfew.”

Chris winced and tried again. “I meant it’s way past her bedtime. She gets cranky.”

You slapped his chest hard enough that he yelped, his hand flying to his heart. “Ow!”

You looked back at Aaron, smiling sweetly. “We’ll be there.”

Aaron leaned back, satisfied. “Cool.”

Chris looked at you, rubbing his chest, eyes bright. “You’re violent.”

You leaned in and grinned, then absentmindedly said, “You love it.”

And for a second, he looked at you like maybe that was true.

-

The celebration continued from the diner to Aaron’s house, as it was the designated hangout place for the soccer team. Chris drove the car slowly, his night drive playlist softly playing through the speakers, the windows cracked open, the night air cool against your skin. You were halfway relaxed when you realized the streets were… wrong.

“Chris, you missed the turn,” you said as you glanced at him.

He didn’t even look at you. He just smirked, one hand steady on the wheel. “Did I?”

“Yes. Aaron’s place is the other way,” you said matter-of-factly.

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “Then where are we going?”

He finally looked over, a crooked grin on his face. “Trust me.”

You scoffed, arms crossing. “That’s not an answer.”

The farther he drove, the more you recognized the road. The old stretch with the uneven streetlights. The public library. The park, and then—

“This is—”

“The elementary school,” he finished lightly as he pulled into the empty parking lot and killed the engine.

The building loomed in the dark, windows black, the flagpole creaking faintly in the breeze. It looked smaller than you remembered and somehow more intimidating at night. You stepped out of the car, hugging your jacket closer as you waited by the door, eyes drifting over the school you’d both attended years ago. Memories flooded in—sticky cafeteria tables, scraped knees, the first time you’d met him.

Chris shut his door and walked over, his grin still firmly in place. He turned on the flashlight on his phone and shone it straight up at his face, casting ridiculous shadows. “You up for a trip down memory lane?”

“You’re so stupid,” you groaned, a smile tugging at your lips.

He laughed, already turning away. “C’mon.”

Despite having no idea what he was planning—and every instinct telling you to ask more questions—you followed him. Past the school building. Past the quiet playground where the swings swayed slightly in the wind. And then farther.

Toward the tree line. Into the woods.

-

The woods felt different at night.

Teachers had warned everyone not to go past the fence, not into the woods—but you and Chris had never listened. You remembered how you used to run through here without a second thought, sneakers crunching over leaves, laughing too loud, convinced nothing bad could ever happen to you. You were braver then. Or maybe just smaller, with less to lose.

“I think we were fearless,” you murmured, following close behind him, your flashlight beam shaking slightly with each step. “We were, like… eight. Wandering around here like it was nothing.”

Chris snorted softly. “Yeah. I’m realizing now this place is actually kind of terrifying.”

You laughed under your breath. “Right?”

You’d been walking for more than ten minutes when the boulder came into view. It was still there, massive and stubborn, perched near the edge of the hill like it had been waiting for you. Memory crashed into you all at once—scraped palms from climbing it, afternoons spent drawing on the rough surface with crayons, pretending the two of you were explorers instead of bored kids.

You shone a light over the surface and swallowed. “I thought everything would be gone.”

“Me too.”

But when you angled the light just right, you saw the faded streaks of color caught in the crevices. Ghosts of crayon. Red. Blue. Yellow.

“This stupid rock,” you whispered with quiet affection as it held so many memories.

Before you could react, hands gripped your waist and lifted you effortlessly.

“Chris—” you yelped as he hoisted you up.

“You’re welcome,” he grumbled.

You scrambled onto the top and scowled down at him. “I could’ve climbed myself.”

He scoffed, already pulling himself up with ease. “Sure.”

You sat side by side, so close your shoulders brushed, legs dangling over the edge. The town stretched out below you, lights scattered like stars fallen to the ground, framed by trees swaying gently in the wind.

“Didn’t know the view looked this beautiful at night,” you sighed in awe.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly.

A cold gust cut through you and you shivered. Without a word, he shrugged off his varsity jacket and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm and smelled just like him. You didn’t argue, but clutched it closed and smiled as you muttered, “Thank you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable and full. But at the same time, it was heavy with things you wanted to say but didn’t know how.

“School’s ending soon,” you said eventually.

“Thank God,” he muttered as he leaned back, hands propped against the rock.

“You’re gonna be this huge soccer star,” you teased, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Too famous to remember me.”

He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I heard you got scouted,” you added carefully.

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a slow nod.

“That’s amazing.” You turned to him, eyes bright. “You’re so close to your dream.”

“Mm.”

The faintness of his smile made you uneasy. “You’re taking it, right?”

He went quiet, and you waited patiently for his answer. Inside, you hoped he was only hesitating to share—not because he had bad news.

When he sat straighter and finally looked at you, it felt like the air shifted. Like the world narrowed down to just the two of you sitting on a rock in the dark. He inhaled deeply and held your gaze.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he blurted quietly.

For a second, the world felt suspended in time and your heart skipped a beat.

“No—” Chris quickly corrected.

The world tilted and your heart dropped.

“I…” He swallowed before finally finishing. “I love you.”

Air caught in your throat. Your heart hurt so good.

He kept going, voice steady but raw. “I love that you’re smart. You care. You see me. You’re patient with me. I love the way you worry about everything. I even love your weird sense of humor.”

You laughed softly, confused, flabbergasted, heart pounding.

Then his hands cupped your face, and he said it again with all of his heart. “I love you.”

The words hung there, fluttering in the air, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said out loud until now. You were still processing when he leaned in and kissed you. His lips were plush and soft against yours, brushing so tenderly, like he was afraid of breaking the fragility of the moment. The kiss was gentle yet certain, like something inevitable finally happening. Your eyes stung, tears threatening, because it felt right in a way you hadn’t known how to want.

Chris pulled away slightly, his thumb swiping across your wet lower lip, his eyes lingering with want before flicking up to yours, searching for permission. You gave him a small nod, and that was all it took. He moved his hand to the side of your face, cradling your jaw as he leaned in once more.

The first press of his lips was innocent until he parted his mouth just enough to capture your lower lip between his. You felt the way he gently sucked on it, the way his warm tongue brushed over your lips, patiently coaxing your mouth open. You caved almost immediately, letting him taste you more.

Chris didn’t rush. He knew how to build anticipation. First, his hand slid to the nape of your neck, holding you there as he tilted his head. Only then did he slip more of his tongue in, deepening the kiss, stealing the air from your lungs with each passing second. It was dizzying, intoxicating—and still, you didn’t want it to stop.

By the time he broke the kiss, you were gasping for air. He smirked in satisfaction like it had been his intention all along. Then he rested his forehead against yours, and the two of you stayed like that for a moment.

“I want to be with you,” he whispered.

Maybe it was because you were still catching your breath, the lack of oxygen clouding your thoughts, that you didn’t immediately question what he meant beyond wanting to be with you like this.

“I want to stay close to you,” he continued, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with such care. “I’ll go wherever you go.”

That was when you saw the fault in his words, and you hesitated to ask, afraid of the answer. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll come with you wherever you’re going,” he said like he hadn’t just committed himself to you.

You should’ve been happy to hear it, to know he was willing to go that far to be with you. Instead, your stomach dropped in shock. “But Chris… what about the scouts, the offers—”

“I won’t take it.”

“No,” you said instantly, pulling back. “No.”

His face fell. “Why?”

“You can’t do that,” you insisted, your voice trembling.

“Yes, I can.”

“We’re eighteen. You don’t know—”

“I do,” he cut in. “I know what I want.”

“But I—I have my own dreams,” you stuttered desperately. “And you have yours. You worked too hard for this.”

“There are other teams—”

“I don’t want you giving this up because of me,” you said, tears spilling over. “I couldn’t live with that.”

“It’s my life,” he argued softly. “I know what I want.”

The wind cut through the trees, colder now, like it was trying to sober you from the moment. You sat there in silence, Chris’s jacket heavy on your shoulders—warm, but weighing on you now.

Part of you thought you should feel happy. You were happy, in some fragile, devastating way. Because your feelings hadn’t been imagined. Because he’d said it out loud. Because he loved you enough to consider giving everything up.

But instead, it hurt.

It hurt because loving you shouldn’t mean sacrifice. Not like that. Not his dream. Not the thing he’d chased with sweat and tears and hard work and every ounce of discipline he had. The thought of him letting it go for you settled in your chest like guilt—heavy and suffocating.

“Chris, please…” you said, your voice trembling with sadness. “Take the offer. Do it. For yourself.”

The silence stretched before you added, pleading once more, “For me. Please…”

He grew quiet, considering it for a long, solemn moment until you saw surrender in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said with a heavy sigh, like it hurt to say it.

You closed your eyes, letting out a breath of relief, telling yourself you were doing the right thing. That this was what loving him looked like.

Still, a quieter, crueler thought slipped in and refused to leave. That someone like him—bright, driven, adored—should never have to choose. That you weren’t deserving of a love that asked him to shrink his future. That letting him go might be the only way to prove you loved him back.

So you sat there, next to the boy who loved you, staring out at a town full of lights, holding onto warmth that already felt like a memory, telling yourself the ache was worth it.

That someday, you’d understand why it had to hurt this much.

-

Graduation day felt unreal. It hadn’t fully sunk in that you had finished high school, that you’d graduated and this part of your life had ended. You were about to step into the real world now.

You loosened the front of your gown as you stepped onto the field, joining the other students greeting their parents. Your mom pulled you into a tight hug and placed a kiss on the cheek, a flower bouquet pressed to your chest as she looked at you with pride and fondness—and a hint of disbelief at the reminder of how much time had passed, how much you’d grown.

“So proud of you,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Thank you, Mom,” you muttered with a smile.

She sniffled and shifted her focus to the camera she was holding. “Let’s take some pictures.”

You stood beside your mom, cap crooked on your head, smiling for pictures you knew she would treasure more than you ever would.

“Wait,” she said suddenly, her eyes lighting up. “Chris!”

You turned just in time to see him walking toward you, gown hanging open, hair slightly messed up like always. He smiled when he saw you—soft and knowing, a little careful now.

“Come here,” your mom insisted, already waving someone down to take the photo.

You stood together, your mom wedged snugly between you and Chris, her arms hooked through both of yours. The student holding the camera laughed, counting down before snapping the picture. You smiled automatically, your cheeks aching.

However, your mom wasn’t done when she got the camera back. “Now just the two of you,” she said, ushering herself out of the frame.

You stepped closer to Chris, the space between you shrinking until your arms nearly brushed. He hesitated for half a second before his hand settled at the small of your back.

The touch was light, but it sent a quiet ripple through you—different now that you knew what it meant. You glanced up at him without thinking, and for a brief moment, your eyes met. There was something there, something warm and aching, unresolved.

You looked away first, faced the camera, and smiled. So did he.

Once your mom had taken more pictures than strictly necessary, she turned to Chris, her hands clasped proudly.

“Congratulations, Chris!” she said with a bright smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said politely, his usual charm reserved just for your mom. He took his cap off and teasingly added, “All thanks to your smart, violent daughter.”

Your mom chuckled softly. “I heard about the scout. My God, you’re going places.”

His eyes met yours for a brief moment before he responded to your mom. “Not yet.”

“Yeah, but soon,” your mom corrected. She gave Chris’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as she added, “I wish you good luck, Chris. I really do.”

Chris grinned, dimples showing, eyes crinkling. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

The air was still buzzing with chatter and laughter, but the field grew less crowded as students and their families left in groups. Chris straightened slightly and turned to your mom. “Can I take your daughter for a drive?”

Your mom glanced at you before grinning. “Just take her away as you please.”

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled anyway.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Chris said, amused.

The car ride was quiet, but it wasn’t awkward. It was nice and comfortable, like nothing had changed at all. Chris drove slower than usual, like he was stretching the road on purpose. You watched the town pass by through the window, committing everything to memory—the movie theater, the bowling alley, the diner glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Every place felt like a bookmark in your life.

You turned your head to the side and didn’t even try to hide that you were looking at Chris. One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel, the other on his thigh. His dark curls swayed in the wind slipping through the open window, his pale skin glowing under the sun. He looked calm. At ease. Confident. Like thoughts of the future didn’t scare him one bit. He looked most attractive when he was confident like that.

When he signaled and took the turn toward the elementary school, you already knew where he was taking you, and you let him.

-

The woods were way less frightening, more familiar in daylight. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dust motes floating lazily in the air as you and Chris walked side by side along the path you had taken so many times before.

“It’s not as scary during the day,” you said, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah. Night really does a number on this place,” he agreed.

When the boulder came into view, you let out a small sigh of relief. You took a moment to breathe it in, the town stretching out below you, rooftops glinting under the sun. Warm. Familiar. Home.

You turned to Chris and held your arms out expectantly.

He raised his brows. “Didn’t you say you could climb by yourself?”

You pouted. “Not in a dress.”

With a huff, he gave in immediately, hands gripping your waist as he lifted you up. You settled on top of the boulder, smoothing your skirt just as he climbed up after you without any effort. His white shirt tugged loose from his slacks as he moved, exposing a strip of skin, the hint of abs beneath. You looked away quickly, pretending you hadn’t noticed.

He sat close enough that your arms brushed with the smallest movement—enough to remind you that he was there, real.

“It’s just as beautiful during the day,” Chris sighed, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“I think I’m going to miss this,” he added softly.

You nodded again, then asked almost wistfully, “Do you think it’ll still be this beautiful when we come back someday?”

“It will still be beautiful,” he said like it was a fact he’d known all along. “Because it survives time.”

You smiled, catching the meaning tucked beneath his words. You chose to believe him.

“I can’t wait for the future,” you said, letting out a soft chuckle. “I can already see you—famous soccer player. National team. Playing the biggest match of your life.”

He smiled, but it faded when you added lightly, “Though honestly, the biggest match of your life is trying to understand a math formula.”

He bumped his shoulder into yours in offense. You yelped, nearly slipping, and his arm shot out instantly, wrapping around your waist and holding you close.

With a mischievous smile, he said, “I can see you in the future too. Being a…” His words trailed off. “Wait—what was your dream again?”

You bumped his shoulder back, carefully this time. He laughed and tightened his hold.

Your heart ached then, because the future was still unknown. There was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t be part of each other’s lives the way you were now.

So you reached for his hand, slipping your fingers between his, intertwining them.

“Wherever we end up,” you said sincerely, your voice trembling just a little, “I hope you’re always happy.”

You swallowed hard, managing a faint smile even though the thought of not sharing a future together was painful to bear.

He squeezed your hand, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles over your skin. “I wish you the same.”

You stayed like that—looking at each other with ache and warmth and everything tangled in between. When tears threatened, you looked away, resting your head against his shoulder. You closed your eyes to hold them back, but they spilled anyway. You wiped them quickly before they could fall.

“You should’ve said it earlier,” you muttered, part scolding, part joking. “We could’ve had more of this. We could’ve planned better.”

He scoffed softly. “Anyone could see it. You were just too stupid to notice.”

You huffed, offended. “How was I supposed to know if you didn’t say anything? I’m not a mind reader.”

The bickering softened, turning into something tender, and then you were both laughing—sad, breathless laughter that felt like relief.

When his eyes found yours again, they were steady and certain. “I love you,” he said, his voice as soft as his gaze.

You felt it everywhere—in your chest, your hands, the way your heart answered before your mind could catch up. “I love you too,” you said.

His smile was warm and full, the happiest you’d ever seen it, like he’d waited his whole life to hear it back from you.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in and kissed him. The moment your lips met in a deep, loving kiss, the world felt suspended in time. It was just you and him, sharing everything spoken and unspoken, and everything in between through the kiss. And God, you really hoped it lasted for eternity.

By some miracle, you managed to pull away. You rested your forehead against his, breathing him in.

“I’m surprised you know how to kiss,” he joked softly.

You scoffed. “I know how to kiss. I’ve read books.”

He grinned, dimples deep, and you smiled before resting your head on his shoulder again.

You stayed there like that, hands clasped tight, holding onto something you didn’t know you’d be allowed to keep. Neither of you said it, but you both knew—you were already yearning for each other.

So you held on tighter before you had to let go.

-

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[yubinism]

although knowing about how’s it going to end, my heart still ached at the ending ☹️ cannot wait for the next chapter and read the gut-wrenching angst that i know is going to come up. you wrote so beautifully in this chapter, and im the proudest of you!!

[seospicybin]

CLARITY.

Seungmin x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: One night, you accidentally found a diamond ring hidden in the closet. Naturally, you assume your boyfriend, Seungmin, is going to get on his knee and pop the question. Since then, every dinner, every date, every tender look from Seungmin feels like it could be ‘the moment’ — until it isn’t. (22,6k words)

Author's note: It's been a while since my last Seungmin fic so I hope you enjoy this fluffy (and just a tad bit angsty fic) ❣️

You aren’t just good at your job—you are brilliant.

Vice President at one of the most prestigious firms in the city, your days are built on back-to-back meetings, business proposals, and decisive strategy calls. You thrived in it all. There is something intoxicating about the fast-paced rhythm and high-stakes negotiations, the weight of your signature at the bottom of a multimillion-dollar deal.

You walk through skyscraper hallways like you belong there and you do. Still, no matter how polished your days looked in heels and tailored blazers, the part you always looked forward to most is coming home.

Your apartment—shared with your boyfriend of five years—sits high in a sleek building that towered above the glittering city skyline. From the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can watch the sun melt into orange and gold behind the glass silhouettes of the skyline, the lights of the world flickering to life beneath you.

You toe off your shoes at the door, setting your bag down on the console table. You roll up the sleeves of your silk blouse and head to the kitchen. You start by washing your hands, hair loosening from the tight twist it lived in all day.

Cooking helps you unwind. You grab the ingredients for dinner and hum a little tune as you chop and stir, your voice mixing with the soft jazz playing from the portable speaker.

It’s simple and domestic in a way that feels earned. Because even with all your success, all the accolades and titles and salary numbers most people your age only dreamed of—you still cherished this: a quiet evening while anticipating for your boyfriend’s return.

You’re just setting the table when you hear the sound of the door unlocking. Keys jingling, then a soft click and then he’s there.

“Smells like someone’s trying to win girlfriend of the year,” Seungmin calls out as he steps inside, the familiar edge of exhaustion softened by affection.

You glance over your shoulder and smile, finding Seungmin dressed in navy suits. The jacket already draped over one arm, tie slightly loosened at the collar. His hair is a little tousled, like he ran his hands through it on the elevator ride up—his version of unwinding.

“I thought I already won that last year,” you say, setting down the last plate.

“You did,” he grins, shrugging off his bag and making his way to you. “But I like that you’re not getting complacent.”

He leans in to press a sweet kiss to your cheek. It’s gentle, but it says everything—I missed you, I see you, we’re here now.

Seungmin is just as much a force in his world as you are in yours. A high-stakes corporate lawyer known for his razor-sharp mind and unbeatable composure in the courtroom. He thrives under pressure, commands rooms without raising his voice, and has the kind of reputation that even senior partners take seriously.

That’s what you have in common, really. The ambition. The passion. The shared understanding that success isn’t something you luck into—it’s something you grind for. But even more than that, you both believe that relationships, like careers, needed investment. Time. Intention.

So, you make time. No matter how late your meetings run or how chaotic his court schedule gets, you always come back to this: dinner, together. Phones down, minds open, hearts soft.

You both eventually settle at the table. The city glows outside the window behind him, casting golden light over his features as he fills your glass with wine.

“So,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, eyes trained on you, “tell me everything. Wins, losses, scandalous office gossip—what’s the highlight reel today?”

You laugh, reaching for your fork. “Well, let’s just say the intern who accidentally CC’d the entire company on her resignation email now has a fan club.”

He chuckles, and just like that, the stress of your day begins to peel away. This is how the two of you survive the whirlwind—by anchoring yourselves in these moments.

And in moments like this, you can’t help but think: if you were to spend the rest of your life exactly like this, it would still be more than enough. You just didn’t know how much that thought would start to shift soon.

-

Later, the two of you move in sync, the way only people who know each other’s routines by heart do.

You're in the bathroom now, side by side at the sink. You’re patting toner into your cheeks while Seungmin brushes his teeth, bent slightly over the sink in a faded gray tee and sweatpants that sit a little too low on his hips.

You catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair is still slightly damp from his quick shower, and he gives you a lazy smile, foamy toothpaste making him look younger than usual.

It’s such a simple moment, but it feels like home.

You turn to grab your moisturizer just as he leans in to spit, and your shoulders bump. “Oops, sorry,” you say, voice soft.

He tilts his head slightly, flashing you a half-smirk. “Shoulder check me again and we’re gonna have a problem.”

You roll your eyes with a laugh and nudge him again, just because you can.

By the time you finish up and head to the bedroom, the city has quieted. The only sounds are the faint traffic several stories below and the rustle of sheets as you both climb into bed. You propped up by a pillow against the headboard, a book resting open in your hands. You’re halfway through a paragraph when the bed dips beside you.

Seungmin crawls up from the foot of the bed, slow and catlike, until he’s beside you, leaning over with a soft, almost mischievous smirk. His lips press to your cheek, featherlight, then to your jaw. You don’t look up from your book, but the corners of your mouth curve.

“Hi,” you murmur.

He hums a greeting into the space behind your ear, then kisses just below it. “How far in are you?” he asks, voice muffled slightly against your skin.

“Chapter fourteen,” you reply, flipping the page. “The main character just found out her sister’s been lying to her for, like, five years.”

He lets out a thoughtful little noise, lips drifting lower—along your jawline, then to your neck, pausing to linger at that one spot that always makes you squirm. “Sounds dramatic,” he says, his voice a little too casual for someone currently distracting you from the plot.

“Very,” you say, holding back a smile. “I would be more into it if someone wasn’t trying to seduce me with neck kisses.”

“I’m not seducing you,” he murmurs, now kissing down the curve of your shoulder. “I’m appreciating you.”

Then, he pauses. “Wait… are you using a new lotion?”

You finally glance at him, raising a brow. “Yep.”

He leans in and inhales lightly near your shoulder. “Smells like coconut.”

Your smile grows. “Correct. Bonus points for identifying the scent.”

“I’ll collect them later,” he murmurs, grinning against your skin before resuming his trail of kisses, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush at all.

You try—really try—to keep your eyes on the page, but Seungmin makes it nearly impossible. His lips keep moving—down your shoulder, along your collarbone, ghosting over your chest with featherlight kisses that trail heat in their wake. You shift slightly, book still in hand, but your focus has long since slipped through your fingers.

“Seungmin,” you murmur, half a warning, half a sigh.

“Keep reading,” he says softly, voice low and teasing near your waist. “Don’t mind me.”

You let out a quiet whine, a protest laced with laughter, but you don’t stop him.

Seungmin doesn’t stop either. His mouth continues its slow descent, inch by inch, kisses landing on the curve of your stomach, your hip, then lower still. The hem of your sleep shorts shifts as he settles between your legs, nudging the fabric aside, his breath warm against your skin. Then his fingers hook around your underwear, and in one smooth motion, he tugs it down.

You glance away from your book now, heart skipping, only to find him looking up at you with that wild, naughty glint in his eyes.

“You worked hard today,” he says, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Let me help you relax.”

A soft laugh escapes you, caught between amusement and desire. “Is this a reward system now?”

He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “Mm-hmm.” He nods, slowly, smug and sweet all at once. “Positive reinforcement.”

Your cheeks flush, but your smile grows with it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he replies, pressing one last kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You shake your head, biting back a smile, and with a quiet breath, you let yourself lean back fully against the pillows, parting your legs for him.

He looks up at you one more time, a soft, knowing expression on his face—affection woven seamlessly with desire. And in that look, you feel it again: how much he sees you, how much he chooses you. Every time.

Despite having Seungmin’s head between your legs as he pleases you with his mouth, you try to keep your eyes on the page. The words blurring slightly as you breathe through the sensation building between your legs from the way he licks and sucks, flicking his tongue on the right spots.

The book trembles faintly in your grip, your fingers tightening around it each time Seungmin’s mouth moves just right. He’s slow, attentive—almost too much so. Then he hums against your drenched cunt. A deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through your core, making you gasp softly.

He pauses for just a beat to say, “God, I missed this.”

Your head tips back against the headboard, a breathless laugh slipping past your lips. “You missed going down on me?”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to play coy. “Yeah,” he says, looking up at you with that maddeningly proud smile. “Think about this sweet, little pussy all day.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous chuckle, your free hand covering your face for a second before falling to your side. “You’re so—”

“I know.” He kisses your inner thigh again, grinning into your skin. “Lucky for both of us, I get to do something about it now.”

You give up on the book entirely, dropping it to the side, pages folding shut as your body arches instinctively toward him. Your hand slips into his hair, fingers curling as he gets back to work, tongue and lips relentless, methodical in the way only Seungmin can be when he’s determined to ruin you.

It doesn’t take long for him to do that. You’re a mess beneath him—moaning, trembling, your fingers fisted in his hair like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world. Each movement of his mouth feels more precise, more purposeful, like he’s reading every sound you make, every shiver that ripples through you.

The way you fall apart under him only drives him further. He’s focused—relentless in that quiet, devoted way of his, like this is something he needs to do for you.

Your breath catches, hips stuttering beneath his hands as your body tightens, and you manage a desperate, shaky whisper of his name. “Seungmin—Oh...”

He hums with his mouth full of your wet cunt and it sends another wave through you.

That’s all it takes. You come with a soft, broken cry. Your thighs trembling around him, hand tugging sharply in his hair as your back arches off the bed. He holds you through it with mouth still coaxing every last flicker of pleasure from you until you’re gasping, limp and boneless against the sheets. Only then does he pull back, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression soft and smug all at once.

“You okay?” he casually asks, crawling back up beside you, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your forehead.

You can only nod, eyes half-lidded, breath still catching in your throat.

He smiles and leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then one to your lips—gentle and full of the affection that’s always been the heart of what you share. “Reward systems,” he murmurs, chuckling. “Highly effective.”

You’re still catching your breath when you shift slightly, your body pressed against Seungmin’s side, cheek resting on his chest. He’s warm and steady beneath you, arm draped lazily around your waist like he’s content to stay like this for hours, but you’re not done with him just yet.

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You know,” you murmur, voice low and playful, “you work hard too. Day and night.”

His eyes flick down to meet yours, lips twitching into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, hand drifting down, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You palm his cock gently, feeling the way his body reacts to your seductive touch—quick and eager, the tension building beneath your fingers as you give his length slow, gentle strokes. “I think you’ve earned a reward too.”

Seungmin exhales sharply, his muscles tensing as he watches you with growing interest.

“Go on,” you add with a smirk, fingers curling ever so slightly. “Collect your bonus points.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, eyes narrowing with playful warning. “Dangerous game you’re playing.”

But you only smile wider, hand continuously stroking him. “I like high stakes,” you whisper, leaning down to press a kiss just below his jaw.

Seungmin groans softly, hands gripping your hips. “So do I.”

He hovers above you, his face close, breath mingling with yours. He repeatedly rubs the tip of his cock between your folds, letting your essence drenching every inch of his throbbing length. The longer he does it, the more you anticipate it. When he finally pushes in, the sheer size gives you that delicious stretch, making you moan in both pain and pleasure.

“I know you can take it,” he murmurs as he pushes the remaining length with such intensity that a cry slips out of your parted mouth.

The two of you taking a moment to savor it — the feeling of connecting to one another, physically and emotionally. He runs his hand down your front and then rests it on your abdomen.

He looks at you, his eyes heavy with both lust and love. “I'm going to move now, yeah?” he asks, his gaze tender yet smoldering.

With that, your bodies move together in a slow, steady rhythm—his hips rolling into yours, his chest brushing yours with every thrust. His forehead rests gently against yours at first, and the low sounds he makes—those quiet, breathy groans, the occasional broken whimper—fill the silence between kisses like a melody only you were meant to hear.

You reach up, gently brushing his hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering on his temple. “Seungmin,” you whisper, voice trembling from pleasure, “you make me feel so good.”

His eyes flutter open at that, gaze locking with yours. The look he gives you is raw, open, like he’s trying to say everything he feels without words. He takes a mouthful of your breast, tongue swirling around your hard nipple before he lets go with a popping sound.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, breath catching as he sinks into you again. “Every time.”

The pace turns slower yet deeper, drawing out the tension between you, making every movement feel more intimate, more intense. He keeps his eyes on you, like he wants to remember every expression, every sound you make.

You moan his name again, soft and needy, and he shudders above you, his control slipping just a little. He presses his lips to your jaw, to your neck, to your shoulder like he can’t get close enough, like he wants to memorize your skin.

He keeps moving like that—changing pace, adjusting his angle—until you're gasping beneath him, your nails digging into his back as your legs tighten around him. And when he finally lets himself go, buried deep inside you with a choked, desperate sound, you feel it in every part of you—not just the heat, not just the tension snapping, but the emotion behind it.

Because with Seungmin, it’s never just physical. It’s love, every time. And he makes sure you know that with his hands, with his body, with the way he holds you after.

-

The scent of freshly ground coffee and melting butter fills the kitchen. Sunlight streaking through the blinds in warm, golden bands. The city is just beginning to wake outside, but inside your apartment, it’s slow and quiet—the kind of morning that only belongs to weekends.

You’re standing by the stove, slowly stirring scrambled eggs, carefully watching their texture. They’re just starting to come together, soft and glossy, not too dry. You tilt the pan slightly, flicking your wrist the way Seungmin always says brings out the perfect consistency.

Behind you, Seungmin stands by the counter, completely focused on the kettle. He holds the thermometer just above the water, brow furrowed, waiting for the precise number to hit before pouring it over the coffee grounds in steady, slow circles.

You glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk. “You’re acting like you’re defusing a bomb.”

He doesn’t look up. “That’s because good coffee is a must in this household.”

You laugh under your breath and return to the eggs, taking them off the heat just before they finish cooking, leaving them soft, just how he likes them. You add a pinch of salt, a bit of cracked pepper, then plate them while he finishes pouring the last of the water into the carafe.

By the time you both sit down at the small dining table, everything is quiet again. Coffee, eggs, toast. Then you clink your mugs together in a mock toast before taking your first sip.

“This is nice,” you murmur, resting your cheek in your palm as you watch him butter a piece of toast like he’s doing brain surgery.

He glances up with a soft grin. “Mm. Still think I make better eggs than you.”

“You do,” you admit, stealing a bite from his plate anyway. “But I’m still the fun one.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No argument there.”

Weekends are sacred in your relationship. An unspoken promise to reconnect after a long week of endless meetings, deadlines, and case files. Sometimes that means spending the whole day together—brunch, errands, movies on the couch, lazy evenings tangled up in each other. Other times, it means giving each other space. Because loving each other also means understanding that you are your own people, too.

“So,” he says between sips of coffee, “baseball game starts at five. Jisung's meeting me there. Should be back before midnight.”

You nod. “Yes, I remember cause you’ve been talking about it all week.”

He gives you a little look—half proud, half sheepish. “I might yell.”

“You will yell,” you say knowingly, grinning. “Just don’t get too carried away and angers everyone around you.”

He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “Not my fault they made that stupid call in the seventh inning.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your coffee.

“And you?” he asks. “Still doing that girls’ night?”

“Mhm. Marion’s coming over later. We’re doing the full thing—masks, sugary cocktails, probably something embarrassing on Netflix.”

Seungmin raises a brow, mock serious. “Try not to drink too much and gossip about me behind my back.”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “I could do that.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I like you, you know.”

You nonchalantly shrug. “I know.”

And just like that, the rest of the morning unfolds in soft conversation and shared glances—two people perfectly in rhythm, building a life that’s equal parts warmth, work, and a little bit of mischief.

-

Marion shows up right on time, wearing loose linen pants and a graphic tee, sunglasses still perched on her head despite the setting sun. The moment you open the door, she throws her arms around you.

“God, it feels like forever,” she says into your shoulder.

You hug her tightly, laughing. “It’s been a week.”

“Exactly. Forever.”

When she pulls back, she holds up a brown paper bag with a smug grin. A long-necked wine bottle is very visibly poking out the top, along with what looks like a skincare sheet mask box and possibly a pint of ice cream tucked at the bottom.

“I brought the essentials,” she says proudly.

You eye the wine and nod in approval. “You understood the assignment.”

Behind you, Seungmin is just finishing up, adjusting the hem of his jersey and tossing on a cap that matches it perfectly. He steps into the entryway and flashes Marion a grin. “Hey, Marion.”

“Hey, Seungmin,” she replies. “You look like you’re about to fight someone over a bad pitch.”

“Not ruling it out,” he immediately replies, grin widening. Then he turns to you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you lift your chin to meet him.

He kisses you fully, just shy of teasing. It’s the kind of kiss that says I'll miss you, even if you’ll be apart for just a few hours. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead briefly against yours. “Don’t drink too much,” he murmurs.

You chuckle. “No promises.”

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath like he’s half-exasperated, half-entertained. You lean in and plant a quick kiss on his jaw, grinning. He always looks too cute when he’s annoyed in that quiet, worried way of his.

The two of you move toward the front door, and as he puts on his sneakers, he glances over his shoulder. “Marion, I expect my girlfriend is still in one piece when I'm back, yeah?”

Marion doesn’t miss a beat. “Can’t make any promises. But if I do, I’ll probably just take a bite out of her.”

You laugh, watching them with a shake of your head. Seungmin’s tying his laces, but he’s smiling. Once he’s done, you reach for his wrist, tugging him gently back toward you. You press one more kiss to his lips—longer this time.

He sighs into it, like he doesn’t actually want to go, and you whisper, “Have fun.”

But Seungmin squints at you, narrowing his eyes. “You. Don’t have too much fun.”

You can’t help but laugh again. “That also, I can't promise,” you say, for the second time.

He rolls his eyes, muttering something in mock defeat, but there’s that charming smile again as he lifts a hand in farewell and steps out the door. You watch it close behind him, the quiet clicking into place like a soft punctuation mark.

When you turn back around, Marion is already in the kitchen, holding up two glasses of mimosas with a satisfied grin.

“Cheers to nights in and no boys allowed,” she says.

You take your glass, clinking it against hers. “Cheers.”

-

It starts with the idea of “just one cookie.”

One cookie turns into an attempt to make a whole batch. That turns into realizing neither of you have measured anything quite right. That turns into the first tray coming out entirely too dark on the bottom. Marion swears they’re “extra toasty,” but even she admits the crunch sounds suspicious.

Now, you’re both leaning against the counter, wine glasses half-full again, laughing as the second batch bakes and this time with the timer actually set and taken seriously.

“You know,” Marion says between bites of a still-warm cookie from the improved batch, “I always thought Seungmin was super serious when I first met him. Like, scary lawyer energy. And then you told me he sleeps with one sock on because he can’t stand it when both feet are warm.”

You nearly choke on your wine. “Oh my God—don’t expose him like that.”

“I like him, but come on,” she laughs. “That’s a little unhinged.”

You nod, grinning. “He says it’s about temperature regulation, but I think he’s just stubborn.”

Marion wiggles her fingers dramatically. “Genius boy logic.”

You swirl your glass, smiling softly into it. “Honestly, sometimes he says things that are so dry I don’t know if he’s joking or judging me. But then he breaks and laughs at his own joke for like, a full minute. It’s the cutest thing.”

“That’s criminally cute.” Marion nudges your arm. “You’re so gone for him.”

You shrug, but the smile on your lips betrays you. “I really am.”

She sighs, setting her glass down and hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter. “Isn’t it crazy? Like, we’re at that age where we’re not just dating people who are fun. We’re dating people who we could actually see in our lives for a long time.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, nodding. “And somehow it still feels just… easy.”

Marion sips her wine before nodding in agreement. “That’s so true.”

“What about you and Leo?”

“Oh God,” she groans in mock embarrassment. “He’s convinced he can dance. And he can’t. At all. But he’ll do this horrible little shoulder wiggle every time he brushes his teeth and makes eye contact with himself in the mirror.”

You both burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the kitchen as the smell of sweet dough fills the air again. The timer goes off, and this time, the cookies come out golden and perfect. You each grab another and lean against the counter again, barefoot and tipsy, warm with wine and sugar and the feeling of knowing someone who knows you.

In this moment, everything feels light and easy. Well, until Marion spills her mimosas on the couch. You’re both laughing about it while you rummage through the linen closet in the hallway, muttering about how everything in this apartment magically disappears when you actually need it.

You’re halfway to tipsy and elbow-deep in a search for extra towels. You tug at a thick stack of folded tablecloths near the back, pulling them forward and— thunk.

Something small and soft hits the hardwood floor at your feet. You blink and look down. A square velvet box sits there, deep navy in color. Your brows knit together as you crouch down, curiosity tugging at your fingers as you pick it up and open it.

Inside, nestled in the cushioned lining, is a ring. Not just a ring. That kind of ring. Gold band. A classic cut diamond. Undeniably meant for a certain question and a promise.

“OH MY GOD,” Marion shrieks behind you.

You nearly drop the box as you jolt in surprise, whipping your head around to find her standing in the hallway, eyes wide, hand over her mouth like she just watched a K-drama twist unfold in real time.

“What?” you ask, still crouched, heart hammering, your voice weirdly flat compared to the chaos in your chest. “What is this?”

Marion walks over in slow, careful steps, like she’s approaching something sacred. “Are you serious? Are you serious right now?”

You look down at the ring again. It sparkles faintly under the hallway light. “I mean… it’s a ring. But—”

She lets out a dramatic gasp. “You dummy! It’s your ring!”

You blink up at her. “What are you talking about?”

Marion throws her hands up, pointing down at the velvet box. “That is an engagement ring. That’s a proposal ring! Look at it—it’s literally from that high-end designer boutique. I recognize the box! And the cut of the diamond—come on, that is classic proposal energy.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. You look at the ring again, mind slowly catching up with her words. “I mean…” you start, hesitating, “he hasn’t said anything. And it was just in the linen closet, not like… hidden hidden.”

“Oh my God,” Marion groans. “It was between tablecloths and towels. Do you think he’d just toss a ring like that there if it wasn’t meant to be a surprise?”

You fall silent, your gaze dropping to the ring again.

She crouches beside you now, her voice softening. “He’s going to propose to you. He probably has a plan. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment. Or maybe he’s just… trying to figure out how to keep it a surprise because he knows you’ll pick up on it.”

You don’t want to get your hopes up. You really don’t. But the ring is stunning. The kind of ring Seungmin would pick—classic, simple, elegant. You remember how he once made a comment about how you always liked things that lasted. And now it’s sitting in your palm, blinking at you like a secret trying not to be found.

Your chest flutters. Hope blooms slowly, cautiously. “Maybe he is,” you whisper.

Marion grins, eyes misty with excitement. “Girl… he is.”

And for the first time that night, you’re not tipsy on wine, but on possibility. You stay crouched there a second longer, staring down at the ring as if it might suddenly explain itself.

Marion is still next to you, practically vibrating with excitement when you finally whisper, “What do I do?”

She grabs your shoulders like she’s about to shake you. “You put it back.”

“What?” you ask, slightly confused.

“Put. It. Back.” She points emphatically at the linen closet. “Exactly where you found it. Pretend you never saw it.”

You glance at the velvet box in your hand again, hesitant. “What if he notices?”

Marion grins. “Then you say nothing, act innocent, like you have no clue he’s about to propose and marry you. And probably cry when he does it.”

You slap her arm, laughing in disbelief. “Stop.”

She only cackles harder as you carefully tuck the box back between the tablecloths and towels where it had been hidden, adjusting the folds to make it look untouched. You close the linen closet gently, almost like it’s sacred now.

The moment the door clicks shut, Marion shrieks again, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh my God, you’re gonna get married!” she says, grabbing your hands.

“Marion,” you hiss through a laugh, trying to hush her. “We don’t even know if that’s what it is.”

She ignores you entirely. “I mean, we need to think colors. Do you want something classic? Romantic? I can already see you in an off-shoulder satin gown—”

“Okay, stop,” you say again, cheeks burning, waving her off as you walk back toward the kitchen. “Nothing’s confirmed.”

She follows you, still buzzing. “But it will be. I know that man. Seungmin is calculated, strategic. If he bought that ring, it’s happening. You're gonna walk into brunch one day wearing that thing and act like you’re surprised. You better start practicing your gasp.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s thudding inside your chest, louder than before. You try to brush it off and try to tell yourself that maybe it’s not what it looks like. That maybe it’s a ring for something else, or a decoy, or a mistake. But your fingers still feel the weight of the velvet box.

And no matter how hard you try not to let it take over your thoughts… You can’t help but wonder. What if it is?

-

You pause at the doorway of the bathroom, watching him from behind. Seungmin is standing by the sink, toothbrush in hand, head slightly tilted as he brushes with quiet focus. The dim bathroom light casts gentle shadows on his back, the lines of his shoulder blades, the slope of his neck, the soft dishevel of his dark hair. You find yourself staring, studying the way the fabric of his white tee stretches across his shoulders, the curve of his jaw in the mirror’s reflection.

Sometimes, in mundane moments like this, you still can’t believe he’s yours.

He spits, rinses, then glances up and catches your eyes in the mirror. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “Stop watching me, you creep.”

You laugh softly, stepping forward. “But I’m your creep.”

He shakes his head in amusement as you walk up to him, not caring that he’s now smoothing moisturizer over his face. You slip your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, melting into his warmth.

He doesn’t even hesitate to wrap his free arm around you, pulling you in closer as he continues gently patting his face with the tips of his fingers.

You tilt your head back slightly, watching him. You could say it now. Ask about the ring. About the velvet box in the linen closet, about what it means. The words press lightly at the back of your throat, but you swallow them down.

Not now. You tell yourself. Because you know Seungmin. He doesn’t rush anything and he’s never made you feel like something was missing. Maybe it’s not the right time, or maybe he is waiting for the right moment. And if it never comes? You’d still choose him. Like this. Like now.

His eyes drop to yours suddenly, as if sensing the thoughts spiraling in your head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You shake your head with a smile and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I missed you.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand rubbing up and down your back in slow, comforting circles. “Marion must’ve made you drink a lot, mmh?”

You scoff into his neck. “That’s the whole point of a girls’ night in.”

He hums in agreement, reaching for a tube of lip balm with one hand and applying it methodically.

You pull back a little just to watch him, lips pursed, face content and freshly moisturized. “Did you miss me too?” you teasingly ask.

He caps the tube and places it down, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face up so your eyes meet. “Of course I missed you,” he answers without a beat.

You scoff at that. “Lie. You forget about everything whenever you watch a baseball game.”

Seungmin lets out a soft chuckle and then he kisses you. It’s tender and slow, thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone as he deepens it just enough to make your heart skip. Just enough to remind you how much he means it, even if he doesn’t say much. Even now, after almost five years together, his kiss still makes your chest flutter.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are warm, lips curved in that subtle smile of his. “Let’s go to bed.”

You nod but don’t let go. Instead, you jump up, wrapping your arms and legs around him. And he catches you without missing a beat, grunting slightly in surprise. You press a quick kiss to his lips, giggling into it.

Seungmin steadies you, arms securely around your thighs, and gives you that amused grin. “You’re such a big baby.”

Then he gives you a light, playful slap on the butt and carries you out of the bathroom.

You smile against his shoulder, already half-asleep in his hold, completely at peace and content with everything you have. And quietly hoping for what might come next.

-

The week passes in a blur and somewhere along the way, the memory of the ring tucked between the tablecloths and towels fades to the background, replaced by spreadsheets and strategy decks and late nights staring at your laptop until your eyes burn.

By Friday afternoon, you’re buried in emails when your phone starts buzzing on your desk. You glance at the screen. Seungmin.

It’s rare that he calls when you're in the middle of work. You frown slightly, sliding your finger across the screen and lifting it to your ear. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

You expect the worst—something urgent, a change of plans, maybe even bad news. But instead, you hear a soft chuckle on the other end.

“I’m fine,” Seungmin calmly says, “Just wanted to let you know that we’re going out for dinner tonight.”

“Oh?” you say, slightly surprised. “What’s the occasion?”

There’s a brief silence, and then you can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a surprise.”

Before you can press him for more, he hangs up. You lower the phone slowly, staring at it like it might offer an explanation. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. You don’t want to assume. But your thoughts are already spinning.

A surprise dinner. On a Friday night. No reason, no hints. And suddenly, the memory of that ring box floods back in. Could it be?

You exhale slowly, catching yourself before your imagination runs completely wild. Even if it’s just a regular dinner, you tell yourself, there’s no harm in looking good.

You press the intercom button on your desk. “Hey, Jess? I’m going to step out early today.”

Your assistant’s voice crackles through. “Sure. Want me to clear your schedule for the rest of the day?”

“Yes, please. Something came up. I have... an event tonight.” You smile to yourself.

The moment you end the call, you grab your bag, already planning a visit to the boutique two blocks down. Maybe get something simple yet chic and elegant.

Whatever this night holds, you want to be ready. Just in case.

-

The vanity light glows softly, casting a warm sheen over the organized chaos of your skincare and lipsticks. Your hair is still wrapped in a towel, damp strands clinging to your neck, and your makeup is only halfway done.

In your hand is a champagne flute. Or, well... mostly champagne. You’d started with the idea of a pomegranate spritz, but at the last second, you’d added another splash—or two—of champagne. For courage. For nerves. For what might be happening tonight.

You take a long sip, eyes darting to the hallway. And then, as if your feet move on their own, you walk toward the linen closet. It’s stupid, maybe. But a part of you just wants to know. You’re not trying to ruin anything, you just want confirmation. Or reassurance. Or some kind of sign that your hope isn’t misplaced.

You slowly open the door, the quiet creak of the hinges sounding louder than usual in the apartment’s stillness. Your hand slides between the stacks of towels and tablecloths, fingers searching the familiar spot, seeking the edge of that velvet box. But all you touch is folded fabric and the smooth, empty wood of the shelf beneath.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. You push the towels aside, check the corners, even lift a few things just to be sure. It’s gone. The ring box isn’t there. Your heart lurches.  A rush of adrenaline floods your chest, so fast it’s almost dizzying.

It’s happening. It has to be.

You scramble to put everything back just the way it was, flattening the towels, smoothing out the tablecloths, trying to erase any trace of your little search mission. Just as you shut the closet door with a quiet click, you hear the jangle of keys at the front door.

You make a quick dash to the bedroom, practically throwing yourself into the chair at your vanity. You unwrap your towel, tossing it aside, and reach for your foundation with shaking hands, trying to look like you haven’t just been rooting through a closet like a hopeful maniac.

A moment later, you hear footsteps. Then Seungmin appears in the doorway, still in his sleek work attire except that his tie now slightly loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little tousled from the wind outside.

You meet his eyes in the mirror and smile, trying to keep it casual. “Welcome home,” you sweetly greet.

He walks up behind you, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “You smell good,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smile against your skin.

You hum softly as he places another kiss on your jaw, your cheeks warming at that.

He straightens, gently tugging at your robe’s collar in that playful way of his. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

And then, with a grin, he adds, “And I’m using your fancy body wash. The expensive one.”

You chuckle under your breath. “So long as you smell like me by the end of it, I won’t complain.”

He winks, already backing toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he disappears behind the door.

You exhale slowly. Your heart is thudding so hard it echoes in your ears, and your reflection is practically glowing with excitement, nerves, and disbelief.

He took the ring. He’s taking you out to dinner. And yet, you still don’t know.

But God, you hope.

-

The city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and muted reflections in the car windows. Seungmin’s hand rests on the wheel, his other on the gearshift, navigating familiar roads with the kind of effortless ease that only comes from years of doing life together. You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded on your lap, your eyes darting to the glowing dashboard clock—7:08 PM.

He hasn’t said where you’re going so you try to puzzle it out in your head, thinking through every restaurant the two of you have been to. If it’s the Italian place downtown, maybe it’s just a regular Friday night date. But if he’s heading toward the hills, toward the rooftop spots or places with skyline views, then maybe— You shake your head and try to stay calm.

The hum of the engine fills the silence between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… charged. And then the car slows, stopping at a red light.

Seungmin glances over at you, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out and takes your hand gently, bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it. The touch is soft and thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything at first, just laces his fingers through yours and holds on. Then, casually, like he’s not slowly unravelling you, he asks, “You hungry?”

You swallow the nerves that are caught in your throat and manage a nod, smiling back. “Actually? Famished.”

At that, Seungmin pulls a dramatic face and squints at you. “Don’t tell me that’s because you drank your weight in pomegranate spritz before dinner.”

You wince with a small laugh, but this time, instead of teasing him back like you normally would, you just shake your head and bite your tongue. You’re afraid if you say too much, he’ll notice the way your voice shakes. The way your hands keep fidgeting in your lap. The way your eyes keep drifting to the glove compartment where, maybe, a ring box might be tucked away. So, you stay quiet.

Seungmin just squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing along your knuckles, and keeps his eyes on the road. Just then, the light turns green and the car moves forward.

Belle Vue. It's the restaurant. The kind of place where people wear tailored suits and sleek dresses and speak in hushed tones over candlelight and wine that costs more than your electricity bill.

Seungmin pulls up to the valet, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you. His expression is unreadable, calm in that effortlessly cool way he always is. You school your face into something neutral just as the valet opens your door.

“Good evening,” the young man says, and murmur a thank-you as you step out, smoothing your dress and clutching your purse a little tighter than necessary.

Seungmin walks around the car, handing the keys over with a quick nod before he turns back to you and reaches for your hand. And together, you walk into the restaurant and the maître d’ looks up with a smile as you approach.

“Reservation under Seungmin Kim,” Seungmin says smoothly.

The host glances at the list, nods, and gestures with a polite smile. “Right this way.”

You trail after him, heart pounding in your chest like it’s trying to beat out the truth. The restaurant is beautiful and intimate. Each table lit by the soft flicker of candlelight, crystal glassware gleaming, then the host stops.

Your table is by the window. The one that offers a stunning view of the city skyline, glittering like a dream just outside the glass. It's the kind of table people book months in advance. The kind of table people get proposed to at. You sit down slowly and carefully, like one wrong move might shatter the moment.

Seungmin takes the seat across from you and thanks the host, who gives a small bow before slipping away.

The signs are everywhere. The view. The reservation. The tone of the night. You barely hear Seungmin when he speaks. “Are you okay?”

You glance up to find him watching you. Not suspiciously, but curiously. Like he knows something’s off. You laugh too softly and wave it off with a smile. “I think it’s the pomegranate spritz. I drank too much while getting ready.”

He squints at you, giving you that signature unimpressed look. “I told you not to drink before dinner.”

You flash a grin, but your fingers tighten slightly around your water glass. “I know. I deserve the lecture.”

He lets it go with a mock sigh and leans back in his seat, casually scanning the menu as if he didn’t just lead you into the most romantic restaurant in the city on a Friday night, sitting across from you looking godly attractive and every bit the man you’ve built a life with.

You nod to yourself, trying to stay composed, but even as the waiter comes by and pours water into your glasses, all you can think is: This could be it.

-

Dinner flows surprisingly well, despite the nerves bubbling just under your skin. Seungmin, as always, is composed. He’s cutting into his entrée with the same precision he approaches everything. He tells you about a new case at work, one that’s been dragging for weeks, and you listen with your chin propped on your hand, your glass of wine untouched for the past few minutes.

The conversation slips easily from work, to life, to a recent player transfer on his favorite baseball team. His voice lights up when he talks about it, and you smile at the familiar passion in his tone—the way he gets animated about stats, potential lineups, strategy.

And then, mid-sentence, he pauses and looks at you. Really looks at you. “You look beautiful tonight,” he says softly.

A smile tugs at your lips as you glance down at your dress. “I snagged the last one in the boutique. Lucky find.”

Seungmin shakes his head slowly. “It’s not the dress. It’s you,” he says. “You look beautiful tonight.”

You’ve received compliments from him before. Lots of them. Casual, playful, sincere. But this one… this one land differently. Maybe it’s the quiet conviction in his voice. Or the way his hand reaches across the table and wraps around yours, fingers fitting together like they always do. Maybe it’s the way his eyes hold yours—tender, thoughtful, like he’s memorizing the moment.

You smile, cheeks warming as you gently squeeze his hand. And then you let your eyes roam over him, fully appreciating the sight before you. Seungmin in a tailored black suit, his white shirt perfectly crisp beneath it, collar resting just right to frame the sharp line of his jaw.

“Look at you,” you murmur, letting your voice drop just enough. “Sitting there looking like a main entrée.”

You smirk as you lower your voice and teasingly add, “I can’t wait to take that white shirt off of you tonight.”

Seungmin leans back in his seat, giving you a slow, dangerous grin. “Let's see if you're lucky tonight.”

You grin back at him, playful and smug, but your heart is racing now—not because of the banter, but because the night is almost over.

As the waiter reappears and begins clearing the plates, he asks, “Are you ready for dessert?”

You barely register the question as you're lost in your head. “Excuse me,” you say quickly, offering a polite smile as you slide your chair back. “I need to go to the restroom.”

Seungmin nods, lifting your hand for a brief kiss before letting you go. “Don’t take too long.”

You nod as you get up from your seat. But as you walk toward the restrooms, your stomach twists. The dinner is nearly over and if he’s going to do it—if tonight is the night—then it’s happening soon.

In the restroom, you lean over the sink, both hands braced on the cool marble countertop, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You look stunning—anyone would say that. But your face is tense, your eyes a little too wide, your lips pressed tightly together like you’re holding in a thousand thoughts that don’t have anywhere to go. You inhale. Exhale. Shake out your hands like you’re about to give a keynote speech in front of a thousand people.

This is ridiculous. You’re not even sure if it’s happening tonight. Still, the nerves are real. Palpable. You reach for your purse to find your lipstick, but instead, your fingers brush against your phone. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you tap Marion’s name and press it to your ear.

She doesn’t pick up on the first call. You curse under your breath and hit redial, pacing a slow circle around the restroom. This time, she answers, slightly breathless. “Sorry! I missed the first call—I’m having dinner with Leo. What’s up?”

You don’t even hesitate and blurt out. “I think Seungmin’s going to propose tonight.”

There’s a pause and then a sudden shuffle on the other end of the line. You hear her muffled voice excusing herself before a door shuts in the background, and then—

WHAT?” Marion says quickly. “Now tell me everything. Start from the top.”

You press a hand to your forehead. “Okay, so… he called me this afternoon out of nowhere. Said we’re having dinner tonight. Wouldn’t tell me where. Just that it’s a surprise.”

Marion gasps.

“And then,” you continue, pacing again, “I was getting ready and I—okay, I checked the linen closet. The ring box’s not there anymore. It’s gone.”

“Oh my god.”

“And then he takes me to Belle Vue. Best seat in the house. Full skyline view.” You glance at your reflection again, voice growing quiet. “And the way he looked at me tonight, Marion… I don’t know. It felt like something. Something big.”

There’s a beat of silence before Marion lets out a shriek of joy so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “I KNEW IT! I knew he was going to propose soon! Everything—literally everything—makes sense!”

You laugh, nerves bubbling over again. “But I... I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

“Girl,” Marion says, her voice dropping into dead-serious mode, “he took the ring out of the closet. He brought you to a place that takes a month to book. And he’s looking at you like you hung the stars. What else could it be?”

You rub your temple, heart racing. “What do I even do if he does?”

“You keep breathing,” Marion says firmly. “You apply a fresh coat of lipstick. Fix your hair. And start practicing your surprised-but-still-glowy-yes-face.”

You snort softly. “Right.”

“I’m serious! I expect a full report by the end of the night. Don’t you dare leave me hanging.”

“Okay, okay,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Love you. Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it. Just say yes.” She hangs up with one final squeal, and you sigh as you slip your phone back into your purse.

You want to brush it off, laugh it away. But… maybe there’s nothing wrong in being prepared. So you do exactly what Marion said. You blot and reapply your lipstick. Fluff your hair. Practice your smile in the mirror and feel your heart flutter in your chest. You take a final breath to steady yourself, then step out of the restroom and walk slowly, carefully, back toward your table.

Seungmin’s already there, sitting tall with his black suit pristine under the golden glow of the restaurant lights. He looks up the second you appear and smiles. “There you are,” he says. “Dessert’s here.”

You return his smile as gracefully as you can manage and settle back into your seat, murmuring a polite thanks to the server as they place a second silver spoon beside your plate.

The dessert is gorgeous. Artfully plated with swirls of ganache, caramel glass, and something delicate and dusted with powdered sugar. The kind of thing that would usually make you beam with delight. You take a bite and it’s perfect. Silky, rich, melt-on-your-tongue perfect. And yet, your stomach is still in knots.

The air around you feels like it’s waiting for something. Like you’re waiting for something. You sit quietly, your spoon gliding through the dessert, letting yourself hope for just a few more seconds.

Seungmin glances at you from across the table. Then he chuckles. “You got real quiet.”

“It’s the dessert,” you say, forcing a small smile. “Too good to talk through.”

He nods, still smiling, like nothing’s out of the ordinary. And then, his hand disappears into the inner pocket of his jacket.

This is it. This has to be it. Your heart skips. Your whole body stills. You watch, barely breathing, your fingers tightening around your spoon as he pulls something from behind the lapel.

But it’s not a velvet box. It’s his card wallet. He places it on the table, sliding the bill check toward himself. “Figured I’ll take care of it now,” he says casually, flipping it open to slip in his card.

And just like that, the illusion unravels. The anticipation that’s been building all night collapses into the hollow space behind your ribs. You lower your eyes to your plate and push another bite of dessert into your mouth just to keep your expression from cracking.

You’re not sure what disappoints you more—that it didn’t happen… or that you let yourself believe it would. You manage a small smile, nodding at nothing in particular as he chats with the waiter. Because this is just a regular night. Just dinner. Just dessert. And the ring? Whatever it was… maybe it was never for tonight at all.

-

The night air is cooler now, the city buzzing gently in the background as you and Seungmin make your way back to the car. He opens the passenger door for you like he always does, and you slip inside quietly, your mind still reeling from the way dinner ended in… nothing.

You fasten your seatbelt, settling in, trying not to let disappointment cling too heavily to your skin. You glance at him as he gets in on the driver’s side, buckles his own belt, and starts the engine.

Before Seungmin shifts the gear into drive, he pauses. He turns to look at you and with that same soft gaze from earlier, calm but with the slightest hint of mischief. Then, he says: “You ready for the real surprise?”

Your fingers still on your lap as your heart stutters. “There’s more?”

He just smiles and for a moment, you don’t say anything. You’re careful now, cautious—wary. You don’t want to spiral again. You don’t want to go through another round of quiet expectations and louder disappointment. But it’s already happening, isn’t it?

Because maybe he didn’t mean to propose at the restaurant. Maybe he wants somewhere more private. More personal. Somewhere it’s just the two of you. Your thoughts start spinning all over again, and just like that… your hopes are up.

You exhale a little laugh, eyes flicking over to him as you lean back against the headrest. “Should I be nervous?”

Seungmin grins as he puts the car in gear, easing the vehicle into motion. “You’ll see.”

You glance at him as he drives, trying to read something from the side of his face. His lips curve in a satisfied little smirk, like he’s proud of himself—like he’s planned something sweet and thoughtful. You want to match his energy, you really do, but your mind is moving too fast.

The car eventually slows in front of a low-lit building, all glass windows and minimalist signage. You squint at it through the windshield—it looks closed. Not a single light flickers inside.

You frown, confused, but Seungmin just turns off the ignition and steps out like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You follow, heels quiet on the pavement. “What is this place?”

“Trust me. You'll love it,” he says with a small grin, already walking ahead.

The door is shut. The hallway inside is dark, empty. You hesitate as he holds it open for you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back as he leads you inside. And then, the door at the end of the hallway opens, spilling warm golden light into the shadows, and a man greets you with a polite smile. “Welcome. Right this way.”

Seungmin glances back at you, still grinning. “Surprise.”

You follow the waiter down a flight of velvet-covered steps, into the glow of a dimly lit jazz club tucked secretly beneath the city. A stage glows at the center, a band tuning their instruments, the soft rustle of glassware and hushed laughter scattered across booths and tables.

Seungmin’s hand remains on your back as he follows close behind, guiding you into a cozy, curved booth lit by a single low-hanging lamp. As you settle in, the scent of citrus and woodsmoke and fresh linen lingers in the air.

The ambiance. The music. The romantic lighting. You take it all in and despite everything—despite how beautiful it is, how thoughtful it is—you feel a dull ache press against your chest. Because this was supposed to be the night. Because you once mentioned in passing how you wanted to come here, how you read about the craft cocktails and the underground ambiance and Seungmin remembered. But… that’s all it is. Just a surprise date night. Just thoughtful. Not life-changing.

He turns to you, resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Do you like it?”

You look up at him and manage a small. “I love it.”

But Seungmin studies you for a second longer than you’re comfortable with. He’s too smart, too attentive not to notice. “You don’t look like you love it,” he murmurs, brow creasing.

You panic a little—not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting him to feel like he failed at something he worked hard to plan. So you lean forward and pull him in by his collar, kissing him with more emotion than you planned. It’s soft, deep, thankful—and just a little desperate.

“Thank you,” you whisper as you pull back, your hand still on his cheek. “Really. I love it.”

His eyes search yours for another beat and then he smiles, wide and bright, as if you’ve successfully reassured him.

You lean back into your seat, brushing your fingers along the rim of the menu in front of you. “So…” you say, raising a brow. “Does it mean I can have as many cocktails as I want?”

Seungmin lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course,” he says, already flagging down a server. “That’s one of the perks of dating someone as responsible and reliable as me.”

The way he says it with that cocky grin that first won your heart makes you smile despite the weight in your chest. You order something strong and pretty, something with a salted rim and citrus notes. You sip your first drink slowly, savoring the taste as much as the dull numbness it brings because tonight didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.

And you still love him. You still want him.

-

You wake up late the next morning, the light already soft and golden through the curtains. Your head aches faintly, a dull throb behind your eyes, and your mouth feels dry from the cocktails the night before. You roll onto your side, rubbing the sleep off your eyes before getting up.

The moment you step out of the bedroom, you immediately spot Seungmin standing by the stove. He’s still in his navy sweater from the night before, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts, and his face is bare, just the soft kind of beautiful you’ve only ever seen when it’s just the two of you.

He glances up and catches your eyes. A smile tugs at his lips as he sweetly greets you. “Morning, sleepyhead. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

You hum in reply and have a seat in the dining table. You prop your chin in your hand, watching him move around the kitchen.

He’s calm, efficient, pouring eggs into a pan, flipping toast, sliding cabinet drawers open with ease. He turns back a minute later with a steaming cup in his hand and walks over to you. “Here,” he says gently, leaning down and holding it out. “Coffee first.”

You take the mug from him with both hands, and before you can say anything, he reaches up and cups your face with one warm hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Hungover, mmh?” he murmurs with a knowing smile.

You pout, lips pushing out as you nod.

His touch lingers as he brushes your hair behind your ear, gaze full of amusement and affection. “Do you want something for the headache?”

You give him another nod.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of your head, fingers curling softly around the back of your neck. “I’ll go get it.”

You watch him stand and walk off toward the bathroom, his socked feet padding lightly against the floor. And you feel… small. Not in a bad way. In a protected way. Cradled. Cared for.

In that moment, sitting there in his sweater, with the warmth of the cup of coffee seeping into your hands, your head foggy from the night before, you ask yourself how you could possibly be mad at someone who treats you like this.

It isn’t his fault. He didn’t promise anything. He never gave you reason to believe it would happen last night. That was all you. All your wishful thinking, your hope spun too tightly around small signs. You expected something that didn’t belong to a timeline, something he might be holding onto for later.

You hear him returning before you see him. His steps light but steady, then the faint clink of a glass in his hand. He appears by your side, holding a small white pill and a glass of water.

“Here you go,” he says, handing them over.

You take the ibuprofen and pop it onto your tongue, then chase it down with a long sip of water.

Seungmin watches you quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. When you hand the glass back to him, he sets it on the table. Then, without a word, he gently pats the top of your head, his fingers trailing lightly through your hair. “Good girl,” he murmurs with playful affection. “Took it like a champ.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile, heart fluttering at the way he’s looking at you right now—fond, warm, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His fingers linger, gently caressing your temple.

You gaze up at him and say with a quiet, almost bashful smile, “I feel better already.”

And despite everything you’re holding in, you mean it. Even if your chest still aches, even if the ring never left his pocket, even if last night didn’t turn out the way you dreamed. Right now, with Seungmin beside you like this, brushing your hair and taking care of you with such ease, it’s enough.

Even if it still hurts a little.

-

The scent of freshly baked pastries and espresso greet you as you step into the café. It’s a bright Sunday morning, but you keep your face composed even though you know exactly why Marion asked to meet today. She hasn’t said it outright, but her texts were filled with excited emojis and vague exclamation points. And you’ve been dodging her calls since yesterday. She’s convinced she knows what happened Friday night. And you? You’re still trying to push the embarrassment down far enough not to wear it on your face.

You stop to scan the room and there she is, already seated by the window, her smile wide and warm as she waves both hands at you. You smile back and walk over, forcing your expression into something sunny and relaxed. She stands to hug you the second you’re close, and you go through the familiar motions—press cheek to cheek, squeeze briefly, sit across from her as if everything is normal.

“Hi, you look amazing,” Marion says, practically glowing. “I’ve missed you.”

You chuckle softly and nod. “Missed you too.”

Before she can get a word in, you flag down a waiter, already pointing at the brunch menu. “Let’s order right away. I’m starving.”

You buy yourself a few more minutes, drinking from your water, nodding when she makes a comment about the décor, but it doesn’t last long.

Once the waiter walks away, Marion leans forward with that signature glint in her eyes. “So,” she begins carefully, “how are you?”

You breathe in. Smile. “I’m good— Great. You?”

“I’m… I’m good,” she says, then breaks into that smile, a little brighter than usual. The one that radiates something new, something big, and then—she lifts her left hand.

Your eyes fall to it instantly. A delicate diamond glints under the light, elegant and perfectly set. Your breath stills.

“He proposed,” she beams, barely holding back a squeal. “Leo proposed last night.”

“Oh,” you say, stunned. “Marion…”

“We were just having dinner at home!” she continues, talking quickly, hands flying. “Like nothing out of the ordinary. He made pasta and opened a bottle of wine and then—God—I turned around and he was on one knee. I thought he dropped something! I literally asked him if he lost a contact lens.”

You laugh, even though it catches a little in your throat. “That’s so Leo.”

“I cried like a baby. It was so us. No big gesture, no fancy restaurant. Just home. And him. And this.” She gestures again to the ring, her fingers shaking slightly.

You nod, trying to swallow around the sudden lump forming in your throat. “It’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”

And you mean it. You do. But your chest still aches.

Marion reaches across the table and takes your hands. “We’re both going to be brides,” she says, glowing. “Can you believe it?”

Something in you cracks. Just a little. You try to smile, try not to let it show, but she sees it. Marion always sees it.

“Wait. Did… did it not happen?”

You pause and then, softly, you shake your head. “No. He didn’t propose.”

“Oh…” Her voice quiets. “I thought—”

“I did too,” you say honestly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I found the ring, remember? In the linen closet. And then he planned that whole night. The dinner. The jazz club. It just… I really thought…” You trail off, eyes fixed on the table.

Marion squeezes your hands tightly. “Hey. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to.”

You smile at her, small and tired. “I know. I just… I shouldn’t have assumed. That was my mistake.”

“No,” she says firmly. “No, that’s not a mistake. Anyone would’ve thought the same. And maybe he’s just—taking his time. Planning something special.”

You nod, because it’s the kind thing to do. “Yeah. Maybe. And if not… that’s okay too.”

Marion scoffs. “Please. This is Seungmin we’re talking about. Of course he’ll propose to you. The guy practically worships you.”

You want to believe her. You do. But you don’t say anything—just press her hand, smile, and try your best not to let your heart show.

“You know what? Let's ditch the coffee,” Marion says as she gestures the nearest waiter hanging around the table. “Let's order sweet cocktails with the umbrellas.”

-

You come home with your arms full of shopping bags and a headache that the brunch cocktails didn’t manage to blur out. Your shoes click softly against the floor as you step inside the apartment, eyes briefly flicking toward the living room where Seungmin’s seated cross-legged on the couch, a controller in hand, the screen flashing with bright movement from whatever game he’s playing.

Glancing over his shoulder with a grin, he calls out, “Did you buy the entire mall?”

You don’t answer. Not even a smile. You head straight to the bedroom. The bags thump softly as you drop them near the closet, shedding your jacket and slipping off your shoes like they suddenly weigh too much. You feel too tired to process your thoughts—your conversation with Marion still ringing in your ears, the ring still nowhere in sight, your emotions swinging too close to the edge.

A few moments later, you hear Seungmin’s footsteps approaching. He leans against the doorframe for a beat, watching you, then steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He peeks into one of the bags like a curious cat. “So… how was brunch? Did you have fun?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, voice flat as you pull your sweater over your head and toss it aside. “It was fine.”

Seungmin hums, clearly sensing something but not pressing—yet. He reaches into one of the shopping bags and pulls out a folded piece of delicate fabric. “Ooh,” he says, lifting the silky nightdress with a playful raise of his eyebrows. “Nice pick. Are you wearing this tonight?”

You manage a soft chuckle and shake your head. “Maybe.” You take it gently from his hands and tuck it back into the bag.

Seungmin watches you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Did something happen?”

“Nothing,” you lie, forcing a thin smile.

But he’s already moving. He reaches for your wrist just as you bend to lift the shopping bags again, tugging you gently toward him. The bags slip from your fingers and land on the floor with a soft thud as he pulls you into his lap.

Seungmin wraps his arms around you as if you’re something precious and fragile, his hand brushing your hair away from your face. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks again, voice low, gentle.

You hesitate because a part of you want to say it. You want to ask about the ring, the night that didn’t go how you expected. But the fear of sounding demanding coils around your throat like a knot. So instead, you ask the one question that’s been sitting quietly in your heart: “Do you love me?”

Seungmin blinks, startled. And then, with a teasing smile, “You bought all this and none of it is for me? My love just dropped a point.”

You smack his chest—not hard, but enough to make your point. “Be serious,” you whine, your voice tight and unexpectedly shaky. “Please.”

His expression softens immediately. “Hey, hey…” he pats your head, chuckling lightly. “Who are you and what did you do to my girlfriend?”

You smack his chest again, harder this time.

He yelps, but a smile still tugs at his lips. Then, gently cupping your face in both hands, he studies you closely. “You’re not acting like you. You’re usually the one giving me affirmations in the middle of the day. What’s going on?”

You look at him and almost say it. But instead, you shake your head and murmur, “Just answer the question.”

He exhales and smiles at you. The kind of smile that makes everything feel okay for a second. His eyes never leave yours. “Of course I love you,” he says quietly, sincerely. “You know I do.”

And then he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he repeats, like a promise.

You can feel how much he means it. In the way he holds you. The way your heart stutters just hearing the words from his mouth. But before you can melt completely, he pulls back just enough to flash a cheeky smile. “I’ll love you more if you put on that silk dress, though.”

You swat his shoulder—aiming for it, at least—but your hand lands on his jaw instead. He yelps again, a hand flying up to cradle it. “Ow! That hurts!”

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you laugh, leaning in to kiss the spot. “It didn’t even hurt.”

“It did, actually,” he pouts dramatically, but he holds your waist tighter, tilting his head slightly to give you better access as your lips trail a few more apologetic kisses along his jaw. Then, gently, your lips find his again. This time, slower. Sweeter.

After everything, this is what you needed. His arms. His quiet, unshakable love. You pull away just enough to look into his eyes. “I love you,” you whisper, this time with everything in you.

Seungmin’s smile is soft and full of warmth. Then he presses his forehead to yours. “I know,” he murmurs.

In that moment, it really is enough. Even if your heart still carries a tiny, unspoken ache.

-

Later that night, you’re wrapped in the familiar quiet of your bedroom, the soft hum of the air conditioning barely audible under the weight of your slow breathing. Seungmin lies behind you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, his fingers tracing light shapes over the silk fabric of your nightdress—the one you didn’t plan on wearing tonight but somehow ended up in anyway. You shift slightly, pressing your back closer to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Comfortable?”

You hum your answer, your eyes fluttering shut. “Mhm. Yeah.”

He chuckles softly, the sound warm against your skin. “Guess I’ll have to ruin that.”

His hand slides along your waist, slow and teasing, until it finds your bare thigh peeking through the slit of your nightdress. He palms the skin there gently, his touch both grounding and electrifying. You turn slightly toward him, enough to meet his gaze in the soft light of the bedside lamp.

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you like you’re something to be cherished and devoured all at once. You lean in, brushing your lips over his, and he doesn’t hesitate to respond. The kiss deepens easily, naturally, as if the day hadn’t worn on you at all. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you closer, pulling you into his space until you’re tangled together, mouths moving in sync, breathes shared and stolen between kisses.

The silk of your nightdress shifts under his touch, soft fabric slipping aside as his hands roam with purpose, memorizing the curves he already knows by heart. You gasp softly against his lips when his thigh presses between yours, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging at it with unspoken need.

“You're so hot. How can I not love you?” he whispers, just barely, his voice thick and quiet.

You breathlessly giggle as you're threading your fingers through his hair as he begins to kiss lower, trailing heat down the curve of your throat and over your collarbone. And in the stillness of your shared space, with limbs entwined and hearts laid bare, you let go of everything else. Because in this moment, it’s only him. Only you. Only love.

The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the shared breaths between your lips as your mouths meet again, slow and deep and unhurried. Seungmin propped on one elbow as he's leaning over you with that familiar half-smile playing at his lips—the one that always makes your chest ache in the best way.  His hand roams beneath the silk nightdress, slow and deliberate, brushing over your waist, your hip, until it finds its way between your thighs.

You suck in a sharp breath against his mouth as his fingers move lower, his touch gentle but firm, and entirely sure of you.

“Still comfortable?” he murmurs, the words laced with teasing as he palms your clothed sex, his thumb easily tracing your bundle of nerves through the flimsy fabric.

You nod, breathless, your fingers gripping his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Too comfortable,” you whisper, echoing his earlier words with a shaky laugh.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower still. His fingers never stop moving against the dampness forming on your underwear, his touch slow and coaxing, driving you quietly out of your mind. He knows your body—knows how to build you up with the softest strokes, how to make your toes curl and your breath catch without a single word.

Your body arches slightly, your head falling back against the pillow as he whispers something against your skin—words that are low and loving, and just a little cocky.

You barely register them because all you know is the warmth curling low in your stomach, the way he’s making you unravel piece by piece while holding you so close, as if you might disappear if he didn’t.

Seungmin continues his exploration, fingers circling on your clit—slow and steady—until you’re clutching the sheets and gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember.

Your breath is uneven, your cheek resting against the pillow as your body melts into the mattress. You feel Seungmin’s weight shift beside you, then the soft press of his lips against your shoulder.

He trails more kisses along your skin, slow and unhurried, until he’s hovering above you, his chest brushing against your back, warm and solid. One of his hands remains on your heating wetness, still touching you, fingers moving with knowing precision, making you shiver despite the heat of his body. “You’re not tired yet, are you?” he murmurs against your neck, the smile in his voice unmistakable.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless. “Should I be?”

Instead of answering, he presses a slow kiss to the base of your neck, his hand moving just a little firmer now, drawing another soft sound from your throat. Then you feel his hips settling closer, the subtle grind of him against you, the heat of his arousal unmistakable even through the layers of fabric still between you.

He doesn’t say anything, just breathes against your skin, letting his body do the talking. The slow, steady roll of his hips, the way he fits against you, the heat, the hardness. You squirm beneath him, not to escape but to tease back, and he groans low in his throat—a sound that sinks into your bones.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispers, voice rough now, his hand still moving, coaxing every bit of response from you as his hips grind against you again, slower this time, deliberate.

You tilt your head slightly to the side, glancing at him from over your shoulder, your lips parted, your body flushed and pliant beneath his. He meets your eyes and there's no more teasing in his expression. Only want. Only love. And the soft weight of him above you feels like the safest place in the world.

You hum softly as Seungmin’s lips continue their gentle exploration of your shoulder and neck, each kiss fluttering against your skin like a secret. His hand never leaves your body, drifting across your stomach before inching lower again. Then, with a breathy chuckle against your ear, he murmurs, “I take it back.”

You smile, eyes still closed. “Take what back?”

“This nightdress,” he says, his voice low and teasing as his fingers slip beneath the hem and slowly tug it upward. “I hate it.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat, soft and breathless, as he continues, “Hate it so much.”

The fabric slides higher as his hands move with purpose, and you oblige with a grin, pushing yourself up slightly so your back meets his chest. You tilt your head against his shoulder, lifting your arms in silent invitation. He takes the cue without hesitation, sliding the dress up and over, tossing it somewhere off the bed without even looking.

Warm hands return to your bare skin immediately, greedy and reverent. He touches you like he’s missed you—even though you’ve been right here the entire time. Fingers trace every familiar curve, rediscovering you with a tenderness that contradicts the hunger simmering in his breath.

His hands come to rest on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands with gentle insistence, his palms hot against your skin. You gasp as his thumbs brush softly over your sensitive nipples, and your body melts further into his. He leans in, mouth seeking the spot just below your jawline, where he nips and sucks, leaving behind the echo of his affection in the form of wet heat and marks.

You feel boneless in his arms, pliant and undone, every breath you take shivering out of you as he holds you like something he never plans to let go of.

He groans softly against your neck, his hands never still. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

But you do. You feel it in every kiss. Every touch. And as you press your hand over his where it rests on your chest, you whisper back, “I think I do.”

With that, you lower yourself onto the bed, the sheets cool against your warmed skin as Seungmin’s hands glide down your sides slowly, reverently. His fingers catch the edge of your underwear, and in one fluid motion, he eases it down and off, leaving you bare beneath his gaze.

He shifts above you, mouth returning to the soft skin of your neck, where he plants teasing kisses and playful nibbles. You giggle when his breath tickles your ear, your shoulder curling slightly as you squirm beneath him, not from discomfort but anticipation.

“Seungmin...” you whisper out of want, need.

His response is another kiss—this one pressed just below your ear—and then he begins to trail down your spine, every slow kiss leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. When he reaches the curve of your back, his hands settle on your hips, his thumbs stroking slow circles before sliding lower.

You feel him—hot and hard—pressed against your wet cunt, not quite pushing forward, just teasing. Testing. His grip tightens ever so slightly, and you gasp when he slips his cock in between and rubbing it against your wetness, giving just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to satisfy.

“Seungmin,” you whisper, breath trembling. “Please…”

His chuckle is low and indulgent as he leans in, mouth brushing over your ear again. “So needy for me,” he murmurs, almost amused. “How can I not love you?”

And finally, finally, he gives in. He pushes his cock inside you slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving to where his length disappearing into you, savoring the way you take him inch by inch. The breath you release is a stuttering moan, muffled into the pillow beneath you, your hands clutching the sheets as your body adjusts to him.

It stays like that for a moment and when Seungmin deems you're ready for more, he begins moving with the kind of rhythm that feels both intentional and instinctive like he knows your body as well as his own, knows every subtle shift in your breath and how to pull the sweetest sounds from your lips.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, your skin tingling with every deep thrust, and when you turn your head to look at him, he meets your gaze—his dark eyes full of heat and tenderness. That look alone nearly undoes you.

“Seungmin, baby, you feel so good inside me...” you mewl as you look at him with half-lidded eyes.

Without needing to hear it, he can tell just from reading the expression on your face, the way your body arches into his, how your voice catches every time he hits that perfect spot. And he responds the way only he can—his pace changing without warning, suddenly fast, then slowing again just enough to tease, to keep you on edge, to build that need higher. He’s loving you like it’s everything he knows how to do—with devotion in every movement, and passion in every kiss he leaves along your skin.

By the time he finds that final rhythm—deep, fast, overwhelming—you’re a breathless mess beneath him, your moans spilling out freely, loud and broken, as the bed rocks beneath the intensity of it all. You don’t even care anymore if the neighbors hear. He’s lost in it too, letting out low, desperate sounds against your skin, his grip on your hips tightening as if he’s trying to hold on just a little longer.

When the wave crashes, it takes both of you with it.

Seungmin buries himself deep one last time before letting go, his body trembling slightly as he spills his seed inside you, collapsing against your back as the weight of his pleasure and exhaustion hits him all at once. His chest heaves against you, damp skin pressed to yours, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of sheets.

You turn your head just enough to find him, to brush your lips to his. He kisses you back slowly, softly, like he’s still catching his breath. And then, in the quiet that follows, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.”

He doesn’t need to say it back right away—you can feel it in the way he kisses you again, in the way he shifts just enough to hold you better, closer. But then, you hear it anyway—soft and sincere, right against your temple. “I love you so much.”

And in that moment, with your bodies tangled and your hearts bare, it’s all you need.

-

The kitchen is a delightful mess—flour dusted across the countertops, chocolate smudged on your wrist, and a mixing bowl dangerously close to tipping off the edge of the sink. You and Marion are both slightly tipsy, giggling over a cocktail shaker that’s lost its lid mid-shake and sent droplets of raspberry gin fizz onto the cabinets.

“Are we even doing this right?” Marion asks, peering into the brownie batter as you try to fold in the chocolate chunks without splashing anything else.

You shrug, your cheeks flushed from laughter and the alcohol. “I mean, if the batter tastes this good, the final result can’t be that bad.”

Marion dips a spoon in and tastes it with a dramatic moan. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re both laughing again, this time harder, and she almost knocks over the tray as you slide it into the oven. You set a timer, then lean against the counter, clinking your glass gently with hers.

“To very serious bakers,” you toast.

“And to very responsible drinking,” she adds with a wink.

Once you both settle on the floor with a throw pillow each, the buzz mellowing into that warm, glowy feeling, Marion sighs and rests her head back against the cupboard. “I can’t believe I’m getting married.”

You glance over and smile. “I can. You and Leo are disgustingly perfect.”

She snorts. “We’re just… learning. Growing. Like… I don’t know, good wine or something.” Then she quiets for a second, her voice softening. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this. All the clichés? They’re real. I’ll see him in the kitchen making coffee and suddenly I’m like, ‘God, I want to spend the rest of my life watching this man make terrible pour-overs.’”

Your laugh is soft this time, fond. “I’m really happy for you, Mar.”

She turns to you, eyes shining a little. “And I’m so happy you’re my maid of honor.”

Your chest warms at the words. “I’m going to be the best maid of honor ever. Just watch.”

She grins wide. “And threaten Leo with bodily harm if he ever makes me cry.”

You toast your nearly empty glass with hers again. “That’s a given.”

There’s a pause, a comfortable one, and then Marion leans her head gently against your shoulder. “You’ll be next,” she murmurs.

You don’t say anything right away. Just smile and keep looking at the oven, the faint ticking of the timer filling the silence. You don’t need to answer—not tonight.

Once brownies has cooled down, you take the first bite of the brownie and blink in disbelief. “Wait… why is this actually good?”

Marion’s eyes widen as she chews her own piece. “Did we accidentally summon domestic goddess energy?”

You both laugh, mouths full of gooey chocolate, your cocktail glasses sitting mostly forgotten on the coffee table. The brownies have that perfect crispy edge with a soft, fudge-like center, and it feels like an accomplishment far beyond its baking difficulty—maybe because it’s wrapped in the comfort of laughter, drinks, and easy friendship.

But as the minutes pass and Marion continues sipping, then pouring a little too enthusiastically, it becomes clear that your best friend is crossing the line from tipsy to gone. Her cheeks are flushed, her head wobbles when she moves, and she’s singing along to a song playing from her phone in a voice so off-key, it’s almost impressive.

You, a little lightheaded yourself, shake your head with a smile. “Marion,” you say gently, nudging her. “It’s not even ten-thirty.”

“I’m great,” she declares, wobbling as she tries to stand. “I feel like I could plan a wedding and solve world peace right now.”

“Mhm,” you mutter, looping an arm around her shoulders when she stumbles again. “Let’s aim for just making it to your bedroom without breaking anything.”

She slumps into you, leaning heavily as you walk her slowly down the hall. “You know what we should do?” she says, her words slurring slightly. “We should totally get pregnant together.”

You pause mid-step. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah,” she continues dreamily. “Me and you. Pregnant together. Baby bumps and morning sickness and matching diaper bags. Our babies can have playdates and grow up to be best friends like us.”

You snort, half laughing, half trying not to tip over. “That’s a very... ambitious plan.”

Marion nods solemnly. “Synchronize our cycles. Manifest the future.”

“Okay, Drunk Oracle,” you say, trying not to laugh too hard. “Let’s just start with you getting to the bed.”

You manage to get her onto the mattress in one final push. She immediately curls up into a fetal position, already half-asleep. You pull the duvet over her gently and take a moment to look at her soft, peaceful expression—marriage-bound, impossibly hopeful, and dreaming of coordinated pregnancies and pastel nursery paint.

You reach out to brush a bit of hair from her face and sigh, not entirely sure what to feel. The air is still warm with laughter, but there's a quiet twinge in your chest. You flick off the bedside lamp, casting the room in darkness, and close the door behind you.

With Marion already tucked into bed, you're left with the cleaning task to yourself. You sigh before moving around Marion’s kitchen, cleaning up the mess the two of you made earlier. There’s flour dusted across the counter like a fine layer of snow, smears of chocolate batter dried onto the mixing bowl, and spatulas sitting lazily in the sink. It’s quiet now without Marion’s laughter or the clinking of glasses, and the silence presses in gently, nudging you into your thoughts.

As you rinse the dishes one by one, Marion’s drunken rambling echoes in your head like background music. “You’ll be next. Let’s plan our pregnancies together. Baby playdates. Matching diaper bags.”

You shake your head with a smile, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. She was drunk. But even so… the picture forms easily in your mind. You and Seungmin. A modest house filled with warmth. Little footsteps running down the hallway. A baby with Seungmin’s eyes and pout. Him in sweats with a sleepy toddler cradled on his chest, the glow of Sunday morning light filtering through the windows. It makes your chest flutter in the softest way.

You’re still standing at the sink, sponge in hand, when the sound of the front door clicks open, shattering your daydream. The soft thud of keys hitting the entry table follows, and then the familiar voice.

“Hey,” Leo says gently as he steps into the kitchen and sees you. “You’re still here.”

You turn and offer a small smile. “Just waiting for my taxi. Didn’t want to leave a crime scene behind.”

He glances toward the living room, then toward the hallway. “She’s out, huh?”

“Out cold,” you confirm with a chuckle. “Didn’t even make it to 10:30.”

Leo laughs under his breath and grabs a glass from the shelf. “That sounds about right.”

You start drying your hands as he fills his glass with water. There’s a beat of comfortable silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft rush of water from the tap.

“You can hang out for a bit,” Leo says, taking a sip. “Seungmin would kill me if I let you leave without making sure you got in your ride safely.”

That makes you chuckle. “Sounds like him.”

Leo leans against the counter and tilts his head slightly. “You know… I always thought Seungmin would do it first.”

“Do what first?”

He raises a brow, like it’s obvious. “Propose.”

The word hits you with a weight you didn’t expect, but you try to keep your expression casual. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Leo nods. “I mean—funny story actually. The day I bought the ring for Marion? I ran into him at the jewelry store.”

You look up sharply. “You did?”

“Yup,” he says, smiling at the memory. “I asked what he was doing there and he said—” Leo lifts a hand to mimic air quotes, “—‘just returning something.’ Total deadpan. Didn’t even blink.”

You force a small laugh. “Also sounds like him.”

Leo shrugs, grinning. “But knowing Seungmin? I think he just didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I mean, guy’s got a poker face made of steel.”

You nod slowly, but your heart sinks just a little deeper than before. Because now you're not so sure. Was it really a lie to keep a surprise? Or… was it the truth?

You swallow hard, trying to keep your expression smooth as you offer him a polite smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But your chest is heavy again, and as you glance at your phone to check the time, you wish more than anything that you hadn’t opened that damn linen closet at all.

-

You fasten the clasp of your earrings as you glance at yourself in the mirror, the morning light slipping through the blinds and catching on the satin fabric of your dress. Marion texted you twenty minutes ago with three exclamation points and an “ARE YOU READY YET” that you haven’t had the heart to respond to. You’re not late—just… taking your time.

Because when you're alone like this, brushing on a little blush and slipping into heels, your thoughts begin to loop again. About the ring. About that empty space in the linen closet. About what Leo said.

He said he was just returning something. But… what if he really was?

It’s been days, and still nothing. No big gestures. No changes in the way Seungmin acts. And you're trying not to let it eat you alive.

You're meant to be excited for Marion today—maid of honor, dress shopping, champagne flutes and dramatic tears—but your head’s a noisy place. You're halfway through slipping into your dress when the bedroom door creaks open.

“Need help?” Seungmin asks from behind, already closing the distance.

You nod, standing still as he gently gathers the zipper at the small of your back. His fingers are warm, smooth, careful. The sound of the zipper sliding up echoes too loud in the quiet room. Once it’s zipped, his arms immediately slip around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder and lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Marion’s stealing you for the whole weekend now, huh?”

You smile faintly at his reflection in the mirror. “Well, I am her maid of honor. This is part of the job.”

He pouts against your shoulder. “You’re gonna be so busy helping her plan stuff. I’ll barely see you.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Doesn’t that just mean no one’s interrupting your video game marathons?”

He frowns like you just offended him. “That’s not the point. I want to play with you too.”

You turn in his hold, facing him, his hands still warm on your waist. For a fleeting second, you want to ask about it. About the ring. About Leo. About the jewelry store. Instead, you lift a hand to cup his jaw, tracing your thumb gently along the curve of it. His skin is soft from shaving, and his eyes are impossibly warm.

You softly kiss him, lingering just enough to let him know you mean it. When you pull back, your hand stays on his cheek as you smile faintly. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be out all day.”

Seungmin sighs and lets his forehead bump gently against yours. “I hate it.”

You giggle and break away, reaching for your shoes. “Behave.”

“You behave,” he mutters, clearly not letting go of the pout.

You lean in for one last kiss as you sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at him one more time—and there’s that stupidly cute smile. The one that crinkles his eyes and shows off the dimple in his cheek. The one that made you fall in love with him years ago.

“Have fun,” he says, still holding your hand as you reach for the door.

You smile at him over your shoulder and realize that is why you can never stay mad at him.

-

The second you and Marion step into the bridal shop, you both instantly enveloped in a world of white and ivory and shimmer. The space smells faintly like fresh flowers and lavender. Soft piano music floats in the background, almost drowned by Marion’s giddy gasp as she takes it all in.

Rows of gowns hang like clouds on gold racks, each dress more breathtaking than the last. You follow Marion as she practically skips ahead, already flipping through lace, satin, and embroidered tulle. “This one has your name written all over it,” you say, gently tugging out a sweetheart neckline dress with hand-sewn appliqué.

She lets out a squeal, taking it from you like it’s made of spun sugar. As she continues browsing, her eyes alight with excitement, your mind drifts. You glance around at the other brides-to-be in the boutique—smiling, glowing, radiant in anticipation. However, when you try to ignore it, you feel that sting again. You don’t even realize how quiet you’ve gotten until Marion turns to look at you.

“Hey,” she says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “You okay?”

You give a small nod. Then you sigh and admit, “Leo said something… the other night.”

Marion raises a brow. “Uh-oh.”

So you tell her everything. About Leo bumping into Seungmin at the jewelry store. About how Seungmin said he was ‘just returning something’. About how it’s been swirling in your head ever since. “I keep thinking… maybe he had a change of heart,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe he bought the ring and then changed his mind.”

Marion stares at you for a moment, then she blinks and waves a dismissive hand like she's physically swatting the idea away. “Nope. Not buying that. That man is obsessed with you. I see the way he looks at you like he wants to give you the world.”

You let out a quiet laugh at that, but it's tight.

Marion gently bumps her shoulder into yours. “He probably lied because he’s trying to keep it a surprise. He’s meticulous like that. You know he is.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But I’ve just been overthinking everything. And the longer nothing happens, the more I can’t stop wondering.”

Marion gives you a knowing look, then turns toward the bridal shop staff and says brightly, “I think I’m ready to start trying some dresses on!”

One of the attendants smiles and gestures for her to follow. Marion turns back to you, squeezing your hand before heading off. “Stop spiraling. I’m telling you—it’s coming. Just breathe.”

As Marion disappears into the fitting area, you remain in the middle of the boutique, surrounded by future promises sewn into fabric. Trying to believe that maybe yours is just still in progress.

The buzz of the boutique continues around you. You sit quietly on the velvet cushioned bench, hands resting on your lap as you wait. You’re surrounded by joy, by promise, and still, your mind refuses to settle.

A staff member approaches you with a delicate smile, holding a silver tray with two tall champagne flutes. You take one and thank her, nodding politely as she walks away. You bring the glass to your lips, the bubbly drink cool and crisp on your tongue. You hope it’ll ease the tangle of thoughts knotting in your head but it doesn’t.

You’re halfway through the flute when the curtain rustles, and Marion steps out in her first wedding dress. You gasp despite yourself. She looks ethereal—floating in a sleek A-line gown with embroidered floral details and a delicate train behind her. The sweetheart neckline frames her perfectly, and the way she smiles makes it glow even more.

“Oh my god, babe,” you breathe. “You look… breathtaking.”

Marion beams at your reaction, spinning slowly for you to take it all in. “Right? I didn’t think I’d love this one, but wow—this might be it!”

You try your best to focus, offering compliments, suggestions, small smiles, but your energy is off and you know it.

She disappears again into the fitting room, and one dress after another, she keeps emerging in tulle, lace, satin, sleeves, no sleeves—and all you can manage are soft nods and faint hums of approval. You’re trying. You really are. But your smile slips too easily, your thoughts keep drifting.

When she comes out in a fitted mermaid gown with a dramatic low back and doesn't hear the familiar excited gasp from you, she places a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes. “Okay. That’s it.”

You glance up at her. “Wha—”

“Get out of your head,” Marion says with a gentle firmness only a best friend could manage. “This is my wedding dress moment. I need you here, babe. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. All of it.”

Your heart drops a little at her words, not because she’s wrong, but because she’s right. And the last thing you want is to take this moment away from her.

You set your glass down and stand, walking over to her, guilt clouding your expression. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’m really sorry, Marion. I want to be here for you—I am here for you—I just…”

Instead of her usual understanding nod or the warm squeeze of reassurance, Marion stares at you. Her eyes linger for a beat too long, her lips pressed into a flat line. You expect her to soften, to offer one of her teasing but gentle replies.

This time, she lets out a short, sharp laugh, void of humor. “You know what?” she says, voice low but cutting. “Maybe Seungmin did change his mind. And honestly? I wouldn’t blame him.”

You freeze. “What?”

She crosses her arms, still standing in her wedding gown. “This was supposed to be my day. One day. One moment. And somehow, you’ve still managed to make it about you.”

“Marion…” you mutter so low it's almost a whisper.

She cuts you off, frustration finally bubbling to the surface. “All week, you’ve been moping, overthinking, spiraling—and I get it, I do, but today is about me. And instead of showing up like my best friend, like my maid of honor, you’re just… wallowing. In something that hasn’t even happened.”

Her words land like stones. Heavy. Sharp. And maybe it’s the stress, or maybe it’s the part of you that’s still wounded from your own disappointment, but your chest tightens.

You pick up your purse, slowly, trying to keep your face blank, even though it’s already twisting. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I get it.”

“Wait—” Marion starts, her tone flickering with regret already, but it’s too late.

You sling the strap of your purse over your shoulder, blink back the sting in your eyes, and walk right past the mirror-lined walls, the racks of white lace and silk, the staff who glance up with startled looks. You don’t stop until you’re out of the boutique and the glass door swings shut behind you.

You step out onto the sidewalk, the air kissing your flushed skin, and only then do you let yourself exhale. Because you didn’t expect the hurt to come from her. Not today. Not like this.

-

When you step into the apartment, Seungmin looks up from the couch with that familiar glint in his eyes, already ready to tease. “Back already?” he says, setting down his phone. “Did you miss me that much?”

You walk right past him, brushing his shoulder lightly, without a word. Your heels click softly against the floor until you reach the bedroom. The purse slips from your fingers and lands on the floor with a soft thud, and you follow it, collapsing face-first onto the bed. The tears come almost instantly, soaking into the pillow before you even have the chance to catch your breath.

A few seconds later, you hear the sound of footsteps, the creak of the door, and then the bed shifts under Seungmin’s weight as he climbs in beside you.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. You just keep crying, your chest rising and falling with quiet, shuddering sobs.

Seungmin shifts closer, concern painting every inch of his voice now. “Are you hurt? Did someone—did someone say something to you?” He brushes your hair back, his fingertips feather-light on your cheek, but you still don’t look at him. “Who hurt you, baby? Tell me.”

He gets it, then. Whatever this is—it’s not something you’re ready to talk about. So he doesn’t push. Instead, he slides closer, his arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You feel his breath against your neck. He presses the softest of kisses to your shoulder, then to the side of your neck, and one more at the edge of your jaw. His hand moves slowly up and down your arm in comforting strokes, no words, just presence. Just him.

“I’m here,” he whispers eventually, voice barely audible. “Okay? I’m right here.”

And maybe that’s all you need for now. Not answers. Not promises. Just this—Seungmin’s arms holding you close as you let yourself fall apart.

By the time your tears have dried, the room is steeped in quiet. Outside the window, the sky has turned deep blue, the last of the evening light fading into night. But inside, Seungmin is still holding you just the same—arms wrapped around you, his lips pressing soft kisses along the slope of your neck, the curve of your jaw, grounding you with every touch.

“Seungmin,” you croak out, voice raw from crying.

He hums in response, his hand still rubbing slow, gentle circles on your back.

You hesitate, but then ask, barely above a whisper, “Do you think I’m… a selfish person?”

Seungmin stills, then leans back enough to look at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Why would you ask me that?”

You shift on the bed, turning to face him. He instantly loops his arms around your waist again, pulling you flush against his chest. His hand comes up to brush strands of hair away from your face, wiping at the dampness still lingering under your eyes.

You stare at him, and the words fall out of your mouth again, more fragile this time. “Do you think I’m selfish? Is that... Is that why you don’t want to marry me?”

He flinches slightly—not out of anger, but surprise and then the silence stretches a little, filled with nothing but your shaky breath.

“I found the ring,” you finally admit, your voice barely audible. “The one you hid in the linen closet. It fell when I was looking for a tablecloth.”

Realization flashes in Seungmin’s eyes. His mouth parts slightly. “Oh…” he lets out a soft gasp as it all clicks into place, and a breath escapes him in a long, quiet sigh. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You give a faint, bitter laugh, eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “So it was for me?”

Seungmin cups your face with both hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks as he nods. “Yes. It was always for you.”

“Then why did you return it?” you ask softly, searching his face, trying to keep the heartbreak from bleeding through your voice. “Leo… he saw you at the store. He said you told him you were returning something.”

Seungmin lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I didn’t return it because I changed my mind about you,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I returned it because I found a new one—a better one. One that suits you more.”

You sniffle. “You… did?”

He nods again, still gently stroking your cheek. “Yeah. That first one—it didn’t feel like you. I kept thinking about how you deserve something that really fits who you are. So I exchanged it. I wasn’t trying to lie or confuse you… I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

You fall quiet at that, your chest tightening with emotion—not from sadness, but from the weight of your own misunderstanding. You had made up so many things in your head. So many wrong assumptions.

Seungmin presses his palm to your cheek, coaxing you to look into his eyes. “You’re not selfish,” he says firmly, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you like a blanket. “A selfish person doesn’t cook me dinner even when she’s tired. She doesn’t stay up late to watch me play video games or take care of me when I’m sick. She doesn’t let me drag her to baseball games or listen to me talk about player stats for hours.”

You laugh softly, another tear slipping down your cheek.

“You’re amazing,” Seungmin whispers. “You’re strong and kind and honest. You're true to yourself. I love you for all of that.”

Then he smiles, eyes sparkling even in the dim light. “If anything… I’m the selfish one.”

You frown in confusion. “Why would you say that?”

He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Because I want all your love just for me. All of it. Every day. Forever.”

A fresh wave of tears rushes into your eyes, but this time, they’re light and full of warmth. You bury your face in his chest again, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as you start crying again—but now, you’re smiling too.

Seungmin kisses the top of your head, his hand slipping into your hair. “You just ruined my proposal plans, by the way,” he mutters playfully. “Guess I’ll have to come up with a new one.”

Despite the storm of emotions, you laugh into his chest, muffled and breathless. “Sorry…”

He chuckles softly. “Not really, though.”

You tilt your head up, looking into his eyes. Everything you need to know is there, written so clearly in the way he looks at you. With love. With certainty.

And when he leans in to kiss you, it’s slow and deep, a promise in itself. “I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.

And in a voice full of all the love you’ve ever felt, you whisper back, “I love you too.”

And that—more than a ring, more than a proposal—is everything.

-

The next morning unfolds slowly, gently—sunlight spilling through the windows, warming the kitchen tiles beneath your feet. There’s music playing softly from your phone, and you’re still in Seungmin’s oversized shirt, sleeves rolled clumsily up your arms, your hair slightly messy from sleep.

Seungmin is beside you, flipping pancakes with exaggerated concentration, while you stir scrambled eggs in the pan next to him. His arm brushes yours every few seconds. You both steal kisses in between chores—on his cheek, on your temple, on the side of your neck—sometimes just for fun, sometimes just because you can. He reaches over your shoulder to grab the pepper and presses a kiss behind your ear on the way, making you giggle and squirm.

There’s a lightness in your chest this morning, a clarity you haven’t felt in days. Because now you know, he’s not going anywhere. He’s here. With you. Choosing you every day.

As you both set the plates onto the table, getting ready to finally eat, the doorbell rings. You pause, glancing at Seungmin. He lifts an eyebrow at you, mouth already full of a bite of pancake. “Who is that?” he says with his mouth full.

You shrug and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel as you pad to the door. When you open it, Marion is standing there. She looks… uncertain. Hesitant. But when her eyes meet yours, she smiles softly and lets out a breath. “Hey.”

You blink in surprise, then give her a faint smile. “Hey.”

Marion hesitates, fidgeting with her hands. “I just—” she sighs. “I’m sorry. For what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

You stay quiet, letting the weight of her words hang in the air for a beat.

“I was overwhelmed with everything,” she continues, “and I didn’t know I was holding all that tension until it snapped. But that’s no excuse. I was wrong. And I’m really, really sorry.”

You look at her and, in her eyes, you see nothing but sincerity. And maybe just the tiniest bit of shame. But your heart is already softened. You’ve cried enough. You’ve carried enough weight. And you don’t want to carry bitterness too.

A small smile curves on your lips. “It’s okay, Mar. It's all water under the bridge.”

Marion's shoulders drop in relief and a big, bright grin takes over her face. She rushes toward you, throwing her arms around you.

You hug her back tightly, burying your face into her shoulder, holding on for just a second longer than necessary. When you pull away, still smiling, you grab her hand and tug her inside. “Come in. Join us for breakfast.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, already leading her toward the kitchen. “We made pancakes.”

“Say no more,” she grins. “I’m in.”

Seungmin looks up from the table as you both enter, and he offers Marion a nod of greeting. “Hey,” he says casually. “Hope you like slightly burnt pancakes.”

Marion laughs as she sits down. “I like everything when it’s free.”

The three of you settle around the table, warm plates in front of you, coffee cups steaming gently between sips and bites. The late morning light glows through the window, making everything feel softer, slower, sweeter.

Marion takes a sip of her coffee, hums in appreciation, then glances at Seungmin. “Okay, wait. This coffee? This is actually really good.”

Seungmin shrugs with a cocky grin. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

You grin as you pick up your cup. “This is exactly why I want to marry him. He makes good coffee.”

Marion pauses, blinking in a half-surprised, half-delighted way as she shifts her eyes from you to Seungmin. “Wait, what?”

You glance at Seungmin, who’s already giving you a warning squint across the table. You bite back a smile and turn to Marion. “Seungmin’s going to propose soon,” you say, teasing just enough to make him squirm.

Marion gasps, all wide eyes and giddy hands clasped to her chest. “Oh? Really?!”

You laugh and quickly explain, “He already knows we found the ring in the linen closet. It wasn’t that sneaky.”

Marion immediately gasps louder, turning to Seungmin with the most wicked grin. “So you are proposing. And you’ve been dragging it out this whole time?!”

Seungmin groans and drops his fork dramatically onto his plate. “Wow. You two are literally talking about me like I’m not even here.”

“That’s because you took forever,” Marion teases, smirking.

“You know,” Seungmin points his fork at both of you, “I should’ve just proposed in secret and eloped. Peace and quiet.”

Marion leans in, nudging her elbow against yours with a conspiratorial grin. “You know what? Maybe wait until after my wedding to propose.”

Seungmin gapes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, smug. “She’s my maid of honor. Which means, until my wedding’s over, she’s mine.”

“She practically owns me,” you say with a laugh.

Seungmin dramatically scoffs, “That explains so much. I always knew something was up. You’ve been using her!”

Marion flips her hair and lifts her chin proudly. “Absolutely. And I plan to keep using her until the very last hour of the reception.”

Seungmin narrows his eyes at her, then looks at you like a betrayed puppy. “Do you hear this? I’m just... background noise now. Replaced. Overtaken.”

You burst out laughing, watching the two of them bicker like siblings. “Don’t worry,” you say, reaching over to rest a hand on Seungmin’s. “You still make the best coffee.”

-

It’s a rare, golden kind of day—the one where everything falls into place. Marion’s out of town, the maid of honor duties are on pause, and for once, your calendar is blissfully empty. Seungmin had insisted that you both take advantage of it, and now here you are, walking into a crowded stadium, your hand snug in his, the warm scent of grilled food in the air, the hum of excited fans filling every inch of the space.

Seungmin’s face is practically glowing as he guides you to your seats. You barely get a chance to settle in before he excuses himself, disappearing into the crowd. When he returns a long moment later, his arms are full—two large beers and a tray of snacks balanced precariously.

You quickly reach for them, steadying the tray so nothing spills. “I don’t know how you made it through that crowd in one piece,” you say with a grin.

“I’m just that good,” he replies, settling into his seat and taking a long sip of beer. “Okay, so here’s the deal—my team’s playing their biggest rival today. It’s going to be intense. Their defense is solid, but if our pitcher holds it down, we’ve got this.”

You rest your chin on your hand as you watch him talk. He’s so passionate, so animated, and you can’t help but smile at the way his eyes light up with excitement. He catches your stare mid-sentence and falters, cheeks warming slightly before he leans over to kiss you, quick and sweet.

You laugh after taking a bite of corn dog. “I was just thinking you look cute when you get all serious about baseball.”

He tries to hide his smile behind his beer, and just as he starts talking strategy again, the jumbotron begins cycling through advertisements, then team previews, and finally, the kiss cam. You watch it playfully, giggling at the awkward and adorable kisses caught onscreen.

And all of a sudden, your face appears. You blink, mid-sip, then turn to Seungmin with a startled laugh. “Oh my god—we’re on the screen.”

He doesn’t hesitate, just leans in and kisses you, and the crowd erupts into cheers as the kiss cam switches to another couple.

Both of you break into shy laughter, your heart thudding with the strange mix of public attention and private affection. “That was embarrassing,” you murmur.

“Why? People liked it,” Seungmin says with a shrug, almost a little too casually.

You give him a suspicious look. “What do you mean ‘people liked it’?”

But before you can question further, the kiss cam cuts back to you two again.

“What? Again?” you ask, shocked, but Seungmin just chuckles and kisses you again.

The crowd cheers louder this time, and you feel your face flush. You pull away, laughing nervously. “Okay, what is happening? Why are we on again—”

Seungmin is already leaning in for another kiss, his lips brushing yours with more intention this time. The crowd roars yet again.

When the camera doesn’t move on after this one, your confusion grows. And then you notice that the words KISS CAM fade away. New words begin to scroll across the jumbotron in big white letters: WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Your brain short-circuits and when you turn to Seungmin, and he’s no longer beside you. He’s on one knee. In his hand, a velvet box—open to reveal a ring you’ve never seen before. A white gold band cradling a stunning cushion-cut diamond, surrounded by the softest halo of pink diamonds. It’s delicate and beautiful and so you. And suddenly the jumbotron, the repeated kiss cams, the look he gave you earlier—clicks into place.

Seungmin looks up at you with those warm, impossibly sincere puppy eyes. He smiles, his voice steady but soft—just for you, even though an entire stadium is listening.

“Will you marry me?”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by a wave of cheers and people chanting, “Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!”

You’re already nodding before the words come out, tears brimming in your eyes as you cover your mouth with trembling fingers. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

Seungmin’s smile could light up the whole field. He carefully takes the ring from the box and slips it onto your finger with gentle hands. Then he stands, pulls you into his arms, and kisses you as the crowd erupts in wild applause. Fireworks explode across the jumbotron in a burst of color as congratulary words flashing on the screen as confetti cannons go off in the background and strangers all around are clapping, cheering, congratulating.

It’s loud and chaotic and perfect. And right there, in the middle of a packed stadium, you’re holding the only person in the world who matters. And he’s yours.

-

It’s just the two of you now—back in your shared space, the world quiet, and the buzz of the proposal still pulsing through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You’re in bed, wrapped around each other as if trying to make the moment last forever. You’re sitting on his lap, legs looped around his waist, your fingers tangled in his hair while his arms hold you tightly against him, as though letting go would break the magic.

Seungmin’s lips are on yours in slow, deep kisses that taste like champagne and forever. Your bare skin pressed against his is warm, comforting, electric. You can still feel the outline of the ring on your finger, even as you cradle his jaw between your hands and kiss him again, smiling into it.

There’s laughter between kisses—whispers of disbelief that this is real, that this is happening. That you’re engaged. And you feel it in your bones—the security, the joy, the love so big it hums through every part of you.

“I still can’t believe you pulled that off,” you whisper against his lips.

Seungmin chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re not the only one who knows how to keep a secret.”

You smile into the kiss, breath catching slightly when Seungmin pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze lingers, soft and glowing with something deep and unshakable. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret just for you.

Your heart flutters, and the smile blooming on your face feels unstoppable, too wide to hide. You don’t want to hide it anyway—not from him. Not from this moment.

He reaches for your hand, the one now bearing the engagement ring, and lifts it gently to his lips. His kiss is reverent against the band, and somehow that small gesture makes everything even more real.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Gosh, I love you so much.”

He kisses you again, longer this time, his arms tightening around your waist. “I love you. Always.”

Slowly, you lift yourself just enough to allow you to ease yourself down onto his throbbing cock, your breath catching as your body adjusts to the closeness, the stretch, how hard he is inside you. When you fully take all of him, you hum in pleasure and press your forehead against his.

There’s no rush—just stillness and the quiet awe of feeling everything at once. His hands find your hips, grounding you, steadying the soft tremble in your breath. You stay like that for a moment—joined, wrapped up in the warmth of love and commitment and the tenderness of what comes next.

And then, as you begin to move, it’s slow and meaningful—each motion a silent vow, each look shared a quiet promise. You keep your eyes on him, letting him see everything as you make love to him with all of your heart.

Your fingers find his jaw, holding him steady beneath your gaze. “I can’t wait to be yours,” you whisper, voice breaking with emotion. “To have all of you… just for me.”

Seungmin’s thumb brushes over your hip, his breath hitching at your words. His eyes are full of love, of you.

“I already am,” he says softly. “All yours.”

-

The music begins and you take a deep breath before stepping out onto the aisle with the other bridesmaids. The soft rustle of fabric follows your steps, and though you try to keep your focus ahead, you can feel Seungmin’s gaze like a gentle tether, pulling your heart toward where he’s seated.

When you steal a glance at him, there he is. Sitting tall in his suit, his eyes never leaving you, filled with a quiet, radiant pride that sends warmth cascading through your chest. You know exactly what he's thinking because you're thinking it too. One day, it’ll be you walking down the aisle in white and he'll be waiting at the altar, just like Leo is now, with that same kind of look in his eyes. Maybe even deeper.

As Marion appears at the end of the aisle, music swelling to greet her, you look forward again. Leo's reaction is instant and visceral—his breath visibly hitching, eyes already glossy, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watches her take each step closer to him. And you, watching him, can't help but imagine Seungmin looking at you like that. One day. Not far from now.

During the ceremony, with Marion’s vows still hanging delicately in the air, you glance across the crowd again. And Seungmin is already looking at you. There's something reverent in his expression, something soft and deep and full. He just mouths it like a sacred promise, “I love you.”

It takes a second to register. Your heart leaps. Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You’ve heard him say it so many times, but this… this moment makes it different. It’s not just the words—it’s the truth in his eyes, the forever behind it.

You bite your lip, trying not to smile too hard or cry too openly, and you mouth it back through the flicker of your tears, “I love you.”

For a few heartbeats, time feels suspended between you. Just you and him, exchanging silent vows of your own in the middle of someone else’s wedding. And honestly, you can’t wait for your turn.

-

The music has quieted into a soft, dreamy melody. The dance floor is mostly empty now, save for a few lingering couples swaying gently under the glow of string lights and the night sky is dotted with stars. You and Seungmin sit side by side at your table, shoes off, champagne flutes in hand. The bubbly has long gone lukewarm, but neither of you minds. It’s not about the drink—it’s about the moment.

You glance over at him. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his arm draped behind your chair. There’s something so comfortably tender about him like this.

Then come Marion and Leo, walking hand in hand like they haven't been married for just a few hours but for lifetimes already. Marion doesn’t hesitate to plop down in the chair next to you, letting out an exaggerated sigh as she kicks off her heels with zero ceremony. She props her feet up on Leo’s lap, and he takes them in stride, starting to massage them as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

"God, I’m exhausted," Marion groans, leaning back and resting her head on the edge of your chair. "But worth it. You," she says, turning her head toward you, eyes half-lidded and full of gratitude, "are a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Best maid of honor award? Goes to you, obviously."

You laugh, cheeks warm from the champagne—or maybe from the pride blooming quietly in your chest. “I’ll take that,” you say with a grin, raising your glass.

Marion raises hers too, clinking it softly with yours. Then she turns to Seungmin, her gaze suddenly mischievous. “Now it’s your turn,” she says, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. “Hurry up with the wedding. She and I have already decided we’re getting pregnant together, so our kids can have playdates and matching Halloween costumes and trauma-bond over how annoying their moms are.”

Seungmin raises his eyebrows, slowly turning to look at you with an exaggerated expression of mock-betrayal. “You’re making pregnancy pacts now?”

You snort into your champagne, nearly choking. “Apparently.”

“She’s already picked out names,” Marion adds matter-of-factly.

“I am petrified,” Seungmin deadpans, but there's a glimmer of laughter in his eyes as he leans closer to you, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I marry you and I get Marion in the package too?”

“It's a buy one, get one,” you say, grinning.

“You’re welcome,” Marion adds.

Leo just chuckles, his fingers still kneading gently into her tired feet. “You’re all insane,” he mutters fondly.

But as the music fades out and the final notes echo across the quieted venue, Seungmin turns to you, his hand brushing over your knee, thumb circling gently. You catch the way he looks at you in that moment—something quiet and sure. Like he already sees that future Marion joked about, and maybe it doesn’t seem so far away anymore.

-

With your maid of honor duty is officially come to an end, you and Seungmin walk hand-in-hand back to your hotel room. Your heels dangle from your other hand, your makeup slightly smudged from the long day, but there's a glow to your skin that has nothing to do with highlighter. It’s been a full day of laughter, vows, dancing, tears and now, just the two of you, the quiet is welcome.

Seungmin swings your hands a little between you. “So…” he begins casually, but there’s a glint of curiosity in his voice. “About what Marion said earlier.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“The part where she said you two are planning on getting pregnant together.” He looks at you like he's testing the waters, but his voice is half-serious.

You burst out laughing. “Please tell me you didn’t take that seriously. Marion was drunk on love and cake.”

Seungmin stops walking, tugging your hand gently so you turn to face him. His expression is still light, but there's something sincere underneath it. “But what if I did take it seriously?” he asks. “What if I actually… want to talk about it?”

You stare at him, caught off guard, your heart tripping in your chest as the mood subtly shifts.

“Like… how many kids do you want?” he asks again, quieter this time.

Your lips part in surprise before you lean into playfulness to mask the sudden emotion curling in your chest. “I don’t know,” you say, squinting at him. “Do I want little Seungmin running around?”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “Excuse you? Little Seungmins would be adorable.”

“One Seungmin is already a headache,” you tease, poking a finger into his chest. “I don’t know if I can handle another one who hogs the blanket and never loads the dishwasher correctly.”

He gasps, affronted. “First of all, I do load the dishwasher correctly. My method is called organized chaos. And second,” he says, stepping closer, slipping his arms around your waist, “I don’t care how many kids we have—one or five—but we should definitely start working on making little Seungmin now.”

Your eyes widen. “Seungmin—!”

But before you can finish, he scoops you up into his arms in one smooth motion, carrying you bridal style down the rest of the hallway.

You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck, laughter spilling out of you as he walks with a cocky grin on his face, clearly enjoying himself. “Put me down!” you whisper-shout, still giggling.

“Too late. You’ve offended me. You must now suffer,” he says dramatically, nudging the hotel room door open with his foot after expertly swiping the key card.

“And what exactly is my punishment?”

He gives you a look that’s half mischief, half promise. “Let’s just say… we’ll see how you feel about little Seungmins after tonight.”

And as the city lights dimmed beyond the hotel windows and the world quieted into the hush of midnight, you found yourself curled against Seungmin’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your spine.

In that moment, you find a clarity that everything you once feared or doubted had led you here. Not just to a proposal, or a ring, or a kiss under stadium lights, but to something greater: a life built hand in hand, with love that stayed steady through uncertainty, with a future you no longer needed to imagine, because it was already unfolding—right here, beside him.

-

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

@abiaswreck @yubinism @iknow-uknow-leeknow @biribarabiribbaem @leewayout @fancypeacepersona @just-here4funsies @piwonchi @godyongbok @strywme @ihateetoadmit @enchantedlov3r2 @superboywife @foxinnie8 @ilovebooksandstories @gwinamlvr @lenfilms @niku0704 @taekwondoe @staytinyluva @velvetmoonlght @myminlee

[yubinism]

oh em geeee!! the ending, i melted at that literally 😩 my cheeks lowkey hurt now that i am writing this as i was smiling the entire time through the fic🫩 such a lighthearted read, im definitely going to reread it tomorrow!! im so proud of you, my beautiful effie, never look down and i hope your pen never dries. i love you and your sexy brain 😘

[seospicybin]

LOVE IS BLIND.

FINAL PART

Felix x reader. (s,f)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Felix are contestants in a social experiment where singles meet and date in private pods, allowing them to communicate without seeing each other. (22,5k words)

Author's note: This was fun to write but it seems like not a lot of people enjoyed it, so I decide not to continue the series with other members. But I'd like to thank you for following this series. Hope you enjoy the final part ❣️

16 DAYS UNTIL WEDDING

The second Felix opens the front door, his face lights up. Because standing on the other side of the doorway are the two people he's missed most. His mother barely gets out a hello before Felix steps forward and wraps his arms around her.

The hug is tight and his voice breaks into an immediate grin. “Mom.”

“Oh, hello, sweet boy,” she laughs, squeezing him right back.

Felix closes his eyes for a second, savoring this warmth, this familiarity. A taste of home in a warm embrace. When he finally pulls away, he's immediately pulled into another hug by his younger sister. He softly chuckles as he’s hugging her back. “Great to see you,” he says.

“Well, not-so great for me,” she jokingly says.

Felix rolls his eyes dramatically. “Still annoying, I see.”

But he is happy. His family is here after being away from each other for months. And when he turns, he finds you there standing a few feet behind him with your hands clasped together in front of you, probably to stop them from shaking but he must admit that you still look like you're one deep breath away from fainting.

God, you're nervous. Yet he finds the sight so endearing that it almost makes him smile. Instead, he immediately crosses the distance and settles beside you. His hand finds the small of your back, grounding you the same way he always does.

You glance up at him and he offers a reassuring smile. Then looks back at his family. “This is my fiancée,” he proudly says with the brightest grin possible.

The word still feels surreal to him, even to this second.

You manage a polite smile. A beautiful one, despite how nervous you clearly are. “Hi. I heard a lot of things about you,” you sweetly say.

His mother immediately brightens. “I hope they’re wonderful things only,” she playfully says.

Without hesitation, she walks straight toward you and before you can even respond, she's pulling you into a hug.

Felix watches your eyes widen and then the way your arms slowly lift to hug her back. “So nice to finally meet you,” his mother says warmly.

You laugh nervously and then his mother pulls back just enough to study your face. “My goodness. You're trembling like a leaf.”

Felix immediately bites back a laugh, watching you look horrified while his mother looks delighted.

Your cheeks burn. “I'm nervous,” you meekly admit.

“Oh sweetheart. Don’t be,” she softly murmurs, his mother squeezes your arm affectionately. “We don’t bite.”

Felix can practically see the panic still flickering behind your eyes, but he also notices the warmth concealed under.

His sister steps forward next and after a brief moment of hesitation, you hug her too.

“Nice to meet you,” you say

“You too.”

The tension in your voice makes everyone smile. You sound like a broken record and for some reason that makes Felix love you even more.

Felix won’t let this turn awkward so he guides everyone to the dining table. As they move further into the apartment, his mother immediately starts admiring the apartment and so is her sister.

Felix finds himself smiling the entire time because somehow this feels natural like it was always supposed to happen. He pulls out a chair for his mother and she thanks him before sitting.

He pulls your chair next but instead of sitting, you place a hand and say, “I’ll help serving the food.”

He takes your hand and guides you down to your chair. “I can do it myself, baby.”

You don’t say anything but narrow your eyes, subtly glaring at him. And eventually, you settle on your seat.

Felix begins by filling the glasses with wine and sparkling juice for his younger sister. That way, you can relax and chat with her mom as he goes to the kitchen to handle the food. As he begins plating everything, he listens to the conversation you’re having with his mother.

His mother speaks first after taking a sip of wine. “I'm sorry Felix's father couldn't come.”

You quickly shake your head and smile. “Oh no, that's completely fine.”

“And his older sister is studying overseas right now.”

“Yes, I heard,” you say, wiping your palms on the hem of your dress under the table. “Honestly, it's already an honor that you came.”

Felix glances up from the pan of stir-fry vegetables, noticing the way you shyly smile and your hands folded on your lap.

“Thank you for taking the time and flew all the way from Australia.”

His mother's expression melts at that and the conversation continues easily after that. You and his mother lightly chat about the flight, about his sister and his father, the last time they visited the city. And in turn, you answer their question about the pods, the vacation, how filming reality TV works and you answer in growing confidence. The nerves begin disappearing from your shoulders.

Felix knows right then that you’re doing just fine and slowly winning her over. Not because you're trying. But because you're being yourself.

By the time Felix starts carrying dishes to the table, you look completely at ease. His chest warms at that. One by one he places the dishes down and soon, the apartment filled with the sound of clinking glasses, the smell of food and laughter.

Felix takes his own seat. His hand immediately finds yours on your lap. He gives it a gentle squeeze and you squeeze back while flashing him a soft smile. And it almost feels like a déjà vu to him. Like he’s seen and lived this moment before. Being here, sitting in dining table and surrounded by people he loves and cherishes.

When he looks at you, he gets this quiet certainty that this is meant to be. Because seeing you here, in this table, sitting next to him and holding his hand. It feels like you've always belonged here. Like you've always belonged with him.

-

FELIX: It was really nice seeing my family again. It was even nicer seeing them finally meet her. They've heard so much about her already. They probably think I’m obsessed [laughs] Maybe I do. [grins] But seeing her sit there with my mom and my sister... It just felt right. I think my family could see that too.

-

Dinner starts surprisingly well. Everyone is talking and lightly chatting, laughing in between. Dishes being passed around the table. Felix's sister is telling a story about something that happened at the airport. His mother keeps complimenting the food despite the fact that her son cooked it. And Felix sits beside you, occasionally touches you.

Everything is good but you can’t help anticipating. The inevitable questions. Because surely it has to come eventually. You're meeting his family for the first time. You're engaged to their son. You're getting married in less than three weeks. Of course there are going to be questions.

You’re moving almost robotic. You spear a piece of food with your fork and take a bite, then chew. And do it all over again. And pretend you're not nervous.

Unfortunately, Felix's cooking is almost wasted on you tonight. The food is incredible, seasoned well and cooked to perfection. But you're too busy worrying to properly enjoy any of it.

When you notice Felix’s mother places her fork down and looks across the table, directly at you, you know it. This is it.

She smiles as she lifts her wine glass. “So…”

You quietly swallow air. Your stomach twists into a knot.

“Tell us more about you.”

You quickly reach for your water, taking a sip in hope to buy yourself three extra seconds to think. Then you carefully set the glass down. “Well...” you begin, a small nervous laugh escapes you. “I'm kind of a loner.”

His sister softly chuckles at that while Felix intently looks at you with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He gives you a subtle nod, encouraging you to continue.

“I've been that way for a long time,” you share, briefly glance down at your lap. “My mom was always working so I… I became pretty independent at a young age.”

His mother listens attentively. Not interrupting. Not judging either.

“There were hard times, of course,” you continue, letting out a small chuckle to lighten up the tension. “But I kept working on myself. Got myself scholarships and eventually I decided I wanted to build something for myself.”

You put on a smile. Your confidence grows as you continue. “And thankfully it's been going well.”

You notice the way her eyebrow quirks up for a fraction as if she’s impressed.

“I'm not rich or anything,” you quickly add. “But I have enough to live comfortably.”

His mother nods warmly then have a small sip of her wine. “I think that’s incredibly brave.”

You slightly lean forward, not quite catching what she meant. “Pardon?”

“Starting your own business,” she answers as she puts her wine glass down, fingers stay wrapped around the stem. “Especially at a young age.”

The compliment catches you off guard and you can’t help but smile at that. “Thank you.”

Somehow that eases the tension a little. Only a little. Because the second the next question comes, your throat suddenly gets dry.

“And what about your family?”

You’ve prepared for this question but facing it head on is entirely different. You don’t want to put too much emotions or it’d sound like you're trying to tell a sad story. Too little emotions and then it’d make you sound cold. You stare down at your plate, trying to find the right words and arranging it in your head.

All of a sudden, you feel a hand slips into yours. Felix’s hand. It feels warm and steady. You look down at your tangled hands under the table before glancing up, and finds him giving you a soft, reassuring smile. Then a reassuring nod. The kind that says: You're okay. I've got you.

You take a breath and look back at his mother. “For a long time, it was only us. Just me and my mom.”

Your voice comes out steadier than expected. You softly smile before continuing. “My mom raised me with everything she had,” you pause to swallow the lump forming in your throat. “And I think a lot of who I am today is because of her.”

The table grows quiet because the conversation turns a little too deep, a little to personal. Felix’s thumb continuously rubbing the back of your hand, constantly reminding you of his steady presence.

His mother smiles. Then carefully asks, “And what about your father, my dear?”

You glance down at your lap once. Just once. “He hasn't really been around since I was five,” you steadily answer.

It’s like the whole table decides to hold their breath in this very moment. And you can see it, the one look people give you whenever you share this piece of you — pity, sadness, sympathy, or a mix of them three.

You brace yourself for any of it or the usual response people give you. But instead, his mother reaches across the table and takes your hand.

She smiles a warm, maternal smile and says, “Well, you're about to have one.”

You slightly tilt your head to the side, confused.

Her thumb brushes against your hand. “I'm sure Felix's father will be thrilled to have another daughter.”

Her smile widens before adding, “Just like I am.”

For a second you can't speak. You can't even think because this is not the reaction you expected. You’re happy with it, you do but at the same time, your eyes sting.

Oh no. No. Not now. Not in front of everyone. You manage a smile but also, a tear slips free. You immediately wipe it away with the back of your hand while laughing at yourself. Embarrassed.

Felix quickly reaches for a napkin, gently dabs your eyes with it and doing it carefully to not to ruin your makeup. “See? You had nothing to worry about, baby,” he murmurs low enough only for you to hear.

A breathless laugh escapes you and somehow, more tears spill out of the corner of your eyes. You take the napkin from him, pressing the fabric to the corner of your eyes.

His mother looks thoroughly pleased with herself and eventually she releases your hand after giving it a gentle squeeze. “Okay. Next question!” She playfully says.

“Oh, no,” you blurt out, almost absentmindedly.

The table laughs too at that and then his mother points toward Felix. “Why did you choose my son?”

The question gets you looking at Felix and that’s all you need to find the answer. “The conversations we had in the pods. They were deep and personal and important. But with him…”

You smile to briefly glance at Felix and continue, “They felt so easy. I never once felt judged. I never felt like I had to be someone else.”

This time, you turn his hand over and hold it, tightly. “He made me feel safe and comfortable to be myself. He made me happy.”

Felix’s expression softens at that and you can see the way he’s holding himself back from grinning ear to ear.

“Even before you knew what he looked like?” Felix’s sister asks.

“Yes,” you certainly answer while gazing into Felix’s eyes.

His mother smiles and nods at that.

While his sister grimaces. “That’s very unfortunate,” she jokes.

The whole table laughs except Felix who is glaring at his sister.

Then you add, almost like an afterthought. “And he's a chef. So it’s nice to know that I’d be fed well.”

Felix makes a startled sound and gives you a playful side-eye. “Joke’s on her cause the last thing I want to do is more cooking.”

More laughter filled the table.

His mother laughs so hard she nearly spills her wine. Then suddenly she points at her son. “Felix mentioned something about omelet?”

You immediately groan while next to you, Felix starts laughing.

You sit up straighter. “It’s kind of… uh, my specialty,” you sheepishly share.

“It’s basically called Felix’s omelet now,” Felix shares with a proud grin.

That gets your head whipped toward him. “Oh, is it?”

“Yeah,” he answers, leaning close until his face lingering only inches away from yours. “Because I have it every day. And it’s my favorite.”

And just like that, your sad omelet now turns into Felix’s omelet. And maybe it’s supposed to be that. Because the food no longer correlated to your sad past. All you remember about your omelet now, is how you made it for him every morning for breakfast and the grateful smile he gives you when you serve it.

With your heart brimming with warmth and gratitude, you lean in and give him a quick kiss on the lips. For a second, you forgot that his family is there. When you pull away, you quickly look down, flustered.

Felix doesn’t care at all about their presence as he leans in and gives you another kiss on the corner of your mouth, and then rests an arm behind you.

After a moment, you dare yourself to look up and notice the way his mother looks between the two of you.

His mother looks between the two of you, a soft smile etched to her lips. “You know, Felix’s dad and I got married quite young. And I think when something feels right...”

Her eyes move between the two of you. “...you just go for it.”

The words sound comforting and reassuring. You glance toward Felix and he looks back at you immediately. And for the first time all night — all the fear, the nerves, the insecurities.

They finally start to quiet.

His mother lifts her wine glass, looking at the two of you as she says, “A toast for the two of you.”

The other follow suit, including you. You raise your glass, stretching it as far as you can to the middle of the table.

“And to love being blind,” Felix adds with a smile.

With that, everyone clinking their glasses with each other before taking a sip.

Once you put down your glass. You take a look around the table, the faces and the smiles on them and just simply being there with people who celebrate you and Felix’s love and happiness — it feels like maybe the two of you are meant to be with each other after all.

-

YOU: I was nervous the entire time. Can you tell? [shyly laughs] I had no idea how the conversation would go. What they would think of me. If they would like me. It turns out most of it was just in my head. Because their reactions were… nothing like I expected. And getting their blessing... [sighs in relief] meant a lot to me. I'm really happy. [brightly smiles]

-

14 DAYS UNTIL WEDDING

All the other guys are already there when Felix arrived to the tailor shop. Jim is already cracking jokes. Rob is leaning against a display of suit jackets with a drink in hand. Shane is browsing ties with his brows furrowed in bewilderment. And somehow all of them have brought someone with them.

They’re friends, or brothers, or families. People they choose as a source of moral support. Including Felix. He brought his close friend, Marco, with him to go through this process.

Felix adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder before guiding Marco to meet everyone else.

“This is insane, man,” Marco mutters low enough only for Felix to hear.

Felix sets his bag down on the vacant stool. “Why?”

“I'm here, helping you pick wedding suits for women you met through a wall.”

Felix laughs as they settle, standing side by side with the other like what a production staff asked them to and gather around the entrance for filming to start.

Almost immediately, a familiar voice calls everyone's attention as the male host enters with a bright smile. “Hey, fellas. How are we doing?”

Everyone answers in various responds, mostly positive ones but some are louder than the others. Jim practically shouts from the other end of the line.

The male host looks at everyone once more before talking. “In this blind love experiment, you chose to get engaged and spend the rest of your life with a woman you had not seen, based solely on emotional connection. You’ve shared a romantic getaway, moved in with one another.”

He flashes everyone a smile and then gestures toward the rows of suits surrounding them. “Today, you guys are going to choose a suit to wear at your wedding on your wedding day. I see that you brought your family and friends here with you. A little moral support today. That’s good. That’s important.”

That gets Felix reeling for a second because today, he’s choosing a suit for his wedding day. His wedding day.

The host turns toward Jim. “And who did you bring today?”

Jim immediately throws an arm around the guy beside him. “This is Alex. He’s my bandmate. Also, a good friend of mine."

The host nods, then turns toward Felix. “Felix, who did you bring today?”

“My buddy, Marco,” Felix warmly introduces while massaging Marco’s shoulder. “We’ve been friends since culinary school.”

“And Marco, what did you think about Felix getting married soon?” the host curiously asks.

Marco glances at Felix and lets out a soft chuckle, he scratches the back of his head. “It’s kind of crazy. But if there’s someone, I know who would do this, it’s this guy,” he says, taking another glance at Felix. “He’s always been a little uh… unexpected. Typical middle child.”

The other chuckles at that and the host grins before continuing. “As a reminder, gentlemen... Your weddings are only two weeks away.”

A collective groan echoes through the shop and Felix can see that he’s not the only one getting this feeling. That this is getting a little too real.

“When you choose your suit today, I want you to think what it symbolizes,” the host says, smiling so widely that his dimples sunken deep into his cheeks. “Enjoy the day, enjoy the process and we can’t wait of see you in your suits.”

The host eventually dismisses everyone to begin fittings and the group immediately scatters. And the second he turns away, Felix lets out a sigh because two weeks feel both terrifying and exciting. But mostly exciting.

-

FELIX: It was nice to be with the boys again. And I have my good friend, Marco. But what made it easier is knowing that I’m with the people who’s going through the same process. And that means a lot. [smiles]

-

The shop is loud with chattering from the girls and the friends or families they brought with them. Laura is here with her mother. Morgan brought her sister. Sonya has two friends with her. They all seem excited for today’s wedding gown shopping.

For you personally, it feels a little intimidating because you came with your mom. She’s standing beside you, holding a glass of champagne that one of the staff members handed to everyone a moment ago. Every now and then, you catch her looking around the boutique with the same expression she wore when she first learned you were engaged. A mixture of disbelief, confusion and reluctant excitement.

Before you can dwell on it too much, someone pushes through the entrance of the shop and catches everyone's attention.

The female host enters the boutique. Immediately greeted by excited smiles and waves. “Hello, ladies!”

A chorus of greetings follows in respond.

The host beams at all of you and then gestures around the room. “Today's a big day.”

A collective laugh moves through the group. Because everyone knows exactly what today means. You’ll be trying on some wedding dresses and pick the one you'll wear standing in front of your families and friends. And the person waiting for you at the end of the aisle.

The host continues. “Today you'll all be choosing the wedding gowns you'll wear on one of the most important days of your lives.”

Several girls immediately groan in excitement. Others laugh nervously. You do both.

The host's eyes move around the room, taking in all the guests. “I can see everyone brought support.”

She smiles and then suddenly looks directly at you. “And who did you bring today?”

You immediately glance toward your mother, putting a hand on the small of her back as you gently motion her to move a little forward. “I brought my mom.”

The attention shifts toward her and your mother straightens beside you.

The host grins. “And mom, what do you think about all of this?”

The answer comes immediately and honestly. Exactly as expected. “I definitely didn't expect my daughter to get married through a love experiment.”

The entire room erupts into laughter. Including you.

You hide your face behind your champagne glass. “Oh my God.”

The host is laughing too. “Very fair answer.”

The laughter eventually settles as the host takes a step forward. Then delivers the reminder nobody is prepared for. “As exciting as this is...” she pauses dramatically. “Your weddings are only two weeks away.”

There’s a wave of reactions but this time, less excitement, more nerves. Morgan dramatically gasps. Laura groans while clutching her chest. And you, you quietly exhale and try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Two weeks. Two. Weeks. How is that possible? It feels like yesterday you were talking to Felix in the pods and yet somehow, you're here, picking a wedding dress for a wedding that's actually happening.

The host seems delighted by everyone's reaction, but continues anyway. “This will be the gown that you wear when you stand in front of your family and friends. And the man that you’ve chosen.”

She gestures toward the racks of gowns surrounding the boutique. “In that dress, you’ll ultimately decide will you will say ‘I do’ to the man you got engaged to, sight unseen? Or will you choose to walk away from him forever.”

Something soft enters her expression. “And most importantly...” Her eyes move around the room. “I hope you all get to celebrate a beautiful wedding and experience a marriage that lasts the test of time. But this is an experiment: Is love blind?”

She takes a brief pause to look everyone firmly before breaking into another smile. “I hope you guys prove that it is.”

The room quiets for a second as the words settling over everyone. Then smiles begin appearing, faint but hopeful ones.

The host eventually says her goodbyes and leaves the boutique and the tension immediately breaks.

Someone raises their champagne glass. A toast is proposed. Within seconds everyone gathers near the center of the room. Champagne glasses lifted into the air.

“To surviving the next two weeks.”

The entire group bursts into laughter and soon, the glasses clinking together. When you take a sip, the champagne tastes sweet and bubbly. And for the first time all day, this starts feeling real.

Afterward everyone begins dispersing deeper into the boutique, toward racks of lace, silk, tulle and selection of dresses waiting to be tried on. Your mother loops her arm through yours and smiles at you. And together, you disappear into the sea of white gowns.

-

YOU: Never in a million years did I think I'd be here. Wearing engagement rings was already crazy enough. But shopping for a wedding dress? [softly chuckles] I definitely didn't plan for any of this which honestly makes it harder. Because I don't actually know what I like in a wedding gown. I've never thought about it before. But I'm excited. [smiles]

-

The guys are taking turns to get their measurements taken by the tailor. And since it’s not his turn yet, Felix moves toward the shoe section with Marco. He sits down and slips on a pair of brown leather shoes. The leather is soft and comfortable, and only then he realizes he hasn’t shopped for formal shoes in a while and he considers of buying them.

When Felix glances up, he finds Marco quietly studying him. He knows Marco well enough to know that it’s a bad sign. “What?”

Marco shrugs and then sits on the other stool. “I actually have concerns.”

Felix expected this conversation eventually so he gets comfortable on his seat. “What kind of concerns?”

“All of it,” Marco gestures vaguely. “I mean, you me this girl, got engaged, moved in together all within weeks. I just— When it comes to relationship, you’re always careful. This is like a leap of faith for you. So yeah, that’s my concern.”

That's true. Everything Marco said is true. Felix has always taken his time, always thought things through and cautious. But this... This never felt reckless. It felt certain.

He lifts his gaze. “Well, I don't expect you to understand.”

Marco snorts and then nods. “Fair.”

Felix looks at him then, letting him see it. “But can you see that I’m happy? And I know you’ve seen me happy before. But this is a different kind of happiness and I don’t know… I’ve never been with anybody that feels this easy, this right to be with.”

Marco intently listening while holding a shoe in his hand.

“I mean yes, there have been complications,” Felix continues, putting a hand on his knee. “But we got over them quickly and we understand each other better after.”

Marco studies him, trying to determine if he's convincing himself. Or telling the truth.

Eventually he sighs and says, “Yeah, okay. You look happy.”

“Because I am,” Felix quickly confirms.

The skepticism finally softens from Marco's face. “Then that's all I care about,” he says, bumping his shoulder against Felix’s. “I’m happy as long as you’re happy.”

Felix feels his chest loosen in relief and he takes off the brown leather shoes to try on the black one with brogue design.

"So, you two live together,” Marco says, not completely done with the conversation. “I’m sure you guys learned a lot about each other.”

“Yes,” Felix simply answers, slipping his foot into the shoe. Then he glances at Marco. “Actually, she knows me better than you do.”

Marco places a hand over his chest, offended. “Oh, wow!”

Felix bursts out laughing. “What?”

“That hurt.”

“It should.”

Marco shakes his head dramatically. “Can’t believe I drove two hours for this treatment.”

Felix laughs and gets up, walking toward the mirror to check how he looks in those shoes. Then he nods approvingly.

When Felix thinks that Marco is done with it, he casually says, “So she knows everything then.”

Felix turns on his feet. “What?”

Marco hesitates for a while and then asks, “You’ve told her about your past relationships, right?”

The world seems to pause for half a second as a flicker of panic to shoot through him. Because no, you don’t know. Not really. And suddenly Felix is very aware of that fact.

Marco is still waiting for his answer so Felix puts on a smile and says, “Yeah.”

The lie leaves his mouth before he can stop it. “Yeah, of course.”

Marco nods and the conversation finally stop there. He points toward another pair of shoes. “You should try those.”

Felix follows his gaze but the knot remains, it’s sitting in the pit of his stomach. Because the second Marco brought it up, Felix realized that you’ve been open and honest with him, but he hasn’t fully returned the favor to you.

-

FELIX: I don't think I was intentionally hiding anything. I just... I didn't think my past relationships mattered that much anymore. But she was so honest with me. So open. Even about the difficult parts of her life. And I owe her that same honesty. [sadly smiles]

-

The first wedding dress is beautiful. The kind of dress you would stop and stare at if you saw it in a bridal magazine. But standing in it? That's a completely different experience.

You stand on the small platform inside the fitting room while the consultant moves around you, pulling and pinning, clipping extra fabric behind your back. The dress isn't your size yet, so she's constantly adjusting things to help you visualize how it would look once properly fitted.

“There we go,” she says as another clip snaps into place.

You look at the reflection staring back from the mirror. For a second, you don't recognize her in that white fabric, fitted bodice and the train pooling behind you.

A bride. You look like a bride and that's still a strange thing to process.

“It's gorgeous on you,” the consultant says.

You smile because it is gorgeous. But something feels slightly off. Your gaze drifts toward the neckline and it’s a little too low, too revealing for you. Still, you have to show it to everyone just like the production staff asked.

The consultant carefully gathers part of the train and helps guide you toward the fitting room door. You take slow steps, very aware of the fabric trailing behind you. Then step out.

You notice the way every head turns toward you. Morgan sits up straighter on her seat, nodding as she takes it in while Laura's eyebrows shoot up. Your mom lowers her champagne glass.

For a second, nobody says anything. Then Laura points. “No.”

You burst out laughing at his blunt honestly as she shrugs unapologetically.

Morgan tilts her head, studying you carefully. “It isn't bad. But I don’t think it flatters you.”

The room immediately hums with agreement and you agree with them. You look back at yourself in one of the mirrors and yeah, it just isn’t right.

So back into the fitting room you go. But dress number two isn't any better. You walk out and take one look at your mother's face. And immediately know.

“No?”

Your mother winces and shakes her head. “No.”

You snort and pull the hem of the wedding dress just enough to allow you to walk without struggle. “Thank you.”

At this point you're beginning to understand why brides spend entire days doing this. Maybe entire weeks. Because finding the dress feels impossible.

Until suddenly, the consultant helps pull the next dress over your shoulders. She takes her time adjusting the fabric before finally take a step back.

Only then, you look at your reflection in the mirror and oh, she looks beautiful. The mermaid silhouette hugs your figure beautifully. The neckline frames you perfectly. Elegant without feeling too revealing. The lace details look delicate and expensive. Intricate without being overwhelming. And the train, oh god, you look over your shoulder to see it cascade behind you.

You don't even realize you're smiling until the consultant laughs.

“I think you’ve found it,” she says, pointing at the mirror.

And maybe she's right. Because for the first time today, you just know that this is the kind of dress you’ll wear when you walk down the aisle. When you step out of the fitting room this time, everyone knows too.

Morgan practically jumps from her seat. “Oh my God,” she gasps, covering her mouth with a hand.

Laura nods approvingly and then raise her glass of champagne in the air. “Yes. That’s what I’m talking about.”

The room erupts in cheers and smiles and approving nods. And suddenly you're laughing because their reactions are making you emotional. You look down at yourself again, still unable to stop smiling.

“So, how does it feel to be in a wedding dress?’ Morgan softly asks.

The question catches you off guard. Because you expect to answer something simple. Instead, your throat tightens and suddenly emotion rushes up without warning.

You laugh once, trying to hold it together. “Weeks ago, I didn't even think I'd get engaged.”

The room grows quiet.

You take another look at yourself in the mirror, still in disbelief. “And now I'm trying on wedding dresses,” you pause as a breathless laugh escapes you. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

A few people chuckle at that.

You shake your head and continue, “I always thought things like this only happened in movies. And fairytales. But looking at myself in this...”

You smile at your own reflection and that makes your eyes sting. “…I think maybe fairytales do exist.”

The room collectively melts and coos. When you look back at everyone, you immediately notice your mother is already emotional.

“I think maybe...” you clasp your hands together in front of you. “…you just have to make your own fairytale.”

Now everyone is definitely emotional. Including you. Especially you. You laugh through your own tears. Then inevitably, everyone turns toward your mother, curious with her opinion. She stares at you long enough that your heart starts pounding. Her eyes are glassy and shining. Then she nods.

“You'll make a beautiful bride.” Your mother's smile grows as she adds, “And he would be stupid to say no to this.”

The room explodes into laughter. Including you. Even while wiping tears from your eyes. And for a moment, everything feels perfect.

-

YOU: I really hope it’s true. [nervously laughs] I hope that's the dress he'll say yes to. And yeah, I know there’s still a possibility he could say no. That's the scary part. I just can’t help this feeling. [thinly smiles] The happier I get... the more scared I become.

-

For Felix, cooking usually settles him. Tonight, however, it doesn't. He stirs the sauce slowly, watching it bubbles in the pan while Marco's words replay in his head for what feels like the hundredth time.

You’ve told her about your past relationships, right?

The lie had slipped out so easily after. Yeah, yeah. Of course.

He winces now just thinking about it. The problem is that you’ve been honest with him. You've told him about heartbreaks, fears, insecurities, the painful things that you still carry inside your chest to this day. And every time you've opened a door, he's stepped through it willingly. Except this one.

He knows he should tell you. But every time he imagines the conversation, every possible outcome follows right behind it. What if it changes how you see him? What if it makes you question things? What if it creates doubt when there wasn't any before?

The front door opens and the sound startles him enough that the spoon taps against the side of the pan. His eyes immediately lift toward the hallway. His shoulders relax instantly knowing that it’s you because who else have the keys to unlock the apartment.

A moment later, you appear around the corner. Your smile greets him first. You kick off your shoes near the entrance, toss your keys into the bowl on the console table, and start shrugging out of your jacket.

The second your eyes find him, your smile widens. “Hi.”

The knot in his chest loosens despite himself. “Hey.”

You walk straight toward him and right into his space.

Felix opens an arm automatically, and you step into it, your body fits against his so naturally. “How was wedding dress shopping?” he asks.

You only hum against his shoulder before tilting your head up, leaning in just enough to land a soft, quick kiss on his lips. “It was a bit overwhelming,” you honestly answer, then lands another kiss.

Felix chases the second one, earning a quiet laugh from you. “You drove your mom home first?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Your attention suddenly shifts toward the stove and the mouthwatering smell of the sauce bubbling in the pan. “Oh, this smells amazing.”

He keeps a hand on the small of your back. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” you quickly answer.

The grin that spreads across his face feels effortless. “Why don’t you go wash up and I’ll have it ready for you.”

You smile at that. “Good plan.”

The second you're gone, the apartment feels quieter and soon enough, his smile fades as his thoughts return. He quickly ignores them and focuses on plating the dinner.

By the time you come back, everything is ready. You visibly brighten at the sight of the spread on the dining table. “Oh, this is lovely.”

His heart gives a stupid little jump. “You haven't even tasted it.”

“Doesn't matter,” you wave him off as you sit down. “I know it’ll taste good.”

Dinner starts easily after that. And like most night, the two of you share about each other’s day. You tell him about the fitting, about the girls’ honest and almost brutal opinions and how your mother nearly crying. Twice.

Felix nods, smiles and laughs through most of it. And for a little while, he almost forgets the weight sitting in his chest. to distract himself, he looks at you. “So, tell me about the wedding dress.”

“It’s beautiful,” you vaguely answer

“That’s it?”

You smirk as you scoop peas with your fork. “That’s it. No spoilers.”

“Not even one?”

“Nope.”

Felix softly chuckles and shakes his head.

You put down your fork and grab your glass of water. “What about your suit?” you ask with a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Also confidential,” Felix answers, getting back at you.

You narrow your eyes. “Is it nice?”

“It is.”

“Do you look sexy as hell in it?” you tease.

Felix cracks a deep laugh and then shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You'll be taking it off of me anyway.”

Your mouth falls open and without thinking, you throw your napkin at him. But he catches just in time, making you both break into laughter. Once the hilarity settles, the dinner continues in comfortable silence. And you seem to notice that he’s quieter than usual.

You playfully bump his shoulder with yours. “Shopping wedding suits wore you out, huh?”

You land a comforting rub on his back and continue watching him.

All of a sudden, he feels seen.

“Are you okay?” you ask, slightly concerned now.

There it is. The opening. The right opportunity to tell you. The words reach the back of his throat.

“Yeah, I'm just tired,” he says instead.

In the end, fear wins and the lie tastes awful.

You accept his answer without question which somehow makes it worse. "Yeah, today was kind of overwhelming,” you agree, landing another comforting rub on his back.

Relief and guilt arrive together. A terrible combination.

You scoot closer to his side, arm looping through his. Your head resting briefly against his shoulder. “How about…” you say, linking your arm together with his. “We take a nice, hot shower after this?”

Felix looks down at you and sees the affection, the trust. At the way you don't hesitate to lean on him. “Yeah. That sounds nice,” he softly says.

You smile and he smiles back. But later, when you're not looking, his gaze drifts toward the engagement ring on your finger.

Two weeks. Only two weeks. And he still hasn't told you everything, still not ready to face what might happen after he says it out loud.

-

FELIX: I want to tell her. I do. I just… I don't know. [heavily sighs] I'm just not ready to face the risk yet. What if it changes something? And maybe that's selfish. But right now... I'm not ready.

-

Warm water cascades from the showerhead, pattering softly against tile and skin alike. You stand in front of Felix, working soap across his shoulders and chest. The muscles loosen beneath your hands, but not enough. Something is still sitting heavily on his mind. You can feel it. You've felt it ever since dinner.

“Turn around,” you tell him while putting away the bar of soap.

He obeys immediately and once he’s facing away from you, you begin washing his back for a moment before stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. You rest your chin on his shoulder, the skin feels warm under you.

“Why are you so quiet?” you ask softly.

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest. “Because you're doing such a good job.”

You take his answer as it is and nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck. Then your hands drift across his stomach, absentmindedly tracing circles against his skin.

The water rushes around both of you and for a few seconds neither of you says anything. Then carefully, almost teasingly, you ask, “You're not having second thoughts, are you?”

Felix turns his head to the side. “Huh?”

“You know,” you shrug before continuing, “Choosing me. Marrying me… soon.”

Felix lets out a soft chuckle. This time he reaches back and covers your hands with his own. “No.”

“That was suspiciously quick.”

“Because it's true.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

You narrow your eyes even though he can't see it. “You'd better tell me now instead of leaving me at the altar,” you playfully say.

That earns a genuine laugh out of him, the kind that finally reaches his eyes. He turns around in your arms until he's facing you. Water beads on his eyelashes. His hair hangs messily across his forehead. And God, he's beautiful. Ethereally so.

His arms slide around your waist and pull you closer. “I won't do that to you.”

You smile against his neck. Your smile widens when he leans and lovingly kisses your cheek.

“I think I'm more afraid of you saying no,” he suddenly adds when he pulls away.

That’s new. Felix has always been the confident one in the relationship. “I can’t believe you’re more nervous than I am,” you tease.

He only grins and then shrugs in respond.

You shake your head at that, but at the same time, you understand that fear. Because you do too. You stare at him for a second before cupping his face with both hands. “You know I love you.”

And you know that’s not the answer or the assurance he seeks, but you hope that it’s enough. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. The kind of kiss that says more than words ever could. When you pull away, you're smiling and so is he. For a moment you think that's the end of it. Then his hand slides to the small of your back and he kisses you again. Harder and longer this time.

The steam swirls around you. The water continues falling. The rest of the world feels impossibly far away. You melt into him. His forehead presses against yours when the kiss finally breaks. Both of you smiling. Both of you breathing a little harder.

“I love you too.”

You don't realize how much you needed to hear them until now. And suddenly the worries about families, fittings, guest lists, vows and wedding plans don't seem nearly as important. Because right here, in this moment, it's just the two of you. The same way it has always been. The same way you hope it always will be.

You rest your head against his shoulder. His arms tighten around you. And together you stay beneath the warm water a little longer. Just holding each other.

-

YOU: I think the wedding stress is definitely getting to both of us. There's so much happening all at once. Just the fact that we're getting married in less than two weeks... [shakes head] It's overwhelming sometimes. I hope he knows that he doesn't have to handle everything by himself. And that we’re a team. [smiles]

-

7 DAYS UNTIL WEDDING

The second Felix pushes open the apartment door, he sees you waiting for him. One shoulder rests against the wall near the entrance, arms loosely folded across your chest, a smile already pulling at your lips like you've been listening for his footsteps. And just like that, his entire day immediately feels lighter.

“Hey, you,” you sweetly say.

God. That tone. That smile.

A grin spreads across his face before he can stop it. “Hey.”

He kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and drops his keys into the bowl by the door. The moment he's free, you're already stepping toward him and he happily meets you halfway. His arms slide around your waist and yours immediately find their place around his shoulders. Then comes the soft, loving kiss. A kiss that melts away stress before he even realizes he's carrying it. He kisses you once. Twice. Three times. Unable to stop himself.

You start laughing somewhere between the third and fourth kiss. “Okay, you’re—”

But he cuts you off with another kiss. And another kiss.

You break into laughter when he finally pulls away. Your hand moves to the nape of his neck, holding him there. “Tough day at work?”

He lands a quick peck on your lips. “It's all better now,” he answers with a smile.

You smile so brightly that something squeezes around his heart. “You say that every time.”

"Because it's true."

You scratch lightly through the hair at the back of his head. The gesture is so casual now as if you've been doing it forever.

Felix almost forgets himself. Almost forgets everything weighing on him. The uncomfortable truth settles again somewhere in the back of his mind, waiting persistently. But he shoves it away. Not now. Not yet.

You take his hand and lead him further into the apartment. “Do you want dinner?”

“No. Thanks.”

“How about instant noodles?”

He laughs. “You really want to feed me, huh?”

“You're a chef. If I don't feed you, who will?”

The logic is impossible to argue with. Still smiling, he shakes his head. “I'm okay.”

“Okay then,” you sigh dramatically. “But if you get hungry later, don't come crying to me.”

Felix finds you the most adorable when you scold him so he leans down and steals another quick kiss. Then excuses himself to shower.

However, the hot water does little to quiet his thoughts. Because now he's alone with them. there’s only one week until the wedding and yet he still hasn't told you. And every day he waits, it becomes harder. And every day he waits, the consequences feel bigger. The guilt sits heavier in the pit of his stomach, making him feel sick from the inside.

Tell her tonight. Just tell her tonight. The thought follows him the entire time he showers.By the time he changes into comfortable clothes and returns to the living room, he's almost convinced himself to do it. Then he sees you, curled up on the sofa with one leg folded under you. A notebook balanced on your lap. Pen moving across the page.

A small smile appears on his face. “What are you doing?”

You don't even look up. “Wedding stuff.”

“Ooh… dangerous.”

That earns a laugh. “Extremely.”

Finally you stop writing and glance up. “I'm trying to write my vows.”

Felix immediately perks up. “Oh, really?”

You quickly flip the page. “No peeking.”

“I'm not peeking.”

“You're thinking about peeking.”

He grins. “Maybe.”

He drops onto the sofa beside you, close enough that your shoulder bumps his.

You reopen the notebook but cover the page with your hand. “I'm trying to decide what tone should I use.”

“What are the options?”

“Should I go playful romantic or… explicitly steamy?”

Felix nearly chokes while you start laughing immediately. Without missing a beat, he points. “I vote on the second one.”

“The steamy one?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, slumping slightly on the sofa.

You softly laugh as you flip to another page and it’s filled with list of names and scribbles. And he guesses that it’s your guest list.

“You still have empty spots.”

You don’t even deny it and put your hand away to show it to him. “That's because I don't have many friends.”

“That's not true.”

“I have like… three,” you answer rather thoughtfully. “And one of them is Gnocchi.”

Felix snorts. Then he nudges your knee. “What about me? Am I not your friend?”

You grin and then shake your head. “Nope.”

“No?”

“You can't be on the guest list,” you point out. “You’ll be the guy standing at the altar.”

He nods solemnly. “Good point.”

You glance back down at the page. “You can take some of my guest spots. You have more friends than me.”

Felix shrugs. “Probably.”

“Invite whoever you want,” you say while grinning mischievously. “Invite your exes if you want.”

Everything inside him freezes. Just for a second. But enough for you to notice.

You reach for his hand and squeeze it. “I'm just joking.”

The concern in your voice makes him feel worse. You study him for another moment. Then your teasing disappears completely.

“What is it? Are you still nervous? About the wedding?”

This is the perfect opening. It’s just the two of you. And he can comfortably tell you about it. His heart starts hammering as the words rise and reach his throat. He looks at you and he finds trust and certainty in them. He opens his mouth and at the very last second— He loses his nerve. Again.

A coward. The word flashes through his mind immediately.Because he knows exactly what he's doing and he hates it.So instead, he smiles.

“No, I just can’t wait to marry you.”

You let out a playful, disbelieving scoff. “Okay, hold down your horses there, mister.”

Before he can react, you're launching yourself at him. The notebook flies forgotten onto the cushion. Your arms wrap around his neck. Your legs nearly climb into his lap.

Felix laughs despite everything and they escape him easily. Even while guilt twists inside his chest. You squeeze him tighter. You grin against his shoulder. And that makes him feel worse. Because it's true.

He is excited. He's never been more sure of anything. But every day he waits to tell you the truth feels like another crack in something he desperately wants to protect. So he hugs you tighter and lets himself enjoy this moment. And he pretends the knot in his chest isn't there. Just for tonight.

-

FELIX: The longer I keep this from her... [shakes head] The worse I feel. I keep thinking I'll tell her tomorrow. Then tomorrow comes. And suddenly it doesn't feel like the right moment. I think that's what scares me the most… The possibility that she might look at me differently afterward. [rubs his neck] I don't know how much longer I can keep carrying it.

-

5 DAYS UNTIL WEDDING

The apartment door is already unlocked before you can even reach for your keys. And when you push it open, you're immediately greeted by the sight of Felix standing in the entryway, waiting for you.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You're home?”

Felix's grin widens. That grin. The one that usually means trouble. Or a surprise. Or both.

“Welcome home.”

You laugh softly as he steps forward and immediately wraps his arms around your waist. The familiar scent of him settles around you before he presses a kiss against your cheek. Your heart melts despite yourself.

“What's going on?” you ask suspiciously.

Felix only looks more pleased with himself. He takes your hand before you can interrogate him further. “I prepared something for us tonight.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Really?”

He doesn't answer. Which somehow makes you even more curious. Instead, he takes your bag from your shoulder and hangs it neatly beside your jacket on the coat rack. Then he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out an eye mask.

You shake your head immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

His laugh fills the apartment. “C'mon…” he sweetly coaxes.

You squint your eyes at him. “You're being suspicious.”

He squints back. “I know.”

Eventually, you lose the battle. Mostly because he's smiling at you like that. With a dramatic sigh, you nod. “Okay. Fine.”

You feel him step closer before the soft fabric settles over your eyes. Darkness immediately swallows everything.

“Can you see?”

“No.”

“Perfect.”

“You sound too happy.”

“Because I am,” he says and then his laughter echoes through the apartment.

A second later, his hand finds yours. He holds it tightly as he begins guiding you through the apartment. The other hand resting lightly against your back.

You know the layout almost as well as he does now. Which means after a few turns, you already have a pretty good idea where he's taking you. It’s the bedroom.

Mmh… interesting.

A moment later he stops walking. His fingers brush your cheek as he carefully lifts the eye mask.

You blink your eyes a few times to adjust them to the sudden light. And you notice it right away. A picnic set up on the bedroom floor. A blanket spread across the floor. Candles flickering around the room. Rose petals scattered on it. A dinner is already served there along with a glass of red wine. Everything warm and intimate and undeniably thoughtful.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” you coo with a hand clutching at your chest.

He looks at you as if he’s not assured by your whipped reaction. “Do you like it?”

You nod and then look at him. “I love it.”

The smile that spreads across his face is worth everything. Without thinking, you step forward and softly kiss him. When you pull back, he's smiling so hard his eyes are nearly disappearing.

“You romantic guy!” you say accusingly with affectionate tone.

You notice the way his ear reddening. But he only laughs and shakes his head in reaction.

You look down at picnic set-up and only then you notice that there’s only one plate of dinner and a glass of wine. “Wait, are we sharing the dinner or…?”

Felix immediately starts laughing.

You look between him and the dinner. Then back at him. “Did you spend your entire food budget on the wedding?”

His laughter gets louder. “No.”

“Then where's your dinner?”

He takes a step back and points toward the wall. “The other side.”

“The other side?” you ask in confusion.

“My dinner is on the other side of the wall,” he further explains. "Cause I wanted us to have another pod date.”

Everything just clicked in that moment. And this is just so unexpected. And oh, such a thoughtful thinking! For a moment, you’re at a loss of words and just stand there in silence.

Felix shifts his weight to one side. A hand rubs the back of his neck. “I thought maybe... With everything going on lately, it'd be nice to take a step back for a night.”

Your heart is suddenly flooded with warm feelings. Because he's right. You haven't really had this in a while. With the real world happening around you, you’re slowly forgetting the importance of keeping the emotional connection. And more importantly, how to nurture it

You lean forward and kiss him again. “I love this.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m glad,” he simply, humbly says.

He keeps holding your hand as he points toward the blanket. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll go to the other side.”

“Okay,” you say, lowering yourself onto the floor, sitting with your legs folded under you.

Felix bends down and kisses your forehead before stepping out of the bedroom and goes to the other side of the wall.

While you wait for him to settle, you pick up your wine and take a sip.

“Hello?” Felix's voice filters through the wall exactly like it used to.

Somehow, you’re blown away by the voice one more. A laugh escapes you immediately. “It’s still unfair.”

“What?” he innocently asks.

“The voice.”

You can practically hear his smile from the other side of the wall.

“So, how are you?”

You shake your head, smiling into your wine glass. “Well, obviously, there’s a lot happening with the wedding. But I’m good.

“Yeah.”

“But I'm trying really hard not to make it like… crazy stressful.”

You hear a soft hum of agreement from his side. “What about you? How are you?”

A beat passes in silence before he answers, “I'm okay.”

The honesty in his voice makes you smile. “Still nervous?”

“A little.”

You chuckle at that and you understand that a little too well. “Same.”

“But as long as you're there, I'll be fine.”

You laugh outright and then roll your eyes. “Ugh. Cheesy.”

His laughter joins yours through the wall.

You glance down at the plate in front of you and can’t help yourself anymore. “Can we eat while we talk? Cause I’m starting to drool here.”

“Of course, babe.”

You don't need a second invitation. You immediately cut into the steak and the second you take a bite, you hum in delight. The meat is tender and juicy, perfectly seasoned. As expected from a chef.

A laugh sounds from the other side of the wall. “That good, huh?”

“So good," you dramatically emphasize.

You take another bite and then a forkful of mashed potatoes next. It’s soft and creamy, melt in your mouth. And this time, you groan.

“What is it this time?” Felix asks with a playful, exhausted tone.

“The mashed potato,” you pause to groan again. “It's offensive how good this is.”

Felix laughs deeply, amused. “I'm taking that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

You continue eating happily and you can hear the soft clink of cutlery reaches you from the other side of the wall. Felix is eating too.

Together, you’re connected by nothing but conversation and somehow it feels exactly right. “Thank you for this,” you softly say.

“For dinner?”

“For everything.”

The room falls silent for a second. Then his voice comes back softer. “It's my pleasure.”

You smile to yourself, take another sip of wine and for the first time in what feels like weeks, the wedding stress quiets down. It's just you and Felix, talking through a wall. And falling in love all over again.

-

YOU: I think with work and real life and wedding planning, it's been easy to get caught up in everything we need to do. And lately, we've been so busy doing all those things that we haven't really gotten to just be... us. So having this pod date again was really nice. It reminded me why I fell in love with him in the first place. [smiles]

-

Felix barely finishes half his dinner. The steak is gone and most of the mashed potatoes too. But his appetite has disappeared somewhere between the first glass of wine and the conversation looming over his head.

Now he's nursing the remainder of his drink, intently listening to the soft sounds coming from the other side of the wall. The comfortable silence of someone enjoying a meal. The sound of… you.

A small smile tugs at his mouth. Even separated by a wall, he can picture exactly what you're doing. Sitting cross-legged and probably making pleased little noises every time you take another bite. The thought settles warmly in his chest. Then the warmth twists into nerves. Because he knows he can't keep avoiding this. Not anymore.

Eventually, the sounds of your eating begin to slow. Felix glances down at his own half-finished plate. Then carefully sets it aside. He shifts across the floor until his back is resting against the wall. The same wall you're sitting against on the other side. Close. Yet somehow impossibly far.

He draws in a slow breath. “Done eating?”

A beat later, your voice coming through the wall. “I'm currently licking the plate clean.”

Felix laughs despite himself. “That’s… adorable,” he says in a rather confused tone.

“It's a compliment to the chef.”

“And I accept it happily.”

A comfortable silence settles between you. Normally, he'd let it linger. But tonight, tonight he can't. His fingers tighten around his wine glass. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

Always. The word should make this easier. It doesn't. “How are you feeling about the wedding?”

The silence that follows stretches longer this time. When you finally answer, your voice sounds low, almost like a whisper. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

You exhale air for a second. “I'm still kind of reeling.”

Felix smiles faintly. “Yeah?”

A small laugh escapes you. “I didn't plan any of this. I didn’t even let myself imagine I’d be here. Getting married soon.”

He closes his eyes. Neither did he.

Your voice drifts through the wall. “I mean... living together has been surprisingly easy. But I figure that's partly because you work late which give me enough space to just… do my thing. To be alone with my thoughts.”

Felix nods to himself because that sounds like you. Always needing little pockets of quiet. Little places to breathe.

“And that helped me adjust,” you continue and then, your voice gets quieter as you add, “But the idea of permanently giving up my personal space still haunts me sometimes.”

Felix can’t help but laugh. The sound echoes off the wall.

You immediately groan. “Don't laugh.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not.” Your laughter joins his anyway and the tension eases slightly.

“I’m okay if you want us to have separate bedrooms,” he easily offers.

“That’s actually a good idea,” you say, sounding a little cheerful now.

Felix playfully scoffs, feigning offence.

You break into laughter. “I mean, imagine me saying ‘I’ll be staying in my man’s room tonight’. I think that’s cute.”

His smile grows, stupidly and hopelessly. He rests his head back against the wall. A brief silence follows afterward. “What about you?” you ask from the other side. “How are you feeling?”

The question lands exactly where he knew it would. Heavy and inevitable. His smile slowly fades from his small face. The wall suddenly feels too thin to hide behind, too thin to protect him.

“I'm excited.” The answer comes easily because it's true but Felix quietly swallows air. “I want to marry you. I want to build a life with you.”

Also true. Every word. Every single one.

“But…?” your voice is gentle, but the tone is teasing.

Felix closes his eyes. “But lately... I haven't been able to fully enjoy that feeling.”

It gets quiet again and it’s probably because you didn’t think that there’ll be a real ‘but’. But then your small, low voice comes through the wall. “Why?”

The question nearly breaks him. Because he knows exactly why. Because he's been carrying it around for weeks. Because every day he waited made it worse. Because every day he waited made him feel less like the man you believed him to be.

Felix places his wine glass down because his hands are shaking now. He presses them together. “Because I haven't been fully honest with you.”

Nothing. No response. It’s just silence that answers him. He can practically feel your confusion through the wall and it makes his chest aches.

“I just want you to know that…” his throat tightens. “I didn't mean to deceive you. I didn't mean to lie.”

The words keep coming now, messy and raw. But honest. “I just thought it didn't matter much. Because they were in the past. I thought it’d be better to keep it in the past.”

He rubs his palms against his jeans. His eyes sting. “But knowing you, listening the part of you that you openly shared. The hard stuff. The painful stuff,” his voice cracks in between words. “And I realized that I wasn't doing the same.”

The silence on the other side becomes deafening. Felix can almost picture you listening and waiting, probably holding your breath too while wondering where this conversation goes. He takes another shaky inhale. Then another. He has to say it. He has to.

“I've been in relationships before,” he finally admits, but not fully,

He takes another shaky inhale and feels his body trembling with anxiety and the words feel sour on the tip of his tongue. “And each one is meaningful to me. They helped me shape who I became.”

His fingers curl into the denim of his jeans. His heartbeat pounds. And before he can stop himself. Before he can lose his nerve, he says it. All at once.

“I've dated… both… women and men.”

Silence. Complete silence. The room feels suddenly enormous and impossibly small. The weight he'd been carrying finally slips from his shoulders. But relief doesn't come with it.

Felix stares at the ceiling, unable to breathe, to move.  Unable to hear anything except his own heartbeat. Then he forces himself to continue. “I'm bisexual.”

The words hang in the space between you and neither of you speaks afterward. A moment passes and then another. Then another. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. Felix dares himself to be the one who breaks it. “Are you still there?” he asks, his voice barely sounds like his own.

There’s a long pause until you finally answer, “Yeah. I’m here.”

Relief crashes into him so hard it almost hurts. But your next words make his stomach drop. “I'm just confused.”

Felix closes his eyes. Of course you are.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

The question isn't angry. It’s just pure confusion and disbelief. Like you didn’t expect it from him. “I...” he begins and stops. Then starts again, “I didn't know how.”

“Why?” Your voice remains soft, but the question comes with edges. “Did I— Did I make you feel like you couldn't tell me?”

The tears arrive before he realizes they're coming. His vision blurs. His chest tightens painfully. “No. You didn’t.”

His voice shakes as another tear slides down his cheek. “This isn't your fault. It’s me.”

He wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I was scared. I was scared that you’d see me differently. I was scared it'd change things.”

The confession hurts more than anything else. More tears fall from his doe eyes. “I was scared that I’d lose this. That I'd lose you.”

The words crack as soon as they leave his mouth and gone in between. Silence. Just silence. And somehow that terrifies him most of all. Because for the first time since meeting you, he has absolutely no idea what comes next.

-

FELIX: What scared me wasn't telling her who I am. It was the possibility that after she knew, she'd see me differently. [cries] I've had people make assumptions before. I've had people decide who I was before I could explain myself. [sniffles] And maybe that's why I waited too long. If she walks away because I kept this from her, I'd understand that. But if I lose her... that would break my heart.

-

You sit there for a long time after Felix stops talking with the dinner sits forgotten and your wine has gone untouched. And all you can hear is your own breathing and your own thoughts trying to catch up, trying to make sense of everything.

The confession itself isn't what hurts. It's the realization that he's been carrying this alone for weeks—months, maybe—he's been holding his breath around you. That while you've been building a life together, he's been walking around with this fear tucked deep inside his chest.

Of course you're blindsided. Of course part of you wishes he had told you sooner and not when it’s five days left to the wedding. The timing stings and you won't lie to yourself about that.

But the longer you sit there, the more understanding you become. Because you know what it's like to carry something painful and ugly and convincing yourself that if someone knew, they'd leave. You know what it's like to expect abandonment before it even happens and suddenly your heart starts breaking for him. Not because of the truth he’s told you. But of how terrified he was to tell you.

A tear slips down your cheek and then another. And before long, you're quietly crying into the silence of the room. But what worse is the thought of Felix sitting on the other side of the wall, waiting and preparing himself for the worst. So you wipe your face, take a shaky breath and another until you calmed down enough. Then slowly push yourself to your feet.

The apartment feels strangely quiet that you can hear your own bare feet move across the floor and out of the bedroom, toward the other side of the wall. Toward him.

You find him exactly where you imagined, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. His Head bowed low. His arms wrapped around himself. And God, he looks so small and fragile. As though he's already mourning something that hasn't happened yet. As though he's already convinced himself he's lost you. He eventually senses your presence and slowly lifts his head. Your heart shatters when you see his face is scrunched with sadness. Eyes red. Cheeks wet. Entirely vulnerable and terrified.

For a second neither of you move. Just stare at each other. Then without thinking, you approach and drop down beside him. you don’t wait but throw your arms around him. Felix lets out a broken sound, almost like a sob, almost like relief. And then his arms wrap around you too, desperately tight like he’s afraid you’d slip away.

For a moment, the two of you stay like that, clinging to each other. No words. Just emotions. Just months of fear finally unraveling. You don't know how long you stay like that but it’s long enough for the tears to slow and your breathing to steady. Eventually you pull back just enough to look at him and with your eyes still blurry with tears, you see his eyes are swollen, his nose tinged pink and his cheeks damp with tears. And despite all of it, you love him so much it hurts.

Carefully, you brush his hair away from his forehead. Your fingers slide through the soft strands. Then gently wipe another tear from beneath his eye. He holds your gaze and just let you comfort him, soothe him with touches. His breathing still stutters but he’s calmed down enough.

You swallow air as you look at him with your hand cupping his jaw. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

Felix’s lips tremble as tears begin pooling in his eyes again. Then he nods, admitting his fault.

Your hand remains cupped against his cheek and you try not to stumble as you continue, “You must've been in so much pain carrying this by yourself.”

Felix immediately looks away. A rough hand drags across his face as though he's trying to hide how much that affects him. As though he doesn't deserve your sympathy.

You don't let him retreat. You gently cup his face with both hands, patiently waiting until he finally looks back at you. When he does, you give him the gentlest smile, filled with every ounce of love you possess.

“But you know what? I still love you,” you mutter, the words quivering in the air with how much emotions they’re carrying.

His face immediately crumples as your own tears return.

You shake your head and add, “This changes nothing,” you assure him, thumbs brush against his cheeks. “I love you. I really do.”

A watery laugh escapes you. “If anything… I love you even more for finally being honest with me.”

Felix closes his eyes but it only sends more tears rolling down his cheeks.

You press your forehead against his, keeping him close and grounded. “You're still the same man I fell in love with.”

You smile through your tears and add softly, “The same man I'm still choosing.”

The last piece of his composure breaks at that because all of a sudden, he looks overwhelmed by the fact that you're still here. And you stay there with him, repeatedly muttering, ‘I love you’ to him because you want him to know that you’re still here, you’re still touching him and loving him the same.

Unable to speak, Felix nods in answer.

To assure him more, you kiss his cheek. Then the corner of his eye. Then rest your forehead against his once more. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I'm right here.”

For a second, he simply stares at you. Then his arms wrap around you again and this time he hides his face in your shoulder. A sob escapes him, raw and relieved. You hold him tighter with a hand buried in his hair. The other rubbing soothing circles across his back. And you let him cry. You let him grieve every fear he's been carrying. Because you're still here and you're not going anywhere. Not after choosing each other every day until this point. Not after falling in love. Not after everything.

-

YOU: Of course I felt blindsided. He waited until five days before the wedding. [softly sighs] And I wish he would've trusted me sooner. But at the same time... I kind of understood why. I know what it's like to be scared someone will leave once they know everything about you. [tears up] And honestly, all I could think about was how lonely he must've felt carrying that around by himself. [cries] [sighs] I still love him. He's still the same man I fell in love with. [nods] [smiles]

-

MORNING OF BACHELOR/BACHELORETTE PARTY

The apartment is quiet except for the occasional tap of your fingers against your laptop keyboard. Your coffee sits forgotten beside you, half-finished and cold by now. Your attention is fixed entirely on the screen in front of you. He notices that little crease appears between your brows when you’re concentrating and the way your lower lips disappears between your teeth when you're focusing on something.

Felix has never been good at waiting and definitely not when the possibility of losing something precious is sitting in the back of his mind, whispering all the worst-case scenarios. Because tomorrow, somehow, impossibly, is the wedding.

Tomorrow. The word still feels unreal. He rises from the couch and wanders into the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water. The sound pulls your attention away as you glance over your shoulder. Your face softens when you find his face. “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” he greets back and takes the seat beside you. Slowly, he leans over and presses a soft kiss against your cheek.

You hum happily in reaction.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Just tidying up a few things with the business,” you answer, eyes drifting back to the screen.

Felix wraps both hands around his glass. Then proceeds to completely ignore it. Because instead of drinking the water, he's watching you simply existing as yourself and as the woman he loves.

A few more minutes pass before you finally shut the laptop. “Done?”

“Done,” you confirm, but your hand is reaching for your phone next. A second later, a grin spreads across your face.

Felix can't help smiling back. “What?”

“It's Morgan,” you say with your eyes locked on your phone screen. “She’s excited about the bachelorette party tonight.”

He softly chuckles at that and puts his arm over the back of your chair. “What about you? Are you excited?” he asks.

"Yeah, I am," you answer with a smile. You tuck one leg beneath yourself on the chair. “Mostly excited to see the girls and have lots of fun with them.”

Felix should be excited for you too but the thought of you having fun without him making him feel a little down.

You tilt your head to the side. “Aren’t you excited for your bachelor party?”

The truth is, he doesn’t think much on it. Yeah, he’s excited to meet the guys and have fun with them, but actually, he’d love it more if you’re there too.

Before he can form an answer, your expression changes because you've always been good at reading him. Your face dims just a little. Your hand reaches for his on his lap. “What is it?”

Felix laughs softly. A sound without much humor behind it. “Nothing.”

"Felix, baby,” you gently call but edged with concern, “you seem so uptight.”

He looks away and then he looks down. Then he intertwines his fingers together with yours. And suddenly the anxiety he's been trying to ignore all morning becomes impossible to hide. He exhales before speaking. “I know the wedding is soon. But I… I just need to know where your head’s at.”

For a moment, you simply stare at him. Then a small laugh escapes you, surprised. “Oh.”

You lean back in your chair, taking a moment to think and somehow, that makes him nervous. Because he expects certainty, he expects you to smile and tell him everything is perfect.

Instead, you chew on your bottom lip and taking a moment longer to think. “I don't know…” you honestly share.

Felix feels like his heart just dropped to his stomach. But before panic can fully settle in, you're already shaking your head. “It has nothing to do with you. Or my independence. Or our living situation,” you explain while squeezing his hand. “It's just..."

You glance down and softly exhale air. “The thought of walking down an aisle tomorrow and committing my entire life to someone makes me feel like throwing up."

Felix lightly chuckles at that and he understands it. Especially coming from you. Weeks ago, you didn’t expect to meet a man, let alone getting married. But he can’t ignore that tinge of pain in your answer. He knows it’s his fault for expecting a definite answer from you in the first place.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then you look at him and squeeze his hand again. “I don't want to hurt your feelings. I just want to stay honest. Especially with you.”

It’s like you read his mind and now, you come up with all the words he needed to hear. “If we're going to get married. Then I think it's important that we keep telling each other the truth. No matter how painful that is,” you further share with an apologetic smile.

Felix nods in agreement and of course, he respect your answer. And more importantly, he appreciates you for being honest. Because he's living proof of that. He turns toward you completely and takes your hand in both of his. And finally says the thing that's been sitting inside him all day.

“Well, I just want you to know that…” he pauses to deeply gaze into your eyes. “I'm ready to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

You steadily hold his gaze with a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“I want to build a life with you,” he continues, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. “And I want to be your husband so badly.”

The words hang between you, honest and hopeful. You reach for his jaw and look at him the same way you always do when you're trying to reassure him. “You know I love you.”

Felix does know. But hearing it never gets old. Hearing it makes his heart aches in the best way. Yet even as relief washes through him, a tiny piece of fear remains stubbornly lodged inside his chest.

Tomorrow changes everything. Or maybe it changes nothing. Maybe tomorrow is simply the two of you choosing each other again the way you've been doing every day since this began.

But fear isn't always logical and love isn't always fearless. Sometimes love is sitting across from someone while your heart pounds in your chest and choosing them anyway. And as your thumb brushes softly across his cheek, Felix decides that's exactly what he's going to do.

Tomorrow, he's going to choose you. Again.

-

FELIX: I thought she'd know by now. [softly laughs] I thought she'd already have her answer. But maybe that's not how this works. [rubs his neck] I'm just scared. Because now that I know what it feels like to love her... the thought of losing her is terrifying.

-

The moment the limousine pulls up outside the apartment complex, Morgan is already squealing. The long black vehicle barely comes to a stop before she throws both hands into the air and cheering non-stop even as she gets into the car. You can't help laughing as you climb inside after them. The interior is luxurious. Soft leather seats. Colored lights. A stocked mini bar. Enough space to fit all of you comfortably.

“Wow. This is super,” you mutter in awe.

“We’re getting married tomorrow, ladies!” Morgan declares dramatically.

Everyone bursts into laughter while you shiver slightly at the reminder.

The driver hasn't even pulled away yet when Morgan reaches for a bottle of champagne. “Should she be doing that?” you ask.

Laura looks at you with wide eyes and then nods. “Yes!”

Morgan pops the cork anyway and the loud pop echoes through the limousine. Everyone screams as champagne immediately starts spilling everywhere.

“Watch the dress!” Sonya shrieks.

“Morgan!” you hiss.

Morgan laughs so hard she nearly drops the bottle. She doesn’t seem to care, but quickly fill the flutes with the bubbly wine and Laura distributes it to everyone.

The ride quickly turns into chaos as more champagne gets poured and the music gets louder. Someone starts singing and slurring the lyrics, someone forgot it completely.  Nobody cares.

By the time the limousine reaches the venue, Morgan is definitely tipsy. Laura isn't far behind. You step out laughing while still holding your champagne flute.

The club itself looks incredible. Reserved entirely for the bachelorette party. But none of that is what catches your attention. Because the second you enter, you immediately recognize the people waiting inside.

“No way.” You gasp in disbelief.

A familiar laugh reaches your ears. Your cousin looks up first. Then your friends. They’re all waving and smiling at you. You half jog to meet them and throw your arms around them. Everyone talking at once. exchanging hugs and cheek kisses. 

Your cousin nearly loses her balance by the way you throw yourself at her. “Careful!”

“I'm sorry!”

“No, come here!”

You hug her again anyway. “It’s so good to see you taking the night off from taking care of the baby.”

She leans in close and whispers, “Me too.”

You laugh at that and keep your arm around her.

The friends and families from the other girls are also here so introductions happen and more drinks appear. Eventually, everyone scattered into smaller groups and you’re with your own.

You and your friends and cousin occupying the vinyl booth and as soon as everyone seated, the interrogation begins immediately.

What dates in pods were like? Were you scared? How did you know it was him? What happened after the proposal? How was the honeymoon? What's living together like?

The questions come so quickly you barely have time to answer. You find yourself laughing through most of it, trying to explain something that still feels impossible. Because even now, it still doesn't feel real that you met a man you’re going to marry through an experiment.

At one point your cousin grabs your hand. “Can I see the ring again?”

“Of course,” you say, letting her inspect the ring nestled on your finger.

Your cousin moves your hand and the diamond catches the light. The glint immediately drawing everyone's attention.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” your friend comments as the ring gets inspected from every possible angle.

Eventually one of your friends settles back into her seat. Her expression softening as she carefully asks, “How are you feeling?”

The question makes you pause for a moment. Because the truth is complicated. You glance down at your engagement ring, turning it slightly and watching it sparkle.

“It feels crazy,” you honestly share.

Everyone nods immediately. “Yeah. It is crazy.”

You laugh while holding your heating cheeks from the alcohol you consumed. “I didn't plan any of this. I mean, a few weeks ago I wasn't even thinking about marriage. And now...”

You glance around the table and everyone is looking at you. “And he’s here. And he’s just so… perfect.”

You hear the collective coo from everyone and it makes your smile grows wider. Then you admit the harder part. “Honestly, I’m scared. Because it’s all happening in such a short amount of time,” you pause and take a sip of your drink. “I think I’m still reeling and processing all of it.”

That earns quieter reactions and more understanding ones. Your closest friends exchange looks. One of them nods. “That makes sense.”

“You've always been fiercely independent.”

They know. They've known you for years and known how much you protect your space, your solitude and your freedom.

One of them points a finger at you. “If you'd told me six months ago you'd be getting married, I'd have laughed in your face.”

The entire table bursts into laughter. Because it's true. It’s very uncharacteristic of you, completely unlike anything you ever imagined for yourself. And yet, here you are, one day away from becoming someone's wife. Probably.

The thought sends a nervous flutter through your stomach. You quickly take another sip of your drink and drain it empty. Before you can swallow it, you wave a hand to order another one.

As the new round of drinks come, everyone initiates a toast for you and you cheer loudly, guessing that the alcohol is slowly taking over you.

The night carries on and more drinks appear. The dance floor fills. At some point, the strippers come out to entertain all the bride-to-be with provocative dance moves. Morgan nearly falls out of her chair laughing while your cousin is crying from laughter watching you getting a lap dance.

Laura becomes everyone's problem. Because after approximately one too many drinks, she suddenly decides she loves everyone and starts kissing them. Soon she's making her way around the entire party, kissing more people on the cheeks and foreheads. Anything within reach.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you stop thinking about tomorrow and simply enjoy tonight.

-

YOU: I've been trying really hard not to think about it as my last night before the wedding. Because if I do that... [chuckles] I'll probably spiral. So tonight, I’m just going to focus on spending time with friends and family. And the girls [grins]

-

The gentleman's club is exactly what Felix imagined a bachelor party venue would look like. The interior is mostly dark with soft amber lighting. Leather armchairs arranged around the space. Expensive liquor displayed behind a polished bar.

The low hum of conversation blending with quiet jazz playing through hidden speakers. There are pool tables, poker tables and an entire menu dedicated to premium steaks. There’s no need for loud music or strippers. Just a bunch of men drinking, eating, and pretending they're far more sophisticated than they actually are.

Felix is standing beside one of the pool tables with a cue in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Across from him, Marco lines up his shot. Jensen stands beside him, already criticizing his technique. “Your elbow's wrong.”

“My elbow is fine.”

Marco groans while Felix laughs into his drink. Nothing changes. Not even tomorrow's wedding seems capable of changing the way his friends bicker.

The ball clacks against another and misses the pocket entirely. Jensen immediately throws both hands into the air. “There it is!”

Marco points the cue at him. “You're banned from giving advice.”

Across the room, Rob is attempting to teach his brother how to play poker and it seems to be not going well. Meanwhile Jim sits at another table looking absurdly serious. Like he's actually betting a million-dollar on it instead of playing with plastic chips.

Shane leans over Felix's shoulder. “Think Jim knows this isn't real money?”

“No.”

“I don't think he does either.”

Both of them watch Jim dramatically push chips into the center of the table. The entire room bursts out laughing, including Jim. Though only after he realizes everyone is laughing at him.

Felix shakes his head, then turns back toward his friends. And finds Marco gives him that look again.

“Ask nice things only!” Felix warns him with eyes squinted.

“I was just going to ask how's married life?” Marco says with a grin.

Felix snorts. “I'm not married yet.”

“Close enough.”

Felix rolls his eyes and Jensen joins in.

“So?” Marco presses.

The grin appears before Felix can stop it. Because talking about you is easy. Always. “It’s great. She's great. We’re great,” he says with a smile that he can’t contain anymore.

Marco groans dramatically. “See? He got that smile on him.”

“What?” Felix acts oblivious.

“The in-love smile,” Jensen points out.

Felix’s face feels warm. Maybe from the whiskey. Maybe not.

"What else can I say? She’s exactly what I was looking for," he says, and this time he means it with his whole chest. “So, living with her has been really great.”

“You guys adjusted that quickly?” Jensen curiously asks.

Felix nods. “Yeah. Though she did tell me she's never lived with a man before.”

That catches both of them off guard. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Jensen looks surprised as Marco lowly whistles. “That's kind of a big deal.”

“It was and she was nervous about it,” Felix answers, chuckling softly. “Actually, she was nervous about everything.”

“To be fair, getting married is a terrifying concept,” Marco says as he stares at the pool table.

“Because you're single,” Felix easily points out.

“Exactly.”

Everyone laughs.

Felix takes another sip of his drink. Then continues. “She'd never even brought anyone to meet her parent before.”

Both of them freeze. “What?”

“So you’re the first guy she took to…?” Jensen runs out of words.

Felix nods in confirmation and smiles proudly. “The first guy.”

Jensen looks genuinely stunned. “Okay. That’s interesting.”

Then Marco asks the inevitable question. The one everyone's been asking all week. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Felix looks down at the amber liquid in his glass. Then back up. And to his surprise, the answer comes easily. “Yeah.”

There’s no hesitation, only certainty as he says it again. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He takes a small sip of his drink and then smiles. “It's all I've ever wanted.”

Both friends soften immediately. Because they know him, they know how long he's wanted this. A partner. A home. A family. A life shared with someone.

“The whole reason I signed up for this experiment was because I wanted to find my person. And I did,” he concludes with a smile.

Marco reaches over, grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a rough one-armed hug. “Proud of you, man.”

Jensen raises his glass and adds, “And we’re happy for you.”

All of a sudden, Felix’s chest feels warm and comfortably full. “Thank you, guys,” he sincerely says to both of them.

The three clink glasses, a silence toast to this tender moment.

Then Marco immediately ruins the moment. “Now stop being emotional and beat me at pool.”

Felix puts down his drink and grabs his cue. “Okay, okay, okay.”

The game resumes and the night gets louder. And somehow the hours disappear. The closer the night gets to ending, the closer tomorrow becomes. The closer tomorrow becomes, the more real it all feels. Tomorrow is the wedding and the beginning of everything.

-

FELIX: It was nice. Just spending the night with the boys and friends. They've seen me through a lot. [laughs] And tomorrow... [exhales] Tomorrow I'm getting married. It still sounds crazy. But it feels right. Just one more night. And then hopefully… she'll be my wife. [smiles]

-

WEDDING DAY

The bridal suite is empty and quiet when you get there. And that’s good. It gives you time and space to decompress and process everything.

You sit by the window with your hands folded in your lap, staring out at the garden where rows of white chairs have already been arranged beneath the morning sun. From up here everything looks beautiful like it belongs in someone else's life. Except that it’s yours. Because today is your wedding day.

The realization lands differently every few minutes. It makes you smile and then your stomach twists in the next moment. Another moment later, you feel like crying for no reason at all.

You don't know how long you've been sitting there, lost in your own thoughts, when the door suddenly creaks open. You get a little startled but immediately comforted when your mom appears.

Your mother smiles as she steps inside. “Hey, honey,” she greets, setting her handbag on a nearby table before walking over to you.

You stand automatically and the hug comes just as naturally. Her warm arms wrapped around you and then a kiss pressed to your cheek. You can smell the scent of her perfume that gives you a sense of comfort, of home. For a second you close your eyes and simply let yourself be held. Then she pulls back and guides you both onto the sofa beneath the window.

Silence settles between for a brief moment until your mother reaches for your hand, her wrinkled fingers curl around yours. “How are you feeling?”

The question shouldn't be difficult. You've been asked it a hundred times over the last few weeks. But sitting here with your mother makes the answer feel different. Because there’s no way you hide or lie about your feeling to her. You stare down at your intertwined hands and honestly answer, “I'm nervous.”

She squeezes gently and softly smiles. “That's normal.”

You laugh quietly, a little shaky on the edges. “I didn't think I'd see this day so soon.”

You glance toward the garden again and shake your head. “I’m feeling a lot of emotions right now. I’m happy. I’m excited. But there’s a part of me that’s very terrified.”

That earns a small smile from her. “A little fear is normal too.”

You nod, but there's more to it. The words sit heavy inside your chest and eventually they find their way out.

“Even a little part of me that may feel a little unsure,” you meekly add.

The room grows still. Your mother doesn't pull away. She simply tightens her hold on your hand. “Really?”

The concern in her voice is so gentle that it breaks something inside you. Your eyes sting with tears and your lower lips trembles. You look away but the tears come anyway. Hot and uninvited.

Your mother shifts closer immediately, putting a hand on the small of your back. “Don't cry, baby.”

But that only makes it worse. Because you've spent your entire life trying to be strong and independent, trying to be the person who doesn't need anyone. And now here you are, hours away from possibly becoming someone's wife. The thought feels so huge and overwhelming.

“I just—" Your voice cracks as more tears spill with the confession. “I love him. And that's what scares me. Because if I didn't care this much, it would be easy."

The image of Felix flashes through your mind. His laugh. His smile. The way he cares for you and the way he lets you care for him. The way he looks at you like you've hung every star in the sky yourself.

“I don't know what to do with that,” you manage to say with a lump lodged in your throat.

Your mother watches you the way mothers do. Like she's seeing every version of you all at once. The little girl. The teenager. The woman sitting beside her now.

"You know, being brave doesn't mean you're not scared," she softly says.

You look at her with your eyes blurry with tears.

“It means you're scared and you do it anyway.”

More tears spill over and you hate how emotional you feel. But today feels bigger than yourself somehow. Bigger than all the walls you've spent years building around your heart.

Your mother reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Whatever happens today,” she says with a warm smile, “I know you'll make the right choice.”

The tears keep falling, but breathing feels a little easier afterward. Not because you suddenly know the answer. Because you don’t feel alone in it and maybe that’s enough for now.

-

YOU: Felix has made me feel unlike any man that I’ve ever known. We truly and honestly connected on a very deep level. But right now, I’m still undecided. [softly exhales] I think I won’t really say anything until the word is out of my mouth. And regardless of what the decision is, I hope it’s best decision for me [nods] and Felix.

-

For weeks, there has always been something happening. Whether it’s family visits, wedding fittings, preparing details for the wedding. And now there is nothing left to prepare or organize. All he has to do now is waiting.

Felix sits on the edge of a leather armchair, elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the polished floor. The suit wedding suits hang perfectly on his frame. His shoes are shined. His hair is done. Everything is ready, except his mind. His leg bounces restlessly as he thinks about today and the possibility that he will either walk out of this venue married to the woman he loves— or alone.

The thought makes his stomach twist. He leans back in the chair and drags a hand over his face. God. He wishes he knew what was going through your head right now because now, the only thing that keeps replaying in his mind is the last conversation the two of you had and the way you'd admitted that you were still nervous, still figuring it out. He told himself he respected that but now he’s sitting here, alone with his thoughts, it is slowly driving him insane.

Thankfully, the knocking on the door stops him from spiraling further. Before he can answer, the door opens just enough or a head full of brown curls pops in.

“Please tell me you're not having a panic attack already,” Marco says with a grin.

The sight of his best friend somehow makes the room feel less empty and his head a little quieter.  Marco closes the door behind him and walks over.

The two of them meet halfway for a quick hug and a clap on the back. The kind of greeting that comes naturally after years of friendship.

When they pull apart, Marco studies him. “So, how are we feeling?”

Felix drops back into his chair as a long sigh leaves him. And honestly, he's too tired to pretend. “I've been calm this whole time.”

Marco nods. “And?”

Felix lets his head fall back. “Well, until today,” he admits. “And now, I feel a little nervous.”

Marco pulls out the chair beside him and sits. “What are you nervous about?”

Felix leans back on his chair and sighs. “Whether she still wants to marry me.”

Marco doesn't rush to fill the silence, doesn’t offer sympathy, but simply nods. Because there really isn't anything else to say. At the end of the day, nobody knows except you.

The room falls quiet again. Then Marco's eyes drift toward the refreshments set up near the wall. “Those drinks are for us, right?”

Felix follows his gaze, to the table stocked with coffee, juice, pastries, bottled water and wine. He breaks into laughter. “Yeah.”

Marco stands up, and sauntering his way to the table of refreshment. “Great. Cause we really need that.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s too early for that?”

Marco already has a bottle in hand. “Come on, it’s your wedding day. It’s for the nerves.”

Felix watches in disbelief as his friend uncorks it. But doing nothing to stop him. The next thing he knows, two wine glasses are filled and Marco hands one over.

Felix accepts it despite himself and the glass lightly clinks against his own.

Marco raises his and makes a dramatic toast. “To Felix. Getting off the market soon.”

Felix groans while Marco bursts out laughing. A second later, their glasses clinking anyway and the tension eases.

The wine tastes surprisingly good. Or maybe he's just desperate for something to do besides think. He stays there, sitting with his drink and trying to process everything in a calm manner now.

One wedding. One life-changing decision only hours away. And for the first time all morning, Felix feels himself breathe a little easier. Because no matter what happens today, he knows he's showing up honestly and completely himself. And maybe that's all he can do.

-

FELIX: Today is a really big day. [exhales] I don't think it's fully hit me yet. But I’m fully aware that getting married is going to change the trajectory not just my life, but also hers. We're standing at the edge of something huge. And despite how terrified I am... I still want it. [smiles] Now I just have to hope she wants it too.

-

The bridal suite feels completely different now. Earlier, it had been quiet. Just you and your thoughts and your nerves. But now, it’s a chaos of excited chatters and the hum of hairdryers with the scent of hairspray lingering in the air

Your friends who you chose as your bridesmaids are sitting next to you, getting their makeup done. Your cousin is taking pictures of absolutely everything with her baby nestled against her chest. Your mother keeps disappearing and reappearing as people fuss over dresses and accessories.

The energy is infectious and for a while, it helps to distract you. But obviously, the nerves are still there, but they’re manageable and quieter now.  You sit in front of the vanity while your hairstylist works carefully behind you. Combing and pinning, spraying. And then more spraying. When you see the mirror, it reflects a version of yourself that feels both familiar and strange.

Then your mother emerges from behind one of the dressing screens. The moment catches your attention immediately as she’s now dressed in the dress you specially made for her. She’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that has nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with who she is.

The hairstylist notices where your attention has gone and pauses without complaint, giving you a moment.

You turn your head her way and smile. “Mom, you’re not supposed to look better than me,” you playfully tease.

A hand flies to her chest and her face scrunches, flustered. “Oh, stop,” she tells you, but she’s smiling.

Your gaze travels over her dress again. “But seriously, you look beautiful, mom."

Her eyes immediately start shining and that’s not good. Because if she cries, you're definitely crying. And neither of you can afford that right now.

The room collectively agrees as compliments start flying around. Your mother waves everyone off despite clearly loving every second of it. The chaos resumes and somehow the next hour disappears. One minute you're sitting in the makeup chair. The next, you're stepping into your wedding dress.

The staff carefully help guide the fabric into place, adjusting and fastening. And lastly, smoothing the fabric to show its full potential. The train pools behind you. The veil falls into place. And suddenly everyone gets quiet.

The attendant steps back, finished helping with the dress. You slowly lift your eyes and look into the mirror. For a second, you don't recognize yourself because that’s… a bride.

Breathe. Just breathe. In. Out. You can do this. You lift your gaze again and that's when you see your mother, already crying. A handkerchief gently pressed to her eyes, careful not to mess with the makeup. “My baby,” she whispers hoarsely.

The sight nearly takes you out. Your own eyes sting instantly and you notice that around the room, your friends are no better. Their phones are out as pictures are being taken from every angle and compliments fly at you from every direction. You laugh softly despite yourself, a little overwhelmed, emotional and also, terrified. Then somebody announces it's time and your heart shakes all over again.

The room springs into motion again. The attendant does last-minute adjustments. Your friend hands you your bouquet. Your cousin helps you with the veil. Once everything is checked and ready, you take your mother’s hand. Then together, you step into the hallway and toward the ceremony.

Every step feels heavier than the last because in each step, it brings you closer to a decision that will affect the rest of your life. And suddenly the reality of that feels impossible to ignore. Within the next hour, everything could change. Forever.

-

YOU: Marriage is a lifelong commitment. It's not something you play with. I take it very seriously. And that's probably why this is so hard. Because whatever decision I make today... I'm going to live with that decision for the rest of my life. Am I going to marry this man whom I have fallen in love with six weeks ago. Or am I going to walk away to follow my own comfort and things I know?

-

The suit fits perfectly. At least that's what everyone keeps telling him. Felix isn't paying enough attention to notice. The jacket sits comfortably on his shoulders. The tie is straight. The shoes are polished. Everything is exactly as it should be. Yet, he feels like he's floating several inches above the floor. Like his body arrived at the wedding venue but the rest of him is still trying to catch up.

The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty but he keeps holding it because it gives him something to do. He lets out a slow breath and glances around the groom's suite, inhaling and exhaling air. Because in less than an hour he'll be standing at the altar.

A soft knock sounds at the door snaps him out of his head. Felix looks up to find his mother stepping in, her face brightens the moment she sees him. The smile is warm as always but he notices the tinge of sadness in it.

Felix knows from the slight redness around her eyes and the shine lingering there. His chest softens at that, because he understands what a mother would feel at a moment like this. He’s not just a man getting married. To her, he’s still her son, her baby boy.

So instead of teasing her, he stands and crosses the room. And wraps her in a hug. Her arms instantly tighten around him and his tighten back. The embrace lasts longer than either of them planned. Neither seems particularly eager to let go.

Eventually they pull apart. His mother cups his cheek briefly, looking at him and for a second, Felix feels like he’s a child again. They move toward the sofa together, sitting side by side. His mother reaches over and smooths an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve.

“How are you doing, honey?”

Felix lets out a breath. “I'm okay.”

It's mostly true.

His mother hums softly, not fully convinced. When he glances over, she's already watching him the way only mothers can. “How are you feeling? Good? Is there anything you worried about?"

Felix laughs quietly because of course, nothing can escape the woman who raised him. He drops his gaze to the wine glass in his hands, turning it slowly. “I just…” he pauses to swallow air. “I just hope she still wants the same thing I do.”

His mother's expression softens and carefully she asks, “You think she might not?”

Felix opens his mouth. Then closes it. Because the honest answer is, he doesn't know. And that's exactly what terrifies him.

His silence says enough and his mother nods slowly, thinking. Then she reaches over and gently squeezes his arm. “You know, considering the situation and how unusual all of this is...” she gestures vaguely around them. “I don't think there would be any shame if she said no.”

Felix nods immediately. Because she's right. It’s an experiment after all and everything happened so fast, so quickly. It’s understandable if either of them still need more time for a commitment this big.

“No, I wouldn't blame her,” he quickly says.

His mother's eyes remain fixed on him and finishes the sentence for him. “But you’d be devastated.”

Felix hesitates but nods anyway. “Yeah, I’d be very devastated,” his voice comes out quieter than he expects.

The confession hangs heavily between them. His mother doesn't dismiss it or tell him not to feel that way. She simply nods, validating it and understanding it.

“Of course you would. Even under normal circumstances, marriage is a leap of faith,” she says, hand finding his on his lap. “And I’m proud of you.”

Hearing that nearly breaks him because she's saying it so simply yet sincerely. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

“Thank you, Mom," he softly says.

The smile she gives him afterward is full of so many things at once. Pride. Love. Happiness. Sadness. The strange grief that comes with watching someone grow up. She reaches up and carefully brushes his hair back from his forehead just like she used to.

“It's a big day.”

Felix chuckles softly as he nods. “You ever think I'd get married?” he curiously asks.

“No,” she answers without a beat. His mother laughs through watery eyes. “It’s because you're still ten in my head.”

Felix continues chuckles but God, it feels nice that he’s loved so deeply.

The tears return before she can stop them. Her smile trembles as she says, “I'd like you to be ten again.”

Felix's chest aches. He shifts closer immediately, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Mom,” he sadly murmurs, gently wiping her eyes. “I’ll always be your son.”

That only makes more tears spill over. She laughs at herself as Felix pulls her into another hug. This time she holds on just as tightly. Neither of them says anything. Neither needs to.

Eventually someone knocks and informs that it’s time. The ceremony is about to begin.

Felix stands, straightens his jacket and tie. His mother rises beside him. Before they leave, she links her arm through his, tightly. Like she's not quite ready to let go yet. Maybe neither of them is.

Felix looks down at her, staring into her eyes with gratitude and fondness. “I love you.”

She squeezes his arm and looks at him with eyes that carry so much emotions that only mothers would understand. “I love you, honey.”

Together, they step out of the suite and toward the ceremony.

-

FELIX: In just moments now, I’m going to the altar. And she's going to walk down that aisle. And she's either going to say yes and spend our lives together as husband and wife. Or maybe [softly sighs] she'll say no [deeply inhales] and that might be the end.

-

The music starts before you're ready for it. Soft piano notes drift through the hallway outside the curtain. Next to you, your mother's arm remains linked through yours and you hold onto it a little tighter. If she wasn't here, you honestly don't know how you would manage this.

You can hear faint voices from the ceremony space beyond the curtain. Guests shifting in their seats. The officiant speaking quietly. The distant rustle of fabric. And somewhere out there is Felix, waiting for you. Your heart pounds so hard it almost hurts. You take a deep breath. Then another. You remind yourself to relax and smile. Just breathe through it.

The wedding coordinator gives you a small nod and the curtains begin to open. Your smile appears automatically, almost instinctively. Your feet start moving before your brain catches up. One step after another. The aisle stretches ahead of you, lined with flowers and faces and sunlight pouring through the venue windows.

For a moment, it's all a blur until you lift your eyes and find him. Felix. He’s standing at the altar, waiting for you. The second your eyes meet, everything else disappears and fades into the background. Because he is looking at you like you're the only thing in the room. Like you're the only thing in the world. His eyes are shining, full of affection and admiration. Full of something so overwhelming that it reaches all the way across the aisle and settles inside your chest.

And just like that, you feel calmer and safer. Like maybe everything is going to be okay. Then you notice his lower lip trembling, the way he's clearly fighting tears and despite it, your smile grows. And you continue walking until finally you reach the altar.

Your mother stops beside you and for a brief moment, it's just the two of you. She turns toward you, her eyes already glossy. She leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“I love you,” she whispers.

The words leave your mouth before you can even think. “I love you too, Mom.”

Her hand squeezes yours one last time before finally lets go.

You climb the short steps toward him, toward what comes next and the second you reach him, Felix takes both of your hands. Like he's been waiting to do that all day. His fingers lace through yours immediately, holding and grounding both of you.

And standing there, face-to-face with him, you realize something. You don't need anything else. Because he's here and somehow your racing heart finally quiets.

Felix looks at you for a long moment. His eyes travel across your face. The dress. The veil. Then back to your eyes. “You're so beautiful,” he lowly murmurs.

Your cheeks warm at his heartfelt compliment. “Thank you.”

The ceremony begins. You barely hear the officiant at first. You're too busy staring at Felix. Too busy realizing that in a few minutes, everything could change.

When it's time for the vows, Felix takes a shaky breath. Immediately, you know. He's going to cry. He starts speaking anyway.

“Every day that we'd spent together has been a blessing to me,” he begins, voice steady and confident. “There's so much I love about you and when I’m—"

The emotion eventually catches up to him. His voice cracks and tears pooling his eyes. And before he can even wipe them, you're already lifting the one you've been hiding in your hand. You gently dab beneath his eyes, careful not to ruin all the effort that went into getting him ready.

A small laugh escapes the guests and Felix laughs too, embarrassed. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It's okay, baby.”

You give him a small nod, encouraging him to continue.

He smiles gratefully and then continues. “When I’m with you, I feel like I’m the best version of myself. And yet…” he pauses to quietly inhale air, eyes steady on you. “… You always made me want to be a better man.”

His smile grows wider and brighter. His voice more certain now. “You're everything I’m looking for in a person and I feel very blessed to have you in my life.”

You proudly smile when he makes it through the rest. Every word lands straight in your chest and your eyes ting too. You squeeze his hands as you murmur, “That was beautiful.”

His smile returns even brighter and lovelier, the one that looks the best on him.

Then it's your turn and you inhale slowly while opening the paper you’ve folded and unfolded for the umpteenth time, the scribbles and crossed-out sentences. The late nights spent wondering how to put any of this into words.

Suddenly all of it feels far away because Felix is standing right in front of you, looking at you like he already knows every word before you say it. You look at him, finding the comfort in them and begin.

“I love that you make me feel comfortable being myself. No matter how flawed, weird, or broken I may have been.”

The first few lines come easier than expected and it gives you the confidence to continue.

“I'm thankful for our time together. And how beautiful our moments are. I've never had a man love me as purely and as selflessly as you have.”

Hearing that, Felix starts to tear up again. But his smile stays warm and loving.

“I’m grateful for the things that have made me unconformable and forced me to grow,” you say, voice a little shaky somehow.

“I'm grateful for you,” you finish with a smile and a certain heart.

And through the entire thing, he holds your hands tightly as if he's still amazed that somehow, against all odds, you chose him.

-

The world narrows to the warmth of your hands in his. Everything else fades into something soft and distant. Because you're standing in front of him and you've just finished reading your vows.

Felix can barely breathe. His vision blurs again despite the fact that he already cried through half of his own vows. He laughs quietly through it, embarrassed and emotional all over again, while you squeeze his hands and smile at him like none of it is strange.

The officiant gives both of you a moment before continuing.

“Now, it is the time to decide if love is truly blind. Your love developed in an untraditional way, based on an intense emotional connection. Looks, money, age and every other material things that might be important to some people, was not a factor for you two.”

Felix swallows hard. His pulse pounds in his ears. He should feel relieved. Because he already knows his answer. He's known it for weeks. Months, maybe. Ever since a voice behind a wall somehow found its way into every corner of his life.

“And today, you stand together in the presence of your family, friends and the almighty God to decide if love is blind,” the officiant pauses to look at each one of you with a smile. “And whether or not to face life together as husband and wife.  Or walk away from each other forever.”

Then, the officiant turns toward him and Felix straightens immediately, his grip on your hands tightens instinctively.

“Do you take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her so long as you both shall live?”

The answer is already there. Felix lifts his eyes fully to yours, sees the shine of tears and the tiny nervous smile pulling at your lips. Sees the woman he fell in love with without ever seeing her face. The woman who chose him again and again. The woman who sat on the other side of a wall and told him she wasn't going anywhere.

He inhales air and with utmost certainty, he answers, “I do.”

His voice cracks immediately and it gets greeted by a ripple of laughter moves through the guests.

Felix laughs too, shaking his head. Then he looks directly at you. “I do,” he repeats, stronger this time.

His thumbs brush over your knuckles. “I do because you're my best friend.”

Your eyes immediately well with fresh tears.

“I do because every day with you feels like coming home.” His own tears threaten again. “And I do because I'm not walking away from the only person I want in my life.”

A shaky breath leaves you and the smile you give him nearly destroys what little composure he has left.

The officiant smiles warmly before turning toward you. And suddenly, Felix's heart begins racing again, a little too fast now.

“And you, do you take her to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him so long as you both shall live?”

And Felix knows this should be the easy part because he knows you love him. You told him you love him. You stood beside him through everything. You forgave him when he finally told you the truth. You met his family. You welcomed them. You chose him.

But why does it feel like the floor is disappearing beneath him?

The entire room falls silent. You look at him and you keep looking like you’re still looking, still finding the answer in him. Still… undecided.

One second passes. Then another. And another. Felix feels every single one with his pulse thunders and palms dampen against yours.

This is the longest silence of his life and all Felix can do is stand there holding your hands, staring into your eyes, hoping—praying—that when you finally speak, he'll still have you.

-

The world goes quiet. You can still hear your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. But everything else fades behind the sight of Felix standing in front of you. His hands are wrapped around yours while the officiant's question hangs in the air. A simple question that needs one tiny answer and yet it feels heavier than anything you've ever carried.

This is it. No more second guessing, wondering. Only a choice. A choice that will change both of your lives forever. Your gaze stays locked on Felix's, and you see every part of him there. The nervousness. The hope. The vulnerability. The love.

You think about the pods, about the voice you fell in love with before you ever knew what he looked like. You think about the first time you saw him, the romantic vacation, moving in together. Living with him, falling asleep beside him, the way he holds you when he thinks you're upset. The way he loves you.

And suddenly, despite all the fear, despite all the uncertainty, despite how terrifying forever sounds, you realize something. You can't imagine walking away from him. You can't imagine choosing a future where he isn't there.

The answer becomes simple. Your eyes soften as a smile finds its way onto your face. And with every bit of courage you have, you answer. “I do.”

The second the words leave your mouth, relief crashes across Felix's face. It happens so quickly it's almost funny. His shoulders sag. His eyes squeeze shut. And then, of course, he starts crying again.

A soft, affectionate laugh escapes you and Felix laughs through his tears too.

The officiant smiles warmly at the two of you before continuing. “Today, you guys have definitely proved that love is blind.”

The officiant looks between the two of you. “And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Husband and wife. The words don't feel real. You hear them and understand them. But your brain can't quite catch up.

The officiant's smile widens as he looks at Felix and says, “You may now kiss your bride.”

Neither of you hesitate. Not for a second. Felix is already leaning toward you and you're already moving toward him. The kiss is full of relief and gratitude, of everything you’ve survived to get here. It feels sacred somehow. Like a promise. Like a beginning to something bigger than yourself.

When you finally pull apart, your foreheads brush. You breathlessly smile as you mutter, “We did it. We’re married.”

Felix lets out a laugh. A watery, emotional laugh. “We did it.”

Only then, you hear the applause and cheering, even whistles from everyone around you.

Felix wipes quickly at his eyes while laughing. Then he carefully takes your hand. He’s leading you down the small steps together.

Someone hands you your bouquet. You barely register who. Because you’re still processing everything. The two of you begin walking back down the aisle together, arm linked with arm, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

The guests rise to their feet. Your mother is crying. Felix's mother is crying. Your friends are cheering. And it all feels perfect.

When you finally disappear beyond the garden archway and out of sight of the guests, Felix immediately turns toward you. You barely have time to laugh before he kisses you again, harder and happier this time. Like he still can't believe you're real.

When he pulls away, his face is glowing. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you easily say back.

His smile somehow grows wider. Then he reaches for your left hand, lifts it and presses a kiss on the ring. The gesture is so sweet it nearly makes you cry all over again.

When he looks back up at you, his eyes are shining. “I'll never let you go.”

Your heart squeezes as a smile tremble onto your lips. Then you wrap your arms around him. And he immediately folds you into his embrace, holding you tightly. Like he never wants to let go either.

For a moment, the two of you simply stay there. Just you and him. The two people who somehow found each other in the strangest way possible. The two people who chose each other anyway. And now, finally—

Husband and wife.

-

YOU: I don’t think that I could have met someone like Felix any other way. I’ve been looking for him for years [laughs] And apparently, he was looking for me too. I’m glad we finally found each other. [smiles]

-

Wife. The word still doesn't feel real. Every time it crosses his mind, Felix feels a smile threatening to break across his face again. The thought follows him as he walks beside you down the hallway toward the reception hall. Your fingers are intertwined with his. Your wedding rings catch the light every now and then. And every time he notices it, his chest swells all over again.

A wedding coordinator opens the doors and the wave of celebratory noises greet both of you. The entire room rises to their feet the second you both step inside. Felix instinctively laughs and beside him, you're laughing too, looking almost overwhelmed by the reception.

The guests continue clapping as the two of you make your way toward the center of the room. He catches sight of his mother wiping her eyes and your mother isn't doing much better. Neither are some of your friends.

At this point, Felix suspects there isn't a dry eye anywhere in the venue. Not that he's in any position to judge. He cried through half the ceremony.

The cheering slowly settles. A microphone is handed to him. Immediately, his stomach flips. He looks at you and you grin which makes it worse. Because now he wants to make you proud.

Felix lifts the microphone and starts speaking. “Hi, everyone.”

A few guests cheer again.

He laughs before continuing, “First of all, thank you all for coming.”

His eyes drift toward you, standing beside him. He puts a hand on the small of your back. “A lot of people traveled a long way to be here today.”

He glances toward his family. Then yours. Then the friends who supported both of you throughout the experiment.

“And it means a lot that you came to celebrate with us. Especially because this whole thing started with two strangers talking through a wall.”

Laughter spreads across the room.

“And somehow...” His eyes return to yours. “It turned into this.”

A few people let out collective aws. You look suspiciously close to crying again. Which means Felix has to quickly hand you the microphone before he starts doing the same.

You take it with a laugh. “Hi.”

The room instantly quiets.

You look around at everyone before smiling. “Thank you all for being here. Honestly, if someone had told me a few months ago that I'd be standing here today, married... I would've thought they were insane.”

The room erupts in laughter.

“But somehow, this experiment brought me to the most wonderful person I've ever met.”

The compliment makes Felix look away immediately. Too much. Way too much. He can't handle it.

The guests laugh at his reaction.

You smile warmly at him as you continue, “And I feel very lucky that I get to call him my husband.”

A collective chorus of aws fills the room again. Felix presses his lips together, trying not to cry. Again. Once the speeches are over, the wedding cake is wheeled into the center of the room. Together, you take hold of the knife. Your hands overlapping and cut through the first slice.

The room applauds again. A photographer captures approximately a thousand photos. Felix carefully lifts the piece of cake and feeds it to you. You take the bite obediently. And you feed him back. No sabotage. No teasing. And just like that, another round of applause fills the room.

The celebration continues afterward and through all of it, Felix keeps finding himself looking for you. Every time he sees you, the same thought returns.

My wife. His favorite thought in the world.

-

FELIX: She has everything I’ve dreamed about in a partner. [softly sighs] I’m just so thankful that we got to meet each other through this experiment. I fell in love with her without ever seeing her. It's amazing to say that she's my wife [grins] I’m happy I locked it down [laughs]

-

It’s time for you and Felix’s first dance. He takes your hand and leads you to the center of the dancefloor. Soon, music fills the room and the two of you begin swaying your bodies to the soft, slow beat of it. The lights above cast everything in a soft golden glow.

For a moment, neither of you move. You simply look at each other in both awe and disbelief. You instinctively step closer as his arm tightens around you. Your free hand settles against his chest, right above his heart. You can feel it beating beneath your palm.

There was a time when you only knew his voice. A time when you sat on the other side of a wall wondering what he looked like, if he was real, if a connection like this could survive outside the pods. Now, you're standing here in a wedding dress and in his arms. Married.

Felix looks down at you the same way he always does. Like you're something precious and worth protecting, worth choosing every single day.

Your chest aches in the best way possible. The kind that only comes from being loved this deeply.

“I love you.” His voice is barely louder than the music. Barely louder than the sound of your own heartbeat. Yet it reaches every corner of you.

“I love you too,” you say it back naturally, immediately.

Felix leans down, kisses you so softly and tenderly. A kiss that says everything without words. When he pulls away, neither of you moves very far.

Your foreheads almost touch when you look up at him, at your husband. And suddenly, you can see your future in his eyes.

You laugh quietly before asking, “So… what’s next?”

A grin immediately spreads across his face, a mischievous one. The one that always gets him into trouble. “Seven kids,” he says rather matter-of-factly.

You stare at him. Then immediately burst into laughter. A loud, genuine laugh that makes him laugh too.

“Minimum,” he playfully adds, looking entirely serious. Which somehow makes it even funnier.

You shake your head, still laughing. Then nod. “Seven kids it is.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“No.”

You both laugh and the sound mixing with the music around you. The joy. The relief. The excitement. All of it feels endless. You lean forward and kiss him again, just because you can and he’s yours. When you pull away, you gently rest your head against his chest. His arms immediately tighten around you, holding you close.

The two of you continue swaying together and for the first time since this journey began, there is nowhere else to be. Only this. The beginning. You listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and for once, your own heart is quiet. Because from now on, you're no longer facing life alone.

Today, your life together begins. And that feels less frightening than it ever did before. Because whatever comes next— The good days. The difficult days. The ordinary days. The extraordinary ones. You'll face them together, hand in hand, just like this. As husband and wife.

-

YOU: Six weeks ago, I was extremely skeptic but at the same time, hopeful. I kept an open mind. But I honestly did not expect for things to get this far. I mean, that was my hope and dream, but this [softly exhales] is bigger than anything I could have ever imagined. I'm just grateful for everything. [grins] This experience and experiment truly change my life. So yeah, I absolutely believe that love is blind. [smiles]

-

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[yubinism]

oh the wedding was so beautiful 🥹 it moved me to tears with the ending, and this series was one of my favorites of eff. you’ve worked so hard, effie and have delivered such a beautiful series. always going to be proud of my talented writer🤍

[seospicybin]

LOVE IS BLIND.

PART THREE

Felix x reader. (s,f)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Felix are contestants in a social experiment where singles meet and date in private pods, allowing them to communicate without seeing each other. (16,7k words)

The hotel path curves along the coastline, the morning breeze soft and salty against his skin, but there’s this heaviness sitting quietly over everything now. The kind that settles in once something beautiful is about to end. Or maybe not end. Change. But that sounds scarier somehow.

Felix keeps his hand in yours the entire walk down to the farewell brunch. When the two of you step into the restaurant, a server comes with a tray of mimosas. He takes two flutes and hands one to you. The other couple is arriving not long after, filtering in through different entrances with sleepy smiles and sunglasses perched on noses and the glow of the vacation clinging to their faces.

However, Felix also notices the slightly subdued mood hanging over the room. Nobody wants to say it out loud, but this is it. It’s the last, last moment before everyone stepping back into reality. The last moment before jobs and phones and responsibilities and outside opinions. The last moment before things become real in an entirely different way.

Felix pulls your chair out for you first before taking the seat beside you, immediately draping an arm along the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly rubs your shoulder while everyone else is still settling into their seats.

Rob leans back in his seat first, glancing around the table. “So… how’s everyone feeling about vacation ending and going back home?”

“I’m ready for it,” Shane answers almost immediately with a wide grin. “I’ve loved this entire experience, but I kind of want to see if everything works in the real world too.”

Across the table, Sonya smiles softly into her drink. “I feel torn. I want to stay here forever, but I’m also excited to introduce everyone back home to Rob.”

Rob practically melts beside her, not hesitating to give Sonya a quick peck on the lips.

Then Jim cuts in, brushing his hair to the back before putting on a hat over it. “It’s weird how everyone feels so familiar already.”

Morgan snorts beside him. “That’s because we all dated each other.”

The entire table bursts into laughter.

Felix laughs too, head dipping slightly as he squeezes your shoulder closer into his side.

Then Morgan points directly at you. “What about you, honeymoon couple?”

You immediately smile, already fighting laughter. “To be frank, I’m not ready to share Felix yet. I don’t know if I ever will.”

Felix’s entire face lights up so fast it almost hurts his cheeks.

You continue, jokingly dramatic, “I might just stay here and keep him with me forever.”

Felix is hit with a severe cuteness aggression. He doesn’t stop himself from leaning in, placing a big kiss on your cheek.

You laugh in amusement, shoulders scrunching as the rest of the table erupts into teasing noises.

“She’s right though,” Felix says easily, pulling you even closer. “I don’t mind staying here forever.”

Your smile softens at that and for a second, everything feels suspended again, warm and safe until the two hosts arrive.

The entire table straightens when they stand at the end of the table, putting on an elegant stance and politely look at everyone.

“Good morning, everyone!” The male host begins with a bright smile. “Hope you've enjoyed your romantic getaway.”

You shift on your seat, body slightly facing the two hosts now and Felix drops his arm around your waist now as he steals another quick kiss on your temple.

“In this blind love experiment, you guys chose each other. You fell in love, and then you got engaged to the person who is now your fiancé before ever seeing one another,” the female host continues, smiling just as brightly. “You've had an amazing opportunity here to begin to grow your emotional connection into a physical one.”

“I'm guessing some of you had more fun with that than others,” the male host teases while running his eyes at the faces around the table.

There’s a wave of guilty laughter, everyone exchanging knowing glances and smiling secretly to each other. On the other hand, Felix gently rests his chin on your shoulder, catching you holding your laughter in. And yeah, the two of you feel called out by that. But no guilt whatsoever.

The male host clasps his hands together in front of him. “Now it's time for you to leave this paradise and start building your lives together,” he pauses for a dramatic effect before. “Each of you will move into a new home. A neutral space for you guys to deepen your relationships. But it's important that you continue to support each other when you go back home.”

The female host takes over by further share the rest of the announcement. “Each couple is going to be moving into the same complex.”

It takes Felix a moment to process it but the male host emphasizes it as he looks at everyone, hands gesturing toward the table as he announces, “Meet your new neighbors!”

The table erupts in all kinds of responses, but mostly in surprise.

Felix bursts out laughing as Jim cracks a joke about feeling sorry to whoever lives next to him because it’s going to be a little noisy at night.

“Oh, this is going to be messy,” Shane mutters, already entertained.

Felix glances at you, smiling when he sees your amused expression.

The light, playfully atmosphere evaporates in a second when the female host turns a little serious before she speaks. “Your wedding are three weeks away,” she announces, there’s a firmness in the edge of her voice.

Felix instantly feels the way your body stiffens beside him for a fraction but it’s enough for him to notice, enough for him to immediately start rubbing slow, soothing circles against your arm.

“In the pods, you guys all built an amazing foundation. And if you make it through these tests,” she pauses to fix the strand of hair caught in her glossy lips from the sea breeze. “Your marriage is going to move forward on extremely solid ground. We're giving you the absolute best chance for lifetime success. But will you allow opinion of family and friends, the allure of other people, the distractions of social media to sabotage your wedding? Your happiness?”

The whole table seem to hold its breath as the two hosts taking turns talking about how the rest of the show is going to be with an edge to their voice that it suddenly feels like a high-stake gambling instead of a dating show. 

“This is all part of the experiment,” the male host seamlessly takes over. “Will you judge one another for your looks, your age, your family or your circumstance? Will any of that really matter?”

His angular face turns tense as he firmly asks, “Or love will be enough? Is who you are on the inside enough? Are you enough?”

Felix asks himself those questions in his head. He has no doubts about you and he senses the same conviction in you, but no one truly knows what you exactly you feel inside or that your heart will remain rooted. He nervously scratches his neck, feeling his pulse under the skin.

“Ultimately,” the female host effortlessly manage to raise the tension even more. “In front of your family and friends, you're going to decide will you say ‘I do’ to the person you chose sight unseen? Or are you going to walk away from them forever?”

Firmer, she asks the one big question, “Is love blind?”

Felix gently holds your waist because all of a sudden, he feels like you’re about to slip away. But you’re there, placing your hand on his and loosely lacing your fingers together.

The male host breaks some of the tension with an encouraging smile and says, “We hope that you prove it is.”

The hosts finally come to the end of the announcement, smiles tugging at their lips now.  “Everyone, we wish you a safe trip back home and good luck on your wedding plans!”

With that, the two hosts step away, leaving everyone to enjoy the brunch. Conversation slowly starts up again around the table, but Felix barely hears any of it because he’s looking at you.

You stare down at your drink for a moment too long, clearly thinking. Overthinking, more like.

His thumb brushes softly against your arm again until you finally look at him. The second your eyes meet, Felix gives you the gentlest smile he can manage. “It’ll be great,” he murmurs quietly.

Words don’t seem sufficient, so he leans in and kisses you softly. Slow enough for you to feel it. Long enough for you to breathe again.

And when he pulls away, a smile slowly blooms on your face.

“How about a toast? Everyone?” Jim suggests, already raising his glass of mimosa in the air.

Everyone doesn’t respond but follow suit, getting their drinks to the center of the table and clinking their glasses together, toasting for what they’ve survived and for what’s coming their way.

-

FELIX: I think everyone’s just… really in their heads right now. Because this is the scary part, yeah? Back there, in the pods and on vacation, it’s easy to focus only on each other. But now real life is coming. I think some people are thinking too hard already instead of just embracing what they feel. I don’t know about other couples but… [softly smiles] I know what we have. I’m sure we’re making it to that ‘I do.’

-

The hotel suite feels strange already with your suitcase lying open on the bed like the room already knows you’re leaving.

You’re folding clothes with slower, almost reluctant movements, your fingers lingering over fabrics before placing them neatly inside the suitcase. Outside the balcony doors, the ocean still glimmers under the afternoon sun, beautiful and cruel for continuing like nothing’s changing.

You don’t want to leave. Not really. Because once this ends, reality starts. No more waking up tangled in Felix’s arms with nowhere else to be. No more endless hours together with no phones, no work, no distractions pulling at either of you. Just you and him. Only you and him. And maybe that’s why your chest feels heavier with every piece of clothing you fold.

The room stays mostly quiet except for the rustling of fabrics and the occasional sound of zippers. You know Felix notices it from the way he keeps glancing at you while packing his own suitcase but he doesn’t force you to talk or explain yourself. He understands and just lets you feel it. And that makes you love him more.

Once he finishes packing, he straightens from beside his suitcase and looks over at you.

“Need help, baby?”

“Actually, yeah,” you answer as you glance up at him and manage a soft smile. “Can                                                                                                                                                                                                 you please grab my makeup bag from the bathroom?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He crosses the room immediately, pressing a quick kiss against your shoulder as he passes behind you. It’s such a small thing yet it melts something in you anyway.

You continue folding another sweater while he disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later he returns holding your makeup bag triumphantly in one hand.

“Need help with anything else?” he offers.

You laugh softly. “No, thank you.”

He hands it to you before settling himself on the edge of the bed beside your suitcase, naturally picking up one of your shirts and beginning to fold it neatly on his lap. Silence settles between the two of you for another moment before the thought slips out of you before you can stop it.

“Once we go home…” you start quietly, fingers pausing over one of your dresses, “we’re not going to get to spend this much time together anymore.”

Felix looks up immediately, a little confused by what you said.

You rush to explain before the sadness settles too deeply in your voice. “I mean—we still can. Obviously.” You let out a small chuckle. “I just…”

Your shoulders lift slightly. “I’m going to miss this. This ‘just us’ thing.”

He nods slowly as he smooths his hand over the folded jacket before placing it carefully into your suitcase. “We’ll still have that.”

You look at him then and see the certainty in his eyes, the calm smile he gives you like he genuinely believes every word he says and somehow… you do too.

He reaches over and helps you zip the suitcase shut before lifting it off the bed effortlessly and wheeling it toward the door. Then he turns back to you.

“Ready?”

You immediately shake your head while laughing under your breath. “No.”

Felix smiles softly at that and walks back toward you until he’s standing right in front of you.

Then he takes your hand in his, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist. “Let’s just take it step by step.”

He leans in and kisses you gently. When he pulls away, he softly adds, “Together.”

And then he kisses you again.

Your heart aches so badly from how loved you feel that all you can do is smile brightly against his lips. A little emotional. A little nervous. But excited too.

Eventually, the two of you grab your suitcases and drag them behind you toward the door. You take one last look around the suite, reminiscing moments the two of you shared in this very room and then take Felix’s hand in yours.

And together, the two of you leave the hotel suite.

-

YOU: I’m sad that we’re leaving. [pouts] [laughs] I’m still nervous about going back home, obviously. But I think I’m more excited now. And also, curious. I really want to see what our life looks like outside of all this. [smiles]

-

From the airport, all of the couples get into a minibus. Everyone looks tired in that specific way that comes after too much traveling and too many emotions at once. Some couples lean against each other sleepily while others stare out the windows at the city slowly returning around them.

Reality. It’s here now.

Felix sits beside you with one arm stretched comfortably around your shoulders while your head rests against him. Every now and then, he glances down at you just to check on you. You always catch him doing it too and every time, you smile a little.

By the time the minibus finally pulls into the apartment complex, the sun is already beginning to set, painting everything in warm orange light. Everyone slowly piles out with luggage and tired excitement while production staff hand them back their devices and keys to their shared apartment.

Felix takes both of the larger suitcases immediately before you can even reach for one.

“I can carry one,” you protest automatically.

“It’s okay. I’ll do it,” he easily says with a smile.

You insist on carrying his backpack for him in return and he lets you.

The two of you eventually make your way to 8th floor and walk down the hallway together until you stop in front of your shared apartment door. You stand there fumbling slightly with the keys before finally getting the right one, and right before unlocking the door, you glance over your shoulder at him with the brightest grin on your face.

“Ready?”

With hands still holding Felix immediately smiles back. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Your grin somehow widens even more and then you turn the handle and push the door open.

The apartment lights are already turned on, revealing a clean, modern space with wide windows, soft lighting, and just enough room to actually feel like a home instead of a temporary setup.

You keep the door open while Felix wheels both suitcases inside and then the two of you just… Look at each other and simultaneously let out low excited noises.

“Oh my god,” you lowly gasp, excitement overriding your exhaustion for at least a moment.

“This is nice,” Felix says, eyes sweeping around the room.

The kitchen catches his attention first. Bright countertops. A proper stove. Enough counter space.

“Oh, this kitchen is sexy,” he blurts out absentmindedly.

You laugh loudly from somewhere near the living room. “Did you just call the kitchen sexy?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever,” you shrug nonchalantly. “I’m sexier.”

He grins at that but you suddenly grab his hand and tug him toward the bedroom instead.

The second you push the door open, the two of you linger on the doorway, just looking at the sight of the plush, neatly made bed, comfortable and inviting.

The two of you exchange a knowing glance and Felix notices your expression change mischievously before you place both hands against his chest, gently pushing him backward toward the living room.

“Let’s eat first,” you insist through laughter. “I’m starving.”

Felix lets himself be pushed willingly. “Fine.”

A little while later, takeout containers are spread across the dining table while the two of you quietly eat side by side. Neither of you talks much at first. The exhaustion from the flight and the long travel day settles heavily now that everything’s finally still again.

Felix watches you sip your water before you glance around the apartment thoughtfully.

“I like it,” you murmur with your eyes scanning the space. “I think I like it more because it’s new and clean though. Everything’s still tidy.”

That makes Felix snorts and look at you curiously. “Are you a very organized person?”

You chuckle like you’re guilty. “I just don’t like clutter.”

Felix nods slowly while chewing his food and honestly, he already knows that about you from the way you packed your suitcase.

You look at him, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “Are we going to have problems?”

He quickly swallows first before answering. “I think I’m pretty organized.”

You nod approvingly at that. “You are a chef after all.”

Exactly. Cleanliness basically comes with the profession. Then Felix points his chopsticks at you slightly. “But how organized are we talking here?”

You laugh in guilt again before leaning back in your chair. “I hope it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

That answer does not reassure him at all. Felix slowly grabs his soda can and lifts it without drinking yet. “Depends,” he carefully says, a teasing smile tugging at his small lips. “Are you going to make me unpack my suitcase tonight?”

You burst into laughter immediately. “No. We don’t have to unpack tonight.”

Felix visibly relaxes. “Then we won’t have any problems,” he easily concludes and finally takes a sip of his soda.

You laugh at that and the sound fills the apartment so warmly that Felix already feels at home.

-

FELIX:That’s the point of living together, right? We’re going to learn a lot about each other. Learning each other’s habits, routines, little quirks and figuring out how to balance all of that together. I think that part is important, yeah? Hopefully without me getting yelled at for leaving my suitcase unpacked for too long. [laughs]

-

The apartment already feels lived in somehow. Not because the suitcases are still sitting by the hallway or because there are half-empty takeout containers spread across the dining table, but because Felix is in it. Because his laugh keeps bouncing off the walls. Because every few seconds, he reaches for you without even thinking about it.

You finish the last bite of your dinner while he gathers the containers and tosses them into the bin. You join him there, leaning your elbows against the counter while watching him move around the kitchen like he belongs there already.

Felix opens a bottle of wine next, pouring the crimson liquid carefully into two glasses before handing one to you. “To our new place,” he says with a warm smile.

“To our new place,” you softly echo, gently clinking your glass against his.

The wine barely touches your tongue before Felix suddenly reaches for his phone, aims the camera at you and—

Click.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Taking pictures of my beautiful fiancé,” he simply answers.

Your heart aches in the softest way at that, like it hasn’t fully sink in yet that you are indeed his fiancé.

He candidly snaps another photo of you sitting on the kitchen stool, wine glass in hand, hair slightly messy from the long day. You lift the glass to cover half your face. “Stop—”

Click.

“Felix!”

Click.

He is absolutely shameless about it too, grinning behind his phone while taking more pictures anyway.

“You look cute,” he says casually, like that explains everything.

“No,” you groan in disagreement. “My hair is a mess from hours of flight.”

Felix keeps laughing to himself and then places a gentle hand on your waist, “Come, babe. Let’s take one together.”

Your annoyance melts almost immediately at his sweet coaxing. “Okay.”

You slide off the stool and stand beside him while Felix stretches his arm out with the phone. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you snugly against his side and you smile instinctively at the contact.

The first few photos are of you and Felix smiling to the camera, making cute and silly faces next. At one point, the photos become blurry because Felix starts laughing halfway through.

And for the last one, you turn your face toward him just as he looks down at you and the kiss happens naturally. But it still leaves warmth blooming across your cheeks when he lowers the phone.

Felix scrolls through the photos with the fondest smile you’ve ever seen. “These are cute,” he murmurs.

You sip your wine again to hide your own smile.

Felix glances up from his phone and carefully asks, “Do you mind if I call my mom?”

“No, you can’t call your mom,” you say, feigning seriousness but it only lasts a few second before you break into soft laughter.

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he dials the number. “I’ve never gone this long without calling her.”

Your heart melts a little at that as you stay perched on the stool quietly while he waits for the call to connect.

The second his mother picks up, his entire face lights up like sunlight spilling through curtains. “Mum,” he says warmly.

You can faintly hear her voice through the phone, asking Felix the kind of questions mother would to her son. “Are you okay? Have you been eating properly? Are you taking care of yourself?”

Your chest aches unexpectedly at how soft they sound together, how affection dripping in the way they talk to each other.

Felix leans against the counter while talking to her, smiling the entire time. He tells her bits and pieces about the trip. About the apartment. About finally being back home. And then—

“Yeah, I’m here with her right now.”

Your stomach flips instantly as he mentions you, his hand holding yours on the counter.

Felix glances toward you with a smile before suddenly putting the call on speaker. “She’s great,” he says as he looks at you.

Then he adds, completely serious, “She said she makes good omelets and I knew I had to marry her.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. You cover your mouth to muffle your laughter while glaring at him.

Felix only grins harder and on the phone, his mother laughs warmly. “That sounds about right.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath while Felix chuckles proudly.

“She’s right here,” he tells his mother before looking at you. “Say hi.”

You suddenly feel shy for absolutely no reason. Still, you lean slightly toward the phone. “Hi,” you sheepishly say.

His mother’s voice turns immediately gentle. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I’m doing great,” you answer politely.

“And?” she asks teasingly. “Did you find your dream man?”

You glance at Felix and he is already staring at you. You softly laugh before answering, “I hope so.”

His mother laughs warmly at that while Felix’s grin turns almost unbearably smug. “We’ll visit you guys soon,” he tells her.

“Oh, we can’t wait to see you.”

The conversation continues for another minute before Felix finally says, “We just got back, so I think we’re going to rest now.”

“Well then, you’d better some sleep then,” his mother says fondly.

“Love you, mom”

“I love you, son.”

And listening in on their phone call, suddenly you understand exactly where Felix gets his gentleness from.

The call ends shortly after. Felix sets his phone down before turning toward you again.

You’re still staring at him, softly and fondly. You don’t stop when he notices it.

“So…” you mutter, a little too seductively than you planned. “What’s next?”

Instead of answering, he takes both wine glasses from your hands and places them onto the counter. Then before you can even process it, he scoops you up into his arms.

A startled squeal leaves you immediately as your arms fling around his shoulders, clinging to him.

He laughs while carrying you toward the bedroom and pushes the door open with his shoulder. You’re still laughing when he drops the two of you onto the mattress, the bed bouncing underneath your bodies.

Felix immediately hovers above you, blond hair falling into his eyes slightly as he looks down at you with pure affection and mischief tangled together. Then he mutters very seriously, “It’s time to break this bed.”

You burst into laughter and you’re still laughing when he leans down then kisses you.

“And bless the place with our hot and passionate love,” he murmurs.

You laugh harder against his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt as he crashes his lips on yours again. This time, a little deeper, hungrier, stealing all of the air in your lungs. You gasp when he lets go but it’s only to bury his mouth in your neck, kissing you there.

“Mmh, baby…” you softly moan and the sound echoing in the shared space.

-

YOU: The honeymoon might be over… [mischievously smiles] But I think the honeymoon phase is still very much happening.

-

The steering wheel creaks softly beneath his grip as he drives, sunlight flickering through the windshield. Beside him, you're comfortably settled in the passenger seat, absentmindedly playing with the engagement ring on your finger. The sight makes his chest warm, but unfortunately, it doesn't do much for the nerves currently eating him alive.

You eventually turn your head, looking at him, looking at him long enough that he’s sure you notice something on him. Then your hand reaches for the nape of his neck, playing with the hair there.

“Babe, you’re nervous,” you say, not a question, just a fact.

Felix glances over and lets out a laugh despite himself. "You can tell?"

“Yes. Unclench your jaw, please!” you say with a low chuckle, hand moving there to gently cup his jaw.

A few seconds later he finally sighs. “Maybe, I am. A little.”

That earns a snort from you. You lean in to his side, eyes narrowing with suspicion glinting in them. “Why? Do you have something to hide?”

Felix pokes his cheek with his tongue and points dramatically. "You're about to find out I don't."

"That only makes it suspicious."

"You're suspicious."

You laugh at that and affectionately cupping his chin with your hand before slowly letting go as he makes a turn into his neighborhood.

The houses become more familiar now and Felix unconsciously slows the car. A minute later he pulls into the driveway. He notices the way you look at the front of his house.

“I think it’s cute,” you comment with a smile tugging at your smile.

“Yeah?” Felix asks, nerves declining by three percent at that.

You look at him with a brighter smile. “Yeah.”

Before you can reach for the door handle, he's already getting out and opening the door for you. He's holding out a hand to help you step out of the car and you take it without hesitation, your fingers slide into his.

Together you walk up the short path toward the front porch. The keys jingle in his hand as he takes it out of his jeans pocket. He glances over his shoulder, finding you looking around with open curiosity.

With that, Felix unlocks the front door and then steps aside. "After you."

You flash him a smile before stepping in and take slow steps further inside.

Felix has never been this aware of his own house before. But now, every little thing suddenly feels important. He follows closely behind and notices that a few of his things are not where they belong — his gym bag resting on top of the shoe cabinet, jacket lying on the sofa, the door to the laundry room is open, exposing the laundry spilling out of the dryer. He grimaces at the sight of it and can only hope that you don’t see it.

Then you stop there, in the middle of the living room and turn around to look at him. “You actually have furniture,” you say, gesturing dramatically around the living room.

The audacity. Felix dramatically gasps at that. "I’ll try not to be offended."

You chuckle at that before leaning in, placing a quick kiss on his cheek as an apology. Then you point toward the kitchen. "I thought you slept in there, cuddling with your pans and skillets.”

Felix doubles down. “What?”

“You know, like a kitchen goblin,” you say.

The living room receives only a brief inspection before your eyes find the staircase. “I can safely assume your bedroom is upstairs,” you say, eyebrow quirking up in mischief.

"You want to see the bedroom?”

"Maybe."

He snorts and then leads the way upstairs. The nerves are still there, but it’s manageable now because every reaction so far has been good. Or at least entertaining.

Felix inhales air as he turns the knob and pushes the door open to his most personal space — his bedroom.

You step in and take your time to look around the space. You glance at his bed and then nod once. “You made the bed. That’s good.”

The judgment in your voice is devastating yet he laughs anyway. "The bar is that low, huh?"

You nod without hesitation and then disappear into the bathroom next to do further inspection.

Felix doesn’t have to worry about that so instead of following you, he grabs a backpack from his closer and starts gathering a few things to pack for him to bring to the shared apartment — notebook, chargers, a few more clothes. By the time he starts folding everything together, you join him in the closet.

"So many hoodies," you comment, hand grabbing the sleeve of the hanged clothing.

Felix doesn't even look up. "Yeah."

A second later, he hears the clinking of hanger and when he turns, you're holding the oversized black hoodie. One of his favorites of all things.

"Can I borrow this?"

"Yeah,” he answers without a beat.

You grin at that. “Do you know that 'Borrow' means I'm claiming it forever.”

Felix grins widely. "That's fine."

"Really?"

He zips the backpack shut and then looks directly at you. "What's mine is yours, remember?”

The smile that spreads across your face is soft and bright. Dangerously cute. You clutch the hoodie dramatically against your chest.

"No takebacks."

"No takebacks,” he repeats, leaning down and presses a quick kiss against your temple.

Once he made sure he packed everything he needs, the two of you head out of the bedroom only for Felix to stop again when he sees the door to his study room.

“Oh, I need to get my laptop too."

You follow him into the smaller room at the end of the hall and the second you step inside, Felix realizes something too late because your eyes immediately land on the gaming setup.

You slowly turn toward him. “So… you’re into gaming?”

Felix already knows where this is going. “Yeah…” he drags the word a little before he adds a little more certainly, "Maybe a little."

"A little?" Your eyebrows rise and then glance at the three monitors, the keyboard, the headset and gaming chair. Then look back at him.

"Okay, okay,” he says, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Maybe more than a little."

"Thought so,” you cheekily say with a sly, victorious smile.

He leans against the desk. "This is how I unwind."

You nod and casually drop into the gaming chair. One of the stress balls immediately catches your attention. You pick it up and squeeze it in your hand.

"Are you good at it?"

Felix scoffs even though the question is harmless at all. "I’m pretty great."

You lean back on his gaming chair and squeeze the stress ball again. "Then why do you have a tray full of stress balls?"

"Gaming can be stressful.”

You stare at him and then break into laughter. The sound fills the room instantly. "How do you unwind if gaming stresses you out too?"

Felix points at the setup. "More gaming."

Your laughter grows louder and the look on your face says everything. The skepticism is a little brutal.

He shrugs. "It works, you know."

You don’t say anything to that and he finds it a little unsettling. Because he can’t tell if you find his gaming habit a good or a bad thing. Or neither?

Felix decides not to overthink it and jokingly says, "I should bring the setup to our apartment."

Your head snaps up, eyes immediately find his. "Don't you dare."

The horrified glare you're giving him is priceless and Felix nearly falls off laughing.

“Felix!” you call with a scolding tone.

“I’m kidding,” he assures you but his hand reaching for the portable game console on the desk.

And somehow, you only watch as he puts it into his bag and he takes it that you have no problems with his gaming.

-

FELIX: Showing somebody your personal space is weird. It's one thing for someone to know you emotionally. It's another thing for them to see how you actually live. I didn't want her to walk in and suddenly think less of me because of my furniture choices or my gaming setup. [softly laughs] But I think… I think it went really well. [smiles]

-

The second you and Felix make it downstairs, you drift toward the kitchen like you've lived in his house for years. Or at least like you've earned visitation rights. You open his fridge, inspecting it like you’re searching for clues and he quietly laughs behind you.

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know."

You inspect the contents anyway, looking at the ridiculous amount of ingredients and various sauces. Several containers neatly labeled. Everything arranged with the kind of organization only a chef would maintain.

You take something wrapped in a clear Ziploc bag. “What’s this?”

Felix calmly answers, “It’s vanilla sticks.”

“Oh?!” you lowly gasp, slightly intrigued. You rip open just enough to take a sniff of the vanilla scent. “Isn’t it expensive?”

“Yeah. You’re holding $400 worth of it,” he answers with a sly grin.

Your eyes widen at that and slowly putting the plastic bag into the fridge, looking the slightest bit horrified.

Felix laughs at that but it slowly dies down the second he watches you move toward the pantry next. You pull open the door and then—

"Oh my God."

He reaches you in two long strides. "What happened?" he innocently asks.

You stare at the shelves and point at the stack of boxes. "Why do you have boxes of snacks and drinks?"

Felix presses his lips together, holding himself back from laughing. He follows the way your eyes glancing at the boxes stacked neatly against one wall. Another stack beside it. And another. And another.

You point dramatically toward the opened box, exposing the canned drinks inside. "Do you like this that much? Or was it on sale?"

The look you give him makes him unable to contain his laughter anymore. After a while, he finally admits, "When I like something, I buy it in bulk."

You stare at him for a second then look at the shelves again. Then back at him. “Okay… Yeah, I can see that."

His laughter fills the pantry. He grabs two can of the sparkling juice and hands on to you. “It’s good,” he says, his tone reassuring.

You pop it open and take a sip. You nod once and take another sip. "Oh, yeah. It’s good."

Felix beams immediately. "Right?"

“I understand completely.”

He looks at you and carefully asks, “Should we bring a box of them to the apartment?"

“Yeah, definitely,” you answer without hesitation.

A little while later, you're walking back toward the car. Felix has a cardboard box tucked an arm and another balanced against his hip. Meanwhile you've somehow ended up carrying his backpack for him.

Together, you put everything to the back of the car before driving to your place next. you navigate the way there and when Felix turns into your neighborhood, his gaze shifts toward the houses.

“It's quiet.”

“I like quiet,” you say with a smile, leaning back into your seat. "I'm very protective of my peace."

Felix nods thoughtfully. “I can tell.”

The closer you get, the more nerves begin creeping into your stomach. Because your home is small and simple, but very much yours. And you suddenly are aware that someone else is about to see it. Someone who matters to you.

The car eventually stops at the side of the streets and you take a breath, then another. Felix notices but says nothing, he just waits and patiently follows you as you lead the way to your house. You try not to think much as you unlock the front door and push it open, stepping in to keep the door open for him.

For a second, he just looks around, taking everything in. The warm lighting. The plants. The carefully chosen furniture. The neatly organized shelves. The little touches that make the space feel like home. His smile grows and grows until he finally looks at you.

“This is exactly what I imagined.”

“Really?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says while nodding and gesturing around. “It’s warm and cozy.”

You narrow your eyes and Felix only smiles. Then he glances around again before adding, "It's also so tidy that I'm scared to touch anything."

You can’t help but laugh at that.

His gaze sweeps over a shelf. "I feel like if I move one thing, you'll know."

Your laughter continues but then, all of a sudden, something orange launches itself across the room.

Felix nearly jumps out of his skin. "What was that?!"

You scoop up the culprit before he can make a second attack. The orange tabby meows indignantly. “This is Gnocchi,” you announce proudly.

Felix places a hand over his heart. “Gnocchi tried to kill me.”

“He was saying hello,” you playfully answer, then your eyes narrow for a fraction. “Are you allergic to cats?”

“No.”

You nod in approval. “That earns you extra ten points.”

"Only ten?"

"Don't get greedy."

The cat decides he's done being held. You barely have time to react before Gnocchi launches himself free and lands dramatically on the sofa. Felix watches him settle in and then offers his hand. Or rather, his knuckles. Allowing the cat to investigate. Gnocchi gives him approximately two seconds of attention before completely ignoring him.

"Wow," Felix flatly says in rather disbelief.

“Uh-oh, you’ve been rejected," you teasingly say.

Felix only nods in defeat and calmly says, “That’s okay. We still have time to get to know each other.”

The tour doesn't take long as there’s only so much space to cover. But Felix seems genuinely interested in every room and reacts accordingly. And for the last one, you take him to your little studio where you design your handmade jewelleries.

Felix lingers on the doorway for a moment, just taking it in. His eyes scanning around in quiet awe, glancing at the mood boards pinned carefully on the wall, containers full of charms and beads and chains. And the tools that is organized into its place in a wooden shelf.

For some reason, this moment makes you weirdly emotional because this room feels the most personal to you. A part of yourself most people never see. But Felix looks at it like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Eventually you move toward a tray and pick up a bracelet, one of the design samples you made.

"Here. Wear this,” you say, unclasping the chain to put it on for him.

He doesn’t say anything but holding his hand out at you. “You made it yourself?” he curiously asks.

"Yeah,” you answer with a smile as you fasten it around him before letting it go and watch how the bracelet settles around his dainty wrist.

He lifts his wrist and examines it, turning it slightly beneath the light. Then he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes. “I love it.”

Your chest warms at that. “I’m glad,” you answer with a bright smile.

His gaze lifts, softly gazing into your eyes. "Thank you."

Before you can respond, he leans down and kisses you on the lips, softly and slowly. When he pulls away, he's still smiling.

“I’ll cherish it forever,” he mutters earnestly.

And when you look at the bracelet again it looks exactly right on him like it belongs there. Like he does.

-

YOU: I'm kind of a loner. [sheepishly laughs] I don't invite people over very often. Actually, I almost never do. Having your own space becomes part of your identity after a while. Especially when you're used to being on your own. And having Felix there… [softly sighs] I realized that I could just give up my personal space forever. That’s a little scary. But I don't want to get trapped in my head about it. So for once... I'm going to listen to my heart. [smiles]

-

The house is quiet, the comfortable kind. A lamp glows softly from the corner of the room, washing everything in warm amber light. Felix sinks deeper into the corner of your sofa, one arm stretched comfortably along the backrest while a half-finished glass of wine rests in his other hand. And you are sitting beside him with your legs tucked underneath yourself, nursing your own glass of wine. Your cat is somewhere nearby, probably hiding behind one of the potted plants, likely plotting violence.

It's simple, ordinary and yet, Felix can't stop smiling.

Your place is small. Objectively speaking, it is. But it doesn't feel cramped. It feels warm and comfortable. And safe.

It feels—

"You."

The word leaves his mouth before he even realizes he's spoken.

"What?" you say, feeling summoned.

"This place,” he says with a soft chuckle. "It feels like you."

A smile immediately tugs at your lips. You take another sip of your wine and then narrow your eyes at him playfully. "So... you want to live here?"

The answer comes before he can think about it. “Yeah.”

Your laughter bursts out instantly. You shake your head, amused. “This place is way too small.”

Felix looks around dramatically. “I fit.”

"You fit,” you say, pointing at him and then you gesture between the two of you. "But we don't."

Felix snorts. "Yeah, okay."

“And you need a proper kitchen to function,” you add with a sly smile.

"Then you can move in with me,” he suggests so casually like this is just a dinner plan and not a long-term one. But he likes how easy it feels between the two of you.

You don't immediately dismiss it either. Instead, you hum thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

Felix smiles at that and then a bit later, you add, “But if we're having seven kids, we'll need a bigger house.”

He quietly smiles because you thought of it like the seven kids plan is not just a mere inside joke anymore. That it’s there, listed in one of the long-term plans.

"Guess we'll have to buy a farm,” he easily, playfully resolves.

The image alone makes him grin. A giant farmhouse. A kitchen bigger than some apartments. Children running everywhere. Farm animals roaming around outside.

You laugh at his answer but something thoughtful takes over. "Honestly... Yeah, why not? At some point, we'll probably need a bigger place anyway.”

He smiles at that, because the thought of building a life, a family with you makes him content with immense joy.

But all of a sudden, your expression dims just slightly. “But I’m afraid it’ll take time for us to afford it.”

The earnestness in your voice catches his attention. He sets his drink down and then reaches for your hand. You let him take it, fingers automatically settling between his.

Felix rests your joined hands on his lap and carefully asks, “What do you mean, baby?”

A small laugh escapes you before you begin talking. "When I started my business... I took out a loan."

Felix nods, intently listening and giving you all of his attention.

“And before you panic,” you pause to let out a chuckle. “My credit score is good."

He offers you a smile and you smile back at him. “Business is going great, yeah?” he warmly asks, not pushing.

“Yeah. It’s great. It’s just…” You glance down at you glass of wine before continuing. “I still have about two years left on it. It'll probably take time before we'd qualify for something bigger. You know, like a farm."

The room grows quiet but not the kind that is uncomfortable. It’s actually the opposite because both of you feel safe to have this kind of conversation.

Felix squeezes your hand gently and carefully asks, “Are you struggling with it?”

You look at him and calmly answer, “No. I’m good. I just want you to know that.”

Felix nods and his smile deepen at that. He puts his other hand on top of your joined hands. “I trust you can manage it on your own. But I’d appreciate it if you share or when you need my help.”

It takes you a moment to finally nod. “Okay,” you answer with a smile.

He brings your hand to his lips and places a sweet kiss on it. “Well figure it out,” he mutters with a smile. “The seven kids. The farm. We'll figure it out together.”

The smile that slowly appears on your face makes his chest feel lighter. Like maybe he said exactly what you needed to hear. Before either of you can say anything else, a blur of orange launches onto the sofa and directly onto your lap. The cat circles twice before settling dramatically.

Felix watches Gnocchi. Gnocchi watches Felix. The rivalry remains alive.

You scratch behind the cat's ears. Then glance toward Felix. “You know... Your biggest concern right now isn't a bigger house."

Felix narrows his eyes at the feline creature, suddenly they’re in a heating staring contest. "No?"

You shake your head. Then point at the cat. "It's getting him to like you."

"I thought we were making progress,” Felix answers without looking away, not willing to lose.

Gnocchi immediately turns his back to Felix as if proving your point.

You burst into laughter and Felix groans dramatically. "Okay,” he groans, pointing at the cat. "This is personal."

Gnocchi burrow deeper into your lap and remains completely unbothered.

-

FELIX: I think conversations like that are really important. The romance is still there. But now you're talking about real things. Houses. Loans. Finances. Future plans. And I appreciate how open she was with me. She didn't try to hide anything, didn’t avoid the conversation. Because if we're going to build a life together, we need to be able to have those conversations. There's still a lot for us to figure out. But hearing her be open and honest with me... It reassures me. It makes me feel like we're a team. [softly smiles]

-

19 DAYS UNTIL WEDDING

The apartment is quiet when you step through the front door. But mostly, there is the absence of Felix. You knew he would be late. He told you on the phone nearly an hour ago and even then, you'd caught the exhaustion in his voice.

So you showered, changed into comfortable clothes. Washed your face. Finished your skincare routine. Brought a notebook with you and sit curled on the sofa, listing down wedding preparations.

Somewhere along the way, waiting for him became your favorite part of the day. Once in a while, you glance at the clock. Then back at the page. Then at the clock again.

The moment you hear keys rattling outside the apartment door, you're already getting to your feet. Your heart does that ridiculous flip like it always does now.

The door eventually opens and the exhaustion is evident on his face but there he is. His shoulders droop slightly beneath his jacket. His hair is a little messy. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes. But the second he sees you standing there waiting for him, his entire face lights up like someone switched the sun back on.

“Hey, baby,” he says with a wide grin.

You smile immediately. “Hey, you…"

He doesn't even make it three steps inside before you're opening your arms and he walks right into them.

“Welcome home,” you murmur.

His arms wrap around your waist instantly and you feel him press a kiss against your cheek. Then another. Then one near your jaw. “Missed you,” he mumbles.

“Missed you,” you softly echo then press a light kiss on his jaw.

He finds your lips first, kissing you softly but somehow, it takes the edge off the entire day.

When he pulls away, you reluctantly loosen your hold on him. But you keep your hand on the nape of his neck, playing with the hair there. "How was work?"

Felix groans dramatically. "Tiring. Fun but tiring."

You smile because that answer sounds more like him.

"How about you? How was your day?"

"It was okay."

"Just okay?"

You shrug as you look up at him. “It’s better now.”

He hums knowingly before leaning in and kissing your lips again, longer than the previous like he’s making up for the hours being apart from you.

The two of you eventually drift toward the living room together, hands lacing together. Felix drops his bag beside the sofa and rolls his shoulders.

“Are you hungry?” you ask.

"Kind of. Yeah.”

“I can make you something,” you offer with a smile.

He smiles back at you and rubs your arm. "You don't have to. You're probably tired too."

"I'm not,” you assure him.

"You worked all day."

"And you've been cooking for other people all day so the last thing you want to do is… cook," you say, making a valid point that he can’t deny.

He starts laughing before you even finish. "Okay."

“Husband 101,” you tell him with a pleased smile. “Trust that the wife is always right.”

Felix grins at that. “But babe, we’re not married yet,” he retorts.

You glare at him but it does nothing but makes him break into deep, warm laughter. "What do you want to eat?"

Felix pretends to consider it seriously and a while later, a mischievous smile appears. "I want your sad omelet."

Your jaw drops and stare at him, offended. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

He breaks into laughter and then cups your face with both hands. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says with an apologetic smile.

But then you start laughing too while lightly slapping his chest and mutter, “You're unbelievable.”

"You love me,” he mutters back, pulling you into a hug.

Unfortunately, he's right. You hug him back before pulling away just enough to look at him and sigh dramatically. "I'm making fried rice."

"Can it come with sad omelet?" he teases more.

You narrow your eyes. "Keep talking and you’ll have my fist for dinner.”

“I’d better stop before things get too violent,” he jokingly says. He leans to press a quick kiss on your lips.

"I'll be right back,” he murmurs when he pulls away and then he escapes before you can properly scold him.

Coward. You smile as you watch him disappear into the bedroom.Then you walk to the kitchen to get late dinner started.

The apartment feels lived in now. Shared. You smile to yourself as the fried rice sizzles in the pan. And despite all the worries that still linger in the corners of your mind, you feel strangely calm.

The sound of Felix’s footsteps snaps you out of your head and you glance up to find Felix already dressed in a white t-shirt and dark sweatpants. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower.

“Please, sit down,” you tell him with a smile. “Dinner is almost ready.”

Felix flashes you his bright grin as he pulls a chair and then sits on it, patiently waiting and watching you plating the fried rice. And honestly, you feel a little nervous still about serving the food to him. Afraid that the chef in him won’t approve.

“Fried rice,” you say, serving the plate in front of him.

An eyebrow raised in question. “And the—"

Before he can finish his sentence, you put a smaller plate next to his fried rice. “And the sad omelet,” you say with a subtle eyeroll.

“There it is,” Felix brightly says before putting an arm around your waist and gives you a side hug. His eyes filled with loving glint when he looks at you and sincerely says, “Thank you, baby.”

Your heart does that stupid thing again. The one it only does for him. You tenderly brush his hair to the back and hold it there. “You’re so very welcome.”

A few minutes later, the two of you settle at the dining table. You take the chair next to him, resting your chin on your hand while watching him, waiting for his reaction on the food you cooked in anticipation.

Felix scoops up a bite of fried rice, brings it to his mouth and chews. His expression changes almost suddenly. His eyebrows knit together.  His mouth twists.

You immediately sit up straighter. "What?”

He says nothing and keeps chewing, but the grimace deepens.

Your eyes narrow in slight panic. “Is it… is it bad?”

He looks at you with a serious face and holds for exactly one second longer before he bursts out laughing. “It’s good. It’s good,” he assures you.

You groan and throw a napkin at him, but he catches it effortlessly while still laughing, still looking at you like you're his favorite person in the world and that makes everything worth it.

By the time Felix finished with dinner, the apartment has settled into its usual evening quiet.

The dishes are done. The lights are dimmed. You disappear into the bedroom and change into your nightdress before brushing your hair one last time in front of the mirror.

When you return to the bedroom, you expect Felix already there but the bed is cold. With a sigh and a smile, you pad back into the living room and sure enough, he’s there, sitting on the sofa, playing on his portable game console, completely absorbed. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. His thumbs move rapidly over the controls.

You walk over quietly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Baby, you're not tired yet?”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, he answers immediately. “I'll only play for a bit. Is that okay?”

You hum and then drape an arm across his chest from behind. Leaning down, you press a coaxing kiss against the side of his neck. Another near his jaw.

His shoulders visibly relax at that. “Mm.”

You smile against his skin. “Are you coming to bed soon?”

This time he finally pauses the game. He reaches up and places a hand over yours, turning his head just enough to meet your eyes. His smile is soft and fond when he says, “I’ll be there soon.”

You study him for a second and understand immediately. He needs this to unwind from the day, having a little space between work and sleep. So you lean down and place a sweet kiss on the top of his head. “Don't stay up too late, yeah?”

"I won't."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

You narrow your eyes in suspicion.

Felix breaks into laughter. "I'll be there soon," he promises once more.

"Okay."

With that, you reluctantly let him go and head back to the bedroom.

The room is dark when you slip beneath the blankets. At first, you try scrolling through your thoughts, trying to force sleep to arrive. It doesn’t'. Because somewhere out in the living room, the deep voiced man starts groaning in frustration.

“AHH!”

You close your eyes, still trying to sleep and then—

“OH, COME ON!”

You bury your face in your pillow and a few minutes later, comes another groan, another frustrated complaint or a dramatic sigh. You can hear everything because you keep the bedroom door ajar and every sound travels perfectly.

Wonderful.

Eventually the apartment falls quiet again and you’ve been lying there, wide awake. And soon, you can hear his footsteps approaching and then the creak of the bedroom door opens. Then mattress dips as Felix settles beside you.

When he snuggles up to you, only then does he realize your eyes are open. "Babe, you’re awake?"

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you against his chest. "Did I wake you?"

You slowly turn your head toward him. "What do you think?" You ask while continue staring him in the eyes. "How could I sleep when you're out there screaming for your life?"

Felix immediately starts laughing. His forehead drops onto your shoulder. "Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"Was I really that loud?"

You playfully glare at him. "What? With that deep voice of yours?”

His laughter grows worse and softly, he says, "I'm sorry."

You turn on the bed, facing him now and place a hand to cup the side of his face. “You know I don't mind you playing games.”

“I know.”

“But you're tired.”

Felix nods. “Yeah.”

“And it's late.”

“Yeah.”

“You worked all day.”

“Yes.”

“And instead of resting, you're screaming at game characters.”

His shoulders shake with another laugh and then his voice softens as he apologizes once more. “I'm sorry, baby.”

You try very hard to stay annoyed but the problem is that Felix looks entirely too cute when he's apologizing with his slightly pouty lips and doe eyes. You huff dramatically at him. "And because of you, I can't sleep."

A grin immediately appears on his face. “That’s easy,” he lightly says as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. "I'll just have to help you fall asleep."

You raise an eyebrow at that, knowing where this is going especially with the way his hand glides down the curve of your ass. "Don't even try to get lucky."

His grin returns as he leans forward and presses a light kiss against your lips. When he pulls back, his voice is warm. "I'm marrying you soon."

And before you can think of a response, he lands another brief, tender kiss and then adds, "I couldn't get any luckier than that."

Just like that, the argument evaporates.

You hate when he does that.

You love when he does that.

-

YOU: I think it's really important to talk about things right away. Not every disagreement needs to become a huge problem. If something bothers me, I'd rather say it. And Felix is really good about that. [smiles] He's open. He's willing to listen. And he's willing to apologize when he's wrong. I think we communicate really well. [nods] And knowing we can talk through things before they grow into something bigger makes me feel really secure in this relationship.

-

Felix can't stop looking at you. Your naked body painted in warm glow of the bedside lamp, the sheets are tangled around your legs, one of the pillows half-stolen and tucked beneath you, and somehow the sight hits him harder than anything else ever could. Not only because it's provocative, because it’s you, trusting yourself to him.

You glance over your shoulder, immediately catching him staring. A smile curves across your lips. “What is it, baby?” you lowly speak, almost like a mewl.

Felix reaches forward and brushes your hair away to the side, allowing him to land a kiss on your bare shoulder. “I just like looking at you,” he mutters against your skin.

Your smile widens.

"That's a dangerous thing to admit."

"Why?"

"Because now I know."

He laughs quietly. The sound is low and fond. "I think you've known for a while."

You don't deny it. Instead, you reach for him, an arm curved around his neck and pull him down, just enough for you to kiss him. “You don’t have to try so hard. You’re marrying me soon,” you tease, lips grazing his as you speak.

Instead of responding, he crashes his lips against yours again and a moment later, he slowly pulls away. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles beside you, a hand trailing down your spine.

He looks at you, eyes widen and brimming with admiration as he takes the shape of you. With that pillow tucked under you, your ass is raised higher than the rest of your body, presenting him that arousing sight of your wetness opening. His hand finds your waist automatically, angling you just right as he aligns his cock with your entrance.

“Oh, baby…” his voice somehow deeper and rough around the edges. “I don’t think I can hold myself back anymore.”

Thankfully, he’s already put the condom on before anything else, knowing that his patience would get in the way sooner than later. Slowly, he pushes himself into you with a steady grip on your waist.

A raw groan spills out of his parted mouth at the way you’re welcoming him. The warmth. The closeness. The tightness. It’s overwhelming and yet, he can’t get enough. Will never get enough.

His grips on your waist tighten as he pushes more into you, muttering broken profanities in between hisses and rough groans. He pauses with his length half disappeared into you, needing a second to collect himself.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck, hastily kisses the skin there before pressing his mouth close to your ear. “How do you always take me well, mmh?”

There’s no answer. Only breathless moans coming out of your mouth and muffled by the pillow. You somehow able to arch your back, launching him deeper into you.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, teeth faintly biting at your shoulder. He reigns himself fast, not wanting to let go. Not yet. Not this quick.

Yet, Felix thrusts the remaining length into you in one swift push, making you both gasp at the sudden fullness, the heat.  The air between you thick with the kind of intimacy that has nothing to do with words. His back pressed against your back, mouth pressed against your neck while yours is into the pillow.

Neither of you says anything for a moment. But at one point, you prop your elbows against the mattress and drop your head to the side.

Felix doesn’t waste a second to indulge on your exposed neck, lathering the sensitive skin with haste, hot kisses. His hand goes under, cupping at your breast in gentle fondles. You curve an arm around him, hand tangled in his blond locks.

“Can’t get enough of you, baby,” he mutters into the skin before hastily capturing your lips in a deep, rough kiss.

When he’s calmed enough, only then he begins moving, thrusting into you from behind, slowly and steadily, barely making any noise. But the quiet that hangs in the room only adds to the mounting tension.

Felix closes his eyes, centering himself. He props his hands on each side of you, fingers loosely clawing at the sheets as he keeps the pace, still as slow but with more intensity. When he glances down, he finds you looking at him. Your mouth slightly parted, eyes soft and wide, filled with more than just lust but also affection and admiration. He feels something in his chest tighten because God, he’s never been loved like this before.

You slowly blink and your eyes are still on him, still with the same fondness. “You feel so good, baby,” you murmur with an almost sleepy smile.

He slowly leans down, placing a long, lingering kiss on your lips. “I know, baby,” he mutters against your lips when he pulls away. “Cause you feel good around me too.”

Felix lowers himself on top of you, propping against his forearms now as to not let his whole weight on you. His head is once again buried his head in your neck as he keeps thrusting into you, his pace quickening while you're tightening around him. He knows you’re close, knows it from the way he feels like he’s being sucked deep into you.

When you tilt your head up again, your eyes are a little hazy. “Felix, baby, I don't think I can hold it anymore,” you whine.

Felix only smiles before kissing you and keeps kissing you even though you barely kissing him back, too overwhelmed by the pleasure. “Just let go, yeah?” he murmurs, rolling his hips in pulsating motions now, deeper and harder.

Soon enough, you’re clenching, fluttering around him. Your body tightens and loosens in the next second as the waves of pleasure washing over you. His hands finding yours and lacing them together, holding you through it.

“That’s it, baby,” he mutters, hot breath ghosting your neck. “Come around me. Just like that…”

Even with your eyes still clouded with pleasure, you find his immediately when you turn your head his way. “Want you to come, babe,” you mumble, a second from crashing your lips against him.

With that, Felix continues moving, slowly chasing his high with his body still tangled with yours. Somehow, you’re more sensitive than before, breathlessly moaning in every thrust, fingers gripping the side of the pillow. But it’s the way your velvety walls clinging to him that undoes him.

His hips stuttering, the pace turns sloppy until eventually, Felix loses all of the control and just… let go. The growl that rips out of him is raw and rough, almost animalistic. With the pleasure still rushing through hi, he collapses on top of you, an arm coming under and around you, holding you tight as he kisses your bare shoulder and neck and at last, your lips.

“I love you.”

The words tumbling out of his mouth so naturally and it feels right.

Your eyes soften, lips curving into a fond smile. “I love you too, baby.”

The answer lands somewhere deep inside him. Somewhere permanent. He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to your lips. The kind that says more than words ever could.

The rest of the world can wait. The wedding can wait. Reality can wait.

Tonight it's just the two of you wrapped up in warmth and affection and the growing certainty that whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

-

FELIX: I know it won't always be sunshine and rainbows. There'll be disagreements. Arguments. Moments where we annoy each other. But what makes me feel good is knowing we talk things through. And honestly, that's what gives me confidence. Because every time something comes up, we end up understanding each other better afterward. [smiles] So yeah… if we happen to make up with a great sex afterward... [chuckles] I'm not complaining. [nonchalantly shrugs]

-

The wrinkles between your brows deepen when you stop at a red light. You don't even realize you're doing it until a warm hand settles over yours where it rests on the gearshift.

You glance sideways and finds Felix is already looking at you. Not saying anything. His fingers squeeze yours once before letting go.

The bouquet of flowers rests on his lap, the box of pastries balanced carefully beside him.

He looks ridiculously handsome for someone who's only going to meet your mother and somehow that makes you even more nervous. You deeply inhale and focus on the road, driving through the familiar streets, familiar turns.

“So, what do you think your mom's reaction is going to be?” Felix asks, probably trying to distract you.

You let out a small breath, then shrug. “I think she'll be excited.”

“Yeah?”

A smile tugs at your lips at the thought. “Mostly because she'll finally think I'm settling down.”

That gets a laugh out of him and you can see him loosening up.

Then you add, with a playful smile. “Though she's probably not expecting any of this.”

Felix glances over. "What do you mean?"

You wince. "Well..." you pause and laugh nervously. “I might have told her I was leaving for a business trip.”

His head snaps toward you. "You what?"

You burst out laughing. "It sounded better than telling her I was disappearing to marry a stranger."

His mouth falls open. “So, your mom doesn't know? About the experiment?”

You shake your head.

Felix looks absolutely stunned. “Oh my God. We’re just dropping an engagement on her.”

You grip the steering wheel tighter. "Please stop reminding me."

His laughter fills the car and despite yourself, it eases some of the tension sitting heavily in your chest. Until the neighborhood appears and you feel like you’re being transported back to when you were younger except that now the roads seem narrower and the houses seem smaller.

You glance toward Felix wondering and worrying if he'll judge you from it. You admit that it isn’t the most ideal neighborhood to raise a child in. But when you sneak another look at him, he's staring out the window with genuine curiosity and nothing else.

By the time you pull into the driveway, your palms are sweating. You put the car in park and the silence settles immediately. Neither of you moves for a brief moment and then you look at him.

Felix flashes you a comforting smile even though you know he’s just as nervous as you. But there’s excitement there too. Then he gathers the bouquet of flowers and the box of pastries he insisted on buying because for some reasons, he believes your mom would love it.

“I’m ready,” he says with a bright and hopeful smile like he’s genuinely happy to be here.

You smile back at him, hoping that it’s equally bright and hopeful. “Okay.”

And suddenly it doesn't feel quite so terrifying.

Together, you climb out of the car and walk toward the house. Your hand trembles slightly when it closes around the doorknob and you quietly laugh to yourself. You take a breath and then push the door open.

Immediately, familiar voices drift toward you. You immediately find your mother sits at the dining table with your aunt beside her. Your cousin in the kitchen with her baby balanced on her hip. Three heads turn at once when you come into their sight.

"Mom,” you begin, voice slightly shaking.

You take another step forward and behind you, Felix quietly follows. Close enough that you can feel his presence. Far enough that he's letting you take the lead.

You greet everyone first, giving quick hugs and cheek-to-cheek kisses, and exchanging pleasantries in between. Then finally, you turn toward Felix and everyone's attention land on him.

"This is Felix," you warmly introduce with a smile.

You notice almost everything — the way your aunt's eyebrows shoot upward, the way your cousin tries to keep her cool. But your mother… she looks confused by his presence.

To not let awkwardness gets in the way, you quickly introduce everyone back to Felix and he politely greet each one of them with such warmth and charms. And when you finally introduce your mother, he straightens almost immediately like the way people do when meeting someone important.

"It’s really lovely to meet you,” he says to your mother with the brightest smile you ever seen on him.

Your mother looks surprised and you believe it’s mostly because such deep voice come from such a small body. Then the two exchange a brief hug.

Felix carefully hands over the flowers. “I hope you like it,” he sweetly says.

Your mother’s face softens instantly and her lips curl into a soft smile, genuinely touched. “Oh. These are beautiful.”

"And these too," Felix says, placing the box of pastries on the table.

Your aunt shamelessly complimenting what a handsome man he is and Felix is visibly flustered by it. But as soon as it gets quiet, you realize there's no avoiding this anymore.

Your mother notices how nervous you are and asks, "What is going on?"

You laugh nervously and swallow air before speaking. “Remember that business trip?”

Your mother nods slowly.

“Well...” You glance at Felix and then back at her. “It wasn't exactly a business trip.”

Immediately, her face scrunches in confusion. Your aunt looks intrigued. Your cousin invested in this more than the baby babbling for her attention.

“I actually joined an experiment. A social experiment. And...” you pause because suddenly, your throat feels dry and your heart pounding as your eyes slowly drifting toward Felix’s. “And I met someone.”

Your mother gets quiet for one second too long and you look down at your left hand, holding it out to her. The engagement ring glints under the afternoon sun.

There’s a gasp, a shout and they’re all in disbelief. Your cousin’s mouth hanging open as she bounces the baby in her arms while your aunt slaps a hand over her mouth. And your mother's eyes widen so much you think they might stay that way forever.

“You're engaged?” The question comes out as a whisper like she genuinely doesn't believe it.

You nod, grinning despite yourself. "Yeah."

And you figure that it’s best to share the rest of the news with them so you add, "And we're getting married in eighteen days"

That gets everyone talking at once. Your mother looks completely overwhelmed. She reaches for your hand, pulling it closer and examining the ring. She turns it slightly under the light and all of a sudden, her eyes fill with tears.

“Mom, why are crying?” you lowly ask.

Her fingers tighten around yours as she keeps staring at the ring. Then at you. Then at Felix.

You genuinely don't know what she's feeling. Is she happy? Sad? Shocked? Overwhelmed? Maybe all of it at once?

All you know is that your mother is crying and this is the first time you’ve seen her like this.

-

YOU: This is completely uncharted territory for me. I've never brought a man home to meet my mom before. And now the first guy I bring home is apparently my fiancé. [chuckles] I genuinely can't tell what she's feeling. She's just started tearing up when she knows. And I don't know if those are happy tears, shocked tears, angry tears, or all three at the same time. [smiles] So... [shrugs] We'll find out.

-

The dining table is crowded with teacups, half-eaten pastries, and lively conversations. The bouquet he brought sits in a vase your mother somehow found within minutes of receiving it. Felix likes being among your family. He likes it because he can see where you come from.

Everything is going surprisingly well until your mother looks directly at him and he immediately knows he's about to be interviewed.

“Is he reliable?”

You groan beside him. “Mom.”

“Is he financially stable?”

“Mom,” you repeat, dragging the word out this time.

"What?" she says unapologetically. “I need to know if he can take care of you.”

You sigh dramatically. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Your mother ignores you entirely. “That’s beside the point.”

Under the table, Felix reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze and your fingers immediately curl around his. and also, he expected those questions and he doesn’t mind at all.

"I work full-time," he answers politely. "And yes, I'm financially stable."

"He's a chef, mom," you add with a proud smile.

Your mother nods slowly. Not convinced. Not unconvinced either. Just quietly processing. She folds her hands together on her lap and then comes the next question.

“Why are you marrying my daughter?”

The room quiets except for your cousin's baby who is still making tiny noises in her baby stool. But everyone is listening, everyone is paying attention.

Felix takes a slow breath and then looks at your mother. Then at you. You look nervous which strangely makes him feel calmer. “It's because of how she makes me feel,” he easily answers.

Your mother's expression softens as Felix continues talking. “When I'm with her, I feel like the best version of myself.”

His thumb tenderly caressing the back of your hand under the table. “She makes me feel settled."

He glances down at your joined hands. “At ease.”

Then back up. “And once I realized that, I knew she was someone I wanted beside me for the rest of my life.”

Your aunt immediately lets out a soft coo, completely smitten. "Aww…"

Your cousin nods approvingly while you look seconds away from melting into your chair.

Meanwhile, your mother studies him carefully. Still evaluating. Still deciding. “You know, she's had it tough because it was just the two of us.”

Felix's smile fades into something gentler, he intently listens knowing that there’s more to it.

Your mother glances toward you, her voice wavers as she adds, “And she’s been hurt— we’ve been hurt.”

You lower your eyes, pressing your lips together into a thin line. A tell that you’re holding yourself back from crying.

"As a parent, that's my biggest fear,” she says, her voice somehow quieter than before. “I don’t want her to experience the same hurt like I did.”

Your mother wipes quickly at her eye with the back of her hand, embarrassed by the tears.

Felix's chest aches because he understands your mother’s worries. This is her daughter, the person she spent years protecting, the person she loves the most.

“I think you raised an amazing girl,” he softly, earnestly says.

“I know,” your mother answers without a beat. “She's smart. She works hard. She’s confident in herself. Though, she can be very stubborn at times.”

The whole table burst into soft laughter while you point accusingly at your mother. "Mom!"

Felix shakes his head fondly. Then looks at your mother again. “When I met her, I knew she was already a whole person.”

Your eyes immediately find his and continue to look at him with fondness brimming your eyes.

“I wasn't looking for someone to complete me. And I'm not here to complete her either.” He squeezes your hand again. “I want to build a life together with her.”

Your mother stares at him for a long moment and tears begin pooling in her eyes again. She points a finger at him. “You'd better take care of her.”

Felix doesn't hesitate to answer confidently and without the slightest of doubt, “I will.”

Your mother nods. Then glances toward you. “Because that's my baby right there," she says, voice breaking in between words.

Felix turns his head to the side and sees that you are already crying. Tears shining in your eyes. His heart nearly explodes with mix of emotions by it.

He manages to steadily look into your mother’s eyes. “I know,” he says softly.

Under the table, he squeezes your hand once more. This time you squeeze back.

Your mother turns toward you. “What about you? What did it for you?”

You quickly wipe your eyes as the entire table shifts their attention toward you. You laugh nervously and then shrug. “Our conversations were easy. We just clicked.”

You glance at Felix, fond eyes and a shy smile. And his stomach flips. Every single time.

“And I thought he'd make a really good best friend.”

Your mother nods at that.

Then you add, “And an even better husband.”

The table erupts in a wave of coos. Felix’s hand flies to his neck, absentmindedly scratching the skin there. His cheeks heat, flustered.

You laugh seeing his flustered state but continue talking anyway. “The craziest part is I didn't even know what he looked like.”

Your cousin's eyes widen at that. “You said yes to his proposal before seeing him?”

You grin and nod.

Your aunt looks horrified but invested in it. “So it’s all based on conversations? And hearing each other?”

“Yes.”

Everyone exchanges weird stares with each other while both you and Felix are laughing because, honestly, hearing it out loud still sounds ridiculous.

“That actually sounds like the right way to find a man,” your mother playfully says.

The entire table bursts into laughter. Even Felix. Especially Felix. Because in the span of an afternoon, he thinks he might actually be winning your mother over.

-

FELIX: I knew meeting her family was going to be important. Her mum wants the best for her. Of course she does. So I wanted her mum to like me. Because if I'm going to marry her daughter, I want her family to feel confident about that. I want them to know I'll take care of her. I think it went pretty well. [smiles] But if her mum doesn’t approve… That would be very, very tough.

-

The barbecue starts before sunset. By the time the sky turns orange and purple above the apartment complex, music is already playing from someone's speaker, drinks are flowing freely, and the entire park smells like grilled meat and charcoal. It's nice to be with the other couples again like a real neighborhood gathering rather than a reality dating show.

Felix naturally migrates toward the grill the second he sees it. He knows that that is his expertise and rises to the occasion. And you don't think anyone is surprised either.

He's standing beside the barbecue now, sleeves rolled up, tongs in hand, carefully turning pieces of meat while Morgan assembles everything onto paper plates before distributing it to everyone.

Across the lawn, Rob is attempting some ridiculous beer-drinking stunt while Shane films it on his phone. Sonya is dancing. Laura is laughing. Someone misses a beer pong shot so badly it nearly hits a bush. It’s a chaos. Warm, familiar chaos.

And somewhere along the way, you get a little too generous with your alcohol consumption. Now you're curled up on a garden chair with both feet tucked beneath you, a drink balanced precariously in your hands, watching the party through pleasantly blurry eyes.

Jim eventually drops into the chair beside yours, nursing a bottle of beer and from the flushed cheeks, you can tell that he’s just as tipsy. Though somehow still looking considerably more sober than you.

He takes one look at your current position. “You okay there?”

“Very.”

“You look like a folded lawn chair.”

You snort into your drink.

Jim grins and then slumps on his chair. “How's living together been?”

You look across the park, at Felix who’s now grilling skewers while talking animatedly with Shane now. The sight warms your heart in the best way.

“It's been great,” you honestly share. “I’m still struggling though. Because I used to live alone.”

Jim immediately understands. “Yeah. It’s an adjustment.”

You stare down at your drink and maybe it’s the alcohol that loosens something inside you and the careful way you normally package your feelings. And because it's Jim, because he’s one of the few people who might actually understand the feeling.

“Being in love is terrifying,” you blurt out.

Jim takes a sip from his bottle. Then nods. “Yep.”

You softly laugh and it’s mostly because you're relieved he didn't look at you like you were crazy. “The more in love I am with Felix... The more scared I get.”

A crease formed between Jim’s eyebrows. “What are you scared of?”

You glance across the lawn again and see Felix laughs so hard now he's doubled over slightly while Rob demonstrates whatever stupid thing he's trying to do with the ping pong ball.

The sight makes your chest squeeze because he looks happy. Because you love him. Because that's exactly the problem.

“That something's going to screw it up.”

Jim immediately raises a hand, stopping you from talking. “No. We’re not going to do that,” he says while shaking his head.

You ignore his warning. “The happier I get, the more I think about losing it.”

“No.”

You laugh. “Will you let me finish?”

Jim points at you. “You can't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Catastrophize.”

You wrinkle your nose and open your mouth, but nothing comes out. But your smile fades a little. Because the fear is still there.

“It just feels... It feels too good to be true,” You look down at your lap. “And I've never been this happy.”

The barbecue party is still going and yet suddenly everything feels very small. But it’s just you and your fear of something that probably won’t happen at all. “I can't afford to lose a love like this.”

Your voice cracks slightly but you continue anyway. “If I did… It would fucking destroy me.”

For once, Jim doesn't immediately joke. He just sits there, looking at you. Then he reaches over and puts a hand on your shoulder. “You've gotta stop putting that much pressure on it.”

You look at him and his voice stays gentle as he adds, “If things are working, then let them work.”

The simplest answer in the world and somehow the hardest one.

“If you’re happy, then be happy. Enjoy it. Embrace it,” he says, hand squeezes your shoulder once. “Because you finally deserve it.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Your eyes sting and you quickly blink it away. Then give him a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Jim.”

And across the lawn, Felix glances over as if he can somehow feel you looking. His face immediately brightens when he spots you. He lifts a pair of tongs, waving it at you.

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens.

-

YOU: I don't know. [softly laughs] Everyone keeps telling me to enjoy it. And I am enjoying it. But sometimes I get scared. I keep waiting for something to go wrong. Because I just... [heavily sighs] I can't seem to get over this feeling that I don't deserve any of it. But I'm trying. [smiles] I'm really trying.

-

The beer pong game is an absolute disaster. Mostly because you are no longer taking it seriously. Not that you were particularly competitive to begin with, but now you're standing beside Felix with both arms wrapped around one of his, cheek pressed against his shoulder while Laura and Shane patiently wait for you to take your turn.

“Babe.”

“Hm?”

“It's your throw.”

“Oh.”

You glare at the ping pong ball in your hand as though you've never seen one before. Then you throw it.

The ball bounces nowhere near the table and everyone bursts into laughter.

You immediately hide your face against Felix's shoulder. "Oh my God."

The rest of the game continues much the same way. You miss shots. You keep stealing kisses from him between turns. At one point, you forget whose team you're on. And every time Felix says anything remotely funny, you laugh like he's the funniest person who has ever existed. Instead of annoyed, he finds you adorable.

Thankfully, the party wrapped up not long after and one by one, everyone begins saying their goodbyes before heading to their respective apartments.

Once the two of you get into your shared apartment, he carries you in his arms and takes you to the bedroom. He gently kicks open the door with his foot before carefully settling you onto the bed. He kneels to remove your shoes next, takes your jacket off so you’re comfortable. He brings a glass of water from the kitchen and makes you drink half of it despite your complaints.

When he gets off the bed, you immediately curl beneath the blankets. He takes a moment to admire this small ball of limbs and blankets and sleepy grumbling. Then, he’s off to get ready for bed.

When he finally slides into bed beside you, he's surprised to find your eyes open and you immediately turn toward him, still bundled up in blanket.

“Feel better?” he softly asks.

You nod. “I feel a little sober now.”

He puts an arm around you, hand continuously landing slow, comforting rubs on your back as the room falls quiet.

You scratch your nose with your finger and then randomly ask, “Did I do anything embarrassing tonight?”

“Not really,” he says, reaching over and brushing loose hair away from your face. “I think you were cute the whole time.”

You pout and narrow your eyes in suspicion.

Felix smiles and then leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. When he pulls away, he stays there, leaving only inches away between your faces.

Your eyes drift over his face, quietly tracing his facial features like you’re trying to imprint it in the back of your head. And then you randomly ask again, “How do you feel after meeting my family?”

The question catches him off guard. Not because of the question itself. Because of the timing and the vulnerability sitting behind it.

He considers it carefully before answering. “They're great. Very lovely people.”

“You sound surprised,” you teasingly say.

“I’m being honest,” he tells you with a grin tugging at his lips. And without thinking, he adds, “And I didn't expect you to grow up in that house.”

The second the words leave his mouth, your expression turns sour, your shoulders tense and your eyes lower, then narrow. “What does that mean?”

“It doesn't mean anything bad,” he calmly says.

“You pity me?” you ask, rather accusatory instead of a question.

“No, baby,” Felix calmly answers once more.

Your gaze sharpens and so does your voice. “Is that what this whole thing is? You don’t love me. You pity me.”

Felix inhales air to keep his composure because inside, he feels a little angry because you mistook it, you misunderstood it. And because he recognizes this as the same fear you've warned him before. The same fear that waits for cracks, for proof that someone might leave.

He reaches for your arm, gently holding you there as he patiently says, “You know that's not what I meant.”

You don't answer but tears already gathering in your eyes.

Felix's heart breaks a little. He’s never meant to make you cry or worse, hurt you. Instead of pulling you, he moves closer. “It's actually the opposite.”

Your gaze finally lifts and he holds your gaze, not letting you look away. “I wouldn't have guessed because of the person you are now. You built a life for yourself. You worked hard on it. You’re strong.”

The tears begin spilling anyway and Felix immediately wipes them away with his thumb. “And despite your circumstance, you grew up well. You made a life for yourself.”

You shakily inhale air but tears continue to stream down your cheek.

“I'm not pitying you. I'm amazed by you,” he speaks gently but there’s firmness to it like he needs you to know that he means every word that comes out of his mouth.

Your face crumples as more tears flood down your face and Felix immediately pulls you closer. Your body folds into his immediately. His arms wrap around you tightly, holding you together.

“I'm so proud of you, baby,” he says it with so sincerely that his chest aches with it.

That does it. You bury your face against his chest and your cry turns into a full-on sob. It’s years and years of hurt finding a crack to escape through.

Felix holds you through all of it. One hand rubbing your back and the other cradling the back of your head. Occasionally pressing kisses into your hair, your forehead, your temple. Just anywhere he can reach.

Eventually your breathing steadies but you stay tucked against him like you're afraid to move.

Felix presses another kiss to the top of your head. Then he glances down to find your eyes and when they meet, only then he mutters, “I love you.”

There’s no answer but he knows you heard it, feel it. You close your eyes and your eyelids fluttering from the emotions you try to contain behind them.

Despite it, he says it again just because. “I love you so much,” he mutters with another kiss that lands on your forehead. “And I'm not going anywhere.”

You nod against his chest and he holds you tighter. And lets the silence do the rest.

-

FELIX: She warned me about this. This fear. This old hurt telling her to prepare for the worst. And I know that's not something that's going to disappear overnight. Maybe it won't ever disappear completely. But that's okay. [smiles] Because I'm patient. And if she needs reassurance a hundred times, then I'll give it a hundred times. [softly laughs] A thousand times if I have to.

-

You stand in front of the bedroom mirror for what feels like the hundredth time.

The first dress had been too formal. The second had been too casual. The third somehow made you feel twelve years old. Now all three are draped across the bed behind you like evidence of a breakdown in progress.

With a frustrated sigh, you smooth your hands down the simple black dress you originally picked out an hour ago. The one you should have worn from the beginning because it’s modest yet elegant. You stare at your reflection and inspect your make-up next. You lean closer to the mirror, adjusting a strand of hair behind your ear.

Tonight, it isn't just dinner. Tonight, you’re finally meeting Felix's family. The people who raised him. The people he loves. The people whose approval feels far more important than you want to admit. The thought alone makes your chest feel tight and reconsider your choice of dress.

A soft knock sounds against the bedroom door snaps you out of your head. "Baby?"

You immediately turn, voice slightly shaking as you answer, “In here.”

The door opens and he peeks inside, wearing an apron over a black shirt, looking entirely too handsome for a man currently making dinner. His eyes sweep over you and then a fond smile bloom on his face.

“You look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes. “You're clearly biased.”

“I am,” he agrees without hesitation. Then he points at you. “But doesn’t change that fact that you're beautiful.”

Heat rises to your cheeks despite yourself.

Felix grins, clearly pleased that he managed to make you blush. “Come on,” he hooks a thumb toward the hallway. “I need my hype girl while I cook.”

You nod, but don’t move until you take one more look at the mirror and smooth down the hem of your dress.

The apartment smells incredible when you come out of the bedroom. You wander straight into the kitchen where every surface seems occupied by bowls, ingredients, sauces, and carefully prepared dishes.

Naturally, you move toward the nearest cutting board. “Need help?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

You reach for a bowl anyway.

Felix immediately intercepts you. “No.”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to complaint but gently turns you around by your shoulders and steers you toward one of the dining chairs. “All you have to do is sit here and look pretty for me.”

You huff dramatically but obey. Mostly because you're too nervous to argue. And you don’t trust yourself near the knife or the stove in this state.

Felix chuckles to himself before opening a bottle of wine. A moment later, a glass appears in front of you. “For the nerves.”

Your shoulders sag, finding relief at the sight of the crimson-colored wine. "Oh thank God.”

You don’t wait to take a grateful sip and it’s not enough to make the anxiety disappear. But enough to dull the sharpest edges.

Across the room, Felix moves easily through the kitchen. Checking the roasted chicken in the oven. Arranging food. Setting serving bowls. He looks comfortable and confident in the way he moves. In contrast to a nervous wreck you are right now.

Felix glances up, catching the tension on your face. "Hey," he softly calls.

You look at him, eyes wide and a bit distracted. “Yes?”

“It's going to be alright,” he says.

You try to smile but it comes out flat. “Yeah.”

He tilts his head, looking offended. “You don't believe me?”

You laugh weakly and put down the wine glass you’ve been holding. “Don’t believe in myself, more like.”

He sets down the last piece of cutlery and walks over. Without saying anything, he crouches beside your chair. His hand finds yours, his eyes softly gazing into yours. “You have nothing to worry about.”

You look down at your intertwined fingers. Then at him. “I feel like I have everything to worry about.”

His eyebrows pull together. “Why?”

Because what if they don't like me? Because what if I'm not enough? Because what if they look at me and wonder why you chose me?

But the words stay trapped inside your head and you shrug instead.

Felix studies you for a long moment. Like he knows there's more you're not saying. Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss against your knuckles. “My family is going to love you.”

You wish you had his confidence. You really do. Before you can answer, the sharp sound of the doorbell rings through the apartment. You nearly jump out of your chair. Your wine glass rattles.

Felix immediately bursts out laughing. “Babe, it’s just the doorbell.”

You place a hand over your heart, head nodding but your brain is barely computing.

He gets to his feet and looks at the direction of the front door. “Well, they're here,” he easily says like he didn’t just make everything more real. Like you’re not nervous already.

They're here. They're actually here. You stand so quickly the chair scrapes against the floor.Suddenly your palms are sweaty.Your mouth is dry.Your legs feel strangely unsteady.

Felix notices all of it and that’s why his smile fades into something gentler. He extends his hand toward you.

You stare at it for a second before taking it and the moment your fingers touch his, he knows. You can tell from the way his eyes flick down to your trembling hand. Your entire body is.

He squeezes your hand once and then lets go. For a brief second you panic at the loss of contact until his hand settles against the small of your back instead. Together, you walk toward the front door.

Felix reaches for the doorknob and then pauses. His hand resting on the handle when he looks over his shoulder with a warm smile tugging at his lips. “Ready?”

You inhale deeply, trying to gather every ounce of courage you have. “Yeah.”

The lie leaves your mouth easily. Because the truth is, you're nowhere close to ready. Not even a little.

But Felix’s smile grows warmer and brighter. And it’s all you need to make you believe that maybe, if he's on the other side of this with you, everything will be okay.

-

YOU: I was really nervous. Meeting Felix's family felt... important. Because I wanted them to like me. I wanted to make a good impression. [thinly smiles] I think the hard part is that deep down... [sadly sighs] I still struggle with feeling like I deserve any of this. Felix. His family. This future. And what if they can see that? What if they think that I don’t deserve it? [tears up] [sniffles]

-

✨ LOVE IS BLIND: FINAL PART is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[yubinism]

effiee, girl omg this was such a perfect way to start my weekend, i absolutely loved this chapter 😩 i love the dynamics between felix and fmc and i love unwrapping the shells of the fmc by each chapter. this chapter was so perfect, i cannot wait for the next one and am absolutely at the edge of my seat, thinking about what’s gonna happen with the family 🫩

[seospicybin]

EVERYTHING IS ROMANTIC.

Hyunjin x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: You spend your days writing romance, wondering when it will find you. Unaware that it’s right next-door. (20,8k words)

Author's note: Happy new year and as Hyunjin said, let's continue to live life romantically ❣️

You’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as you can remember.

Not the vague kind of wanting, either—the kind that shifts shape every few years. You knew. Even when you were younger, scribbling stories in the margins of notebooks and filling entire pages with feelings you didn’t yet have words for, you knew this was what you wanted to do. You were always drawn to love stories. To the way emotions could be stretched, heightened, made beautiful on the page. You liked the idea of writing something that made people feel… things.

So you grew up and did it. You became a writer. A romance writer, of all things.

You sit in your chair now, feet tucked beneath you, laptop warm against your thighs, and watch the cursor blink at the top of a blank page. This part should be easy. It always is. You know how to write longing. You know how to pace desire, how to make a single look feel like a promise. You know how to build a love story that burns slow and ends soft.

What you don’t know—what you never quite figured out—is how to live one.

You scoff quietly and lean back, the chair creaking in the silence of your apartment. Another night, another deadline, another fictional couple about to fall into each other’s arms right on schedule. Meanwhile, the room around you is still, unromantic in a way that feels almost deliberate. You’re still in your pajama pants. The coffee on your desk has gone cold. The crumpled papers spilling out of your trash can. Dirty dishes piling on your sink.

You write bestselling romance novels under a pseudonym. Spicy ones. The kind that get passed around group chats and dog-eared on bedside tables. Readers tell you your stories feel real. They assume you must know exactly what you’re talking about—love, intimacy, being the one true love and all.

They don’t know your name. Not the real one, at least. They don’t know that the person behind the words is sitting alone in an apartment that smells faintly of stale coffee, wondering when exactly her life veered so far from the stories she’s so good at telling.

You stare at the paragraph you wrote earlier and feel something twist in your chest. You highlight it and press delete.

Your life has never looked like this. No grand gestures, no cinematic confessions. Just routines and deadlines and the dull, persistent awareness that you are very good at writing romance and very bad at finding it.

The cursor blinks, wating. You exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys, and try to convince yourself that this is enough. That wanting something since you were young doesn’t mean you’re entitled to all of it. That writing about love still counts, even if it doesn’t happen to you.

Still, the thought lingers, quietly and uncomfortably.

You always believed in romance. You just didn’t expect it to feel so far away.

-

Once you’ve done the dishes, you feel a lot better and ready to get back to work.

You open a new document beneath the abandoned chapter and type a name you’ll probably change later. Male Lead. Placeholder. Temporary. You crack your knuckles and try again.

He needs to exist first, you tell yourself. The rest will follow.

You close your eyes for a second, letting the image form the way it usually does. You imagines a man leaning against a doorway. Rings on his fingers. Ink curling up his forearms like secrets he doesn’t bother hiding. There’s an ease to him, a confidence that isn’t loud but feels inevitable. Someone who looks like trouble in the way that makes people lean closer instead of stepping back.

Your fingers move as you picture him. You give him a crooked smile, a voice that carries a laugh even when he’s serious. You imagine the way he’d look at the his love interest like he already knows how the story ends.

There’s a faint thrill in your chest, the familiar hum of creation, of possibility. This is the part you’re good at—building someone from nothing, shaping desire until it feels real enough to touch.

Then, your phone rings. You flinch, eyes snapping open, the image dissolving instantly. The name on the screen pulls you fully back into your apartment, your chair, your life.

Hyunjin.

You answer without thinking. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless, like he’s juggling things. You can picture him with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear, one hand on the espresso machine, the other probably reaching for a cup. “I hate to ask you last minute, but—are you busy?”

You glance at your laptop, at the half-formed man on the screen who will still be there later. “Not really.”

“Could you maybe pick up Archie from daycare?” he asks. “I got held up at the shop. Delivery issue. I’ll owe you. Again.”

You smile before you can stop yourself. “You already owe me, like, ten times.”

“I’ll make it eleven.”

You laugh softly, pushing your chair back as you stand. “Yeah, I can do that. I was going to take a break anyway.”

“That’d be amazing,” he says, relief clear in his voice. “Thank you. He’s probably been asking when you’ll show up.”

“He always does,” you say, fondness slipping in uninvited. Archie has a habit of spotting you before anyone else, face lighting up like you’re part of his routine—which, somehow, you are. “I’ll head out now.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Hyunjin says. “Seriously.”

“I know,” you teasingly reply with a sly smile.

You hang up and grab your keys, casting one last look at the screen before closing your laptop. The male lead stares back at you, unfinished, waiting.

-

The walk to the daycare is short, just a few blocks away, but you take your time anyway. The air outside feels cleaner than the stale quiet of your apartment, the city moving at a gentle, late-afternoon pace around you. You pass familiar storefronts, cracked sidewalks you’ve memorized without meaning to, and you feel your shoulders loosen with every step.

Picking up Archie is always like this—an excuse to step out of your head.

By the time you reach the daycare, you’re already smiling, and it only grows when you spot him inside. He sees you before you even open the door, face lighting up so brightly it almost feels unfair to everything you were brooding over an hour ago.

“You came!” he says again, like it’s a surprise every single time.

“Hi, Archie,” you softly greet, crouching down as he barrels into you, all elbows and enthusiasm. His laugh is loud and unfiltered, the kind that doesn’t worry about being too much.

Archie is a mini version of Hyunjin — dark shiny hair, small eyes, small face and even the whisker dimples that appears when he deeply smiles. In other words, he’s just as beautiful as his dad and you doubt that the mother had any part in it except for brought Archie to the world.

Walking home with Archie is your favorite part. He slips his small hand into yours, swinging it slightly as you head down the sidewalk together. The sun is lower now, bathing everything in a soft, forgiving light and he starts talking almost immediately.

“And today we had painting time,” he says, words tumbling over each other, “and Miss Laura said mine was very good but I got paint on my shirt but that’s okay because it was blue and blue is Daddy’s favorite color and then—oh!—and then we played dinosaurs and I was the big one and Leo was scared but not really scared—”

You hum and nod, letting him ramble, asking small questions at the right moments.

There’s something precious about the way he talks, like every detail matters because it does to him. His excitement is infectious, pure and uncomplicated, untouched by expectations or disappointment. You listen intently, smiling when he laughs at his own story, when he stops mid-sentence because he’s remembered something even more important.

Archie’s world is simple in the best way. Today was good. He painted. He played. He laughed.

That’s enough.

As he talks, something inside you quiets and all of your worries fade into the background. This easy companionship, this small joy — feels like a kind of rest you didn’t realize you needed.

A mental snooze, you think, smiling to yourself.

By the time the apartment building comes into view, Archie is still talking, still animated, still very much five years old and wholly himself. You squeeze his hand gently, grateful for the break, for the moment, for the way something so simple can make the world feel softer.

You don’t think about romance once on the walk home and maybe that’s exactly why it feels so good.

-

You let yourselves into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare key he gave you months ago. Archie kicks off his shoes by the door without being told, backpack abandoned in the exact spot it always ends up. You follow suit, slipping out of yours and setting your bag down, already moving through the space like it’s your own apartment.

You know his routine by heart at this point. Snack first—apple slices today, because that’s what he asked for on the walk home. Wash hands. Cartoon on low volume while he settles. By the time you pull the coloring book from the drawer in the coffee table, he’s already climbing onto the rug beside you, crayons scattered between you like confetti. You stay with him like this while the afternoon drifts into evening, coloring shapes that don’t stay inside the lines and praising every choice like it’s the right one. Archie narrates as he goes, explaining why the dinosaur is purple today and why the sun has a face.

The front door opens just as you’re deciding whether the sky should be green or blue.

“Daddy’s home,” Archie announces casually, not bothering to look up.

Hyunjin steps inside, the door closing behind him with a tired sigh. His long dark hair is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, loose strands escaping around his small face. His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with coffee grounds and the evidence of a long day. He looks exhausted in that specific way that only comes from being on your feet since dawn.

The fatigue softens instantly when he sees you and Archie, a warm smile spreading across his face as his eyes move from you to his son sprawled happily at your side. “Hey,” he says gently. “Daddy’s home.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Archie replies, still coloring, still firmly seated next to you.

Hyunjin pouts from the lack of enthusiasm. “That’s it? No running hug? No ‘Daddy!’?”

Archie hums thoughtfully, switching crayons. “I’m busy coloring, Daddy.”

You bite back a smile while picking the color of the crayons.

Hyunjin drops his keys onto the counter and makes a show of sighing. “Wow. I see how it is.”

You keep coloring, glancing up at him briefly. “Tough crowd.”

He crosses his arms, pretending to think. “Well, I guess if you’re too busy to say hi, maybe you’re also too busy to have your favorite food for dinner.”

Archie gasps, drops the crayon, and scrambles to his feet, sprinting across the room. He crashes straight into Hyunjin’s legs, arms wrapping around him without hesitation.

“No! I want it! I want it!” he insists.

Hyunjin laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and squats down to gather his son into a proper hug, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Who wants chicken noodles for dinner?”

“Me! Me! Me!” Archie enthusiastically shouts, raising his hand in the air.

Hyunjin presses a quick kiss to his temple and then brushes the hair stuck to his forehead. “Then tell me about your day.”

Archie launches right back into his stories, just as animated as before, hands gesturing wildly as Hyunjin listens, nodding, murmuring encouragement, entirely focused.

You watch them for a moment, something warm blooming quietly in your chest but decide to interrupt.

“Hey, do I get chicken noodles for dinner too?”

Hyunjin looks up at you, still crouched, still smiling. “Of course.”

“Yay!” you and Archie cheer at the same time, voices overlapping.

-

Dinner is easy in the way only familiar things are.

Hyunjin sits across from you, shoulders slumping a little now that the day is over. He looks softer like this, hair still in its messy bun, exhaustion worn openly instead of tucked away behind customer smiles and polite conversation. He thanks Archie for waiting before taking his first bite, listens patiently as his son talks with his mouth half-full, gently reminds him to chew.

Hyunjin wasn’t always this version of himself. You know that. Two years ago, before you moved into this building, his life cracked open. A divorce that didn’t explode but still left wreckage. A toddler who suddenly became his whole world. He doesn’t talk about it often, only in small, honest pieces when it comes up naturally. You know enough to understand that it wasn’t bitter—just sad. That sometimes things don’t survive, even when people try. You fall in love and that means, you can fall out of love too.

Now he’s a single dad, doing his best, owning a coffee shop three blocks away. The place is an extension of him—warm, welcoming, unpretentious. The kind of café where people linger without being rushed, where names are remembered and regulars are greeted like friends.

That’s how you met him, actually.

Your first day in the apartment building, arms full of boxes and memories, the knock came before you’d even figured out where the mugs went. Hyunjin stood outside your door with a basket of pastries balanced on one arm and two cups of coffee in the other, Archie tucked against his leg like a shadow.

“Hi, we’re your next-door neighbors,” he’d said, smiling a little shyly.

“I’m Hyunjin and this…” he placed a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Archie.”

You remembered offering a warm smile at them as you introduced yourself back to them. Then, you crouched down to his Archie’s level to greet him. “Hi, Archie. I hope we can be friends.”

Archie had taken one look at you and decided, immediately, that you were safe. He’d clung to your leg like you’d known each other forever, peeking up at you with wide eyes while Hyunjin apologized profusely. You hadn’t minded. Not even a little.

Somehow, that moment became the foundation for everything that followed. You’ve been living next to each other in quiet harmony ever since—borrowing things, sharing food, watching Archie when shifts run late. It was never something you sat down and defined. It just… happened. Slowly. Naturally.

After dinner, Archie sits patiently while you dab at the sauce smeared around his mouth with a napkin. He squirms, protesting more out of habit than anything else, and you laugh quietly as you catch the last stubborn streak on his chin.

“All clean now,” you announce.

Hyunjin is already moving around the kitchen, stacking plates, rinsing them before setting them in the sink. The space feels smaller when he’s in it—occupied in a comforting way. You stand halfway, instinctively ready to help.

“I’ve got it,” he assures you.

You hesitate, then settle back into your chair, watching as he works.

There’s something unhurried about the way he does things, even when he’s tired. He doesn’t rush through motions; he finishes them properly.

“Archie,” he says gently, glancing over his shoulder. “Wash up and change into your pajamas, yeah?”

“Okay, Daddy,” Archie replies, sliding off the chair and padding down the hallway.

The apartment goes quieter once he’s gone, the absence noticeable in the best way. Hyunjin turns back to you. “Coffee?”

You tilt your head, considering. “Actually… do you have something harder?”

He snorts, entirely unimpressed. “Decaf it is.”

You chuckle softly. “I didn’t say yes to that.”

“You didn’t say no either,” he counters, already reaching for the coffee canister.

You watch him as he scoops the beans into the grinder, measuring by instinct rather than sight. His sleeves are still rolled up, forearms relaxed as he grinds the coffee patiently, listening to the sound like it tells him when it’s ready. He pours the grounds into the filter, taps it just once to level it, then slowly starts pouring hot water over it. The coffee blooms, dark and rich, dripping steadily into the pot.

Hyunjin is handsome in a way that sneaks up on you. Not flashy. Just… solid. Familiar. His profile softened by concentration, his movements careful and practiced. You’ve watched him do this countless times, but it still feels oddly hypnotic—like witnessing a ritual.

You lean your chin into your hand. “You know,” you say lightly, “you could just give me instant coffee and save yourself the trouble.”

He looks at you like you’ve personally offended him. “Where’s the romance in that?”

You scoff and lean back on your chair. “Pfft… Romance? But that’s my job. I’m the one who writes romance books, and look at me.”

That earns his attention as if he’s just remembered something. “How’s the writing going? Did you start the new one yet?” he asks, tone casual but curious.

“Barely. I keep trying, but everything feels off. Ideas slip away before I can grab them.” You hesitate, then sigh. “I think it’s because my life lacks romance.”

Hyunjin hums, noncommittal, as he pours the coffee into two mugs.

“I’ve been single for years,” you continue, words spilling easier now. “I barely go out. I sit at home and write about love all day, and the only thing I share my bed with is my laptop. There’s nothing romantic about that.”

“What you do is romantic,” he says calmly, handing you a mug.

You roll your eyes. “My readers would think I’m a fraud if they knew who I really am. How I live.”

He smiles at that, unfazed. “So what do you expect to happen, then?”

You take a sip, thinking. “I don’t know. I just think that it’d be a good time for my dream man to walk into my life.”

He chuckles, almost teasing. “What, a knight in shining armor? A prince on a white horse?”

You glare at him. “Dead wrong.”

“Oh?” He leans against the counter, amused. His eyes are on you, giving all of his attention.

You straighten slightly, warming to the idea. “Someone different. Someone confident. I don’t mind a tattoo or two. Piercings, maybe. Creative. A little reckless. Someone who feels like he stepped out of a story.”

Hyunjin laughs. “I’ve got at least three regulars like that at the shop.”

“I am not shopping for men at your coffee shop,” you say, scandalized.

Before he can reply, small footsteps thunder down the hallway.

Archie reappears in a dinosaur onesie, arms raised proudly. “Look!”

You coo immediately, setting your mug down and kneeling. “Oh my god. You’re too cute.”

You lean back just enough to take a good look at Archie, noticing the way he’s almost outgrown the onesie — proof of how much he’s grown. “Please, stop growing up! You have to stay like this forever,” you murmur as you pull him for tight hug.

“No!” Archie protests. “I wanna be big. Bigger than Daddy.”

You shake your head firmly. “Nope. I forbid it.”

He whines dramatically. “Daddy!”

Hyunjin laughs, scooping him up. “Sorry, baby. She’s got veto power.”

You grin, then stand as you realize it’s time for you to leave so the boys can settle gently into the night. “I should head back. You’ve got bedtime duty.”

You hug Archie tightly, wishing him goodnight, then turn to Hyunjin. “Goodnight.”

You walk up to the counter, picking up the mug to take it home with you.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin says quietly. “For today.”

“No worries,” you reply while raising the mug of coffee. “I live right there.”

It really is just across the hall.

Your apartment greets you with its familiar clutter—notes, books, your open laptop waiting where you left it. You sigh, sinking back into your chair, fingers finding the keyboard again.

This time, you don’t scoff. You take a sip of your coffee and start to write.

-

Morning arrives with a dull knock cutting through the haze of sleep.

You groan, lifting your head with effort, neck stiff from the angle you fell asleep in. Your chair creaks as you shift, and the screen in front of you flickers awake when your knee nudges the desk. The cursor blinks insistently in the middle of a paragraph, proof that you were writing right up until sleep claimed you without permission.

Figures.

The knocking comes again, firmer this time. You glance at the clock on your screen and wince. Too early. Definitely too early. You scrub a hand over your face and push yourself up, legs protesting as you stand. Your reflection in the darkened laptop screen is… rough. Bed hair pointing in every direction, yesterday’s clothes wrinkled and clinging, glasses still abandoned somewhere on the desk.

“Coming,” you call out, voice hoarse with sleep.

You gather your hair into a messy bun with one hand, shove your glasses onto your nose with the other, and shuffle toward the door, bare feet dragging softly across the wooden floor. In your foggy head, the picture is already formed—Hyunjin on the other side, coffee in hand, apologetic smile ready, probably here because he needs your help to take Archie to kindergarten.

The knock comes again.

“I said—coming,” you mumble, fingers fumbling with the lock.

You twist the knob and pull the door open. You freeze because it is not… Hyunjin.

It’s someone else entirely. Someone with a gummy smile, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere else to be. Someone with overgrown dark, permed hair falling into his eyes, silver glinting faintly at his ears. Tattoos peek out from the sleeveless top he’s wearing, ink curling along skin like it belongs there. He looks awake in a way you decidedly are not—alert, amused, taking you in with a slow, curious glance.

For one disorienting second, you wonder if you’re still asleep at your desk.

“Uh,” he says, lips quirking. “Hi, I’m your new neighbor.”

Your brain lags behind the moment, scrambling to catch up. Glasses slightly crooked. Hair a mess. Heart doing something inconvenient.

This—this is impossible.

Because standing in front of you, framed by the hallway light, is someone who looks alarmingly like the man you were imagining just hours ago.

The dream man.

-

For a second, you just stare at him.

Your brain refuses to cooperate, still caught somewhere between sleep and the impossible coincidence unfolding in front of you. He shifts his weight slightly, waiting, the hallway light catching on the silver at his ears.

“I’m Han,” he says, like this is normal. Like he didn’t just step straight out of your half-written chapter.

“I moved in just now. Next door.” He gestures vaguely toward the apartment beside yours. “I was wondering—do you happen to have a hammer I could borrow?”

A hammer. The word floats around uselessly in your head.

“Oh—uh—yeah,” you say finally, far too late. “I think so. I mean. I think I do. Somewhere.”

Without giving him time to respond or yourself time to think, you turn and retreat back into your apartment.

The door closes behind you, and you stop in the kitchen, gripping the counter. You glance at your reflection in the microwave door and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. Messy bun threatening to collapse. Glasses slightly crooked. Old, faded T-shirt. Bare feet. Absolutely not the first impression you imagined giving your dream man. You groan softly, then remember—he’s still waiting.

Right. Hammer.

You drop to your knees and rummage through the bottom cabinet, dragging out a dusty toolbox you don’t even remember buying or having. You flip it open, hopeful for half a second. No hammer.

You sigh, push yourself up, and head back to the door. Han is still there, patient waiting with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, flustered all over again. “I don’t actually have one. But—I know someone who does.”

He smiles easily. “Lead the way.”

You cross the hall before you can overthink it, unlocking Hyunjin’s door and letting yourself in like you always do.

Hyunjin is at the counter, packing Archie’s lunch into his backpack with practiced efficiency. “Hey,” he says without looking up. “Coffee’s—”

You clear your throat. “Uh—Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin turns and pauses when he sees someone else with you.

Han steps forward slightly. “Hey. I’m Han. The new neighbor.”

Hyunjin blinks once, then smiles politely. “I’m Hyunjin. And this is Archie.”

Archie looks up from the sofa where he’s wrestling with his socks. “Hi,” he says cheerfully.

Han waves. “Hey, man.”

“I just needed to borrow a hammer,” Han adds.

“Sure, just give me a second,” Hyunjin says immediately, already heading down the hallway.

While he’s gone, you suddenly find the ceiling very interesting. The floor, too. Anywhere but Han. You drift over to Archie instead, crouching down to help him tug his sock over his heel.

“Your sock’s inside out, buddy,” you murmur.

“It’s fine,” Archie says seriously.

Hyunjin returns with the hammer, handing it over. “Bring it back whenever.”

“Thanks,” Han says. “Appreciate it.”

Then he’s gone, door closing softly behind him.

The second it clicks shut, you straighten and practically vibrate.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” you freak out, flailing your hands and pacing the room.

“Did you see him?” you whisper fiercely. “Hyunjin, that’s him. That’s exactly him. I literally described someone like that last night. Tattoos, piercings—this could be it. This could actually be it. Romance might finally be—”

Hyunjin doesn’t say much, moving around the apartment, grabbing Archie’s jacket, checking his bag. You keep talking anyway, words tumbling out unchecked.

“And the timing? He just shows up? Like that?”

He finally stops, crouching to help Archie into his shoes. “You can tell me the rest later,” he says gently. “We’re going to be late.”

“Oh. Right.”

He gestures toward the counter where the coffee pot rests. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Archie hops off the sofa and walks over to you. “Bye.”

You kneel and hug him tight. “Have the best day, okay?”

“Okay!”

Hyunjin grabs his hat and jacket, ushering Archie toward the door. “Don’t forget to lock up,” he says to you.

“I won’t. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

The door closes behind them, leaving the apartment quiet again. You stand there for a moment, coffee steaming on the counter, heart still racing.

Next door, somewhere beyond the wall, Han exists.

And suddenly, romance doesn’t feel so far away after all.

-

The next few days pass in a strange, quiet blur.

You don’t mean to observe him at first. It just… happens.

You start noticing patterns the way you always do when you’re building a character—small details that stack up without you realizing you’re collecting them. The sound of a door opening down the hall. Footsteps on the stairs. A low hum of music bleeding faintly through the walls at odd hours.

Han leaves his apartment late in the mornings, usually when you’re already awake but pretending not to be. You learn this by accident the first time, standing in your kitchen with a mug of coffee cooling in your hands when you hear his door open. You peek through the peephole without thinking, and catch a glimpse of him slipping his jacket on, keys already in hand.

After that, you notice it more.

Some days he leaves closer to noon, hair still damp like he showered in a rush. Other days, it’s earlier, sunglasses perched on his head even when the sun isn’t particularly bright. There’s a guitar case slung over his shoulder more often than not, stickers peeling at the edges like it’s been everywhere with him. Not sure if he plays guitar as a hobby or it’s his job or… he’s in a band. Either way, you like the fact that he plays guitar.

Then, you start recognizing the sound of his return, too. The way he unlocks his door without fumbling. Sometimes it’s early evening. Sometimes it’s well past midnight, the hallway quiet and dim when he finally comes home. On those nights, music filters faintly through the wall—something fast and chaotic, not loud enough to be intrusive, just present enough to let you know he’s there.

You pass him in the hallway once, hands full of groceries. He flashes you an easy smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, a little too quickly.

Another time, you’re both waiting for the elevator. He smells faintly of smoke and soap, a combination that shouldn’t work but does. He asks how your day’s been. You say “good” even though you’ve spent most of it staring at a blinking cursor.

Sometimes you hear him humming under his breath when he locks up. Sometimes he nods at you with a tired grin, like you’re already familiar.

Nothing progresses. Nothing happens. But you notice everything anyway.

The days settle into a rhythm that now includes him, threaded quietly through your routine. You find yourself timing your coffee refills, your trips out, your walks to the mailbox, hoping that you might run into him. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t.

At night, when you sit back down at your desk to write, the male lead in your book starts to look a little different. His habits more specific. His movements more familiar. You tell yourself it’s coincidence.

Still, when you hear Han’s door click shut down the hall, you pause mid-sentence every time.

Just for a second. Just long enough to wonder.

-

By the third day, you stop pretending it’s accidental. You know his timing now—give or take five minutes. So you wait by your door, already dressed, laptop bag slung over your shoulder like an alibi. You ditch your glasses in favor of contacts, smooth your hair, take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Different. Awake. Presentable. The kind of person who looks like they might casually exist in the same world as someone like Han.

You intently listen through the door and right on cue, you hear the soft click of a lock down the hall.

You give it two seconds, just enough to make it believable and then step out into the hallway, locking your door behind you with practiced ease. You keep your face calm as you press the elevator button.

Against the pulse drumming in your ear, you can hear his footsteps approaching.

“Hey,” Han says first, voice easy.

You turn, heart jumping anyway. “Hey.”

The elevator arrives with a soft ding. He steps aside, holding the door for you. “After you.”

“Thanks,” you mutter as you step in, standing a little too straight as he follows.

The doors slide shut, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, enclosed in a space that feels far too small for how aware you are of him. Silence settles and you can only hope he can’t hear the way your heart beating out of your chest.

You inhale quietly, then force yourself to speak. “That’s a guitar, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the case on his back.

He glances over his shoulder, lips twitching. “Yeah. I’m in a band. Kinda lame, though.”

You chuckle despite yourself. “I don’t believe you.”

He grins. “Yeah, me neither.”

The elevator hums as it descends. He looks at you. “You heading somewhere?”

“Yeah,” you say, grateful for the question. “Going to do some writing at the coffee shop.”

“Oh.” He raises his brows. “You’re a writer?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“What kind of stuff?”

To say that you write romance kind of… uncool. You hesitate for half a beat—just long enough to decide. “Just some lame books.”

He laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. “Welcome to the club then.”

The elevator chimes, doors sliding open onto the lobby. He steps out first this time, glancing back at you. “Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Outside, you part ways—him heading down the street in the opposite direction, guitar case bouncing lightly against his back. You turn toward Hyunjin’s coffee shop, heart still racing, a smile you don’t bother hiding tugging at your lips.

Nothing monumental happened. No sparks. No declarations. But it feels like a win anyway.

You know something new about him now and somehow, impossibly, he feels even cooler than before.

-

Madeleine has been a staple of the friendship between you and Hyunjin. He brought a basket full of them when he first introduced himself to you and you gushed to him about how delicious they were the next day.

Since then, Hyunjin always has madeleines waiting for you in the coffee shop, baked specially for you. He slides a tray onto your table with a soft clatter—still warm and dusted lightly with sugar, a cup of freshly brewed coffee steaming beside them. He’s in his apron, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied into a messy bun that’s halfway given up after the morning rush.

“So,” you start immediately, leaning forward like you’ve been holding this in your lungs the entire walk here, “I talked to him.”

“Mhm,” Hyunjin hums, already turning to grab a stack of abandoned mugs from the table next to yours.

“In the elevator,” you add. “Casual. Natural. Effortless. Very rom-com coded.”

“That’s great,” he says, distracted, balancing cups in his hands.

“And he’s in a band,” you continue, lowering your voice like it’s a secret meant only for the two of you. “A band, Hyunjin.”

He pauses just long enough to glance at you. “Is he?”

“Yes. Guitar. Very cool about it too. Like, oh, this old thing energy.”

Hyunjin exhales through his nose, amused despite himself, and resumes gathering dishes. “And you’re already sure he’s your great romance?”

You nod emphatically. “I know.”

“How?” he asks, genuinely curious now.

You blink at him. “Duh. I’m a romance writer.”

He snorts. “Right.”

“I can feel these things,” you insist. “The timing. The vibe. The guitar case. It’s all very—meet-cute adjacent.”

Hyunjin sets the cups down behind the counter and looks at you. “So are you actually planning to write today, or did you just come here to gush about Han?”

“I am writing,” you defend quickly. “I just need inspiration first.”

He arches a brow. “Does that mean you came here just because you wanted to run into him again?”

You grin, unrepentant. “I came for multiple reasons.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And one of them,” you add, reaching for a madeleine and taking a bite, “is your coffee. And these. Which are amazing, by the way.”

That finally gets him—a small smile tugging at his mouth despite the skepticism. “Flattery won’t save you.”

A customer steps up to the counter, and Hyunjin straightens, slipping smoothly back into barista mode. “Be right with you,” he says before glancing back at you. “Write something. Don’t just stare at your screen.”

“I’m trying,” you shoot back.

He shakes his head fondly and turns away. You open your laptop, the familiar glow lighting up the table, coffee warm under your hands, crumbs dusting the page of your notebook.

You let Hyunjin fade into the background again—the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of the shop settling into its late-morning rhythm. Your fingers finally move, words spilling onto the screen in uneven but earnest lines. It’s not perfect, but it’s something, and something is better than the blinking cursor that haunted you all night.

You’re mid-sentence when a ripple of giggles drifts in from the table beside yours.

“…I’m telling you, he’s so handsome.”

“And a single dad,” another voice adds, breathless. “That’s, like, illegal.”

You quietly glance over the next table, two girls leaning close, whispering like they’re sharing state secrets, eyes flicking not-so-subtly toward the counter where Hyunjin stands as he warmly chats with a customer. He laughs at something, head tipping back just slightly, and the girls nearly lose it.

You press your lips together, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Of course. Of course Hyunjin draws this kind of attention. He exists in soft mornings and warm smiles and freshly brewed coffee. He lives romance without trying, while you—ironically, tragically—sit here writing about it like it’s a distant myth.

A flicker of jealousy settles in your chest, gentle but undeniable. Funny, isn’t it? You think. The one who writes love stories hasn’t lived one in years, while the man steaming milk three feet away inspires them just by existing.

-

Archie’s hand is warm and a little sticky in yours as you walk him to kindergarten, his backpack bouncing with every step. He’s talking about a game they played yesterday, about how today he might get to be the line leader—and you hum and respond at all the right places, smiling because this is easy. This part always is.

You stop just outside the gate where his teacher is already waiting, clipboard tucked under her arm, cheerful as ever. She greets Archie by name, and he lights up like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.

You crouch down, smoothing his hair with your palm before pulling him into a hug. “Have fun, okay?” you say softly.

“I will!” he promises, already half-turned toward his friends. He waves at you with all the enthusiasm a five-year-old can muster before being gently ushered inside, and you wave back until he disappears through the door.

Only then do you straighten, exhaling. As you start the walk home, you pull out your phone and text Hyunjin.

Archie’s in school. Safe and happy.

You don’t expect an instant reply, knowing that Hyunjin will be too busy to even check his phone. You slip the phone back into your pocket and continue down the sidewalk. Enjoying the way the city quiets down as most people have already settled into their routine — work, school, business to do.

You slow when you see a hair salon sits on the corner, the owner flipping the sign on the front door to ‘Open’. You glance at your reflection in the glass without meaning to—messy bun, familiar length, the same look you’ve had for… how long, exactly?

The thought lands quietly, then blooms. Maybe it’s time for a fresh cut.

Not because of certain someone. Not because of a guitarist next door or the way your heart keeps doing stupid things lately. You scoff under you breath, shaking your head.

Before you can overthink it, or talk yourself out of it, you reach for the handle and step inside.

Almost an hour later, you walk out of the salon feeling… lighter and also strangely exposed.

The cut sits differently against your neck, unfamiliar when the breeze slips past it. You keep catching your reflection in car windows as you walk—tilting your head, squinting, deciding you don’t hate it, deciding you’re not sure yet.

Maybe it’s just the shock of seeing yourself altered. Maybe it’s the quiet fear that you’ve changed something you can’t quite take back.

You check your phone and find a reply from Hyunjin.

Your treats are ready, ma’am.

-

The café is calmer than the morning rush—no frantic office workers lined up three-deep, just a handful of people lingering at tables. Someone reads a newspaper by the window. Someone else scrolls on their phone, coffee cooling between their palms.

You step inside and wait at the counter while Hyunjin finishes filling an order. He moves with practiced ease, apron tied snug around his waist, hair pulled into that familiar messy bun that always looks like it took zero effort and somehow still works.

When he finally looks up, he pauses just a second too long. But you catch it immediately.

Your hand flies to your hair. “Why? Is it bad?” you blurt out before he can say anything.

Hyunjin tilts his head, still can’t decide.

Your insecurity creeps in. “That bad?” You ask, anxiously touching your hair.

Hyunjin blinks, then shakes his head. “No. It looks good on you. You look beautiful.”

The knot in your chest loosens almost instantly. You smile, small and a little shy, fingers still brushing the ends of your hair. “Thanks.”

He reaches under the counter and pulls out a tray, the smell of freshly baked madeleines drifting up between you. “What do you feel today? Milk or no milk?” he asks, knowing that your coffee’s preference is based on your mood.

An idea comes to mind at the sight of the warm, sweet-smelling madeleine. You hesitate but before you can second-guess yourself, you shake your head.

“Actually, can you pack those to go? And… make two coffees?”

Hyunjin arches a brow, curious but amused. “Two?”

You nod, feeling something spark under your skin. Determination, maybe. Or nerves. Or both.

“I’m done waiting for romance to happen,” you say, half-joking, half-serious. “I think I want to try making it happen instead.”

Hyunjin studies you for a moment—really looks at you, at the new haircut, the way you’re standing a little taller than usual.

Then he smiles as he repeats your order. “Romance to go, coming right up!”

-

Your palms are a little sweaty around the paper bag and the two coffee cups as you stand outside Han’s unit, heart thudding like it’s trying to break free of your ribs.

You rehearse a few openings in your head. Something cool, something effortless, something that says it’s all casual instead of the fact that you’ve been overthinking it for ten minutes straight.

After a moment, you settle simple. Hey, I came here to drop these.

You mentally rehearsed the sentence in your head. You inhale, then knock.

You can hear music bleeding through the door, it’s loud and chaotic, it’s impossible for him to hear you knocking. You knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. By the third knock, you’re practically pounding.

Finally, the door swings open. Han smiles the moment he recognizes you.

“Hey, I—”

But then he turns and walks back inside, door left open behind him. No explanation, no pause.

You stand there for half a second, wondering if you’re supposed to follow or… You settle on the former, stepping into his apartment on hesitant feet.

It’s… exactly what you expect. Bare in places, cluttered in others. A guitar leaning against the wall. Jackets tossed over a chair. A very single-man kind of space.

He crosses the room and turns the volume down on the record player, the music softening into something you can finally hear without it rattling your bones.

“Sorry,” he says over his shoulder. “Didn’t hear you knocking.”

“It’s fine,” you reply quickly, trying to sound like you didn’t nearly talk yourself out of this. Your eyes drift to the record player. “What’re you listening to?”

“It’s one of my favorite bands.” He lifts the sleeve so you can see it.

Sex Jerkers. The band name makes your eyebrow raises for a second, definitely never heard of them. You lean in anyway, nodding like this is extremely familiar territory.

When he straightens, he looks at you expectantly. “So… can I help you with something?”

Right. This. The reason you’re here.

 “I came here to drop these,” you say it casually like you didn’t rehearse it in your head for the last ten minutes. “Coffee and some warm madeleines.”

“Oh—thanks. That’s really nice of you.” His expression softens, gesturing toward the counter. “You can put them there.”

You do, carefully setting everything down. And then… nothing. Your mission is complete. You hover, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned beyond deliver baked goods. Well, you kind of imagined that he’d tell you to have a set and enjoy the goods together.

But Han is pacing now, grabbing his keys, checking his phone. Definitely getting ready to leave.

“Are you heading out?” you ask, aiming for casual again.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m late for band practice.”

“Oh,” you reply, nodding. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You turn toward the door, ready to make a graceful exit—only to stop short.

Han pulls his T-shirt over his head like you’re not even there. Not even the slightest bit of hesitance. Then, it’s just skin, warm and honey skin—toned, solid, tattoos spilling over his right shoulder and down his side. Too bad you can’t read the rest of the tattoo as it’s disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans that is… slung low… on his hips. Your eyes pivot to the way his pelvic bones narrowing down to—

You gulp and look away immediately. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He chuckles, soft and easy. He grabs a clean T-shirt and seamlessly puts it on. “I should be the one apologizing. Didn’t exactly treat you like a proper guest. I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, mortified and flustered and very aware of your pulse. You step toward the door to get out of his way.

He grabs the coffee cup, lifting it slightly. “I’ll eat the cookies later. Thanks again.”

You nod, mumble something that might be no problem, and the two of you step out into the hallway together. You move toward your door, suddenly very invested in unlocking it slowly and calmly like a normal person.

Before you can, Han steps closer and gently catches your arm. The contact is brief—but it sends a jolt straight through you.

“Next time,” he says, raising the coffee cup with a grin, “it’s my treat.”

Then he’s gone, striding toward the elevator. The doors slide shut, and he flashes you one last smile before disappearing.

You wait until you’re safely inside your apartment to let out a squeal.

God. That was a rush.

You press your hand to your arm where he touched you, where the warmth lingers, skin buzzing like it’s been struck by lightning.

And a tad bit romantic.

-

Your desk feels familiar again, the half-finished sentence blinking patiently at you like it knows you’ll come back eventually.

Out of curiosity, purely out of curiosity—you open a browser tab and type in the band name Han mentioned. You click the first result and—

Chaos.

Loud, unfiltered, crashing straight into your apartment like it owns the place. It’s messy and raw. You let it play, tapping your fingers against the desk, imagining Han in the middle of it all—guitar slung low, lost in the noise.

You didn’t hear it until you see the door swings open.

“What god-awful sound is that?!”

Hyunjin stands in your doorway, jacket still on, keys dangling from his fingers, face twisted in genuine offense.

You shrug as you stand from your chair, entirely unbothered. “Why? It’s cool.”

His forehead wrinkles like you’ve just spoken another language. He opens his mouth and closes it, then sighs. “Can you turn it down? I need to tell you something.”

You grin and comply, pausing the music. The sudden quiet feels loud in comparison. You turn to face him properly.

“Thanks,” he says, then clears his throat. “So uh…”

“Yeah?” you ask, letting him know he has your full attention.

“Archie has a school play this weekend.”

“Oh,” you say, immediately brightening.

“It’s this Saturday. He asked if you’d come.”

“Yes,” you answer without even thinking.

Hyunjin blinks. “You don’t have to if you’re busy.”

You wave him off. “Romance can wait for a day.”

That earns you a soft, fond chuckle from Hyunjin. He holds his hand out at you, showing you a foil-wrapped packet he’s been holding in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“Egg sandwich,” he says. “Archie asked me to make it. I figured I’d make one for you too.”

The second you feel the warmth and catch a whiff at it, you tear the foil open and take a bite, humming immediately, eyes fluttering a little at how good it is.

“This is so good,” you say, mouth full, completely unashamed.

Hyunjin shakes his head, amused. “Enjoy it.”

He heads back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Saturday. Ten a.m.”

“Saturday, ten,” you repeat, still chewing.

You hear his laugh—warm, real—just before the door clicks shut behind him.

You swallow, smile to yourself, and sit back down at your desk, crumbs on your fingers and music still paused on your screen.

Everything feels… full. In a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.

-

You don’t usually dress like this.

Most days, you live in comfort and practicality—things you can sit in for hours, things that don’t demand to be seen. But tonight, you have to put a little effort as you have a meeting with your agent which guarantee an adult conversation that doesn’t involve coffee orders or five-year-old bedtime routines.

You settle on a simple dress, just enough to feel intentional. A little color on your cheeks, concealer to cover the sleep you didn’t get, a swipe of lipstick to brighten the whole look. You study yourself in the mirror for a second longer than usual, then decide it’s good enough.

When you step out into the hallway, the elevator arrives like it’s been summoned on cue.

The doors open to reveal Hyunjin and Archie—hands linked, a grocery bag hooked over Hyunjin’s arm.

“Hold it!” you call, hurrying forward.

Hyunjin reaches out and keeps the doors open without a second thought.

Archie looks up at you, eyes going wide. “You look beautiful. Like a princess,” he says, completely earnest, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

You stop short, flustered. “Thank you so much, Archie,” you reply softly, smiling at him.

Hyunjin glances at you but his eyes seem to betray him as they sweep over you, head to toe and back to your face. Something flickers across his face before he masks it with a small smile. “Where are you heading?”

“Meeting my agent,” you say, already stepping into the elevator. “And I’m running a little late.”

“Yeah, right.” He releases the button. “Be safe.”

You nod, lifting a hand in a small wave. “Bye.”

“Bye, bye, Princess!” Archie chirps, waving enthusiastically.

The doors slide shut, leaving them behind.

As the elevator descends, you press your back lightly against the wall, heart still fluttering—not from nerves about the meeting, but from the way Archie’s voice had sounded so sure.

Beautiful. Like a princess.

You breathe out slowly and straighten your shoulders.

Tonight, at least, you believe it.

-

The bar is dim in that intentional way. You sit across from your agent, legs crossed, fingers wrapped around a glass of water you ordered on purpose, laptop bag tucked neatly by your feet.

She flips through her notes while you talk. You tell her about the new book. The premise, the tone, the themes you’re circling. You don’t give away too much, just enough to prove that the story exists, that it has potential, that you’re not stalled even if it sometimes feels like you are.

She listens, nodding, humming thoughtfully. “Okay,” she says eventually, satisfied. “It’s taking shape. I can hear it.”

Relief loosens your shoulders and the meeting winds down quickly after that.

She checks her phone, grimaces. “I’ve got another thing I need to run to.”

“That’s fine,” you say, already gathering your bag.

“But,” she adds, standing, “you’re having a drink before you go.”

“Oh—no, I wasn’t planning to—”

Too late as she steers you toward the bar with a firm hand on your elbow like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Sit,” she says, pointing to a stool.

You sigh but comply, sliding onto the seat. You don’t plan on drinking as you have Archie’s play to attend tomorrow and you can’t show up with a hangover.

She flags down the bartender with a sharp lift of her fingers. “Make her your finest cocktail. And don’t let her leave until she finishes it.”

“I really don’t need—” you start.

Then you hear the bartender’s voice. “Got it.”

You turn on your stool and Han stands behind the bar. Your brain short-circuits so hard you almost laugh.

Your agent doesn’t notice as she’s already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Enjoy,” she says cheerfully, before disappearing into the crowd.

Han lifts an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling at his lips as recognition settles in. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, eyes locking onto yours.

“Clearly,” you manage.

He reaches for a shaker, smoothly pouring the concoction into it. “Guess I’ve been instructed not to let you escape.”

His gaze flicks back up to you, amused. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You realize, somewhere between the ice clinking in the shaker and the easy way Han moves behind the bar, that you’re barely paying attention to the drink in front of you.

You watch him instead. The way he takes orders, leaning in just enough to hear people over the music. The way his hands work automatically, confident, practiced. He looks like he belongs here in a way that’s different from the next-door neighbor Han, and the contrast makes your chest feel tight in a way you’re still learning to name.

When he finally comes back to you, he glances at your glass. “You haven’t finished it,” he says, mock-serious. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”

Your cheeks warm but you quickly say, “No, the drink is fine.”

You convince him by taking a small sip of it, wincing at the sourness biting at your tongue.

He smirks and tilts his head. He drops his voice just a notch as he adds, “or are you just trying to linger?”

That does it. You straighten on the stool, flustered. “I—no. I mean—yes, it’s good. The drink. It’s good.”

He grins like he’s won something.

“So,” you say, eager to redirect, “do you work here?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he replies. “Lame band by day, lame job by night.”

You laugh. “You really love that word.”

He shrugs. “How about you?”

“I was meeting my agent,” you say. “Talking about my lame book.”

That earns you a soft chuckle. “Seems like we’re both very successful people.”

Somehow, your glass is empty before you realize it. Han notices immediately.

“Another?” he asks.

You hesitate—then decide you’re already here, already buzzed, already smiling more than usual. You’re sure one more drink won’t be a problem. “Okay. Just one more.”

He makes it while looking at you this time, not rushing, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. When he’s done, he grabs another glass and pours something for himself.

“Wait,” he says.

You pause with your hand wrapped around the glass.

“I’ll be drinking with you this time,” he says, taking a glass and pouring liquor into it.

He raises his glass toward you. “Cheers.”

You clink glasses, take a sip, feel warmth bloom low in your chest.

“So,” he says, leaning forward on the counter, close enough that you can see the little mole on his cheek, “you gonna tell me about this book?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the dim lights. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he actually wants to know.

You smile, slow and teasing. “If I tell you,” you say as you lean forward, “I’d have to kill you.”

He laughs and it’s loud and unguarded. “Didn’t know you were like this.”

You bite your lip, surprised at yourself too. “Neither did I.”

And for the first time, you realize you’re not pretending.

This version of you—the one flirting back, the one lingering on a barstool, the one letting romance exist without trying to write it into shape—she’s real and she’s having fun.

The flirting settles into something easy from there. Small smiles, lingering looks, the kind of banter that hums quietly beneath the noise of the bar. Han leans in when he talks to you. You laugh a little more than usual. Time slips by without either of you really noticing.

When he gestures toward your glass again, eyebrow lifting, you already know what he’s going to ask. “Third round?”

You hesitate—then shake your head, regretful but firm. “I can’t. I’m a lightweight. If I have another, I’ll be drunk.”

“Then I’ll take you home,” he easily says with a smirk and crinkle in his eyes. “Perks of being neighbors.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You smile and honestly, tempted because you want to say yes. You want to stay. To keep talking, keep hovering in this warm, buzzing space between possibility and intention.

But you remember Archie’s play and you promised Hyunjin that you’ll come.

“I really can’t,” you say gently. “I promised someone I’d be up early.”

Han nods, understanding settling in without complaint. “Fair.”

“I should close my tab,” you add.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already reaching for the register.

You insist anyway, sliding your card across the counter. He gives in with a soft laugh, hands it back once everything’s done.

“Get home safe,” he tells you.

You smile. “I will. Thank you.”

As you step away from the bar, you glance back just in time to see him disappear into the crowd—slipping between bodies, back into the rhythm of the place like he was never yours to begin with.

Your heart is still racing as you head for the door.

And somehow, you’re okay with that.

-

The kindergarten hallway is chaos in its purest form.

Parents crowd every available inch, teachers herding small bodies in mismatched costumes with the patience of saints. You weave your way through it all, scanning faces until you spot Hyunjin exactly where he said he’d be—standing just outside Archie’s classroom, hands in his pockets, looking only mildly overwhelmed.

You reach him and grab his arm. “I’m here, I’m here.”

He turns, breaks into a smile, and immediately hands you a tumbler. “For you.”

You scoff, grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Figured you’d need it.”

Soon enough, the teacher starts ushering everyone toward the small auditorium. You and Hyunjin end up in the middle rows, close enough to the stage that Archie will be able to spot you, close enough that Hyunjin keeps glancing around like he’s trying to mentally map every possible angle.

A couple seated nearby turns toward him. “You’re Archie’s dad, right?” the man says.

Hyunjin stands to greet them, and you rise automatically with him, offering a polite smile. The woman looks between the two of you, eyes warm with curiosity. “I’ve seen you picking Archie up a few times,” she says to you. “Are you his mom?”

You blink. “Oh—um, I—”

“He’s mine,” Hyunjin says quickly, smoothly. “She’s our neighbor. Close friend.”

“Oh!” The woman flushes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin assures her easily, and after a few more pleasantries, they return to their seats.

You and Hyunjin sit back down. You lean in, whispering, “Did she thinks I look old enough to have a child?”

He snorts softly. “And you’ve only realized it now?”

You elbow him without thinking.

He yelps—loud.

“Shh,” he stage-whispers immediately, rubbing his side. “It’s about to start.”

The lights dim, chatter quiets, and the curtain begins to lift.

Archie stands there in a tiny bunny costume—floppy ears slightly crooked, face paint smudged just enough to make it even cuter. You bring a hand to your mouth without realizing it, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “He’s so cute.”

Beside you, Hyunjin is already in full dad mode. Camera up. Finger clicking nonstop. Leaning forward in his seat like he can somehow get closer through sheer will alone. You stifle a laugh as you watch him, completely unapologetic, documenting every second.

Then Archie’s eyes scan the audience and the moment he spots you and his dad, his whole face lights up. He sings louder. Dances harder. Arms swinging with enthusiasm that has nothing to do with choreography and everything to do with being seen.

This is what people meant when they say showing up matters. You feel something warm bloom in your chest as you wave subtly, smiling so hard your cheeks ache.

Hyunjin lowers the camera just long enough to catch it too, eyes shining.

The performance is chaos in the best way—off-key singing, uneven dancing, pure joy radiating from the stage and when it ends, the room erupts into cheers.

Everything feels full. Loud. Soft. And dare you say… kind of romantic.

-

Lunch turns into a small celebration without anyone needing to say it out loud.

The three of you sit around the dining table, plates of spaghetti in front of you. You keep gushing about the play because how could you not? You’re telling Archie how amazing he was on stage, how brave, how cute, how the bunny ears were the best part. You reach over with a napkin, gently wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Hyunjin watches the whole thing with a quiet smile, elbow propped on the table, eyes soft.

Archie, meanwhile, tries very hard to act cool about the praise. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just steal the entire show.

“Do you know how cute you were with your bunny ears and painted nose?” you ask, dabbing the spaghetti sauce on his chin.

“I know,” Archie answers without a beat.

You and Hyunjin exchange a look, both surprised and amused before letting out chuckles.

Then, Archie looks at his dad. “Daddy, can I have ice cream after this?”

Hyunjin doesn’t even blink. “I think you have enough for today, don’t you think?”

Archie frowns.

You lean forward on the table, leaning close to Hyunjin. “But he worked really hard. Plays are exhausting.”

Archie’s eyes light up. He turns fully toward Hyunjin and puts on his best puppy eyes, voice dropping into a soft, pleading whine. “Pleaaase?”

You join him, tilting your head, widening your eyes in exaggerated innocence. “Please…”

Hyunjin looks between the two of you. His resolve lasts exactly two seconds.

“…Fine,” he sighs. “Ice cream.”

“Yay!” you and Archie cheer in unison.

Hyunjin shakes his head, defeated but smiling as he’s walking to the fridge to get the hard-earned ice cream for the three of you.

The afternoon stretches gently after lunch and nap time always wins. Hyunjin gently lays Archie into his bed, adjusting the blanket, brushing hair from his forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache just a little.

In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water, suddenly aware of how tired you are—how keeping up with a five-year-old is a full-body workout.

Hyunjin joins you, voice low. “Can I have a glass?”

You nod, pour another glass, and the two of you settle back at the dining table, shoulders relaxed, the day finally catching up.

“So,” he says casually, “how’s the romance going?”

You snort softly. “Straight to it, huh?”

He shrugs.

You tell him about last night. About meeting your agent. About Han. About the drinks, the flirting, the way it felt different from anything you’d expected. How the whole thing felt serendipitous.

Hyunjin listens, then smirks. “Didn’t think you even knew how to flirt.”

You smack his arm lightly.

He yelps quietly this time and immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, glancing toward Archie’s room.

“Worth it,” you whisper.

He grins. “So what happens next?”

You shrug, staring into your glass. “I don’t know. Potentially, a date? I just… don’t know if he’ll ask.”

“What do you even like about him?” Hyunjin asks, genuinely curious.

“He’s cool but also… hot,” you pause to let out a shy giggle. “He’s confident. I like how he carries himself, the intensity.” You start listing things you like about Han but it all sounds familiar even as you say it.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “You know a lot for someone you’re not close with.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m getting there.”

He smiles, satisfied. “Good luck then.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but soft. The kind that settles after a good day. But then reality nudges you — writing to do, book to finish.

“I should go,” you say, pushing yourself up your chair.

“Wait a second,” Hyunjin says, getting up from his chair and reaching for his bag.

A while later, he returns with a paper in his hand and hands it to you. From the glasses and the way he colored the hair the same as yours, you believe it’s Archie’s drawing of you.

“His teacher shared the drawings Archie made at school,” Hyunjin shares.

When you look up from admiring the drawing, you find Hyunjin’s eyes on you, soft and earnest.

“Thank you for coming today,” he says quietly. “Archie was sad his mom couldn’t make it. It meant a lot to him that you came. To me.”

Your throat tightens, not expecting that your presence meant a great deal to someone. “You know I’d do anything for Archie,” you say honestly. Then, playfully, “Not for you.”

He chuckles. “Sure.”

You fold the drawing and hold it close to your chest. “I’m going, okay?”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin nods but there’s this look on him that seems reluctant to let you leave.

You linger by the doorway to flash him a smile and say bye. “Don’t miss me too much, yeah?”

Hyunjin grins. “I’ll try.”

You walk out of his apartment, cross the hall and step back into your own. Before sitting down to write, you stick Archie’s drawing on the wall next to your desk. Every time you stop and see it, you can’t help but smile.

-

It’s Wednesday’s afternoon and you’re tucked into your usual corner at Hyunjin’s coffee shop, laptop open, fingers moving steadily. Words blur into paragraphs, paragraphs into pages. You don’t realize how long you’ve been there until you lift your cup and find it empty. You frown at it like it personally betrayed you because you really need the caffeine.

Before you can stand, a shadow falls over the table. Hyunjin appears, already setting down a fresh cup of coffee and a small tray of madeleines, warm and dusted lightly with sugar.

“Oh—thank you,” you say, looking up.

He just smiles, then takes your empty cup and disappears behind the counter.

You take your first sip, humming softly in approval, when you hear the giggling. As expected, a group of girls by the counter accept their drinks from Hyunjin, whispering to each other, cheeks flushed, eyes following him a little too obviously. You shake your head with a fond kind of disbelief.

Hyunjin is completely oblivious to the effect he has on people — girls, specifically.

The door opens and your brain stalls when you see the person who’s just stepped into the coffee shop. Han with sunlight briefly framing him before the door shuts behind him. You don’t know why your first instinct is to duck, but you try anyway—lowering your head, hiding behind your laptop like that’s going to save you. Too late though as his eyes land on you instantly and flashes you a smile.

Shit.

He heads to the counter and you watch as he and Hyunjin exchange pleasantries before taking his coffee order — Ice Americano, less ice with extra shot. While waiting, Han walks straight over and drops into the chair across from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You smile but it comes out a little stiff. “Hey,” you weakly greet.

He flashes you his gummy smile. “Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Writing,” you say casually, like your heart didn’t just kick into a faster rhythm.

“Can I see?”

You scoff. “I’d still have to kill you.”

He chuckles softly, then goes quiet. He looks at you, noticing something on you. “You cut your hair.”

Well, you cut it like days ago but it feels nice that he finally noticed it. You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of it. Of how it sits today. Of how you styled it without thinking much about why.

“It looks good,” he says.

Before you can respond, Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the shop. “Han!”

Hearing his name on Hyunjin’s lips makes something odd twist in your chest.

The chair scrapes as Han stands. “That’s me.”

He excuses himself to grab his coffee, and the second his back is turned, you glance at your laptop screen—using the dark reflection to fix your hair, smooth it behind your ear, adjust yourself just enough.

When Han comes back, you pretend to fiddle with your laptop.

He stops by your table again with a coffee in his hand. “Hey, uh—my lame band is playing at this bar on Friday. I’d love for you to come.”

He tilts his head and playfully adds, “If you’re up for seeing a lame band.”

You chuckle, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, I’d love to see your lame band.”

“It’s Friday night,” he adds.

“Friday night,” you repeat, nodding.

“I’ll see you then,” he says with a smile, satisfied, then heads for the door.

You wish him a good day, and just like that, he’s gone. You wait exactly three seconds before abandoning your table and marching to the counter.

“Oh, my God. Did you hear that?” you whisper-rant at Hyunjin, who’s cleaning the espresso machine.

“What? I only heard him ask you to see his lame band,” he says.

“He asked me out.”

Hyunjin pauses. “That’s… not what I heard.”

“It’s indirect,” you insist. “But it… is.”

He hums, unconvinced. You decide to ignore that part entirely and focus on the important thing—you were right. You’re getting closer to Han.

“That’s good then,” Hyunjin says with a small smile before moving away to hand off another order.

You don’t let yourself think too hard about his reaction but walk back to your chair. You stare at your laptop, trying to continue writing but your mind is already elsewhere.

Friday night. What to prepare. What to wear. What to expect.

-

Friday night arrives faster than you expect.

You stand in front of your mirror longer than usual, tugging at fabric, tilting your head, changing your mind twice before settling on something that feels right. Something special but not loud about it. Effortless, you tell yourself. Like you didn’t think about this all week.

You smooth the material down, check your reflection again. Good. You look like yourself. Maybe a slightly braver version.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, face-down, and your heart does a stupid little jump even though you haven’t checked it yet.

You’re buzzing, restless, excited. For the past two days, your imagination hasn’t given you a moment of peace.

You imagine walking beside Han down a dim street, shoulders brushing. You imagine him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes finding you in the crowd and staying there. You imagine him stepping offstage, a little flushed, walking straight toward you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. You imagine drinks. Laughter. The easy kind that comes from being a little buzzed and a little brave. You imagine him leaning in close at the end of the night, voice low, mouth warm against yours. You imagine him coming back to your place. You imagine—

You stop yourself with a sharp inhale, heat rushing to your cheeks.

Okay. Enough.

You shake your head, laugh under your breath, and turn back to the mirror. You adjust your hair, add one last touch. Just enough to feel confident. Just enough to feel like tonight matters.

You don’t need to imagine anymore. You grab your bag, take one last look at yourself, and smile.

Tonight, romance is going to happen.

-

The bar is louder than you expected.

Not bad—just… a lot. The music vibrates through the floor, bass-heavy and messy, and Han’s band takes the stage with confidence that makes the crowd cheer before they even start. You watch him from where you stand near the back, guitar slung low, hair falling into his eyes. He looks good up there like this is exactly where he belongs.

You smile. You really try to.

But as the set goes on, you realize you’re not listening for the music anymore—you’re listening for how it makes you feel. And the feeling never quite arrives. The songs blur together, loud and chaotic, and while the crowd is jumping and shouting lyrics back at him, you’re nursing your drink and wondering how long you’re supposed to stay before it’s polite to leave.

When Han finally comes offstage, he’s flushed and glowing, adrenaline still buzzing through him.

“Did you like it?” he asks, hopeful.

You nod. “Yeah. You were great.”

And he was. That’s the frustrating part.

He introduces you to his friends and they’re loud and affectionate but already halfway drunk and suddenly you’re bar-hopping, squeezing into cramped spaces, shouting conversations over music you don’t know.

Han keeps a hand at your lower back, guiding you through the crowd, ordering drinks without asking what you want.

It’s not unkind. It’s just… unfamiliar.

At one point, you’re sitting on a sticky barstool, watching him laugh with his bandmates, and it hits you—this isn’t a date. You’re not being chosen. You’re being folded into his night.

You thought you knew him. Or maybe you thought you wrote him.

The version of Han in your head is quieter, more attentive, someone who’d lean in to hear you speak instead of leaning away to greet someone new. You realize, with a strange calm, that none of that is fair—to him or to you.

When he finally looks back at you and asks, “You good?” you smile and say, “Yeah. Just tired.”

It’s the truth. Just not the whole one.

Later, when he walks you home and kisses your cheek instead of your lips, you feel relief instead of disappointment.

When you close your door behind you, the silence feels kinder than the noise ever did. You sit on your bed and laugh softly to yourself. Not because it went badly. But because it didn’t go wrong—it just didn’t go right.

You don’t cry. You just stare at the wall and think about how you’re going to need time to understand what that means.

-

The days after Friday blur together quietly.

You’re back at your desk, laptop open, fingers moving more out of habit than inspiration. The room is dim except for the warm pool of light from your desk lamp, the kind of night where the world feels paused just enough for thoughts to get loud.

You’re mid-sentence when a knock sounds at your door. Your heart jumps—annoyingly hopeful, annoyingly wary.

You move to the door, peeking through the peephole first because you’re not ready. Not ready to see Han. Not ready to smile politely and pretend you didn’t dismantle an entire version of him in your head.

Thankfully, it’s Hyunjin.

Relief washes through you so quickly you almost laugh. You open the door and step aside to let him in. “Hey, come in.”

He softly smiles when he sees you, but there’s something else there too—a quiet concern that sits just beneath the surface.

“So Archie is at his mom’s,” he says instead, lifting the plastic bag in his hand. “And I can’t finish all these dumplings myself.”

You smile and usher him toward the kitchen. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Thought I’d share the burden,” he replies easily.

You eat in comfortable silence, the clink of chopsticks against plates filling the gaps. It feels grounding, the simplicity of it.

After a while, Hyunjin glances at you and asks, “How’s the book going?”

“I’ve been writing a lot lately,” you simply answer.

“Is that why I haven’t seen you much?”

You nod.

He hums, accepting it, and the quiet settles again—this time heavier, waiting. Then, gently, “How was the date?”

You sigh before you even realize you’re doing it. Your shoulders slump, and you stare at your plate for a moment longer than necessary before finally speaking.

“I think I’m stupid,” you say, letting out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “For believing there’s such a thing as a dream man.”

Hyunjin’s expression sharpens, not with judgment, but concern. “Did Han do something?”

You shake your head. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not him.”

“Then who?”

“My expectations,” you say quietly. “I projected this whole character onto him. Built this romance in my head and expected it to just… happen.”

You laugh again, but it’s hollow. “So I guess that’s on me. Maybe I don’t deserve romance after all.”

Hyunjin’s chair scrapes softly as he shifts closer. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, warm and steady, rubbing small, comforting circles into your back.

“What makes you think that?” he asks gently.

You don’t answer right away.

“You’re so busy looking for romance,” he continues, “that you don’t realize how romantic the things you do already are.”

You turn your head to look at him, comforted but unconvinced, and he notices. He always does.

“I watch you work and know how hard you worked on your writing.”

You scoff lightly. “You’re biased.”

“And your book,” he adds. “It feels warm. Like… it cares about people.”

You shake your head. “How would you even know?”

He hesitates for half a second and admits, “I read it.”

You snort. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he insists, smiling sheepishly. “Archie always wants to know what I’m reading, so I keep it in my bedside drawer and only read it before bed.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, shaking your head but warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.

Then Hyunjin’s hand moves from your shoulder to your jaw. He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

“You’re amazing,” he says, looking straight into your eyes. “You write beautifully. What you create entertains people. It warms them. What could be more romantic than that?”

Something in you cracks open—not painfully, but softly. Your heart trembles at how genuine he is, how steady, how sure. How he knows the words you needed to hear.

You place your hand over his and lean into his touch. “Thank you,” you whisper.

For a moment, the two of you staying like that, sitting in a comfort that doesn’t need imagining to exist.

Another moment later, you rinse the last plate and set it carefully on the rack while Hyunjin dries his hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter like he belongs there—like he always has.

“Oh,” he says casually, as if it just crossed his mind. “I’m taking Archie to the aquarium this weekend.”

He adds quickly, a teasing lilt in his voice, “I know there’s absolutely nothing romantic about going to the aquarium with a divorced dad and his kid. But… I thought it might help take your mind off things a little.”

It is a good idea since you’ve been cooped up in the apartment for the last few days but still, you pretend to consider it for a moment just to tease him. Then you break into a smile and nod, “…Yeah, I’d like that.”

Hyunjin nods, clearly pleased but pretending not to be. “Cool. I’ll pack lunch,” he says, already planning. “You can treat us to ice cream.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, was it?”

“Nope.”

You sigh dramatically. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

When everything’s done, he pauses and leans over the dining table, hands propped against it. “Are you going to continue writing tonight?”

“It seems like it, yeah,” you answer.

“Just… make sure you rest too,” he says.

You promise with a nod, even if you’re not sure you’ll keep it.

At the door, you thank him again and reach for the handle, but before you can open it, Hyunjin gently pulls you into a hug. It’s long and tight, like he’s trying to pass something to you through sheer closeness. Warmth. Comfort. His real, solid presence.

You don’t resist. You melt into it, arms wrapping around him, breathing him in, catching the faint smell of coffee clinging to his clothes. It feels nice. Too nice.

When you pull back, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay on you, just enough to keep you close. Your eyes meet and for a split second, something sparks right in your chest.

Hyunjin swallows, then murmurs, “Goodnight.”

Only then does he let go.

“Goodnight,” you breathe back, still a little breathless as he steps out and the door clicks shut behind him.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart thudding, unsure of what just happened—

Only that it stole your breath anyway.

-

The aquarium entrance looms ahead, glass doors glinting under the sun, and Archie is already bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands are warm in yours, small fingers threaded tightly as he wedges himself between you and Hyunjin.

“Ready?” Hyunjin asks, glancing down at him.

Before either of you can answer, Archie jumps.

You and Hyunjin instinctively lift your arms, hoisting him up for a few seconds, his laugh bursting out loud and uncontained before you set him back down.

“Again!” Archie demands immediately.

You exchange a look with Hyunjin, his mouth already twitching with a smile and do it again. And again. Until Archie’s laughter turns into breathless giggles and the line starts moving.

“Okay,” Hyunjin says, squeezing Archie's hand. “It’s our turn to enter.”

The moment you step into the aquarium, Archie goes quiet. His eyes widen, reflecting the blue glow of the tanks as fish glide past the glass like living brushstrokes. He lets go of your hand without warning, darting forward with a gasp.

“Wait—Archie!” you call, hurrying after him.

He presses his face close to the glass, pointing excitedly, words tumbling out too fast for you to catch. You slow him down, gently steering him from tank to tank, trying and failing to keep pace with his excitement.

Behind you, Hyunjin lingers, unbothered. He lifts his camera, capturing the way Archie’s mouth drops open in awe, the way you crouch beside him, explaining fish names you half-remember.

“Are you even helping?” you call over your shoulder.

Hyunjin chuckles, snapping another photo. “You’re doing great.”

You shake your head, breathless and smiling, while Archie tugs at your sleeve, already dragging you forward. In the next exhibit, you take the camera from Hyunjin without asking, fingers already curling around the familiar weight of it.

“Hey—” he protests.

“It’s your turn!” You say as you aim the camera at him.

Then Archie gasps, pointing at the massive tank ahead, and Hyunjin lifts him up without another word. Archie settles easily in his arms, one small hand braced on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he leans closer to the glass.

Schools of fish glide past them, slow and hypnotic, and something bigger passes in the shadows, making Archie suck in a sharp breath.

“Dad,” he whispers, reverent.

You raise the camera and Hyunjin doesn’t even realize you’re taking pictures at first. His head is tilted slightly toward Archie, his arm secure around him, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against Archie’s back.

There’s a softness in his face you don’t see often—unguarded, fond, full in a quiet way. You press the shutter again and again, capturing the warmth of it, the way love looks when it’s lived in.

When Hyunjin finally glances over and notices you, he raises an eyebrow. “You done?”

“Not even close,” you say, snapping one last photo as Archie laughs at something swimming past.

You move on to the touching pool after that, Archie skipping ahead while sucking on a juice box, already announcing to anyone who’ll listen that there are baby sharks inside.

You peer into the shallow tank, watching the small, sleek shapes glide through the water. “I don’t know about this.”

Hyunjin grins. “They’re harmless.”

You shake your head, folding your arms. “Easy for you to say.”

Without hesitation, Hyunjin rolls up his sleeve and dips his hand into the water. One of the baby sharks swims close, brushing past his fingers. He doesn’t flinch.

“See? Totally fine.”

Purely out of curiosity, you slowly lower your hand into the pool. The water is cool, your pulse loud in your ears as a small shark swims toward you. You watch it intently, holding your breath—

Hyunjin suddenly yelps and at the same time, his hand shoots out and grabs yours under the water.

You scream, jerking your hand back so fast you nearly stumble. “Hyunjin!”

He bursts out laughing, loud and unapologetic, doubling over as you stand there mortified, heart racing.

“Oh my god,” you hiss, slapping his arm again and again. “What is wrong with you?!”

“I couldn’t help it,” he laughs, failing to dodge your hits.

Archie giggles uncontrollably from the side, juice carton forgotten in his hand. “You scared her!”

“You’re both terrible,” you mutter, cheeks burning as a few nearby visitors glance over with amused smiles.

Hyunjin finally lifts his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Worth it.”

You glare at him, but it doesn’t stick. Not with Archie laughing like that. Not with the warmth still lingering from the moment before. Still, you give Hyunjin one last slap for good measure.

“Absolutely not forgiven,” you say but you can see Hyunjin’s smile only goes wider.

By the time the three of you arrived home, Archie is completely out—head tucked under Hyunjin’s chin, mouth slightly open, limbs loose from a day filled with too much excitement and too much food.

You unlock the door into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare keys you have and hold it open while Hyunjin steps inside. He heads straight for Archie’s room, disappearing down the hallway, and you move to set the backpack down, lining up the jacket, placing the little sneakers neatly by the door.

The sight of Hyunjin’s camera catches your attention so you pick it up and allow yourself to sit on the sofa.

There are so many pictures of Archie—him pressing his nose to the glass, arms spread wide like he’s trying to become a fish; him crouching near a tank, mimicking the posture of a stingray; him baring his teeth proudly like the statue of the sharks next to him. You smile without realizing it.

Then there are photos of you and Archie together. One where you’re pointing excitedly at something in a tank while Archie looks up at you like you’ve just told him a secret. Another where you’re laughing, head thrown back, completely unaware.

You pause on one photo in particular of you standing slightly to the side, Archie right next to you, both of you staring at a tank full of glowing jellyfish. The light bathes everything in blue and violet, soft and dreamy.

It’s… aesthetic. Hyunjin takes beautiful pictures. Which also annoys you because he’s just so good at everything.

You scroll again and realize the next few are unmistakably the ones you took. You can tell because they’re not as composed. Slightly crooked. Too close. Taken with a kind of rushed affection.

You continue scrolling and then stop when you find a picture of you. Your face turned toward the glass, expression relaxed, almost thoughtful. The glow from the tank kisses your cheekbones, your eyes soft, unguarded. There are more like it—small moments, stolen from angles you didn’t know he was watching from.

They’re different. Taken with such great care. Tender. Almost… romantic.

“You know,” Hyunjin’s voice cuts in, amused, “I should’ve taken a picture of you freaking out at the touching pool.”

You yelp softly and turn, immediately slapping his arm. “Don’t you dare.”

He laughs as he sits beside you on the sofa, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. You hand him the camera back, then lean into the cushions with a long sigh. “You know,” you say, staring at the ceiling, “your life is way more romantic than mine.”

Hyunjin tilts his head. “How is that so?”

You count them off without even looking at him. “You have a beautiful, loving son. You own a coffee shop. You brew your own coffee. You bake. You have… secret admirers. You take beautiful photos like this.” You gesture vaguely. “And that’s not even all of it.”

Hyunjin hums thoughtfully and then, narrows his eyes at you. “Secret admirers?”

You grin and bump your shoulder lightly against his. “The girls at the coffee shop. The giggling. The whispering. The very obvious swooning.”

He scoffs, trying to look indifferent. “I don’t notice that.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, but you catch the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears.

You shift closer without really thinking about it—your legs tucked under you now, Hyunjin’s shoulder warm against yours.

Hyunjin clears his throat, then says, almost too casually, “You know… there are a few romantic things about you too.”

“A few, huh?” you scoff, turning toward him.

He smiles, that soft one he only ever wears around you, and leans back into the sofa. “A few. Yeah.”

You cross your arms together, unimpressed yet curious. “Let’s hear it then.”

“I think it’s romantic when you’re writing at the coffee shop,” he starts with a soft smile. “You don’t notice anything around you—your coffee going cold, people coming and going. The sunlight hits you just right and it’s like you’re… glowing. Like you’re somewhere else.”

Your breath catches, just a little. Not expecting that.

“I think it’s romantic the way you use words,” he continues. “You make people feel things. You make me feel things, even when you don’t realize it.”

You swallow because your chest suddenly feels tight.

“I think it’s romantic when you enjoy my coffee and my madeleines like they’re something special,” he adds, quieter now. “When you come over and I find you and Archie on the floor, coloring or laughing like you belong there.”

His eyes meet yours.

“And I think it’s romantic that you’re always there,” he says. “When I need help. When Archie needs someone. When I’m too tired to ask.”

The air between you thickens, crackles.

Then, softer, almost vulnerable, he says, “And I think… there’s something romantic between you and me.”

You smile shyly, heart stuttering. “You and me?”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin doesn’t even try to hide it.

You decide to be playful about it. “Okay, I guess we’re… kind of romantic.”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he leans in just a fraction, gaze deepening, voice dropping low and warm. “Should we make it more romantic?”

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But there’s no panic. No urge to pull away. Just this steady, grounding warmth like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“I guess we can make it romantic,” you answer, breathless and a little trembling.

Hyunjin’s hand comes up gently, like he’s afraid of startling you, and then, the next thing you know, his lips are on yours, soft and plush. The kiss is tender, almost innocent, like a promise instead of a question.

You melt into it, eyes fluttering shut. Because this—

This feels romantic.

-

You pull away first, breath shaky, your hand flying up to cover your lips like you need to physically hold yourself together.

Hyunjin’s lips are a little swollen, a little red, still glossy from the kiss, and the sight of him looking worried like that almost makes you laugh. “What? Did that feel weird?” he asks quietly.

You’re still processing the way your heart is racing, the way your body feels warm and light and grounded all at once. Then you nod.

“It feels weird because…” you say honestly. “It doesn’t feel weird at all.”

He exhales a laugh, soft and relieved, shaking his head like he should’ve known better. He doesn’t rush you, rush this moment. Then, carefully, like he’s asking permission with every movement, he reaches up and brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger there, warm against your skin.

You don’t expect to feel this with Hyunjin, whom you’ve known for years and you’ve comfortably shared part of your life with. You hesitate for a second and then glance up at him through your lashes. “Can we uh… can we try again?”

His smile this time is slow, sure. “Yeah.”

You scoot closer, close your eyes, and lean in first. And you expect to feel his lips on you soon, but no. Instead, you feel his hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks. He presses a kiss to your eyelid. Then the other. A soft one to your cheekbone. A lingering kiss along your jaw that makes your breath hitch.

When your lips part and a breathless gasp escaped your lips, only then does he kiss you again.

This time, you don’t hold back. The kiss deepens naturally, carrying you both somewhere heavier, warmer. Hyunjin leans in until you’re sinking into the cushions, the sofa dipping beneath you, his body braced carefully above yours—close, but never careless.

When he pulls away, it’s only to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, lower—each one slow enough to make your head spin.

You try to stay quiet. You really do. But the soft, breathless sounds slip out anyway.

He catches the last one with a kiss that steals what little air you have left. When he finally pulls back, he stays hovering above you, eyes dark, amused and tender all at once.

“You okay?” he asks.

You give him a shaky thumbs-up.

He laughs quietly, brushing your hair away from your face again. “Good.”

Then, his eyes look deeply into yours and says, “I know the part of me that says ‘divorced, single dad’ doesn’t sound very romantic.”

He punctuates it with a quick kiss to your lips. “But,” he adds, lingering close, his mouth grazing yours, “it does mean I’m pretty confident about the… spicy parts.”

He pauses, searching your face, the teasing replaced with care. “We can stop. Or we can move forward. It’s up to you.”

Still breathless, cheeks burning, you try to sound casual. “Yeah. I think we can… move on to the spicy part.”

He chuckles, clearly delighted, and you immediately cover your face with your hands, mortified.

“Don’t look at me.”

Instead of teasing you, Hyunjin scoops you up without warning.

You squeal, clapping a hand over your mouth as reality kicks in that Archie is sleeping. “Hyunjin—"

Your hands clutch at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as he carries you down the hallway. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, heart pounding, warmth blooming everywhere.

“I’m just,” he adds softly, “trying to make it more romantic.”

Somehow, it already is with the way he carries you like you’re something delicate, something precious, and the care in it makes your chest ache.

Hyunjin lowers you onto the bed slowly, one hand braced beside your head, the other still steady at your waist like he’s afraid of letting go too soon. He hovers above you again, eyes searching your face, and then his lips find yours—soft at first, then deeper, dizzying.

It goes on like that. Kissing. Shifting closer. Bodies pressing together until the room feels smaller, warmer, filled with nothing but breath and heat and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

It all starts to feel like too much in the best, overwhelming way. You pull back gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Hyunjin… give me a second.”

He immediately stills. “Yeah. Of course.”

He stays close but doesn’t touch, giving you space without leaving. You use the moment to really look at him. His eyes are softer up close. You trace the little mole under his left eye with your fingertip, your touch feather-light, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you press too hard. Your thumb brushes over his lips, plush and slightly swollen from kissing you.

You’ve known him for years, seen him almost every day, but never like this. Never this close. Never with this quiet, electric romance humming between you.

Hyunjin is so beautiful it steals the air from your lungs.

“God,” you murmur without thinking. “You’re… really beautiful.”

His mouth curves into a smile, shy and amused all at once. “But you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Hyunjin shifts, sitting up. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one.

Your eyes widen, heart pounding, you’re helpless under him and absolutely not complaining. You bring a hand to your mouth, biting back any sound as he shrugs the shirt off, exposing his toned arms, his chest, the quiet strength in the lines of his body. Heat rushes through you, settling everywhere all at once.

Hyunjin glances down at you, clearly enjoying the reaction, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So,” he asks softly, “what do you think?”

You swallow. “I’m thinking… a lot of girls would be really jealous of me right now.”

Something curious pulls at you then. Your hand reaches for him, hesitant, half-convinced he’s just a figment of your imagination. He notices immediately and takes your hand, pressing it flat against his chest.

“I’m very much real, yeah,” he jokingly says with a soft chuckle.

You touch him gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. “I didn’t expect this under the dad sweaters and barista apron.”

He scoffs lightly. “Hey. I look good in those.”

You meet his eyes. “Well, honestly, you look good in everything.”

That makes him smiles, soft and pleased. He leans down again, bracing himself carefully above you, and captures your lips in a long, deep kiss that pulls you right back under him.

And whatever line there was between romantic and something more… it fades quietly, willingly, as you let yourself follow him there.

You kiss him back just as eagerly, your hands roaming over his bare upper body. He feels warm and solid beneath your palms, soft skin over strength that makes your head feel light. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, slow and consuming, until you’re dizzy from it, until the room feels like it’s tilting.

When his hand drifts toward the opening of your blouse, a shaky breath slips out of you before you can stop it.

Hyunjin immediately stills, lifting his head to look at you. “You know you can stop me anytime, right?”

You shake your head quickly, flustered. “I—no. I’m just… shy.”

He scoffs playfully. “What, you think I’m hiding abs under here and you’re not?”

You laugh, the sound easing something tight in your chest, and that little moment of humor makes everything feel safer, easier. You lift yourself just enough to undo your blouse, and he helps you ease it off, careful and unhurried. Jeans follow, his first and then yours, movements clumsy but sweet as clothes are kicked aside and forgotten on the floor.

When there’s nothing left between you, reality hits all at once. You sit back against the pillows, arms crossed over yourself, legs tucked in shyly.

Hyunjin tilts his head, smiling. “What are you trying to hide from me?”

“The most un-romantic part of me,” you meekly answer.

He laughs softly before crawling closer anyway. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”

He gently moves your hands away, not rushing or forcing, just guiding until you’re lying bare beneath him. Your heart pounds, worry creeping in, all those quiet insecurities whispering at once.

But the way he looks at you… it’s nothing like you feared. His eyes trace you with awe, like he can’t comprehend it, like he can’t believe you’re real. His hands follow, touching you with reverence, slow and indulgent, making you shiver at the tenderness of it. He drags his hand from the base of your throat down the valley of your breasts, he rests his hand for a brief moment there on the ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of it with every breathe you take.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and the words sink deep, settling somewhere warm inside you.

His lips replace his hands, kisses pressed to your collarbone, under your breast, your navel, your hip. Each kiss is unhurried, lingering and each one making you more breathless than the last. You gasp softly as he moves lower, taking his time, clearly enjoying every reaction he pulls from you.

Hyunjin knows where you want him the most, but he doesn't give it to you. Not yet. With a smirk, he pulls away, knees propped against the bed. A hand reaches for your leg and lifts it, there isn’t slightest of hesitation as he presses a kiss to your ankle.

From there, he continues to make a trail of kisses down your leg until he's there, head hanging between your leg. He looks at you, making you wait in anticipation for what he’s going to do next.

You feel faint from how much you’ve been holding your breath and when his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt, a breathless gasp spilled out of your parted mouth.

Hyunjin begins by landing kitten licks between your folds, making you wetter than you already are. His tongue darting out, the hot and slick of it pressing on your clit before it moves in slow, circular motions.

You’re squirming under him, your hips lifted off the bed, seeking pleasure of his hot mouth on you, but the hand resting on your stomach, firmly holding you down, not letting you go.

When he finally looks up at you, lips flushed, eyes dark and playful, the heat of his attention alone is enough to make you squirm. He doesn’t waste another second but to dive back in, giving you more of those delicious curls of his tongue on your clit, between your folds, around the entrance. He plants his mouth on your clit, sucking at it in such gentleness and intention and it feels overwhelming, dizzying.

Your moans slip out before you can stop them and hurriedly press your lips together, aware that Archie is sleeping in the next room. You clamp a hand over your mouth, body tensing even though every nerve is screaming otherwise.

Saying Hyunjin’s name feels like dragging it out of your lungs, broken and whispered, and you tug at his hair in a desperate attempt to get his attention.

“Hyunjin…”

He doesn’t hear it at first. Or maybe he does, but he’s far too focused, far too intent on pleasing you with his mouth like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists. You’re helpless beneath him, caught between wanting him to stop and wanting him never to.

Your pleas dissolve into soft, ruined sounds, and you can’t even tell anymore what you’re asking for. Then everything inside you coiling, winding, overwhelming and when it finally breaks, you bite down hard on your lip, eyes squeezing shut as you fall apart in silence, every sensation crashing over you at once.

Hyunjin slows and then pulls back. He watches you with a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as you ride out the last of your orgasm, breath shaking, chest rising and falling.

Before you can even gather yourself, he’s above you again, one hand braced beside your head as he leans down and captures your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you have a taste of you lingering on his tongue and lips.

The two of you stay like that for a moment longer, just kissing with your body still humming as you drift down from the edge you’d just tipped over. Hyunjin’s mouth stays soft on yours, but there’s an unmistakable pull beneath it, a promise you both feel building again with every breath you share. There’s no denying that you’re both ready for what’s next.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. “Give me a second, yeah?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shifts to the side. You watch him open the bedside drawer and there, next to his box of condoms is your book.

You laugh softly when you see it and reach for it before he can stop you, holding it up with a grin. “So you didn’t lie, huh?”

He doesn’t even deny it, just shrugs, a little sheepish, a little smug. You flip it open and spot the bookmarked part of the story. “Oh, you’re in the juicy part.”

“And I think,” he says, holding a condom in his hand now, voice teasing but steady, “we should catch up to it.”

You tuck the book away, suddenly shy all over again, and watch him with a kind of breathless awe as he takes his time, tearing through the foil packet and then carefully rolls the rubber down his stiff member.

When he looks up and catches you staring at his hard length, you don’t even bother pretending.

“I don’t think—” you start, then stop yourself, laughing softly. “It’s… big.”

His smile is easy, reassuring. “We’ll make it fit.”

The way he says it sends a shiver straight through you—half terrifying, half thrilling. You barely have time to react before he’s back with you, laughter and warmth knocking the air from your lungs as you both sink into the mattress again.

When he looks at you, his expression turns serious, tender. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, okay?”

You nod, and he takes his time—kissing you, touching you, grounding you—until your body softens, relaxes, opens to him without fear.

When Hyunjin finally settles between your legs, everything slows even more. He’s using his long, slender fingers to tease until you’re wet, drenched and only then, he begins using the tip of his cock to smear your essence all over your entrance. When he deems you're ready to take him, he aligns his cock and begins pushing into you.

The stretch, the sheer size of him, the sudden fullness — it’s overwhelming, not painful, just surprising. You cling to his shoulders, breathing through it, and he pauses immediately.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Just—wow.”

“Should I continue?”

“Definitely, yes,” you eagerly answer.

Hyunjin slowly pushing the remaining length with utter cautiousness and care. A breath caught in your throat the moment he’s fully buried inside you and your hands clawing at his shoulders, needing time to adjust to him and so does he.

Hyunjin presses his forehead with yours, just existing, processing that you're both connected to one another now and when he opens his eyes, they found yours instantly. He smiles a soft smile and says, "Let's take it slow, mmh?"

You nod, agreeing to it with a long kiss on his lips. For a moment, the two of you stay like that, adjusting to each other, just existing in the moment.

When he finally moves, it’s slow, agonizingly slow as if he wants you to feel everything.

And you do. The closeness. The heat. The way his lips keep finding yours, as if he can’t help it. It feels so deeply intimate that you're shivering all over.

A sound slips out of you before you can stop it, and his eyes darken with amusement. “I like hearing your beautiful moans,” he murmurs against your lips. “But if you get too loud, Archie’s going to hear.”

You barely have the presence of mind to be embarrassed. “But it— it feels too good,” you admit breathlessly.

His smile is pure trouble. One hand cups your jaw. “Then I’ll just have to keep kissing you.”

He does exactly that, mouth never leaving yours as his movements grow surer, deeper, more confident. But the moans keep slipping out of your mouth in between kisses anyway as Hyunjin is rocking his hips in this fluid motions, his cock nudging you right in the spot.

You lose yourself in it—cling to him, wrap yourself around him, let the sensations take over until everything else fades.

“Hyunjin, I’m close,” your voice breaking against his lips

He smiles against your lips. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

Then his hand reaches yours, slipping his fingers in the gaps and interlaced it together. He pins your interlocked hands next to your head as he adds more intensity and speed to his thrusts.

Soon, your moans turn into whimpers and cries against his lips but that seems to drive him further as he continues moving and taking you closer to your high. You cling to him, your legs wrapped tightly around him, not letting him go.

When the high finally crashes, you fall together. It’s messy, breathless, overwhelming. You shatter first, and he follows right after, holding you so tightly it feels like he’s afraid to let go.

When it’s over, you’re still tangled together, fingers laced, foreheads touching, hearts racing in the same uneven rhythm.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. For now, it’s enough to stay exactly like this.

-

The room quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing as Hyunjin lies close to you.

Hyunjin is already half-gone, sleep pulling him under with that unfair ease of his. His arm is draped around you like it belongs there, heavy and warm across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side. Every so often, he shifts closer in his sleep, instinctive, like he’s making sure you haven’t disappeared.

You’re too aware of everything—of the way his chest rises beneath your cheek, of how his face softens completely when he sleeps, lashes resting against skin that still holds a trace of warmth. He looks different like this. Younger. Gentler. Less guarded. Real.

You trace nothing, touch nothing, just watch and quietly imprinting it in the back of your head.

Your body is tired in the best way, pleasantly sore, deeply comfortable, but your mind won’t slow down. It keeps replaying moments—the way he looked at you, the way he asked instead of assumed, the way he held you afterward like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Romance. The word doesn’t feel stupid right now.

Hyunjin exhales, long and slow, and tightens his arm just a little, pulling you closer in his sleep. Your forehead ends up tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together without either of you meaning to. Your chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with something fragile and hopeful. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your hand, and for the first time in a long while, the thought doesn’t scare you.

For so long, you thought romance was something loud. Grand. Scripted. Something you had to chase or imagine into existence. Maybe you’ve found it.

And maybe, this time, it’s not something you made up.

-

You wake up slow, heavy-limbed, wrapped in warmth that doesn’t quite register at first.

The ceiling isn’t yours. That’s the first thing that feels off. The light is different too—softer, slipping in through unfamiliar curtains, painting the room in pale gold. You blink, disoriented, heart giving a small, confused jump before reality comes rushing back all at once.

Hyunjin. Last night. Everything.

A smile blooms on your lips before you can stop it, small and private and a little stunned. It lingers until you shift and feel cool sheets beside you. His side of the bed is empty.

Your chest tightens just a little as you turn, half-expecting the room to be empty, half-dreading the ridiculous thoughts that try to creep in, but then you see him.

Hyunjin stands by the wardrobe with his back to you, rummaging through hangers like this is the most normal morning in the world. He’s wearing only his jeans, hair still messy from sleep, sunlight spilling over his bare upper body like it’s intentional—like the universe is showing off.

You stay quiet as you don’t want to break this moment, eyes admiring the muscles on his back as he grabs a T-shirt, biceps flexing as he slips it on.

Then he turns and catches you watching. He doesn’t tease you. He just smiles. He crosses the room and climbs back onto the bed, moving carefully, like he’s aware you’re still half-dreaming.

You instinctively pull the duvet up to cover half your face, suddenly shy in that dazed, just-woke-up way, but he doesn’t seem to care at all.

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good morning.”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him, eyes wide, still trying to reconcile this version of reality with the one you had yesterday.

He chuckles quietly. “Still weird?”

You nod.

He tilts his head. “Weird because it doesn’t feel weird?”

Another nod.

His fingers brush your hair back gently, but instead of stopping there, his lips trail to your bare shoulder. A kiss. Then your neck. Your jaw. Slow. Warm. When he finally kisses your lips, it’s brief and sweet, like punctuation instead of a question.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “I’ll give you time to process,” he says softly. “When you’re ready, come out. I’ll make breakfast.”

You nod again, the words still stuck somewhere in your chest.

Hyunjin presses one last quick peck to your lips, flashes you a smile that feels dangerously domestic, and slips out of the room.

The second the door clicks shut, you fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling, hands flying to your face as a muffled squeal escapes you. This is your life now and it’s real.

After a while, you decide you can’t stay buried in the bed forever, no matter how tempting it is. Reality has caught up to you whether you’re ready or not—so you sit up, rub at your face, and shuffle straight into the bathroom to fix whatever crime sleep has committed on your appearance.

You splash water on your face. Tie your hair. Stare at your reflection a little too long.

And then a very silly, very romantic thought slips in.

You step back into Hyunjin’s bedroom and drift toward his wardrobe. It’s annoyingly neat, everything folded and hung with care. You tug on a pair of his pajama pants that are much too long on you, the fabric pooling at your ankles, then a soft sweater that smells faintly like coffee and him.

You pad out of the bedroom slowly, still half-processing everything, when a door creaks open to your left.

Archie with his hair is sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded as he rubs at them with tiny fists. He looks at you and you look at him. There’s a beat of silence where your heart politely panics.

Recognition dawns and his face breaks into a sleepy smile. “Oh. It’s you.”

He doesn’t question why you’re there, doesn’t question the clothes. In his mind, you’re just… you. A friend. Someone safe. Someone who belongs.

He reaches out and grabs your hand with surprising determination. “Come on,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “Let’s have daddy cook waffles.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already tugging you down the hallway, calling out, “Daddyyy!” like it’s the most important announcement of the morning.

The kitchen smells like coffee when you arrive. Hyunjin is by the counter, grinding coffee beans, sleeves pushed up, hair still soft and messy. He looks up at the sound of Archie’s feet stomping against the wooden floor and when he sees Archie dragging you along by the hand, something in his expression melts instantly.

“Morning, beautiful boy,” he says, warm and gentle.

Archie lets go of you only to climb straight into Hyunjin’s arms. Hyunjin lifts him without effort, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Did you sleep well?”

Archie mumbles something about sharks or jellyfish or some hybrid creature only his dreams can invent, probably mixing it up with the memories from yesterday’s aquarium trip and you smile to yourself, watching the way Hyunjin listens like it all makes perfect sense. Then his gaze shifts to you.

“How about you?” he asks, playful. “Did you sleep well?”

You lean against the counter, sweater sleeves hiding your hands, and smile back at him. “The best sleep I’ve ever had.”

Hyunjin’s lips twitch, like he’s trying very hard not to react too much.

Archie, meanwhile, has already moved on to his next priority. “Waffles,” he announces firmly.

“Yes, waffles,” you echo, immediately siding with him.

Archie grins and turns his full puppy eyes on his dad. You do the same, dramatically clasping your hands together like this is a life-or-death negotiation. “Please…”

Hyunjin looks between the two of you, utterly outnumbered. “…I was going to make toast,” he starts.

“Nooo,” Archie whines.

“Please,” you add, not even pretending to be subtle.

He sighs, defeated, but smiling. “Fine. Waffles.”

“Yay!” You and Archie cheer in unison.

As Hyunjin moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients, brewing coffee, slipping seamlessly into this routine, you realize something quietly, deeply terrifying—

This doesn’t feel new. It feels like something you’ve been doing for a long time already and God, it feels romantic.

-

The morning is warm with the promise of spring that will arrive soon. Archie’s small hand fits in yours as you walk him to kindergarten. He’s chatty as usual, talking about his funny classmate and the pet fish in his class and how his dad promised his favorite food for dinner later, and you listen, smiling, nodding, feeling strangely at home beside him.

Arrived at the gate of his kindergarten, you kneel to straighten his jacket and he hugs you without hesitation.

“Have the best day ever, okay?” you say when you pull away, patting his cheek gently.

He eagerly nods and raises his hand for a wave. “Buh-bye,” he says with his whisker-dimpled smile before disappearing inside with his teacher following closely behind him.

You walk back alone, heart light. You pull your phone out and compose a text: Mini Hyunjin is safely at school.

When you step into your apartment, your phone buzzes with his reply: Big Hyunjin is baking your treats.

You smile at the screen, something fond settling in your chest: Big??!!!

Hyunjin’s reply comes in an instant: You said it yourself. Remember?

Your mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Just a quiet shock. You used to be scared of this, of this change, afraid that everything else will change as well. But nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels different in a way that’s scary. He’s still the next-door neighbor who own a coffee shop. You’re still the writer with deadlines and empty coffee cups. Archie still needs to be walked to school. Coffee still tastes the same. Yet everything feels new and more… romantic.

You grab your laptop and just as you’re about to start typing, a knock echoes through the space. You freeze for half a second and then walk to the door. When you open it, you’re genuinely caught off guard.

Han stands there, coffee tray balanced in one hand, a paper bag of pastries in the other. He smiles when he sees you, easy and familiar, like he’s always belonged in your doorway.

“Hey,” he says. “I brought coffee.”

You blink once. Twice. Then you step aside, opening the door wider. “Oh—yeah. Come in.”

A moment later, the two of you are in the living room, coffee cups warming your hands, pastries spread out on the table. There’s a little bit of everything in the bag.

“I couldn’t remember what you got me that day,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “So I just… panicked and bought all of them.”

You laugh. “That explains a lot.”

After a while, you add, “but I appreciate it.”

It goes quiet for a moment until Han clears his throat. “Haven’t seen you much lately,” he says. “Figured you were either busy writing or… avoiding me.”

You shake your head quickly. “Just busy. Writing.”

He nods, accepting that easily. Silence settles again and then he exhales. “Can I ask you something?”

You look at him and nod.

“That night,” he says carefully. “Did I do something? Or say something that annoyed you?”

This only proves that you always know that Han is a decent person and you didn’t made up that part of him. You hesitate, then shake your head. “No. It’s not about that. You’re fine—everything’s fine.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your cup. “If anything, it’s me. Not you.”

Han nods like he understands, like he really does. Then he grins.

“Or you can be honest and say that it’s my lame band.”

You laugh despite yourself. “No.”

He narrows his eyes at you as he says, “I can tell that you hated the band.”

“I didn’t hate it,” you correct honestly. “It’s just… not really my cup of tea. But it’s not lame.”

He hums, considering. “That’s good to hear.”

The conversation flows easier after that, lighter. He asks about your book, and you tell him you’re still working on it.

“Do I get a copy when it’s done?” he asks.

You smile. “Do you even read romance books?”

He shrugs. “What, you think a guy in a band can’t enjoy romance?”

You shrug back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

The two of you laugh, and for the first time in days, the tension in your chest loosens. When Han eventually leaves, coffee cups empty and pastries half-gone, you realize you’re smiling, not because of what could’ve been, but because things ended exactly the way they should’ve.

-

You’re writing at Hyunjin’s coffee shop again like always and time slipping through your fingers without asking permission. Words come easily today, sentences stacking gently on top of each other.

You only realize how long it’s been when you lift your cup and find it empty. Before you can even sigh about it, a fresh one appears in front of you. You look up and find Hyunjin standing next to you, already smiling.

“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers curling around the warm ceramic.

He doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in just enough that his voice drops, conspiratorial and soft. “Someone wants me to say this to you.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, already amused. “Yeah?”

“He says you’re beautiful,” Hyunjin continues, eyes bright, “and he wants to know if you’d like to have dinner with him and his very charming five-year-old son.”

Your smile blooms because you know exactly who that someone is, but you decide to play along. You lean in too, whispering back, “Tell him he shouldn’t flirt with his regular.”

Hyunjin’s smile turns smug. He leans even closer, close enough that only you can hear him. “Perks of being the owner.”

Before you can reply, he steals a kiss, almost sneaky. His plush lips brushing over yours and you kiss him back just as instinctively. When you pull away, you’re both smiling.

He straightens, gentle fingers squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he says, already halfway gone, slipping back into the back of the counter.

You take a sip of coffee, warmth spreading through you, and turn back to your laptop. That’s when you hear the soft whispers from the table nearby. Girls giggling, voices hushed but not enough.

“I’m so jealous of them,” one says. “They’re so cute,” another sighs.

You pretend not to hear it and smile to yourself. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary as something settles in your chest.

This. Writing romance in the afternoon light. Sitting in a café that smells like coffee and home. A man who refills your cup before you ask. A child who holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Stolen kisses. Laughter, routine, warmth.

Then you look out of the window and at the city bathed in sunlight, the blue sky with cotton candy-like clouds, a bicycler who pets the dog that sits inside the front basket as he waits for the traffic light to turn green, a young girl sitting on the bench with headphones on, completely immersed in the book she’s reading, an elderly couple who hold hands as they argue over the restaurant menu.

You smile to yourself as you look back at your laptop and start typing again.

Hyunjin was right.

Everything is romantic.

-

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[yubinism]

what a fluttering piece to read to begin my year of 2026 💗 this was so warm hearted and i couldnt stop smiling till the end. oh eff, i have no words to describe and express how warm this made me feel 🥹 this was such a good feel fic to read and i love it. happy new year my baby eff, cannot wait for the banging fics you are going to present to us which will leave us in awe 💛

[seospicybin]

DESKJOB.

BONUS CHAPTER

Lee Know x reader. (s)

CHAPTERS: ONE / TWO / THREE / FOUR / FINAL

Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him, and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (7,1k words)

Author's note: Hope everyone is enjoying their holidays and enjoying this little gift from me. Happy reading ❣️

Minho steps into the meeting room with his usual clipped stride, a stack of folders tucked under one arm. The department heads trail in behind him, pulling out chairs, chatting quietly about deadlines and deliverables. He sets his notes on the table, straightens them, preparing himself to lead the meeting.

The door opens again, and more people walk in. One of them is you. You’re dressed professionally in a silk blouse and a dark blazer, but he recognizes the pencil skirt you’re wearing, the way it fits and accentuates the shape of you that he knows too well. You take a seat along the row of chairs lining the side of the room. The girl sitting next to you leans over to whisper something, and you softly laugh.

Minho gets reminded of how that laugh had been in his bed only yesterday morning. He drags his gaze away before anyone notices. Or so he thinks. Because when he forces himself to look at his agenda again, he catches the slight tug at the corner of your lips. The tiniest smirk. You caught him looking.

Damn it.

“Let’s begin,” he says, projecting his voice toward the table of department leads.

The room settles. Minho launches into the first agenda point, his tone even, steady, professional. He’s done this a thousand times. He can do it in his sleep.

The meeting goes well as he delivered everything from the agenda until he catches movement, the faintest shift in his peripheral vision. And his eyes drift, traitorously, right back to you.

You’re already looking at him, but not with the polite attentiveness expected of a staff member in a meeting, not even close. Now, that you have his attention, slowly and deliberately, you cross your legs. Your skirt hikes upward just enough and there—only for a second, but long enough to knock every coherent thought out of him—he sees the black garter where your stocking clips before you pull the hem down.

Minho’s hand tightens around the files he’s holding. He inhales sharply and loses his place.

“…as for the—” He pauses, staring blankly at the agenda. “—the second… ah, the second… item.”

Thankfully, no one notices it except you. You’re not even pretending to hide your triumphant smile and that smirk. That damn smirk.

He forces his gaze to the projector screen, steadying himself with a quiet exhale. “We’ll move on to projected budgets,” he announces.

He continues smoothly, as if nothing happened. As if you didn’t just derail his entire brain with one slow shift of your legs. But he can feel you watching him and he knows you know exactly what you did.

-

The meeting eventually ends with a light applaud from everyone for how well he carried through his presentation. Minho clicks through the final slide, dismisses everyone with a polite nod, and closes the laptop with a quiet sigh of relief.

He’s gathering his notes, stacking them into a clean folder, when he senses you before he sees you—your perfume, your footsteps, the faint warmth of your presence drifting closer.

“Manager Lee.”

He looks up and find you standing right in front of him, hands clasped casually behind your back, eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint that already tells him he’s in trouble. “The meeting was…” you drawl, leaning in slightly, “informative. And… very entertaining.”

Your eyebrow lifts in flirtation, fully aware of what you did earlier.

Minho’s lips curve despite himself. “You think so?” he asks, tone low.

You nod slowly. “Mhm. Especially that part where you”—your voice dips—“lost your focus. Just a little bit.”

Minho lets a beat pass, savoring the way you’re practically teasing him in public. “It was indeed,” he murmurs, holding your gaze, “very entertaining.”

Your smile widens, satisfaction blooming on your face as if you just won a round only the two of you are keeping score of.

He clears his throat lightly, keeping his posture professional even as his eyes soften in a way they wouldn’t for anyone else. “If you still have questions about any part of the agenda,” he says smoothly, “you can come by. We can discuss it together. In my office.”

You pretend to ponder it, humming to yourself as if in deep thought. “Hmm…” You tilt your head. “Maybe I’ll come later.”

The smile you give him is flirty and it sends a warm pulse straight through him.

“Well then,” you say lightly, stepping back, “have a good day, Manager Lee.”

You pivot to leave, the sway of your skirt deliberate, your glances over your shoulder quick but unmistakably inviting. And when you disappear past the door, it takes every ounce of restraint in him not to follow you out of the room.

-

Minho leans back in his chair, the quiet hum of the computer filling the emptiness of his new office. It’s obviously bigger than his old workplace — bigger, newer, brighter — it’s everything he used to say he wanted. But somehow, it feels… hollow.

Stacks of paperwork sit neatly arranged in front of him. His computer blinks with unread emails. A report waits half-finished on the screen. None of it explains the boredom tugging at him. He exhales, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

Back then, every time he looked up from his desk, he’d find you—sitting on yours, legs crossed, pretending not to watch him. You always failed. You always got caught. And every time his eyes met yours, one of you ended up smirking first.

Now, when he looks up, there’s nothing. Just the quiet, still wall. He picks up his phone and composes a text message.

Come to my office. We need to discuss something.

A minute later, your reply pops in.

Discuss what?

His lips twitch as he types a reply.

Your meeting etiquette.

Your response comes almost instantly this time.

I’m too busy.

The answer is so typical that he scoffs. He types back quickly. This is an order.

When your reply doesn’t come as fast as before. He sends another text.

Or I’m coming to you.

A second later, his phone chimes with a new text.

Okay. I’ll come later.

He puts his phone away thinking that that’s the end of the conversation — with you submitting to his wish. But then, another chime comes and he doesn’t wait another second to open it.

Wait for me 😉

Minho lets out a soft huff of amusement, the boredom draining from his expression. He sets his phone down on the desk, a slow, smug smirk pulling at his mouth. He leans back again, eyes fixed on the door, anticipation replacing the emptiness he felt just moments ago.

He’s already waiting for you.

-

Minho keeps only the desk lamp on, its warm glow casting a golden pool of light across the room while the rest of the office building sinks into after-hours silence. Almost everyone has gone home. The halls outside are quiet. The city beyond the window is alive with lights, but in here, everything feels still—waiting.

He sits reclined in his chair, turned toward the window, watching the skyline as the last hints of sunset fade into deep blue. He’s been waiting long enough that he checks the time again, his thumb hovering over your chat. Maybe he should just text you to make sure that—

Then, he hears that light, familiar footsteps of yours. It’s closing in and stops right behind his door.

Slowly, Minho turns the chair back toward the door just as you knock once and push it open. You step inside with a bright smile and… a small potted plant in your hands. A cactus, to be exact.

“I come bearing a gift for your new office,” you announce cheerfully.

Minho doesn’t smile. He just watches you with that flat, unimpressed stare he saves especially for you. “I didn’t ask for a plant.”

You ignore the comment completely—also especially for him. “I bought it because it’s exactly like you,” you say lightly as you wander deeper into his office.

He raises a brow but says nothing, only tracking you with his eyes as you take your time inspecting his new space. You finally choose the window sill right beside his desk and set the cactus down, adjusting it until it sits just right.

“There,” you say, hands on your hips. “Perfect spot.”

You turn and look around again, nodding to yourself. “It’s a nice office.”

Minho stays leaned back in his chair, silent, watching you as you walk toward his desk. Your fingers trail along the clean edge of the wood. When your eyes lift to meet his, there’s mischief in them.

“It’s a nice desk,” you say, your voice carrying that soft teasing lilt he knows too well.

Minho’s lips twitch, the beginning of a smirk breaking through.

You shift closer, leaning against the desk so you’re right within his reach. He tilts his head back slightly to look at you, his gaze dark. “You know what I want for my present,” he says.

You blink innocently. “And what’s that?”

He doesn’t answer—not verbally. His gaze sweeps over you, unhurried, appreciative, hungry.

You inhale softly, tilting your head as your fingers slip toward the hem of your skirt. You gather the fabric, lifting it with agonizing slowness until the soft sheen of your stocking appears and then the thin strap of your garter, stretched perfectly against your thigh.

Your voice drops, sweet and seductive. “You mean… this?”

Minho starts to lean forward, hands braced on the arms of his chair, ready to close the distance between you—ready to take what you’re offering.

But you click your tongue softly at him. A warning. Before he can get any closer, you lift your leg and place the sharp point of your heel right against his chest. His breath catches in part surprise, part anticipation and then you push him back with steady pressure until he sinks into his chair again, forced to recline under your control.

“Not yet,” you murmur.

From this angle, with your heel pressed to him and your skirt lifted just enough, he gets a perfect view beneath the hem. His eyes drop instantly, instinctively, his jaw tensing as he openly stares at your clothed sex.

You let him have only a second before you reach down and catch his chin between your fingers, tilting his head back up to face you. “Look at me,” you say softly, command threaded through every syllable.

His eyes snap to yours despite the temptation below.

“I know this is what you want for your present,” you continue, your thumb brushing along his jaw.

Then, slowly you drag your foot down from his chest, sliding over the firm plane of his torso, past his stomach, until the sole of your heel presses against the growing bulge between his legs.

His breath leaves him in a quiet, shaky exhale as you rub the heel lightly over the bulge there, teasing pressure that makes his head fall back for a moment.

“And this is…” You pause to smile down at him, “my present to you.”

Then, you say with your voice velvety, dark with promise. “I’m going to let you do as you please.”

Minho looks at you through dark, heavy eyes—want thickened with patience long eroded. You slowly lower your foot from him and shift back onto the edge of his desk. The polished wood is cool beneath you as you settle, legs parting just enough in invitation.

“Come and claim your present.”

That’s all it takes.

Minho rises from his chair with a slow, controlled movement, his height suddenly overwhelming the space between you. He steps forward, slotting himself between your knees until your legs brace around him, framing him exactly where he wants to be.

His knowing, hungry smirk cuts across his face just before he leans in.

His mouth meets yours in a deep, consuming kiss, one hand bracing the desk beside your hip while the other curves around your waist to pull you closer. When he finally pulls back, his breath fans your lips, warm and teasing.

Then, he slips his hand under your skirt. His fingers slide under the lace of your garter, snapping it against your thigh with a sharp smack before dragging them higher—past damp silk—to find you already wet for him.

“Going to ruin this desk for you,” he murmurs, voice low enough to shiver through you.

And before you can answer, Minho crashes his mouth onto yours again, kissing you with a force that leaves no space for anything but him.

You lean back, propping your hands against the wooden desk as his lips trail fire down your chest, lingering over each peak with teasing nips before he buries his face between your breasts with a groan. His hands roam possessively—squeezing, worshipping—like he can’t get enough of the feel of you beneath him. His hips grind lazily against yours, already half-hard and eager as his mouth claims yours in a filthy kiss.

When he pulls back, it’s only to grab your leg and lift it high enough to place kisses on it. His mouth devours every inch of your stocking-clad leg, teeth grazing the sensitive skin behind your knee before he finally reaches the soaked silk between your thighs. He inhales sharply, pupils blown wide as his tongue drags a slow, torturous stripe over the damp fabric.

“Fuck— you’re already ruined,” he growls, fingers digging into your hips as he noses aside the lace. “All from just my mouth?”

A sinful smirk curves his lips before he bites down lightly on your inner thigh just to hear you gasp. “Guess I’ll have to fix that,” he mutters as his tongue replaces his teeth in one hot, wet stroke.

Minho puts the fabric to the side, allowing him to plant his mouth on your wet cunt. He begins by running his tongue between the folds, earning breathless whimpers from you. But as soon as his mouth sucks on your clit, you can’t help the moans spilling out of your mouth. Your hands jerked, knocking a few things off his desk.

He growls at the sound of pens and folders hitting the floor, hands locking around your thighs to drag you even closer to the edge of the desk. His tongue flicks over your clit in ruthless, rapid circles before sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the wood.

“Louder,” he orders against your skin, “Let the whole floor hear who owns this fucking office now.”

His fingers soon joined the delightful assault, pushing two digits inside and curls them just right, making you arching your back, riding on both his mouth and fingers. A particularly sharp twist of his fingers inside you sends a stapler clattering to the ground—his grin pure sin when he feels how tight you clamp around them. “Close already, mmh?” he murmurs with a dark gaze and taunting smirk. “It’s supposed to be my present. Not yours.”

Despite it, Minho keeps curling his fingers inside, tongue continuously circling on your clit and restlessly drawing every breathless moan out of you. He watches with a smirk plastered to his face, thoroughly enjoying as you’re slowly unraveling under him, until your body tenses for a fleeting second and falls apart in the next second.

You lean back, propping your elbows against the desk. Your mouth parted open, still running out of breath, overwhelmed by the wave of pleasure running through you.

His smirk is downright predatory as he drags two fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, holding them up so you can both watch it glisten under the office lights. His voice drops to a husky murmur.

“And look at that…” He tuts, rubbing his fingers together like he’s admiring his handiwork. “Ruined my desk already.”

Before you can react, he suddenly shoves those same fingers back into your mouth—gripping your chin to force eye contact as you taste yourself on his skin. He watches your tongue swirl around them while his other hand still pinning your hips to the desk.

When you moan around them, his thumb presses down on your lower lip, dragging it open further. He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your lips as he says, “And I’m not claiming my present yet.”

Instead of feeling taunted, a smile blooms on your face. Slowly, you’re sitting up on the desk and forcing Minho to straighten up. Your hands reaching for his slacks and without words, you start working open the button. The sound of the zipper being opened echoes in the quiet space, heightening the tension.

“Then let me help you getting started,” you tell him, looking at him through your lashes.

His breath hitches as your fingers brush against his clothed member, his smirk turning into a gritted exhale when you finally free him. His hands slam down on either side of your hips, caging you in as he leans dangerously close.

“Should’ve locked the door,” he taunts, hips jerking into your touch with zero shame. “You’re not going anywhere until—"

His voice cuts off in a groan when your nails scrape just right up his length. He completely loses his train of thoughts as you begin pumping his cock at a slow, steady pace. He curses under his breath, his hips twitching forward into your grip as your hand deliberately tightens around him. His fingers dig into the desk on either side of your body, knuckles white with restraint.

"Playing dirty now, huh?" His voice is pure gravel, eyes locked on where your hand moves torturously slow over him.

Instead of answering, you flash him a smirk. You continue pumping him, only stopping as his cock gets so swollen and throbbing in your hand. That’s when you open your legs wider, rubbing the tip of his cock between your slick folds.

His hips jerking forward instinctively as you circle his tip around your entrance. A guttural curse escaped his mouth when you suddenly guide him in—just the head, just enough to make him shudder.

You smirk his reaction and teasingly ask, “Do you want it inside now?”

Minho quickly gets ahold of himself and scoffs. “Didn’t you say I can do as I please?”

You lightly chuckle and wrap your hand around his length once more. You glance up, looking him through your lashes. “Look at that,” you murmur, moving his tip around your dripping entrance. “Want you to remember how well I take you.”

And with that, you align his cock to your entrance and put it inside yourself, deeper than before. His whole length pushing into you, stretching you and you breathlessly gasp, head dropping to the back.

Minho lets out a filthy groan as he sinks into you inch by inch, hands gripping your waist like a vice as his head falls forward, breath hot against your neck.

“Fuck—” His voice is pure wreckage. “Every goddamn time... you feel like the first.”

His hips snap forward in one brutal thrust, driving you both deeper onto the desk as papers more things get knocked off and clatter on the floor. His teeth sink into your shoulder when you clench around him—his laugh dark and breathless. “Oh, I’ll remember…” his words trail off as he slowly, roughly grinds his hips against you. “Every time I sit on this desk, I'll be thinking of this.”

Slowly, you lean back until your back rested against the desk. Your hands reaching for his forearms, nails grazing at the evident veins, at the warmth of his honey skin. You’re squirming as you feel his whole length inside you.

When your eyes find his, you smile and murmur, “I want you to think about you fucking me so good you can’t focus on your work.”

His thrusts turning sharp, punishing, as he braces both hands on the desk beside your head. His voice is a rough scrape of sound when he leans down, lips grazing yours without kissing you.

“Going to be worse now.” A particularly deep roll of his hips makes the desk creak, his teeth dragging over your bottom lip as his breath comes ragged. “All I'll see is you spread out just like this.”

Your hands flew to the back, holding on to the edge of the desk as Minho’s hard, punishing thrust sending you farther off the desk. Even in the heat of the moment, you force your eyes open just to look at him watching the way his forehead creases in focus as he moves against you.

His grip on your thighs turning bruising as he yanks you back toward him with each thrust, the desk screeching in protest. His laugh is ragged, unhinged, his forehead dropping to yours as he drives into you harder. “Take it, baby. Take it like you want it,” he taunts, a particularly brutal snap of his hips knocks something off the desk.

“Minho, please…” you breathlessly plead with your eyes screwed shut, overwhelmed. “Don’t stop until you’re coming inside me. Don’t stop until you come all over this desk.”

His mouth crashing onto yours to swallow your moan when he feels you clench around him. His pace turning frantic now, hips slamming into you with zero finesse, just pure need. The desk creaks under the force of it.

“Fuck— going to make sure," he snarls, voice cracking as he feels his own release building. “Make sure every time I sit here, all I smell is us.”

When his high hits him, it’s buried deep inside you with a shuddering groan as he spills over the edge. He doesn’t pull away, just keeps grinding into you through the aftershocks, lips dragging wetly along your throat before finding your lips, kissing you so hard it knocks the air out of you.

When he pulls away, you glance down at where your bodies joined. His cock still buried inside you, still pulsating as he plants every drop of his seed inside you. When you flick your eyes up, they immediately locked with his.

“You just came but you’re still hard for me,” you murmur, subtly moving your hips to feel him inside you.

“Yeah?” His voice is wrecked, hips rolling lazily just to feel you clench around him again. “That’s what you do to me.”

A slow, filthy thrust punctuates his words—his teeth grazing your earlobe as whispers, “It seems like we'll be here all fucking night.”

You smile despite his taunt, grabbing the front of his shirt, roughly pulling him close to kiss him, deep and hard. For a moment, the two of your stay like that, locked in a hard, hungry kiss that consume you both in searing desire.

When you break the kiss, it’s with a gasp and sly smile tugging on your lips. “That doesn’t sound bad at all,” you finally reply.

You gently push him, forcing him to pull away and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. A drop of his release dotted the surface of the desk before you slide off, and then, slowly, turning around on your feet.

You place your hands on the desk as you slowly bend down, hand reaches for the hem of your skirt, lifting it to expose yourself to him. You let the fabric hunched around your waist, and then, you look over you shoulder to look at him. “Now, put it back inside me,” you command, jutting your ass up higher for him.

Minho admires the shape of you bent over his desk — the round of your ass, the wetness between your legs and how it arouses him even more as the white of his seed dripping out of you. He places his hand on your ass cheek, kneading on the flesh. “You’re getting too comfortable that you forgot you’re speaking to your superior right now,” he snarls with a firm slap on your cheek.

You whine in reaction, wiggling your hips as if it would help you to soothe the pain. You look over your shoulder once more and say, “Please, Sir.”

His hands immediately gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. He drags his cock through your slickness once, twice, teasing. His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you wider just to watch the obscene glide of his cock sinking into you.

“Oh…” you loudly moan, resting your hand on the one gripping your hips. “Want you to remember this tight cunt when you sit on this desk.”

Minho groans at the way you arch into him and at the same time, you deliberately clench around him. His voice is pure filth against your ear, teeth grazing the shell as he growls, “Like you were made for me.”

His thrusts start punishing from the first snap—no warmup, just sheer desperation as he leans over your back, noticing the way you helplessly holding onto the desk.

“That’s it. Hold on tight because I’m not stopping.”

His fingers dig in harder as your moans fill the office—his thrusts turning erratic, desperate, like he’s chasing something only you can give. The desk creaks under the force of it, a rough snap of his hips has your nails scraping the desk. His hand fisting in your hair just to yank your head back and steal a filthy kiss. “You’re going to feel me for days,” he pants against your lips. “And you're going to love it.”

His thrusts turn even harder, each snap of his hips punctuated by a ragged groan and despite it, he hears you pleading in between moans. “Please, Minho. Please, don’t stop.”

“Who said I was stopping?” His hand slides around your hip, fingers finding where you’re most sensitive and pressing down in rough circles just to feel you clench around him. “I'll ruin every other desk in this office if I have to.”

You’re slumping forward, head pressing against the desk, struggling to brace Minho’s incessant, hard thrusts. You turn your head to the side, looking at him with your half-lidded eyes. “Want you to remember how you fucked me senseless that you can't wait to leave work to fuck me again and again,” you say with moans and gasps slipped in between words.

Minho growls low in his throat, hips slamming into you with a ferocity that sends the desk sliding an inch across the floor. His fingers dig into your flesh, possessive, claiming, as he drags you back onto him with every thrust.

Soon, your moans turn into whimpers and cries, nails helplessly clawing at the desk as your orgasm washes over you. But Minho doesn’t let up—his hands pinning your hips down as he fucks you through your climax, each thrust dragging a broken whimper from your lips. His own breathing is ragged, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he chases his own release.

“That’s it. Take it," he grunts. “Going to make sure you feel this every time you sit down tomorrow.”

His rhythm turns erratic—then deep, burying himself with a groan that vibrates through your entire body as he spills inside you again. He doesn’t pull away, just stays pressed against you for a long moment.

A dark chuckle escapes him as he deliberately grinds deeper, "My desk’s officially yours now."

You manage a low, exhausted laugh in answer. Your head still rested against the desk, still catching your breath

His hands roam possessively over your skin, his breath hot against your back as he slowly pulls out, but not before giving one last filthy grind to hear you gasp. His thumb swipes through the mess between your thighs with a dark chuckle.

“Look at you,” he sighs, pausing to place a quick kiss to your jaw. “Ruined and dripping for me on my new desk.”

You lightly chuckle at that and daringly say, “I’m not sorry for that.”

He helps you up, though his grip lingers on your hips. “Hold still,” he commands.

You do as he said, staying still for him as he’s putting your silk underwear back to its place. He fixes your skirt next, smoothing the fabric with his hands before turning you around to face him.

“Let me help with yours,” you offer with a sly smile and eyes filled with mischief.

When he thought you’re only helping him with his slacks, you’re dropping to your knees. Your hand wrapped around him, holding it still as you run your tongue down his length. He shudders at the feeling of your hot, wet tongue meeting his still sensitive skin.

His fingers immediately tangle in your hair—not pushing, just holding, as his head falls back with a ragged groan. His cock twitches against your tongue, still sensitive from release.

“Want me to remember how well you take me in your mouth too, mmh?”

His hips jerk slightly when you swirl your tongue around the head as his other hand bracing against the desk to keep himself upright. you pull back to answer him. “Yeah,” you say with a blissful smile, taking him into your mouth this time while maintaining eye contact with him.

His grip in your hair tightens just slightly, holding you right where he wants you as his thighs tense. A low groan escapes him when your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, slow and thorough.

“You—” his voice cracks in between words, “—are going to be the reason I get fired.”

His hips give an involuntary little thrust when you hum around him, his free hand fisting at his side like he’s physically stopping himself from losing control. He watches as you run your tongue along his length once more before pulling away completely. Then, you gently place his cock back to its confine and let Minho does the rest with the slacks.

You get up on your feet, standing so close to help him fix his tie next. “There, all done,” you say with a smile that matches the softness of your gaze.

You put your hands on each side of his waist, grabbing at the fabric of his shirt and you lean forward until your lips lingering only inches away from his. “You’re mine now,” you declare with such confidence, like it’s your rights. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember who you belong to.”

Minho’s smirk is edged with something softer, something tender. He wrapped his arms around you, drawing you closer and then, he leans in. A hand moves to cradle your face as his lips move over yours with a sweetness that contrasts sharply with the raw intensity of before. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheekbone, gaze softer than you’ve ever seen it, so full with everything he can’t and won’t say.

Then, you smile as you stare back into his eyes and ask, “Can we go home now?”

“Okay,” he simply answers. He grabs his jacket and briefcase from the coatrack with one hand, the other lacing through yours to pull you toward the door. He pauses just long enough to drag you back for another kiss—this one hot, lingering, like he can’t quite help himself.

His fingers squeeze yours as he flips off the office lights and then he turns to you with a smile. “Let’s go home.”

-

Streetlights spill through the windshield, brushing gold over Minho’s face on the car ride home. He’s leaning back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. He looks relaxed, but you can see the truth in the way his eyes keep drifting to you, softer now, as if he’s still touching you in his mind.

You sit turned slightly toward him, fingers playing with the strap of your bag, pretending like your heart isn’t still racing, like your skin doesn’t still remember him.

Then, his hand moves, reaching for your knee, or so you thought, until he pushes the hem of your skirt high enough to expose the garter you’re wearing underneath. At first, he’s just admiring the sight of it in brief glances. But then his fingers trace slow, maddening circles along the lace of your garter—his gaze flickering between the road and the sliver of exposed skin like he’s already planning his next move.

When the car stops at the entrance of your apartment building, he kills the engine off, but neither of you makes a move to get out. The car feels warmer than it should, filled with the fading pulse of everything that just happened in his office, everything neither of you has the courage or stupidity to define out loud.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, but the quiet isn’t awkward, it never is with him. It’s full, warm, threaded with something unspoken and steady.

Finally, Minho exhales a small laugh and teasingly says, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

You smirk, keeping your gaze on his profile. “I’d love to but I’m tired,” you tell him, holding the hand resting on your knee and jokingly add, “You kind of wore me out back there.”

He turns his head at that, eyes catching yours in the dim light. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips—dangerous, fond, and just a little undone. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I guess I do.”

You look away first, because if you don’t, you might say something you can’t take back. Something too close to the truth. Your hand is already on the door handle when his voice stops you.

“Hey.”

You glance back.

His eyes hold yours—steady, warm, certain in a way you’re not used to seeing from him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. Simple. Soft. But somehow, it lands deep within you.

It shouldn’t feel like a promise. But it does. You nod, swallowing the smile threatening to climb up your cheeks. “See you tomorrow.”

Without thinking, you lean in and not stopping until your lips crashing his in a long, lingering kiss that says everything you’re holding back inside. When you pull away, you don’t give him a second to react and step out of the car, closing the door gently behind you.

As you walk toward your building, you can feel his gaze on your back—not possessive, not hesitant, just… there. Present. Lingering.

At your door, you turn around and see his car is still parked, lights off, engine silent. Minho is still inside, watching you, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his expression unreadable from here, but you feel it anyway.

That quiet something between you. That pull neither of you has stopped obeying. That direction you’re both already moving toward.

You lift your hand in a small wave and he responds with the faintest curve of a smile before he finally drives off. And you stand there for a moment, heart warm, breath soft, knowing that whatever this is, whatever you and Minho keep circling around, you’re not running from it. Neither is he.

You’re both heading somewhere. But undeniably, toward each other.

-

Minho feels it long before he admits it to himself—the strain that’s beginning to wrap around whatever the two of you are. This unnamed relationship, this deliberately unlabelled thing you both hold so tightly, has started to suffer under the weight of deadlines, meetings, reviews, and responsibilities you can’t ignore.

You’re both busy. Too busy. And Minho hates it because he finds himself searching for you everywhere. He’s been clinging to these stolen moments — a glance in the hallway. A kiss or two in the emergency staircase. A heated make-out session in the quiet of his car ten minutes before work. And if lucky, staying over in each other’s apartments every other weekend.

Those small, secret moments are the only thing keeping him sane. And yet, lately even those moments have been scarce.

So when he sits alone in his new office, late afternoon sun slicing across his desk, he picks up his phone without thinking and compose a text:

Minho: Come to my office. We need to discuss something.

He hits send before he can overthink it.

Your reply comes a few minutes later, short yet teasing:

You: What to discuss this time?

A smirk tugs at his lips as he types back:

Minho: How bad you are at sucking up to your superior.

He can see your smile in his mind, the one you get when you’re pretending to be annoyed but secretly enjoying every second of this game.

Your response lands quickly:

You: Yeah, but only to one particular superior.

He scoffs under his breath, shaking his head.

Minho: Come to my office. It’s an order.

A beat. A delay. Then—

You: Can't come for a “discussion.” Busy.

Minho clicks his tongue, not pleased with your disobedience.

Minho: How are you going to get promoted if you keep disobeying me like that?

Your reply shoots back like a dart:

You: How am I going to get promoted if I keep neglecting work?

He exhales a laugh—sharp, disbelieving, fond.

Minho: Coming to my office is part of work.

He hesitates before sending the next line, knowing exactly how relentless he sounds, knowing he doesn’t care.

But your reply isn’t playful this time.

You: I really can’t. I have to work late tonight.

His smile drops and the playful annoyance fades with it. He frowns at the screen, narrowing his eyes like glaring at the text will somehow make you appear beside him. His thumbs move faster than his mind:

Minho: expect your first warning letter on your desk soon.

He puts the phone down sharply. He shouldn’t have said that. Even if it’s a joke, even if you’ll understand the tone. He should know better—he does know better—yet he still pushes, still demands pieces of you whenever he misses you.

The phone chimes again and he tells himself he won’t look. But his ignorance only lasts for eight seconds.

Your message softens everything inside him at once:

You: I’m sorry. I’ll make it up next time. Okay?

Minho’s chest sinks, instantly regrets everything—the teasing, the pressure, the way he always assumes you can bend your day around him when he knows you carry as much weight as he does. Maybe more.

And just like that, the frustration softens into something else entirely: guilt, care, longing.

He leans back in his chair, staring at your message, feeling the ache of how much he wants you… and how hard the world is making it to have you.

-

Minho doesn’t think—he acts.

The guilt sits too heavy in his chest, pushing him up from his chair, pushing him toward the elevator. If you’re working late, the least he can do is help you. Maybe finish whatever’s keeping you chained to your desk. Maybe take you home. Maybe spend some time together after.

He needs it and he hopes you do too.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, releasing him onto your floor. The space is dark and quiet, long emptied out except for the glow of two desk lamps at the far end. Yours… and the one directly across from it. His old desk.

He walks toward your desk, already imagining how he’ll lean on the partition, smirk, pretend he’s here for some official purpose before confessing he came to help. Maybe hold you from behind while you complain about spreadsheets. Maybe get you out of here before the night swallows you whole.

But when he gets there, your chair is empty. His eyes scan the desk, noticing your coat still draped over the back of the chair, your bag still zipped on the floor, your phone lying atop a stack of papers. And then—

Footsteps echo behind him and he recognizes it too well to know that it’s not yours.

Minho turns on his feet and see a tall guy walking in his direction, a folder in hand. His white work shirt is slightly undone at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a looseness to him that suggests overtime has worn him down but not enough to dim that youthful brightness in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” the guy asks.

Minho keeps his voice neutral as he places a hand on your desk. “I’m looking for her.”

“Oh.” The stranger nods, offering a polite smile. “She went to the restroom.”

Minho’s gaze flicks to the desk across from yours. “And who are you?”

“Ah—right.” The guy straightens a little. “I’m Hyunjin. New employee. Just transferred here last month.”

Minho nods once. “Minho.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widen. “Oh—oh. You’reManager Lee Minho?”

“Yeah,” Minho answers, bored, already looking toward the hallway where you disappeared.

Hyunjin blinks, impressed, almost starstruck. “Wow. I’ve heard a lot about your work.”

Minho doesn’t respond and instead, he asks, “Why are you still here?”

Hyunjin walks casually toward the desk—Minho’s old desk—and carefully placing the folder on top of the stack. “Monthly presentation. We have to get it done by tonight.”

Minho’s eyes narrow faintly. “Just the two of you?”

Hyunjin laughs softly, friendly. “Yeah. Not the first time, actually. She’s really good at this stuff, but there’s a lot to prepare. We usually stay late together.”

Minho just nods once. It’s all news to him because you never mentioned a new hire. Never mentioned staying late with this new guy. Never mentioned the hours spent sitting across from someone else—someone now occupying the space Minho used to fill.

And then, comes your voice. Bright, warm, familiar, cutting through the silence and stillness hang in the almost empty office.

“Hyunjin! Coffee is ready—oh, I made it strong for—”

Your smile falters for just a second when you see Minho standing by your desk, the dark office lighting sharpening the lines of his expression. You’re holding two mugs. One for you. One for Hyunjin.

Hyunjin looks between the two of you, oblivious. “Oh—perfect timing!”

But Minho isn’t looking at him. His eyes are on you. Only you.

You open your mouth—maybe to explain, maybe to greet him, maybe to joke your way out of the sudden tension—but nothing comes out.

Minho has been telling himself the strain is temporary. That busy schedules are temporary. That distance is temporary. But standing here—seeing someone else at his desk, hearing your laugh in a space he no longer fills—Minho realizes something sharp and decisive:

He can’t stay in his office hoping nothing changes.

Things are changing.

So Minho takes a step toward you. And then another step.

Your fingers tighten around the mugs while Hyunjin shifts in his chair, sensing something he can’t quite name.

Minho walks closer—close enough that you tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

Someone has taken his old place. But he’ll be damned before he lets anyone take you.

With that quiet, dangerous thought, he stops right in front of you.

And then, he claims you with a kiss.

-

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[yubinism]

oh santa eff brought our little deskjob family back for the holidays 🥹 loved the smut in this chapter but did not prepare myself enough for the ending..now i want more of our little beginning of a triangle!! happy holidays, my dear eff, i hope you take a break and enjoy it as well as possible 🥰 am always the proudest of you

[seospicybin]

ON TRACK.

VERSE

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

CHAPTERS: INTRO

Synopsis: You join The Bang Theory at the worst possible time—right after a member walks out and the whole fandom starts to spiral. Thrown onto a chaotic life of being a member of a rock band, you navigate pressure, the harsh spotlight, a frontman who seems to resent you as much as he relies on you, and secrets no one will explain. Welcome to the band. (17,9k words)

Author's note: Hope you've been looking forward to this and pls enjoy it 😊🫶🏻

♪ ON TRACK PLAYLIST ♪

EXCLUSIVE: Is The Bang Theory Secretly Adding a New Member? Fans Spot “Mystery Member” Outside Practice Room

The Bang Theory might not be a trio much longer — if the latest fan sightings are anything to go by.

With the band gearing up for their first comeback since Nico’s shocking exit, rumors are flying after several witnesses claimed they saw a “mystery member” entering and leaving the group’s private rehearsal studio this week. One staff member, who allegedly works in the same building, told LOUDPOP! that The Bang Theory has been “working longer hours than usual” and that “someone new has been joining them.”

Another fan posted blurry photos showing what might be a third silhouette in the studio during a late-night practice session. The images quickly spread across social media, sparking chaos among The Bang Theory’s fandom: “New member???” “They’re replacing Nico already??” “Is this why they’ve gone quiet???”

“Could be an additional bassist or sumn.”

The band’s label has declined to comment, only stating that The Bang Theory is “preparing for their upcoming single release and showcase,” which fans argue makes the timing even more suspicious.

Are we witnessing the arrival of a new era — or just the internet connecting dots that aren’t there?

For now, the mystery musician remains just that: a mystery. But with The Bang Theory’s comeback looming closer every day, fans are watching very closely.

-

Your dad’s art gallery always smells like fresh paint and old vinyl — somehow both his worlds fused together. When you walk in, he’s standing near the entrance with rolled-up sleeves, overseeing two assistants unboxing massive canvases.

He notices you immediately. “Hey, kid,” he calls out, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Give me two minutes — they delivered everything upside down for some reason.”

You watch him for a moment, the way he inspects each painting like checking the tuning of a guitar before stepping closer. “Actually, can I… steal you for the rest of the day?”

He turns slowly, his brows lift with exaggerated suspicion. “Steal me?” he echoes. “Why do you need to ask permission to spend time with your own father? Should I be worried? Is this about money? Did you fight someone? Did you run someone over with your cello case?”

You roll your eyes, sighing dramatically. “Dad—”

He grins, clearly delighted by his own dramatics. Then he turns to his assistant. “Emma, I’m taking the rest of the day off. If anyone asks, tell them I’ve been abducted by my daughter for mysterious reasons.”

Emma laughs. “Noted.”

He grabs his jacket and gestures toward the door. “Lead the way, criminal mastermind.”

In the car, he keeps glancing at you between gear shifts. “So,” he starts casually, “where are we headed?”

You keep looking straight ahead, hands playing with the strap of your safety belt. “Music store.”

He hums. “Mm. Need a new bow? New rosin?”

“No,” you say. “I need to buy a new bass.”

He nods. “Contrabass?”

You shake your head. “Bass guitar.”

You can see the moment it hits him — he jerks his gaze your way so fast the car veers slightly, and he has to correct the steering wheel. “What?” he blurts.

You sigh, but you can’t stop the small smile forming. “I said I need a bass guitar.”

He stares and you stare back. He blinks. You blink back.

“What’s going on?”

So you tell him about the audition. About Julian scouting you. About the songs. About playing with the band. About the contract.

“And I signed it this morning,” you finish quietly.

Your dad goes quiet for five seconds. Then his face slowly breaks into the brightest, widest, proudest smile you’ve ever seen on him. He hits the steering wheel twice in excitement, nearly honking the horn by accident.

“My daughter,” he announces dramatically, “is officially in a rock band.”

You laugh, because he’s beaming with crinkle in his eyes, chest puffed, glowing like someone told him he just won a lifetime achievement award. He shakes his head, still smiling as he merges into traffic. “God,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.”

“Dad—”

“No, no, don’t take this away from me,” he insists, pointing at you before turning back to the road. “I knew it. In my bones. The talent. The attitude. The stubbornness. It all screamed rockstar.”

You groan and slump dramatically. He only laughs harder and proudly says, “You are buying a bass guitar today.”

And somehow, with your dad beside you grinning like you hung the moon, the entire future becomes a little less terrifying and a lot more exciting.

-

The bell above the door chimes as you and your dad step inside. Rows of guitars, basses, amps, cables, and pedals greet you like a forest of wood, metal, and potential.

Your dad inhales dramatically, hands on his hips. “Ah. The smell of rebellion,” he says.

“Don’t get horny, please,” you jokingly mutter.

He guides you to the bass section, scanning the walls of instruments with the same critical eye he uses in his gallery. You lift a Yamaha first, settling the strap on your shoulder.

Your dad leans beside you, chin lifted, like he’s judging a painting. “Good balance,” he says. “But listen—when you pluck the low strings, it buzzes a bit.”

You test again and as expected, he’s right. Then he asks, casually, “So… tell me about this band. The Bang Theory, right?”

You stop to look at him. “Wait—you know The Bang Theory?”

He gives you a look. The I’m offended you think I live under a rock look. “My band may be forgotten, kid, but I’m not dead. They’re everywhere. Big rock band, solid sound, lots of energy. And didn’t a member recently leave?”

Your eyebrows raise. “Okay, wow.”

He smirks. “So I’m guessing you are the replacement?”

You nod, playing a small riff on the Yamaha.

“And you’re okay with that? Being the new one?”

You pause, letting your fingers rest on the strings. “It doesn’t bother me,” you say honestly. “When I played with them… something clicked. It felt almost like when I found the cello for the first time.”

Your dad nods slowly, the smile on his face turning warm and proud. “Then that must mean something.”

He reaches up for a Fender—black body, maple neck—and hands it to you. “Try this.”

You put it on, your fingers naturally falling into position as you pluck the strings. The tone is warm, rounded, almost like it’s meeting your sound halfway. You can’t stop the small grin that tugs at your lips.

“It’s… really good.”

“Versatile,” your dad says. “Perfect for your style. Works with any genre. If you’re jumping into a rock band but you come from classical roots, trust me—this gives you room to grow.”

You trust him—always have. “I’ll take it,” you say.

Your dad carries it for you and on the walk toward the cashier, you rummage through your bag for your wallet, but your dad puts a hand in front of you.

“Ah-ah. No. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. Let me.”

“Dad, seriously—”

“You can pay for your own groceries. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment.” He steps toward the cashier, card in hand, smile already too wide.

Then with mischief in his eyes, your dad leans forward and speaks to the young man handling the purchase. “If I tell you I was the vocalist of Southbound Riot. Do I get a discount?”

You wince. “Dad…”

The cashier stops moving. “Sorry… who?”

Your dad actually clutches his chest in mock offense. “We were big in the 90s.”

You groan, covering your face with your hand. “Dad, oh my God.”

“It’s worth a try!” he says brightly as you yank the card out of his hand and pass it to the cashier before he can embarrass himself further. Or embarrass you further.

-

The boxed Fender thuds softly as you and your dad lift it into the trunk together. The lid closes with a satisfying click, and above you, the sky bleeds from orange into a deep, bruised violet. The first hint of night. The kind that makes everything feel a little softer, a little more real.

Your dad holds out his hand and without missing a beat, you slap it for a high-five.

You hesitate for a second but you look at him and finally ask the question that’s been weighing on you. “Does it bother you that I didn’t consult you first? About the band, the contract?”

He doesn’t even think. “Absolutely not.”

He leans against the back of the car and continues talking. “You’re a grown person. Perfectly capable of making your own decisions. And honestly? I’m glad you didn’t consult me. Means the decision wasn’t influenced, wasn’t biased. It was yours.”

Then, with a mischievous glint, he adds. “And if anything goes wrong, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Dad!” You pout while he bursts out laughing, the sound echoing in the parking lot.

You take the spot next to him, breathing in the cooling air. Your dad joins you, shoulder to shoulder, both of you gazing at the smoldering horizon.

He lightly nudges. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

You take your time. Your voice soft when you begin talking. “That day I played with them… I felt something. I felt alive. Warm. Like… the music was speaking directly to me.”

He listens, quiet, fully present.

“And it brought back this memory… When Mom held me up at one of your gigs… so I could see you better.” You swallow, feeling your throat tighten. “I just—”

Your breath trembles. “I missed Mom.”

Your dad’s expression melts and before the first tear can fall, his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you in. “If she were here, she’d be proud of you,” he murmurs, steady and sure. “So, so proud. Just like I am.”

You fold against him, warm from the outside and inside both. The moment is fragile, shared grief stitched with shared love.

“I miss your mother too,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You both stand like that—leaning, breathing, remembering—until the final sliver of sun slips away. Then he squeezes your shoulder.

“Well,” he says brightly, breaking the softness with practiced ease, “since I just spent all my money on your bass, you’re treating me to dinner.”

You sniff and wipe the tears pooling in the corner of your eyes with the back of your hand, softly laughing. “What do you want?”

“Steak. From a fancy place.”

Your face scrunches. “Since when do we eat fancy steak?”

He loops an arm around your shoulders and steers you toward the passenger side. “We need protein! You’re in a rock band now! You’ll be rocking stages soon! Going on tour! Gotta bulk up.”

You burst into laughter. “Dad, I literally just signed—”

“Just get in,” he says as he helps you into the car like you’re five. He shuts the door gently, still grinning like he’s witnessing the birth of a legend. He starts to head for the driver’s side… Stops in front of the headlights but then he stops. He lifts his arms to the sky and screams, “MY DAUGHTER IS IN A ROCK BAND!!”

“Dad!” You slap your hand over your mouth, eyes wide, scanning the nearly empty parking lot. “Oh my god—stop!”

He gets into the car absolutely beaming, laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath. He reaches over to ruffle your hair, pride shining clear and unfiltered in his eyes. You swat his hand away, but you’re smiling. So is he.

It’s ridiculous. It’s embarrassing. It’s perfect.

-

Chris sits on the edge of the practice room’s swivel chair, scrolling through a folder of stems on his laptop while Jeongin lounges across the couch, legs hanging over the armrest, thumbs tapping rapidly on his phone. They’re waiting for Julian, for an answer, for someone to tell them whether months of work are finally going somewhere.

A car engine hums outside, then tires crunching on gravel. Jeongin shoots up so quickly his phone almost flies out of his hands. “They’re here,” he announces.

Chris assumes they means Julian and Joan. The usual pair. The door opens and Julian stepping in. You walk in beside him.

Chris exhales sharply, a sigh disguised as clearing his throat, pushing himself up from the chair because he refuses to be the only one sitting when everyone else is on their feet.

Julian beams. “Boys, I’m bringing your new bassist.”

You politely smile, almost shy and lift a hand in a tiny wave. “Hi, everyone,” your voice small and warm.

Jeongin crosses the room with that natural, boyish charm of his as he sticks out a hand. “Hi. Welcome to the band. We’re really excited to work with you.”

You smile back. “Me too.”

Chris watches the exchange from a step back, arms crossed. You seem grounded. Unfazed. Maybe even—no, he’s not giving you that. Not yet.

Instead, he cuts in. “So. The track?”

Julian laughs lightly, like he expected that from him. “Alright, everyone to the table.”

They all move toward the long wooden table in the center of the room. Chris sits, arms folded on the back of his chair. You take the seat near Jeongin, hands folded neatly in your lap.

Julian stands at the end of the table, hands braced on its surface. “So,” he begins, “the label wants the second demoto be released as a single. The others will be considered for the next album’s B-sides.”

Chris nods once. That’s manageable. Stressful, but manageable.

“And…” Julian adds and Chris quietly scoffs because of course, the stress doesn’t end just there.

“The label will hold a showcase on release day. They’ll invite around 500 fans. There’ll be a livestream as well on the band’s video channel. The runtime about an hour so we can squeeze in about 10 songs including the new single.”

Then Julian’s eyes drift toward you. “And as for you—we need you to start catching up with the discography.”

You straighten. “Yes. I understand.”

But Chris hears something in your voice that rubs him wrong. Too calm? Too uncertain? Too… practiced? He can’t tell. He only knows he doesn’t hear the conviction he expects.

Julian claps his hands. “That’s it for now. We’ll work on the rest as we go.”

Then he turns to Chris. “Chris, need you for a moment.”

Chris pushes away from the table, follows Julian out the door, blinking hard when the afternoon sun hits his eyes like a spotlight. They stop by the railing overlooking the city. From up here, everything looks deceptively peaceful.

Julian speaks first. “You know why I wanted to talk.”

Chris deflects. “You’re going to tell me not to take everything on myself again.”

Julian nods. “That, yes. You have a new member now. Use her. Let her carry some weight.” Then he adds, tone leveling out, “And I want you to treat her nicely.”

Chris scoffs. “I am not treating—”

Julian pulls a cigarette from his pocket and clamps it between his teeth.

Chris instantly groans in protest. “Don’t—”

“I’m not lighting it,” Julian interrupts, removing it again and twirling it between his fingers. “Relax.”

He leans against the railing. “She’s a good kid, Chris. Smart. You’ve always wanted someone with their own musicality, someone who isn’t just following your lead. She’s exactly that.”

Chris doesn’t know about that. Not yet. Not when she’s still a stranger.

Julian goes on, “You can rely on her. I wouldn’t bring her in if I didn’t think she could rise to your level.”

Chris doesn’t respond. Because deep down, he does doubt it. Doubts her. Doubts himself. Doubts everything except the work. But he nods anyway.

Julian sighs, satisfied enough with the gesture. “Go on. Start working on the track. I’ll be here for a bit.”

Chris narrows his eyes. “Stop smoking, please.”

Julian shrugs, unapologetic. “Tomorrow. Maybe.”

Chris shakes his head and turns back toward the practice room, pushing the door open without another word. But even as the door closes behind him, the echo of Julian’s words sticks to him like the sting of bright sunlight: Treat her nicely.

-

Chris pushes the practice room door open and steps inside, finding you standing near the mini-fridge with Jeongin, each holding a can of soda. The two of you are chatting easily, and Chris catches the tail end of Jeongin’s excited ramble.

“I actually looked you up earlier,” Jeongin says, eyes bright. “I watched a couple of your cello recitals. I’ve never seen—”

“Let’s get started,” Chris cuts in.

Jeongin’s mouth snaps shut while you straighten a little, fingers wrapping around your drink. You don’t look nervous, but Chris can see the way your shoulders tense just slightly like you’re preparing for impact.

He ignores the tiny sting of guilt in his chest. “Let’s get the track polished so we can start recording next week,” he says flatly, already moving toward the studio door.

The three of you follow in a loose line—Jeongin with his sticks tucked into his back pocket, you with your bass case slung effortlessly by your side. Inside the studio, Chris sits in his usual chair, setting his guitar on his thigh as he flips through tabs and settings he left open earlier. Jeongin settles at his drum set, spinning one stick between his fingers as he waits.

You take your place last on the other side of the room from him.

Chris watches without meaning to. You kneel, open the latches on your bass case, and lift the Fender out with this quiet, deliberate care. Your fingers skim across the strings as you check them, adjusting the strap before slipping it over your shoulder, then you plug into the amp. A soft hum fills the air.

You warm up—not showing off, just testing the waters. Running scales slowly. Stretching your hands. Tuning by ear. And something about the calm, unshakable confidence of your movements makes a cold worry slide down Chris’s spine.

What if he made the wrong decision letting you in?

Not because you were bad. But because you weren’t. Because you were too good. Because you already fit in better than you should.

Chris forces his gaze away but Julian’s voice echoes in his mind. Treat her nicely.

Fine. For today. Chris will try to treat you nicely. He clears his throat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Alright,” he says, steady, neutral. “Let’s run it from the top.”

Jeongin twirls his sticks. You shift your footing. Chris counts them in.

“One, two, three—”

And the room fills with sound.

-

You’re somewhere in the middle of the bridge, eyes on the music sheet but fingers already moving ahead on instinct—years of orchestra training turning your muscle memory into something close to autopilot. You don’t think about the notes anymore. You just follow the flow, follow the structure, follow the pulse.

And then, Jeongin slips. It’s tiny, just a fraction too fast, but enough that you immediately have to lock your fingers down and act like an anchor. You adjust, rein him back in, steady the tempo until you hear him settle again. By the time the last chorus fades into the final note, you’re already inhaling to apologize for going sharp on the pre-chorus.

Chris turns before you can speak. “You went too fast before the pre-chorus.”

The words hit a little too hard, mostly because you know it wasn’t you who drifted. You open your mouth anyway out of habit, respect, hierarchy in music drilled deep—

But Jeongin jumps in, hands raised as he admits. “It was me. I dragged. She just followed.”

It’s ridiculous how quickly Chris softens. One second he’s stiff, serious, all leader-mode— and the next he melts like someone turned off the power switch to his spine.

Jeongin really is his kryptonite.

Chris sighs, ruffles Jeongin’s hair in a fake-angry way. “Don’t make her fix your mistakes. Count properly.”

Jeongin grins while you try not to. Before anything else can be said, the studio door bursts open.

“Dinner delivery!” Joan announces loudly, arms full of takeout bags. “Julian’s treat!”

Your head whips to the side and the sky outside the studio window is nearly black. When did it get dark?

Chris claps his hands. “Okay, let’s end practice he—”

“Wait!” Jeongin cuts in, too excited to sit still. “Can we play something else? Not our songs. Something fun. Something—anything.”

Chris sighs, but it’s the indulgent kind. “Like what?”

Jeongin shrugs, looks straight at you. “You pick.”

Your eyes widen in slight shock. Pick? You? Right now? With zero warning? Your brain suddenly goes blank.

Both of them stare at you like you’re supposed to magically pull a perfect answer out of thin air. Jeongin must see the panic in your eyes because he softens, tilting his head. “How about Nirvana?” he asks gently.

You quietly exhale a breath of relief. “How about… Lounge Act?”

Chris’s expression changes, subtle but you notice a flick of his eyes and a twitch at his mouth. Impressed? Confused? Weirded out? You genuinely can’t tell.

“I like bass intro,” you add with a soft smile.

Jeongin nods like that’s the best reason anyone could ever give and he turns to Chris for approval.

Chris is already twisting knobs on his amp. “Let’s do it.”

Jeongin grins, counts off and you open the song with the intro, steady and confident, the riff thrumming through your whole body. You recently learned that the bass solo was likened to Krist Novoselic and Kurt Cobain to lounge music, and thus came this title.

The drums slide in and Chris’s guitar follows. Then, Chris starts singing.

♪ Truth covered in security / I can't let you smother me / I'd like to but it couldn't work / Tradin' off and takin' turns / I don't regret a thing ♪

You don’t know why it surprises you, but it does. His voice fits the song too well—raw, unpolished, warm in the edges. ♪ I've got this friend, you see, who makes me feel / And I wanted more than I could steal / I'll arrest myself, I'll wear a shield / I'll go out of my way to prove I still / Smell her on you ♪

Joan holds her phone up, recording the session, smiling like she already knows this clip will end up online somehow.

And suddenly the room feels lighter. Freer. Like none of you owe perfection to anyone. You play. They play. Everyone rides the song like it’s a wave instead of a task. And you— You’re actually having fun. Really, genuinely, heart-thumping, spine-buzzing fun. It’s the most beautiful way the day could’ve ended.

♪ They'll go out of their way to prove they still / Smell her on you / They still smell her on you / Smell her on you ♪

-

Joan drives with one hand on the wheel, the streetlights sweeping across her face as the car glides through the city. You sink into the passenger seat, the bass case resting diagonally against your knees, the exhaustion in your body mixing with a kind of buzzing satisfaction.

“So,” Joan starts lightly, glancing at you, “what’d you think of the boys?”

You smile without thinking. “They’re great. Really.”

Joan snorts. “You can be honest with me, y’know. Don’t feel like you need to be polite. I work with them. I know exactly how much of an asshole Chris can be.”

You burst into laughter, and Joan laughs with you, the windows fogging slightly from the warmth of the car.

She shakes her head, still smiling. “He can be… difficult. Always pushing. Always aiming for perfection. But he’s like that because he cares too much. He wants everything to be good. Everyone to be good.”

You nod, absorbing that. “I get it. I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“Good.” Joan sighs contentedly. “That’ll serve you well with this bunch.”

Silence settles for a moment, comfortable. Then she glances at you again. “You three looked great today, by the way. I watched you practice. And I could see the chemistry. Barely!” she adds, holding up two fingers pinched close together. “But it’s there. And that’s what matters.”

Something warm swells in you at the words—more meaningful because they’re coming from someone outside the circle, someone who knows these boys better than anyone.

You smile. “Thank you. Really. That means a lot.”

Joan beams back at you, softer now. “You’re doing just fine. Better than fine. And I’m excited to finally have a girl in the band. Honestly, I think you’re perfect for this job.”

“Stop,” you groan dramatically, sinking lower in your seat. “If you keep complimenting me like that, I’m going to think you’re trying to convince me not to quit.”

Joan cackles. “Well, good news—we’re getting along just fine already.”

The car slows as she pulls up in front of your apartment building, headlights washing the pavement in pale light. You unclasp your seatbelt. “Thank you for the lift.”

Before you open the door, Joan suddenly reaches into her purse and pulls out a small rectangular card. “Here.” She presses it into your hand. “Call me if you need anything. Or… just anything.”

You smile, touched. “Thank you.”

You grab your bass case next before stepping out into the cool night air. Joan waves from the driver’s seat before pulling away, leaving the faint sound of her music fading down the street. You stand on the sidewalk for a moment, staring up at your apartment building, your bass case heavy in your hand.

Despite the nerves. Despite the mistakes. Despite everything that could’ve gone wrong. Today was a successful first day as a member of a rock band and you can’t help but smile.

-

The next day, you arrive at the practice room clutching a cardboard tray of coffees, praying it’ll help buy you a little goodwill, maybe soften some of the icy edges you felt yesterday. You push the door open with your shoulder.

“Good morning…” you murmur, trying to sound cheerful.

Only Jeongin is there, perched on top of the table, legs dangling, thumbs tapping on his phone. He looks up and gives you a dimpled grin. “Morning.”

“I, um… brought coffee,” you say, lifting the tray a little.

His eyes brighten. “Oh—nice.” He hops down and takes one, muttering a quiet, sincere, “Thanks.”

You’re about to ask where Chris is when the door swings open again. Chris walks in, expression unreadable, headphones around his neck, a laptop tucked under his arm. You quickly grab one of the coffees and step toward him.

“Chris, I—”

He doesn’t even look at you. “Practice starts soon.”

You freeze mid-reach and he breezes past you. You slowly lower the coffee back into the carton.

Jeongin gives you an apologetic wince as he leans in close enough to whisper. “Chris doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Oh.” You nod, hands tightening around the tray. “Okay.”

Practice drags on for hours. You’re hitting every note, following every direction, but you can’t tell if you’re doing anything right because Chris hasn’t spoken a single word to you all day. He only addresses the band as a whole.

“Let’s tighten the pre-chorus.” “Guitar comes in late here.” “Bass—” and then he switches mid-sentence to, “Everybody, from the top.”

It’s like he’s determined not to acknowledge you exist.

By the time he finally calls for a break, your brain is fried. You take your lunch outside, settling onto the bench overlooking the city. The sun is warm on your shoulders as you unwrap your sandwich and sigh.

You’re halfway through a bite when Jeongin flops down beside you, cracking open his favorite energy drink. “What are you doing?” he asks.

You deadpan, “Eating my lunch while rethinking all of my life choices.”

Jeongin bursts into laughter, nearly spilling his drink. The sound of it makes you laugh too.

There’s something about him—an easy charm that makes him feel like the little brother you’ve never had. Onstage he looks intimidating, all sharp lines and cool glances, but up close he’s soft, warm, and just… young. You can’t help wanting to protect him.

So you don’t realize you’re asking your next question until it’s already out. “Is there… any way I can get along with Chris?”

Jeongin doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Honestly? I don’t know any.”

You groan, dropping your head back. “Great.”

You glance at him. “Then why is he so soft with you?”

Jeongin smirks, leans closer. You lean in too without hesitation. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Secret is… you have to be cute and younger than Chris.”

You pull back, groaning again—but this time you’re laughing. “So I have zero chance of melting the iceberg.”

Jeongin swallows a sip of energy drink and nods solemnly. “I even doubt that global warming could do it.”

You laugh so loudly you nearly choke, the two of you huddled together on the bench like co-conspirators. And then—

“Band meeting.”

You both snap your heads toward the practice room doorway. Chris stands there, one hand on the frame, expression unreadable as ever. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t clarify who he’s talking to, he just turns and disappears back inside.

Jeongin shrugs. “That means you too.”

Being in the band doesn’t mean you’re in the band so yeah, you’re not entirely sure. Not at all, actually. Still… you get up anyway.

-

Chris sits at the table first, notebook open, pen balanced between his fingers. He taps it against the wood as he waits. One by one, the others take their seats—Jeongin slumps into the chair beside him, still holding his can of energy drink, and you settle across from him with careful, almost hesitant posture, as if unsure whether you’re really supposed to be here. He ignores that feeling tightening in his chest.

“Alright,” Chris says once the last chair scrapes the floor. “We need to finalize the showcase setlist.”

The room stills as he flips to a clean page and starts writing. "We have the three title tracks from the past albums—that’s non-negotiable."

He lists them down on the paper before looking up. “That leaves us four, maybe five more. We can’t go over ten songs total. Runtime is only an hour.”

He fires off a few fan favorites, ones he knows always get good reactions. Jeongin nods along and adds his own suggestions—older tracks he likes playing live.

Then Jeongin turns to you, nudging your elbow lightly. “What about you? Any songs you want to play?”

Chris stops writing. He doesn’t look up, but he feels the shift in the room. He can see your hesitation, your gears turning.

“Um… Silver Lining?” you say.

Silence flickers across the table. Chris finally lifts his gaze. That song?

It’s… old and it’s tied to an era he doesn’t exactly want to think about. Before he has to react, Jeongin beats him to it. Thank God.

“Why do you want to play that one?” Jeongin asks, genuinely curious.

Your voice is steady, but careful as you explain. “Fans always say Silver Lining is underrated. A deep cut.” You glance between them. “And it’s one of the songs you… never played with Nico before.”

Chris’s lungs freeze for half a second at the mention of his name. He doesn’t let so much as a twitch show. He keeps his face blank, neutral, unreadable.

You go on, unaware of the tiny landmine you stepped near.m“I just think… it could be meaningful to play a song that hasn’t been touched by a previous member. Something new. Something fans can associate with this version of the band. With us.”

The room falls still and Jeongin stacks his hands together on the table.

You sit there, uncertainty sneaking into your expression, but you don’t take it back. You hold your ground.

Chris lets the silence stretch five seconds longer than necessary. Not because he’s angry. Because he’s trying to process the way his chest twisted at your reasoning. Because you’re right. Because he hadn’t expected you to think like that.

He clicks his pen once and then flips the page. “Anyway. Recording starts tomorrow. I want everyone rested, so wrap up early tonight.”

He snaps the notebook shut, ending the conversation before anyone can revisit the uncomfortable name hanging in the air. And he stands, making sure his face gives away nothing at all.

-

Chris stays behind after everyone leaves, the door clicking shut and sealing him in the kind of silence he doesn’t realize he’s been craving. He sits on his usual chair, one that’s molded to the shape of his exhaustion and stares at the dimmed studio lights reflecting on the floor. The notebook is still open in front of him, showing list of songs for the showcase’s setlist with Silver Lining written and scribbled over.

Silver Lining… Fine. One play. Just to remind himself why that song still feels like a bruise. He exhales, long and slow, and reaches over to his laptop.

The moment he hits play, the speakers hum to life, filling the empty room with that opening riff—soft at first, then full, warm, familiar. The melody rolls over him like a wave crashing against a rock he never moved from its place.

Instantly, he’s thrown backward in time. Back to a cramped studio, the clock blinking 2:47 AM in aggressive red. Back to empty noodles cups stacked on top of each other like silent trophies of bad decisions and good creativity. Back to Nico slouched on the couch with his acoustic guitar balanced on his knee, grinning lazily.

“Wait—play that again.”

Chris remembers the exact moment the tune clicked. The spark. The shared thrill of accidentally stumbling into a melody that felt right. He remembers the harmonies they spent an hour perfecting. The way they kept looping the track because they couldn’t believe they made something that good at a stupid hour of the night. He remembers—

He stops the thought before it finishes forming. He leans back and runs his palms over his face.

Why did you have to pick that song…?

A chime breaks the quiet. His phone lights up on the table. JULIAN.

He sent a text with no caption, no explanation. Just a link.

Chris frowns and clicks. A music news site opens. Bright headline with a photo of someone he just thought about a second ago.

NICO TO RELEASE AN EP.

At first he thinks maybe Julian just wants him to see what Nico’s up to now—industry courtesy, whatever. But then Chris’s gaze drops to the most important line: “… the release date for the EP coincidentally the same with The Bang Theory’s upcoming single.”

Coincidentally? He scoffs sarcastically. Blood rushes to his ears. He sits up straighter, jaw setting hard.

Why? Why would Nico—of all days—choose that date? Why would he overlap? Why now, when the band is introducing a new member, rebuilding, reshaping— Why is he doing this?

Thoughts crash into each other, unkind and disorganized. His chest feels too small for all the questions crowding for space.

Chris stares at the headline until it becomes a blur. He doesn’t know if he’s angry. Or blindsided. Or just… tired.

But he does know one thing: He’s not ready to deal with this. Not again.

-

The day of recording starts earlier than you expected. You sit in the recording booth with your bass resting against your thigh, headphones tight over your ears. The track clicks in. You breathe in. You play the pre-chorus the way it’s written—steady, clean, exactly where the bass should sit under the melody.

You follow the flow. You lock in. You keep your tone warm, rounded. And—

“Stop.”

Chris’s voice slices through the mic.

You pause mid-bar, fingers hovering above the strings.

He presses the talk button again, expression flat behind the glass window. “It’s dragging,” he says. “You’re pushing into the downbeat too soon.”

You nod because he’s right. “…Okay.”

You reset. You wait for the cue. The track restarts. You play again—more carefully now, too aware of everything your fingers are doing.

“Stop.”

You freeze.

Chris exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s stiff. Loosen it. It needs to breathe.”

You want to tell him that the only thing suffocating you is him breathing down your neck through a mic. But you swallow it, take a breath, nod once.

Third take.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Every time you think you’ve nailed it, the red light shuts off and his voice comes in again, curt, unimpressed.

“Too sharp.” “Too soft.” “Your timing’s clean but lifeless.” “Are you listening to the drums?” “You’re not feeling it.”

It becomes painfully clear that he’s not looking for perfection—he’s looking for something to complain about.

On take seven, you tighten your fingers again, pulse tapping against the bass body. You play exactly to the click. Exactly to the mix. Exactly as the sheet reads.

“Stop.”

This time, he doesn’t even give a reason.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste metal. Is he… sabotaging you?

The thought shoots through your head before you can stop it. It feels ridiculous—except it also feels true. You’re doing everything you can. Playing as perfectly as possible. Following every cue. Every tiny direction.

And still it’s—

“Stop.” “Again.” “No.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he gives the next command.

You grip the neck of your bass tighter, but before Chris can press the talk button again, Julian leans forward and flips his mic on.

“Okay,” Julian says, voice warm but firm. “That was great. You can step out now.”

Chris turns slowly toward him, but Julian doesn’t break eye contact. He simply reaches over and turns the track off. Then he presses the studio intercom again.

“Everyone, let’s take a break.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’ve been holding as the red recording light finally dies out. Your fingers tremble a little as you take off your headphones. You step out of the booth into the thick studio air, stomach tight, pulse uneven.

You did everything right and somehow… it still didn’t feel like enough.

-

You tug open the fridge door, the cool air brushing your face as you reach for a soda. You spot Chris walking past you, heading toward the far side of the lounge where the others have gathered around the catering.

“Hey, Chris,” you call lightly, holding up a can, “do you want one?”

He doesn’t even slow down. No glance. Not even the faintest acknowledgment. He just keeps walking, shoulders tense, jaw locked, like you hadn’t opened your mouth at all.

You blink at the empty space he leaves behind, the cold air from the fridge suddenly feeling a little too sharp.

Behind you, a voice pops up cheerfully, “Orange soda for me please!”

You turn to find Jeongin grinning at you like a kid who’s just spotted the ice cream truck. His foxlike eyes curve, dimples deepening as he reaches out dramatically.

You sigh in part defeated, part amused and grab an orange soda, handing it to him. Then you take a bottle of water for you, shut the fridge, and follow him back to the sofa. The two of you drop onto the cushions at the same exact moment, both letting out long, exhausted breaths. It almost makes you laugh.

You make a quick sweep of the room to make sure Chris is no within earshot before leaning toward Jeongin and ask, “Is Chris always like this during recording?”

Jeongin cracks open his soda with a hiss, nodding without hesitation. “Mhm.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Oh, you’re actually lucky,” he says, pointing the can at you before taking a sip. “He’s more ferocious than ever today.”

You let your head fall back against the sofa. “Oh, that’s just great.”

“Something must be bothering him,” Jeongin says idly, eyes drifting toward where Chris disappeared earlier. “More than usual.”

That makes you remember all the rumors, the comments you saw online last night when you did your research on the band. You turn toward Jeongin again, lowering your voice. “Speaking of… I wanted to ask you something. It’s just—about Nico.” His eyes flick to you, and you continue, hesitant but curious. “I saw some stuff online. Some people saying he left because of… drama. But it sounded blown out of proportion, and I don’t buy that kind of gossip. So… what actually happened? What’s the real reason he left?”

For a moment Jeongin looks like he’s debating whether he should pretend he didn’t hear you. Then he lets out a slow breath, setting his soda down on his thigh.

“It’s…” He shakes his head. “It’s best if you find out on your own.”

You stare at him. “Seriously? That’s it?”

He doesn’t budge and lifts his can to have another sip of his soda.

So you lightly nudge him with your elbow and playfully say, “Wow, I thought you considered me part of the band already. Guess I was wrong.”

His lips twitch, but he stays fully unshaken—both physically and emotionally. “I do. That’s why I think you should find out on your own.”

You pout, dramatic and genuine. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

Before you can respond to Joan, a voice from the hallway calls out, “Jeongin! Your turn!”

Jeongin groans like someone just took away his weekend. “Great,” he mutters, dragging himself up from the sofa. He gives you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck surviving the rest of today,” he whispers before disappearing toward the studio.

You’re left alone on the couch with your soda, the room quieter now that the lunchtime chatter has thinned out. You take a long sip, hoping water can help you reach a sense of peace. Then, your phone buzzes in your jacket pocket.

Dad: How’s recording going?

You stare at the message for a second, exhale through your nose, then type back:

You: Brutal.

A few moments later, another buzz. Not exactly a reply but your dad sent you a link to a song. You tap it out of instinct and snort when you see the title.

AC/DC – It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll).

Of course he’d send that.

You scoff a quiet laugh to yourself, shaking your head. “Real funny, Dad…”

Still smiling, you slip on your headphones, sink deeper into the sofa cushions, and hit play.

The opening riff kicks in, raw, loud, and unapologetically old-school, echoing through your ears like a pep talk wrapped in distortion.

And for the first time today, your chest loosens—just a little—like maybe you can survive the rest of this session after all.

♪ It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll / It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll / If you think it's easy doin' one night stands / Try playin' in a rock roll band / It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll ♪

-

You step back into the booth with your water bottle, the AC/DC song still ringing in your head, giving you the tiniest boost of energy. Jeongin’s recording is done, the room has shifted back to a focused quiet, and Chris is already hunched over the console, fingers tapping, eyes narrowed, that familiar crease forming between his brows. You slide your headphones on and then adjust the strap of your bass.

Through the glass, you see Chris press the talkback button. “Okay, let’s… try that bridge again,” he says. “The last run was a little—”

You cut him off before he can finish. “Nitpicky?”

Chris freezes. His hand stops mid-gesture above the console.

The room goes still. Even Julian, sitting along the back wall, glances up slowly.

Chris lets go of the talkback button, rubs the back of his neck, then presses it again. “I’m not nitpicking. I’m just… making sure we get it right.”

You breathe out a laugh, sharp and tired. “Chris, you said that every single take.”

“That’s because every single take could be better.”

“And yet every single take sounded fine to literally everyone else,” you point out. “Except you.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks down at the console like maybe the knobs will save him.

Before he can deflect again, you keep going. “If something’s wrong, just tell me. But if you’re just hyperfixating because you’re stressed or scared or overthinking—can you not take it out on me?”

That hits and you see it land.

Chris leans back slowly in his chair. Exhales. He looks up at you through the glass with this mixture of guilt and surprise, like he didn’t realize you could see that clearly through him.

Julian pretends to check something on his phone to give him space, but you know he’s listening, witnessing this exchange.

You step closer to the glass. “I’m not asking you to stop caring. I’m asking you to trust me.”

Chris meets your gaze and some tension finally uncoils in his shoulders. “I do,” he says. “I’m trying.”

Then he clears his throat, flicks a switch, and his tone shifts back into leader mode, steadier this time. “Let’s run it again. One more take,” he says. “But this time… just play it the way you want to.”

You smile. “Finally.”

He smiles back, small but real.

And for the first time all day, you hit the bridge and it feels like music again, not pressure, not performance, just… music.

-

The whole week went in a blink of an eye yet there are still a lot to do and it will be like this until showcase — or never, you can’t tell. But you didn’t think that being in a band meant sitting in a tiny meeting room with a stranger telling you how to speak like you’re defusing a bomb. But here you are—hands folded on the table, nodding like a well-trained student—as the media trainer clicks through slides faster than your brain can process.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say…” she prompts, raising an eyebrow.

You repeat it like it’s an oath. “Don’t say anything at all.”

“Good. And remember—no off-the-record comments. Nothing is off the record.” You nod to confirm that you understand what she’s saying, writing down “BEHAVE” on your note and underline it.

When she finally closes her laptop, you almost melt in relief. Phew, finally. Over. Except—it’s not.

Joan’s head pops behind the door, her pink hair instantly brighten the boring white room. “You’re done, right? Let’s go,” Joan chirps as she grabs your wrist and pulls you out of the room.

“Where are we going now?” you ask, half-dreading the answer.

“Fittings!” she announces.

You end up in another room—this one packed wall-to-wall with clothing racks, jewelry trays, and a whole team of stylists swarming like bees. They throw you into outfits, spin you around, poke you, adjust hems, swap jackets, hold up belts to your hips, and debate whether silver or gold suits your “color aura” better. You barely register half the decisions.

“Okay, next!” Joan says, clapping her hands once you’re finally approved by the styling hive-mind. You want to sit. Or nap. Or pass away gently. Instead, she drags you into another room—this one bright, loud, and filled with hair dryers, curling irons, makeup palettes, and a mirror that makes your pores look like craters.

A makeup artist immediately ushers you into a chair. “We’ll keep it natural but bold,” she says, whatever that means, already blending something into your skin.

Someone else starts messing with your hair. Someone else is adjusting your top. Someone else is handing Joan paperwork. It’s all happening at once.

You cling to the armrest like it’s the only stable thing in your life.

“Photoshoot in ten!” someone calls out.

Your stomach flips. You swallow hard. You’re not even sure you’ve processed half the things you’ve done today. Media training. Fittings. Makeup. Now a full photoshoot with the band, in its new formation.

Everything’s happening fast. Too fast. So fast you can barely think at all.

You inhale. Exhale. And hope you don’t look as overwhelmed as you feel.

-

You step into the photoshoot area, still smoothing your outfit as your eyes adjust to the brightness. Large softboxes glow like miniature suns, cables snake across the floor, and assistants dart around carrying lenses, reflectors, and clipboards.

Chris is already in front of the backdrop, doing his solo shots.

Joan places a hand on your arm before you wander too close. “Wait here. I’ll get someone to fix your hair.”

You nod and stay still as one of the stylists swoops in, fingers quick and gentle as they adjust a few strands flattened on your shoulder.

And while you're forced to stand still, you watch Chris. He moves effortlessly for the camera—shoulders relaxed, jaw set, eyes sharp. The photographer calls out directions, but Chris barely needs them. He just knows what to do. How to angle his body. How to stare down the lens like he owns it.

And maybe he really does.

From the very first day you met him, you noticed that about him—this distinct aura. It’s not loud or showy. A presence that seems to tilt the entire room toward him. Some people call it star power. But really, it feels more like gravity and he wears it like a birthright.

Your gaze trails over the slope of his shoulders, the way his undone shirt cuffs expose strong forearms, the slight crease of concentration between his brows, his hair styled in a way that somehow makes him look even more annoyingly handsome. He shouldn’t look this effortlessly polished in ripped black jeans and a simple shirt, but he does.

You catch yourself staring a little too long, quietly admiring him. Which is ridiculous, given everything.

The photographer claps once. “Alright, Chris. That’s it. Great job.”

You snap out of it immediately, straightening and trying to erase whatever dumb expression you might’ve been making.

Joan appears at your side again. “Okay. Your turn now.”

Your stomach dips as you step onto the set, painfully aware of every footstep. Joan adjusts the hem of your jacket, then steps back.

The photographer lifts the camera and you freeze like a deer in headlights.

“Relax your shoulders,” Joan says gently.

Right. Shoulders. Breathing. Existing. You apparently need a manual today. You inhale deeply, then exhale through your nose. Try again. Not working. Still stiff.

Joan wanders toward the speaker and taps her phone to it. A grungy, familiar guitar riff greets you and it takes you a second to identify the song. It’s Celebrity Skin by Hole.

“Just be natural,” Joan says, nodding her head to the beat of the song and absentmindedly, you copy her, vibing to the song.

♪ Hey, so glad you could make it / Yeah, now you've really made it / Hey, so glad you could make it now ♪

You let your stance loosen, shift your weight, arching your back just enough. You stop overthinking your hands, your face, the way your mouth is sitting. And once you stop trying so hard—the shots get easier. The flashes feel less intimidating, the poses less awkward.

By the end, you’re breathing normally again and the photographer gives you a smile. “Great. We got plenty.”

As you step off the set, smoothing your clothes, you look up and catch Chris is standing at the back of the room, watching you. Not with disdain. Not with irritation. But with a kind of quiet focus almost like he’s impressed by what he’s seeing.

The moment barely lasts a second, but it lands anyway. Right in your chest.

♪ You want a part of me? / Well, I'm not selling cheap / No, I'm not selling cheap ♪

-

The stylist is fussing with his hair again—straightening a stubborn curl on the back of his head, dabbing something along his cheekbone, dusting translucent powder along the bridge of his nose. Chris sits still, used to the ritual, already half-tuned out.

Across the room, Jeongin has propped his phone against a chair to take his usual OOTD selfies, switching poses every three seconds. One foot turned out, jawline angled, shoulder raised—click, click, click.

Chris shakes his head, amused despite himself. Then, his gaze drifts to you. You’re fussing with your sleeves, inaudibly mouthing the lyrics, tapping your foot lightly to the beat of the song echoing through the studio. Casual suit jacket, simple white t-shirt. Neat, effortless. You didn’t try too hard to look the part of a rock band member and weirdly, that’s exactly what makes you look right. You fit, not loudly, not dramatically. But quietly and naturally.

His eyes linger longer than he expects as you’re humming softly under your breath, eyes half-lidded, almost serene and Chris realizes he’s never actually seen you in a moment of unguarded calm up close. It strikes him as strange that despite all your nerves about joining, you don’t carry those nerves on your face. You’re composed. Grounded. Certain.

A foreign swell of something moves in his chest. Approval? Annoyance? Relief? He can’t tell. He doesn’t want to.

“Alright everyone!” the photographer calls, clapping loudly. “Group shots now. Come over!”

Chris pushes himself up from the chair, rolling his shoulders once to shake off the stiffness. Jeongin bounds over with renewed energy, practically glowing. You approach from the opposite side, tucking your hair behind your ear as you step under the lights.

The photographer explains the concept, flipping through sketches on a tablet—formations, angles, arrangements. Center shot, triangular formation, standing poses, serious expressions. Then, he points at you. “You in the middle. Chris on the right, Jeongin on the left. Slightly angled in, but eyes to me.”

Chris doesn’t react outwardly, but steps into position beside you. Closer. Closer still, until his elbow brushes yours.

You don’t flinch. You don’t stiffen. You just breathe, evenly, gaze fixed on the camera like nothing fazes you. The kind of calm that makes other people feel calm too. He briefly wonders where that comes from. Training? Personality? Habit?

“Closer,” the photographer calls.

Chris obeys automatically, closing the last inch without hesitation. He can smell your perfume now and for a fleeting second, the proximity does something strange to his heartbeat. He ignores it.

The camera clicks rapidly, the photographer praising the composition.

After a few transitions, Jeongin suddenly bursts between the two of you, arms wide like he’s photobombing. “Okay but now fun ones,” he declares.

The photographer laughs. “Yes! Let’s get some personality shots.”

Before Chris can protest, Jeongin grabs both their arms and pulls them around his shoulders, forcing them into a ridiculous trio-pose. The next moment, he’s insisting they hold him between them “like a prize-winning fish,” and then somehow convincing them to build a mini cheerleader pyramid.

The studio erupts into laughter. Warm, involuntary. Something Chris hasn’t felt in longer than he cares to admit.

When they all crowd around the monitor to check the results, he’s the one who laughs first as he sees the three of them tangled in an absurd pose, Jeongin’s grin enormous, your expression caught mid-laugh.

He can’t believe it. He’s actually laughing. Like himself. Like before everything got complicated. Even if it’s only for a moment—it feels… good. Better than he expected.

-

As usual, Chris stays late in his studio. He sits forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, headphones hanging around his neck. The endless waves of sound scrolling across the screen like a living thing. The latest bounce of the track plays through the speakers, almost there. He nudges a fader a millimeter. Cuts a frequency that’s been bothering him. Tightens a kick that feels two percent too loose. Small things only he would notice.

He plays it again.

Better.

He plays it again.

Still better.

He’s listening for something that isn’t even defined, only felt. A click. A sense of that’s it. Or as close as he can get.

The door opens behind him and Julian steps inside, holding a folder under his arm, sunglasses perched unnecessarily on his head. “How’s my genius doing?”

Chris doesn’t look away from the waveform. “Trying to decide if the bridge guitar needs more warmth or if it’s just me going insane.”

Julian grins, crossing the room to stand behind him. “Play it.”

Chris does and the track fills the studio. Deep bass, crisp drums, his voice layered and raw. Your bassline gliding underneath with a tone that’s distinct, different from Nico’s, but undeniably solid. It already sounds like The Bang Theory. A new version, but still undeniably them.

Julian folds his arms. He listens carefully, no expression, no nodding, no polite distractions.

Chris appreciates that. Julian never lies. Not when it comes to the music. When the final chorus ends, he takes a breath. Then, he simply says, “It’s great.”

Chris lets out a long exhale, leaning back in his chair. His shoulders drop. The knot in his chest loosens just a little. He believes Julian immediately. Always has.

A slow, warm bloom spreads through him. Relief. Pride. Something close to excitement. They actually did it. They made something good. Something new.

For a second, he lets himself imagine sharing it with the world—seeing reactions, comments, fans screaming the lyrics back to them someday. That spark of anticipation lights up in his chest… but it dims just as quickly.

Along with the excitement comes the familiar churn of dread. People might hate it. Hate the change. Hate him for it. Hate you for it. And now, with Nico releasing his own tracks on the same day, the pressure in Chris’s chest feels like someone has seated a stone there.

Julian sees all of this without Chris saying a word. He always does. He places a hand on the back of Chris’s chair. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Chris huffs a humorless laugh. “Tell that to the fans. And the internet. And whoever decided to drop an EP on the same damn day.”

“It’s not a competition,” Julian says gently. “Don’t make it one.”

Chris lifts a brow. “Feels like it.”

Julian shrugs. “Then stop feeling that way. Look forward, not sideways. What you have now—this song, this lineup—it’s not a replacement. It’s a step into a new era. A good one.” He taps the desk lightly. “A necessary one.”

Chris scoffs under his breath, not fully convinced. “I hope so.”

Julian smiles, that calm, grounded smile that comes with years of seeing storms pass. “I don’t hope.” He gestures toward the glass window where the live room sits empty, instruments resting where you and Jeongin left them earlier. “I know.”

Chris turns back to the screen, letting that settle.

Julian continues softly, “From what I’ve seen? The three of you… you’re building something real. It’s rough around the edges, sure. But there’s chemistry. There’s fire. And you care. A lot. That’s enough.” It hits Chris deeper than he expects. Maybe he has been looking the wrong direction, at the past, at old members, at comparisons and ghosts and doubts, when everything in front of him is asking for his attention. His trust. His focus. His music.

He finally nods. Once. Firm.

Julian gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Good. Now finish this track. You’re ready.”

Chris looks at the waveform again. For the first time in weeks, he thinks— Yes. He is.

-

You barely sleep. Not even a full hour strung together. You toss, turn, stare at your ceiling, replay the setlist in your head, imagine tripping over cables, imagine hitting the wrong note in front of hundreds of people, imagine—

The next thing you know, your alarm blares. You jolt upright, heart racing like you’ve been dropped into cold water.

It’s showcase day. Your first day onstage as a member of The Bang Theory. Your official introduction to the world. Your hands shake as you turn off the alarm.

You try to breathe, but it feels like your lungs haven’t caught up to the rest of your body. You move on autopilot—shower, hair, clothes—except your stomach twists so hard you can barely take a bite of the toast you made. You settle for nibbling a corner, chewing without tasting it.

You pack only the essentials and zip your bag, exhale shakily, and step outside.

A car is already waiting just like Joan informed you earlier. The driver gives you a warm smile as he opens the door. “Morning, miss!”

You nod, sliding into the backseat. “Morning.”

The moment the car starts moving, the nerves hit you again—erratic, electric, all at once. You lean your head against the window, close your eyes, and tell yourself to breathe. You try to rest, even if it’s just shutting off your brain for ten seconds.

Your phone buzzes in your bag. You blink your eyes open and pull it out.

Dad: Good luck today, kiddo. You’ll be amazing.

Another message arrives immediately after—

Dad: I’ll see you rocking the stage soon.

Your chest squeezes in the best way. You smile and sink back into the seat, phone resting on your chest, eyes fluttering shut again.

It still hasn’t fully sunk in. You’re in a rock band. You’re about to walk onstage with them. People will see you as part of The Bang Theory. You let out a soft laugh to yourself, shaking your head. And you smile again—because despite the nerves, despite everything—

This is exactly where you want to be.

-

By the time you step out of the car, the venue is already alive. The low rumble of staff moving equipment, the metallic clatter of cases being wheeled in, voices echoing down hallways and it immediately hits you that today is real. There’s no going back.

When you push open the door to the green room, the chaos is already in full swing. Wardrobe racks clatter as stylists maneuver them inside, hangers jingling. The makeup team is setting up their corner. Someone comes in with a crate of water bottles. Someone else delivering flowers from sponsors. It’s a whole ecosystem.

And in the center of it all? Jeongin. Fast asleep on the couch, limbs everywhere, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, taking up every square inch like he owns it.

You quietly drop your bag on the smaller couch and plop down, sinking into the seat with a sigh. A second later you’re pulling out your phone, snapping a photo of the green room chaos. You write a playful caption to it: “Miss this kind of scene, Dad?”

Then take another photo, a dramatic zoom of the sleeping Jeongin. And one more of the snack table, because he always teased you about “idol-level catering.”

You’re lining up the shot of the granola bars when the door opens again and Chris walks in. He scans the room once, sees Jeongin passed out, and doesn’t even comment. Just accepts it like it’s a normal biological fact. He comes over silently and sits next to you on the small couch close enough to make the cushions dip but not close enough to touch.

“Morning,” you murmur softly.

He doesn’t answer. Either he didn’t hear you, or he’s already too deep inside that hyper-focused Chris-zone to register anything else. He rummages through his backpack with both hands, shoulders tense, until he finally pulls out a folded piece of paper. He holds it between two fingers, almost like he’s offering a secret note in class.

“About the setlist,” he says.

You take it, unfold it and see Chris’s handwriting all over it. There are scratches. Edits. Reordered tracks. And one particular addition at the bottom that you were not expecting to see.

Silver Lining.

You look up, surprised. He must catch the expression, because he says, very casually. “Let’s add Silver Lining.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. You thought he shut that idea down on day one. You definitely remember the look he gave you. So you force yourself not to react too big. You swallow it down and keep your tone as neutral as you can.

“…That means we’ll be playing more than ten songs.”

Chris nods. “Yeah. We have to swap something out. Let’s talk once Jeongin wakes up.”

But there’s another complication and you hesitate to say it. “But we haven’t practiced Silver Lining together yet.”

“We’re doing soundcheck soon.” He zips his backpack back up. “We’ll run it then.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

He stands immediately, already in motion, already shifting gears. “I’ll go check on the stage.”

And just like that, he disappears out the door again.

You stare at the setlist in your hands for a long moment. His handwriting. The song you asked for — now written in bold, no hesitation. You trace your finger over the words Silver Lining and feel an unexpected warmth build in your chest. Does this means you’re finally in the band? Really in it? Not the new addition. Not the test run. A member.

You press the folded paper against your knee and allow yourself a small, private smile. Today is the showcase. Today, you get to prove it.

-

The venue is still empty when the three of you step onto the stage, but it already feels loud. Not from sound, but from anticipation. From pressure. From everything riding on today.

Chris lowers himself to a squat, guitar resting on his thigh as he starts tuning it by ear, fingers twisting the pegs with small precise movements. The string hums under his thumb as he adjusts again until it settles into the note he wants.

He finally turns, facing you and Jeongin. “Alright,” he says, pushing the strap over his shoulder. “I told Julian and the stage team about the setlist.”

Jeongin stretches his arms dramatically like he’s warming up for a marathon, then nods. “Cool.”

Chris continues, “Since we all agreed to add Silver Lining, we’ve only got this soundcheck to run it.”

You nod immediately, no hesitation. Almost too quick.

“So,” he says, “let’s make it count.”

The tech in front gives a thumbs-up. Mics come alive. Amps buzz. Lights flicker through testing patterns above the stage. And then Chris counts them in.

You come in exactly on cue. Not even the slightest hitch. Your fingers move confidently along the keys, posture relaxed, breath even. Too even.

Jeongin glances at you mid-verse with the same subtle surprise Chris feels, eyebrows lifting just a fraction before he goes back to his drumming.

Chris watches you instead of the fretboard for a few seconds, letting muscle memory take over. You’re hitting everything. You’re not second-guessing. You’re not panicking. And that makes something in his chest loosen like a knot being untied.

He expected jittery hands. He expected you to blank out on the bridge. He expected to have to reassure you or slow things down or—

But you’re smooth. Sure of yourself.

It takes him a moment to understand why. Of course. You’ve been on stages before. Not rock stages. Not with screaming fans waiting outside. But you were trained to perform. Trained not to show nerves. Trained to make it look easy.

Chris almost smiles at that. Better this than the alternative. Because for a second—even if he didn’t want to admit it—he was terrified you’d be a mess. That the reality of today would finally hit you and you’d crumble under it.

But you don’t, you keep going, calm and focused, like the stage is just another workspace and the empty seats are nothing more than walls. And as the chorus hits, and your left hand lifts with that small gesture you always do—something between conducting and feeling the rhythm—it hits Chris again.

Maybe adding you to The Bang Theory won’t just work. Maybe it’s the best decision he’s made in a long time.

-

The three of them squeeze together on the long sofa again, this time with the pleasant hum of stage crews moving equipment somewhere down the hall. Chris sits in the middle — not by choice, just because Jeongin collapsed on one side and you dropped onto the other like gravity did the deciding.

The interviewer sits across from them, notebook open, pen clipped to the top. He’s already been briefed by their PR staff, but Chris knows the type — some of them like to poke around anyway.

“Let’s start with the new single,” the interviewer says, pushing his glasses up. “What’s the story behind it?”

Chris answers easily. Too many interviews over the years have carved the shape of his responses already — fluid, natural, the right mix of casual and thoughtful. He talks about the melody, the late nights in the studio, the way the track evolved into something the three of them could be proud of.

The interviewer scribbles quickly and more questions follow. About their process. Their chemistry. The upcoming showcase.

Chris moves through each one without friction, but then the interviewer turns slightly toward you. “And for you — how does it feel joining The Bang Theory? Stepping into… well, such a big shift?”

Chris glances your way, curious of your answer.

You sit straighter, shoulders relaxed, hands politely folded on your lap. The confidence in your posture is subtle but solid. “It’s been incredible,” you answer, voice even, calm but warm. “I think what surprised me most is how much work goes on behind the scenes. They make it look so effortless, but it’s anything but.”

The interviewer smiles and moves onto the next question right away. “And your opinion on the members? What’s it like working with them so far?”

You smile before speaking, then look at Jeongin first. “He’s a joy to be around. Very hardworking. Very funny. Always the first to help.”

Jeongin grins, dimples framing his smile. Then you turn to Chris.

“And Chris…” Your words are gentle but sure. “I admire him a lot. His musicality, the way he pays attention to every detail, his professionalism… there’s so much intention in everything he creates. It’s inspiring to watch.”

Chris’s chest tightens — not uncomfortably, just unexpectedly. Because your answer doesn’t sound rehearsed. It doesn’t sound sugar-coated. It sounds genuine.

The interviewer hums like he’s turning that over, then leans forward with a too-casual tone.

“And Chris, what about you? What made you comfortable bringing her in? Was it difficult adjusting to—” He pauses, choosing a word he shouldn’t. “—you know, having a girl in the band?”

Chris freezes for a split second. He knows exactly what the man meant. The implication hangs in the air. He also notices how you stiffen just barely beside him. He straightens, professionalism locking into place like armor.

“There was no ‘adjusting,’” Chris says, clear and firm. “She’s a musician. A damn good one. That’s the only thing that matters.”

The interviewer blinks.

Chris continues, “Talent and dedication aren’t defined by anything else. She earned her place here.”

A flicker of apology crosses the interviewer’s face. He doesn’t push the subject again.

“Right,” the man coughs lightly, flipping the page. “Let’s talk about the showcase.”

The tension breaks like a snapped wire.

As the topic shifts, Chris exhales quietly through his nose, focusing again on the rhythm of the conversation. The rest of the interview goes smoothly—setlists, crowd expectations, nerves, excitement.

When it’s finally over and the interviewer closes his notebook, Jeongin springs up first, stretching loud enough for the whole room to hear.

Chris gets to his feet a bit slower and then he sees it. You turn to him with a small, warm smile — soft around the edges, grateful in a way that needs no words. He doesn’t smile back, not fully. But something in him loosens again.

-

You slip out of the green room the moment Joan is distracted by a makeup stylist. You love her, really, but if she drags you to fix “one last thing” again, you might actually burst into flames.

Thankfully, the hallway outside is blissfully empty — no rushing staff, no cables, no echoing shouts. You take a shaky breath as you pace a few steps, then pull out your phone.

Your thumb hovers for a second before you press call and he picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, kiddo.” Just hearing your dad’s voice makes your lungs loosen a little. You lean against the wall, closing your eyes. “Dad, I’m… I’m nervous. Like, really nervous. I can’t even eat.”

“Well, that’s normal,” he says immediately, like he’s been waiting to tell you this exact thing. “Don’t fight it.”

You almost scoff. “Don’t… fight it?”

“Yeah. Enjoy it instead. You only get a first showcase once.” You can practically hear him shrugging. “Let it happen. Ride the wave.”

You laugh quietly at that because of course he’d say something like that. He’s always been like this. Easygoing. Warm. A walking comfort.

“You always make it sound so simple,” you mumble, rubbing a thumb against your palm.

“Life is simple,” he replies. “It’s people who complicate it.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Okay, philosopher.”

“But seriously,” he continues, gentler this time, “I’ll be there cheering you on.”

You wince. “Dad. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, you know I can’t promise you that.”

You loudly groan, the kind that bounces off the empty hall walls.

“Should I bring a banner? Maybe a shirt with your face on it? Big giant print, front and back?”

“Dad.” Your voice cracks between horror and another laugh.

“Just checking,” he teases.

You hug your free arm around yourself, grounding. “Just… be there, okay? If you’re not, I’m going to be really, really mad at you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says, and there’s something undeniably sincere in his tone. “My kid, on that stage? I’m proud already.”

The nerves haven’t gone, they’re still jittery, still restless, but suddenly they feel manageable. Held.

“Okay,” you breathe out. “See you soon.”

“Go knock ’em dead.”

You end the call and for the first time all day, your stomach feels a little lighter. Like saying it out loud, admitting how scared you were, let some of the anxiety drain out. You straighten, tuck your phone into your pocket, and head back down the hallway. You don’t feel ready, but you feel better.

And for now, that’s enough.

-

The second you push open the door to the green room, it feels like you’ve stepped into a beehive. People zig–zagging between clothing racks, stylists shouting for bobby pins, staff hauling cables, makeup brushes flashing like weapons. The air smells like hairspray and coffee and nerves.

And you stop on your track when you catch Jeongin is standing by the rack of clothes in his jeans. Just jeans.

He’s half-distracted, eyes glued to his phone, while a stylist crouches at his ankles, adjusting the hem. You’ve only ever seen him swallowed in hoodies and oversized tees, so you were not prepared for… that. His torso is lean but surprisingly sculpted, clean lines of muscle running across his abdomen, subtle but unmistakable definition in his arms and shoulders. His waist tapers neatly, the kind of build dancers and athletes accidentally end up with from moving all the time. His collarbones cast soft shadows under the lights, skin smooth, golden.

You hurriedly look away before anyone catches you staring.

“Hey! Where were you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”

You jolt so hard your soul nearly vacates your body.

Joan grabs your wrist like a mother hen scolding a stray chick and drags you straight toward the makeup chair. “I turned around for two seconds,” she huffs, pushing you into the seat, “and you vanished like you fell through a trapdoor.”

You quickly mutter an apology. “Sorry. Had to—uh—make a call.”

“Next time, tell me,” she mutters as she signals a makeup artist. “My blood pressure can’t take surprises on showcase day.”

You don’t get a chance to explain because suddenly there are hands in your hair, someone brushing foundation on your skin, someone else checking your lipstick shade under the lights. No time to think. No time to breathe.

When they’re finally done with hair and makeup, you slip into the tiny fitting room and change into your stage outfit. Your hands tremble a little as you zip things and tuck things and smooth things down. You step back out and immediately someone stops you.

“Don’t move,” the stylist says, circling you, tugging a seam here, straightening a collar there. You stand frozen as she fine-tunes every millimeter.

The moment you’re released, you scan the room again and thankfully, Jeongin is fully dressed now, hair styled up and back with clips holding the shape, an energy drink in one hand and a piece of kimbap in the other. He looks effortlessly cool, like this is just another day at work.

You barely have time to appreciate it before Chris walks in and he is wearing nothing but ripped jeans. Low-slung ripped jeans. Waistband riding just way too low. Nothing on top. Not even a towel.

His entire torso is bare, muscles cut sharp and deep from years of performing. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist; his chest is thick, defined, the kind of build that looks powerful even relaxed. His arms are solid, veins peeking when he lifts a hand. His pale skin glows under the fluorescent lights — warm, flushed, alive.

And he’s walking around like this is completely normal, like this is any other day. Like he isn’t actively challenging gravity with the way those jeans cling to his hips.

He stops by one of the hairstylists, asking for something. You’re not sure, because you immediately snap your eyes away the second he walks past you.

Everyone else seems unfazed. Totally used to this. Completely immune. You… are not.

You look down at your shoes. At the floor. At the snack table. Anywhere else, but him.

Get used to it, you tell yourself. You’re in his band. You’ll see a lot more of this.

Still, your pulse hasn’t quite returned to normal when you pretend to fix your sleeve. If this is the pre-show, you can’t imagine what the actual stage adrenaline is going to do to you.

-

The wings are dark, colder than the rest of the venue, and the only thing you can really hear is the deep thud of bass through the walls and the distant, rising screams of fans as they filter in. You stand between Chris and Jeongin, the three of you lined up just behind the curtains while Julian runs over the last-minute details.

“Five hundred fans in the house,” he says, voice brisk but excited. “Livestream is already at three hundred thousand viewers. Media’s in the pit, so be tight, be sharp.”

His words hit you like a weight you weren’t prepared for. Hundreds of people just a few meters away. Hundreds of thousands watching you through a screen. You tell yourself you should be used to pressure by now, but your body betrays you—your palms are cold, clammy. You wipe them down your jeans, hoping no one saw.

The nerves crawl up your spine like a warning you can’t shake. You flex your fingers—squeeze, release, squeeze, release—trying to get the tension out before it locks up your entire arm.

Chris notices nothing. Or maybe he does, and he’s pretending not to until you break first.

Jeongin shifts beside you, rolling his shoulders, bouncing lightly on his heels, probably trying to work off his own adrenaline. There’s nowhere to look, nowhere to focus, except the curtain in front of you and the sliver of bright light seeping through the cracks.

A staff member waves you forward. Time to move.

The three of you walk deeper into the backstage area, where the fans’ screaming grows louder—clearer now and electrifying, like static right against your skin. The anticipation in the air settles into your chest, tightening everything, making each inhale feel thin.

“ALRIGHT! COME HERE!” Chris’s voice cuts through the noise.

He throws an arm around your shoulder and the other around Jeongin, pulling both of you in until the three of you are pressed together in a small, tight huddle. You automatically hook an arm around Jeongin’s back, and he does the same.

Chris’s voice rises, full of energy that feels impossible for any human to generate naturally.

“Today’s your day. Give them everything. And finish SAFE, okay? No dumb injuries. Most important—” he pauses just enough to make everyone lean closer “—HAVE FUN. Let’s enjoy this. Let’s make them remember tonight.”

He pulls back slightly and lifts a hand. “Hands in!”

All hands stack in the middle. Yours ends up between Chris’s and Jeongin’s—warm, rough palms, steady hands, steady breath, steady confidence swirling around you even though yours is slipping.

“One… two… THREE!”

“THE BANG THEORY!”

Your shout mixes with theirs, loud and raw and shaking with adrenaline. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you don’t know how you’re still standing.

As the team breaks apart, Chris turns straight to you. One hand lands on your shoulder—warm, firm, grounding. “Hey.” He waits until your eyes meet his. “You’re going to do great.”

The conviction in his voice is so solid, so certain, it almost feels unfair like he’s handing you something you didn’t earn.

“You’re ready,” he says with absolute confidence.

Your throat tightens, but you nod. “I’m… ready.” It comes out shaky but sure. You mean it. Or you want to mean it. Maybe that’s enough for now.

Chris smiles, soft around the edges in a way he doesn’t show often. “That’s great.” He squeezes your shoulder once. “Let’s do this.”

There’s no more time. Someone signals from the stairs. Lights move to guide your steps. You follow Chris and Jeongin through the narrow, dark path, careful not to trip on cables or props.

Everything is happening at once—your heartbeat, the crowd, the music swelling, the heat, the cold sweat on your palms, the pressure, the excitement, the terrifying rush that feels like you’re about to burst out of your own skin.

The intro finishes. Spotlights hit the stage. Your cue comes. You take a deep breath and step onto the stage.

-

The lights blind you the second you step into them, heat swallowing the last trace of backstage cold, and then everything explodes. Adrenaline takes your body hostage almost immediately. For the first three songs, you feel like you’re not even in control—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere slightly outside your own skin. Your fingers move faster than your brain can process. Your body remembers the setlist, the transitions, the cues, but your mind is white noise, pure instinct, pure drive. You barely remember how you played any of it.

It’s only when Chris’s voice cuts through the ringing of amps and crowd noise that the haze lifts. He steps up to the mic, breathless but steady. “HI, GUYS. WE’RE THE BANG THEORY!”

The crowd screams back, the sound hitting you in a wave so loud your chest vibrates.

Chris introduces the band, starting with himself. “And I’m Chris and there,” he pauses to look over to the back. “…on the drum is our lovely fennec fox.”

Jeongin stands from his drum throne as he keeps the beat going, one hand raised to acknowledge the cheering fans. His forearms flex with every hit, veins popping against the stage lights, his shoulders broad and solid under his sleeveless top. His jaw is sharp, expression focused and intense—completely different from the soft, baggy-hoodie Jeongin you see every day.

“And our newest addition to the family—” Chris turns, sweeping an arm toward you, “—give her the warmest of welcome!”

The crowd erupts. You give a wave, a smile, trying not to look stunned at the volume of it.

Chris grins back at the fans. “You guys liking the new single?”

A roar.

He scrunches his nose like he doesn’t buy it. “Mmm… doesn’t sound like you guys like it that much.”

The crowd goes feral—louder, high-pitched, almost shrill with excitement.

Chris laughs into the mic. “Okay, okay! Since you like it so much, we’ll play it for you.”

You take your cue—fingers landing on your strings and then the first deep note rings out, smooth and heavy. Jeongin jumps in right after, hitting the drums with precision—arms moving fast, sweat already starting to bead along his temple. He looks terrifyingly good behind the kit.

Chris steps forward, electrifying the stage with his first strum. The three of you fall into sync like you’ve been doing this together for years.

This time, you’re awake for all of it. You move across the stage, letting the music shove you forward, let it fill your lungs. You lean into the crowd’s cheers, lowering yourself toward the edge of the stage so they can see you, feel you. They scream louder, and you laugh because holy shit, this is fun. This is everything.

You turn your head just in time to catch Jeongin at his best. Back straight, shoulders rolling as he smashes into the chorus, muscles in his arms standing out with every hit, bangs damp with sweat, jaw clenched in pure concentration. He looks powerful. Confident. Like the stage belongs to him.

You shift to the side and Chris steps right into your path.

He's mid-solo, and god—he’s unreal. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, his chest rising and falling under the stage lights. Sweat rolls down his collarbone, tracing the lines of muscle across his torso. His ripped jeans hang low on his hips, moving with him as he leans into the spotlight. His fingers fly over the strings, precise and fast, and every movement of his body flows with the melody like he’s part of the instrument. He comes right up to you, the two of you inches apart—your bass pressed against his guitar.

In this moment, he doesn’t look like someone who’s been nitpicking you all week. He looks like someone performing with you—connected, in sync, pushing you to follow him. You nod along, trying to keep up with his showmanship. He throws you a wild grin and then pulls back smoothly when it’s time to return to his mic. His voice hits the next verse perfectly.

The band launches into the next song instantly, one of the fans’ favorites, and the crowd reacts like lightning. You get swept up again, carried by the sound, your feet leaving the ground as you jump, fingers flying over your strings without a second of hesitation.

Your heartbeat syncs with the drums, with the amps, with the cheers. Sweat sticks your clothes to your skin but you don’t care—you feel alive, buzzing everywhere.

For the first time, you finally understand what your dad meant about this— about rock music, about performing, about how playing on stage is a kind of freedom you can’t find anywhere else.

You play like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this moment.

-

The second the sixth song ends and the lights dim for the VCR, you follow Chris and Jeongin offstage, heart pounding, running out of breathe. The moment you're out of sight, you yank off your jacket—it's drenched, sticking to your shoulders, and the backstage air feels icy against your overheated skin.

Someone immediately presses a cold bottle of water into your hand. Another pats a towel against the back of your neck, but you end up taking the towel yourself, wiping your face, your collarbone, anywhere the heat refuses to leave.

Beside you, Chris doesn’t hesitate for even a second to grab the hem of his soaked shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion, revealing a torso flushed red from exertion. His chest rises and falls fast, muscles standing out under the harsh backstage lights. Sweat runs in clear trails down his pecs, along the line of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. His pale skin glows warm, slick, alive like he’s been carved straight out of the performance itself.

Jeongin isn’t far behind, peeling off his top with both hands. His physique is leaner but deceptively sculpted, his arms firm and defined from hours of drumming. Sweat beads along his collarbones, trickling down his sternum. His bangs are plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed, jaw tight as he wipes himself down with a towel, breathing hard through parted lips.

Julian barrels into the chaos with his eyes glued to the phone screen, launching into rapid-fire announcements like the room isn’t spinning around you from adrenaline.

“—almost two million viewers on the livestream—” “—#THEBANGTHEORYShowcase trending worldwide—” “—media posting in real time—” “—clips going viral already—”

You barely hear any of it and a stylist tugs you toward a stool, fingers already in your hair, fixing whatever your headbanging destroyed. Someone else dusts your face with powder, pressing gently around your nose and jaw. Another opens a fresh bottle of water for you because your hands are shaking too much to do it smoothly.

The fans outside start chanting, echoing through the floor and walls. “BANG-THEORY! BANG-THEORY! BANG-THEORY!”

Chris and Jeongin pull on fresh tops, tugging their hair back into place as staff rush around them. Your ear in-ears are handed back to you. You adjust them carefully, tucking the cable behind your ear. You ditch your jacket. One last sip of water. One last deep breath.

The staff at the stairs gives the three of you a signal. You can hear the fans chanting louder now, stamping their feet, screaming for more and you’re ready. More ready than you’ve ever felt.

Your body thrums with adrenaline, a second skin, electric and warm. You can practically feel the stage calling you back—feel the rush waiting to swallow you again. You’re so ready to face the crowd again. So ready to step into the lights. So ready to feel alive.

-

Chris steps back onto the stage with the others, the lights rising, the crowd erupting into a wave of sound that hits him straight in the chest. A staff member hands him his guitar—already tuned, polished, warm from the hands that carried it. He slings the strap over his shoulder, fingers automatically finding their place on the fretboard.

Jeongin gives the cue—four crisp taps of his sticks and they launch.

The opening riff tears through the venue, and the fans scream like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment. It’s one of their biggest songs from the last album, the kind that makes the walls tremble and the floor thrum under their feet.

And god, Chris forgot how much he needed this.

The lights, the noise, the roar of the crowd singing the first verse so loud he can feel it vibrating through the stage… It floods him all at oncelike something pouring back into a hollow space he didn’t know he’d been carrying. He missed this. Really, truly missed it.

Months of tension, doubt, public opinion, the endless mess of Nico’s exit—all of it stripped this feeling away from him. It’s like someone unplugged him back then, left him cold and disconnected.

But now? Standing here again, guitar humming under his fingertips— He feels alive.

He moves across the stage, letting the music pull him forward. When the chorus hits, he looks over his shoulder and sees Jeongin behind the kit, strong and sure, hammering the drums with everything he has. His whole body moves with the beat, hair sticking to his forehead, sweat flying when he hits a cymbal too hard. More present than Chris has seen him in months.

And then Chris looks at you. The wildcard he wasn’t sure about. The piece he didn’t expect. But watching you now—your stance grounded, your fingers flying across the bass strings with precision and heart, your energy blending seamlessly with theirs—it hits him with startling clarity.

You fit. You really, genuinely fit. Not perfect—not yet. The band as a whole still isn’t perfectly balanced, still finding its footing, still learning how to breathe with its new shape. But you’re a piece that clicks into place.

Chris feels something settle in his chest as he watches you, something that feels a lot like relief… and something that feels even more like resolve. This is his band. His responsibility. His music. His people.

And as the crowd keeps screaming, as the lights burst over the stage, as your bassline rolls in smooth beneath his guitar—

Chris makes himself a quiet promise. No matter what happens next, he’s not letting anyone take this away from him.

-

The song ends in a thunder of drums and guitar, the final note ringing out under the fans’ deafening screams. Chris steps back from his mic, breath heavy, sweat trickling down his spine, and lifts a hand to signal the band to hold. He wipes his palm on his jeans, takes a slow inhale, and steps toward the front of the stage.

The spotlight warms his skin instantly, and the crowd roars even louder like they’ve been waiting for him to speak. He grips the mic loosely. “Wow,” he laughs breathlessly, “you guys are… loud tonight.”

They scream louder. He winces playfully, earning a wave of laughter. Then he exhales, gaze drifting over the crowd, letting the adrenaline settle. “Uh… so,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “there’s been… a lot of changes. As you know. And I’m not gonna get into all of that again.”

The crowd quiets a little, attentive.

Chris’s voice softens, but steady, honest. “I just want you to know that… I’m happy with where the band is now. Really happy.” A pause. “And yeah—it’s new. It’s different. It’s not perfect yet… but it’s ours.”

A swell of cheers rises—supportive, not pushy, the kind that lifts instead of demands.

His chest tightens, just a little.

“And I hope,” he says, eyes sweeping the room, “that you’ll keep supporting us. Support this version of us. Support the music we’re making now.”

The fans scream. Applaud. Whistle. Someone yells “WE LOVE YOU!” and Chris actually laughs, shaking his head.

He doesn’t need anyone’s approval. He’s learned that the hard way. But god—it feels good to hear support instead of doubt. It feels grounding.

“Thank you,” he says quietly into the mic, and he means it with every inch of him. “Really.”

He rolls his shoulders once, deliberate, shaking the emotions loose. “Alright,” he says with a grin, slipping back into performer mode. “The next song… is one we’ve never played it live before.”

The fans erupt both in curiosity and excitement.

Chris presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “I hope you like it. And if you don’t… pretend you do, okay?”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

He continues, voice lowering knowingly, “It’s a special one. And, uh… I think some of you might’ve wanted to hear it.”

Screams.

He turns slightly—toward you. “This is Silver Lining.”

He nods, signalling you to start the song.

You step forward, plant your feet, bass angled low and ready. Then, you play. That opening bassline fills the venue.

Something in Chris flickers at the sound, memory tugging him backward briefly: that sleepless night, that messy demo on his phone, that feeling of everything falling apart and coming together at once.

He inhales, steps up to the mic, and sings. And as the chorus rolls in, he turns his head just to check on you and finds you absolutely owning it. Your shoulders loose, your expression focused but confident, your rhythm steady as a heartbeat.

The crowd is eating it up and Chris smiles without meaning to. You catch it and you smile back, full of pride and with an ease that says I’ve got this.

He turns back to his mic, something warm settling in his chest, something that wasn’t there when he wrote this song in the dark months ago. Because from now on, when he thinks of this song. Silver Lining. He’s not going to think of stress or doubt or sleepless nights or Nico. He’s going to think of this moment. This stage. This crowd. And you— playing the song like it’s been yours all along.

-

The last song of the setlist starts with a roar from the crowd like they already know it’s the end, like they intend to wring every last drop of energy out of the room before the night’s over. Your nerves have completely melted away, replaced by something electric, something addictive. The chorus hits, the lights blast open and then it dips into the bridge.

Chris steps back from his mic stand, breath heavy, wiping his brow before leaning in again.

“Thank you,” he says, voice warm and rough with exertion. “Thank you for being here. Thank you to everyone who made this possible.” He grins, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Alright—let’s finish this!”

And then he launches into the guitar solo like it’s the last song he’ll ever play in his life.

The room shakes. Fans scream so loud the air vibrates. The floor trembles under your feet. You step forward, up to the very edge of the stage, and you look at the sea of people. At the raised arms. At the sheer wall of energy that’s crashing into the stage. You take it in, savor it. Because it hits you all at once that you’re really here. You’re really doing this.

Chris’s solo crescendos behind you, wild and intense, and you can feel every note against your spine.

Near the final chorus, you turn back to Jeongin, who’s already grinning like a maniac behind the drums. You move toward him, the bassline tightening, rhythm picking up. He catches your eye— 1, 2, 3—GO.

You match him beat for beat, headbanging in sync as his drumming escalates from powerful to explosive. Sweat flies from his hair with every motion, his arms moving so fast they blur. Then Chris joins you both, sliding in on your other side, his guitar screaming through the final sequence, veins standing out along his forearm, hair plastered to his forehead, chest rising and falling hard as he attacks the riff with everything he has.

The three of you crowd around Jeongin’s drum kit like a storm tightening around its center. And then, comes the final hit. A perfectly synced, explosive bang. Lights flash white.

The crowd detonates into pure, deafening euphoria. Cheers roll over you in waves, unstoppable, overwhelming, almost physical in the way they crash into your senses. You have to blink rapidly just to stay present, your heartbeat thundering in your ears right alongside them.

Jeongin hops up from his seat, grabs his drumsticks, and strolls to the front, then chucks them into the crowd. Fans scream like they’ve been given gold. You grab a few bass picks and flick them out into the audience. They disappear instantly between dozens of reaching hands. Chris, of course, goes big as he throws the towel he used, soaked with sweat. Someone screams so loudly you’re sure they must have fainted.

Chris turns back, breathless but beaming, and gestures for all of you to come together.

The three of you stand side by side, facing the sea of fans. Your bodies are hot, sticky, buzzing with adrenaline, but none of you seem to care.

You bow together, unified as a band. Then you straighten, lifting your arms high in a last grateful wave before turning away from the blinding lights and heading down the steps backstage.

-

You make it backstage and finally—finally—stop moving. The adrenaline that kept your limbs light onstage drains out of you all at once, leaving your body weighted, trembling, your lungs fighting for steady breaths. Your shirt clings to your skin, damp and uncomfortable, and your hair is wet enough that a few strands stick to your cheeks.

Someone presses a cold bottle of water into your hand. You don’t even look to see who—it doesn’t matter. You tilt your head back and chug, half the bottle gone in seconds.

The room is buzzing. Everyone is loud and bright and ecstatic in the way people only get after pulling something impossible off. Joan appears in front of you holding an armful of towels like it’s urgent, and you’re barely processing her words, but her grin is wide and proud and warm. You grab a towel, wipe your face, your neck, your hands. Everything feels too hot, too real.

People start drifting toward the green room, so you follow, letting the chatter wash over you.

Once you’re inside, everyone spreads out—slouching into chairs, leaning against walls, downing water, laughing between long exhales.

Then the door swings open and Julian bursts in like a firework, clapping loudly. “That,” he announces, “was a successful showcase!”

Everyone cheers, and you smile as you take another bottle of water from the mini-fridge. Before you can open it, Julian points directly at you. “There you are!” He strides over, grabs both your shoulders, and physically hauls you into the loose circle of band and crew.

“Our newest star,” he declares loudly, “absolutely nailed her first performance!”

The room erupts. Cheers. Whistles. Applause. Heat floods your cheeks so fast you almost wobble. You didn’t expect this—didn’t expect everyone to be this genuinely happy for you.

Then Julian goes, “I’m treating everyone tonight! What does the band want?”

Before you can react, Joan pipes up, “She should choose! We’re celebrating her becoming part of the band, after all!”

Everyone looks at you and Jeongin catches your eye from behind the group, silently mouthing. “Steak.”

You stifle a laugh and nod. “Steak. We’d love steak.”

“Done!” Julian claps once. “Steak for everyone!”

“From a fancy place!” Jeongin adds immediately.

“Steak from a fancy place!” Julain confirms the request.

You laugh harder, because that—yeah, that sounds exactly like something your dad would say and as if the thought summons him, the door opens. Your dad walks in, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You run into him, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Congratulations, kiddo,” he murmurs against your hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the comfort of it. When you pull back, you’re suddenly aware of everyone watching, smiling.

You thank him quickly and lead him over to Jeongin first. “Jeongin, this is my dad.”

Jeongin lights up. “Sir, I’m a huge fan of your band—like, huge.”

You laugh. Your dad laughs. It’s a good moment.

You glance around and realize that someone is missing from this scene. Chris still isn’t here. You introduce your dad to Julian next, and the second Julian realizes who your dad is, he brightens like a star and immediately launches into conversation with him.

“What an honor!” Julain warmly says as he takes your dad’s hand for a handshake. “The legend.”

Your dad politely smiles at him, beaming in pride and awe. “Oh, please! I’m just glad someone still know who I am.”

Julian laughs, amused by your dad’s wit. “We’re so happy to have your daughter in the band, sir.”

They get absorbed fast, leaving you free to slip away. You step out of the green room and walk down the hallway, looking for Chris because you want to properly introduce him to your dad. He can’t be far, he wouldn’t just disappear.

You turn the corner and there he is, standing alone in the hallway where you called your dad earlier. The space is empty except for him and the small metal trash bin beside him.

In his hands: a bouquet of flowers.

You stop, hiding behind the wall and watching as he stares at it with an expression you’ve never seen on him before. Not anger. Not sadness. Something almost like… disgust. Then, with a sharp exhale, he tosses the bouquet into the trash, hard as if the flowers personally offended him. He turns on his heel and walks toward the restroom, his shoulders tight, his jaw rigid.

You stay hidden behind the wall until the sound of the restroom door shuts. Only then do you step forward and stop beside the trash bin, heart thumping, eyes fixed on the splash of color inside. Yellow roses, bright and vibrant, looking wrong buried in the pile of trash inside.

Curiosity nips at you. Cautiously, you reach down and lift the bouquet out just enough to see the small note tucked between the roses. You slip the note free and read it.

Congratulations on your new single, Chris. Love, Nico

You stare at the signature again. Nico. Their ex-member.

Your stomach drops—not in fear, but in understanding. In something cold and creeping. Nico didn’t address the band. He addressed Chris. Only Chris. And Chris threw the flowers away like they burned his hands.

You never believed the rumors, the gossip, the whispered stories about the two of them and whatever supposedly happened. But now, you wonder how much of it was true? And how much was worse?

You fold the note slowly, your fingers trembling just a little, and look at the discarded roses again. A shadow you didn’t expect settles over your first night of triumph. And suddenly… You can’t shake the feeling that whatever lies between Chris and Nico— It isn’t over.

-

✨ ON TRACK: PRE-CHORUS is available on Patreon ✨

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[yubinism]

oh the perfect ode to my misery 😖 absolutely speechless, this chapter was literally everything!! gnawing my nails out at the end of the chapter, i literally cant wait for the next one to be posted

[seospicybin]

ON TRACK.

INTRO

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

Synopsis: You join The Bang Theory at the worst possible time—right after a member walks out and the whole fandom starts to spiral. Thrown onto a chaotic life of being a member of a rock band, you navigate pressure, the harsh spotlight, a frontman who seems to resent you as much as he relies on you, and secrets no one will explain. Welcome to the band. (10k words)

Author's note: It's a slow burn so we're not going to the gooey part just yet but hope you enjoy it nonetheless 🫣❣️

♪ ON TRACK PLAYLIST ♪

✨ POP! EXPRESS DAILY — EXCLUSIVE REPORT ✨ “THE BANG THEORY IN CRISIS? NICO’S SHOCK EXIT SPARKS PANIC AMONG FANS!”

In a move that blindsided the entire music industry, The Bang Theory’s former guitarist Nico Reyes has officially parted ways with the band and neither he nor the remaining members are saying why. The announcement, dropped without warning late last night on The Bang Theory’s official accounts, was brief, vague, and offered zero insight into the decision. The statement simply read: “We wish Nico the best in his future endeavors. The Bang Theory will continue as a band.” No explanation. No tribute. No closure. And fans? They’re spiraling. Within minutes of the announcement, social media erupted with theories — everything from creative conflicts to personal issues, to rumors of a heated fallout between Nico and frontman Christopher Bang, who has noticeably avoided mentioning Nico in recent interviews. Some fans claim they noticed tension during their last show, where the two barely made eye contact. Others insist the band has been “off” for months. “It feels like we’re watching the end of something important,” one longtime fan wrote. Another posted, “They didn’t even thank him properly. Something’s wrong.” Adding fuel to the fire, Nico has remained almost entirely silent. His only response has been a cryptic Instagram story: “Growth requires change.” Nothing more. Meanwhile, industry insiders are whispering about the band’s future, questioning whether The Bang Theory can survive without one of its founding members. Nico was widely considered the band’s most technically skilled guitarist and a key part of their early sound. His departure leaves a noticeable hole and fans fear this could trigger a chain reaction. Music journalist Hana Murphy said, “When a founding member leaves this abruptly, and the band refuses to address it, it usually means something internal happened. And it’s rarely something small.” The band has yet to schedule any interviews to clarify the situation, leaving fans wondering: Is The Bang Theory at the edge of a new era — or the beginning of the end?

-

Julian’s office always feels too bright, too stiff. Chris never liked when he’s required to come here because it means it’s official, it means business — a serious business. That somehow only makes him anxious as he waits for Julian.

He puts his headphones on, playing a song that always gives him a sense of peace. He hits play on Pink Floyd’s Breathe (In the air), letting the instrumental intro fills his head, distracting him from the dread he’s about to face.

It’s an opening track to Dark Side of the Moon — an album Chris thinks is one of the best rock album there is. The album itself is a story of life. It begins with a heartbeat and ends with the heartbeat that stops. Breathe being the first song means the first breath of air after being born.

Chris inhales air and closes his eyes as the first verse comes:

♪ Breathe, breathe in the air / Don't be afraid to care / Leave, but don't leave me / Look around and choose your own ground ♪

He lets the music carries him to another layer of consciousness deep within him where he has nothing to worry, or even care about. But focuses on what the song wants you to feel.

♪ For long you live and high you fly / And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry / And all you touch and all you see / Is all your life will ever be ♪

He’s about to sinkdeeper into the music, into the couch when he sees Julian comes into the room. He quickly hits pause and pulls his headphone down to his shoulders. He crosses his arms together in front of him like a barricade.

Jeongin sits straighter beside him, legs spread, a hand tapping absently against his thigh. He’s quiet, but his eyes track everything from Julian pacing, Chris’s tension, the mess they’re in.

Julian stops in front of his desk and look at them. “Let’s go over where The Bang Theory stands right now.”

The silence is already heavy but Julian’s voice somehow makes it heavier. “The album is a mess,” he bluntly says, “You’re nowhere close to finishing it.”

Chris’s head lifts, shoulders locked. “I’m working on it. I just need more time.”

“You’ve been saying that for months.” Julian doesn’t soften the blow. “And if the album isn’t out by next year, the tour gets delayed. Again.”

Chris inhales, slow through his nose. “I told you—I’m working on it.”

“And I told you that’s not enough right now.” Julian pulls a stack of papers from his desk, slapping them down with more irritation than intention. “Both the label and the fans are getting restless. They want something — anything. We offered the label your draft track.”

“I know,” Chris mutters. “I just—”

“It got denied.” Julian cuts in with a sharp tone, leaving no room for argument. “Why? Because a half-baked track won’t sell. You know that.”

Jeongin glances at Chris, concern flickering, but he stays silent.

A flare of embarrassment crawls under Chris’s skin. That song wasn’t half-baked. It was him trying to fill the void Nico left. Trying too hard. Trying not enough. Trying alone.

Julian exhales hard, rubbing his eyes, before looking at the two remaining members of a band that used to be three. “Look at yourselves. Look at this state you’re in. One person leaves, and everything… falls apart.”

There it is. The alarm bell. The words that hit Chris like someone kicked the stool out from under him.

One person leaves—

He looks away before anyone can read his face. He hates this. Hates how every mention of Nico’s name feels like getting caught doing something shameful, even though he did nothing wrong —or depending on who you ask, everything wrong.

Julian steps closer, voice dropping. “You pretend like Nico leaving didn’t affect you. But I’m not stupid, Chris. You’re overwhelmed. You’re exhausted. And you’re trying to do his share on top of your own.”

Another alarm. Louder. Chris’s nails dig into his palms, hidden by his sleeves. He refuses to crack. Not here. Not in front of Julian. Not in front of Jeongin, even though he already knows.

And then Julian says the thing Chris feared since the moment the band became two instead of three. “I’m going to start looking for a new member.”

“No.” His voice comes out colder than intended — a flash-frozen reaction, instinctive and defensive.

Julian stops moving. “Excuse me?”

“No new members.” Chris’s voice steadies, turning into steel. “The last thing I need is a stranger ruining our dynamic. Or worse — our sound.”

It’s the truth. But it’s also a shield.

Julian’s brows lift, pretending to concede even though Chris can see through it. “Fine, Chris. No new member.” After years of working with Julian, Chris can tell when Julian lies. This one specifically is an obvious lie.

“But you owe me something.” Julian says, crossing his arms together in front of his chest. “The label needs something. Come up with one solid track as a single. Something that proves you’re still functioning.”

Chris feels that quiet internal alarm shrieking behind his ribs, again. He’s functioning. He has to be. Even if every piece of him feels stretched thin. He breathes through it, lifts his head, and forces out, “…Fine. I’ll get it done.”

It’s not conviction. It’s survival. Chris stands, shoulders straight, school his face to stay neutral, calm.

Jeongin follows him silently, lingering just a moment longer, watching Julian with the wary eyes of someone who sees more than he lets on. As they step out of the office, the door shutting behind them, Chris feels the weight of everything unsaid.

Nico’s name still rings in his ears — a ghost of a warning he can’t shake off like a static. Unsettling, endless static.

Chris puts his headphones on again and resumes the song he was listening earlier, hoping that it gives him the calm he seeks. But instead, he gets greeted by the last verse that left him with a grim feeling:

♪ For long you live and high you fly / But only if you ride the tide / And balanced on the biggest wave / You race towards an early grave ♪

-

The studio is dim except for the glow of Chris’s laptop. It’s always like this—he sits hunched over the laptop, headphones pushed halfway up his ears, looping the same four bars of a half-built chorus.

It’s not good enough. Nothing feels good enough lately.

Behind him, Jeongin sits sideways on the couch, tapping his drumsticks against his thighs in a soft, restless rhythm. A heartbeat that fills the silence. “You know,” he says casually, eyes still on his laps, “Julian’s kinda right.”

Chris freezes for half a second. He forces himself to keep clicking, dragging, trimming a waveform. “About what?” he asks, though he already knows.

“About you.” More tapping. “You’re overwhelmed.”

Chris scoffs under his breath, not bothering to hide it. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Jeongin finally looks up. He doesn’t sound accusing. Just… observant. Honest. “You’re doing Nico’s parts, your parts, the production, the writing. It’s a lot.”

Chris’s shoulders tighten. The name hits him like a pebble thrown at glass, small yet sharp, almost nothing but somehow too much. He doesn’t turn around when he says it again. “I said I’m fine.”

Jeongin watches him for a long moment, then shrugs lightly. “Maybe getting a new member isn’t a bad idea.”

Chris’s head snaps up this time. “No.”

Jeongin stuns at the firmness in his voice.

Chris turns in his chair, headphones slipping fully onto his shoulders. “We’re not doing that. A new person right now? It’ll do more damage than good. They won’t get our dynamic. They won’t get our sound.” His tone softens just a fraction. “And I’m not rebuilding everything again.”

Jeongin tilts his head, drumsticks stilling.

Chris looks at him then and some of the hardness in his face melts. He lifts a hand and gestures vaguely toward Jeongin. “You trust me, right?”

Jeongin’s expression shifts, conflicted for a moment before settling. “Of course I trust you.”

Chris smiles a small, tired yet real smile. “Good. Because I only need you anyway.”

Jeongin groans immediately, dropping his head back dramatically against the couch. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’m not your emotional support buddy.”

“You kinda are,” Chris says with a teasing shrug.

“I hate it here,” Jeongin mutters, getting up, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Anyway, I’m starving. I’m gonna order food.”

“From where?”

“I dunno. I left my phone in the lounge.” He sticks his drumsticks in his back pocket as he heads out, the door clicking softly behind him.

It’s quiet again. Chris stares at the laptop screen, the looping chorus endlessly repeating, refusing to resolve into something whole. The room feels bigger without Jeongin in it — emptier, like the absence of sound is another form of pressure. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm like it would help him to push the thought away.

Julian was right. Jeongin was right. Everyone can see it except him — or maybe he sees it, but admitting it feels too dangerous, too close to failure. He’s barely holding on and he can’t let anyone know.

Chris presses play again and the chorus loops. He forces himself to keep working because it’s the only way to forget. The only way to move on. Forward.

-

You grew up around amps, broken guitar strings, and old vinyl.

Your earliest memories are of your dad sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, polishing a beaten-up electric guitar while rock music blasted through the speakers. He used to be someone — the frontman of a 90s rock band called Southbound Riot, to be exact — whose band name still shows up on vintage T-shirts in thrift stores. But somehow, none of that stuck to you.

You loved music, yes — but not the loud, reckless kind your dad carried like a second heartbeat. You tried every kind of instrument — Piano, guitar, violin but you fell in love with the cello.

The first time you touched one at age six, the world went quiet. It’s warm and deep, like the kind of sound that understands you before you understand yourself. And you’ve been playing ever since.

Now, you’re not just playing — you’re living it. College orchestra, chamber groups, private gigs, rehearsals that stretch until your fingers sting and your spine reminds you you’ve been hunched for too long. You love it. You love the ritual of it. You love being a part of something grand. The discipline. The calm.

Today is one of those days: tucked into a small practice studio on campus, door cracked open because the air conditioner has given up on life again. Your cello is warm against your chest as you steady your bow over the strings.

You draw the first note and the sound immediately fills the room, fills you. You’re in the middle of playing Haydn’s Cello Concerto when you feel a presence. You don’t let it stop you, you continue playing until the very last note.

When you look up, someone is standing there. A stranger. Mid-40s maybe, well-dressed but not showy, leaning casually against the doorframe with the expression of someone watching an animal that might run if he moves too fast.

The silence stretches until you finally clear your throat. “Um… can I help you?”

The man steps inside, slow and respectful, hands tucked into his pockets. “That depends,” he says. His voice is warm in tone, but sharp underneath. “Are you always that good, or did I walk in at the perfect moment?”

You blink, taken aback. “I’m sorry but who are you?”

He gives you a polite, measured smile. “Julian Hoon,” he says. “I manage a band.”

You straighten slightly. “And you’re here because…?”

“Because,” he says, gesturing lightly toward your cello, “I’ve been looking for something. Or rather, someone. And I think I might’ve just found them.”

Julian steps farther into the room, eyes sweeping over your cello, your posture, the pile of sheets on the music stand. He doesn’t look like he wandered in by accident — more like he’s been standing outside for long enough to make up his mind about something.

“How long have you been playing?” he asks.

You shift slightly on your seat. “Most of my life. Since I was six.”

He nods, as if he expected that answer. “And other instruments? Can you play anything besides the cello?”

“A few,” you admit. “Mostly string instruments. Guitar, bass, violin…” Then, after a beat, “And my piano’s adequate, I guess.”

Julian hums thoughtfully, stepping closer. “Ever played a rock song?”

You scoff just slightly, unsure if he’s joking. “…Maybe,” you say, vague and a little defensive. “In my own way.”

He lifts your iPad from the music stand before you can react.

“Hey—”

“Relax,” Julian murmurs, already swiping through your files with unsettling ease. “Just borrowing it for a second.”

He switches apps and you watch as he searches something you can’t see, his fingers moving with the certainty of someone who has done this many times. Then he steps back and hands you the iPad.

A music sheet fills the screen — something unfamiliar, something you’ve never seen before. Messy chords. Syncopation. A line meant for a bass, not a cello.

“I want you to play this,” he says.

You look from the score to him. “I don’t know what song this is.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice is calm, steady. “Play it exactly the way you’d play anything else.”

You hesitate only a second before lifting your cello again. The first measure is strange under your fingers — rougher, more jagged than your usual pieces — but it settles quickly. You let the low strings growl, let the melody build, let the rhythm pulse beneath your bow.

Julian doesn’t move, but he listens. Almost too intently. You reach the final note, letting it vibrate until it disappears. The room seems to exhale with you.

Julian nods once. Slow. Impressed. “Good,” he murmurs. “Better than I expected.”

You lower your bow. “What was that for?”

Instead of answering, Julian reaches into his coat, pulls out a sleek namecard, and places it on the edge of your music stand. “I’d like you to come by here on Friday afternoon.”

“…Why?”

“You’ll see.” He smiles — not unkind, but professional. “Just come.”

You stare at the card — Julian Hoon. Prism Entertainment. Artist Development. Before you can decide whether you’re intrigued or suspicious, Julian is already at the door.

“I’ll see you soon,” he confidently adds, then disappears down the hallway.

You slip the card into your coat pocket without thinking, still half-distracted by the sheet music glowing on your iPad, the unfamiliar rock arrangement you just played.

Something about it lingers in your hands. You don’t know it yet but you have a feeling you’ll be playing it again. Soon.

-

Your apartment is small, cozy, and cluttered with books, cases leaning against walls, sheet music spread across the kitchen table, rosin dust lingering near the window.

It’s late when you call your dad and he picks it up on the third ring.

“Kiddo?” his raspy voice fills your ear, familiar and comforting. “Everything okay?”

You flop onto your couch, the cushions dipping beneath you. “Yeah. Just… weird day.”

“Weird good or weird bad?”

You sigh. “I don’t know yet.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like your twenties.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Dad, do you know a label called Prism Entertainment?”

“Prism?” he repeats, thinking. “Yeah. Solid group. Not the biggest, but reliable. Decent roster, especially for alt and rock acts.”

That matches what little you know. Your fingers pick at a loose thread on your sweater.

“Okay,” you murmur, “and… do you know anyone named Julian Hoon?”

“I think I’ve heard the name somewhere before,” he says, sounding pensive. “I think he’s working for a record label or something. But he’s in the industry so he knows his stuff. Why? Did you meet him or something?”

You exhale, the memories from earlier replaying as you stare at your cello across the room. “Yeah. Today. At school.” You adjust the phone against your ear. “He just showed up out of nowhere. Watched me practice. Asked me all these strange questions. Then he made me play this… piece. Some kind of rock arrangement. And then he gave me his namecard and told me to come to the label this Friday.”

Your dad goes quiet.

“…Dad?”

“Go.”

“That’s it? Just—go?”

“Why not?” he says, tone warm and encouraging. “What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe they want you to add strings to a record. Maybe it’s an audition. Maybe it’s nothing serious.” He pauses. “But if someone like Julian took the time to track you down, he heard something he liked.”

You chew on your lip, uncertain. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says confidently. “And honestly, sweetheart? You’ve been playing classical your whole life. This could be good for you. Something new. Something exciting.”

You smile despite yourself. “Maybe.”

“No maybe.” His voice softens. “Just try. You don’t have to say yes to anything. Just show up.”

You nod even though he can’t see it. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”

“Of course I am. I’m brilliant.”

You laugh. “Anyway, it’s late. I’d better sleep.”

“Yes, you’d better.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

“Night, kiddo. And don’t overthink it.”

You hang up and sit in the quiet glow of your apartment. After a moment, you push off the couch and wander toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and that’s when you notice it. You’re softly humming, absent-mindedly. A low, looping melody you didn’t realize stuck to the back of your head. The piece Julian made you play.

You pause, fingers tapping the rhythm against your glass. It’s unfamiliar… yet it fits under your skin like something you’ve always known.

-

You’re still not entirely sure why you came. But not coming feels… cowardly.

Well—technically, you know. Your dad encouraged you, saying an opportunity is an opportunity, even if it ends up being nothing. And Julian’s namecard has been burning a hole in your coat pocket ever since that day, like it’s daring you to take a step into the unknown.

So here you are, standing inside the sleek lobby of Prism Entertainment.

The receptionist—bright smile, immaculate hair—looks up the second you approach. “Mr. Hoon has been expecting you.”

You barely get to confirm before she’s already rising from her seat. “Please take the elevator to the 8th floor.”

The 8th floor. You swallow, give her a polite nod, and head in that direction before you can second-guess yourself. An elevator is seconds from closing and you manage to slip your hand between the doors just in time.

“Thanks,” you murmur out of habit — though the man inside hasn't even moved a muscle to help, but you step in anyway.

He’s standing on the far side, solidly built, his all-black outfit is a contrast to his pale skin, shoulders tense beneath a black bomber jacket. His hair is dark and messy—almost intentionally so—and his jaw tight, like he’s been clenching it for hours. Headphones cover his ears, and his attention is glued to whatever he’s typing furiously on his phone.

But the thing that catches your attention?

A faded graphic tee from an old 90s rock band he’s wearing. Written in cobalt blue across the chest, it says Southbound Riot — Your dad’s band. The logo is unmistakable—cracked from age, printed over a grainy photo of the band during one of their most iconic tours. You nearly smile as you internally mutter to yourself. Dad is going to lose his mind.

Without thinking, you slip your phone from your pocket, tilt it subtly, and try to catch a photo—just the shirt, nothing else. You quickly open your chat with your dad, attach the shot, and type.

You: look!! someone’s wearing your tour shirt Dad: no way—send me a clearer pic!! You: that is the clear pic he won’t stay still Dad: that’s sick. tell him i said he has elite taste

You giggle quietly under your breath and you abruptly stop when a firm hand lands on your shoulder. You jump, the elevator walls suddenly feeling too close as your phone is snatched right out of your grasp.

“What the—?! Give that back!” you snap, your voice too loud in the enclosed space.

He pulls one headphone off and turns toward you.

And God—his expression is cold. Eyes hardened into something threatening, like you’ve made an unforgivable mistake. He’s already scrolling through your screen.

“Hey! Seriously—that’s my phone, my private messages! You can’t just—”

“You were intruding on my privacy first.” His voice is low, clipped. Rough around the edges. “You think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking a picture?”

“I—I wasn’t taking a picture of you,” you argue, defensive. Inside, your heart pulses uncomfortably. “Just your shirt. My dad—he used to—look, it doesn’t matter, but I didn’t even get your face, okay?”

He clearly doesn’t believe you. With a scowl, he finds the photo and deletes it. You watch your proof disappear. Then he shoves the phone back into your hand—hard enough to make you stumble half a step.

The elevator dings. He holds your gaze one last time, gaze burning with a warning you don’t understand. “Next time,” he says tightly, “ask. And respect other people’s privacy.”

And with that, he walks out.

You stand there for a second, jaw dropped, heart pounding, fingers wrapped tight around your phone. Then you scoff under your breath. “What the hell?!” Some kind of celebrity? A staff member? Someone whose ego doesn’t fit in this elevator?

Whatever. He’s not worth your time. You step out too, headed in the opposite direction, still irritated, but unable to stop wondering about the stranger who acted like he owned the whole floor.

-

Julian doesn’t waste any time.

As soon as he greets you in the hallway, he gestures for you to follow him down a corridor filled with framed albums and vintage posters. You try not to stare too long, but everything here feels like history. Like a place where something real gets made.

“Let’s try something different today,” Julian says, tapping his ID against a door that unlocks with a soft click. “Since you said you play multiple instruments.”

He pushes the door open and your breath catches. It’s a gear room—walls lined with guitars and basses, each one hung like a piece of art. Cherry-red bodies, sunburst finishes, chrome hardware that reflects the soft light. Some instruments are old, worn at the edges. Others are pristine, untouched. But it shows that they’re very well-taken care of.

You can’t help stepping forward. “This is… incredible.”

Julian smirks, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You can pick whichever bass you want to use.”

You turn slowly, scanning row after row of instruments until your eyes land on a glass case in the corner. You blink. Then blink again. No way.

“Is that—” You step closer, hand hovering near the glass in pure disbelief.

“Gibson B45 12-string…” Julian follows your gaze. “Ah. Yes. That one belonged to David Bowie.” The very first thought you have is how your dad is going to absolutely combust when he hears this. You gasp softly as you’re quietly admiring it. “You’re kidding.”

Julian raises a brow, amused. “You can look all you want, but unfortunately, you can’t use that one.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “Yeah, no—I wouldn’t dare. I don’t even want to breathe near it.”

“You’d be surprised how many people try,” he says dryly.

Eventually, you choose a classic Fender bass—cream-colored, slightly worn, heavy in a reassuring way when you lift it.

“That one suits you,” Julian says simply before motioning for you to follow him again and leads you into a recording studio this time.

There’s a booth behind glass, a mic set, a chair, and headphones waiting.

“Go ahead,” Julian says, gesturing. “Headphones on. I’ll play a track. I want you to follow it.”

You nod, slide the bass strap over your shoulder, and settle in the chair inside the booth. You adjust the headphones—it’s too big, then too tight, then finally just right.

Julian’s voice comes through, soft but clear: “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Good. First song coming up.”

A drum line starts first. Steady. Clean. Then layers of guitars. A vocal placeholder humming the melody. It’s unfamiliar, but it’s not difficult. You find the bassline quickly, letting instinct guide you.

Julian lets you finish the full track before the next begins. This one is heavier, darker. You grit your teeth a little, lean into the rhythm, fingers sliding through notes that feel almost too natural.

Then the third track starts. You heart almost jump. It’s that song. The one Julian randomly pulled up during your cello practice. The one you’ve been humming unconsciously all morning.

Without hesitation, your fingers begin to play and it’s easy, too easy, like the melody is stored somewhere inside you, like your body already knows what it’s supposed to sound like.

You’re so focused you barely notice movement through the glass. It’s not just Julian there, there are two more people. Talking. Watching you. You can’t hear their words, but their postures are attentive. And something in your chest tightens with nerves.

Finally, the last note fades and the silence in the booth is almost deafening.

Then Julian’s voice comes through the headphones, smooth as ever. “Alright. You can come out now.”

Your palms are sweating. Your pulse jumps. Something about this, about these people watching behind the glass feels important. But you set the bass down gently, pull off the headphones, and open the booth door anyway.

Whatever waits outside, you’ll face it. Even if your heart feels like it might burst right out of your chest.

-

You’re shown into a meeting room with floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind that make the whole city look miniature. Someone has already placed a cup of coffee in front of you, steam curling gently upward, alongside a small tray of snacks,

You don’t touch any of it, only have a small sip of your coffee and you’re done. Your knee bounces under the table. You shouldn’t be this nervous, but your mind keeps spinning and spinning: Why were there people watching you? Why did Julian make you play so many songs? Why is this meeting room so high up it feels like the air is thinner?

The door clicks open and Julian walks in, someone follows him. A young woman, maybe in her late twenties, pink hair pulled half-up, sleeve tattoos stretching down to her wrists. She’s stylish in a way that makes you instantly aware of your own simple outfit. She shoots you a bright, genuine grin.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Julian says, settling into the seat across from you. “This is Joan. My assistant.”

You offer her a shy smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“I was there during your audition. You play beautifully.” Her voice is rich, warm, with that teasing lilt that makes people instantly comfortable.

Julian clears his throat, meaning he wants to get straight to the point. “I’ll be direct,” he says. “You’re here because you’re exactly the person I’ve been looking for.”

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. “…I—I don’t understand,” you admit softly.

“It’ll make sense in a moment.” He folds his hands on the table. “Tell me—have you heard of The Bang Theory?”

The silence stretches a beat too long. “Um… no?” you say, wincing slightly.

Joan snorts—not mean, just entertained. “Guess the boys aren’t famous enough yet.”

Julian doesn’t look bothered. If anything, he looks relieved you answered honestly. “The Bang Theory is one of our bands,” he explains. “A rock trio. Or… formerly a trio. One of the members recently left, which created—well… complications. Album delays. Pressure from the label. All the things you can probably imagine.”

You nod, unsure where this is going.

“Because of that,” Julian continues, “I started searching for someone new. Someone who could bring a different dimension to the band without overpowering it. Someone with strong technical ability, musicality, and an instinctive feel for blending into a sound.”

Your pulse picks up as he intensely gazes at you the more he shares. “And… you think that’s me?” you ask quietly.

Julian smiles a small, confident smile like he’s already certain. “I don’t think. I know. After hearing you today, the role became very clear.”

You stare at him, dazed and confused. A rock band. You?

“I was… auditioning for a band?” you whisper.

Joan grins so wide her small dimples show. “Welcome to Prism Ent. Nothing is ever simple here.”

You barely even hear her. Your thoughts jump straight to your dad. If he knew about this—if he knew you might join a rock band—he’d explode with excitement. He’d probably drive here himself just to watch the audition. But then the doubt creeps in.

“Julian, I don't know if I can…” You exhale shakily. “I play classical. I’ve lived in orchestras, not... this.”

“You can,” Julian says firmly. “I’ve been doing this long enough to trust my instincts. And yours are sharp. You adapt quickly. You feel the music instead of fighting it.”

His calm confidence almost makes you believe him. Almost.

Julian leans back, softening his tone. “I know it’s a lot to take in. And I’m not asking for a decision today.”

You look down at your hands, then back up. “What… what exactly happens now?”

“If you’re open to it,” Julian says, “I’d like you to meet the band. Spend time with them. See if the chemistry is there, musically and personally. If it clicks, we move forward. If not—we part ways with no pressure.”

You swallow. Band. Rock band. You, in a rock band. It’s absurd. But… strangely thrilling.

“I’m… honored,” you finally say, voice small but sincere. “Really. I just don’t know if I can do the part.”

“You’re allowed to take your time,” Julian assures you. “Think on it. Sleep on it. Talk to whoever you trust. When you’re ready, call me. I’ll arrange a meeting with the boys.”

You nod. “That sounds fair.”

Julian stands. Joan does, too. “We hope to hear from you soon,” he says, offering his hand.

You shake it, still dazed.

As you leave the room with Joan walking you to the elevator, the only thing repeating in your mind is the same question: Can you really do this?

And then a second question, quieter but persistent: …Do you want to?

-

Chris sits hunched over the console, headphones around his neck, eyes fixed on the waveform as the track finishes playing. He hits the spacebar, leans back, and releases a slow breath.

“There,” he says. “That’s the version I want to propose for the single.”

Julian doesn’t respond right away. He’s standing behind Chris with his arms crossed, jaw working slightly as he listens.

When the silence stretches too long, Chris’s shoulders tighten. “Say it,” he mutters.

Julian sighs. “It’s good, Chris. It is. But it’s still… missing something.”

Chris clenches his jaw. Of course. Always something missing. Or someone, to be exact.

“Just tell me what you want me to fix,” he says, voice level but his fingers tightening around the armrests. “Point me at a problem and I’ll do it.”

Julian steps forward, leaning a hand on the desk. “You need a bassist.”

Chris groans loudly, head dropping back. “Julian—not this again.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No.” Chris sits up, eyes blazing. “What I need is for everyone to stop assuming the band is falling apart when Jeongin and I are perfectly capable. A stranger isn’t going to fix shit. They’ll just ruin what’s left.”

Julian stays calm—too calm. “It’s not just about what you want.”

Chris tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Julian finally sits down in the chair beside him. “The label is pushing for a new member. Hard. They’re not approving any single release until you fill the bassist spot.”

A bitter laugh breaks out of Chris before he can stop it. “Great. Fantastic. Force the perfectionist into taking someone he doesn’t need. That always works out.”

“Chris.”

He stops laughing, but the anger simmers, sharp and hot in his chest.

Julian exhales and softens his tone. “This isn’t punishment. And it isn’t an insult. You are doing everything you can—but you’re overloaded. Anyone can see that.”

Chris looks away. He hates hearing it. Hates that it’s true. But mostly he hates that someone else left him with all this weight on his shoulders. Nico. Even thinking the name sends a jolt through his stomach. He forces his expression neutral.

Julian continues carefully. “Bringing in someone new doesn’t mean changing the band’s identity. It doesn’t mean you lose control. All it means is you don’t carry every piece alone.”

Chris’s jaw twitches. He pretends to shrug. Pretends it doesn’t bother him. Pretends the idea doesn’t make something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

“Whatever. Do what you want.”

Julian gives him a long look somewhere between patience and exasperation. “I’m not doing what I want. I’m doing what’s best for the band. And Chris…” He pauses. “You’re not the only person who thinks about that.”

The words land heavier than Chris expects. He goes still. For a moment, nothing moves but the blinking lights on the mixer. Julian stands and gently pats his shoulder before stepping away. “Just try,” Julian says at the door. “Meet the candidate before you shut it down. You might be surprised.”

Chris doesn’t answer. He just sits there, staring at the track he poured himself into, feeling that mix of stubbornness, fear, and something he refuses to name. Surprised. Yeah. Right. He doubts anything could surprise him anymore.

-

The late afternoon sun hits the hillside building just right—warm gold through the tall windows, soft shadows stretching across the pavement. Their practice room sits far from the city noise, tucked in the quiet part of town where the breeze carries nothing but the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of traffic.

Chris likes it that way. He needs silence to think. To breathe. To create. He pushes the door open and hears it immediately: the steady, charged rhythm of Jeongin on the drums. Not performing. Not recording. Just practicing.

Jeongin is so focused he doesn’t notice Chris walk in. His brows furrow, lips pressed tight, arms moving with that effortless control he’s perfected over years. There’s something raw and honest about watching him like this. Jeongin in his element, Jeongin as pure rhythm.

Chris stands there for a moment, just watching. It hits him all at once—how much time has passed. Jeongin was barely eighteen when they met: lanky, wide-eyed, too polite for his own good. Now he’s in his twenty, taller than Chris, stronger too, shoulders broader, body filled out. A grown man. A powerhouse. The thought makes Chris chuckle under his breath.

When Jeongin finally ends the sequence with a sharp, clean finish, Chris bursts into applause, whistling dramatically like a mother at her child’s soccer practice. “Woo! That’s my boy!”

Jeongin groans, slumping forward as he wipes sweat from his forehead, then the back of his neck and chest. “Ugh, stop it,” he mutters.

“That was a sick fill. I’m impressed.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true,” Chris fires back.

Jeongin rolls his eyes but he’s smiling—just a little but enough until his dimples show. He grabs a towel, then walks to the mini fridge, popping open a bottle of water and drinking half in one go. Chris flops onto the worn couch—the couch he always writes on, slouches on, naps on when the nights get too long.

“So?” Jeongin asks between breaths. “Did Julian approve the track?”

Chris exhales a long, heavy sigh. That’s answer enough.

Jeongin pauses mid-sip. “…What now?”

Chris drags a hand down his face. “Label won’t greenlight anything unless we get a new bassist.”

Jeongin chokes slightly, swallowing too quickly. He lowers the bottle and then—to Chris’s utter confusion—his face brightens.

“That’s great.”

Chris sits up. “What?”

Jeongin nods earnestly, water still dripping from his chin. “I said it’s great.”

“How is that great?”

“Because…” Jeongin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, voice softening. “I get why you’re against it. Really. But… you’ve been carrying too much. For too long.”

Chris opens his mouth to argue—but Jeongin beats him to it.

“I know we’re capable,” he says quickly. “Just the two of us. I don’t doubt that at all. But capability doesn’t mean it’s good for us.”

Chris goes quiet.

Jeongin continues, sitting next to him on the couch, close but not crowding. “You write. You compose. You mix. You produce. You oversee the whole album, track by track. And you still try to make sure I’m okay too.” Jeongin’s voice drops. “That’s not balance. That’s you drowning with a smile.”

The words sink in. Chris hates how much they hit. How true they are. He stares at his hands. “I just… don’t know,” he murmurs. “What if a new member ruins what we built? What if it changes everything?”

Jeongin nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “Maybe some things are supposed to change.”

Chris looks at him.

Jeongin meets his eyes, calm, steady, always more perceptive than people give him credit for. “And who knows? Maybe this new person will bring us something better. Something we didn’t even realize we were missing."

Chris swallows, throat tight. He nods slowly—not agreeing, but absorbing.

Jeongin offers a small smile and leans back. “But… whatever you decide, I trust you. Always.”

Chris closes his eyes for a moment. He wishes trust made the fear quieter. It doesn’t. Because it isn’t the band he’s afraid of losing. It isn’t the music changing.

What terrifies him—quietly, deeply, secretly—is something much simpler:

Letting someone new in. Letting someone close again. Opening that door he’d slammed shut the day Nico walked out.

He exhales softly. “We’ll see,” he says.

But inside, he’s not convinced.

-

You arrive at Prism Entertainment exactly at the time Julian told you to. You’re not sure why your palms feel damp — maybe because you’re going to meet the band for the first time, or maybe because the lobby is still as cold and as pristine like last time.

The receptionist greets you warmly and stands to gesture toward the hallway. “Go right in. They’re already in Studio B.”

Already? You try not to overthink it. Maybe they as in Julian and his assistant, Joan.You take a breath and start walking. You recognize the way now, every framed photograph of past artists lining the corridor. Still, when you reach the door and hear voices behind it — not just one, but two? Three? — you freeze with your hand on the knob.You push the door barely an inch open but enough to hear them.

“What? A girl?”

That voice. You’ve heard it before, but not sure where and when. Who.

Julian replies, dry and unbothered. “Didn’t expect that to be the first thing you’d be against.”

“She’s not going to fit in,” the voice continues. “She’s a classical musician. A cellist, for god’s sake.”

Your stomach drops because now you know for sure that they’re talking about you.

Julian sighs. “And she’s also a musician, same as you. She’ll fit just fine.”

You hear footsteps approaching and you hurriedly take a full step back, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, but it’s too late.

Joan turns the corner, sees you standing right outside the door, and her eyes widen in recognition. Instead of looking alarmed, she just smiles gently.

“Oh! There you are. Why are you just standing out here?” she asks in her usual chirpy voice, then pushes the door open for you, holding it there as if nothing awkward just happened. “Come in.”

The room falls silent. Four pairs of eyes fall on you. Julian straightens up from leaning against the console, smiling like your arrival just solved all his problems. Next to him, a guy with dark hair and sharp eyes, Jeongin, sits on a stool, brows lifting in surprise.

And then him.

Chris. The guy from the elevator. Same dark eyes, same cold expression, but now his gaze is locked on you with something between shock and regret, probably because you heard him. You definitely heard him.

The air feels too heavy. Or maybe that’s just your heartbeat. You swallow and walk inside because Joan is gently guiding you forward with a hand on your shoulder.

You manage a small bow, polite, practiced. “Hi… I’m—”

“Everyone, meet our new bassist candidate.” Julian interrupts with a grin, as if he didn’t just know you heard everything.

You didn’t expect the whole band to already be here and you certainly didn’t expect the boy who dismissed you through a closed door to be the guy who confronted you in the elevator that day.

And now he’s staring at you like you’re a complication he didn’t sign up for.

-

The recording studio feels a lot smaller even though it’s clearly much bigger than the one you auditioned in. Maybe it’s because you’re standing beside two seasoned musicians while the third one — the one who clearly didn’t want you here — keeps a distance so wide it feels like a physical wall.

Chris stands at the very opposite end of the room, guitar strap low on his shoulder, head tilted down as he quietly adjusts something on his pedalboard. Not once does he look your way. Not even accidentally.

The strap of your bass suddenly feels too tight, digging into your shoulder. You tug at it, loosening it, but it doesn’t help.

Julian’s voice comes through the overhead mic from the booth. “Alright! How many of the songs did you manage to learn?”

You pull your shoulders back and try to sound casual. “All five.”

Julian beams at you through the glass. “Perfect. Let’s start with the debut track. Everybody ready?”

Chris doesn’t answer. Jeongin spins a drumstick between his fingers and lifts his chin in a ready-when-you-are gesture. He hits his drum sticks together as a cue, “Three, two, one—”

You plant your feet. Hands on the bass neck. Deep breath.

Then, the music hits. The song is muscle memory now, you practiced it so many times you could probably hum every backing vocal too. You settle into the rhythm, easing into the familiar progression. Your fingers glide across the strings, each pluck landing exactly where it should.

You risk a glance to see Chris is turned slightly away from you, half-facing the booth. You can’t even tell if he knows you exist right now.

Then, your gaze drifts past him. To Jeongin. He’s drumming with this wild, controlled intensity, shoulders moving, hair bouncing with each hit. When he catches your eye, he gives you a bright grin that softens every sharp angle of his face and it makes warmth unfurl in your chest.

You're doing good. Keep going. You can almost hear him say it just from the nod he gives you.

By the time the final chord rings out, your lungs feel like they’ve been locked up the entire song and only now release. That was only the first track. Who knows how many Julian will push you through. “That was great,” the mic crackles as Julian speaks and then he looks at you through the glass. “You’re a bit stiff, though. Try to loosen up.”

You nod, swallowing, trying to shake the tension out through your shoulders.

Chris finally speaks. “Let’s just get on with the next one.”

His tone is clipped — not angry, not rude, but impatient. He chooses the next track himself and the moment the first riff comes through, your stomach drops. This one particular song of theirs is fast, technical, a lot of shifting, a lot of fingerwork, and not forgiving at all.

Chris doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t need to. The sideways glance he gives you before turning away, before adjusting the knob on his amp, says everything. He wants to test you. No, he wants to watch you fail.

And for a second, the doubt hits you so hard your grip on the bass tightens painfully. Maybe you will fail. Maybe this really will be the last time you play in a rock band. But then… A thought slips in.

If this is your last chance, you might as well have fun. So when the count-in starts, you let your muscles loosen, just a little. You let yourself lean into the anticipation instead of the fear.

Then you play and the music… reminds you. Of your dad’s band. Of being tiny in your mom’s arms at one of their gigs, watching your father on stage, strumming like the world was nothing but sound and joy. You remember not understanding why everyone looked so happy. You just knew it felt beautiful.

That same feeling blooms now and before you know it, your fingers are moving all on their own, slipping and dancing across the frets like they’ve known this song far longer than a few days. You let yourself get carried away.

For the first time today, you forget Chris. You forget the room. You forget the pressure. You just… play. And when the last note rings out and your eyes flutter open, you can’t help it. You smile.

-

Chris sits in the meeting room with Jeongin, elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely as he stares out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city is washed in the last light of day, orange melting into violet, the kind of sunset that makes everything look softer, quieter.

He should be thinking about the label’s deadline. Or the track Julian still wants revised. Or the list of things he needs to fix on the mix tonight.

But instead… He’s thinking about you. The way you played earlier. The way your fingers moved so naturally over a bass you’d chosen only minutes before. How you’d walked into the studio tense, stiff, unsure but by the second song, something in you had cracked open and suddenly you were smiling like the music was pulling something out of you that belonged there.

He didn’t expect that. He didn’t expect you at all. A classical musician. A cellist. A girl who looked like she belonged in conservatories and glass-walled recital halls, not next to him in a dingy rehearsal space.

And yet, you played their song like you’d played it a hundred times, like you weren’t learning it… but remembering it.

Chris exhales, long and quiet. He hates it. Hates how natural you looked there. Hates how good you were. Hates how you caught him off guard.

The door clicks open and Julian steps inside, brushing off his coat sleeve like he walked through a blizzard instead of a hallway. “Alright,” he says, breath slightly hurried, “let’s talk.”

Then he takes the seat across from them, leaning forward, businesslike. “So,” he says, eyes bouncing between Jeongin and Chris, “what do you think?”

Jeongin doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward, hands stacked together on the table. “I think she’s great.”

Julian’s lips curve. “Right?”

“And you can tell she’s an actual musician,” Jeongin continues. “She adjusts to us well. Picks things up fast. Like—really fast.”

Julian nods along, satisfied, then turns to Chris. Waiting.

Chris looks away from both of them, back at the city outside. His reflection in the glass stares back — arms crossed, shoulders tense, jaw set. He doesn’t want to admit he was wrong about you, but lying feels worse.

“She’s…” His voice trails. He clears his throat. Tries again. “She’s good.”

Julian nods slowly. Repeatedly. Like he was expecting that answer and waiting for what comes next.

“So,” Julian asks, gaze sharpening as it settles on him, “are we going to take her in or…?”

Chris lets out a breath, long and heavy, fingers tapping against his bicep as he thinks, weighing pride against possibility, fear against—

He sighs and turns away to watch the sun dipping lower into the horizon.

-

Chris sits alone in his studio, the only light coming from the laptop screen casting a pale glow across his face. His guitar leans against the desk, untouched. The track Julian wants revised is open in another tab, but he hasn’t touched it.

Instead, he’s scrolling through The Bang Theory’s official social media which is something he doesn’t usually do unless Julian nags him about engagement or Jeongin sends him funny edits fans make.

He scrolls through the latest post: a grainy studio photo he uploaded two days ago. “Working on something.”

The comments move fast. Most are sweet.

“WE LOVE YOU KINGSSS 🔥🔥🔥” “The Bang Theory comeback WHEN???” “Take your time boys 💙 we’ll wait!!” “Jeongin’s arms HELLO???”

Chris snorts at that one. He scrolls down and there are a few petty hate comments, but just as fast, fans are jumping in to defend them.

“Where’s Nico though? Something seems off lately.” “Unsubtle injury update when???” “They’re hiding something.”

Chris leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. He knows the tone. The speculation. The little digs disguised as concern. They used to bother him more. Now, he just feels tired. He closes the app and switches to their video channel, clicking on their latest music video — the one they released before everything… shifted.

The comments are the same mix:

“This era is UNDERRATED.” “Jeongin is a beast omg.” “Chris’s production is insane on this.” “Miss Nico tho…”

His scrolling slows yet he keeps going until a thumbnail appears with a familiar face on it Nico’s face. Newly bleached hair, messy, styled like he didn’t style it at all. That familiar, easy grin he used to see every day.

The title reads: “Nico, Ex-member of The Bang Theory: Hints at Solo Project in New Interview”

Chris’s cursor hovers over it. His chest tightens not in anger, not quite sadness either. But something duller, heavier. He stares at the thumbnail like it might move, like Nico might look back at him and say something smug or stupid or comforting. He doesn’t click it. Instead, Chris snaps the laptop shut, pushes it away, and exhales shakily.

The studio feels too quiet now, swallowing the breath he lets out. Maybe Jeongin was right earlier. Maybe Julian was, too. Maybe it is time for him to move on. He runs a hand through his hair, stares at the darkened screen for a long moment, and tells himself —

Maybe.

-

Your phone lights up on the table, vibrating across the wood. JULIAN.

You stare at the caller ID for a second, heart skipping once, twice, then picking up speed like it finally realizes what's happening.

You answer. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Julian says, voice bright, casual but there’s a thread of excitement beneath it. “I just finished discussing with the boys.”

There’s a knot inside your stomach, twisting, tightening uncomfortably.

“And… We want you to join The Bang Theory,” he casually says. “So I need you to come to my office tomorrow morning so we can talk contracts, alright?”

For a moment, the world blurs at the edges. You manage, “I—yes. Yes, of course.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The call ends with a soft click. You stand there, phone still pressed to your ear, as the realization floods in sluggishly, like honey. You got in and somehow, the part that shocks you the most is that Chris—stone-faced, hard-to-please, glacial Chris—didn’t object. At least, not enough to stop this.

Hours later, your apartment is quiet except for your own heartbeat rattling through you. You walk over to the record player, putting on a record you stole from your dad’s collection. When the music starts playing, you sit on the couch and pull out the old photo box you haven’t touched in a long time. A soft gasp leaves you as you lift the lid.

There you are—four years old—sitting on your dad’s shoulders backstage. He’s grinning at the camera, sweaty from a set, while you clutch a tiny pair of ear protectors and a juice box.

Another photo is of you onstage at five years old during a family-friendly afternoon gig. Hair in lopsided pigtails, a toy tambourine in your fist, conviction in your eyes, like you were the missing member of their lineup.

Another photo is taken on Halloween. Your mom with the blunt black bangs of Joey Ramone. Your dad with an overgrown wig and ripped jeans. You with a tiny leather jacket and a wig that slid halfway down your face. You snort because the wig alone was a hazard.

You flip to another photo you’ve always been strangely tender with. You and your first cello instructor. You’re tiny, your fingers barely spanning the fingerboard, chin tilted with fierce concentration. Your instructor beams like she already knows what you have yet to learn: that you’d fall in love with this wooden instrument and its voice.

And then the recital photo. God. That dress could have eaten you whole. Tulle for days. A bow that nearly brushed your ankles. You cringe and laugh at yourself all at once.

But as you look at this timeline, moments in your life frozen in printed pictures — it hits you how natural this all feels. This shift. This change. You’ve lived so many versions of music. Classical. Childhood rock. Orchestra pits. Practice rooms. Joining a band doesn’t erase any of that. It simply threads another color through everything you already are.

♪ There's a starman waiting in the sky / He'd like to come and meet us / But he thinks he'd blow our minds ♪

Just because you’re stepping away from classical doesn’t mean you’re leaving it behind. You’re doing music. You’ve always done music. You’ll keep doing music — hopefully for the rest of your life.

You lean back and close your eyes, listening to the song playing in the room while clutching the photos close to your chest as if holding onto the memories.

♪ There's a starman waiting in the sky / He's told us not to blow it / 'Cause he knows it's all worthwhile, he told me ♪

Tomorrow, you’ll sign a contract. Tomorrow, you’ll begin something new. And for the first time in a long time, you feel ready.

♪ Let the children lose it / Let the children use it / Let all the children boogie ♪

-

It’s your first time in Julian’s office. The room is filled with warm lights, framed gold records decorate the wall, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city in late-morning haze. It’s a place where decisions stick.

Julian sits on the single sofa, glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he flips through a thick stack of papers. Joan is beside you, cross-legged on the couch, a tablet in her lap, pink hair braided loosely over one shoulder.

The contract is in front of you. Black over white. Letters and numbers. All the details about the three-year commitment you have to seal with your signature. A commitment longer than any job you’ve ever had, longer than most relationships you’ve seen your friends maintain.

Joan gently rotates the paper toward you and patiently explaining every part of it. “This part is about creative rights… this is the clause about revenue split… this section covers touring obligations…” She speaks calmly, clearly, occasionally tapping highlighted sentences. “If you ever need clarification, just ask.”

You nod, absorbing what you can.

Then Julian taps the last page with his pen. “And this,” he says, tone shifting, “is the only rule that really matters.”

You look up and catch him pushing his glasses higher. “To put it simply, you’re not allowed to date a fellow band member.”

Of all the things you expected him to say — that was low on the list.

Julian continues, matter-of-fact, “It never ends well. Complications, jealousy, tensions, privacy issues. We avoid it entirely.”

Your first internal reaction? As if? If anything, maybe the contract should come with your own conditions:

1. Chris must not stab you with his stare. 2. Chris must learn basic manners. 3. Chris must stop looking like he’s debating your existence.

You keep all of that to yourself, of course.

Once Joan and Julian finish clarifying everything, they sit back, giving you space.

“This is a big decision,” Julian says, hands folded. “Take as long as you need. Ask anything you want.”

You stare at the contract and then at the city — a moving painting of tiny cars, skyscrapers, clouds drifting like slow thoughts.

You ask yourself quietly: Do I want this? Can I do this?

Then, you remember the weight of the bass against your shoulder. The way the music flowed through you like it belonged there. Jeongin’s encouraging smile behind the drums. Chris’s surprised eyes, just for a split second, when you played. The way it felt like you were part of something — something bigger than yourself, something alive.

You hear your dad’s voice in the back of your head. “Try it. You never know what might excite you.”

Your heart beats loud enough to hear. You inhale deeply, then look down at the signature line. You take the pen. Your hand is steady when you sign.

Julian’s smile is immediate, warm and sincere. He stands and comes up to you, offering his hand. You stare at it for a brief moment before placing your hand in his, sealing the deal.

“Welcome to The Bang Theory.”

-

✨ ON TRACK: VERSE is available on my Patreon ✨

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[yubinism]

the scream i let out when i saw this oh my goodness do i love ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING when it comes to bang theory. missed bangchan being penned by my favourite effie 😤 i am devouring this like the gospel, cannot wait for the next chapter at all

[seospicybin]

DESKJOB.

FINAL CHAPTER

Lee Know x reader. (s)

CHAPTERS: ONE / TWO / THREE / FOUR

Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him, and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (11,1k words)

Author's note: Thank you for each and every one of you who have been following this series since chapter one. Hope you enjoyed this one too 🫶🏻❣️

The days after the presentation feel longer than they should.

Every morning, you come into the office with that same tightness in your chest. You’re not nervous about who’s going to win. Not really. You just want it to be over. You want to stop feeling like you’re holding your breath.

And then there’s Minho.

Quiet. Calm. His eyes sharpen just slightly as he concentrates on his work. You envy him and sometimes you wish you can be like him — completely unbothered and look good doing it.

The clock ticks past ten. An email notification pops up. Subject: Promotion Results – Announcement This Friday.

You exhale, staring at the words. Two more days. Two more days of waiting with this tightness in your chest. Across the room, Minho’s already looking at you. It’s not a long look, just a flicker of something shared. A tiny acknowledgment that the wait is almost over. His lips twitch, like he’s about to smile, but he doesn’t. He just goes back to his monitor, pretending to type, the faintest crease between his brows.

You’re still staring when Felix suddenly appears beside your desk, a stack of folders in his arms.

“Big news this Friday,” he says cheerfully, setting the files down with a soft thud.

You hum, reaching for the flies to take a quick look at it. “Don’t expect much from me.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, leaning against the edge of your desk. “Why not?”

You glance past him at Minho who is pretending to read something on his screen, but you can tell he’s listening. He’s too still not to be.

“Minho deserves it more,” you say quietly. “He’s worked hard for it.”

Felix tilts his head, his tone softening. “So have you. Don’t sell yourself short.” Then, lowering his voice, he leans in close enough that you can feel his breath brush your ear. “For what it’s worth, I’m still rooting for you,” he whispers.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

But before you can answer, Minho’s voice cuts through the air. “Hey, intern,” he calls with the kind of tone that makes people sit up straighter.

Feli’s head whips to his direction. “Yes?”

“Send these files to finance for me,” Minho says, not looking up. “Now.”

Felix gives a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” He scoops up the stack of files from Minho’s desk, but before walking away, he pauses by you again. “Lunch later?” he asks, smiling that sweet, soft smile of his.

You glance at Minho and he’s definitely glaring now, pen frozen in his hand. Then you look back at Felix’s warm, almost angelic face and can’t find it in you to say no to him. “Sure,” you say.

Felix beams, and as he walks off, you can feel Minho’s gaze burning holes through you.

You shrug lightly, pretending to stay focused on your computer screen, but there’s a tiny thrill buzzing under your skin. You shouldn’t enjoy it, but you do.

Minho’s jealousy has always been just the right kind of satisfying.

-

The canteen is crowded with employees at lunchtime, queuing to get their chosen menu for lunch. You and Felix shuffle forward in line, scanning the menu above the counter.

“What are you having?” Felix asks, rocking back on his heels.

“Not sure,” you say as you crane your neck to check today’s menu. “The Korean food sounds good.”

“Beef bulgogi. Yeah, that sounds delicious,” he nods in approval.

“Come on, it’s my treat,” you tell him with a smile, guiding the two of you to join the queue for the Korean food, the sound loosening some of the tension from the morning. For the first time in days, you feel light.

A few minutes later, the two of you settle into a small table by the window. Felix talks easily about the new client, about how he once saw the HR manager accidentally nap through a meeting and you find yourself laughing between bites of food.

Your laugh dies down when all of a sudden, someone makes his way toward your table. You know who it is from his steps slow, his gaze fixes. He sits on the chair next to you, carefully placing his tray on the table.

Felix notices too late. “Oh— Hyung! So nice to have you joining us.”

“I hope so,” Minho simply replies, picking up his cutlery.

Felix, ever polite, tries to make conversation. “So, Hyung, you must be anticipating the announcement this Friday, right?”

“Though I’m sure it’ll go to whoever impressed the boss most,” Minho coyly says, spearing a piece of chicken with unnecessary precision.

“True,” Felix says easily. “You both did great.”

It gets quiet as everyone continues eating, but the kind of silence that makes you suspicious of what Minho is going to say next. You can barely enjoy your food, mindlessly stirring your soup with your spoon.

You were right to because a moment later, Minho looks up and then, straight at Felix. “You like her, don’t you?”

Felix freezes mid-bite. “Sorry?”

Minho doesn’t look away as his head makes a gesture toward you. “You like her.”

Felix gets taken aback for a second but then smiles that gentle, unfazed smile of his. “What’s not to like?” he says simply.

You shoot Minho a warning look, but he just keeps eating, as if the conversation is completely casual. You clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. “So, uh— the food’s not bad today, right? The soup’s actually—”

Minho cuts in, eyes flicking to Felix again. “If you like her that much, why’d you make her pay for lunch?”

Felix laughs softly, unbothered. “Ah, right. I’ll make it up to her later. Maybe with drinks after work?”

You open your mouth to politely refuse, but Minho beats you to it. “Can I come too?” he asks, smiling, but his tone isn’t as casual as his words.

Felix hesitates, eyes darting between you two, then nods. “Sure, why not?”

Minho’s smile sharpens just a little. He picks up his tray, stands, and says in a low, almost playful drawl, “Can’t wait for drinks later.”

-

The clock finally hits six, and the office starts to thin out, the others have walked past your desk, saying their byes to you. You stretch, your shoulders aching from a long day, and reach for your bag.

“Ready to head out?”

You look up to see Felix leaning against your desk, that easy, sunshine grin lighting up his face. He’s already got his coat slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened like he’s already halfway out the door.

“Yeah,” you say, standing and slinging your coat over your shoulders. “Just need to grab my purse.”

He nods, waiting patiently, then turns toward Minho’s desk a few feet away. “Hey, Hyung. You ready?”

Minho doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Can’t,” he says flatly. “Director asked me to help polish her presentation. Might take a while.”

Felix’s smile softens with sympathy. “Will it take long?”

“Not sure,” Minho answers without looking away from the screen.

Felix considers it for a second before coming up with a resolve. “I’ll just text you the address in case you want to swing by later, yeah?”

“Sure,” Minho replies, fingers still typing, gaze fixed on the monitor.

Felix glances at you, gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”

You nod, following him toward the exit. The sound of your heels clicks against the floor, echoing louder than it should in the dim office.

Just before you step out, Minho’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Have fun, you two.”

You hesitate for a second, hoping that Minho will decide to ditch work, but of course, he doesn’t. His eyes stay on the screen, face calm in the cold light of the monitor.

Felix flashes him a friendly wave. “See you, Hyung.”

And then you’re out in the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you, leaving that one sentence hanging in the air.

Have fun.

-

The bar is alive with laughter and a hum of soft jazz. Warm amber lights glint off the glasses, and the air smells faintly of citrus and something smoky. Felix sits across from you, his grin easy, his sleeves rolled up, the kind of relaxed confidence that makes people naturally gravitate toward him.

You’re three rounds in and the world feels softer around the edges, a little fuzzier, a little easier to breathe.

Felix is telling you a story about his first week at the company, about how he accidentally sent a spreadsheet full of memes to the finance department and you’re laughing so hard you almost spill your drink.

It feels good to laugh. It feels good to forget, even if just for a little while. But as you lift your glass for another sip, the thought creeps back in.

Minho.

You picture him still at his desk, fingers typing non-stop, that faint crease between his brows as he stares at his screen. The glow of the monitor on his face. The quiet of the empty office. And the way he didn’t look at you when he said have fun.

You twist your straw absentmindedly.

“Another round?” Felix asks, already signaling for the bartender. “My treat again.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “I think I’m good. If I have one more, I’ll start confessing my sins.”

Felix chuckles. “You? Never. You’re too composed for that.”

“Trust me,” you say, grinning faintly. “It’s all an act.”

He laughs again, then checks his watch. “Alright, then. We should probably head out. Want to share a taxi? We’re going the same way.”

Your heart lurches, but you shake your head. “I have to stop by somewhere first. Just an errand.”

He studies you for a second, eyes kind but not prying. “Alright,” he says finally, raising his hand to hail a cab.

When the taxi pulls up, he opens the door for you, steadying your arm as you slide into the backseat.

“Thanks for the drinks,” you say softly.

“Anytime,” he replies, his smile warm and unassuming.

“Goodnight, Felix,” you mutter with a smile.

“Goodnight.” He closes the door gently, stepping back as the taxi starts to move.

You watch him disappear in the side mirror, the city lights blurring behind him and then you lean forward, the decision already made.

“Can we go to StarLight Tower?” you tell the driver.

“The office building?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes, please.”

As the city slips past the windows, you realize your heart’s beating faster than it did all night — not from the drinks, but from the thought of seeing him again.

-

The office is dark when you arrive, the only light coming from Minho’s desk lamp. He’s still there, sleeves rolled up to his elbow, tie is nowhere around the collar, eyes fixed on the screen. The soft click of your heels echoes through the room, breaking the stillness.

He glances up as you approach and then he looks back at his monitor.

You pout a little as his expression doesn’t change. No surprise, not even a smile. “Wow. You don’t even look happy to see me.”

Without looking away, he says dryly, “Let me guess. The intern’s a lightweight, and that’s why drinks ended early?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “No.”

He types a few more words before asking, “You’re the lightweight?”

You stop beside his desk, crossing your arms. “Because I won’t allow you be the only one sucking up to the director by working overtime.”

That finally earns you a smirk and the knot in your chest instantly loosens. You set your bag down, slip off your coat, and nod toward his screen. “Can I help you with anything?”

He looks up at you then, eyes meeting yours in that way that makes everything else fade. “Yeah,” he says softly.

You expect him to hand you a file or ask you to check something, but instead, he reaches out, his hand finding your waist. You laugh quietly as he draws you closer until you’re perched sideways on his lap.

You roll your eyes, half protesting, half amused. “This is the help you need?”

He hums, eyes still on the screen. “You’re helping me just like this.”

You don’t know if you find that endearing or impossible, but you don’t move. You stay there, one arm draped loosely around his shoulders, watching the light from his monitor reflect in his eyes. The rhythmic clicking of the keyboard fills the space and you use the chance to trace your gaze over his face — the sharp features softened by the desk lamp, the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.

“I thought I was supposed to suck up to the director, not you,” you tease quietly.

He stops typing, looks up at you with a smirk that’s equal parts challenge and affection. “I’m the only one you need to suck up to.”

You burst into quiet laughter, the sound echoing softly between you. He grins, then reaches up, fingers brushing your chin, guiding your gaze back to him. When he leans in, the kiss is slow and impossibly tender. The kind that feels like everything has finally fallen back into place.

“Now, stop distracting me,” he flatly says as he turns his head back to the screen.

The rest of the office is dark and you stay quietly in his lap while he works, the rhythmic tapping of keys and the soft glow of the lamp filling the space around you. His focus doesn’t waver; he still has that crease between his brows when he’s deep in thought. You watch his fingers move, his profile caught in the glow, and feel something gentle tug at your chest.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his jaw, just a brush of lips against warm skin. He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and you smile against his neck before resting your head there.

“Finish quickly,” you murmur, your voice muffled. “So we can go home.”

His chuckle rumbles under your cheek. “Home?”

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes half-closed. “You’re the one keeping us here.”

He tilts his head a little, enough that you can feel his grin. “And then what? You’ll… suck up to me?”

You groan, half-laughing, and give his chest a light punch. “You’re think you’re that lucky, huh?”

His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together as he goes back to typing one-handed. “Ugh, you’re only slowing me down,” he says but there’s affection woven between the words.

Half an hour later, the sound of Minho’s typing finally slows, then stops. You lift your head, almost falling asleep on his shoulder.

“Done?” you softly ask, tucking your hair behind your ear.

He hums, fingers clicking a few more times to save his work. The lamplight catches the faint tiredness in his eyes, but there’s satisfaction there too.

You get up from his lap, letting him move and get ready to leave. You stretch your arms above your head while stifling a yawn. “I almost fall asleep,” you innocently admit.

Minho shuts his laptop, gathers his papers neatly, then reaches over to turn off the lamp. The office instantly grows darker, the only light coming from the city outside.

You take your coat, hanging it on your arm instead of putting it on and hold your bag on the other hand. You step away from his desk, waiting for him.

When he finally comes to your side, he reaches for your hand, fingers slipping easily between yours that it feels like they belong there.

The two of you walk down the long hallway together, the click of your shoes echoing against the quiet floors. The elevator dings softly when you reach it, and Minho presses the button. The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s the kind that hums with quiet comfort, a shared exhale after a long day.

When the doors open, you glance at him. “Let’s get a late-night snack.”

His lips curl into that half-smile that always spells trouble. “Didn’t you say you’re sleepy?”

“I said I almost fall asleep. Not feeling sleepy.”

Minho squeezes your hand as the two of you step inside the elevator. “Do you want to sleep? Or do you want to eat?”

You shoot him a look, but he just smirks, eyes fixed ahead as the doors close.

By the time you reach the lobby, the world outside has quieted down. He pushes the glass door open for you, the night air cool against your skin.

“Come on,” he says, still holding your hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s go get that late-night snack before you fall asleep.”

You smile up at him, your heart swelling a little at how ordinary yet perfect this feels—just the two of you, walking out into the night like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

-

Minho wakes to the pale light slipping through the curtains and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing beside him. You’re tucked against his side, your hand resting over his chest, tracing lazy shapes against his skin. Every so often, you press a sleepy kiss along his neck or the edge of his jaw, and he can’t help but smile even before opening his eyes.

He groans softly. “It’s too early.”

Your voice is a murmur against his shoulder. “I have to go back to my place first… change, get ready for work.”

He tightens his arm around you, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes.”

You laugh quietly, half-asleep. “You always say that.”

“Because you never listen,” he mutters, pulling you closer until your head fits perfectly under his chin. For a moment, neither of you move — just the soft warmth between sheets, the quiet thrum of morning.

Eventually, you shift, brushing a kiss against his collarbone as you pull away. “I need to shower.”

He grumbles in protest, eyes barely open as you slip out of bed. You don’t wait until you’re in the bathroom to undress, you begin grabbing the hem of the sweater you borrowed from him and taking it off of you. You take your underwear next, bending down slowly as you pull it down your legs.

Minho’s gaze burns into you the entire time, his lips parting slightly as he props himself up on one elbow, enjoying the view.

Once you’re fully naked, you slowly turn on your feet, planting your hands on each side of your waist. There’s not even the slightest of shyness in you, if anything, you’re daring him to look and letting his gaze traces every curve of your body until his eyes brimming with lust.

Then, you turn on back on your feet, not giving him another second to look as you head toward the bathroom.

When you pause at the bathroom door to flash him a sly smile, his smirk turns predatory as he mutters, “That shower better be cold as hell."

Minho can only endure a few minutes of staring at ceiling and then he slips off the bed, padding into the bathroom. When he steps in, you’re already in the shower, washing your hair.

He takes his time, removing his clothes and tossing them into the laundry basket in the corner of the room. You seem to have noticed him already because you don’t flinch when he opens the shower door.

The steam curls around both of you as Minho steps in behind you, his chest pressing flush against your back. His hands slide over your soap-slick skin with a possessiveness that makes your breath hitch—one palm flattening over your stomach to pull you tighter against him while the other trails up to tangle in your wet hair.

“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, lips brushing the nape of your neck as his fingers dip lower— “...Let me help.”

He takes the bar of soap you’re holding and you let him do it for you, lathering it all over your skin with one hand as the other rests on your hips. A moment later, he moves your body forward, letting the warm water washes as the suds away with gentle rubs of his hands.

Noticing that he’s only moving his hands around the chest area, especially your breasts. You look over your shoulder and teasingly say, “You put a lot of focus on this area.”

His hands still momentarily before he leans down to nip at your shoulder, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “Just being thorough,” he murmurs, squeezing on your breasts as his thumbs brush over your nipples.

His other hand glides lower suddenly, tracing the curve of your hip before dipping between your thighs with a knowing hum. “Or… should I multitask better?”

You softly gasp the second his hand makes contact with your sex. Your hand flies to his arm, not sure whether you’re trying to stop him or guide his movement. You end up holding on to it to keep you steady.

His fingers curl just right as your arm loops around him, his free hand splaying across your lower abdomen to pin you tighter against his body. His laugh is a hot puff against your ear when he feels you tremble.

“How about I’m putting all of my focus here?” His voice drips with smug amusement as his thumb circles faster.

The steam thickens and your moans grow louder as his fingers work in slow, maddening circles—pressing on your clit just enough to almost tip you over the edge before backing off with a teasing flick. His mouth follows suit, teeth scraping your neck in warning before soothing the sting with his tongue.

Before you can react, Minho steers your body, pinning it against the wall of the shower stall until your breasts squashed in between. The cool glass contrasts sharply with your heated skin, his forearm locking across your waist to hold you in place. His other hand doesn’t relent, sliding his fingers through the slick heat with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. Despite it, you find yourself moving, back arched and riding on his fingers.

“Look at you,” he rasps, lips grazing the shell of your ear as his thumb circles your clit faster. “Fucking yourself on my fingers.”

His teeth sink into your shoulder when he feels you clench around him. His grip tightening as he lets you chase it—his fingers crooking just right to drag a broken moan from your lips. The water sluices over both of you, amplifying every slick sound between your thighs.

“Want to come like this?” his voice wrecked as he matches your rhythm with rough thrusts of his fingers.

His free hand yanks your head back by the hair, exposing your throat to his teeth while his palm grinds against your clit in punishing circles. “I don’t think so.”

Minho goes completely still and without letting go of you, he puts his cock between the gap of your thighs. You softly gasp feeling his stiff, hot member pressed against your wetness. You instinctively brings your legs together, giving him that tightness he seeks.

He groans when your thighs clamp around him, the slick heat driving him wild as he thrusts between them. His fingers never let up on your clit, rubbing in tight circles just how you like it. Each movement designed to push you closer to the edge.

“Fuck— you feel that?” His voice is rough with need, hips rocking harder against you. His teeth graze your earlobe before his breath ghosts over it in a taunt. “And I’m not inside you yet.”

The sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin is obscenely loud, echoing in the small space and when your moans pitch higher, he lets out a dark chuckle against your shoulder.

“Seem like you’re ready to take it inside you now, mmh?” he says and you know it’s just rhetorical question.

His thrusts grow erratic, the tip of him catching your clit with each pass until suddenly—he flips you around to face him, pinning you back against the wall.

“Minho…” you breathlessly gasp, your hands resting on his chest now.

His smirk darkens as he suddenly lifts you—pinning your back against the shower wall in one fluid motion. His cock presses right into your entrance, teasing but not giving in yet.

“I'm going to fuck you so hard,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “that you forget how to walk straight into work later.”

A sharp thrust punctuates his words, his cock slides right in and fill you almost immediately, stealing your breath as he adds with a smirk, "Starting now."

Your hands gripping on his shoulders, moans spilling out of your parted mouth non-stop. You glance down to find his mouth seals over your nipple, tongue flicking roughly as his hands dig into your hips—holding you in place against the fogged-up glass. The cold surface bites into your back, a sharp contrast to the warm water and his hotter touch.

His mouth leaving bite marks down your collarbone between thrusts that send water sloshing over the shower floor. Your moans echo off the tiles, mingling with his ragged curses.

“Fuck— how are you always this tight for me, mmh?" He grits out, teeth scraping your nipple just to feel you clench around him. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you harder onto him as the glass rattles behind you.

When he licks into your mouth this time, it tastes like sweat and shared ruin. “Now, come for me, baby.”

You cling to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders as he feels you tightening around him, causing his rhythm turn jagged and desperate. His forehead drops against yours, breath coming in ragged bursts as he chases his own release as well as chasing yours.

“There— fuck, yes—" His voice shatters when your nails rake down his back, "I feel you… going to come so hard for me."

The water scalds. His thrusts stutter. He looks at you, your eyes screwed shut, overwhelmed with pleasure. He grabs your chin, forcing you look at him. “Look at me when you do,” he waits until you open your eyes for him, half-lidded and dazed. “…Want to watch you fall apart for me.”

Minho groans at the sight of your blown-out pupils, the beads of water clinging to your lashes, the way your lips part as you come around him. His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself deep as he traps your moan with a searing kiss.

“Mine.” The word is a growl against your mouth, possessive and raw. “Every time you come… it's mine.”

His arms lock around you tighter as the aftershocks rock through both of you—water still pouring down in hot streams over trembling skin. The two of you stay like that for a moment until he gently put you down, you gasp as he slowly let go. Then, he pulls away.

You gasp at the sudden emptiness and a brief moment later, you gasp again at how his seed spilling out of you, dribbling down your inner thigh in creamy white fluid. The sight always works to arouse him, despite just having his release a moment ago.

You glance up and step forward, resting your hands flat on his chest. Then, you push him until, this time, his back is pressed against the tiled wall. You lean in, kissing him so hard that for a second, Minho has a hard time returning it.

When you pull away, you smile and ask, “You know what time it is?”

He has his hand on your waist, thumb gently caressing the skin. “What?”

You glide your hand down his front but your eyes locked with his. “Time for cold shower,” you answer, hand secretly turning the faucet behind him.

Minho gasps as the icy water hits his overheated skin, muscles tensing under the sudden shock—but his hands still find your waist, pulling you flush against him despite the cold. His smirk is pure mischief as he shakes droplets from his hair. His fingers trail down your spine, lingering just long enough to make you gasp too before he reaches the faucet to crank the heat back up with a glare.

“What makes you think that I’m done with you?”

-

The apartment smells like coffee and toasted bread as the two of you having breakfast in the kitchen. Your hair still damp, his sweater still a bit too big on you, the sleeves swallowed your hands whole no matter how many times you push them up to your elbows.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in a peaceful, quiet morning with just the sound of clinking cups and the city slowly coming to life. It almost feels… normal.

Then, you break the silence. “We should probably try not to make it obvious today.”

He looks up from his steaming mug of coffee. “Obvious?”

“That there’s something going on between us,” you say, lowering your voice. “People already talk enough. Let’s not give them proof.”

Minho hums, nonchalant, sipping his coffee. “One of us will be promoted soon anyway. They’ll have something else to gossip about.”

“Minho.” Your tone sharpens slightly. “I’m serious.”

He raises a brow. “You really think anyone’s paying that much attention?”

“You’re not exactly subtle. So at least—” you point the butter knife at him “—try to behave until the announcement.”

He bites back a smile, leaning back in his chair, eyes glinting with mischief. “Behave. Got it.”

“Keep that in mind,” you warn, though the edge in your voice softens when you see the smirk tug at his lips.

Minho lifts his cup in mock salute. “I’ll try. No promises.”

The sun is already climbing by the time you both leave his apartment. Minho drives one-handed, the other resting loosely on the gear shift, a faint smile curving his mouth every time he glances your way. You’ve rolled the window down a little, the breeze brushing against your face, and there’s an easy quiet between you — the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

When the car pulls up in front of your apartment, he shifts into park but doesn’t turn the engine off yet.

You turn toward him, smiling. “Thanks for the ride.”

He hums in response, eyes flicking to you, lingering. “You should sleep a little before work.”

“So should you,” you say, echoing his earlier tone.

Minho smirks faintly. “I’ll nap during the director’s meeting.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’d better not.”

The laughter fades into a softer silence. You lean closer, one hand reaching up to his cheek, your thumb tracing the faint stubble there. Then you give him a long, lingering kiss, the kind of kiss that makes time stutter. It’s gentle but full, the quiet hum of the engine beneath it, the morning sunlight spilling in through the window.

When you pull back, he stays still for a moment, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a lazy smile.

“If you’re late,” he says after a beat, voice low and teasing, “I’ll tell everyone about us.”

You laugh under your breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Depends on my mood.”

You roll your eyes, giving him one last quick kiss. “Behave,” you warn, though there’s no real edge to it.

“Never,” he replies with that maddeningly confident grin.

You open the door and step out into the morning air. Turning back, you wave at him once before walking toward your building. You can feel his gaze on your back until you disappear inside.

In the car, Minho stays still for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other tapping idly against his thigh. Then he exhales, slow and quiet.

That flutter in his chest that sneaks up on him every time you’re near returns again, steady and stubborn. He shakes his head with a faint smile before driving off, the day suddenly not looking so long anymore.

-

Minho gets to the office a little earlier than usual. Not because he’s eager to start work, but because the memory of you tangled in his sheets still lingers like static on his skin, and the only thing that will help is seeing you again.

He’s opening his work emails when he hears the familiar rhythm of your heels echoing across the floor. He looks up just in time to see you walk in, hair tied neatly, expression calm, collected. You’re all business again. Like you didn’t just spend the night at his place, getting fucked in the shower mere hours ago. Except for the faintest flicker in your eyes when you pass his desk.

“Morning,” you politely greet with subtle nod.

His lips twitches into a smile. “Morning.”

You don’t look at him for long, just long enough to acknowledge him before heading to your seat. He’s still watching you when Felix shows up, carrying a tray of cups of coffee in his hand and that bright, sunny grin plastered across his face.

“Morning,” Felix chirps, setting the cup down on your desk. “Figured you might need this after last night.”

Minho’s jaws tighten slightly. “That little shit,” he mutters under his breath.

You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re too nice, Felix. I should’ve gotten you one instead.”

He shrugs, easy and kind as ever. “You can make it up to me next time. I’ll let you buy the fifth round.”

Minho clicks his pen, loud enough to draw both your attention. “Hey, intern,” he calls out, voice smooth but sharp at the edges. “Got another coffee?”

Felix blinks, a little startled, before offering a sheepish smile. “Ah—sorry, Hyung. I didn’t know you wanted one. Here—” He pushes his own cup toward Minho. “You can have mine.”

Minho stares at the cup for a moment, then at Felix. The kid means it. Of course he does.

“Don’t bother,” Minho mutters finally, turning back to his monitor. “You’ll need it more than I do.”

Felix chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck before excusing himself to go back to his desk.

When Minho looks up again, he catches you supressing a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief at his antics. “Behave,” you mouth, reminding him.

He huffs quietly, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching upward.

You turn back to your screen, pretending to focus, and Minho forces himself to do the same. But the sight of your smile lingers in his mind far longer than it should, and for a moment, it’s almost enough to make the jealousy worth it.

Minho keeps his word—at least, he tries to.

He keeps his distance in the office. He doesn’t hover by your desk, doesn’t linger too long in meetings, doesn’t look at you for longer than what’s acceptable between co-workers. You wanted discretion; he agreed. Just a few more days until the announcement, he told himself. Just a few more days of pretending. But the pretending is starting to wear thin.

He catches you and Felix in the pantry one morning, talking and laughing while enjoying coffee. Felix says something, and you nudge him playfully with your elbow. At lunch, it’s the same. He walks past the cafeteria and sees you two already seated, your heads tilted toward each other over shared jokes. By the time the day ends, he’s had to unclench his jaw so many times his head aches.

Watching you and Felix leaving work together is the last straw—not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he’s tired. Tired of pretending that you’re not the best part of his day. Tired of watching from the corner of the room while someone else gets to stand next to you in plain sight.

He wants to be the one walking you out. He wants to talk to you over lunch without keeping his hands to himself. He wants to look at you the way he actually feels—open, unguarded.

But he can’t. Not yet.

So Minho sits at his desk long after you’ve gone, staring blankly at his monitor. The office falls into silence and he presses a hand over his face, exhaling a sharp breath.

“Just a few more days,” he mutters to himself. “Then I’m done hiding.”

-

The day is finally here and Minho, who told himself he didn’t care about the outcome anymore, keeps checking the corner of his screen every few minutes—refresh, refresh, refresh.

Then a small, innocuous ping comes. An email from HR. Subject line: “Department Promotion Results.”

His cursor hovers over it for a second before he clicks. He scans the message once, twice—his brain takes a moment to register what he’s reading. His name. His name is there. For a moment, everything around him blurs. He exhales slowly. Not triumphant, not relieved—just quiet.

When he looks up, you’re already watching him. You smile, small and proud, your hands coming together in a subtle clap. Then, just as softly, you mouth the words “congratulations.”

He gives a faint smile back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows you meant it. He knows how hard you worked, how many nights you stayed late, how much you wanted this, too. It should feel like victory, but it doesn’t. It feels… unfair.

Within minutes, the office erupts. His co-workers crowd around his desk to congratulate him, give him pats on his back, handshakes, jokes about drinks tonight.

He nods, smiles, says all the right things. Thank you. Yeah, unexpected. No, really, you worked hard too.

But through the noises around him, he sees you. You’re standing there with Felix by your side. He’s leaning slightly toward you, saying something that makes you laugh quietly into your hand.

Minho’s smile fades a little. He got the promotion. He should be happy. But as he catches one last glimpse of you across the room with your gentle smile and someone else by your side, Minho realizes that winning doesn’t feel anything like he thought it would.

-

His team had picked the place for celebration tonight, a restaurant not far from the office. It’s loud with the sound of drunken chatters and clinking glasses, the smell of grilled meat hanging warm in the air. Minho sits at the far end of the long table, the so-called man of the hour, with a half-empty glass and too many congratulations ringing in his ears.

You sit across from him and right beside you, the little shit himself, Felix.

He’s been watching it all evening. The way Felix leans toward you when he talks. The way you laugh in response. The way Felix fills your glass, slides another plate of meat in front of you with that stupid grin that never seems to fade.

Minho knows tonight’s supposed to be about the team — about gratitude, hard work, leadership. But the more he watches you, the more that gnawing ache in his chest grows, curling tight around his ribs.

One of the senior coworkers stands, raising a glass. “Let’s give another round of applause for Minho, everyone! You’ve earned this, man. Thanks for treating us tonight!”

The table erupts in cheers. Minho stands too, smiling, nodding, waiting for the noise to settle before he speaks.

“Thank you, everyone,” he says, voice even. “You’ve all worked hard — really hard. I couldn’t have done this without the team.”

He glances across the table, his eyes finding you. “And—” he adds, his tone softening, “I’d also like everyone to congratulate her. She worked just as hard, and honestly, it could’ve gone either way.”

The team turns to you with warm smiles, raising glasses, clinking them in your direction. You smile back, offering a small toast of your own.

It should end there. It could end there. But then your gaze meets his again. Your eyes are bright, proud, and something in them makes his chest tighten and he’s tired… He’s tired of distance.

Minho’s mouth moves before his mind catches up. “And since we’re being honest,” he continues, voice steady but low, “I think it’s also time everyone knew—”

You tilt your head slightly, brows furrowing.

Minho exhales. “—that she and I are together.”

The words hang in the air and for a moment, no one speaks. The clinking stops. The hum of conversation dies. Then, quiet murmurs ripple through the table — hesitant appaluds, a few exchanged looks, an awkward cough somewhere down the row.

But all Minho sees is you and how your smile falters, fading into something that looks like disbelief. Then disappointment. Your eyes drop, and you reach for your drink, pressing your lips together.

The pit in Minho’s stomach sinks deeper. He thought this would feel right — freeing, even. He thought it would feel like he was finally claiming what you both had been protecting in secret for too long.

But as the silence stretches and your gaze refuses to meet his, Minho realizes that instead of making things easier… he’s just made everything harder.

-

The cold night air greets him the second Minho steps out of the restaurant, the soft buzz of conversation fading as the door swings shut behind him. Minho steps into the narrow alley beside the building, loosening his tie and letting out a slow breath. He stops when he finds you there, standing next to the stack of cases filled with empty beer bottles.

“Minho.” Your voice is steady, but he can hear the tension coiled in it.

“What’s going on?” he asks lightly, as if nothing’s wrong. “I think that went well, didn’t it? Everyone knows now. No more sneaking around.”

You’re stunned by how casually he says it. “Went well?” You step closer, lowering your voice. “You didn’t even talk to me before saying anything.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. We’ve been keeping it quiet long enough. It’s not like they wouldn’t find out eventually.”

“That’s not the point, Minho.” Your voice cracks slightly, and that gets his attention. “You decided that for both of us without even asking. Do you realize how that looks?”

Minho frowns. “Why are you so mad about this? I thought you’d be relieved. At least now we don’t have to hide.”

You exhale shakily, frustration bleeding through your calm tone. “You’re not listening. It’s not just about you. You’ll be moving into your own office, your own title. People will treat you with respect. But me?” You gesture helplessly toward yourself. “I have to stay down there and hear the whispers. The gossip. The jokes about how I probably got special treatment.”

Minho’s brows draw together, his jaw tight. “You really think I’d let anyone say that about you?”

“I think you don’t understand what it’s like to be me right now.”

Silence falls. The air feels heavier between you and him, the warm light from the restaurant spilling weakly into the alley.

He looks at you and knows that you’re upset, eyes shining with a mix of anger and something else, something he can’t name. And for a moment, he wants to reach out, to pull you in, to say it’s okay. But the words you say next knock the breath out of him.

“Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“What?”

“This. Us. Being together, being involved with someone at work.”

For a long moment, Minho just stand there, processing your words. Then, slowly, he scoffs — the sound low and disbelieving. “Good,” he says finally, his voice flat but sharp. “Because I’m moving out of that office anyway. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

You look like you want to say something, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He turns away, walking toward the street. The air is cold against his skin, his heartbeat heavy in his throat.

Behind him, the alley stays quiet. He doesn’t look back.

-

You stand there for a moment, frozen under the restaurant’s neon glow, watching Minho’s back disappear into the night. The air feels colder without him — not because of the weather, but because of how he left.

You hug your coat tighter around yourself, blinking hard as if that could wash away the sting sitting heavy behind your eyes. It shouldn’t have ended like that. Not after everything.

Soon, the night ends with your coworkers file out in pairs and small groups, laughing, slinging arms over each other’s shoulders, still high from food and drinks and the aftertaste of celebration. You nod absently when they say goodbye, offering faint smiles that don’t quite reach your eyes.

Their taxis pull up one by one, headlights sweeping across the curb, until it’s just you left standing there. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the taxi app, the screen glowing dimly in the dark. You’re halfway through opening it when a voice calls softly, “Hey.”

You turn and Felix is there, standing a few steps away, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his hair a little messy from the wind. He tilts his head, concern flickering in his eyes. “Did you already order one?”

You glance at your phone again and the app’s still open on the home screen, untouched. “Not yet,” you admit quietly.

Felix hums, nodding as if he expected that. “Then take mine,” he says gently. “It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

You kindly refuse his offer. “It’s okay, Felix. I—”

He waves off your protest with a small grin. “It’s fine. I can wait for the next one.”

You hesitate but eventually sigh, nodding. “Thank you.”

For a while, you both stand there in silence. The city hums around you — cars passing, laughter spilling from the restaurant doors, the faint clatter of dishes being cleared inside. Then Felix speaks, his voice calm and almost careful. “You know,” he starts, eyes on the street instead of you, “everyone kind of knew about you and Minho.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t say anything.

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I mean… it wasn’t hard to notice. The looks, the way you two tried not to look at each other.” His tone is light, teasing, but not unkind. Then, quieter, “People just didn’t want to say anything. Probably because, well… it’s Minho.”

You huff out a quiet, surprised laugh at that. “That sounds about right.”

Felix’s smile widens a little, but then his expression softens. “Still, you shouldn’t worry too much about what people think,” he says gently. “They’ll talk, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re right. What matters is how you feel about it. About him.”

You glance up at him. His tone is steady, his eyes warm — no judgment, no gossip. Just kindness. Despite everything, you smile. “You’re really too nice, Felix.”

He grins, wide and bright. “Someone’s gotta be.”

Right on time, the taxi pulls in beside you, headlights briefly washing over both of you.

Felix opens the door for you, holding it as you climb into the backseat.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice softer now. “For the ride. And for… that.”

“No worries,” he simply says, his smile still gentle. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Felix.”

He shuts the door lightly, and as the taxi pulls away, you glance back once — he’s still there on the curb, hands in his pockets, watching until the car disappears into the stream of lights.

You lean back against the seat, the city passing in blurs of orange and gold outside the window.

Felix’s words linger in your mind, echoing softly. What matters is how you feel about it. About him.

And as much as you want to be angry, you can’t stop your chest from aching in that same, familiar way whenever you think of Minho.

-

You spend the whole weekend doing everything except actually resting. You try cleaning the apartment. You try reading. You even try to cook a recipe you found on the internet. But no matter what you do, the thought of Minho threading through your head, looping over and over like a movie you can’t turn off.

You can still see him in that alley and the way he looked at you, the disbelief in his eyes before he turned and walked away. You keep telling yourself you were right to be upset. He should’ve talked to you first. You both deserved to decide that moment together.

But the longer you sit with it, the more the edges of your anger start to blur. Because maybe he was just… tired of hiding. Maybe saying it out loud was his way of telling the world you mattered to him.

You sigh, pressing your palms over your eyes. “God, why did I say that?”

Maybe this was a bad idea. Those words replay in your mind like a cruel echo. Because it wasn’t a bad idea. It never was. He’s the one thing that makes the long days worth it, the one thing that makes you smile before you even reach your desk. The reason you tried harder, pushed further, believed you could do more.

And now you’ve gone and ruined it with those damn words.

You toss and turn in bed, the sheets tangled around you, until you give up pretending to sleep. You check the time on your phone — it’s late, but not too late. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding as a single thought settles in your chest. You could fix this. You could just go to him. Tell him what you meant, what you really feel.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you throw off the covers and pull on your jeans, tugging a jacket over your shoulders. You grab your wallet, your phone, keys and head for the door.

You open the door all at once, not expecting to see Minho there, his hand still half-raised in the air, as if he’d been caught mid-knock. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before softening.

The hallway is silent except for your breath and the faint noises coming from your next-door neighbors. You both just stare — two people who were so sure of what they wanted days ago, suddenly speechless now that the chance to fix it is right in front of them.

“Minho…” you whisper, your voice breaking just enough to give you away.

He drops his hand, exhales, and takes a slow step closer. His eyes flicker between your face and the floor, and the silence stretches until he finally speaks.

“I was wrong,” he starts quietly, his voice rough, hesitant. “I should’ve talked to you before I said anything at dinner. I just—”

Before the words even settle, you crash into him, your arms circling his shoulders, holding on so tight you almost knock him off balance. He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you with a soft grunt of surprise.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You just press your face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him. When you finally pull back, your fingers are still clutching at the front of his shirt. You look up at him, your voice trembling but certain. “I’m sorry… For what I said. I didn’t mean it — any of it. This isn’t a bad idea, Minho. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He looks at you, eyes soft but searching. You keep going before your nerves catch up. “I don’t care what people say. I don’t care about the gossip or the whispers or anything else. I like being with you.”

His lips twitch, just barely, into that smirk you know too well. He notices that you’re holding your wallet and phone in your hands. “Were you about to head out?”

You nod.

He tilts his head just slightly, teasing. “To see me?”

Caught off guard, you drop your gaze, feeling your cheeks heat. “Maybe.”

He chuckles under his breath and before you can say anything else, he pulls you close again, one hand on your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck, and his mouth finds yours. The kiss starts slow, then deepens with the kind of longing that only comes after too many days apart.

You smile against his lips, your heart hammering, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you kiss him back. The tension, the regret, the words you both said in anger — they all dissolve in that moment.

When you finally break apart, your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, and everything feels a lot lighter. And for the first time in days, you know — things are okay now.

-

Minho kicks the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, carrying you straight to the bedroom only to pause halfway when he spots the mess of blankets and pillows tossed haphazardly on it. He raises an eyebrow at you, smirk creeping back in.

“Been… nesting in here?” He accuses, nodding at the obvious evidence of your sleepless nights before lying you down gently on the mattress.

You tenderly frame his face with your hands. “Yeah,” you admit with a small voice.

He leans in, covering your body with his, kissing you with a hunger that borders on desperation. “Missed this…” he murmurs between kisses, hands roaming possessively over your sides. “Even when I was pissed… all I could think about was how much I fucking missed you.”

His lips trail down your neck, pausing just over your ear to whisper, "Did you miss me?"

You turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. “I missed you,” you pause to press a quick kiss on his jaw and then you add, “So much.”

His entire body melting into yours as if you'd just unknotted every tense muscle in him. His arms tighten around you, face buried in the crook of your neck for a long moment. His teeth graze that sensitive spot just below your ear—harder this time—as his hands slide under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin he can reach. His hips press down against yours with deliberate friction, drawing a choked moan from your lips.

His fingers dig into your waist when you arch against him, his voice dropping to a growl. “Still think this was a bad idea?”

You sheepishly smile, fingers trailing the shape of his jaw. “You’re a bad idea,” you playfully say.

His eyebrow perks up. “Yeah?”

Before you can answer, Minho crashes his mouth to yours in a kiss that tastes like mine, mine, mine. His hands are everywhere at once — threading into your hair, skating down your ribs, gripping your thigh to hitch it around his hip.

“Try getting rid of me now,” he mutters against your lips before biting down on your lower one. His hips roll against yours in a slow, filthy grind—just enough to remind you exactly how much he plans to keep you close.

Your hands are clawing at the opening of his shirt, struggling to unbutton it without looking, without detaching your mouth from his. Soon enough, you manage to part it open halfway.

Minho reluctantly let go of the kiss to take it off for you, tossing the shirt aside. But he’s just as impatient as he tugs at your clothes, his eyes darkening as he stares at the expanse of skin you’ve just revealed. His fingertips trace the valley between your breasts like it’s something sacred before his mouth follows, placing gentle kisses on the skin.

“Mine…” His voice is wrecked, hands sliding down to unbutton your jeans with agonizing slowness. "All mine."

His grin turns devilish as he shoves the fabric down your hips in one rough motion and then, he leans in, propping a hand against the mattress next to your head while the other trailing down your stomach until his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear. He lets them snap back against your skin before dipping lower, just to tease.

“Going to make you come like this first,” he murmurs, fingers rubbing between the slick folds, “then fuck you so slow it drives us both insane.”

His teeth graze your earlobe as his fingers finally slip inside—curling just right. “…Unless you've got a better idea?”

Instead of answering, you pull him for another kiss, all teeth and tongue. Your nails clawing at his warm, honey skin of his back. You’re moaning into the kiss and Minho swallows each

His free hand skims up your ribs to rub at your nipple, rolling it lazily between his fingers as he watches you writhe.

“So sensitive…” he breathes, not even trying to hide how much it turns him on. His pace quickens abruptly, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit while his thrusting fingers push you toward the edge. Your hips are lifted off the bed, chasing more frictions, more of that curl of his fingers that tease you right on the spot that makes you—

“Oh—” Your loud, broken moan echoing in the room and Minho can feel the way you’re tightening, your walls fluttering as you come undone around his fingers. Your hips slumping back onto the bed, your fingers grasping at the sheets, needing something to hold on.

Minho slowly draws his fingers out of you, his eyes widening at the sight of his fingers coated with your essence. In such hurry, he undoes his jeans, pulling it down just enough to let his erection sprung free. He gives it a few strokes before aligning it to your entrance.

“I’m still coming,” you whine, still relishing your high.

He ignores your warning, his hands grip your hips hard as he slides his cock in one smooth thrust. The groan that tears from his throat is raw, unrestrained, his forehead dropping against yours as he lets you feel every inch of him — hot and swollen, pulsating with desire.

“Fuck. You’re still clenching from the first one," he mutters through his gritted teeth.

He pulls out almost all the way—just to slam back in deeper, stealing your breath with each snap of his hips. When his mouth crashes onto yours again, it’s all teeth and shared moans.

Soon, your moans turn into cries, and at times, a mix of the two. You’re overstimulated, yet he can feel you heading to another orgasm. He keeps going, thrusting into you until you’re on the brink of your climax and then, he pulls out.

Minho watches hungrily as you whimper from the sudden emptiness, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread. His cock twitches against your hip, slick with proof of how much he’s holding back.

“Not yet,” he simply says. His thumb circles your clit in torturous little flicks—just enough to make your back arch off the bed again. He doesn’t bother taking his jeans off, letting it tugging around his thighs as he leans down. His head hanging between your legs for a moment before planting his mouth on your throbbing cunt.

“Minho, please…” you sweetly, weakly beg.

His tongue flattens against your clit in one broad, filthy stroke—the vibration of his answering groan making you jolt. His hands pin your hips down as he devours you like it’s his sole purpose, alternating between cruel sucks and flicking the tip of his tongue just there, right on your bundle of nerves where he knows you can’t take it.

“Louder,” he orders against your wet folds before sealing his mouth over you again—sucking until your thighs tremble around his head. "Wanna hear how much you want it."

His fingers slide back inside you, curling in time with each desperate rock of your hips. He doesn’t let up—not even when tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. Minho once again stops when you’re tethering on the edge, making your head drops onto the pillow with a defeated sigh. In a second, he’s up, positioning himself between your legs. His cock dripping with need as he lines himself up—teasing the tip against your entrance in slow circles just to watch you squirm. His hips shift—pushing in just the tip, then pulling back with a cruel smirk at your whimper.

“Minho, please...” you breathlessly plead again and again.

Minho hears it. He indulges on the desperation that laced your voice. He hikes up your thighs higher and then, pushing his cock deeper into you. Your mouth falls open, letting out an inaudible gasp from the fullness.

His hands lock under your knees, spreading you wider as he leans down—lips brushing yours in a barely-there kiss. “Good girl.” The praise is rough with want. "Taking me so fucking deep…”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust—just starts a ruthless pace, each snap of his hips dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Minho…” you softly call between your moans. You wait until his eyes find yours and then, you say, “Slowly.”

He leans in closer until his face hovering inches away from yours. “Slowly?”

You nod. “Want to feel you more.”

His hips stuttering mid-thrust before he forces himself to slow—grinding deep instead of pulling out, letting you feel every inch as his forehead drops to yours.

“You want to go slow, mmh?” he pants, voice strained like it’s physically paining him to hold back. “Okay, then.”

His next thrust is agonizingly deliberate—circling his hips just to watch your lashes flutter. His fingers tangle with yours above your head, pinning them there as he murmurs, “There, feel me. Feel every inch of me.”

You hum, a lazy, blissful smile blooms on your face. “Yeah, like that.”

Not long after, he can feel you loosening around him, melting into the slow, almost languid thrusts. You’re breathlessly moaning, hands roaming around your body, touching yourself, fondling on your breasts. It’s so arousing that he can’t help but joining in, licking your nipples until they’re wet with his saliva.

His next thrust is even slower—a deliberate, torturous drag that makes you both gasp as he lingers deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. “Feel it?” He asks followed with a quick press of his lips on your jaw. "Feel how much I want you?"

He rolls his hips in a slow circle just to emphasize the point—his fingers tightening around yours as he exhales shakily.

You nod as you pull his head closer, allowing you to kiss him — slowly, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

Minho melts into the kiss, his groan vibrating against your lips as his hips move in sync with yours. His hands slide under you to pull your body even closer, eliminating every last inch of space between you.

“Fuck…” His voice breaks when you roll your hips up to meet his next thrust. “I don’t ever want to stop.”

He nips at your lower lip before swallowing your next moan—his rhythm growing just a fraction rougher, betraying how badly he’s clinging to restraint.

Your arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging into the flesh he’s sure you’re leaving crescent marks on the skin. You break the kiss to mutter against his lips, “Minho, I'm about to come.”

His arms locking around you like he wants to fuse your bodies together. His voice is pure gravel when he rasps against your mouth. “Come,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me feel you come around me.”

His next thrust is brutal, angled just right to tip you over the edge with a cry and the second you fall apart, his control crumbles. His thrusts turning rough, erratic as he chases his own release. His hands scramble to grip your hips, pulling you onto him with every snap of his hips until he stills, buried deep as a broken groan tears from his throat.

His forehead drops against yours, entire body shuddering through the aftershocks. Then, he collapses on top of you—still panting, still catching his breath—before placing his lips on yours for a long, deep kiss.

When he pulls away, he has one hand cupping your jaw and then, he says, “Next time we argue… remind me that making up feels this good.”

-

You and Minho lie tangled together on your bed, the air warm and soft between you. His arm drapes loosely around your waist, your leg slung over his, the kind of closeness that makes it hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins. His skin is warm under your palm, his breathing steady and slow, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, he meets you halfway.

When you pull away, you’re still smiling, your fingertips tracing idle circles over his chest. “Congratulations, by the way,” you murmur, and he hums, eyes still closed, lips quirking into that familiar coy smile.

You love that about him—the calm, the quiet confidence. So unbothered. So effortlessly attractive doing absolutely nothing.

“I knew you’d get it,” you say softly, your voice half proud, half teasing.

He opens one eye to look at you. “And you said you were going to crush me.”

You chuckle, pressing your nose lightly against his jaw. “You’re too hard to beat.”

You laugh under your breath and shift closer until your hand rests on his chest again. “And that’s okay because I like rich men,” you tease.

He turns his head toward you, eyes glinting with mischief. “Then you’re seducing the wrong man.”

You gasp in mock offense, swatting at his chest before snuggling closer, clinging to him like you might never let go. “Fine,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes, “now tell me, what should I get for your new office?”

He hums, pretending to think, and then he leans in close—so close that his breath brushes against your ear—and whispers it.

Your eyes go wide as you gasp and lightly smack his chest again, shaking your head. “No way. You’re getting a plant. That’s all you’re getting.”

He laughs, low and throaty, the sound vibrating against your cheek as you nestle back into the crook of his neck. The silence that follows is easy, comforting, the kind that feels like home.

Then you let out a small sigh. “I’m going to miss it.”

Minho looks down at you. “Miss what?”

Your fingers trace the shape of his jaw. “You sitting across from me,” you say quietly. “You pretending to focus on your screen when you’re actually staring at me.”

His lips twitch into a grin. “I was never pretending.”

You nudge him gently. “Still. It’s going to feel strange not having you there.”

For a moment, he just watches you, eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache. “I’ll still be around,” he says, brushing your hair from your face. “Just… from a fancier desk.”

You snort, but it’s affectionate. “Right. Fancy man, fancy office.”

You stack your hands together on his chest, propping it under your chin. You stare at him with a small grin tugging at your lips. “Does this mean I have to suck up to you now?”

His grin turns devilish. “Oh, you have a lot of sucking up to do.”

You barely have time to roll your eyes before he pulls you in, kissing you again—slow, smiling against your lips, the kind of kiss that makes the world outside his arms feel completely irrelevant.

-

The day Minho finally packs up his things feels strangely anticlimactic.

You sit at your desk, trying to focus on the spreadsheet open on your screen, but your eyes keep drifting to the man across from you. Or rather—the man who usedto be across from you.

Minho is tidying up the last of his things, sliding a few folders into a box, unplugging his desk lamp, organizing the files and items he’s taking with him. Your coworkers are also watching from their desks, a few of them congratulating him again despite having done it a dozen times already.

He takes it all with his usual calm charm of polite smirks, dry one-liners, that small bow of his head when someone praises him too much. And then, just like that, he’s done.

“Alright,” he announces, lifting the box. “Don’t miss me too much.”

People laugh. Someone says, “We won’t,” and someone else says, “We definitely will,” and he makes a face at both.

He starts walking away with them wishing him the best on his new title. He glances back only once, eyes sweeping over the department—then landing on you.

It’s a moment so brief you’re not even sure anyone else sees it. His gaze softens just a little. Everyone knows about you and him now, but that only means you have to show professionalism more than usual. You give him a small, subtle nod, encouraging him to go ahead.

With that, he turns the corner and disappears.

You exhale quietly into the sudden emptiness and when you glance up again, his desk is bare. No lamp. No folders. No Minho sitting there pretending not to stare at you while you pretend not to look back.

You didn’t expect it to hit you like this—this tiny ache in your chest, this sense of something missing, like a song stopped halfway through. You’re really going to miss him sitting there. Miss those glances, those dangerous little exchanges. Miss knowing he was always right within reach.

You sigh and force yourself to look back at your work and try to adjust to this change. But before you type anything, your phone buzzes on your desk.

You reach for it, expecting another email notification. But instead, it’s a new text message from him.

Minho: I expect you in my office soon.

A slow, uncontrollable smile curls onto your lips.

You look at his empty desk again and instead of feeling that ache from moments earlier, something else settles in your chest. Something steadier. Surer. Because suddenly, the space between your desks doesn’t feel like distance at all.

You don’t fear it. You don’t fear the change. Not anymore. If anything, you know that it’s only going to pull the two of you closer than ever.

You pick up your phone again, already texting him back.

You: On my way, Mr. Manager.

-

✨ DESKJOB: BONUS CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨

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[yubinism]

oh and cheers to the perfect ending to the most perfect series ever 🥹 this was shaped in such a beautiful way, i am diving in the series again now that it ends. holds both the essence of smut and romance and plot absolutely to perfection. im so in love with this series 🙂‍↕️ thank you our dear eff for this piece, i am delving in the pride i have for you all day all year along 🤩

[seospicybin]

DESKJOB.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lee Know x reader. (s)

CHAPTERS: ONE / TWO / THREE

Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him, and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (8,8k words)

Author's note: It's here, it's here. Hope you enjoy it and I'll appreciate it if your share your thoughts on this 🙏🏻💗

No one in the office seems to notice. Not the lingering touches when you pass by his desk, not the way Minho’s gaze always finds you first during meetings, not the occasional late nights when the two of you “stay behind to finish reports.” It’s reckless, really — the glances, the near-misses, the unspoken thrill of getting away with it. Maybe it’s because Minho wears that same calm expression he always does, or because you’ve learned to keep your voice steady even when your heartbeat isn’t. But somehow, no one suspects a thing and that, in its own way, makes it even harder to stop.

Today is just another day of replying emails, finishing reports and taking calls from the other departments about more reports to check and finish. But between you and Minho, there’s a quieter, heavier rhythm: stolen glances, small smirks, and that pulse of something that’s neither work nor friendship.

You’re in the middle of answering an email when your phone lights up with a new text.

Minho: That color looks dangerous.

You glance up from your screen to find him staring at you from across the room, a smirk tugs on one corner of his mouth. You press your lips together, pretending to be focused, but your thumbs move quickly under your desk.

You: You mean the lipstick? Minho: What else would I mean? You: It’s just red, Minho. Minho: Nothing “just” about it.

You can feel his gaze, tracing you from the other end of the room — the same look that’s gotten you flustered a hundred times before.

When you stand to drop something into the copy tray, he follows you with his eyes, his tongue pushing against his cheek, the faintest smile playing there. When you return to your desk, your phone lights up with a new text.

Minho: That color would look good on me.

It’s typical Minho. Subtle, teasing, dangerous. You bite back a smile before typing your reply.

You: Let’s put that to a test, then.

You don’t even look up as you push your chair back, pretending to stretch before heading down the hall, but before you step out, you glance over your shoulder long enough for him to notice the barely-there tilt of your head.

The signal.

Minho doesn’t move right away. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s too smart to do something hastily. You can imagine him waiting, counting the seconds in his head before finally standing, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying a folder like he’s just on his way to drop it off.

The storage room door clicks shut behind you. It’s dim and quiet, almost complicit. You lean against one of the shelves, arms crossed, the corner of your lips curved in something that’s equal parts challenge and invitation.

It doesn’t take long before you hear the faint sound of footsteps that you already know by heart at this point. A second later, Minho appears in the doorway, the fitted white shirt accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, his tie a little loose around the collar, that knowing smirk tugging at his mouth.

“So this is what you meant by ‘putting it to the test,’ huh?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it feels like it slides right under your skin.

You arch a brow. “You’re the one who said my lipstick would look good on you.”

He takes a step closer and then another until there’s barely a breath between you. His hand brushes against the shelf beside your hip, casual but claiming. “You’re getting braver,” he says softly, gaze flicking down to your lips.

“And you’re getting more obedient,” you counter, your voice a whisper but laced with challenge.

His smirk deepens. “You think so?”

Before you can respond, he closes the last inch between you. His fingers find your chin, tilting it up just slightly, and the world narrows to the warmth of his breath, the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, the small space closing in on you.

But on the last second, you put your hand over his lips, blocking him from kissing you.

His eyebrow’s arched in both annoyance and intrigue. “Getting very, very brave now,” he mutters, his gaze dark and intense, the kind that always sends a shiver down your spine.

Before he can think of a punishment or a way to get back at you, you put your hands on his chest. You gently push him, steering his body to where you want him until his back hits the shelf on the corner of the room, the two of you hidden behind the shelves full of archive boxes.

This time, you have him caged between your arms. Slowly, you lean in, closing the gap inch by inch until your lips lingering close enough that your breath brushes his. You smile a sly, seductive smile as you tilt your head to the side.

“I know a way to know if this color looks good on you,” you purr into his ear.

You drop your head to the other side as you place your hands on his shoulders now. “The only right way,” you add, voice low and sultry.

Minho smirks, knowing what you have in mind as you slowly lowering yourself while dragging your hands down his front until you’re on your knees and your fingers tugging at the waistband of his slacks. You glance up, meeting his eyes and he’s already looking down at you with his dark, sharp eyes.

That look used to scare you but now, it only makes you want to dare him, challenge him more. Without breaking the eye contact, you work open his slacks. The sound of zipper opening feels so obscenely loud in this small space. You pull his briefs down just enough to set his semi-hard free.

His eyes widening as you wrap your hand around him and start stroking, slowly, almost languid. You can feel it hardening in each passing second with veins coiling around it. That’s when you stick your tongue out just slightly and lean forward, placing the smallest yet the gentlest lick on the tip of his cock like you would to an ice cream.

Minho stays still but you can hear the shaky exhale he lets out through his parted mouth, his eyes falter for a brief second and then back to look at you kneeling in front of him. He watches as you place more of those kitten licks all over his swollen member. His breath hitches when you drag your tongue from the base to the tip of his cock.

“Getting way braver now, mmh?” he murmurs, his hand stays on the nape of your neck, careful to not mess your neat hair bun.

You let out a low chuckle before twirling your tongue around the crest and without giving him a second to brace himself, you take him into your mouth. He feels hot and stiff, slightly twitching when you suck a little harder.

You pull away slowly, looking at the wet trace of your mouth around his length, glistening and pulsating. You look up at him and he’s smirking, eyes wide and dark when he gazes into your eyes.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, catching the faint trace of lipstick now smeared all over his cock. He looks at it, then at you. “Guess you were right. It does look good on me.”

You daringly stare back into his eyes and say, “I know I’m right.”

Minho shoves his thumb into your mouth and you instantly wrap your lips around it, sucking at it. After a while, he slowly pulls it out with a smirk tugging at his lips. “You really shouldn’t start things you can’t finish,” he mutters, holding your face by your chin now.

You match his smirk, thumb circling the crest of his cock. “Who said I won’t?”

With that, you take him into your mouth again, deeper but only as far as you can take and compensate the rest with your hand. You sync the movements together — mouth sucking harder, hand stroking faster and occasionally humming around his cock, letting him know that you’re enjoying this too.

“Fuck,” he hoarsely curses, eyes glinting wildly. “Look at those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

You flick your eyes up at him, looking at him through your lashes — his jaws tight, his mouth parted open, breathing low and ragged. His eyes fluttering shut but when he opens them, he finds yours immediately in a searing gaze. The look of awe and lust on his face makes you want to do it more, pleasing and unraveling him all at once.

The room feels smaller now that it’s so quiet except for the obscene noises from your wet mouth dragging against his length and Minho’s supressed grunts when he’s not spitting dirty words at you. The two of you completely unaware that you’re in the middle of work, in a room that is unlocked and anyone can walk in at any minute.

But that’s the thrill of it, that’s what keeps you going. Well, that and the way Minho struggles not to show how much he’s actually enjoying it. He’s close, you know he’s close and you’re not going to stop until he’s coming undone in your mouth.

And then, footsteps. Approaching.

Minho stiffens for a second as the footsteps stop just right outside the door and then a low chatter, someone talking and another set of footsteps joining in. His hand gripping tighter on the nape of your neck and the other firmly cupping your jaw, unsure whether he’s trying to stop you or guiding you.

You ignore both his warning touches and the people chatting right outside the door, instead of stopping, you’re hollowing your cheeks and sucking him harder. You close your eyes and focus on pleasing him, taking him to the edge.

“Don’t you dare stop looking me in the eyes,” he warns, the grip on the nape of your neck is tighter now, almost punishing.

You obey him, maintaining eye contact with him as your mouth is full of him, hot and stiff. Panic sparks when someone tugging at the doorknob and it rattles just slightly, you abruptly stop.

But the hand on the nape of your neck urges you to keep moving. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks through his gritted teeth, heavy and assertive.

He has both hands on your jaws now, keeping your head still and at his mercy. With a wicked grin, he adds, “You’re going to finish it, princess.”

Then, he moves his hips forward, gently as to not startle you. He tests the depth by sliding his cock into your mouth and pulling it back a few times. “Now, take it like a good girl you are,” he says, both commanding and taunting as he begins thrusting into you.

You’re still on your knees with mouth open and taking him as best as you can, helpless as he’s using you as his please. But there’s something inexplicably arousing about it too that have you drenched between the legs.

“You said it yourself,” he breathlessly mutters, eyes narrowing as he gazes down at you. “That you won’t stop. So take it, take my cock in that filthy mouth of yours.”

You’re humming in responds, agreeing with him but he takes it as a protest and stutters a thrust into your mouth, intentionally making you choke on it. He pulls back, letting you catch a breath before slipping it back in.

“I’m not going to stop until I come all over your pretty face,” he taunts but it only arouses you more as he smirks with his teeth faintly biting his lower lip.

Minho thrusts a few times more and then, he pulls back all the way until there’s only a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. You’re still gasping for air when he grabs your chin and tilts your head up.

“Open wide, princess,” he says, his voice heavy and filled with urgency as his hand pumping his cock, fast and sloppy.

You do as he says, licking your lips before opening your mouth for him, wide with your tongue slightly sticking out, ready to take every drop of him.

“Eyes on me,” he commands, hand gripping the side of your neck now.

You nod just barely, keeping your eyes on him. Your hands dropping to your lap, gripping at the hem of your skirt to anchor yourself in the moment. You swallow air for every second passed watching him pumping his cock, his eyes clouded with lust and lips pressed together to contain his grunts.

“Give it to me, Minho,” you breathless mutter like a thirsty animal. “Give it to me, please.”

A crooked smirk dances on his face as he mutters, “Oh, I’m going to give it to you.”

The first string of his seed lands across your lips and tongue, the next one land on your chin and when you think he’s done, another string lands on your face. It’s hot and sticky, you keep your eyes closed to not let it getting into your eyes.

“I—” you stop mid-sentence, not sure what to do or say with his release painted your face. You chuckle instead with one eye open, saying, “Minho, I can’t even—”

Minho seems to be in a daze as it takes him a second to finally do something. He chuckles as he reaches for you, gently wiping the pearly white fluid with his thumb, gathering it around your mouth. You don’t wait for his instruction to swallow it down — the only way to remove any trace of evidence of the lewd act you committed together.

With that, you open your eyes and the second you meet his, you both laugh at the same time. He offers his hands at you, helping you to get back on your feet. Before you can steady yourself, he pulls you close until your chest crashes against his, wrapping you in his arms.

His hand returns to the nape of your neck, bringing your head close until your lips only inches away from his. “Do you know how fucking hot you look with my cum all over your face?” he asks with a hushed tone like he wants you to be the only one hearing it.

You bite at your lower lip, catching the desire in his eyes that is far from being satisfied. “You tell me,” you daringly say, looping your arms around his shoulders.

The smirk on his face tells that he’s impressed by your answer. His eyes drop to your lips and you can see that he doesn’t have any more patience left in him to wait another second. Finally, he kisses you for the first time today. His arms wrapped tighter around you, drawing you closer until your body moulds against his.

The kiss deepens before you can catch a breath. His hand slides up the side of your neck, fingertips tracing the line of your jaw as if memorizing it. The kiss is slow but hungry, like he wants to savor every second of it. It goes on like that for a long moment, just the two of you cocooned in warmth, dim light and secret.

When he finally draws back, there’s not even a faint of lipstick left on your lips, they’re bare and swollen, and he looks at you like you’ve just rewritten his day. He smiles, breath low against your ear as he whispers, “I think we need another coat of lipstick.”

-

You both take a moment before leaving — fixing your clothes, smoothing your hair, checking for any trace of lipstick that might give you away. Minho tucks his shirt into his slacks and zips it shut, while you discreetly pat your cheeks, still flushed from more than just the heat of the cramped room.

You slowly turn on your feet to face him and hesitantly ask. “Do I look decent?”

Minho finishes buckling his belt and that allows him to properly look at you, his eyes sweeping over you and lingering for a little too long on your swollen lips and the way your blouse is just wrinkled enough to betray what you’ve been doing.

“Decent?” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Not even close. You look like you just ruined someone in a storage room.”

He leans his back against the shelf and crosses his arms together, one corner of his mouth raises in a crooked smile. “Luckily for us… I happen to like that look on you.”

He always knows what to say without even trying and you can’t fight the smile blooming on your face. You reach for the door, looking over your shoulder. “Wait a moment before you walk out,” you warn, turning back to your serious, work mode.

With that, you turn the knob and step out first, pretending nothing’s amiss. However, despite your warning, Minho catches the door before it shuts and he leans against the frame as he watches you scan the hallway.

“I told you to wait,” you sigh, but your smile tells that you’re delighted instead of annoyed.

"I waited for five seconds,” he calmly responds with a nonchalant shrug.

You let him like you always do but before you two can even take two steps down the corridor, you stop in your track.

“Ah, there you are!” Felix’s voice is bright and unassuming.

Though it’s unclear if he caught you and Minho exiting the storage room together,

our mind racing for an excuse. Should you tell him that you and Minho were supposed to be looking for files? checking inventory? fixing something?

But before you can decide on a believable excuse, Felix continues. “The director’s been looking for you two,” he says, smiling as he shifts his tablet under his arm. “Said he wants to see you both in her office. Right now, actually.”

The usual calmness that resides on Minho’s face falters for a brief moment and you can feel it, how the air shifts, your heart beating faster now.

“Did she uh… did she say why?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light, even though your stomach’s already sinking.

Felix shakes his head. “No clue. But it seems important.”

He glances between the two of you, still smiling and it tells you that he’s oblivious, maybe, or just polite enough not to question why you and Minho happened to walk out of the storage room together.

Minho steps in between you and Felix, face turned your way. “Well, then it’s best to not keep her waiting.”

You force a small laugh and nod, though your palms begin to sweat, heart thudding too fast as you follow Minho down the hall. For the first time, the silence between you isn’t heavy with desire, but with dread.

-

After a quick stop at your desk to apply a fresh coat of lipstick and checking yourself in the small compact mirror, you’re walking together with Minho toward the director’s office. Every step feels heavier than the last. You keep glancing around at the closed doors, at the quiet offices as if someone might step out and accuse you right there.

Minho is beside you, looking calm, way too calm while your thoughts spiral out of control. You lean closer, lowering your voice to a hurried whisper. “What if she knows?”

He doesn’t look at you as he strides confidently. “Knows what?”

“You know what—” your words come out in a rush. “What if she found out about… us? What if someone saw us? What if—”

“You’re overthinking,” he casually murmurs, still looking straight ahead.

The calmness in his voice only infuriates you. “How can I not? What if she fires me? Us? What if—”

Minho finally turns his head, his dark eyes cutting to you, and that calm, low tone of his somehow silences your panic better than anything else could. “She won’t,” he says simply. “Just breathe.”

You want to believe him, but when you reach the door to the director’s office and see her nameplate gleaming under the light, your heart beating a mile a minute.

Minho’s hand stops in the air as he looks at you and to your surprise, letting out a low chuckle.

“What?” you nervously ask while wiping your clammy hands down your skirt.

He shakes his head and turns back to the door. “You were so brave earlier,” he mutters almost to himself before landing two knocks on the door.

What he said only reminds you what you both did earlier and how it feels so wrong now that you feel queasy. You swallow air when you hear the director’s voice.

“Come in,” the voicecomes from the other side of the door, steady and professional.

The two of you enter and find the director seated behind her desk, papers neatly stacked, glasses perched low on her nose. There’s a tension in the air that feels almost, almost deliberate.

“Close the door, please,” she says without looking up.

Minho does as told. You stand side by side before her desk, clasping your hands together in front of you, trying not to fidget.

The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity until she looks up and says. “I’ve been watching the two of you closely these past few months.”

Your stomach drops and you steal a glance at Minho, who remains expressionless. All sort of thoughts rushing through your head but it boils down to one thing: she knows about you and Minho and she’s about to fire you two.

You close your eyes, trying to escape reality for a little while, but then she continues, her voice softening, “And I have to say, I’m impressed.”

Your eyes snap open. “...Impressed?”

“Yes,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Both of you have shown strong leadership potential. The board has decided to open up a managerial position and I believe either of you could be a great fit.”

It takes you a few seconds to catch up with her words but you feel like you can properly breathe now that none of you are getting fired today.

“I want you both to prepare separate presentations for the upcoming project proposal,” she explains, folding her hands. “Something that shows your initiative and how you’d lead if you got the position. Two weeks from now, I’ll make my decision based on that.”

You nod automatically, forcing a small smile even as your heart continues to race for entirely different reasons.

“Yes, ma’am,” Minho replies, calm as ever.

The director gives a small nod of approval. “Good. I expect great things from both of you. You can go now.”

You thank her and bow slightly before turning for the door. As you walk out, Minho’s hand brushes lightly against your back, just the smallest, barely. It’s meant to reassure you, but all it does is remind you that your secret just got a lot more dangerous.

The door to the director’s office shuts behind you with a soft click, and you finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“God,” you exhale, pressing a hand over your chest. “I thought we were about to get fired.”

Minho lets out a quiet chuckle, the kind that sounds more like a sigh of amusement. He glances at you sideways as the two of you walk down the corridor. “You were ready to confess to a crime no one even accused you of.”

You nudge his arm with your elbow, unable to help the laugh that bubbles out. “Well, excuse me for panicking when...” you drop your voice, continuing in hushed tone. “We almost got caught in the storage room.”

He smirks, the kind of smirk that makes your stomach twist. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

Your cheeks burn, but you roll your eyes, brushing it off. “Anyway,” you say quickly, changing the subject. “A promotion, huh? That’s… actually huge.”

“It is,” he calmly responds like it’s not a big deal to him. “Though I suppose now that makes us rivals.”

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Rivals?”

He slips his hands into his pockets, that smug look never leaving his face. “You heard the director. Only one of us gets the position.”

You straighten your posture, squaring your shoulders with mock seriousness with a tint of nonchalance. “Then I’ll just have to beat you.”

His smirk deepens. “You think you can?”

“Of course,” you shoot back with a daring smile. “Don’t underestimate me, Lee Minho.”

There’s a spark between you. It’s playful, competitive, and undeniably flirtatious.

“So it’s war, then?” he teases.

“Fair and square,” you say firmly, holding out your hand. “We’ll both do our best, no sabotage, no distractions.”

He eyes your hand for a beat, then clasps it in his, his grip firm and warm. “Deal.”

You’re about to pull your hand away when you add, “Oh — and that means no sneaking out, no storage rooms, no… ‘fun times’ at work. We focus on work until the presentation’s done.”

You bite back a laugh. “You heard me.

That wipes the smug grin off his face for half a second. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in intrigue. “You think you can resist?”

“I know I can,” you say, even though the confidence in your tone wavers slightly.

Minho hums, low and skeptical. “We’ll see about that.”

He lets go of your hand at last and steps back, his smirk returning as he glances over his shoulder on his way back to his desk.

And as you watch him walk away, you tell yourself that you can keep things professional for two weeks. You really do.

When you sit on your desk, getting back to your reports. And as numbers and letters blur together on your computer screen, you can’t help but wonder how long this truce will last. But honestly, you’re more curious to find out which one of you will fold first.

-

It’s been a few days since you and Minho made that so-called deal.

Your days have fallen into a steady, exhausting rhythm — at work, you’re juggling deadlines, buried in reports and work emails, and when you come home, you’re hunched over your laptop, perfecting every last detail for the upcoming presentation.

Across from you, Minho looks as composed as always. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened just enough to look casual but still annoyingly professional. His eyes never leave his monitor, the only sound from his side being the steady tap of his keyboard.

You try not to stare, but you do. And honestly, more often than you’d like to admit. You didn’t think he’d actually take the deal this seriously. No secret glances. No teasing touches. No sneaking out to the storage room. He’s been nothing but strictly professional and it’s driving you insane.

You catch yourself pouting, chin propped on your hand as you watch him scroll through data sheets like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. You miss that smug smirk he gets whenever he catches you looking. You miss the way his eyes are already on you when you turn your head at him, or whisper filthy words into your ear as he acts like he talks about work.

Now, it’s just… work.

You sigh, dragging your focus back to your screen but before you can type a letter, you hear a soft knock on your desk. You look up to find Felix standing there, bright and warm as always, holding a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Hey,” he warmly greets, placing the cup the coffee on your desk. “You look like you’ve been at it for hours.”

“Feels like it, yeah.” You chuckle tiredly, wrapping your hand around the cup and let the warmth seep into you. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Now worries,” Felix says, leaning slightly on your desk. “I just wanted to say… I’m rooting for you.”

That catches you off guard. “You are?”

“Of course,” he answers without a beat. “You’ve been teaching me a lot since I started here, so I kind of want to see you win. And…” he pauses for a second, a hint of shyness flickering across his face, “if you need help with anything. I’d be happy to pitch in.”

You beam a smile, surprised by his sincerity. “Felix, that’s really sweet of you. Thank you.”

He brightly grins. “Just let me know, yeah?”

You nod, smiling softly as he walks off toward his own desk.

When you glance back across your own, you find Minho’s seat empty, there’s only his jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair.

You don’t even hear him come or go anymore, and somehow that makes your chest ache a little.

-

It’s past midnight when Minho finally pushes his chair back, the half-finished presentation still glowing on his laptop screen. His living room is dark except for the bluish light reflecting off his face and the quiet hum of the city outside his window.

He should be finishing his slides. He should be reviewing data. He should be doing anything other than sitting here, thinking about you. But of course, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

He leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and the image comes uninvited — you and him in that dim storage room, bodies pressed close, his arms around you, his lips on your skin, your lips wrapped around his—

Minho stops before the image leads him astray. Also because of the deal. The deal you made together that there’ll be no sneaking off, no distractions until after the presentation. A fair competition, you’d said, shaking his hand with that determined little smile of yours. And he’d agreed, thinking he could handle it.

But now, days later, he’s not so sure anymore. He stares at the phone on his coffee table and thinks of sending you a text. Pretend it’s work-related. Ask about your progress or how much have you prepared for the presentation. Or he could just… go. Show up at your door and asks you those questions in person. It wouldn’t take long to drive there. He’s already imagining how you’d open the door you’re your hair a little messy, surprise flashing across your face before he cups your jaw and finally kisses you again. The thought is reckless, tempting, and dangerously easy to entertain.

Screw the deal.

He’s already standing before he can talk himself out of it, reaching for his jacket and car keys.

But before he can take two steps toward the door, there’s a knock.

It’s almost one in the morning so he wonders who could it be behind that door. He opens it and greeted by his next-door neighbor — a woman around his age, bundled in an oversized sweater, looking apologetic and a little frantic.

“Hey, Minho — I’m so sorry to bother you this late,” she starts, holding up her phone with an embarrassed smile. “I think there’s something wrong with my power. My lights keep flickering and I can’t get the breaker to reset. Do you… maybe know how to fix it?”

Minho is still caught between irritation and distraction. He glances past her to the dimly lit hallway, then back at the keys still dangling from his fingers.

This was not the plan. He sighs, shoving the car keys into his jacket pocket. “Yeah, I’ll take a look.”

-

It doesn’t take him long to fix it — just a flipped breaker and a loose wire in the panel. His neighbor stands beside him, hands wringing in her oversized sleeves, offering apologies and nervous little laughs that barely register in his ears.

He’s polite enough to respond, but his mind’s elsewhere. His mind is already on the way to see you.

When the lights finally come back on, she sighs in relief. “Oh, thank God! You’re a lifesaver, really. I owe you one.”

“It’s fine,” he says shortly, already moving toward the door. “Just… get maintenance to look at it properly tomorrow.”

He’s halfway through the doorway when she calls after him. “Wait, Minho! You forgot your jacket!”

He turns, but then abruptly stops. Because there, just a few steps down the hall, standing outside his apartment door, is you. Your eyes meet but instead of that smile he hopes to see, your lips slowly curve into the faintest pout. Your gaze flickers between him and his neighbor, who’s still smiling gratefully as she hands him his jacket, completely oblivious of your presence.

Minho takes it from her with a quiet thanks, his eyes never leaving you.

You huff softly, shifting the bag in your hands. “I was just dropping this off. Didn’t realize you were… busy,” you mumble, your voice small but pointed.

He opens his mouth to explain but before he can get a word out, you add quickly, “Anyway, it’s late. You should eat before it gets cold.” You thrust the bag toward him, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll get going.”

Minho is quick to grab your hand, fingers curling gently but firmly around your wrist. “You came all the way here,” he says quietly, the low rasp in his voice both soft and stubborn. “At this hour.”

You try to pull away but his grip is firm. He steps closer, the hallway light catching in his eyes. “So you might as well come in.”

Your pout is unmissable now. “I’d better—”

“Don’t argue.” His tone softens, almost teasing. “Come on.”

You’re about to protest again, but he’s already pushing through the door of his apartment and dragging you along with him. He doesn’t let go of your hand when he sets the bag of food down on the kitchen counter with a quiet thud. The sound hangs in the air between you, too loud for how close you’re standing.

“So…” he says, turning back to face you, his voice low and teasing. “You came all the way here just to bring me food?”

The second you break away from his grip, you fold your arms, lips pursing into a pout again that he finds adorable instead of intimidating. “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

Minho takes one step at a time until his shoes nearly brush yours. His hands slide to your waist, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep you from stepping away. “You sure that’s all it was?”

You squirm a little, eyes flicking anywhere but him. “Yes.”

He dips his head until his breath grazes your cheek, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He tilts his head, studying your face.

Your eyes narrow slightly. “I just didn’t expect to see you with someone else when I—”

“When you what?”

You press your lips together, refusing to answer, and that’s when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. “She’s my neighbor,” he simply explains. “Power went out in her place. I just helped her fix it.”

You glance away. “Then why did you all dressed up to go fix someone’s lights?”

Minho chuckles at that and the sound deep and warm and infuriatingly smug. “Because,” he says, leaning in close enough that you feel his smile ghost across your skin, “I was going to your place right after.”

You scoff, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you were.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, and with one hand still steady on your waist, he reaches into the jacket pocket with the other.

A second later, the faint jingle of metal fills the space between you. He holds up his car keys, the smirk spreading slow and sure across his face. “See?”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between sulky and amused, and though your lips are still set in a pout, your shoulders have already softened under his touch.

“So if I was coming to see you,” he says quietly, hand slightly tightens on your hip. “Then why’d you come to see me?”

You let out a slow sigh, trying to hold onto your annoyance, but it’s already slipping. “I told you. I figured you were hungry.”

He scoffs and says your words back to you. “Sure you were.”

You glare up at him, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, a small, reluctant smile pushing through. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I came because I missed you,” you finally mutter, eyes dropping to his chest.

“Maybe,” you emphasize, even with your voice small and defeated.

Minho’s smirk deepens just a little before he pulls you in fully, closing the small gap that’s been teasing both of you for days. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s less patient this time. It’s warm, consuming, edged with relief and something desperate.

He pulls away briefly to tease you, lips brushing yours as he mutters, “So you missed me, huh?”

You groan against his lips, pulling away in annoyance, but the hand on the nape of your neck keeping you close to him. “I know I shouldn’t have come here,” you mumble with that pout again.

His mouth is still on yours when he laughs. Then, he surprises you by scooping you up, his hands steady under you as he lifts you easily. You gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he murmurs, “But you’re here now.”

He pauses to gently nip at the skin and smirks. “And you’re all mine.”

Before you can reply, his lips are back on yours, stealing whatever protest you were about to make. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders as he walks the two of you toward his bedroom as if he’s in no rush to get there because the way you cling to him is already enough.

“Minho,” you whisper between kisses, “the food—”

He doesn’t even slow down. “We’ll eat it later.”

His bedroom door bangs open under his shoulder, the dim light from the hallway casting shadows over the rumpled sheets. He lays you down with deliberate slowness like he’s savoring every second of contact before crawling over you, one hand braced beside your head.

A part of him still in trying to catch up to the reality of it: you’re here.

There’s countless of nights where he thought of you on this bed, imagining you lying here with him. Now, he gets to live that, feeling you whole under him — your warmth, your touch, your body pressed close to him. So he claims your lips in a kiss again and again, assuring him that this is real.

When he pulls away to catch a breath, you keep your hand on the back of his head, fingers lazily scratching at his scalp. “The food is going to get cold,” you remind him yet you seem to have no intentions on getting away from his hold.

He presses a long, lingering kiss on your lips and when he pulls away, his eyes immediately locked with yours. “You’re going to get cold,” he murmurs instead, his lips quirking.

You brush a strand of hair off his forehead, smiling despite yourself. “I’m not food.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice a husky whisper now. “I’m still going to eat you up.”

Your laugh catches halfway in your throat when he leans in again. The smile lingers for a heartbeat and then disappears entirely as his mouth finds yours once more, the rest of the world falling away.

-

The bedroom is bathed in the soft, golden light of the bedside lamp. The curtains sway faintly with the night breeze sneaking through the crack of the window, carrying the faint hum of the city outside. It’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that feels suspended in time, like the world beyond his walls has slowed just enough to let this moment stretch and linger.

But inside Minho, there’s a chaos stirring — need, desire anddesperation, those three mixing together creating this endless hunger for you.

He has you on your stomach, pinning your wrists together above your head with one hand while the other hikes up your hip. His mouth finds the shell of your ear as he presses flush against you from behind.

"Do you have any idea how many times I rewrote my entire damn presentation because I kept imagining this instead?"

Feeling you clench around him, Minho groans into the curve of your shoulder, his grip on your wrists faltering for just a second before he recovers, burying his laugh against your skin.

“You like driving me insane, huh?”

You turn your head to the side and manage to answer with a breathless, shaky voice. “I like you insane.”

That seems to amuse him as light chuckle spills out of his parted mouth. His free hand trails up your side, fingertips ghosting over every inch of exposed skin with agonizing patience and then, he squeezes hard on your breast.

“Let me remind you that you’re here, on my bed…” he presses his mouth to your neck, teeth grazing the skin as he speaks. "And you’re all mine to play with.”

Minho drags his free hand down your spine and pivots to the side, finding the curve of your hips to hold you still as he positions himself behind you. His cock is hot and hard in his hand as he gives it a few strokes even though he’s been ready for you the second he has you under him. “So fucking wet,” he sighs, teasing your entrance with the tip. “So fucking ready for me.”

Your hips slightly moving, back and forth, impatient for him. Your hands gripping the sheets when you mutter, “Minho, please…”

Without waiting for you to beg again, he begins to enter you. His forehead creases in focus, eyes centered on the way you’re taking him inch by inch while fighting the urge to ram it in all at once. The warmth and tightness that wraps around him… oh, he’s almost losing it, his grip on you loosens for a fleeting second.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighs, moving his hand to rub over the curve of your ass. “Been thinking of fucking you on this bed.”

He lets go of your wrists, both hands are resting on each side of your waist, gripping you in place as he pulls back until the tip barely inside you and then, pushes it back inside in an agonizingly slow motion, making you feel every inch of him filling you, stretching you.

“Fuck—” His voice splinters on the word, hips stuttering as he feels you tighten around him. “You’re gonna kill me like this.”

He leans down, peppering your back and shoulders with greedy, searing kisses. He buries his mouth in your neck, nibbling on the skin as his hips begin moving, thrusting into you. He can’t hear much of you except for the muffled moans.

“No need to hold back,” he groans into the crook of your neck, he grips your tighter as he snaps his hips harder into you. “No one can hear you here.”

His rhythm stutters for just a second when you loudly moan into the sheets, a moan that sounded like a cry for both pain and pleasure. He struggles hard to not losing it right there, holding you like it’s the only way for him to stay in control.

He glances down, looking at you on all fours with your head pressed to the bed, hands gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing that anchor you to this moment. The sight arouses him but what arouses him more is that you’re here in his bedroom with your moans endlessly bouncing around the walls.

“I know you’ll like it when I do this,” he rasps between thrusts, a hand slides forward, slipping between your legs to find your bundle of nerves.

Minho’s fingers move with cruel precision, circling your clit in slow, teasing strokes — just enough to have you rut against him, allowing him to penetrate you deeper. His fingers circle your clit faster, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His free arm cages you beneath him, biceps straining as he leans down to bite at your shoulder.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, “feel you squeezing me like you hate letting go.”

He doesn’t stop, his fingers work you toward your climax, relentless even as you squirm and gasp. His lips trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine as he feels you trembling beneath him.

“Come on. Come for me, baby,” he coaxes with a hot kiss on the nape of your neck.

“Minho, I—” You stutter between breathless moans, a hand flies to his forearm but doing nothing to stop him. “I’m coming, I—"

A wave of pleasure surging through you from the way you’re fluttering all over against him and he applies more pressure on your clit only to have you coming all over his hand in the next second.

His smirk is downright predatory as he watches you unravel, his fingers still lazily circling your clit, drawing out the aftershocks until you’re squirming with oversensitivity. The moment your hips jerk away, more fluid squirting out of you and dripping onto the sheet.

Your moans turn into quiet whimpers as you no longer have the energy to stay on all fours, slumping onto the bed in exhaustion.

Minho gently pins you down with a breathless chuckle. “Fuck, that was—" His voice cracks as he drags his hand through the mess on the sheets, right on the space between your legs. "…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen."

Slowly, you look over your shoulder and softly call his name. “Minho…”

Without pulling away, Minho leans in, bringing his head close to yours to hear what you want him to hear.

You look at him with your heavy-lidded eyes. “Kiss me.”

There’s something in the way you ask for it — your voice small and weak, almost fragile like you’re afraid he won’t give it to you. Which, in fact, he will give to you without you having to ask for it first. He leans in, kissing you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue. But more than that, the unspoken feelings that he has for you, pouring out of his heart and into the kiss.

The moment lingers like that, just you and him, claiming each other in a long, lingering kiss. His hand roaming possessively over every inch of skin he can reach. You’re moaning against his lips, reacting to the way his hand fondles your breast, fingers pinching at your sensitive bud.

Minho’s lazy thrusts start innocent until they aren’t. His hips roll against yours with deliberate slowness, each drag of his cock inside you making your toes curl. “Mmh— You feel that?” His voice is wrecked, lips brushing yours as he grinds deeper. “Going to make you come again… just like this.”

His hand fists in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white from restraint. The mattress creaks under his relentless rhythm, every thrust punctuated by a hissed curse or bitten-off groan.

Under him, you turn into a moaning mess all over again. Your eyes screwed shut as you breathless mutter. “Minho,” you softly call, but with urgency in your voice. “I’m going to come again.”

His pace falters at your words for a heartbeat before he snarls and drives into you harder, his fingers digging bruises into your hips as he takes you to the edge. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your spine. "Come, baby," he sweetly murmurs. "Just one more for me."

The skin slapping sound echoes off the walls as he fucks you relentlessly, taking you closer and closer to your high. He can feel it coming form the way you’re clenching tighter and at the same time, sucking him deeper into you.

A mix of cry and sigh of pleasure bursts out of you as you tremble under him. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you repeatedly mutter until you’re running out of breath.

His hands clamp down on your hips like vices, his rhythm turning ruthless as he fucks you through the oversensitivity, chasing his own release with ragged, unrelenting thrusts. Your whines only spur him on, his name breaking from your lips in a sob as he drives into you harder.

“Take it. Fucking, take it,” he snarls, his breathe ragged against your spine. “Going to fill you up so good.”

His voice cuts off with a guttural groan as he finally comes, hips stuttering against yours in rough, uneven jerks. He collapses over you for a breathless moment before his lips find yours in a messy, exhausted kiss—tongue and teeth, shared panting.

After what feels like eternity, Minho braces his hands on each side of you, steadying himself as he finally, slowly pulling away. His eyes focus on the way his cock dragging against your walls as he pulls back, exposing every inch of him glistening wet with your mixed essence.  

You shudder and sigh at the sudden emptiness, moving your leg so slightly and in the process, exposing yourself to him, the pearly white of his seed spilling out of you, seeping into the mess you already made on the bed.

He lowers himself as his fingers interlock with yours, pressing them into the damp sheets as he nuzzles against you shamelessly. “I’m keeping these sheets forever now,” he murmurs, mischief dripping from every word.

“Minho.” This time, you call his name in both annoyance and embarrassment. You try to shake him off of you by jerking your shoulder repeatedly at him. “Get off me.”

Minho laughs as he easily overpowers you, flipping you both so suddenly that you end up sprawled on his side of the bed. He cages you beneath him, grinning down at your exasperated expression. 

“My side’s all sticky now,” he teases, nose brushing yours, “so this is mine.”

His arms loop around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest before nuzzling into your hair with a satisfied sigh.

“Mine.”

-

The soft beeps of the microwave the only sound filling the small apartment as Minho is reheating the food you brought earlier. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed in his sweater that is clearly too big for you. You roll the sleeves to your elbows when you see him coming with the food.

Minho carefully sets the steaming bowls on the low table, you scoot to the side to make space for him. He sits, close enough that your knees brush, and hands you a pair of chopsticks.

You both eat in silence for a moment until you break it by asking, “How’s your presentation going?”

He lifts an eyebrow without looking up. “Did you come here to spy on me?”

You scoff, nudging his leg with your knee. “Yeah, right. I’m too busy perfecting my own.”

Minho grins, setting down his chopsticks. “You’re going down.”

“Good,” you say, tone light but teasing. “I was worried you’d let me win.”

He snorts, scooping more soup with his spoon. “You wish.”

“I just want you to know,” you continue, “whoever gets the promotion, I’ll be happy.”

He lifts his gaze, meeting your soft and sincere eyes, the kind of look that cuts through all the competition and teasing and tension between you two.

You smile, gentle but steady. “You’ve been working so hard, Minho. You deserve it just as much as I do. So… I’ll be okay, no matter what happens.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just studies you in that quiet way he does. Then, slowly, he exhales a laugh through his nose. “Did you do that on purpose?” he asks, eyes narrowing, “so I’d feel bad about beating you tomorrow.”

A chuckle spills out of you, light yet unrestrained. You lean to his side and lower your voice as you playfully ask, “Was it that obvious?”

Even as you tease each other, Minho feels that pull in his chest. The thought that, somewhere between rivalry and affection, you’ve become something he can’t quite name but doesn’t want to lose.

He looks at you again, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “I’ll be happy too. If you get it.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard for a moment and then your lips curve into a small, shy smile.

And even in a soft, endearing moment like this, he can’t help but tease you. “If you get it,” he emphasizes with a smirk that is smug and full of mischief. 

The room falls into that soft, comfortable silence again. The kind filled with understanding and warmth. You both return to your food, knees brushing occasionally, small smiles exchanged between bites.

And Minho thinks that maybe it doesn’t matter who wins tomorrow. Because right now, like this, he already feels like he’s got something far better.

-

✨ DESKJOB: FINAL CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[yubinism]

this series is quickly becoming one of my favourite things to read 🥹🥹 loved this chapter even more than the last one and im obsessed with the two of them. the softest way to finish my day and i can’t complain about it, thank you my dear eff for dropping this beautiful piece on our laps 😚

[seospicybin]

DESKJOB.

CHAPTER THREE

Lee Know x reader. (s)

CHAPTERS: ONE / TWO

Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (7,4k words)

Author's note: I hope you're not bored of Deskjob yet cause there are two more of this 🥹

From the moment Felix walks into the office, Minho hates him. Not because the kid did anything wrong—if anything, Felix is too good. Too nice, too helpful, too bright-eyed with that sunshine smile that makes everyone instantly warm to him. But most of all, Minho hates him because he’s always with you.

Everywhere Minho looks, there you are with Felix trailing close behind, chatting, laughing, your head bent near his as you explain something at your desk. And Minho… Minho hasn’t had a moment alone with you in days. No stolen touches in the pantry, no teasing words whispered between cubicles, no “fun” in empty offices. Just Felix, Felix, Felix.

The worst part? Everyone loves him. The team gushes about how hardworking he is, how polite, how adorable. Minho grits his teeth each time Felix flashes his wide grin, each time your laugh rings out at something he said or did.

And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because Felix is taking up all the space that supposed to be his.

-

The company retreat is supposed to be Minho’s idea of a good time. He’s the one who pitched it, after all. A weekend camping trip to build teamwork, boost morale, get everyone out of the office and away from their screens.

Everyone seems excited, buzzing with energy as they pile off the bus with their bags, the forest air fresh and cool around them. Everyone, except him.

Because from the second they arrive, Felix is at your side, carrying your bag before you can even lift it, talking about how he always wanted to go camping, handing you bottled water even though you’re not thirsty.

Every time Minho looks, Felix is there. Always there.

Worse is Minho can’t do a damn thing about it. He’s too busy organizing, too busy calling out instructions, making sure activities run smoothly. He’s the team leader, the one in charge so he can’t sneak you away like he normally would.

Instead, he has to watch. Watch you smile up at him, polite and sweet, because you can’t afford to be anything but.

And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because you’re his and no one else knows it.

-

The sun shines through the canopy of trees, casting a golden haze over the hiking trail. Minho’s at the front, leading the group up the incline, voice firm as he calls out reminders about footing, slippery rocks, hydration. And talking about hydration, he decides that it’s time to take a water break so when the trail flattens out, Minho stops and turns.

“Alright, let’s take a five,” he announces.

Everyone lets out a sigh of relief almost at the same time, water bottles are out and they lightly chat as they have a sip of it. Minho takes a gulp from his own water tumbler while silently scanning the group. His eyes sharpen when he sees you in the back with Felix beside you. Your arms brush every so often, and Felix laughs at something you say, all bright and unbothered, while you smile politely in return.

“Hey, new intern,” he calls out, tone sharp enough to make the intern perk up instantly.

Felix points at himself, not sure if Minho was calling for him even though he’s the only intern in the team. “Me?”

“Why don’t you lead the group for a while? Keep everyone moving. I’ll take the back,” Minho orders as he hoists the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.

Felix’s face lights up at the trust, and he nods enthusiastically, hurrying forward to guide. One by one, the rest of the team follows until it’s just you and Minho at the tail end, the chatter and footsteps of the group growing fainter with distance.

Minho doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the curve of your hip as you walk, the way your tight leggings cling to your skin and it makes something coil hot and tight in his chest. Without thinking, his hand shoots out. He grabs your wrist, tugging you off the trail and into the cover of the trees.

“Minho—” you start, but your voice is hushed, like you already know what’s about to happen.

He doesn’t let you finish but keeps dragging you further until the two of you hidden behind the row of trees and bushes. He presses you back against the rough bark of a tree, his body crowding yours, his eyes dark and dangerous.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear, “how much it pisses me off to see you walking with that freckled boy?”

A low, amused chuckle slipped out of your mouth. You rest your hand flat on his chest, fingers teasing the zipper on his jacket. “What’s your problem with Felix? I think he’s great.”

His hand slides down and then, suddenly, he grips your thigh, tugging it up around his hip. “You think I’m just gonna stand there and watch while he takes my place?”

The forest is quiet except for birdsong and the rustles of leaves as the wind slips through the trees. No one else is around, it’s just you and Minho, and his restraint on the edge of breaking.

You rest both hands on his chest now, unsure whether you’re going to push him or draw him closer. “Minho, I’m sweaty.”

Minho smirks and that tells enough that he doesn’t care. The rough bark digs into your back as he presses closer, his lips crushing against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, one digging into your waist, the other keeping your thigh hooked around his hip.

You can feel the frustration radiating off him with every kiss, every drag of his mouth against yours. His tongue sweeps over yours, hungry, desperate, and it makes you whimper against him. He swallows the sound, his thumb brushing dangerously low against your waistband, teasing but not quite giving you what you want.

“I like this” he mutters, lips trailing down your jaw, biting at your skin just enough to leave the faintest mark. “Why don’t you wear these leggings to work from now on?”

You’re chuckling against his lips but your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath hitching as his hand slips between your legs, cupping your clothed sex. The world outside this little pocket of trees feels miles away, though in reality, the group can’t be too far ahead. It’s reckless, messy, exactly what Minho craves.

The sound of someone jogging lightly back down the trail makes Minho stiffens for a second before pulling away, his hand instantly dropping to his side. Both of you stand breathless, chests rising and falling as the footsteps draw closer.

The two of you are not moving until you grab Minho’s hand and walk back to the hiking trail, pushing past the bushes and plants.

“Hey!” Felix’s voice cuts through the trees, cheerful and oblivious. He pushes through the brush until he spots you both, relief flashing over his face. “Oh, there you are! You weren’t behind us anymore, so I wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”

Your lips still tingle from the kiss, but you school your face into an easy smile. “That’s so nice of you, Felix. Thanks.”

Felix beams, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course. Can’t lose anyone on my watch.” He gestures back toward the trail. “Shall we?”

You nod and step forward, easily slipping back into stride beside him, the two of you resuming the hike as if nothing happened.

Minho lingers in the back, his jaw tight, hands curling into fists at his side. He trails behind, his eyes locked on Felix walking next to you — laughing, talking, keeping your attention.

And ugh, Minho hates it because he let the moment slip. Hates it even more that Felix looks like the good guy now.

-

The sun is beginning to set when everyone is back from hiking. Now, the campsite is buzzing with activity, half of the group are gathering ingredients to cook, the others are tending to the firepit and the rest are setting up tables for dinner.

Minho stands in the middle of it all, issuing directions with clipped efficiency. “You,” he says, pointing at you. “Help me with dinner prep. We need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

You bite back a smile, already knowing what this really is: an excuse to have you at his side. You grab your jacket and make your way toward the fold-out table stacked with ingredients, but before you even reach for the cutting board, a voice pipes up.

“I can do that. I’ve cooked for groups plenty of times,” Felix brightly offers with a grin, already taking the knife in hand like it’s settled.

Your mouth opens to protest, but Minho gets there first. “No. I gave her that task. You’re on firewood duty.”

Felix freezes in place. “But… the others already went for wood. I thought I could—”

“Do I look like I’m asking for suggestions?” Minho cuts in, his voice cold enough to draw the attention of a few teammates nearby. “I said firewood.”

A ripple of awkward silence spreads. Someone mutters under their breath. Another teammate gives Minho a pointed look, clearly thinking he’s being unnecessarily harsh. Felix swallows, his ears tinged pink, but he still nods politely. “...Right. Firewood. Got it.” He sets the knife down gently and heads off, his easy smile faltering.

You watch him go, feeling bad for Felix. Around you, the team exchanges uneasy glances. One of them finally says what everyone is thinking: “Jeez, Minho. He was just trying to help. No need to bite his head off.”

Minho ignores them, jaw clenched as he turns back to the supplies. But when his eyes flick to you, the tension lingers — not at Felix, not at the team, but at himself, for letting his jealousy crack through the mask.

And yet, when you quietly step beside him to pick up the knife, he feels a flash of victory anyway.

-

The fire crackles brighter as the night deepens, bottles passed around, laughter rising into the trees. Someone sets up a tiny speaker, and before long the karaoke contest begins — voices loud, off-key, but filled with joy.

You’re in the middle of it all, cheeks flushed from the beer, laughter bubbling out of you as you belt into the plastic mic with Felix and two others beside you. The campfire glow kisses your skin golden, your smile so bright it drowns out the flickering flames.

Minho pretends to busy himself with tending the fire, poking at the wood with a stick, but his eyes are traitors. Every chance he gets, he steals a glance. At the way your hair falls when you throw your head back to laugh. At the way you clap along to the beat, carefree and glowing with a joy he can’t look away from.

He finds himself smiling too. Just a small curl of his lips, unguarded and real. It sneaks up on him before he can stop it, but he’s aware that he’s surrounded by his co-workers so with a sharp exhale, he quickly drops his smile and forces his gaze away. He takes a long sip of his beer and puts his expression back to the calm and composed mask he wears so well.

No one can know. No one can see.

Because if anyone caught him looking at you like that, it wouldn’t just ruin everything you’ve built together in secret, but it would also expose just how deep you’ve already gotten under his skin.

The karaoke shifts into another round, someone queuing up a ridiculously upbeat pop song. The moment it starts blasting, Felix bounces to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. He takes the mic in one hand and without hesitation, he extends his other hand toward you.

“Come on,” he urges, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Dance with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head at first, but Felix is relentless. He tugs you gently from your seat, spinning you around before you can protest. The circle of coworkers erupts with cheers and whistles, clapping to the beat as you stumble into a playful dance with him.

You’re laughing, cheeks flushed, your movements are careless and free. Felix twirls you dramatically, both of you nearly toppling into the grass, and the group howls with laughter. The glow of the fire and the easy joy of the moment make you look even more radiant, and Felix only adds to it with his exaggerated moves that have everyone in laughter.

Minho sits back, bottle loose in his hand. He wants to move, to break it up somehow, but he knows he can’t. Not without raising questions, not without ruining the carefree mood of the night for everyone.

And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because he has to stay quiet.

-

The night winds down slowly and the karaoke eventually dies out with tired laughter, bottles clinking as they’re set aside. Someone yawns loudly, another stumbles off toward the tents, and soon the campfire is nothing but glowing embers.

You stretch, rubbing your eyes as though the day’s hike and excitement have finally caught up to you. Around you, people are already zipping up their tents, voices growing softer and sleepy murmurs.

You’re just about to slip into your own tent that you share with the other two female co-workers when a hand closes gently around your wrist. You glance back, startled, only to find Minho standing there in the shadows. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but his thumb tenderly brushing over your skin. Then, with his voice pitched low so only you can hear, he murmurs, “Come to my tent later.”

There’s no hesitation in your response, no question in your eyes. You simply nod, lips curving into a small smile that’s just for him. It’s the kind of smile that floods his chest with warmth, the kind of smile that reminds him exactly why he can’t stand seeing you share it with anyone else.

“Good.” He releases your wrist, letting you walk away as though nothing happened.

You disappear into your tent, and Minho lingers outside for a moment longer, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from betraying just how much he’s aching to reach for you again.

Later, he tells himself. I’ll have you later.

-

Minho’s tent is located a little apart from the others, tucked near the trees with its own flickering fire crackling low in front of it. It’s much quieter here, only the rustle of leaves and the occasional pop from the campfire. He’s been sitting there for a while now with the flames softening his usually sharp features, having a bottle of water to help him sober up as he waits for you.

However, as the minutes tick past midnight, his foot starts tapping restlessly against the ground. His hand goes to his jacket pocket, fishing out his phone. Maybe you’ve fallen asleep. Maybe you forgot. Maybe—

His phone is only halfway out when he catches sight of you emerging from the shadows. Hands stuffed deep into your jacket pockets, hair a little tousled from sleep, that smile on your face instantly melts away every trace of his worry.

Before you can even say anything, Minho shoots up from his chair. He closes the distance in a few strides, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight like he’s been starving for this all night. His lips find yours in a haste kiss. It’s rough, sudden, startling you just for a moment but you manage respond, pressing back into him, the kind of kiss that tells him that you wanted this just as much.

When he finally breaks away, his breath is still mingling with yours. He laces his fingers through yours without another word and guides you to the chair by the fire.

You stop when you notice there’s only one chair. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

Minho drops into the chair himself, stretches his legs out a little, then taps his lap with a small, knowing smirk. “Here. I’ll keep you warm. Come on.”

You can’t help but smile at the cocky ease in his voice. Still, you indulge him, settling onto his lap. He immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, tucking you against his chest. His warmth seeps into you, stronger than the fire’s glow, his breath brushing against the side of your face as if he can’t resist staying close.

The crackle of the flames fills the silence, you shift a little on his lap, stretching your hands toward the fire, but soon enough you glance sideways at him with that look that tells him you’re about to bring something up.

“So…” you draw out, your tone playful, “did you really have to scold Felix like that earlier?”

Minho tenses just slightly beneath you. He doesn’t look at you, instead pretending to poke at the fire with a stick he grabbed. “He messed up,” he says flatly.

You raise a brow at that. “He offered to help. That’s not messing up, Minho. He’s just trying to be a good intern.”

He stays quiet and calm, eyes stayed on the flames. You watch him for a beat before it clicks, and you let out a soft laugh. “Oh my god,” you say, gently reaching for his jaw and cup it in your hand, “you’re jealous.”

That finally makes him look at you, his eyes sharp and narrowed. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” You can’t hide your grin as you turn on his lap to face him more fully.

He cuts you off with a kiss, firm and sudden, almost like he’s trying to shut you up. When he pulls back, his voice drops low, muttering against your lips, “That boy been following you like a lost puppy.”

Your chuckles spill free, utterly amused. “So… jealous.”

Minho exhales, clearly refusing to give you the satisfaction. He leans back in the chair, arms tightening around your waist as if to ground you there. “You talk too much.”

“I should say that jealously is not a good look on you but…” you tease, leaning in to nip lightly at his jaw. “… it looks kind of hot on you.”

He smirks, eyebrow slightly raises higher than the other. “Well, it that turns you on.”

You laugh, the sound soft and warm against the quiet night.  You drop your head against his shoulder and after a beat, you murmur, “You know, you really don’t have to worry. I’d never date Felix.”

Minho tilts his head down toward you, his tone low and skeptical. “Why not? He’s nice. Everyone likes him.”

You chuckle softly, placing your hand on the hand resting across your waist. “Because he’s not you.”

“So you’re saying he’s nice, and I’m… what? The opposite?”

Your grin widens, sensing the sulk settling over him. “Exactly. He’s nice, and you’re not.”

His mouth falls open in disbelief. “Not nice? Really?”

You nod, eyes are sparkling with mischief. “You’re scary, Minho.”

He straightens a little, about to protest, but you quickly cut him off, pressing your lips to the edge of his jaw. “And that’s why I like you.”

That earns you a twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying not to smile, but failing. You take advantage, kissing a trail along his sharp jawline until you reach the spot just beneath his ear.

“Want to know something else?” you whisper.

He hums, his hand tightening around your waist.

“It turned me on seeing you all riled up and jealous like that.”

Minho instantly forgets he was sulking a moment ago. His lips curl into a dangerous smirk as he grabs your chin, pulling you up to face him. “Oh, really?”

Before you can answer, he closes the distance, kissing you hard and it deepens in the next second, hot and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that makes your head spin. He doesn’t even give you time to breathe, only pulling back for a second to nip at your bottom lip before diving back in.

His hands that are resting innocently around your waist, start to wander — sliding up beneath your jacket, feeling you through the thin fabric of your shirt, making you shiver despite the fire’s warmth.

You gasp against his mouth when his palms drag up your sides and his cold fingers meet your bare skin. He groans quietly at the sound, his chest vibrating against yours as he pulls you closer onto his lap, leaving no space between you.

“Minho—” you manage to whisper, but it comes out breathless, breaking into a moan when he presses his mouth to your throat, sucking at the soft skin there. His hands slip higher, teasing over the curve of your breasts, squeezing just enough to make you arch into him.

He chuckles against your skin, low and smug. “Scary, am I?”

You laugh, breathlessly gasping as his thumbs brush over your hardened buds through the layers of clothes. “You’re—terrifying,” you sigh, the word melting into a whimper as he mouths lower along your neck.

“Good.” His voice is rough, dangerous in the way it pulls more heat through your body. One hand grips your hip, keeping you pinned against the bulge pressing hard beneath his sweatpants, while the other toys shamelessly with you through your clothes.

The fire crackles louder, but it’s nothing compared to the sound of his wet, sloppy kisses as he devours you, pulling moans from your lips that you try to swallow down, afraid someone might hear.

But Minho doesn’t care. His teeth scrape at your collarbone, his hand sliding lower now, cupping you between your legs even through the barrier of your jeans, and he groans at the sheer dampness. “Fuck… already so wet for me?”

You can only nod frantically, clinging to him, arching your back seeking for more friction, more heat.

His kisses only grow rougher, wetter, his tongue tangled with yours as his hand slips daringly past the waistband of your jeans. The heat of his palm against your bare skin makes you jolt, a sharp gasp swallowed into his mouth.

You clutch at his shoulders when his fingers find your cunt, teasing slowly at first, stroking on your clit just enough to make you squirm in his lap. His cock strains against you through his sweats as you grind helplessly down, chasing more of his touch.

“Minho…” your voice breaks into a needy whimper, muffled against his lips when he dips a finger lower, sliding it through your slick folds. The sensation pulls a moan straight from your throat, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.

The fire crackles, the night air cold, but you’re burning hot in his lap, every nerve alive as he takes his time with you. His other hand grips your hip, forcing you to move just enough that every squirm drags you over the hard length beneath you.

It’s messy, desperate and doing it fully clothed somehow make it more obscene than being naked. The rough denim against your skin, his hand buried deep, your muffled cries against his mouth… all of it only makes the whole thing hotter, filthier.

Just when you’re falling apart, just when your hips stutter helplessly into his touch, Minho stills. Your eyes fly open, and he pulls his hand away, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine against his lips in protest, tugging at his hoodie, trying to drag him back to you.

Instead, he smirks, eyes glinting wicked in the firelight. “Not here,” he mutters against your mouth. “Let’s get inside the tent.”

There’s no need to question him, it’s a command after all and you nod eagerly, already rising when he takes your hand. His smirk deepens at your eagerness as he pulls you with him toward the tent, the firelight dancing on both of your flushed faces.

-

The tent is dim and hushed, only the muffled chorus of crickets outside and your uneven breathing filling the small space. The moment the zipper seals behind you, Minho pushes you back onto the sleeping bag, climbing over you with his mouth immediately claiming yours again.

It’s desperate, teeth clicking, tongues sliding, all the pent-up frustration from the whole day finally breaking loose. His hands roam everywhere, tugging at your jacket until it’s gone, then sliding beneath your shirt to stroke your warm skin.

He pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, eyes dark and hungry. “Been waiting all fucking day for this,” he rasps, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. “Had to watch that puppy following you around like a little puppy… while all I could think about was getting you like this, underneath me.”

You shiver, your hands already fisting in his hoodie, pulling it over his head to reveal the lean lines of his torso and the hard ridges of his abs.

He chuckles when he sees the way your eyes trace his skin, and he leans down, nipping at your bottom lip. “Go on. Take the rest off me.”

The way he says it… commanding yet taunting, has your fingers fumbling at his sweatpants, dragging them down over his hips while he helps, kicking them away. His mouth returns to your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark before he soothes it with his tongue.

Your jeans are next, and he moves slow, unbuttoning them while his gaze stays locked on your face. “You’re so impatient, huh? Squirming in my lap earlier like you were going to lose your mind.” He peels them down your legs, lips curling into a dangerous grin. “All it took was my hand in your jeans, and you were ready to beg.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but the words only make you wetter. You reach to cover your face, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he hovers over you.

He clicks his tongue at you as a warning. “I want to see how wrecked you get for me.”

He lets one hand go, dragging his palm down the curve of your body, stopping at the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger beneath the waistband, teasing. “Should I leave these on while I ruin you… or should I take my time watching you fall apart as I strip you out of every last piece?”

He leans down, kissing you again and again until all your lungs burn from lack of oxygen. His finger lingers at the band of your underwear, tugging but not pulling, just enough to make you ache.

“You hear that?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his tone rough and low. “Every little sound carries out there. Someone could walk past, hear what I’m doing to you.”

He smirks when you squirm, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “And the thought of you trying to keep quiet for me… fuck, that’s even better.”

The space is so tight that every movement has your bodies brushing, your knee bumping his hip, your shoulder brushing the tent wall, his chest grazing yours whenever he leans closer. It makes every touch feel amplified, every inch of him unavoidable.

Minho drags his palm down your stomach, his eyes never leaving your face. “You want it so badly, aren’t you? I can feel how tense you are under me.” He chuckles lowly, the sound curling hot in your belly. “All I’ve done is touch you through your jeans, and now…” His fingers slip beneath the band of your underwear, just grazing your heat before pulling away again. “Now you’re soaked, aren’t you?”

You whimper, arching up against him, and he smirks in triumph. He leans down, biting at your lip until it stings, then licks over the mark soothingly. “Answer me. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

“Yes,” you gasp, desperate.

“That’s my girl.” His hand grips your hip, keeping you pinned. “But you don’t get me that easy. You kept me waiting all day.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, voice dropping filthier. “You’re going to wait a little longer while I take my time with you.”

The cramped space makes every grind of his hips against yours maddeningly intense, his stiff member pressing through the thin layers left between you. He rocks into you slowly, letting you feel the hardness just enough to make your toes curl.

“Small space,” he whispers, smirking when the tent wall rustles against his back as he shifts. “Nowhere to move. Nowhere to hide.” His lips trail down your neck, teeth scraping. “You’re stuck here with me until I decide you’ve had enough.”

Minho doesn’t give you another second to breathe before he slips his hand into your underwear, this time with no hesitation. His fingers part your folds, finding you wet and swollen, and the deep groan he lets out vibrates against your throat.

“Fuck,” he breathlessly mutters, pressing a kiss under your jaw as his middle finger teases your entrance, circling but not pushing in. “You’re drenched for me. You’ve been like this all night, mmh?”

You whimper, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his shirt. He chuckles, low and filthy, and dips his finger inside just barely but enough to make you jolt.

“Don’t squirm,” he warns, his voice dripping with dominance. “You’re going to stay quiet and take what I give you.”

The tent feels unbearably small now, every inch of space taken by his weight pressing you down, his body heat wrapping around you. He curls his finger inside you while his thumb circles your clit, dragging a strangled moan out of you before you can stop it.

Minho bites at your bottom lip to swallow the sound, then pulls back with a smirk. “Shhh… you want everyone out there to know you’re getting fingered in my tent?” His pace quickens just slightly, enough to make your hips buck. “Well, then I’ll make sure they hear exactly how good I make you.”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body arching, and he presses his free hand firmly to your hip, holding you in place. “Stay still,” he mutters against your neck, curling his finger deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. “God, you’re so fucking tight. Imagine how good you’ll feel when I finally fuck you after this.”

You writhe under him, your voice breaking as you whisper his name, begging for more, begging for release which only turns his smirk wicked.

“That’s it. Beg for me.” He kisses you hard, fingers working you faster, his thumb relentless on your clit. “Come for me, baby. Make a mess all over my hand.”

The words send you spiraling, your body tensing as the orgasm rips through you, and Minho doesn’t stop. Instead, he fucks you through it, drinking in every twitch and gasp like he owns it. When you finally slump against him, trembling, he pulls his soaked fingers out and brings them to his lips, sucking them clean with a slow, obscene moan.

A smirk tugging at his lips as he’s licking his thumb. Then, he leans down to whisper, “Now… think you can keep quiet for me again when I finally fuck you?”

He pulls back just enough to stare at you. His gaze drags down your body like fire, searing your skin, and then he’s crawling over you, his knees caging your thighs apart.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice rough and reverent all at once. His fingers trace over your bare thighs before he grips them hard, spreading you open. “You’re already trembling and I haven’t even given you my cock yet.”

You gasp as he grinds down against you, rubbing his length between your slick folds, the tip pressing right on your clit. He smirks at your reaction, dipping his head to your ear. “Feel that? That’s what’s been aching for you all day,” he whispers, slowly moving his hips back and forth, making you whimper. “You don’t even know what you do to me, huh?”

“Then fuck me, Minho,” you manage to say with a shaky voice and the sound he makes in response is almost a growl.

That makes Minho’s eyebrow raised in intrigue. His cock is thick and heavy in his hand as he strokes it once, twice, right in front of you. He leans down, catching your lips again in a bruising kiss as he lines himself up and pushes in slow, stretching you until your nails claw at his shoulders.

“Shit,” he groans, burying his face in your neck as he bottoms out. “Yeah, always so tight — always so good for me.”

You bite back a moan, but he feels it anyway, feels the way your walls flutter around him, and he chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to be quiet?” he teases, pulling back and slamming into you again, harder this time, the small tent shaking with the force. “Good luck, baby. I’m not stopping until everyone out there knows you belong to me.”

His thrusts are relentless, deep and punishing, filling every inch of you while his hand sneaks between your bodies, finding your clit again. The combination makes you cry out before you can help it, and his smirk is pure sin as he hushes you with another kiss.

“Shhh,” he mutters against your lips, though he’s grinning. “You’re going to get us caught. But maybe that’s what you want, huh? Maybe you like the thought of everyone hearing you come all over my cock.”

The dirty words make your whole body shudder, your orgasm building fast, and he feels it, feels you clenching around him like you’re seconds away. He fucks into you harder, faster, whispering filth right into your ear.

“Come for me. Do it, baby. Show me no one else can make you feel like this.”

The world blurs as your orgasm crashes through you, your body convulsing, nails sinking into his back. Minho curses loud against your mouth, his hips stuttering before he spills into you, filling you up with a deep groan, his forehead pressed to yours.

For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, your bodies tangled together in the dim glow of the tent. He doesn’t pull out right away, he stays buried deep, almost like he can’t stand to let you go just yet. His nose nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“Still think I’m not nice?” he teasingly asks with a smirk.

You laugh weakly but the sheen of sweat coated your skin makes you shiver. You cross your arms together in front of you, shielding you from the cold. “Can we get into the sleeping bag now? I’m cold.”

He hums but makes no effort to shift. Instead, he kisses your shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing up until his lips find yours again in a slower, sweeter kiss. Finally, he pulls out carefully and helps you settle into the sleeping bag. He tugs it up to cover your bare bodies, wrapping you in its warmth before sliding in beside you.

The sleeping bag is wrapped around you both, a cocoon of warmth in the cramped little tent. He has you pressed against his chest, his arm heavy across your waist, his fingers lazily tracing idle shapes over your skin as if he can’t stop touching you.

You glance up, looking at him through your lashes. “You know, it’s kind of funny to think what everyone would say if they found out about us.”

Minho lets out a low hum, clearly unconcerned. “Let them. I don’t care.”

You chuckle and press a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Of course you don’t. Everyone’s too scared of you to say anything anyway.”

His lips brush against yours as he leans in closer, his voice dropping into a low, teasing whisper. “What about you? Are you scared of me?”

You tilt your head toward him, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “No.”

His brows lift just slightly, intrigued. “No?”

You shake your head, smiling. “I was, at first. You were cold, sharp, and intimidating like you didn’t want anyone getting close. But now… after spending time with you, I know better.” You reach up to touch his cheek, softening your voice. “You’re not scary. You’re just… soft-hearted on the inside.”

Minho scoffs, pretending to look offended. “Soft-hearted? You’re imagining things.”

You laugh quietly, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. “Mm, no. I think I’m right.”

Another kiss, higher this time, brushing the corner of his mouth. “I know I’m right.”

His lips twitch despite himself, fighting a smile, but he shakes his head. “You’re insane.”

You kiss him full on the lips this time, slow and lingering. “Exactly how you like it.”

He finally cracks, his mouth curving into that crooked grin as he kisses you back, deeper this time, pulling you impossibly closer into his chest.

-

The air inside the tent grows warmer as the night stretches on, your voices hushed but constant, weaving through jokes, casual chat and the kind of laughter you’d never risk sharing outside this small space. Before you know it, the faint gray of dawn begins to bleed through the thin canvas walls.

You sigh, brushing your fingers along his arm draped over your waist. “I should go back. If the girls wake up and see my empty sleeping bag, they’ll know something’s up.”

The second the words leave your lips, Minho tightens his hold, rolling just enough to cage you beneath him. His face hovers close, hair falling into his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw softened in the pale morning light.

“No,” he says firmly, his voice a gravelly whisper from lack of sleep. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You let out a sigh, half exasperated, half amused. “Minho—”

But he cuts you off by pressing his mouth to yours, not with the gentle kisses you’ve been trading all night, but something raw and hungrier. His hands brace on either side of your head, trapping you in between, his weight sinking you deeper into the mattress of blankets beneath.

You try to protest between breaths, but his lips are relentless, his tongue brushing against yours, making your resolve falter. You squirm beneath him, half-heartedly pushing at his chest. “You’re persistent…” you murmur against his mouth, your words dissolving into a sigh when his hand slides down your side.

“That’s not a no,” he teases, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction as his fingers slip between your legs.

A rush of heat flooding through you at the way he’s looking down at you possessively, desperately, and yet entirely yours. And despite every rational thought reminding you that dawn is breaking and someone could notice your absence, you find yourself arching into his touch, silently giving him permission to escalate things again.

His lips claim yours again, slower now, deeper as his hand glides down the side of your thigh and then, slowly, he lifts your leg, hooking it around his waist. You know what he’s going to do next and just the thought of it enough to make you drenched all over again.

When he finally slips his cock inside you, the cramped sleeping bag makes every movement more intimate. His pace is slow, almost teasing, like he wants to draw out every sound, every shiver from you. You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm lines of muscle beneath his shirt, muffling your moans into his mouth as his thrusts build a steady rhythm.

“Minho…” you breathe against his lips, your voice trembling as the heat coils low in your stomach.

“Shh,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Just feel me.”

And you do, you feel every languid roll of his hips, every low grunt spilling from him as he moves deeper, slower, stretching the moment until it’s almost unbearable. When release crashes over you, it tears through your body in waves, your muffled cries swallowed by his kiss.

Minho doesn’t stop. His thrusts remain steady, dragging out your overstimulated whimpers as he holds you close, his forehead pressed to yours. His pace only falters when his own release overtakes him, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he finally spills inside you.

The tent is filled with nothing but the sound of your uneven breaths, your bodies tangled together in the lingering heat. Minho presses one last slow kiss to your lips, softer this time, almost reverent.

“Mine,” he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.

And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because he should have screamed it out loud.

-

The early dawn casts a bluish glow over the tent as you hurriedly pull your clothes back on, your skin still tingling from his touch, your lips swollen from his kisses. You’re halfway through buttoning your shirt when a sudden tug makes you gasp.

“Minho!” you hiss, glaring down at him as half of his still tucked in the sleeping bag, one hand smugly undoing the button you just fastened.

“What?” he asks with feigned innocence but his eyes hooded with mischief.

His fingers trail to the next button and snaps it open. “Stay a little longer.”

You swat his hand away, trying to re-button your shirt, but he catches your wrist, thumb brushing against your skin in that lazy, possessive way of his. “Or maybe you don’t need this at all,” he murmurs, tugging at the hem of your shirt before you push him back with a scowl.

“Are you serious?” you whisper-shout, bra strap sliding down your arm as he’s already managed to unhook it again. “Someone’s going to notice if I don’t get back soon!”

Minho only shrugs, completely unbothered, his grin infuriatingly cocky. “Let them.”

You roll your eyes but lean down, capturing his mouth in a long, lingering kiss, hoping it will finally make him behave. His lips soften against yours, his hand tightening at your waist, but when you pull back, he sighs dramatically, releasing you at last.

“Fine,” he mutters, watching as you hastily finish dressing, but the smug curve of his lips says otherwise. You both know he’s won, in his own way.

With one last warning glare, you unzip the tent, the cool dawn air spilling in as you slip outside and behind you, you can still hear the low chuckle that follows you all the way back to your own tent.

And ugh, you love it. Love it that he is the one secret you get to keep to yourself.

-

The camp is alive with the bustle of everyone getting ready to leave. Bags slung over shoulders, voices chattering as everyone climbs onto the bus, the groans from loading the heavy equipment into the trunk of the bus. Minho stands by the door, clipboard in hand, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group to make sure no one’s missing and no equipment is left behind.

Felix is right behind you, reaching out a hand to steady you as you step onto the bus. “Morning!” he cheerily greets you.

“Morning, Felix!” You greet him back with a smile.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, voice warm and kind.

“Good,” you reply while adjusting the strap of your bag.

And then, almost unconsciously, your eyes flick to Minho. Mischief curls at the corner of your lips as you add, “Maybe you should ask Minho too.”

Felix, oblivious, turns toward him. “Hyung, how was your sleep?”

Without missing a beat, Minho’s eyes briefly meet yours before he replies, deadpan but certain. “Better than I could have ever imagined.”

You catch the quick twitch of his lips, but it’s your own smirk that betrays everything. Sliding into one of the front seats, you don’t look back yet you feel his eyes on you, sly and knowing, the secret between you two tucked neatly behind the façade of normalcy.

And just like that, the bus rumbles to life, carrying everyone back, leaving behind the retreat and everything that happened in that small, cramped tent.

And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it that it’s only hitting him now how deeply he’s fallen for you

-

✨ DESKJOB: CHAPTER FOUR is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[yubinism]

now that is WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT 🤏🏻🤏🏻 felt fear in the deepest ends of my soul when i started this chapter (after the terrifying ending last weekend and a felix jump scare) but ended with a grin that i cannot wipe out no matter what. loveee how this chapter went, the perfect ode to my weekend 🤤

[seospicybin]

DESKJOB.

CHAPTER TWO

Lee Know x reader. (s)

Chapters: ONE

Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (7,8k words)

Author's note: Some of you asking for the next chapter so here it is, hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think 😊❣️

The two of you can’t stay away. Sometimes it’s the copy room, sometimes the emergency stairs, sometimes the bathroom stall. It’s messy, reckless, addictive and each time, Minho makes you remember that you’re his, and the risk of being caught only makes you wetter for him.

And God, you try to act normal, to focus on the job but every time you glance up from your desk, his eyes are already on you. Then he walks by, brushing his hand along your chair like it’s nothing and your heart hammers so loud you’re sure the whole office can hear.

You shake your head, reeling yourself back and continue typing on your computer. Howevre, the focus doesn’t last long as you suddenly feel a shadow fall over your desk.

“Come with me.”

Minho’s tone is serious, it’s the tone he uses when he’s about to scold someone, and instantly, the chatter around the office dies down. Everyone knows what that it means and your coworkers glance up from their desks, and you can hear someone mutter “Oh, no” under their breath.

They think what about to happen is Minho scolding you with his harsh words, maybe worse. But the heat that pools between your thighs tells you something different. Because you’ve seen this look before. It’s the look he gives when his hands were pinning you down or caging you in between his arms.

“Now,” he adds, raising his voice loud enough for the whole office to hear.

Your chair scrapes against the floor as you rise and you trail after him, ignoring the sympathetic eyes burning into your back.

Minho doesn’t say a word as he leads you down the corridor, his long strides forcing you to keep pace. As you walk, you can’t tell which one is louder: the clicking of your heels or the drumming of your heart.

When he pushes open the door to the storage room, he doesn’t bother flipping the light switch on but shuts the door behind you with a heavy thud. You glance up at him, waiting, anticipating. You swallow air to calm yourself but it only makes your throat dry.

He doesn’t move but he stares at you, and the silence between you stretching taut, like he’s trying to decide which version of himself you’ll meet: Your scary co-worker, or the man who fucked you senseless on your desk.

You feel like you need to break the silence so you part your lips, but before you can say a word, he steps in close, his body caging yours against the shelves. His hand braces beside your head, the other curling around your jaw as he tilts your face up to his.

“You think you can just… bend over your desk like that?” he says quietly, his voicewrapped in heat. “Act like you don’t know what that does to me?”

Heat flushing through your chest and you open your mouth to retort, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His eyes drag down your body, then flick back up to meet yours, dark and heavy with intent.

“Open your shirt,” he calmly orders, leaving no room for argument. “Show me.”

Your hand flies to the opening of your blouse, startled. “W-what?”

“I told you to wear the white one,” he leans in just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “And I want to see if you listened.”

A groan tumbles out of you, half frustration, half arousal. “Minho, seriously? Right now? We’re at work—”

But even as you protest, your fingers are already working your blouse open. One by one, you undo the buttons, the fabric loosening with every movement. His gaze never wavers, following the slow reveal until the edge of your white lacey bra peeks out. By the time you part your shirt enough to fully expose it, his eyes are locked on the way the bra perfectly cupping your breasts, then back on you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, smirking in satisfaction. “You did listen.”

The smirk deepens as he steps closer, crowding you back against the wall of the storage room. His hand slides down from your jaw, grazing your throat before settling over your chest. He palms your breast through the thin lace, fingers squeezing possessively.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “I knew they’d look even better on you.”

The gentle squeeze turns to impatience and with a frustrated growl, Minho hooks his fingers on the bra and yanks it down, the delicate fabric straining as your breasts spill free. A gasp barely escapes you he puts his mouth on you, hot and demanding. His tongue circles your nipple, then he sucks hard, pulling a strangled sound from your throat. You slap a hand over your own mouth, terrified of being heard, but it only makes Minho’s grin widen against your skin.

“Shhh,” he teases between licks, his voice muffled against your skin. “You wouldn’t want the whole office knowing how much you like this, would you?”

His teeth graze your nipple lightly, making you jolt, then he soothes the sting away with a slow swirl of his tongue. He switches to your other breast without warning, greedily sucking until you arch into him, your muffled moans echoing softly in the tiny room.

Every flick of his tongue, every harsh pull of his mouth, feels like he’s trying to brand you with his desire. When he finally pulls away, his mouth leaves your breast with a wet pop, a glint of saliva shining on your skin before he wipes it away with his thumb.

You’re still trembling when his hand slides lower, slipping beneath the hem of your pencil skirt. “Minho—”

“Relax,” he cuts you off, his palm presses firmly against your thigh. “I just want to check if you’re soaked already.”

He drags his hand higher until his fingertips grazing over the thin fabric of your panties. The moment he palms your clothed sex, you shiver violently, biting back a moan.

Minho chuckles low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ear as he leans in close.

“You’re dripping for me in the middle of the office,” he whispers, fingers repeatedly going up and down your slit, feeling the wetness spreading. “Do you have any idea how fucking insane that is?”

You squeeze your thighs around his hand, desperate for more friction and he obliges, even just little. His fingers trace slow circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressiure to make you whimper, not nearly enough to satisfy.

“Look at you,” he taunts, lips brushing your ear, “ready to come just from me teasing you. What would everyone think if they saw their precious coworker bent over for me, begging to be fucked in the supply room?”

You gasp when his finger slips under the lace, gliding through your slick folds and then, he abruptly stops. He pulls his hand away, leaving you clenching around nothing.

Minho smirks, licking the taste of you off his fingers right in front of you. “Not yet. You’re going to sit at your desk all day, squirming, thinking about how close I got.”

You let out a frustrated groan, thighs rubbing together instinctively and you hurriedly grip the edge of the shelf to keep yourself steady.

Minho leans in, presses the softest kiss against your jaw, then murmurs, “Be good, and maybe I’ll finish what I started.”

Complaining will only give Minho a chance to torture you more so you keep quiet. You smooth your blouse down as best you can before stepping out of the storage room.

Minho follows a few seconds later, calm as he always is, as though nothing at all happened inside those four walls.

When you reach your desk, a coworker peers up from their computer. “Hey, are you okay? He didn’t chew you out too bad, did he?”

You wave your hand dismissively. “Oh, no. It’s fine. Just a quick reminder about deadlines.”

They tilt their head, still concerned. “You look kinda pale, though.”

“Really? Must just be the air in there,” you murmur, settling onto your chair. Your fingers grip the edge of the desk a little too tightly as you sit down, the ache between your thighs flaring up at the memory of Minho’s hand.

He’s across the room now, reviewing a stack of papers like he didn’t just have you on the brink of falling apart.

You try to shift your focus back on the unfinished report, but every shift of your body reminds you of how unbearably wet you still are. The damp lace clings to you, sticky and warm. You cross your legs, then uncross them, then shift again, desperate to relieve the throbbing heat.

“Seriously, are you sure you’re fine?” another coworker whispers, lowering their voice like Minho might overhear.

You force a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Totally fine.”

But no, you’re not. You’re worse. Minho didn’t scold you, he edged you. He left you wide open, dripping, and now you’re stuck at your desk with no relief in sight, pretending to be composed while the man across the room knows exactly what he’s done to you.

-

Minho’s been in his element for the past hour, papers spread across his desk as he double-checks figures and notes before the big interdepartmental meeting. He doesn’t spare you a glance, too focused on getting everything ready for the meeting. But you know better, beneath that cool exterior is the man who left you squirming and unsatisfied in the storage room and you decide he doesn’t get the last word.

So you slip away, ducking into the bathroom. You lock yourself inside a stall and slowly peel off the lace underwear that still clings damp against your skin. Balling the delicate scrap of fabric into your palm, you breathe deeply, steadying yourself before you head back out.

The sheer boldness of it makes you bite back a laugh. Oh God, you’re really doing this.

By the time you return, Minho is sliding his blazer on, gathering the files he needs. He’s about to leave for the meeting room, walking with that confident stride that makes everyone sit straighter when he passes.

“Mr, Lee,” you call out just loud enough to draw his attention.

He pauses, one brow arched, annoyance flickering in his eyes at the possibility of being delayed. “What is it?”

You slowly approach him like you would to a wild animal and when you reach his side, you lower your voice. “You dropped something.”

Before he can respond, you slip your hand discreetly into his, pressing the crumpled lace into his palm. His eyes widen for just a split second before his hand instinctively closes around the fabric.

You don’t give him time to react and with a quick turn, you spin on your heel, walking away with the same nonchalance he always wears. Your back is straight, chin high, heart pounding with adrenaline as you head back to your desk like nothing happened.

Minho just stands there for half a beat, clutching your underwear in his hand as though it burns him. Then, as if remembering himself, he tucks it into his pocket and clears his throat as he carries on toward the meeting room.

To everyone else, he looks calm and composed as usual but you catch the way his jaws clenched and unclenched and the way he avoids looking in your direction at all costs. You’ve rattled him and now you know why Minho enjoys doing it to you because gosh, the thrill of it is intoxicating.

-

In the meeting room, everyone is seated around the long polished table while Minho stands at the front. He looks sharp in his burgundy suits, voice steady as he opens the session and lays out the agenda, but you know what’s tucked inside his pocket. You hide your smile behind your notebook, completely amused.

You sit near the center of the table, directly in his line of sight. It’s strategic, it’s perfect and at first, you behave, taking notes and nodding along as he speaks. But when he glances your way, you slowly shift in your seat. You cross your legs, deliberately languid, and when you uncross them again, you make sure the motion is unhurried.

You catch the almost imperceptible pause in his words and the faint tightening around his mouth before he smooths it back into a perfect expression of authority. His gaze skims over the rest of the room, but it always, always finds its way back to you.

The next time his eyes land on you, you lean back slightly in your chair. Your pen is between your fingers, and without breaking his stare, you bring it to your lips. Your teeth catch the end of the pen, holding it there as you feign deep thought, your lashes low but gaze still locked with his. It’s subtle but it’s enough to make him clears his throat, straightens the papers in his hand though they didn’t need straightening.

You continue your quiet little performance throughout the meeting. Another slow crossing of your legs here, a shift in your skirt there. Each move calculated, deliberate, just enough to flash the barest hint of what’s underneath—or rather, what isn’t.

From the outside, Minho is unshakable. He commands the room flawlessly, answers questions, challenges points with the sharpness he’s known for. But you notice the little cracks here and there. The way his knuckles whiten slightly around his pen when your pen slides back between your teeth. The way his Adam’s apple bobs when you shift in your chair. The way he avoids looking at you for too long, as though he knows if he does, he’ll lose his composure entirely.

For once, you’re the one in control. You’re the one making him burn while everyone else remains blissfully unaware. And Minho knows it.

-

The meeting finally adjourns, everyone starts gathering their things. Minho wraps it up perfectly, thanking everyone for their time, but you see the sharp glance he throws your way as soon as it’s done. The kind that says don’t think you’re getting away with this.

Which is exactly why you slip out before he can corner you and no one notices you sneaking from the room. You don’t go back to your desk right away and instead, you wander the office halls, deliberately staying just out of sight. Maybe into the break room, maybe ducking into an empty cubicle row, maybe even the copy room. Each step fueled by the thrill of knowing he’ll come looking and he does.

You hear his footsteps echo down the corridor, closer, then farther, then circling back again. Every now and then, his voice drifts past like he’s speaking to someone on the phone. Your heart pounds as you press yourself against the cool wall of the storage alcove, hidden by shadows. It’s amusing, watching Minho, the man who dominates every room he walks into, now prowling the office looking for you like a predator denied his prize and you’re the prey, deliberately out of reach.

You spend the next hours dodging him and whenever you hear his footsteps approaching, you slip into another corridor, or mingle with a small cluster of employees chatting near the vending machine. Once, you even brush past him on purpose, eyes flicking up with the sweetest, most innocent smile before disappearing into the press of bodies again.

Minho is fuming and you can see it in the way he keeps checking his watch like he’s on a countdown only he knows about. His composure is hanging by a thread, but no one else seems to notice. To them, he’s just the diligent boss making rounds. To you, he’s a predator restrained, forced into patience he doesn’t have.

When he finally finds you, it’s not the way he wants.

You’re standing at a colleague’s desk, leaning slightly as you point at something on a report, helping her on something, letting her asks you questions and you happily answer each one of them.

He can’t touch you here. Can’t drag you away. Can’t lean in and whisper all the filthy promises you know he’s been planning in his head. He exhales through his nose like a man about to lose it.

You know exactly what you’ve done: wound him tight, stretched him to the edge of his composure. And when he finally snaps, when the office empty and there’s no one left around to shield you…

He’s going to ruin you for it.

-

The office slowly thins out as everyone else clocking out, their footsteps echo down the hallways. Minho is still at his desk, putting his things into his bag, but when he glances up, your chair is empty.

Empty but not gone. Your coat is still slung neatly over the backrest, your bag still resting by the desk. You’re here. You’re waiting. You’re taunting him.

Right on cue, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, lips twitching when your name flashes across it.

“Where are you?” his voice comes low, firm.

“Find me,” you whisper, teasing, playful. “I’ll guide you.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp. “You really want to test me right now?”

A soft laugh escapes you through the speaker. “Mm, maybe I do. Take a step forward.”

He obeys, long strides carrying him through the empty cubicles, the sound of his shoes echoing against the polished floor.

“Good… warmer,” you murmur.

He turns down the hallway toward the supply rooms. Empty.

“Cold,” you chime, voice lilting with amusement.

He grits his teeth, lips curling into a dangerous smirk. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you sound frustrated,” you counter, a smile in your tone. “And I like it.”

Minho presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he pivots, stalking toward the east wing where the conference rooms are. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I’m counting on it,” you breathe, softer now, like you’re lowering your voice so no one overhears. “Left at the end of the hall.”

He follows your lead, his chest tightening with anticipation as he listens to your faint breaths on the line. Every word you give him is a breadcrumb, every pause designed to make him ache.

“Closer,” you whisper as he nears the row of meeting rooms. “I can almost hear your footsteps.”

He stops in front of the first door. Silent. Dark. “Here?”

A giggle hums against his ear. “Colder.”

Minho growls low in his throat and moves to the next. He tries the handle. Locked.

“Warmer…”

Finally, he stops at the third door, faint light spilling out from underneath. He wraps his hand around the handle, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Hot,” you whisper, voice trembling with heat now. “So hot, Minho.”

He pushes the door open, his gaze immediately locking on you perched at the edge of the meeting table, legs crossed, lips curved in a daring smile, phone still in your hand.

The line goes silent except for your breaths.

He ends the call without a word, sliding his phone into his pocket as he approaches, his steps slow like a predator savoring the kill.

“Having fun?” he asks, voice low, threaded with both amusement and warning.

You lift your chin, feigning innocence, though your pulse races under his gaze. “Maybe.”

Minho takes his time walking toward you, his eyes never leaving yours and when he stops in front of you, he plants both hands on the table beside your thighs, caging you in.

“You made me hunt you down like some kind of game,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you now?”

The intensity of his gaze making the words caught in your throat, but before you can answer, his hand slides up your thigh. He hooks his fingers under your skirt, dragging it higher and higher until cool air brushes against your skin.

“Fuck,” he hisses when his hand finds your bare cunt.

Your smirk returns, though it wavers when his fingers tease along your slick folds, feather-light. “Told you… I wanted to play.”

He chuckles darkly, then suddenly presses two fingers inside you, burying them deep. You bite down hard on your lip to stifle a moan, clutching at his shoulders.

“Not so playful now, hm?” he taunts, curling his fingers just right.

Your back arches against the table, heat flooding through you, but before you can unravel, he pulls his hand away, leaving you throbbing.

“Minho—” you breathlessly protest.

He grips your jaw firmly, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him. His eyes glint with satisfaction at your frustration. “You don’t get to come yet,” he growls. “Not after the stunt you pulled.”

Your thighs press together instinctively, aching, and he notices. With a sly smirk, he yanks your legs apart again, stepping between them and then he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

The sudden wet heat of his tongue against your sensitive skin has you gasping, your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the cry that threatens to spill. He grips your hips hard, holding you in place as he devours you, unrelenting, sucking and licking like he’s starved for you.

Your thighs shake, hands fisting in his hair, and the sounds of his mouth working between your legs echo shamelessly in the empty meeting room.

He pulls back only when you’re on the edge of breaking, lips glistening, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Taste so good.”

Your whole body is already trembling from the way his tongue left you hanging, but Minho doesn’t rush back in. He stays kneeling between your spread legs, lips brushing your skin as he talks.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth up the inside of your thigh. “Crossing your legs in front of me. Flashing me what only I should see. Acting like you weren’t driving me insane while I was supposed to be leading that damn meeting.”

You shiver, nails digging into the edge of the table. “Minho—”

He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, just high enough to make you jolt, but not high enough to give you relief. A sharp hiss escapes your lips.

“Don’t ‘Minho’ me.” His tongue soothes the sting as he sucks, hard, leaving a mark against your skin. “This one’s for when you tugged your pen between your lips and looked at me like you wanted to swallow me whole.”

You whimper, feeling the heat pool deep in your belly.

His mouth moves to the other thigh, slow, lazy, almost tender until his teeth sink in again, harder this time. Another mark blooms, and you can’t stop the gasp that slips out.

“And this one—” he whispers against the bruise he’s leaving, his voice a growl, “is for when you crossed your legs so damn slow, knowing I was watching. Making me think about spreading them just like this, under the table, in front of everyone.”

Your head falls back, a breathless moan escaping before you can catch it.

Minho chuckles darkly, proud of himself. “Shh,” he warns, pressing his lips over the mark he just made. “Don’t want anyone walking by to know what I’m doing to you, do you?”

He pulls back slightly, admiring the marks he made now staining both your thighs, his signatures, his claim. His fingers stroke possessively over them, and then slide higher, brushing against your soaked folds just long enough to make your hips jerk before pulling away again.

“Every time you see these,” he says, gaze locking onto yours, “you’ll remember what happens when you tease me.”

You swallow hard, your body aching for him to finally give in, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, kissing right above your clit with infuriating restraint.

“You want me inside you, don’t you?” he asks, the smirk tugging at his lips wicked.

The need in your body is unbearable, and he knows it. He waits, poised, ready to deny you again unless you answer.

You narrow your eyes at him, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “If you’re not going to put it in,” you say, voice dripping with defiance, “then it won’t be a problem for me.”

His smirk falters, just a fraction, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

Without giving him time to react, you slip off the table, straightening your skirt. “I’ll just go take care of it myself,” you add with a daring little smile, “and I promise I won’t be thinking of you while I touch myself.”

The flash of rage in his eyes is instant. “What did you just say?”

But you’re already backing toward the door, heart racing as adrenaline and arousal blur together. The second your hand grabs the knob, you’re darting into the dimly lit hallway.

“Hey! Get back here!” Minho’s voice is echoing behind you.

You breathlessly laugh, glancing over your shoulder. “Better catch me if you want to stop me.”

That does it. His jaw clenches, his eyes dark as he breaks into a faster stride. His composure, the cool control he always keeps at work is slipping, cracking just because of you.

The thrill of it courses through you, making your thighs squeeze together even as you round the corner. You don’t make it far as his longer strides close the distance fast, and before you can dart into another room, his hand snatches your wrist and slams you against the wall with his body caging yours in.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is a low growl, his breath hot against your ear.

You grin up at him, still breathless, still brimming with mischief. “Isn’t it?”

Before you can wiggle free, his grip on your wrist tightens and, with a swift move, he bends and scoops you up onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“Minho—!” you gasp, pounding lightly at his back, your voice bouncing off the empty hallway. “Put me down!”

He doesn’t answer, his arm firmly around your thighs. The position leaves you dangling helplessly, your skirt riding scandalously high, your vision bouncing as he strides down the corridor with purposeful steps.

You wriggle, protesting, but his palm comes down on your ass hard enough to sting. You yelp, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Stop moving,” he warns darkly, “or I’ll spank you all the way there.”

All the way where?

It doesn’t take long to find out. Minho shoulders open the door to the empty meeting room you escaped from earlier, kicks it shut behind him, and sets you down only to press you against the table. The sharp click of the lock follows, echoing through the silence and he makes sure you hear it, letting you know you’re locked in with him.

“Now,” he says, stepping in close until his body cages yours, “try running again.” His smirk returns as his hand slides down to grip your thighs. “I dare you.”

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering, caught between the sting of his warning and the unbearable heat pooling low in your belly.

Minho pulls out a chair and sits, tugging you firmly by the wrist until you’re standing between his knees. “You really think you can tease me in front of everyone and then run?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he’s pulling you down over his lap, bending you so your hands press against the floor for balance, your ass perfectly arched for him. The position makes you burn with embarrassment, yet your body aches with anticipation.

“Skirt up,” he commands.

When you hesitate, his hand snakes under the hem and flips it up himself, exposing you. He clicks his tongue when he finds you bare. “No underwear.” His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, deceptively gentle. “You’ve been begging for this all day.”

The first slap lands hard and you gasp as the sting radiating through your skin.

“That’s one,” he says, his tone sharp. “Count.”

Your voice trembles as you whisper, “O-one.”

“Louder,” he orders, his hand striking down again.

“Two!” you yelp.

He smirks at the sound, his other hand pressing down on your lower back to keep you still. The spanking continues, each slap harder, sharper, the burn building as you cry out and count—“Three… four… f-five…”—until your skin is hot and tingling, your breath ragged.

“Good girl,” Minho praises darkly, though the warmth in his voice only makes the humiliation burn hotter. “Take it. Take every slap for being such a brat to me today.”

You whimper, squeezing your thighs together, desperate for relief, but his palm nudges them apart again. “Don’t you dare hide from me,” he growls, landing another. “Six.”

Your voice cracks as you count, your whole body trembling and it’s not from the pain alone, but from the way he makes it unbearable and addictive at once.

The tenth slap lands sharp against your already tender skin, the sting making you whimper. “Ten,” you choke out, your voice cracking, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

His palm lingers on your ass, but this time it’s soft, rubbing in slow circles to soothe the burn he caused. His voice, once hard and commanding, lowers to something warm and coaxing. “That’s enough,” he murmurs. “You’ve taken them all so well.”

He eases you up, pulling you into his lap now instead of keeping you bent over it. One hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward him. “Did you learn not to tease me? Not to act like a brat?” he asks, searching your tear-bright eyes.

You nod quickly, your throat too tight for words.

He raises a brow, his tone soft but edged with authority even as his thumb strokes your cheek. “Words. Say it.”

“I won’t be bratty again,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“That’s better,” he says softly, satisfied. “And are you going to be a good girl for me now?”

“Yes,” you answer.

His expression softens even more, the harshness fading completely as he presses a kiss to your forehead, then another to the corner of your damp eyes. “That’s my girl.”

Minho shifts you onto the edge of the table, his hands sliding firmly around your waist as he kisses you. His lips linger as though he’s savoring the taste of you, then he pulls back just enough to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch achingly tender compared to the heat in his eyes.

“What do you want?” he murmurs, his forehead brushing against yours.

“I want you,” you whisper without hesitation.

His mouth curves into a sly smile, his tone dripping with tease. “What exactly do you want, hm?”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your nose against his. “You know exactly what I want.”

He hums, amused, his eyes narrowing as though he enjoys dragging the admission from you. “Then show me.”

Your hand trails down between your bodies, brushing over the hard bulge straining against his dark slacks. He smirks down at you, his voice lowering. “That’s what you want?”

You nod quickly, eagerly, your lips parting as the anticipation coils low in your belly.

“Then go ahead,” he says, leaning back just enough to give you room. “Pull it out for me.”

Your fingers make quick work of his belt and buttons, the sound of the zipper echoes in the quiet room. When you slip your hand inside, you find him straining against his briefs, hot and swollen. You free him slowly, your palm wrapping around the thick length, and his jaw flexes as he watches you.

“Fuck,” he exhales, his voice dropping rougher. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking idly as his gaze stays locked on your hand moving around him. “I like that. I like your hand on me like this.”

You stroke him slowly, savoring the way his breath deepens, his composure slipping in little cracks. His words are low, husky. “I could come just from this—just from your hand wrapped around me.”

Your fingers curl tighter around him as you pump him slow and steady, each stroke dragging a hiss of breath through his clenched teeth. His hand never leaves your face, thumb brushing your lower lip until you part it for him, and he smirks as he presses the pad of his thumb against your tongue.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and dark, “so eager with my cock in your hand. You like this, don’t you?”

You nod, muffled against his thumb, your eyes hazy with want.

“Say it,” he urges, his gaze drilling into you.

“I like it,” you whisper, your voice almost trembling as you pump him faster, the slick precum smearing under your strokes.

“Yeah, you do,” he says with a breathy chuckle, his head tipping back for a second before he locks his eyes back on you. “You’re dripping already, aren’t you? Just from touching me like this.”

Heat flushes your skin because he’s right, you can feel how soaked you are even without him touching you there.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” he asks, his voice smooth but sharp as a blade. He doesn’t wait for your answer before continuing, teasing further. “Or do you want to keep stroking me, make me come all over your pretty hand? Hm? Would you like that?”

Your thighs press together at his words, desperate for friction.

“Look at you squirming.” He leans close, his lips ghosting over your ear. “If I slid my hand down there right now, I’d find you soaked through, wouldn’t I?”

You whimper softly, and it makes his cock twitch in your grip.

“Fuck, I love that sound,” Minho groans, his hips giving the smallest thrust into your hand. “You make me want to ruin you right here.”

His hand trails from your jaw down your neck, brushing along your collarbone before slipping lower, until his fingers are teasing at the edge of your bra. He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking across your hardened nipple through the lace, and you gasp, your hand faltering on his cock for a second.

“That’s it,” he rasps, leaning in close, “don’t stop. Keep stroking me while I play with you.”

His other hand slides down your stomach until his fingers dip beneath your skirt and find your heating core. His breath stutters the second he feels how wet you are.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his eyes flicking down as he strokes your folds with two fingers, coating himself in your slick. “You’re absolutely drenched.”

You whimper, nodding quickly, your hips rocking into his touch.

He smirks, his lips brushing your ear as he slips two fingers inside you, filling you with a slow, deep thrust. “You’re so tight around my fingers. Can you imagine what it’ll feel like when I finally put my cock inside you?”

A choked sound escapes your throat, your hand squeezing him harder, pumping faster, and he lets out a deep groan.

“That’s it, baby,” he praises, his fingers curling just right inside you while his thumb circles your clit. “Work me with that pretty hand. I want you to make me lose control.”

Your walls flutter around his fingers and he smirks, pressing harder on your clit. “You’re close already, aren’t you? God, you’re so desperate for me. Say it—tell me how much you want it.”

“I—I want it so bad,” you gasp, your voice breaking.

“Want what?” he growls, his pace quickening inside you, his cock throbbing in your hand.

“You,” you pant. “I want your cock inside me. Please.”

He groans low in his chest, his restraint thinning as his forehead presses to yours. “It’s cute… The way you beg.”

Minho pulls his fingers from you as he settles himself between your legs. He smirks as he’s guiding his throbbing length to your entrance, his tip nudging against your soaked folds.

“Watch,” he commands in a low growl, one hand holding your thigh open while the other guides his cock. “Watch how easily you take me.”

Your chest heaves as the thick head pushes inside, stretching you inch by inch. Your back arches off the table, eyes locked on the sight of him disappearing into you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his jaw tight as he sinks deeper. “You’re swallowing me—look at that. You were made for my cock.”

Your nails dig into the edge of the table, your mouth falling open in a desperate moan. “Minho, oh…”

“Louder,” he urges, his hips pressing flush against yours as he bottoms out. “No one’s here to hear you now. Let them hear how good I fuck you.”

He starts to move in slow, steady thrusts that drag every inch of him against your walls. The pace is unhurried but devastating, each roll of his hips making your breath stutter. His hand cups your breast, thumb teasing your nipple until you’re whimpering beneath him.

“That’s it,” he pants, leaning down to mouth at your jaw. “So fucking wet, so fucking tight around me. You feel me? Every inch of me stretching this pretty cunt?”

You nod frantically, your cries echoing in the empty meeting room, but it’s not enough for him. His hand grips your chin, forcing your dazed eyes back to his.

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

“You—fuck, you make me feel so good,” you moan, your voice breaking as his thrusts deepen. “You feel so fucking big—Minho, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He groans, his thumb flicking at your clit while his hips grind into you with slow, punishing force. “You can take it all. My good girl always takes it for me.”

The table creaks beneath you, your body trembling as the knot in your stomach tightens unbearably. His mouth finds your breast, teeth grazing your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and the lewd sound that rips out of you echoes in the room.

“Louder,” he murmurs against your skin. “I want to hear you scream for me.”

He lets go of your breath to watch your face intently, savoring the way you arch and moan under his control.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dark with amusement. “You’re so needy for me and I’m not even giving you half of what I could.”

Your nails claw at his arms, your chest heaving as you meet his hips with desperate little bucks. “Minho, please…”

He smirks down at you, still moving unbearably slow, each push deliberate, each withdrawal making you ache. “Please what? You’ve been a brat all day. Maybe this is all you get.”

You whine, frustration making your voice break. “No, I want more—please, Minho, go harder…”

“You want it harder?” he taunts, hips grinding deep as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. “You think you can handle it?”

Your legs trembling as you nod. “Yes. Please, I need it—I need you to fuck me harder.”

He chuckles darkly, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. “I knew it. Knew you’d beg for it. You always do.”

Without warning, he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you with force. Your cry echoes in the empty meeting room, loud and unrestrained.

“That’s what you wanted, huh?” he growls, his thrusts now hard, relentless, driving you up the table with every slam of his hips. “You wanted me to ruin you in here, to fuck you so loud anyone could hear if they walked past that door.”

Your body jerks with every deep thrust, his cock hitting places that make your vision blur. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but the pleasure is overwhelming, addicting.

“Yes! Minho, yes!” you sob out, clinging to him as he pounds into you.

His smirk deepens, sweat glistening on his brow as he looks down at you—wrecked, begging, exactly where he wants you. “That’s my girl,” he rasps, his pace never faltering. “So greedy, so perfect for me. I’ll give you every damn thing you ask for.”

His hips snap forward in brutal rhythm, each thrust shoving you further up the table, the edge digging into your back as you writhe beneath him. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, wet and obscene, echoing with every punishing movement of his body.

Your moans spill out of you, mixing with the guttural curses that rip from his throat. “Fuck—you’re so tight—” he groans, teeth gritted as his hand slides up your body to grip your throat just enough to make you whimper. His other hand digs into your hip, holding you in place so you can’t escape the ruthless pace.

Your thighs tremble, slickness dripping down between them, coating both of you in messy evidence of your desperation. Every thrust squelches, wet and lewd.

“So loud, so filthy—” he growls, thrusting harder, deeper, like he’s determined to bruise your insides. “Crying for my cock like you were made for it.” He leans down, lips brushing your ear as he snarls, “You like being used like this, don’t you?”

Your cry comes out as a choked sob of pleasure. “Yes—god, yes—I love it—”

That’s all it takes for his control to shatter completely. He shifts, spreading your legs wider, folding you nearly in half to slam into you at a new angle that makes stars burst in your vision. Your back arches off the table, a scream tearing from your throat as he pistons into you mercilessly.

Saliva spills from the corner of your mouth, your lipstick smeared, hair tangled as he fucks you into the table like he owns you. He does, you can feel it in the way his cock fills you, claiming you with every brutal thrust.

“Mine,” Minho growls, he pounds you so hard the table creaks beneath you. “All mine—you hear me? No one else gets this—no one else gets to see you like this.”

You answer with a broken moan, a pleading cry, your nails clawing down his back as your orgasm builds fast, tearing through your body. “Minho—oh my god—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he snarls, fucking you even harder, sloppy now, wet and desperate as his own climax nears. “Come all over me—make a mess on my cock.”

The wave crashes through you violently, your body convulsing as you scream his name, walls fluttering around him, soaking him with your release. The sound, the feeling… it pushes him over the edge.

With a guttural growl, Minho drives in deep, hips grinding against you as his cock twitches inside, spilling hot and messy. He curses loudly, fucking you through it, the two of you ruined and wrecked in the echoing emptiness of the meeting room.

When he finally slows, you’re a panting, trembling mess, your skin damp, your thighs sticky with his release and your own. He pulls back just enough to look at you, your wild hair, your swollen lips, your glassy eyes… and he smirks.

“You’re lucky the door’s locked,” he murmurs, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face, his voice low and wicked. “Because anyone walking by would know exactly what kind of slut you’ve been for me.”

You slowly lay yourself back on the table, spent and still trying to catch your breath, body buzzing from the aftermath. Minho stays inside you for a moment longer, grinding lazily like he doesn’t want to let go, then slowly pulls out with a wet, messy sound that makes you shiver.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, your thighs trembling, and he immediately hushes you with a kiss, it’s slow and sweet, different from how he was just claiming you. “My good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, brushing damp strands of hair away from your sweaty forehead.

He reaches for your discarded panties on the floor, bending to pick them up. Still dazed, you’re watching through heavy lids as he crouches between your legs, gently spreading your thighs again. “Messy,” he says with a smirk, tracing a finger along the slick that drips from you. But instead of teasing further, he carefully slides the fabric up your legs. “Lift for me.”

You obey, lifting your hips for him and he eases the underwear into place, tugging it snug against your swollen core. His touch lingers, cupping you softly through the thin lace.

“There,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, right over the marks he left earlier. “Keep it inside for me.”

When he rises, he doesn’t let you sit up right away. Instead, he pulls you against his chest, letting you melt into him as his hands rub soothing circles over your back. “Are you okay?” he asks gently, tilting your chin so your eyes meet his.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, and he smiles, brushing his lips over yours again.

“That’s my girl.”

He helps you off the table, his arm steady around your waist when your knees threaten to buckle. Before you can complain, he’s tucking you close, carrying you bridal-style with his strong arms and then he teases, “You’re not running anywhere this time.”

-

The aroma of coffee fills the pantry as you pour yourself a fresh cup. You’re just stirring in sugar when Minho slips in. He doesn’t greet you, well, he rarely does in the office but he grabs a clean cup from the cabinet and steps up to the machine.

You sidestep, giving him room, and take a careful sip of your still hot cup of coffee.

Without looking at you, he asks casually, “How’s the coffee?”

You tilt your cup, swallow slowly, and answer with a little smile. “Hot.”

And as you pass him, leaning just close enough for only him to hear, you whisper, “Which reminds me of how your cock felt inside me.”

You don’t need to wait for his reaction as the smirk tugging at your lips is enough as you glide out, carrying your coffee like it’s a prize. But the moment you step back into the office, your smirk falters.

Someone is sitting in your chair and you can’t see his face as the high back of the chair hides him until he casually swivels to face you. A small face. Bright, eager eyes. Freckles dusted his cheeks and nose. Blonde hair that nearly glows under the fluorescent lights.

The second his gaze meets yours, he jolts upright, smiling so widely it almost startles you. “Ah—sorry! I didn’t mean to sit there.” He steps back politely, still grinning as he offers his hand at you and introduces himself. “I’m Felix, the new intern.”

-

✨ DESKJOB: CHAPTER THREE is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[yubinism]

absolutely hating how i was the late train to this but not hating how i indulged and devoured this the minute i got to read it. effie holds the supremacy of lee know fics in my head and heart and there is nothing that can change the fact.

me throughout the entire passage LITERALLY. the ending was so good that it made me almost fall from the edge of my seat. FELIX MISTER FELIX I SEE YA HERE. BUDDY DONT COME BETWEEN MY SOFT BUBBLE 🤨🤨. absolutely cant wait for the next one, already looking for the front row seats for when it drops, i will set alarms in my house and shut off the big apple for just this to come in the hands of mine next friday. thank you for gracing my day with such beloved and precious fics 🫢🫢

[seospicybin]

THE HUNT.

Lee Know x reader. (suggestive, horror)

Synopsis: Under the full moon, two strangers meet by chance—or by something darker. And in a night meant for costumes and make-believe, the monsters… are very much real. (9,9k words)

Author's note: You know I love Halloween, I love Lee Know and this is based on my favorite Halloween movie so I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it 🎃🧡

“Good evening, Salem’s Hollow! I’m Mary Shelley, reporting live from the heart of our annual Halloween Festival — where, as you can see behind me, the night’s only just begun! It’s barely eight o’clock, and the streets are already packed! Locals say this year’s turnout might just break records. With themed stalls, a haunted parade, and the legendary firework show at midnight, tonight promises to be—”

The broadcast flickers as the bar owner switches the channel to one that plays an old horror movie. The crowd is thinner here as most people are on the streets enjoying the festival.

Minho sits at the counter, one hand curled around a half-finished glass of whiskey, the other tapping lazily against the wood. His eyes aren’t on the TV anymore but on the girl sitting alone at the end of the counter. Her head slightly tilted, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, looking bored. The costume she wears isn’t of known characters or figures. She only wears simple black dress, her lips painted in crimson, and a small choker that draws attention to the hollow of her throat.

Mmh… perfect.

Minho’s tongue presses against the back of his teeth, feeling the sharpness of his fangs. The festival outside might be for the living, but for him, it’s something else entirely. It’s a night when predators could blend in with monsters.

He gestures the bartender and orders another drink. Then, he waits until the vodka soda being delivered to the girl. He watches as she’s surprised by it and tells the bartender that she didn’t order it.

The bartender simply gestures his hand in Minho’s direction and then, their eyes meet. Minho puts on his charm, smiling as he slightly raises his drink as an invitation and sips his drink. The girl returns the smile, a shy yet flirty smile and does the same — raises her drink in unspoken gratitude and have a sip.

A long moment later, Minho swirls what’s left of his drink, watching the girl’s reflection in the bar mirror. Her movements are slower now, her posture unsteady. The alcohol softening her edges just enough for him to slip between them.

When he rises, his voice is smooth and warm, almost tender. “You look like you could use some air.”

She glances up at him with unfocused eyes. A faint smile ghosts across her lips as she nods once before she loses her balance completely, almost falling from her stool.

Outside, the night is buzzing with music and laughter. Masks and monsters drift past them under the orange glow of the streetlights. To anyone watching, they look like another couple leaving the bar, her boyfriend helping his drunk girlfriend walk with his arm around her waist, her head lolling against his shoulder.

But in the narrow alley, the music fades and the lights dim.

She sways when he lets go, resting her back against the bricked wall. “I—I should get back,” she mumbles, voice slurred. “Maybe get another—”

Her words die as Minho steps closer, shadow spilling over her. His hand brushes her hair aside, fingertips grazing the soft skin of her neck.

“Shh,” he whispers, his breath cool against her ear.

Her protest turns into a soft, involuntary sound when his lips find her jaw, then lower. He makes a trail of slow, deliberate kisses that blur the line between pleasure and dread. On her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder — each kiss causes her knees to weaken, her head tipping back. Then, he lifts her hand, pressing his mouth on her wrist, soft and feathery.

For a moment, it looks like a tender, stolen moment in the dark.

The girl shivers as Minho takes a step back and when she opens her eyes again, he finds his face glistens faintly in the moonlight, sharp features and intense eyes. There’s something else too, a drop of something dark red at the corner of his mouth.

It takes her a heartbeat too long to understand that it’s… blood. She looks down and realizes that she wasn’t getting kisses, but bites. Blood dribbling from where his fangs digging through the flesh.

Her body trembles in fear and a second later, a scream rips through the alley, raw and jagged. She stumbles backward, clutching at where the skin burns. The world tilts around her as she runs out of the narrow alley and into the noise and light of the festival, gasping, sobbing.

“Help! Please—someone—!”

She weaves through the crowd that ignores her cry for help and then bump into a group of teenagers. She grabs at one of them, asking help while crying and panting. “Please, help me. There’s—"

The other boy laughs and mutters, “she’s wasted, dude.”

They shake their head and move along with the crowd. The girl cries in both fear and panic now, stumbling her way through the crowd and almost trip on her own feet as she keeps looking over her shoulders.

When she turns the corner, he’s there again. He catches her wrist before she can scream, pressing her back against the cold brick. He clicks his tongue at her, eyes gleaming with hunger.

Minho tenderly brushes her cheek with his knuckle but his touch turns cold and rough as he wraps his hand around her neck. Then, he smiles — not out of kindness nor mercy, but to bare his teeth, showing the fangs that are ready to prey. He tightens his hold around her neck, the blood pulsing under his fingertips. He presses his nose next and the scent, oh… so appetizing.

The girl cries, chest heaving and lips trembling, helpless under his predatory eyes. When he brings his face close to hers, the girl lets out a choked, shuddering sob.

“Shh…” His voice is almost kind when he says, “it’ll be over soon.”

With that, he sinks his teeth into her tender flesh, hot blood flooding his mouth and quenches his thirst. He can’t stop; he won’t stop until her eyes fluttering shut as if she’s simply fallen asleep. Until blood and life are drained out of her.

Minho wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The burn in his throat subsides, he’s fed but not quite full yet.

He drapes her arm over his shoulder and carries her back toward the noise of the street. No one looks twice when he props her against the front wall of the bar, among the other drunken revelers.

Minho adjusts his collar, steps back into the crowd, and blend right in. And by the time someone realizes she’s been sitting there too long, he’ll be long gone.

-

The festival is far from done as more people filling the streets. A smear of red lingers at the corner of his lips and he licks it away absently, the metallic taste humming like electricity beneath his tongue.

Masks brush past him, fake fangs glint, fake blood drips. It’s almost funny. They play at monsters for one night a year and never realize how close they stand to the real thing. He moves like smoke through the crowd. His gaze drifts over painted faces, glittering eyes, throats bared with carelessness and confidence.

He lives every night but Halloween is different. Tonight, the veil between the living and the dead thins, and for a few hours, the world belongs to him. This is the only night where he doesn’t have to hide. The only night he can feed without shadows. People will see his teeth and laugh, and that laughter will taste like wine when it dies on their lips.

He laughs softly to himself, hands in his pockets as he surveys the living parade before him.

“My favorite holiday,” he murmurs, almost affectionately.

It’s not just the hunger that draws him — it’s the game. The thrill of watching them choose him, thinking they’re safe because he smiles. He doesn’t always kill, sometimes he lets them walk away, dizzy and dazed, with faint marks they’ll mistake for a lover’s kiss. But tonight feels different.

He looks up at the bright full moon on the night sky, his tongue running briefly over his teeth. “A beautiful night for hunting.”

The crowd shifts and there you are — standing at the edge of the lights, laughter spilling from your friends as one of them nudges you and says something teasing that makes you blush.

Minho’s smile deepens.

Found you.

-

The moment your boots hit the cobblestone streets of Salem’s Hollow, you can feel it in the air, the laughter and flickering lights. Music tumbles from every corner, and the smell of woodsmoke, sugar, and sweat blends into something alive.

You’ve been to Halloween festivals before, but none like this.

Your sisters are already ahead, weaving through the crowd with the ease of people who’ve been waiting all year for this night. They’re loud, wild, oozing in excitement. You follow behind, watching, absorbing.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s your first time in this town, because of the festival’s fame, because of the full moon rising fat and bright above the rooftops. But there’s a thrum inside you that says otherwise.

You’ve waited a long time for this night.

As no one dressed in costumes yet, everyone makes it the first quest of the night to find a shop that is still open since most of them have “Closed for the Festival” signs taped to their doors. But a few blocks down, a faint Open sign glows in orange and purple.

The four of you burst through the door, greeted by a tired-looking shopkeeper who’s overwhelmed by a couple of kids running around the shop. The racks overflow with every kind of costume imaginable — witches and angels, pirates and vampires, half of them glittering under flickering fluorescent lights.

“We’re saved!” One of the twins, Anne, declares dramatically, already thumbing through a rack of sequined dresses.

The others scatter, voices rising in a chorus of excitement. You trail behind, fingers brushing across velvet and lace until the eldest, Emily, calls out. “Hey, over here! Try this one!”

It’s a black dress, the fabric soft and cold against your skin when you hold it up. But you do some more browsing around the shop to get a couple more costumes to try.

Minutes later, the four of you are squeezed into neighboring fitting room stalls, separated only by thin walls and laughter.

“I’m not wearing this,” the other twin, Maria, complains — though her tone is anything but unhappy. “It’s too small. My tits keep popping out.” “That’s the point!” Anne laughs. “You’re supposed to tempt them, not scare them off.”

You hear the rustle of fabric, the click of a zipper, the clinking of hangers as you’re busy taking your clothes off in your own stall.

“I don’t know why we drove here when there are perfectly good guys in the city,” Maria complains. Again.

“Fresh meat. Duh!” Anne responds and you can tell she says it with her sassy eye roll.

In a soft, matter-of-factly tone, Emily says, “It's what we do every Halloween, Maria.”

There’s a beat of silence and then, Anne’s bubbly voice cuts through the thin walls of the fitting room as she asks. “Remember last year? When we went as sexy nurses?

Maria snorts. “That was two years ago. I remember because you puked for doing a guy on the back of his pick-up truck.”

Anne scoffs, offended. “I ate some bad Mexican.” Then she goes to correct her by saying, “and it was a Jeep.”

Hearing the twin’s banter always amuse you. You smile quietly, smoothing the fabric over your hips as you look at your reflection. The black dress is nice but it’s too… you don’t know, something about it just doesn’t suit you.

“Last year, we dressed as sailors,” Emily refreshes everyone’s memory and with a light chuckle, she adds, “and ended up with sailors.”

“Yeah,” Anne howls. “And Maria's sailor was a girl.”

“So what? She had a nice ass,” Maria defends like its life and death to her. “It all tastes the same to me anyway.”

The knocks on the door comes so sudden that you get startled and then, a lady shouts a warning through the door. “Ladies, there are children out here.”

Everyone breaks into laughter and it spills into the air, bright and careless. You’re too busy putting on the costume you chose to join them. The costume fits perfectly — almost too perfectly.

In the mirror, your eyes catch a glint of moonlight through the small window above, pale and watchful. You tilt your head slightly, studying your reflection — the curve of your mouth, the faint thrill tightening your chest. Something inside you buzzing, humming.

“Okay, all of you come out on the count of three,” Emily commands, you can hear her voice bouncing around the fitting rooms. She inhales air before counting down. “One, two, three…”

You can hear the creaking of doors being opened as yours is still locked behind you. Then comes the squeals and giggles and the proud in Emily’s voice as she says, “Nice.”

Soon enough, the knocks come on your door, followed by Emily’s voice. “Hey. Come out now.”

You feel confident a moment ago but it seems like it has shrunken in these last few seconds. “No,” you meekly say.

“Come on. We want to see,” Emily sweetly coaxes you as she continues knocking on the door, but gentler now.

Your shoulders slump in defeat. Then, you sigh. “Alright. Just don't laugh, okay?”

You take a breath, fix your smile, and step out to join them. The others cheer, whistling and clapping, their joy filling the small shop. But after seeing your sisters in their costumes that accentuates their beautiful curves and even just from the way they carry themselves — it’s oozing with sex appeals.

You suddenly feel small and stupid in your Little Red Riding Hood costume. You sigh, “Emily, I look like I'm five.”

Emily shakes her head and says, “Shut up. You look great.”

But the smile on her face is too sweet, too bright and it tells you that she doesn’t really means it. To make it worse, the twins snicker behind her.

Emily places her hands on your shoulders, straightening the red cape to drape around you. “It's tradition.”

“Great,” you say with the slightest of enthusiasm and you just want to get this part over with. “And what does tradition say we do now?

“We meet our dates,” Emily says with a genuine smile now.

She leads the way to the counter, hips swaying with the quiet confidence of someone who knows she looks good and enjoys the attention. The rest of you trail behind and the cashier looks up as you approach — a young man, maybe mid-twenties, his nametag half hidden under his wrinkled Peter Pan costume. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of four women in tight, revealing costumes.

“You, uh—forget to take the tags off?” he asks, reaching under the counter for a pair of scissors.

“Don’t bother,” Emily says smoothly, waving her hand. “Just scan them.”

He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs, clearly not about to argue. You watch as Emily leans forward and let him fish the tag on the side of the dress, his fingers brushing her skin, the scanner’s red light flickering before it beeps.

He tries to be subtle about it, but he isn’t. His eyes keep darting lower to the plunging neckline of Emily’s Cinderella costume, and she smiles as if she doesn’t notice — though you know she does.

“Long night?” she asks, voice light, conversational.

“Almost done,” he says quickly. “Just half an hour left on my shift.”

She tilts her head, pretending to think but it’s part of her charms. “You know this might sound kind of forward but we're just in town for a party tonight and I was wondering if you know where Sheep’s meadow is?”

He’s nervous and it shows from the way he stutters his words. “You mean—uh—yeah, I know that place.”

Her smile widens. “Good. How about you meet me there around ten?”

There’s no hesitation in her tone, no question mark at the end — just quiet command.

The man nods, eager, clumsy, the scanner nearly slipping from his hand. “Ten. Got it.”

When she turns away, the train of her dress drags across the floor, and the rest of you follow, the bell above the door jingling as you step back into the night.

The air outside feels colder somehow and you pull your own cape tighter around you.

Your sisters chatter and laugh, already talking about the drinks, who they might meet, what mischief the night will bring. You stay quiet, watching the eldest ahead of you, her laughter floating easily through the crisp October air.

It still baffles you how effortless it is for her — how men fall without her even trying. You wonder, not for the first time, if it’s something she was born with, or something she learned to sharpen like a knife.

Either way, it works every time.

-

The streets are alive when you step back into them. Music spills from speakers strung between lampposts, laughter bursts like fireworks, and the smell of roasted food and sugary sweets fills the air. Lanterns sway in the breeze, painting everything in shades of orange and gold.

The four of you drift through the crowd, hands sticky from cotton candy, stopping at every stall that catches your eye. Your sisters are in their element tonight. Sampling caramel apples, flirting with the men running the games, posing for selfies with strangers.

You’re smiling, but quietly. You’re just watching, soaking it in. When the noise dips a little, you fall into step beside Emily and she notices immediately.

“You’re quiet,” she says, eyes forward. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You hesitate, then lower your voice as to not let people overhear your conversation. “Nothing. It’s just… you all make it look so easy. Talking to people, getting attention.”

She glances at you, amused. “Your problem is simple. You always wait for them to come to you. If you just tried a little harder, you wouldn't be a virgin at this age.”

That stops you on your track. “What? Excuse me?” you scoff in disbelief.

“It’s practically stapled to your forehead,” Maria cuts in smoothly, followed by a snort from her twin sister, Anne. Emily gently grabs your arm and turns you to face her. “Don't listen to them, okay?” her tone softens and so do her eyes. “The key thing is to just be yourself.”

“Being myself hasn't gotten me very far,” You weakly admit with a low sigh, clutching your basket in front of you with both hands. “Maybe I’m too old fashioned, but I've always wanted my first time to be—”

“No, please, don’t say it.” Emily shakes her head, though you can tell she’s fighting a smile.

“… special,” you eventually finish the sentence and you don’t care how naïve that sound to everyone.

Emily exhales through her nose, half fond, half exasperated in reaction. While the twins exchange knowing looks, then one of them pats your shoulder.

“Honey, listen. We’ve all been there. But you can’t hesitate.” For the first time tonight, Maria says something that isn’t a complain nor a jab at you.

Anne ditches the rest of the cotton candy and shoves it into the trash bin. “You know what, just watch and learn,” she says with a mischievous smile while making the finger-to-eyes gesture.

With that, Anne and Maria are off, strutting toward the van with TV channel logo on it where two men in dark jackets packing up a camera and microphone into the back of the van.

“That's some big equipment you got there,” Maria starts confidently, her choice of words is bold and intentional. No hesitation at all — just like she said.

That gets their attention right away as they stop loading their stuff, patting down their jackets to make themselves look presentable to the twins.

“I'm Maria,” she introduces then turns her head to the side. “And this is Anne.”

Anne takes over, lowering her gaze, a smile playing on her round face. “And we have a small problem.”

The two men exchange a look. A second later, the one with the hat and facial hair stammers. “Y-yeah? How can we help you?”

“We've got this great party to go to,” Maria explains.

“But we don't have any dates,” Anne finishes with her lips pursed into a cute pout.

From the side, you can only watch the exchange, somewhere between mortified and impressed.

Emily crosses her arms beside you and mutters. “See? Don’t hesitate.”

-

By the time you catch up, the twins are already climbing into the back of the TV van, giggling like schoolgirls sneaking into trouble. The two crewmen look dazed, completely spellbound, as if they’ve already forgotten what they were supposed to be doing before your sisters appeared.

You stop a few feet away, unsure whether to be amused or horrified.

Emily spots you standing there, arms folded. “Oh, come on,” she says, motioning you closer. “There's got to be one or two extra guys there. I could help you.”

You shake your head quickly. “Go. I’ll meet you there.”

Her expression softens. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ll be fine.” You give her your most reassuring smile. “Besides, you’ll scare them off before I even get the chance.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re acting like mom,” you shoot back, grinning.

That gets her as she looks genuinely offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you laugh. “You’re hovering.”

“I do not hover.”

“You’re hovering right now.”

She opens her mouth to argue but the twins are already calling from inside the van, telling her to hurry. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine,” she mutters, climbing in. “Just… call me if you get in trouble, okay?”

“Yes, mom,” you say sweetly, earning a withering glare.

Just before she shuts the door, she pauses and leans out slightly. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Be yourself.”

From inside, one of the twins adds through a laugh, “But play hard to get!”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Got it.”

You close the van door for them with a soft thud and step back, watching as it drives off, the taillights bleeding into the crowd until they disappear completely.

And just like that, you’re alone again. You put the hood of your red cape over your head, looking around at the people brushing past in costumed faces, laughter, camera flashes, chatters.

Then, all of a sudden, there’s a prickle at the back of your neck, like someone’s eyes are tracing your every movement. You turn your head slowly, scanning the crowd, but there’s nothing. Just a sea of people in masks and painted faces, strangers laughing over Halloween decorations.

You tell yourself it’s just you and your nerves, but as you start walking again, you could swear you hear faint, steady footsteps following just behind your own.

-

The festival hasn’t lost its energy and if anything, it’s gotten louder, brighter, but you can feel your own running out. You’ve been walking for what feels like hours, your eyes have been actively looking, searching for the ‘special one’.

You slow when you see the first one who catches your eye tonight. He’s standing, leaning against the lamppost and he’s smiling when you make your way to him. But the illusion breaks as soon as he stumbles to the side, ducking his head into a trash bin and vomiting into it. You sigh and keep walking.

The second looks promising — a tall lady with muscular arms and dark hair flowing around her shoulders — but then a guy slides behind her and leans down to kiss her cheek. You look away before they notice you staring.

The third one, you catch him standing at a food truck, waiting for his order. Alone, or so it seems. You hesitate for a moment, adjusting the edge of your cape, trying to summon a bit of courage before approaching. But then a girl appears from the side of the truck, slipping right into his arms and whispers something funny to his ear as he laughs along with her.

Maybe your sisters are right — maybe you really do wait too long, maybe you hesitate.

You wander again, slower this time, watching the crowd thin as the hour gets later. Most people are drifting toward the town square for the firework show.

Your feet ache. Your patience thins. Finally, you find a spot and sit on a fake giant pumpkin, resting your back against the bricked wall, shoulders sagging in defeat.

The lights blur a little in your eyes. It’s not sadness, exactly, just… disappointment. You’d told yourself tonight would be different, that maybe for once you’d find someone who made your heart beats so fast, but all you’ve found is the bitter taste of almosts.

Your phone rings from inside your basket, breaking your thoughts. You don’t even have to check the screen. “Hey,” you mumble.

“How’s it going?” Emily’s voice is too bright, too knowing.

You let out a groan. “Don’t.”

“I told you not to be picky.”

“I’m not picky.”

“Oh really? Then where’s your date?”

You sigh, staring at the pavement. “Probably with his girlfriend.”

She laughs softly, and you can picture her shaking her head. “Just come here already. I’ve got someone for you.”

Your brow furrows. “You what?”

“He’s nice. You’ll like him.”

“Is he young? Cute?”

“He’s… decent.” The pause in between words only means she’s lying.

“That means ugly.”

“Stop being dramatic and get to the bonfire. Forget about finding ‘the special one’—”

But you’re not listening anymore because across the street, through the shifting crowd and the strings of orange light, you see him.

He’s standing still, like the chaos doesn’t touch him. Dressed in a Dracula costume — dark suit, high-collared cape, the kind of thing that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t on him.

The sharp cut of his jaw catches the light. His lips are parted slightly, his eyes locked on you — dark, unwavering, hungry.

It feels as if the festival noise fades into a dull hum, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat. You lift the phone from your ear, your sister’s voice still droning faintly through the speaker. You don’t even bother with a goodbye and end the call.

He starts moving toward you with the kind of confidence that makes your pulse skip and as you rise from the pumpkin, your lips curl into the faintest smile.

You found your special one.

-

The night is alive in a way only Halloween ever is: when monsters can walk among the living without drawing suspicion, when hunger can masquerade as charm.

Minho’s lips curve faintly at the thought. He leans against a lamppost, eyes scanning the crowd, the corners of his mouth still stained faintly red from his last indulgence. The taste is fading already. It never lasts long enough.

Then, he sees you in the crowd. At first, you’re just another figure moving through the sea of costumes, but then the crowd parts for half a second, and the light hits your face. You’re standing with three other women, all laughing, all dressed in various shades of temptation, but it’s you who snags his attention like a hook beneath the ribs. You in your Little Red Riding Hood costume, shy smile tugging at your lips, eyes darting everywhere but where they might be caught.

He watches the way your hand fidgets with the edge of the cape, the nervous habit that gives you away. You’re different from the others — quiet, subtle, not trying too hard. But there’s something in the curve of your neck, the pulse he can see even from here, that calls to him.

He swallows. It’s not just thirst. It’s need. He can almost taste your blood already — sweet, rich, young.

You look so untouched. So soft. So unaware of what kind of eyes follow you through the dark. When you laugh at something one of your sisters says, tilting your head just slightly, he decides.

You’ll be my last tonight, he mutters inside his head, gaze tracing the path of your red cape as you disappear deeper into the festival lights. My sweetest meal.

-

Minho keeps to the edges of the crowd, following just far enough that the sound of your laughter brushes faintly against the music. The night hides him well so he doesn’t need to rush. The hunt is always better when it’s drawn out.

He lingers near a booth selling candied apples when your voice reaches him.

“… You all make it look so easy. Talking to people, getting attention.” you’re saying, quiet enough that he has to focus, tuning out the crowd.

“If you just tried a little harder, you wouldn't be a virgin at this age,” the blonde one says and one of the two walking behind you teases you for it, giggling.

He notices your eyes widen at that, not expecting her to say it out loud. The heat that rushes to your cheeks tell him everything he needs to know.

So that’s what you are, he thinks. Innocent. Untouched.

It makes something inside him twist — half hunger, half curiosity. He watches the way you shrink into yourself, the way your fingers clutch the hem of your cape as if the fabric might hide you. You don’t see the way the men passing by glance your way. You never notice how their eyes linger, well, not the way he does.

Every word you speak only feeds his intrigue. You’re polite when others bump into you, apologetic when you don’t need to be, your smile shy but genuine. He can tell what kind of person you are — not just from what you say, but from what you don’t.

There’s a softness to you, a kind of light most people lose once they’ve lived too long in the dark. You’re not like the others he’s taken tonight — the reckless, the bold, the wild ones who flirt just to feel alive. You’re a rare thing: sweet, unspoiled, unaware of how dangerous it is to walk alone beneath a full moon.

He knows, and now, that he’ll wait for the right moment because for a creature like him, patience is part of the thrill. And when the time comes, when you finally look up and meet his eyes, he wants to see the exact second innocence turns to fear.

-

The moment you separate from the other girls, Minho follows.

Not too close. Never close enough to draw attention. Just enough to keep you in his sight — that bright red cape like a flame in the dark, flickering between the crowd. You move with hesitation, eyes scanning faces, hopeful, then disappointed. The shy curve of your mouth dips a little more with every failed attempt.

Minho watches each reaction carefully. The way you slow near one man, then change your mind. The tiny crease that forms between your brows when another vomiting into the trash can. The way your shoulders fall when the next one turns out to be taken.

Every hesitation makes him smirk. It’s endearing, in its way. That you still think you’re the one choosing. That you believe the hunt is yours.

No one’s going to have you tonight, he thinks, eyes tracking your every move. You’re already mine.

He follows you past the food stalls, past the laughter, past the flashing lights of the carnival rides. You don’t see him, but you feel him. Yes, he can tell by the way you occasionally look over your shoulder, the faint furrow of unease crossing your face before you shake it off.

You’re getting tired as the edges of your energy start to fray. Finally, you stop, slumping onto the oversized pumpkin decoration near the end of the street. You look so small and soft against the glowing orange, framed by the swirl of festival lights and drifting fog.

He stays still, watching. Waiting. Even when your phone rings and you pick it up, pressing it close to your ear. He can hear the frustration in your voice, the sigh, the way you end the call with such annoyance.

That’s when he moves. He steps out from the crowd, quiet as shadow, the high collar of his costume brushing against his jaw as he tilts his head slightly. He closes the distance between you in slow, light steps that barely disturb the air. You don’t move, but your eyes widen as he comes closer, but enough for him to see the flicker of uncertainty behind your curiosity.

“Having fun?” he asks, voice smooth, the faintest trace of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

You blink, surprised by the warmth in his tone. “Uh… I guess.”

He gestures toward the empty spot beside you on the pumpkin. “Mind if I sit?”

You hesitate, then nod.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Minho uses it as an opportunity to study you quietly, closely. The faint sheen of exhaustion in your eyes, the way you press your lips together when you think. Up close, you’re even more captivating — not polished like the others, but real. Soft edges. Human warmth.

He leans slightly closer, just enough for his voice to drop low. “You look like you could use a drink. There’s a bar nearby—”

You shake your head before he finishes, smiling a little. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

He arches a brow, intrigued. People rarely tell him no.

You shift in your seat, turning toward him. “Actually, there’s something better.”

He tilts his head. “Better than a drink?”

“There’s a bonfire in the woods,” you explain, your voice shy but steady. “Everyone’s there. My sisters, some people from the festival. I haven’t gone yet because…” You trail off, glancing away, your fingers playing with the edge of your cape.

He watches, fascinated. “Because?”

You hesitant eyes meet his, but with something like hope flickering underneath. “Because I didn’t have a date.”

The words hang between you for a heartbeat. Then you add, almost too softly, “Would you… want to come with me?”

Minho’s lips part, a quiet chuckle slipping out. Of course. Of course it would be this easy.

He lets his gaze linger on you a moment longer, long enough to make you flush under it before replying, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You smile a small, relieved smile and it does something strange to him. For a second, the hunger twisting inside quiets, replaced by something unfamiliar. But only for a second.

Because in his mind, it’s simple: the woods will be dark, the crowd will be thin, and by the time the night ends, he’ll feed.

He rises and offers you his hand, the perfect imitation of a gentleman and you take it without hesitation.

You think I’ll be your special one? No. He mutters in his head, assisting you through the crowded streets. But you’ll be my special one.

-

The streets have gone quiet as you and Minho are walking through the deserted streets. Paper ghosts and plastic pumpkins sway from lampposts, their shadows long and shivering against the pavement. You can still hear faint music from the festival in the distance, but here, it’s just you and him.

Minho walks beside you, hands in his coat pockets, his steps unhurried. His presence fills the space — calm, confident, unsettlingly composed. Every now and then, his gaze flickers toward you, and you feel it like a touch.

“You were with your friends earlier,” he says, voice smooth, low. “Or… are they your sisters?”

You hesitate, caught off guard by the question. His tone isn’t teasing — more like he’s genuinely curious, though there’s a glint of something deeper behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say finally, eyes forward. “They’re my sisters. We’re… not exactly alike, I know.”

He chuckles softly, the sound dark and amused. “No, you’re not.”

You nod, fiddling with the hem of your red cape. “They’re all beautiful.”

Minho’s steps slow a little, his head tilting as he looks at you. “You’re the most beautiful one.”

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind. You stop walking for a heartbeat, your breath catching in your throat. You can’t tell if he’s joking because his face gives nothing away. The streetlight above flickers, and for a moment his eyes seem almost too dark.

“I–I don’t think so,” you mumble, cheeks warm despite the chill in the air.

He faintly smiles and then shifts the conversation as if he hasn’t just said something that made your heart stutters. “So… tell me about this bonfire you mentioned.”

“Oh,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “It’s kind of a tradition. Every Halloween, my sisters and I gather in the woods. It’s… a night for us to have some fun.”

“Some fun,” he repeats, tasting the words, his mouth curving into a slow smirk. “And what kind of fun do you usually have?”

There’s something in the way he asks it, playful, but also searching, as if he’s peeling away layers you didn’t even realize you had.

You meet his eyes, trying to mimic his confidence, and force a small, shy smile. “You’ll find out soon.”

The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp leaves. A banner flaps behind you, the sound echoing down the empty street like a whisper.

Minho’s smile deepens, and his gaze lingers on you for a beat too long before he looks ahead again. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says.

Once the two you step into the woods, the air grows colder, quieter — the kind of silence that seems to breathe. The path beneath your boots crunches with dead leaves, and every few steps, an owl hoots somewhere above, unseen.

Beside you, Minho walks without sound. His presence is so still, it’s almost unnatural — the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re being studied, not accompanied. Yet you find comfort in his closeness, even when something in you whispers you shouldn’t.

“How about you?” you ask softly, breaking the quiet. “What kind of fun do you usually have on Halloween night?”

He glances down at you, a slow, knowing smirk curving his lips. “My kind of fun?”

There’s amusement there but it’s dark, like there’s a private joke you’re not in on. The moonlight catches the edge of his jaw, sharp and pale against the black of his cape.

You tilt your head at him, trying to play along, even if your voice wavers slightly. “I mean, you asked me first. It’s only fair.”

Minho’s smirk deepens, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just watches you, his eyes flicker from your face down to the way your fingers toy with your red cape again, to the soft, visible pulse in your neck. Then, he exhales a quiet laugh.

“Why don’t I show you?” he says, his tone low and velvety but there’s something about it that prickles along your skin.

“Show me?” you echo, blinking up at him.

He nods, gaze glinting in the dim moonlight. “Let’s play a game.”

“A… game?”

“Hide and seek,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink again, half confused, half amused. “Hide and seek? In the woods?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “It’s Halloween. Seems fitting, don’t you think?”

There’s something so strange about the suggestion that makes you almost laugh. But then he takes a step closer, so close that you can smell the faint scent of his cologne, clean and sharp, like smoke and spice. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, until his fingers wrap around yours. His skin is cold, cold enough to raise the goosebumps on your arm.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

You swallow, your pulse quickening. “What?”

“Close your eyes,” he repeats, guiding your hands up gently until your palms cover your own eyes. His voice drops to a whisper, just beside your ear, his breath brushing the shell of it. “Count to ten. Then come find me.”

You nod with your heart thudding against your ribs. The woods feel alive around you — shifting, watching, waiting. And when he lets go, the air where his hand had been feels suddenly too empty.

“One,” you start softly, your voice trembling. “Two…”

You think you hear the faint crunch of his footsteps retreating.

“Three…”

The wind moves through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and smoke.

“Four…”

You swear you hear something — a laugh, quiet, low, echoing somewhere deeper in the woods.

“Five…”

Your breath catches. You almost peek through your fingers but stop yourself.

“Six… seven…”

You feel watched.

“Eight…”

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Nine…”

The forest has gone completely still.

“Ten.”

You lower your hands and he’s gone.

The trees loom like tall, dark silhouettes, and every shadow feels like it could be him — or something else entirely.

-

You open your eyes to darkness that taunts. You can still hear the faint echo of laughter and music from town, but here, it’s swallowed by the woods.

You turn slowly, scanning the shadowed path ahead. “Hello?” Your voice feels too loud, too fragile for this place.

No answer.

You start walking, careful, your red cape brushing against your legs. The forest floor crunches beneath your boots, every step sounding like a secret being broken. The air is damp and thick, the scent of soil and pine strong enough to drown your thoughts.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself, trying to sound braver than you feel. “Hide and seek. Cute idea, but you could’ve picked a less creepy place.”

Still nothing. Not even the sound of his breath.

You take another few steps deeper into the trees. The shadows ripple with the wind, and for a second, you think you see something — a figure moving between the trunks. You squint, your heart racing.

“Hello?” you call again, quieter this time.

A soft laugh answers you — faint, far away, but definitely him. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“Not fair,” you mutter under your breath, forcing a smile as you push forward, following the sound. “You’re not supposed to hide that well.”

You walk for what feels like minutes. The trees grow thicker, darker. You start to notice how your breath makes small clouds in the cold air. Then something catches your eye — a dark shape hanging from a branch above you. You look up, heart hammering, only to realize it’s just a torn piece of black fabric, fluttering in the wind.

But then, behind you — a twig snaps.

Your heart skips a beat. Slowly, you turn around, scanning the darkness, but it’s just the trees staring back at you.

“Hey, where are you?” you whisper, this time almost pleading.

A shadow moves just a few feet behind you.

You spin, your breath catching, but he’s not there. Only the wind. Only the dark.

You take a shaky step back, your nerves fraying. “This isn’t funny anymore,” you say, louder now. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.”

You barely have time to gasp before something moves behind you, fast and soundless. You spin but there’s no one there, only darkness and the biting gust of autumn air.

And then you feel the faintest brush of a cold breath against your neck.

“Found me,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

You gasp, spinning again and this time, Minho’s there.

A curl of your breath escapes your parted lips as you take him in — the sharp edges of his face, the way his dark eyes gleam in the dark. His lips curl into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Then, he swiftly closes the gap between your bodies and the sudden proximity forcing a startled sound from your throat.

Before you can take a step back, his hand comes up, and in one smooth, startling motion, he pins you against a tree. The bark bites cold and rough through the thin fabric of your cape, but it’s nothing compared to the chill of his body pressed against yours. He moves so fast, so fluidly that your mind takes a heartbeat to catch up, leaving you stunned and trembling between instinct and fascination.

His eyes burn in the dark, glinting like polished obsidian, unblinking. There’s something in the way he stares at you like an animal cornering its prey, curious, cruel, and hungry.

“Hey, I—” your voice breaks as he brushes his thumb over your lips.

“The real fun…” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your skin as he leans in closer, “…is about to begin now.”

Without permission, without the slightest of hesitation, he kisses you. It’s not soft, not tentative—it’s consuming. His mouth captures yours in a hungry, claiming motion, and the shock of it sends heat flooding through your veins. You can taste something metallic on his lips, faint but unmistakable, and his hand slides up your side, holding you in place.

The forest suddenly feels smaller now. It’s closing in, pressing shadows around the two of you. His kiss deepens, urgent, almost desperate, and even though every nerve in your body screams that something about him is wrong, you can’t pull away.

His lips leave yours for a moment, only to trail down your jaw, until his breath ghosts over the curve of your neck. “See?” he whispers against your skin, voice velvet-dark. “Isn’t this more fun?”

You can’t tell if it’s the cold night or his nearness that makes you shiver as he places more kisses on you. Each kiss trails lower, begins at your jaw and glide down to your neck — soft and intoxicating — it makes your heart stutter, caught somewhere between fear and surrender.

You tell yourself to move, to say something, anything, but the words never come. His presence is overwhelming, intoxicating. It feels like he’s pulling you under a spell you can’t quite resist.

Minho doesn’t stop until he’s dropping to his knees, he tilts his head, eyes locked with yours as he puts his hand on the side of your leg. Slowly, he pulls the hem of your dress, fingers lightly grazing your skin as he lifts it higher, just high enough for him to lean in and buries his head between your legs.

You gasp the second his mouth makes contact with your clothed core. His breath, hot and heavy, enough to tease you through the thin barrier of your panties. His soft lips pressing between your folds, tongue circling your clit and teeth occasionally grazing the delicate flesh.

You arch your back, chasing more friction, more heat and you can’t help the moan spilling out of you, echoing in the quiet, meddling with the hum of the forest. The cold doesn’t bother you as much now that you feel hot all over.

All of a sudden, he pulls back, not right away. He presses his mouth to your inner thigh, leaving searing kisses on the skin before he gets back to his feet.

He’s standing before you again, his eyes catch the moonlight—dark, endless, and hungry. His fingers brush your cheek with almost painful tenderness, and his lips curl into a smile that’s too calm, too sure.

“My, my,” he murmurs, voice as smooth as velvet. “What beautiful eyes you have.”

You barely have time to take a breath before his lips graze your throat and then everything sharpens, fractures. Something cold and sharp digging through your flesh and then—

A flash of pain. A gasp that never finishes. Your scream rips through the quiet like glass breaking underwater, raw and ragged. The sound echoes through the forest, bouncing between the trees until it’s impossible to tell where it came from whether it’s still yours, or something else joining in.

The wind rises, carrying your cry into the dark, and for one brief, terrible moment, even the woods seem to hold their breath.

Then the night falls silent again as if nothing ever happened.

-

The world tilts sideways as Minho runs.

Branches tear at his clothes, leaves whip across his face, and every step sends a sharp throb through his body. Something burns beneath his skin—an ache spreading through his veins, searing and unfamiliar. Blood slicks his hands, his chest, the ground beneath him. He’s hurt all over but he keeps running. He doesn’t know where, he just knows he has to run.

The trees blur past. The woods seem endless until, finally, he sees a glow through the darkness. Flickers of orange and gold. The sound of laughter, faint music. Human voices. Safety.

He stumbles toward the light, breath ragged, vision swimming. The clearing opens suddenly before him: a bonfire surrounded by silhouettes, sparks rising into the black sky like fireflies. His knees give out before he reaches them, his body collapsing into the cold grass.

A few heads turn. Someone gasps softly, but no one screams.

Minho blinks up at the faces crowding around the flames, painted by firelight. The scent of smoke mixes with something metallic and wrong. He opens his mouth, a cracked whisper escaping.

“Please… help me…”

A blonde girl steps forward, crouching beside him. She tilts her head, eyes scanning him with an expression that isn’t quite concern. If anything, she looks almost… sympathetic. She doesn’t touch him or moves to check on him. Her gaze flickers over his face like she’s studying an animal caught in a trap.

Suddenly, the crowd parts. You step out from between the trees, slow, graceful, the red of your cape stark against the night. The fabric slides from your shoulders and falls soundlessly to the ground, and the sight of you freezes Minho’s breath in his chest.

The blonde girl straightens, turning to you with a half-smile. “Hey, what’s going on?” she casually asks like nothing’s wrong. “You’re late.”

You stop beside her, running out of breath but your expression calm, composed. “Sorry. It took longer than I thought.”

Her eyes flicker to the mark on your neck, visible under the firelight, oozing with blood. “What did he do to you?”

You don’t look away from Minho as you answer. “He bit me.”

The words fall like stones into the silence. For a long, suspended moment, no one moves. Then one of the twins shrugs, lifts a bottle, and grins faintly. “Well,” she says, “at least you made it.”

She approaches you and offers. “Drinks?”

“Sure,” you reply, tone calm, almost serene.

The blonde loops an arm around your shoulders, leading you away from him. The others shift to make room, their faces lit by the flames, eyes catching the light in a way that feels wrong.

Minho tries to pull himself back into the world. The ground is cold beneath him, his body heavy and wrong. Pain pulses through every nerve as though his body’s beginning to wake before his mind can.

A second figure breaks away from the circle of firelight—the other twin. Her hair catches the amber glow as she crouches beside him, her presence both tender and predatory. She reaches for him, and instinctively, he flinches, but she only laughs softly, the sound low, melodic.

“Easy there,” she murmurs, fingers brushing under his chin.

He doesn’t answer, uselessly trying to get away from her touch. It’s useless as the slight of movement only makes him whimper in pain.

She pries Minho’s mouth open with her fingers, ignoring the blood coating his mouth and removes the fake fangs attached to his real teeth, exposing him for what he really is — just a man playing pretend with his costume. Except that he shares a couple of things with the monster he’s portraying all night: bloodlust and thrill kill.

Yet, the truth remains — he’s not fooling anyone, especially you and your sisters.

“Nice fangs!” She exclaims, turning them in her hand, letting the firelight dance across them. Then, she drops them beside his face, tilts her head and studies him.

“What’s your name, honey?” Her voice is soft and sweet, but there’s something behind it that makes his blood crawl.

He swallows, his throat raw. “…Minho.”

Her mouth curves into a sly smile and brushes his face with the back of her hand, her fingers leaving a cold trail along his cheek. “I like you, Minho,” she says, almost fondly. “I’m glad you’re her first.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. Her first?

His breath stutters, panic rising in his chest, and before he can stop himself, he croaks out, “Who… who are you people?”

The girl’s lips part in a quiet laugh, soft and amused, as if he’s just told her a sweet secret. She doesn’t answer. She just stands, dusts off her knees, and turns her back to him, walking away toward the fire.

Minho’s left staring after her, heart pounding, mind whirring. He pushes his palms against the earth and forces his head up. That’s when he sees the horror that surrounding him as he lies there on the cold, hard ground.

Beyond the circle of flickering orange light, shadows of men slumped against trees, sprawled in the grass. At first, he thinks they’re just passed out, drunk maybe, but the longer he looks, the more wrong it becomes.

Their clothes are soaked through. The ground around them is blackened and wet. Limbs bent the wrong way. Flesh torn. Marks like claws across their chests and throats, deep and ragged.

He shakes his head once, twice, as if he can blink it away. He can’t.

The night suddenly feels too still. Even the fire seems to burn quieter. The laughter that had filled the clearing moments ago is gone and only murmurs remain, hushed, secretive, accompanied by the pop of sap in the flames.

He realizes, with slow dawning horror, that he isn’t the hunter. He was never the hunter.

Every path he thought he took on his own was chosen for him. Every look, every smile—bait.

He trembles, reaching for his leg, and when he finally dares to look— his vision goes white.

His right leg lies twisted beneath him, bones misaligned, the joint bent at an impossible angle. Blood seeps through torn fabric, pooling beneath him, hot and sticky.

Everything in him screams, telling him to run. He wants to, but he can’t even crawl.

Minho collapses back onto the ground, defeated. The cold seeps into him as realization begins to coil through the fog in his mind.

No one here is afraid.

No one here is human.

And when your gaze finally meets his again from across the fire, he understands, far too late, who the prey really was.

-

The cold beverage helps to refresh but not helping much with your thirst. You tip the bottle back anyway, letting it burn down your throat in a long, trembling gulp until it’s almost empty. When you finally lower it, you gasp for air, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Emily is standing in front of you, her blonde hair catching the glow of the bonfire. She looks calm and steady as she usually is, her eyes warm when yours are wild and uncertain.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper, almost drowned by the crackle of the flames and the low murmur of laughter from the others.

Emily’s smile softens as she reaches out, her palm settling on your arm. Her touch is grounding, her thumb rubbing small circles against your skin. “Hey,” she says gently. “You’re going to be fine.”

You nod, but your heart is still hammering.

She leans closer, her voice dropping to that familiar tone she always uses when she wants you to listen. “Just be yourself.”

Be yourself.

You let them sink in, over and over again, until they stop sounding like reassurance and start acting like it. Just you. No pretending. No hiding.

You glance around at the circle of your sisters laughing, the night heavy with smoke and darkness and something that simmers in your veins. The sky feels closer than it ever has with moonlight bathed your skin in silver.

You take another breath, let it fill your lungs, and tip the last of the beer down your throat. The empty bottle feels light when you drop it into the dirt beside you.

It’s time.

Emily’s still smiling when you look at her again, though there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes now—recognition, pride, and the faint glint of wild anticipation.

“You ready?” she asks.

You nod even though your heart thundering inside your chest. You remind yourself this is what you were made for. And tonight, under the full moon, with your sisters around you, you’re finally going to become what you really are.

-

When you step toward him, Minho still lies sprawled on the ground, breath ragged, his body trembling from pain and panic. He tries to move but the earth holds him down, or maybe it’s the way your shadow swallows his.

You stop above him. Slowly, you lower yourself until your knees press into the dirt on either side of him, caging him in. The firelight dances between you, catching the red of your lips, the sweat on his skin, the fear in his eyes.

You offer him a smile. The kind that promises both mercy and ruin. Leaning in until your breath ghosts over his throat, you whisper, “It’s my first time.”

His eyes widening, confusion flashing through the terror. You tilt your head, studying him, then add with a wicked sort of tenderness. “So just… bear with me.”

Your hand trails down his chest, fingers tracing the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat. The sound around you begin to shift to low, guttural, animal. Laughter turns to growls, dancing turns to writhing.

Minho’s gaze flicks past you watching as the others are changing, transforming into something else.

The women around the fire claw at their clothes, their laughter echoing like cracked bells, their silhouettes twisting and reshaping beneath the moonlight. Skin gives way to something else, revealing the fur glinting silver in the fire’s glow.

You catch his chin between your fingers and pull his gaze back to you.

He swallows hard, voice barely more than a breath. “What… what are you?”

You smile again, the same words he once teased you with slipping from your lips like a deadly compliment. “My, my… what beautiful eyes you have.”

The air shifts. The ground beneath you vibrates. You can feel yourself transforming for the first time. Your pupils blaze gold. Your teeth lengthen. Your skin ripples and burns with the change.

Minho stares, disbelief blurring into horror as it hits him that he’s surrounded by a pack of werewolves.

And when you finally lift your head, your face half-shadow, half-moonlight, you raise your gaze to the sky. The sound that tears from your throat is no longer human. It’s long, haunting, and echoing through the forest.

One by one, the others join in.

A chorus of howls breaks the night—wild, hungry, unrestrained—rising and falling beneath the full moon until the entire forest trembles.

Somewhere beneath that sound, the last of Minho’s breath fades into silence.

And the night belongs to you.

-

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[yubinism]

HELLOOOO???? IS IT JUST ME OR I DID NOT EXPECT THE PLOT TWIST AT ALL??? like it came at the perfect time because what the hell here i was thinking “waitt where is effie’s magic going to turn up?” and it came right at that time. oh em gee you have left my jaw dropped on the floor and i have never able to pick it up again. EFFIEEEEEEEEEEE you have done it again, LORD IM GONNA READ THIS AGAIN I CANNOT WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

[seospicybin]

DESKJOB.

Lee Know x reader. (s)

Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (6,2k words)

Author's note: Happiest birthday to the guy with a strong black cat energy 🐈‍⬛

When the company you worked for merged with another, you expected new rules, new systems, maybe even new friendships.

What you didn’t expect was Minho.

The first time you saw him, you thought he was simply the type who wore his seriousness like his suit jacket—stiff, formal, but nothing a smile couldn’t soften. You’d always believed people had gentler sides waiting to be uncovered, so you gave him the benefit of the doubt.

A week into working alongside him, you learned that’s just how he is. Sharp words cut through the air like knives when he caught a junior making a mistake. He didn’t yell, but the low, pointed tone was enough to freeze everyone within earshot. A misplaced report, a late submission, even a typo—Minho noticed it all, and he wasn’t afraid to call people out on it.

Soon, people began steering clear of him like he was a ticking bomb. Words spread across the office—cold, harsh, distant. You should have joined them in keeping your head down, but instead you found yourself watching him.

In the same week you worked alongside him, you also learned something no one knows about Minho. Behind every cutting remark, he was precise. Behind every scolding, there was a strange kind of care—because he wanted things done right, not out of cruelty, but out of pride for the work itself. His standards were high, but he held himself to them, too.

And what began as respect, an admiration for his dedication, slowly grew into something else. Something you didn’t dare say out loud.

Because somewhere between watching him stay late nights to finish projects and catching rare glimpses of him rubbing his tired eyes when he thought no one was looking, your admiration twisted into a secret crush.

-

The weekly strategy meeting—usually a blur of charts and numbers—feels different the moment Minho speaks.

He sits across the long table, posture straight, every word rolling off his tongue clear and precise. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess himself. His voice carries with it a weight that demands attention, and everyone in the room listens.

You try to look casual, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his crisp white shirt stretches neatly across his shoulders, to the silky blue tie that looks far too elegant for such a dull Monday, to the way he leans forward slightly when he’s emphasizing a point. Eloquence drips from every sentence, intelligence carved into the lines of his expression.

You can almost feel yourself melting into your chair just watching him. How is it fair that someone so stern, so terrifying to others, can be so impossibly attractive to you?

All of a sudden, Minho’s eyes flick your way. Sharp, direct, like he knows.

Your heart skips a beat and heat rushes to your face as you quickly duck your head, scribbling nonsense into your notes just to look busy as if you weren’t just openly staring at him a second ago. You pray he didn’t notice. You pray the room is too full, too loud, that you’re nothing more than another coworker in his periphery.

But even as you keep your head down, the image of him—confident, composed, devastatingly beautiful in that blue tie—burns behind your eyes.

-

Not long after the meeting wrapped up, your landline rings and you pick it up. It’s a muscle memory at this point.

The secretary ditches formality and goes straight to the point. “The director wants to see you.”

There’s no need to respond anyway. When the director calls, you come even though the summon usually means extra work, and sure enough, when you step into the office, you find Minho already there, sitting opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, looking maddeningly composed.

“Ah, you’re here,” the director says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ll get straight to the point. They moved up the new product presentation to tomorrow so I asked Minho to prepare the initial draft. But…”

She briefly glances at him and Minho’s lips curl into the faintest smirk.

“I can’t do it alone.” His voice is even, but there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s already a step ahead. “This project is too detailed for one person to handle without risking mistakes.”

The director nods in agreement. “That’s why I want you to work with him. Tonight, if possible. The draft needs to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

Tonight? With him? Just the two of you? You can feel your pulse pick up.

Minho turns his head, and his gaze lands on you. His eyes don’t waver, don’t soften—just steady, dark, unwavering. But beneath the formality, there’s something else there. Something that feels like… anticipation. Almost like he’s curious to see what you’ll say. Almost like he’s looking forward to it.

You swallow air, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your own ears. Being alone with Minho… the thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. You’re not sure you’re ready for whatever comes with it.

Then again, this is work. A task directly handed to you by your superior. You can’t say no.

So you straighten in your seat, clear your throat, and force out, “Of course. We’ll get it done tonight.”

The director smiles, relieved. “Good. I’ll leave it in your hands then.”

When you rise to leave, Minho does too. As you pass each other in the doorway, his arm brushes against yours—light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. And then, in the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips.

-

The office begins to empty as the evening creeps in. Desks that buzzed with chatter just hours ago now fall silent, one by one. You’re still at your computer, finishing up a few loose ends, when a co-worker passing by pauses at your desk.

“Hey, you’re not leaving?” she asks, slipping her bag over her shoulder.

You shake your head with a small smile. “No. I’ve got to work late tonight… with Minho.”

Her eyebrows jump and then she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Good luck.”

Before you can reply, she slips away with a knowing shake of her head. You exhale slowly, sinking back into your chair and stretching your arms above your head, shoulders loosening from a day of tension.

The quiet is almost soothing until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching. You glance up to find Minho stands beside your desk.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice low but steady. Then with deliberate motions, he undoes the buttons at his wrists and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric slides back, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.

You straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We should probably divide the tasks,” you suggest, trying to keep your voice even. “That way, we won’t overlap.”

You try to focus on his words as he talks about a way to divide the task but your eyes keep drifting down to the veins coiling beneath his skin, prominent with each flex of his hand as he smooths the sleeve into place. It’s such a simple movement, ordinary even, but it makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.

“...and you can handle the visuals,” he finishes.

You force your gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second detour of your eyes. “Right. The visuals. I can do that,” you answer a little too quick, a little too casual.

He tilts his head just slightly, studying you with that unreadable expression and then, as if nothing happened, he nods and sits down, pulling his laptop closer.

It’s just you and him in the office tonight. And you know it’s going to be harder than ever to concentrate tonight.

-

Minutes stretch into hours and you’ve buried yourself deep into your slides, eyes locked on the screen, pen tucked between your teeth as you work through numbers and charts.

But even in your focus, thoughts of coffee creep in. Your body aches for the warmth, the caffeine, the small break, the excuse to stretch your legs. You hesitate, though. Should you offer to make one for Minho too? Would he even want you to? He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who accepts favors easily.

You nibble the cap of your pen, debating on it, until the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at you.

Slowly, you turn your head and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are already on you. Not casually, not by accident—just steady, dark, fixed in your direction.

You force your voice low, hesitant, as if the silence between you might break if you speak too loudly. “I… I was going to make coffee. Do you want one too?”

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, like he’s searching for something behind your question. Then, finally, his lips part. “Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t look away, not even once, and it makes your chest flutter in a way that feels dangerous.

You clear your throat, breaking the spell, and push back your chair. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounds louder than it should. With shaky hands, you gather yourself, stand, and head for the pantry, your pulse quickening with each step, as if you’re fleeing from the pull of his gaze.

The coffee machine whirs as you press the power button on and it’s the only sound that fills the pantry. You stand in front of it, arms raised as your fingers knead into the tense muscles of your neck. A sigh slips from your lips, low and drawn out, almost a moan, as you try to ease the ache from sitting at your desk too long.

“Oh, that felt good…” you murmur under your breath, pressing harder on the tension on your shoulder.

The sound of footsteps makes you jolt and you quickly turn on your feet, eyes widening when you see Minho standing at the doorway with his hand tucked in his slacks pocket.

“Why are you so surprised?” he asks evenly, a brow quirked.

You shake your head too fast, clutching for composure. “N–Nothing.”

The smirk that curls on his lips tells you he doesn’t buy it. It’s small, sly, almost like he’s reading straight through your lie. He steps further inside, leaning against the counter with infuriating ease, arms crossed over his chest. His head tilts, his gaze steady, following your every movement as you fumble with the machine like it suddenly became rocket science.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. “Am I scary?”

The question makes you laugh awkwardly, too quickly, like it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. “What? No, of course not.” You wave a hand, trying to dodge it, but your laugh dies a little too soon.

Minho doesn’t move but his eyes sharpen. “I know everyone in the office is scared of me,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact.

You shake your head, stubborn. “They just don’t know you the way they should.”

His gaze lingers, piercing through you, holding you in place. “What about you?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Are you scared of me?”

The words trip out of you instantly, almost desperately. “No.”

But your smile is too quick, too awkward, as though you’re trying to hide something.

He studies you, silent for a long beat. Then he nods slowly, almost like he’s solved a puzzle. “You’re not scared of me,” he says at last. “But you’re afraid of me.”

His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, and you feel yourself unraveling under his intense stare. He’s too close to the truth, too close to the secret you’ve been keeping.

Panic, you abandon the half-brewed coffee and turn on your heel. “I’d better get back to work,” you mutter in a rush, desperate to escape.

But you barely make it two steps before his voice snaps across the room. “You like me, don’t you?”

You can feel the blood drains from your face as your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. The silence that follows is deafening, your halted body betraying you more than any words could.

Behind you, Minho exhales a laugh—low, knowing, edged with triumph. “Don’t bother denying it. I can see it all over you.”

You walk fast, your heels clicking against the floor as if putting distance between you and Minho could erase what just happened. But the office is nearly empty, and the echo of his footsteps follows close behind, relentless.

You make it to your desk and try to busy yourself by tidying the cluttering pens and papers,. But of course, it’s useless because his desk is right across from yours. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide until the task is done and Minho knows it.

“I’ve noticed the things you do when you think I’m not looking,” he says from behind you. His smooth, low voice peeling away your defenses.

“The way you stare at me in meetings. That little look you give me when you think I’m too busy to notice. You chew your lip when I speak, like you’re holding something back. And just now…” His tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around steel. “…that face you made when I caught you in the pantry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as embarrassment and frustration mixing until you can’t take it anymore. You spin in your chair, facing him head-on, your words spilling out before you can stop them.

“Yeah, okay, I like you.”

The confession slices through the silence and for a moment, the world holds still. Then, slowly, a smirk curves across Minho’s lips. He steps closer, closing the space between you with unhurried strides.

“Want to know something?” His eyes glint, dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. “I can actually do this job myself.”

Your lips quiver as you mutter, “What?”

He plants a hand on the edge of your desk, leaning in. “I asked for you because I wanted to be alone with you.”

Before you can react, he presses a hand against the desk beside your hip, then the other, caging you in. The wooden surface digs into your back as his body looms over yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.

You’re pinned, trapped, your pulse hammering in your throat. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering like he’s quietly measuring you, observing you and then he smiles—not cruel, not mocking, but dangerous in its certainty.

“Now that I’ve got you…” his voice drops, low and intimate, “…what should I do with you?”

The smirk on his lips deepens, and for a moment you swear you see something feral flicker in his eyes.

Your lips part, trying to come up with an excuse, or shift the attention back to the task at hand, just anything to escape this situation but before any words can leave your mouth, he crashes his lips against yours.

The kiss is harsh, searing, all teeth and tongue and pent-up tension. The papers you’re holding slip from your hands and scatter across the floor as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He presses you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face, forcing you to open for him as his tongue claims yours without hesitation.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are wet, swollen, your breath shaky. Then his voice dips into a growl.

“We could’ve had this all along.”

Before you can respond, his hand skims down your waist, sliding under the hem of your blouse, fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach. Your back arches involuntarily, a needy sound slipping past your lips, and that’s all the permission he needs. He dips his head, capturing your mouth again, deeper this time, hungrier.

The constant hum of the computer fills the silence between gasps and muffled moans as he devours you, his hands roaming shamelessly now, palming your waist, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hard press of his body.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips, biting at your lower one before sucking it into his mouth.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him, your fear completely eclipsed by the way he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s wanted this just as badly.

“Minho—” you sigh between kisses, but the words die as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering pens and files onto the floor.

He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs. “Here,” he says, voice rough, dark. “We’re doing it here.”

Your body already trembling at his words. “Here, what? Why… here?”

A smirk curls his lips as he leans in, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Because I want you to remember this every time you sit at this desk. I want you to think about me fucking you so good you can’t focus on your work.”

Heat floods all over you at his words, your stomach twisting with anticipation. You try to hide your shiver, but his knowing grin tells you he noticed.

He doesn’t give you time to protest as his mouth crashes against yours again, hungrier than before, his hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers slip beneath your skirt, dragging the fabric higher.

The desk creaks beneath your shifting weight as his palm cups you over your panties, and you can’t hold back the gasp that escapes your lips. He swallows it eagerly, deepening the kiss as his fingers press harder, teasing your clothed sex until your hips are rocking against his hand.

“Already so wet,” he murmurs against your lips, smug, savoring every sound you make. “You wanted this too, didn’t you? Sitting across from me all day, pretending you weren’t staring.”

You bite your lip, unable to deny him. Your silence only makes his grin widen, his fingers curling around your panties to tug them aside.

The office is quiet, eerily so but the thought of someone maybe being just down the hall makes every touch feel dirtier, hotter. Without warning, Minho slips his fingers inside you, stretching you slowly. The sudden intrusion makes your mouth fall open, a sharp moan escaping before you can stop it. The sound echoes too loud in the empty office, and Minho’s eyes go wide. In an instant, his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the desperate sound you let out. But there’s a flicker of amusement behind his eyes like he enjoys how reckless you are for him.

“Shh,” he whispers low, his voice hot against your ear. “You want the whole building to hear how needy you are?”

You shake your head quickly, but it doesn’t stop the way your body clenches around his fingers as he pumps them deeper. He curls them just right, dragging out another muffled whimper that vibrates against his palm.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. It must be the security guard doing their round. Panic sparking in you, your wide eyes meet his, but Minho just smirks like this is all part of his game. He slows his pace, almost lazy now, each thrust of his fingers driving you insane while his hand stays firmly over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he breathes, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. “Be good for me. Don’t make a sound.”

The footsteps come closer, so close you swear they’ll stop at your door. Minho’s eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, his fingers never stopping, his expression daring you to hold it together.

Your chest heaves as the guard’s shadow passes by, lingering for a second that feels like eternity… before moving on.

Only when the steps fade away does Minho finally ease his hand from your mouth, his fingers glistening as he pulls them from your cunt. He brings them up between you, studying the shine with a crooked grin before slipping them past his lips, sucking them clean like he’s savoring you.

“Who needs coffee when I have this,” he says, his voice husky, gaze dark as he looks at you trembling on your own desk.

Then his hands are on you again, this time reaching for your blouse, unbuttoning it open but his patience wears thin on the third one so he yanks it open, the buttons scatter across the floor.

“You…” his voice is low and rough, as his eyes rake down your body, “…you hide this under those boring office clothes?”

He mutters it like he’s cursing himself for not noticing sooner, his fingers already tearing at your blouse, ripping the thin fabric open until your bra is exposed. His breaths quickening as he pushes the fabric aside to bare your skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales, almost reverent, running his hand down the front of your body.

Minho doesn’t waste time. He’s tugging at your skirt now, shoving it up around your hips, his fingers digging into your thighs. His eyes burn as he takes in the sight of you spread out across your desk, your clothes clinging in pieces.

“This…” he mutters, almost to himself as his hands trace the curve of your waist, your breasts. “This is what I’ve been missing?”

His mouth finds your skin then, hot and demanding, biting at your collarbone before dragging his lips down your chest. Each mutter against your flesh is half-groan, half-praise, as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“Hmm… Perfect,” he breathes, tugging your bra down and cupping your breast in his hand, squeezing like he needs to prove you’re real. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and his muffled voice groans against it, “Absolutely perfect.”

Minho doesn’t rush even though you can feel how badly he wants to. His hands are everywhere, greedy and rough, but his pace is agonizingly slow, like he wants to unravel you piece by piece.

“You know what’s fucked up?” he murmurs against your skin, his lips grazing the underside of your breast before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers circling just above your waistband, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most.

“The whole office is terrified of me…” he chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over your nipple until you gasp, “…but if they saw you like this? Spread out, dripping for me on your desk? They’d know who really has the power over me.”

Your body arches, chasing his hand, but he pulls back, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Not yet.”

His fingers finally dip under your skirt, brushing over your soaked panties. The low groan he lets out vibrates against your chest. His thumb presses harder on your clothed clit, making you whine.

“Beg for it,” he demands, slipping one finger beneath the fabric but not inside. He drags it up your slit, collecting your slick, then holds it up for you to see glistening under the dim office light. “Beg for me to touch you.”

You try to buck against him, but he pins your hips to the desk with a firm hand, his smirk growing as you squirm. “God, you look so hot like this. All dressed up, torn open, begging me to ruin you.”

His finger dips in just the slightest, barely pushing past your entrance before pulling out again, making you whimper. He leans close to your ear, his voice husky as he whispers, “I’m going to make sure every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how desperate you were for me.”

His words, the way he said it while intensely gazing into your eyes, it undoes something in you. Shakily, breathlessly, you mutter, “Minho, please…”

He triumphantly smirks and without another ounce of restraint, he pushes two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, but the sound barely leaves your mouth before he clamps his other hand over it, muffling you.

“Shhh,” he warns, his breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t want them finding out what a needy little slut you are for me, do you?”

His fingers work inside you relentlessly, curling just right, pumping faster each time you clench around him. The wet sounds echo indecently in the quiet office, and you can feel yourself unraveling quickly, the tension winding in your belly like a spring about to snap.

He watches your face intently, eyes dark and burning with hunger. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna come for me? Right here on your desk?”

You nod frantically, your muffled whimpers spilling against his palm. He leans closer, whispering filth into your ear as his thumb finds your clit and presses down. “Do it. Make a mess for me. I want to see you fall apart.”

The combination of his filthy words, the ruthless rhythm of his fingers, and the dangerous thrill of being caught sends you tumbling over the edge. Your whole body shakes, convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you firmly, hand still over your mouth as your muffled cries vibrate against his palm.

Minho groans low in his throat, watching the way you shudder and spasm for him. He doesn’t stop until you’re a trembling, breathless mess slumped against your desk. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover as he grips your waist and pulls you off the desk, turning you around, making you face the desk. “Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel. His hand presses between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the cool surface of your desk, your skirt bunched indecently around your hips.

He lets you go but then you hear the clinking of metal and then zipper being pulled open from behind you, heightening the tension in the room. The next time he has your hands on you again, you feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance, smearing your slick across your folds. He doesn’t push in all the way, just the tip breaching you, then pulling out again, over and over, until you’re whining with frustration.

“Please…”

“Please?” He leans down over you, lips brushing your ear, his cock nudging just barely inside before retreating again. “You think you’re ready to take all of me? Hm?”

You arch your back, desperate, your fingers clawing at the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He chuckles darkly, savoring your begging as he pushes in just a little deeper, stretching you slow, inch by inch. The burn makes you gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him.

“God,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pausing to control himself. “So fucking tight. You feel like you’re going to tear me apart.”

You whimper, pushing back against him, but he grips your hips hard, refusing to let you take more than what he allows. His cock slides another inch deeper, the pace slow, almost torturous.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck like a cruel comfort. “I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this stretch every time you sit at this desk.”

By the time he finally bottoms out, the pressure is overwhelming, your walls pulsing around the fullness of him. He stays buried deep, not moving, forcing you to take the sensation of being completely filled. Then, he pulls back just slightly, only to push it in, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by your own arm as you bury your face in it.

Minho smirks in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”

For a moment, he holds himself deep inside you, his thrusts slow yet intense, dragging against every nerve ending. His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing your ear.

“You know how many days I sat across from you at this desk,” he murmurs, hips rocking just enough to make you gasp, “watching those perfect little legs of yours cross and uncross? Made me want to rip that skirt off and see what was underneath.”

You clench around him at his words, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter. He pulls back and slides in again, slow enough to make your toes curl.

“And that tight skirt,” he continues, voice dripping with filth, “hugging your hips, your ass—fuck, every curve showing, but just out of reach. Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over and take you right then?”

Your moan slips out before you can stop it, your face pressing harder into the desk to stifle the sound. Minho smirks against your skin, picking up just a little more pace but still keeping it torturously measured.

“And when you’d sit there,” he says, remembering in vivid detail, “biting your pencil between your teeth as you thought? Drove me fucking insane. All I could think about was how those lips would look wrapped around my cock, how you’d sound with your mouth full.”

You whine, your body trembling, and he growls low in his chest, clearly loving your reaction.

“But the worst,” he groans, thrusting in slow and deep, making your knees buckle, “the worst was wondering what kind of sounds you’d make when I finally got inside you. I used to sit across from you every day, imagining your moans, wondering if you’d be sweet and needy…” His thrust punctuates each filthy word. “…or if you’d scream for me.”

Your walls flutter around him at his confession, and he curses, kissing the side of your neck as though he can’t help himself. “And now I get to find out. Every fantasy—right here, on your desk.”

Your whole body shudders, the tension breaking all at once as his filthy words unravel you. You cry out his name and it’s echoing too loudly in the quiet office. His hand clamps over your mouth instantly, muffling the sounds as your orgasm tears through you, walls spasming around his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans into your ear, holding himself deep inside as he feels you pulse around him. “You really came just from that?” He chuckles low, dark and smug, his hand still pressed against your lips. “All it took was me telling you how I’ve been thinking about you and you’re already falling apart for me.”

Your muffled whimper makes him smirk even more. He pulls his hand away just long enough to whisper, “Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” before replacing it again when another moan escapes.

Instead of slowing down, his thrusts grow harder, deeper, relentless, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body’s already oversensitive, still reeling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.

“You came a second ago but your cunt’s still clinging to me like it’s begging for more.”

Your mouth falls open in a cry, but it barely escapes before his hand presses over your lips again, muffling your sounds.

The office is silent except for the wet slap of his hips against you and your muffled moans. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it. Take it,” he growls. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how I fucked you senseless on it.”

Your body trembles, pleasure coursing through your veins until it’s unbearable. You try to hold it back, but the pressure coils tight and fast, snapping all over again.

You convulse around him, muffled cries spilling against his palm as your second orgasm crashes through you, harder than the first. Your knees buckle, your nails scrape across the desk, and he groans deep in his chest as your walls clamp down around his cock.

“Fuck—there it is. That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he hisses, thrusting through your climax, dragging out every pulse, every flutter. “I’m not stopping until you’re dripping all over this desk for me.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, yet the heat won’t let go. He doesn’t give you a break, using your quaking, trembling body to chase his own edge, rutting into you like he owns you. His breath fans hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing into your back, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head so you can’t escape the rasp of his voice.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, almost scolding, but with a hint of hunger in it. “All this time, you were sitting across from me, looking at me like that… and I had no idea you wanted me too.”

Your mouth parts, words caught in your throat as your body clenches tight around him at the confession. He lets out a dark chuckle, dragging his cock all the way out before sinking back into you slow, making you feel every inch of his swollen length.

“If you’d told me sooner,” he continues, his pace torturously unhurried, “we could’ve been fucking each other’s brains out every night by now.” His hand slides down your side, squeezing your waist before dipping between your thighs, his fingers pressing against your swollen clit. “All those nights you went home aching for me? You could’ve been screaming my name instead.”

You shiver under him, the words, the rhythm, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you—every part of it coils together until you’re trembling on the edge again.

Suddenly, his tone shifts softer. His lips brush the back of your neck, then your jaw, before he finds your mouth and kisses you. Slow, sweet, devastating in contrast to how he’s been fucking you.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips, his thrusts still rolling steady yet deep, each one more intense for its restraint. “Scares you a little, doesn’t it?” He smirks when your body clenches, when you nod against him. “Good. I want you excited. I want you desperate.”

The push and pull, the sweet kiss and the filthy words, it’s all too much. Your body arches into him, your legs trembling as his thrusts finally grow just a little rougher, just enough to drive him to the edge. He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his hand gripping your hip as he groans, spilling his seed into you.

The sound of his raw, broken groan of your name, echoing in your head long after the moment passes.

He stays buried in you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies damp with a sheen of sweat. Then, slowly, he pulls out. The stretch makes you gasp, and the emptiness leaves you trembling. You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the warmth spilling down your thigh, his release sliding out of you in a messy trail.

Minho leans back just enough to watch, his dark eyes fixed on the sight. His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum.

“Fuck. Didn’t expect to see you like this,” he mutters, dragging his thumb along the curve of your hip possessively. His gaze never leaves the way you’re dripping for him. “Ruined and dripping for me… on your own desk.”

The office feels too quiet now, the hum of fluorescent lights a reminder of where you are and the stack of unfinished files is still scattered on the desk beneath you.

When he finally meets your eyes again, there’s no teasing in his stare, just a quiet, dangerous claim.

“You’re mine now. Every time you sit here…” his hand cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back into his eyes. “…you’ll remember who you belong to.”

-

The next day, everything at the office feels the same on the surface but you both know it’s not.

You’re at your desk, leaning forward slightly as you skim something on your computer screen, unaware of the eyes burning into you.

Minho sits across the room, looking as composed as ever to everyone else. But inside, he’s replaying that night in vivid detail—the way you clutched the desk, the way you cried out his name, the way his release dripped down your thighs.

He pushes back his chair and strolls toward you, his expression perfectly neutral, nothing to raise suspicion. He stops at your side, one hand braced casually on the desk as if to ask about the document you’re reading. But beneath the facade, he places his other hand on the curve of your ass, hidden from everyone else’s view.

He leans down, close enough that only you can hear him, and whispers in that low, dangerous tone. “If you keep bending over like that, I’ll take it as a sign you want another round right here.”

His hand slowly strokes over the round of your ass before he pulls back, face still blank, as if he only asked about numbers on a spreadsheet. He walks away like nothing happened, leaving you there, outwardly composed but inwardly seething with need, already plotting when he’ll get you alone again.

-

✨ DESKJOB: CHAPTER TWO is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[yubinism]

what this genuinely meant for me. LIKE WTFFFF I WAS CRASHING OUT AND I WAS SCREAMING ALONG WITH THE FMC. this was beautiful, loved how i began the weekend with this oh em gee 🙂‍↕️

[emmiesoverthemoon]

AISLE BE DAMNED

lee minho x reader series

tags: non idol au, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, forced proximity, bickering as foreplay, fluff, angst, eventual smut, mixed written/smau

synopsis: you were only supposed to help plan your cousin’s wedding—not survive it. but when you're paired with the groom’s good friend, a.k.a the most patronising, uptight, and frustrating man on the guest list, things go from manageably stressful to unbearably tense fast. he mocks your spontaneity, you insult his meticulousness, and somehow, you’re still stuck planning the entire event side by side.

venue tours turn into arguments. hosting rehearsals get a little too flirty. and when a last-minute mix-up lands you in a sticky situation…

well, let’s just say, it’s not only the champagne making your head spin.

they’re supposed to celebrate someone else’s love story—

so why does it suddenly feel like they’re living their own?

the pages

chapter one: this could’ve been an email chapter two: closer than my comfort allows chapter three: please do not touch me chapter four: the eye of the storm chapter five: do you?

i was inspired to start a series of my own by "the lover" ft felix, by my alpha @makeitworse— read it if you're awesome

[yubinism]

rutting in my poor desperation of actually finding something that would warm my poor heart, i actually tumbled across this. i have finished this in less than two hours, and i have swallowed down the words of each chapter and memorised it at the back of my hand like i have no busy ordeals of the day. i absolutely loved reading this and devoured it like nothing other. 100000000/10, a must read. this is what romance plots should be, what romcoms should be about. hang this in the walls of the louvre and tie a lock so that the masterpiece does not get stolen. im coming back to this when my days of despair comes back.

[seospicybin]

HAUNTED.

FINAL CHAPTER

Bangchan x reader. (s,a)

HAUNTED MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris move into a quiet new neighborhood, ready to start your forever together. But soon, strange neighbors, locked doors, and a tunnel that never ends begin to unravel the perfection of your new life—until love itself feels haunted. (16,7k words)

Author's note: Grab your fluffy blanket, a box of tissues and just tell me when you need me to hold your hand. Lastly, hope you enjoy it ❣️

The rain hasn’t stopped.

It hammers against the roof, each drop echoing through the walls, through his bones. Chris stands in the hallway, chest tight, ear pressed to the locked door.

There it is again. The faint, muffled sound. Voices he can’t quite place, broken pieces of a conversation, like static spilling from the past.

He shuts his eyes, straining to listen.

“What? — want to keep trying?” A tremor of silence and then—

“…in the first place if you don’t even want to try.”

The glow under the crack of the door flickers and it shouldn’t be there, no television, no lamp should be on in a room that’s supposed to be locked, sealed, empty.

Chris’s fingers curl around the doorknob again. He twists, desperate, rattling the lock until the metal bites against his palm. It’ still stuck, still locked yet the voices keep bleeding through.

He steps back, breath ragged, every instinct screaming at him to walk away yet his feet stay rooted to the floor, as if the house itself is holding him there, making him listen.

The rain grows louder. The voices sharper, clearer.

Until—

Bang!

The bang jolts through him and his heart seizes in his chest. His gaze stays locked on the door, breath caught, waiting for it to swing open, waiting for something to emerge.

But then—

CRACK.

A thunderclap rattles the entire house, shaking the glass in the windows and just as suddenly, the lights die. Darkness floods the hallway, swallowing him whole. The faint glow beneath the locked door snuffs out in an instant, leaving behind only the sound of the rain, the howl of wind, and the thundering of his own pulse.

Chris stands frozen, hand still clutching the useless doorknob, his mind racing with the voices he swears he heard. In the suffocating dark, one thought claws its way through the haze…

He’s not alone.

He squints through the dark, his fingers tightening on the balcony railing as he hears footsteps in the rain and soon, watches a figure stumbling across the street.

It’s the same man from last night. He can’t make out the face in the dark and from this distance, but he recognizes the white coat he’s wearing — one that looks like your doctor coat — trailing behind him as he runs.

Chris leans out, careful not to step into the sheets of water. “Hey!” he calls, his voice half-swallowed by the storm.

The man stops, his head jerking up, face dripping with rain. For a beat, his eyes dart wildly, like he can’t quite place where the voice is coming from.

Chris raises his voice again. “Are you—are you looking for something?”

The man turns, finally locking on him. Confusion shadows his expression, his chest heaving as though he’s been running for hours. “The tunnel,” he rasps. “I’m looking for the tunnel. Do you… do you know where it is?”

Chris blinks, baffled. The tunnel? Of all things, the tunnel is impossible to miss. It cuts through the town like a vein, dark and endless. He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, it’s—just down the main road, past the turn. You can’t miss it.”

The man’s eyes flicker with something unreadable. He nods like he understands, but his brows furrow, lips trembling. Then all of a sudden, he takes a step back and then another as his expression shifts, from confusion to fear.

Chris straightens, unsettled. “Wait—are you okay?”

But the man only shakes his head, stumbling backward into the storm, before vanishing into the curtain of rain.

Chris exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his damp face. His pulse is still racing when he turns and nearly jumps out of his skin.

You’re standing there, barefoot in the dark, clutching a blanket around your shoulders. Your smile is soft, sleepy, almost out of place against the storm crashing outside.

His breath catches. “How long have you been standing there?”

“For a while,” you answer simply, voice quiet but steady.

He steps toward you, brows knitting as though trying to read something in your face. “Did I wake you up?”

You shake your head.

Relief escapes him in a small sigh, and he slips his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. Your warmth bleeds into him instantly, easing the chill that crept into his bones.

“Come back to bed,” you murmur into his shirt. “It feels cold without you.”

He exhales, lips brushing your hair. “Okay, baby.”

A kiss pressed to the crown of your head, then the two of you walk back together toward the bedroom, leaving the rain and the storm outside to rage on unseen.

-

The two of you curl into the bed, the storm a muffled roar beyond the walls. Chris pulls you close, wrapping himself around you. His lips trail lazily along your jaw, then down your neck, featherlight kisses that make you squirm and laugh softly.

He inhales deeply, lingering there. “God, you smell so good,” he murmurs, voice almost reverent. “It’s… it reminds me of something.”

You tilt your head to glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What?”

“Your favorite flowers.” His answer comes without hesitation, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue all along.

“Peonies?” you ask, amused.

Chris nods, his grin bright in the dim glow. You smile, warmth flickering in your chest as he presses his face into the crook of your neck again, breathing you in like he can’t get enough.

Your voice is teasing when you say, “Does it make you horny?”

Chris pulls back just enough for you to see the playful glint in his eyes. His grin widens, shameless. “Kind of. Yeah.”

He nuzzles back into your neck, laughing softly against your skin, and inhaling deeply, too deeply like he’s chasing something. His brow furrows faintly as he pulls back, eyes flicking over you in the dimness. “It’s… really strong tonight,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like it’s everywhere.”

You pout, feigning offence. “Are you saying I never smelled this good?”

His lips twitch into a small smile, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, you shift the topic, turning in his arms so you can see him better. “Why did you wake up in the middle of the night anyway?”

He hesitates for a while and then he exhales, keeping his answer light. “Had a headache.”

Your expression sharpens, the warmth in your eyes shifting into something more clinical, attentive. “What kind of headache?” you ask, already brushing his hair back to check his forehead like you’re scanning for fever.

He winces faintly. “Felt like someone hit me hard in the head.”

Seeing the worry crease your brow, he quickly adds, “I took something for it already, don’t worry.”

“Does it still hurt?” you press gently.

“Not as bad as before.”

You hum, then lean in to plant a soft kiss against his forehead. The gesture makes him grin, his voice turning playful. “Were you trying to kiss it better?”

You slightly shrug, keeping your voice cool. “Well, just wanted to help.” With that, you settle back against the pillow, pretending you’re done with the conversation.

But Chris slides closer, wrapping himself around you until his lips are brushing your ear. His whisper is low, teasing. “My head really hurts now. Please, make it better.”

You try to ignore him, lips twitching as you fight the smile pulling at them. But then his hand finds your waist, warm and insistent, and you finally cave. You turn your head, capturing his mouth with yours in a kiss that’s slow, then deepens as his smile melts into it.

The kiss starts slow, lazy even — the kind that lingers because neither of you really wants to pull away. His hand stays on your waist, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your skin. The rain outside softens to a murmur, the rhythm syncing with the steady beat of your breaths.

When you finally part, you’re both smiling, quiet in the dark. His forehead rests against yours, the warmth of him seeping into you.

“Better?” you whisper, still teasing.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Much better.”

You hum, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingers, feeling the slight stubble beneath your touch. “Good. Now go to sleep before it gets worse again.”

He nods faintly, eyes already heavy. “Okay, doctor.”

You chuckle under your breath, pressing one last kiss to his lips before letting him rest his head on your chest. Your arms tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer until he fits against you perfectly.

You brush your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, coaxing him toward sleep. His breathing steadies against your collarbone, warm and heavy, and the faint hum of the rain outside fills the silence between you.

You keep running your fingers through his hair, over and over. He sighs, his body loosening, his hand slipping from your waist but never fully letting go.

And when you’re sure he’s almost asleep, you lean closer, your lips brushing the crown of his head.

“I love you so much,” you whisper, barely louder than the rain. “I’ll always choose you. Even then. Even now.”

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, and he stirs, not fully awake, but enough to tighten his arms around you, holding you as if he’s afraid to let go. You smile faintly into the dark and let your eyes close, the sound of rain wrapping around you both like a lullaby.

-

Chris wakes to the sound of rain tapering off. It’s a thin drizzle now, whispering against the window. The air feels heavy like the storm never really left. He blinks, groggy, the room dim except for the gray light bleeding through the curtains. The space beside him is cold. Empty.

He rolls over, half-expecting to find you curled at the edge of the bed, but there’s only the impression of where you’d been. Your scent lingers faintly on the pillow but the sheets are cool to the touch.

“Baby?” His voice cracks from sleep.

Silence.

Chris pushes himself upright, rubbing his eyes. “Hey—where’d you go?”

He waits for a reply that doesn’t come. The quiet feels too big so he gets up and checks the bathroom first, empty. Then the kitchen. The living room.

The soft pads of his bare feet echo on the wooden floor as he calls for you again, louder this time. “Baby?”

Nothing.

Concern prickles at his skin. You never wake up this early, especially after a night like that. He grabs the hoodie draped over the chair and slips it on as he makes his way toward the back of the house.

That’s when he sees you standing on the back porch, wrapped in your cardigan, staring out at the lake. The mist hovers low over the water, the sky still dark and bruised from the night before.

Relief floods him. He slides the door open and steps out just enough for the cool air to hit his skin. “There you are,” he says softly, voice laced with half a laugh, half a sigh.

You don’t turn right away, just hug the cardigan tighter around yourself.

Chris moves closer, the boards creaking beneath his feet, and when he reaches you, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest.

“You scared me,” he murmurs into your hair.

Your eyes stay on the lake. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmare?” he asks.

You pause a little too long then simply shake your head.

Chris studies your profile, the gray morning light tracing the edge of your face. There’s something unreadable in your expression, but he decide not to press. He just holds you tighter, both of you standing there in the hush between the fading rain and the waking world.

He presses a small kiss to your temple, breathing you in. “What are you thinking, mmh?” he asks quietly.

Your eyes remain fixed on the lake, its surface trembling with ripples. “Nothing,” you finally say, your voice soft, almost distant.

Chris hums the kind of sound that’s meant to soothe. He doesn’t believe you, not really. He can feel it in your body, the quiet tension under his palms as he strokes his thumbs over your arms. You’re miles away inside your head.

He keeps trying, hoping his touch will coax you back. He presses another kiss, lower this time, to the curve of your neck. Then another to your shoulder. “You know you can tell me everything, right?”

A small, breathy laugh escapes you but it fades just as quickly. You lean back into him, his chest warm against your back, and for a moment it feels like the world might steady itself again.

Then, you turn on your feet, sudden enough that Chris stills. You face him fully now, your hands trembling slightly as you lift them to his chest. Your eyes meet his — wide, glassy, heavy with something he can’t quite name.

“I’m running out of time,” you say it so low it’s almost like a whisper.

For a heartbeat, the only sound is the steady drip of water from the eaves. You don’t explain, don’t look away. You just step into him and wrap your arms around his waist, holding him as if you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t.

“Hey…” he murmurs, but the word breaks halfway through.

He hugs you back, just as tight, maybe tighter, pressing his cheek to your hair, his heart hammering in his chest. He wants to ask what you mean, what kind of time you’re talking about, why your voice sounds like a goodbye wrapped in a breath, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he closes his eyes and holds you, trying to memorize the warmth of your body, the faint smell of your favorite flowers that lingers between the two of you because suddenly, he’s terrified of what it might mean to lose it.

-

For a long moment, Chris keeps his arms around you until your shivers grow more noticeable. Even through your cardigan, your skin feels cold and that’s what finally makes him pull back just enough to look at you.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”

You don’t protest when he takes your hand and leads you back inside, up the stairs toward the bedroom. Chris runs the water in the bathtub, testing the temperature with his fingers until it’s warm enough, then turns to you with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Go on,” he says gently, “get in before you catch a cold.”

You nod and let him help you out of your clothes. There’s something tender, almost sacred in the way he handles you like he’s afraid you might break. You step into the tub, settling under the steam. The warmth contrasts your skin instantly, a faint sigh leaving your lips as you sink deeper into the water.

“There you go,” he murmurs, crouching by the tub for a moment longer. “I’ll go get breakfast started, okay?”

You hum softly in response, and he presses a quick kiss to the top of your head before standing up and heading downstairs.

In the kitchen, the sound of rain feels louder somehow. Chris pulls open the kitchen drawers, sets out some pans, and starts rummaging through the groceries he picked up yesterday, but he keeps glancing toward the stairs.

You’ve been cold since yesterday morning and he noticed it when you hugged him — the chill in your hands, the way your skin didn’t seem to hold warmth no matter how close he held you. He tries to convince himself it’s nothing, maybe just exhaustion from the move, or the weather, or stress.

But the longer he stands there, the more it gnaws at him. What if it’s something else? What if you’re actually sick?

He turns off the stove before it even gets hot and starts pacing. He doesn’t even know where the nearest clinic is. The last thing he wants is to make you worry, but doing nothing feels worse.

Then, through the kitchen window, he sees the neighbour across the street, the same one who’d been watching from behind the curtain. Finally, someone who knows the area. Maybe he can ask where the nearest doctor is, or at least a pharmacy.

Without another thought, he grabs his jacket, slips on his shoes, and heads for the door, the sound of rain growing louder as he steps outside.

-

The rain beats down hard enough to blur the world into gray streaks, but Chris keeps walking, hand raised to shield his face as he crosses the street. The water seeps through his jacket almost instantly, cool against his skin, but he barely notices as the house across from his feels even darker now.

He stops at the rusted gate, calling out, “Hello?!” His voice is half-swallowed by the rain. “Hey—sir? I just need to ask something!”

Nothing. Only the sound of water hitting metal and the distant rumble of thunder rolling over the hills.

He tries again, louder this time, “My girlfriend’s not feeling well! I just—need to know where the nearest hospital or clinic is!”

Still no answer. The house stands lifeless. The curtains hang limp.

Chris exhales, frustrated, running a hand through his soaked hair. He’s about to turn back when something flickers in one of the upstairs windows. A figure. The same man staring out at him through the rain.

Relief and unease flood him at once. “Hey!” he shouts again, waving an arm. “Sir! I just need some help!”

The figure doesn’t move. Just watches.

“Please!” Chris insists. “She’s—she’s not feeling well. I just—”

He stops mid-sentence as the window is empty again. He blinks through the rain and takes a cautious step forward, eyes darting between the house and the yard. Then, before he can call out again—

A voice. Too close. “She can’t keep you here.”

Chris startles so hard he nearly slips on the wet ground and his head jerks toward the gate.

The man is standing there — right there — behind the bars. He hadn’t heard footsteps. No creak of the front door being opened, no crunch of gravel. Just appeared.

The space between the iron bars is narrow, but Chris can just make out the man’s face — pale, drenched, his eyes sunken deep beneath the shadow of his brow. The rain slides down his skin like it’s crawling. His lips move, but his voice doesn’t come from his mouth; it feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once — inside the rain, inside Chris’s head.

“She can’t keep you here,” the man says again, softer now, darker.

Chris blinks, shaking his head, his breath catching. “What—what are you talking about?”

He leans closer, peering through the gaps in the bars. “Who—who can’t keep me here? What are you—”

The man is gone.

No sound, no trace. Just empty rain and the clanging of the gate in the wind.

Chris steps back, eyes scanning the porch, the yard, the windows. The house is still again but the longer he looks, the more he swears there’s movement behind the curtains, like someone’s still standing there, just out of view.

A drop of cold rain slides down his neck, and he suddenly feels the weight of it all pressing on him — the stillness, the silence, the echo of that voice.

“She can’t keep you here.”

He turns sharply and hurries back across the street, his shoes splashing in the puddles. He doesn’t dare look back until he’s at his door again with his heart hammering against his ribs.

And when he finally does — the light in the neighbor’s window flickers on and the man is there, watching behind the curtain.

-

The warmth of the house greets him when he pushes through the front door, but it doesn’t feel comforting anymore — it feels stale, like the air hasn’t moved since he left. He wipes his shoes on the mat, heart still unsteady from what just happened. The eerie quiet settles over him again, pressing against his ears and then, soft footsteps creak from the dining room.

Chris rounds the corner and stops dead. You’re sitting there at the dining table, shoulders hunched, clutching your bathrobe tightly around yourself. Your hair is wet, droplets of water trailing down your neck and soaking into the fabric. You look up at him slowly, a faint, tired smile tugging at your lips.

“Where have you been?” you ask softly.

The question sounds innocent, but something about it makes his skin crawl and maybe it’s how calm your voice is, how unfazed you seem by the storm still raging outside.

He clears his throat. “I, uh—” He shakes his head. “Why are you out of the bath already?”

You look puzzled for a beat before answering, “I’m hungry. I thought you were already cooking.”

Chris exhales and nods, forcing a small smile. “Right. Sorry, I—got distracted.”

He moves toward the kitchen, his hands still trembling a little, trying to busy himself with something tangible. “What do you want for breakfast?”

You tilt your head, watching him with that same soft, serene expression. “Egg and toast,” you say simply.

“Got it.” He opens a cabinet, pulling out a pan and some bread. Anything to keep his hands occupied, anything to drown out the echo of that voice from outside.

“She can’t keep you here.”

He forces himself to focus, cracking eggs into the pan, the sizzle filling the silence. “You should get dressed,” he says, glancing back at you with a faint smile. “You’ll catch a cold sitting there like that.”

You hesitate for a moment, then stand up. “Okay.”

Chris steps over, catching you gently by the arm before you go. He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek before letting you go. “Go on,” he murmurs.

You smile again, faint and quiet, and start up the stairs. He watches you until you disappear around the landing. Only then does he turn back to the stove, flipping the eggs, breathing out slow, but the unease lingers.

-

The rain still lashes against the windows, thunder rolling like distant growls beneath the low hum of the house. The kitchen light flickers once before steadying again, casting a soft, golden warmth over the table where you and Chris sit.

You’re quietly eating, the sound of your fork scraping the plate the only thing filling the silence. Steam rises from your toast and the faint scent of butter and coffee hangs in the air.

Chris, however, barely touches his food. He sits across from you, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on your face. You look pale, but your lips are curved in a small, content smile as you take another bite of your toast like nothing’s wrong.

He watches the way your shoulders move, the way your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up your cup. He tries to convince himself that it’s just the cold. Just exhaustion. Just… anything normal.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Enjoying your breakfast?”

You look up from your plate, surprised at his sudden voice. Then you smile a warm, sweet smile, just like always. “Yeah. It’s really good.”

He nods, though he doesn’t look convinced. The silence returns, thicker this time, like the house itself is holding its breath. He watches you take another sip of coffee before the words slip out of him. “Are you… okay?”

You freeze for a second, then blink at him. “What do you mean?”

He exhales, hands tightening around his mug. “You’ve been quiet and this morning you felt cold, you looked—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. I just… I’m worried. If you’re feeling sick or something, tell me, okay? We can find a hospital nearby. I’ll drive you there.”

For a heartbeat, your expression softens like his worry moves you. Then you shake your head gently, smiling again. “I’m okay, Chris. Really.”

He starts to say something else, but you continue before he can.

“I’m feeling better now. Especially after eating what you made.” You reach across the table and touch his hand lightly, your skin cold but your touch familiar. “You always take care of me so well.”

Chris swallows hard and nods. He doesn’t fully believe it but he chooses to trust you, to not ruin the fragile calm between you. “Alright,” he murmurs, managing a small smile.

You smile back, then look down at your half-finished breakfast. A moment passes and then, in that same soft tone, you speak again. “Since it’s raining…”

Chris looks up from his plate of breakfast, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

“…maybe we should continue organizing your studio today,” you say, your gaze lifting to meet his. “It’ll give us something to do.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, forcing a smile. “Sure. We can do that.”

As he watches you take another quiet bite of toast, a chill runs through him again. Because for a moment… he can’t shake the feeling that the way you’re smiling isn’t the same as before.

-

The window is cracked open just enough to let in the sound of the rain, a steady hush against the glass that blends with the warm crackle of the record player. A mellow, nostalgic tune fills the room, an old favorite of Chris and it wraps around the two of you like a memory.

He’s standing near the top shelf, reaching up to slide his records into neat rows, his fingers lingering over each spine as if every album carries a piece of his life. You’re on the floor, cross-legged on the carpet, sorting through stacks of vinyl sleeves and humming along quietly to the music. Your hair is still a little damp, clinging to the back of your cardigan.

Chris glances down at you and smiles. “This song…” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “It always takes me back. First time I ever played a set at a little bar. The crowd was so small, but God, it felt like the whole world was there.” He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I was so nervous.”

You look up at him with a soft smile. “Is music what you always wanted to do?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Always knew. Just like how you became a doctor.”

Your smile widens. “So that means you’ll keep chasing your dream? To be a musician?”

He sets another record onto the shelf, his movements slowing. “Yeah,” he says again, with a quiet kind of confidence.

“Why?” you ask, tilting your head, curious.

Chris pauses. His back straightens, his fingers resting on the edge of a sleeve. “…To prove myself.”

You tilt your head to the side. “To who?”

He goes still, staring at the records like the answer might be hidden in their grooves.

Without looking at him, you continue sliding the vinyls into place on the lower shelf. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone,” you say gently but firmly. “The only person you need to prove anything to… is yourself. To show that you can be the musician you were born to be.”

Chris exhales slowly, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He glances down at you, at the way your hands move. You know. You’ve always known. Even about his insecurities, about the way your parents look at him and somehow, your voice cuts through all that noise.

“No matter what happens,” you add, looking up at him now, “you should keep chasing your dream.”

This time, he looks at you fully. “Why?”

You stop, your hands stilling on the records. Your eyes meet his. “Because the world needs to hear your beautiful music,” you say softly, as if it’s the simplest truth.

Chris feels something shift in his chest. Touched, no, undone by the conviction in your voice.

But then you add, even softer. “I know you’ll be what you’ve dreamed of, Chris. I know you will.”

He presses his lips together, looking at you with a warmth that almost hurts. Because he believes you. Because you’ve always been the driving force in his life, the reason he hasn’t given up. And in that moment, he knows deep down, without you, he’d fall apart.

You break the silence gently. “What about that song you wrote? The one I liked so much…”

He blinks, a little startled. “What about it?”

You smile up at him. “Will you play it for me? One more time?”

The rain beats against the window, the record player hums softly, and he nods without hesitation. “For you,” he says quietly, “I’ll play it as many times as you want.”

Chris sits on the edge of the couch, guitar resting against his thigh, while you stay on the carpeted floor, your knees tucked under your chin as you look up at him.

“Ready?” he asks, his fingers already finding the familiar placement on the frets.

You nod with that soft smile, one that always makes his heart stumble and he starts to play.

The first few chords fall gentle and sure, and soon, his voice joins the melody, low, warm, and trembling with emotion. The song is one he wrote for you long ago, back when dreams still felt bright and easy to reach. It’s about love that stays, even when the world changes. About trying, failing, and still trying again.

You listen quietly, your gaze never leaving him. The way his brows furrow with every lyric, how his thumb strums the strings with precision and feeling it’s as if you’re seeing every piece of his heart laid bare in front of you.

Chris doesn’t look up until the very last line and when he finally does, your eyes are closed, your lips slightly parted as if you’re still holding onto the song’s echo and then he sees the shimmer of tears sliding down your cheeks.

“Hey…” He sets the guitar aside and kneels down in front of you, hands reaching to cup your face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

But you only shake your head, a soft sob breaking loose as he pulls you into his arms.

He wraps himself around you, one hand stroking the back of your head, the other holding your trembling form tight against his chest. He thinks maybe it’s the song because that’s what music does to people. Maybe it stirred too many feelings, maybe you’re just overwhelmed. So he just keeps holding you, whispering quiet reassurances into your hair.

You eventually calm down, though your breath still hitches against him and when you finally tilt your head up, your lashes are wet, eyes red but impossibly tender.

“Promise me, Chris,” you rasp, clutching at the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

He gets startled by the urgency in your voice. “Promise you what?”

“Promise me that whatever happens,” you whisper, “you’ll continue and keep chasing your dream.”

Chris’s heart twists. He reaches up, brushing your tears away with his thumb, his voice soft and steady when he answers, “I promise.”

Your lips quiver into a smile—small, beautiful, and breaking at the edges. Then you lean forward and kiss him.

It’s nothing like before. It’s sad but happy. Desperate but hopeful. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, deepening the kiss, wanting to hold onto the moment for as long as it will let him.

And when you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, the both of you breathing in sync to the rhythm of the rain outside.

-

The house smells faintly of rain and warmth as Chris is back in the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. He’s going through the fridge, checking ingredients for dinner when he hears your footsteps approach from the hallway.

“Chris,” you call softly.

He turns immediately, knife set aside. “Hey, what’s up?”

You hesitate for a beat before walking over, a folded piece of paper trembling slightly between your fingers. “Can you do something for me?”

His answer is instant, without thought. “Anything, baby.”

You give him a small, weak smile and slide the paper across the counter toward him. “I don’t feel really well… Could you pick these up for me?”

He glances down at the paper, eyes narrowing at the tangle of barely legible handwriting. “Of course,” he says automatically, then squints. “Uh… but—where exactly am I supposed to get these?”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your expression calm but tired. “Remember the big supermarket I told you once. It has a pharmacy inside.”

Chris nods, even as a flicker of unease twists in his chest. “Right, the supermarket…” He hesitates, his hand still on the paper. “That one past the tunnel, right?”

You nod.

For a moment, he just stands there. He doesn’t like the thought of going through that tunnel, not after everything that’s been happening. The thought makes his stomach coil tight. But then he looks at you, at your pale face and your faint smile, and the hesitation fades.

“Okay,” he says, nodding firmly this time. “I’ll go. Shouldn’t take long.”

He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door and slips the paper into his pocket, patting it down as if to reassure himself it’s there. Then he reaches for the car keys on the counter and walks back to you.

You’re standing close now, hands clasped in front of you. He cups your cheek with one hand, thumb tracing lightly over your skin. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to your lips, lingering a little too long.

You smile a sad, bittersweet smile against him and whisper, “Okay.”

Then, almost too quickly, you turn away, heading toward the stove. “I’m going to start on dinner while you’re away.”

Chris chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the strange heaviness in his chest. “Don’t set the kitchen on fire, okay?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” you call back over your shoulder.

He pauses by the door for one last look—your back turned, your hair tied messily as you move around the counter with only the faint hum of the rain outside fills the silence.

Chris grips the doorknob tighter, a quiet sigh escaping him. “I’ll be back soon,” he mutters again, almost to himself.

And then he steps out into the rain, letting the door close softly behind him.

-

The rain has turned heavier by the time Chris gets into the car. Droplets streak down the windshield, blurring the glow of the streetlights into long, trembling lines. He flicks the wipers on, their rhythmic sweep cutting through the silence, though it doesn’t help much—the world beyond the glass still looks distorted, unreal.

The engine hums low as he drives slowly through the narrow streets of the neighborhood. Each corner looks the same: shuttered windows, dark porches, a single lamppost flickering in and out of life. There’s no one outside. No cars. Just the sound of rain against the roof and the low growl of his tires on wet asphalt.

Chris glances at the paper tucked on the passenger seat. The ink has already started to smudge from when he folded it earlier. He can barely read what’s written there. Heck, he doesn’t even know what half the words mean but the thought of you feeling unwell and weak presses in his chest. He can’t come home empty-handed.

When he finally spots the fluorescent sign of a convenience store, it feels like a small relief. The neon sign makes it look like a pocket of light in a neighborhood swallowed by rain and shadow. He parks right out front, engine still running, and jogs through the downpour.

The bell above the door jingles softly as he steps inside. The store is empty. The faint buzz of the old ceiling light hums overhead, flickering every few seconds. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and something sweet that’s gone stale. Behind the counter, a man in a dull gray uniform flipping through a magazine, barely glancing up.

Chris wipes his face on his sleeve, catching his breath. “Hey,” he starts, voice a little hoarse, “do you guys carry any prescription meds?”

The cashier finally looks up, eyes heavy-lidded, expression flat. “No.”

Just that. No explanation. No attempt to help.

Chris nods, tapping his fingers against the damp counter. “Right. Uh—do you know if there’s a pharmacy nearby?”

The man tilts his head slowly, as if considering the question for the first time in years. Then he shakes his head once. “No.”

Chris swallows, a faint unease curling low in his stomach. The hum of the fluorescent light grows louder, or maybe it’s just that the silence in the store feels too thick. He nods again, forces a small, polite smile, and stuffs the folded paper back into his jacket pocket. “Thanks anyway.”

He turns to leave but the man’s voice stops him. “You have to go through the tunnel.”

Chris freezes mid-step. The tone isn’t helpful, like the man’s just repeating something he’s heard a hundred times. Slowly, Chris turns back. The cashier isn’t looking at him anymore, eyes glued to his magazine again, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

A shiver creeps down Chris’s spine. “Right,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

He pushes the door open and steps back into the rain, the bell above him giving one last hollow jingle.

The air outside feels colder now and the streets seem even darker than before. He breaks into a jog, sliding back into the driver’s seat, water dripping from his hair onto the upholstery. The engine sputters to life, headlights cutting through the curtain of rain and for a split second, he thinks he sees movement in the rearview mirror. A shadow that shouldn’t be there. He blinks and it’s gone. Just darkness again.

Chris grips the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. The words echo in his head— You have to go through the tunnel.

He exhales shakily and puts the car in gear, knowing he doesn’t have another choice but go through the tunnel.

-

The rain is coming down in sheets now, hammering against the windshield like a thousand tiny fists. The road is narrow and slick, the edges eaten by shadows.

When Chris finally spots the tunnel ahead, his hands go clammy on the steering wheel. It looms out of the darkness, a yawning black mouth cut into the earth. No light inside, not even the faint orange glow of safety lamps. Just an endless, suffocating black. The concrete arch is mottled with moss and streaks of grime, and the sound of the rain seems to fade the closer he gets, replaced by a low, humming silence that seeps from inside the tunnel.

He slows to a stop a few meters away, engine idling. His headlights reach only so far—past a few meters, the light just gets swallowed whole. He can’t see where it ends. It feels like it doesn’t end.

Chris’s pulse quickens. He’s staring, and the longer he does, the worse the feeling gets like the tunnel isn’t just dark, but watching him back. Every instinct screaming that he shouldn’t go in there. He rubs his palms on his jeans, trying to steady himself.

This is stupid, he tells himself. You’re doing this for her. Just drive through. Get the meds. Come back.

But his body won’t move and his foot hovers above the pedal. The steering wheel feels heavier somehow, as if the car itself doesn’t want to move forward. Then, almost without thinking, he turns the wheel and the tires crunch on the wet gravel as he swings the car around.

He exhales in shaky relief when the tunnel disappears from his view until his headlights catch something on the road. He slams on the brakes and the car skids slightly before stopping. Rain pelts the windshield, and through the blur, he can just make out a figure—tall, still, right in front of his car. He fumbles for the headlights switch and clicks them to full beam.

The light spills over the figure. It’s the cashier. Soaked to the bone, gray uniform clinging to his frame, head tilted slightly down but Chris can feel his eyes on him.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moves. The rain is the only sound. Then the cashier starts walking in slow steps, each one splashing faintly in the puddles as he approaches the side of the car.

Chris’s breath catches when the man raises a pale, water-slicked hand and knocks on the window. Chris hesitates, his hand trembling as he reaches for the window switch. He lowers it just an inch or two, just enough to hear. Cold rain sprays in, dampening his arm.

“You have to go to the tunnel,” the cashier says. His voice is monotone, same as before but now it sounds off, like it’s coming from far away, muffled through something thick.

Chris swallows hard, forcing a nervous laugh. “Yeah, maybe—uh, maybe another day, okay? The weather’s pretty bad tonight.”

The cashier only tilts his head again, slightly sharper this time. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Chris says quickly, voice cracking. “Thanks for the tip, man.”

He rolls the window up before the man can say another word and shifts the car into drive, then he hits the gas. The car jerks forward, tires spinning slightly on the slick road but before he can speed off, the banging starts.

The cashier is pounding on his door, hard enough that the entire car shakes. “You’re going the wrong way!” he shouts now, voice louder like a command. “Go to the tunnel! Go to the tunnel!”

Chris slams his foot down on the pedal and the engine roars, tires screeching against wet pavement as the car surges forward. In the rearview mirror, for just a second, he sees the man still standing there in the rain, just watching.

The headlights flicker. The radio crackles with static. And though Chris keeps his eyes on the road, he swears he can still hear it echoing in the back of his head— Go to the tunnel. Go to the tunnel. Go to the tunnel.

-

The rain comes down harder, drumming on the roof like a thousand fingers clawing to get in. Chris grips the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white, eyes darting between the empty road and the GPS on his phone. The signal keeps flickering—one second, the map loads, the next it goes blank with that spinning wheel of death.

He mutters under his breath, trying to calm himself. “Just get home. Straight, left, then right by the sign. That’s it.”

The windshield wipers drag across the glass with a shrill screech-screech, barely keeping up with the downpour. The familiar stretch of road should’ve shown by now, the turn back toward the house but instead, the headlights catch on the same curve of asphalt, the same slope, the same—

The tunnel. It stands there again in front of him, exactly where it was before, dark and still, swallowing the world beyond it.

“No… no, no, no.” He shifts the car into reverse, the tires splashing through puddles as he backs away fast. He takes another turn, sharp left, then right, the way he knows leads back home.

But when the road straightens, it’s there again. That same black mouth. The same moss-covered arch.

“What the hell—” He cuts the wheel again, turns back, drives faster this time.

The rain blurs everything and the trees on both sides seem to close in tighter, like they’re shifting closer with every mile. He speeds up. Left. Then another left. Then right.

And still, the tunnel.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this does. It feels like the world is folding in on itself, every road leading back to the same place no matter how far he drives.

“Goddammit!” Chris slams his palm against the steering wheel, once, twice, until the horn blares out in one long, angry wail that’s swallowed immediately by the rain. His breath comes out in ragged bursts, fogging the windshield.

“I JUST WANNA GO HOME!”

-

The door clicks shut behind him, and his laughter lingers in the air like the last note of a song you already know by heart.

“Don’t set the kitchen on fire while I’m gone,” Chris had said, voice bright and warm, the way he always tries to be when he’s worried.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Your hands were gripping the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles went white, the marble cool and solid beneath your fingers.

The sound of the rain outside fills the silence that follows his footsteps fading away and with that, he’s gone. That’s when the tears come, quiet at first, just a burn at the back of your throat, a tremble in your breath. But the weight of it all presses harder, and suddenly you’re gasping against the ache in your chest, the tears spilling fast, unstoppable.

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sob that slips out. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want him to turn around, come back through that door and see you falling apart like this.

Because if he does… you know you’ll tell him the truth. And you can’t. Not yet.

You stare at the front door through blurry eyes, the outline of it wavering. You can almost picture him still standing there, hand on the knob, looking back at you with that dimpled grin, that promise in his eyes that he’ll always come back, but this time, something deep inside you whispers he won’t. You knew it the moment he said he’d go. You knew it the moment he kissed you and you felt the warmth of him, the way it felt like he was already fading.

Your throat tightens as you whisper into the empty kitchen, “I’m sorry, Chris.”

The house feels heavier now, every sound echoing—your heartbeat, the ticking of the clock, the low hum of rain against the roof. You wipe at your tears, trying to collect yourself, trying to remember how to breathe.

You move through the living room slowly, like drifting through a museum of a life that doesn’t belong to you anymore. The books he never finished, the mug with his chipped initials, the guitar resting against the wall where he last left it. You pick up one of his picks from the floor, turning it between your fingers like it’s something sacred.

Your voice cracks when you whisper, “Wish we had more time.”

You set the pick down, your hands trembling. You don’t want to cry again, but you can’t stop it. The tears come harder now, raw and unrestrained. You clutch at your chest, trying to hold yourself together as the weight of it all bears down—the love, the guilt, the inevitability of what’s coming.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper, “I’m so sorry, Chris.”

Outside, thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the windows, and you flinch, clutching the fabric of your cardigan close.

And standing there in the middle of your home, you can see everything—the couch where he fell asleep reading, the half-unpacked boxes you promised to finish together, the guitar leaning against the wall where he last played you a song. It should still feel like home, but it doesn’t anymore. Not without him.

That’s when it hits you—how much of this place, of this life, is him. It’s in the laughter that once filled the air, in the warmth of his hand on your back, in the sound of his voice humming some tune he never finished writing. It’s everywhere. He’s everywhere.

Your knees give out before you can stop them, and you sink to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Your fingers clutch the railing so tightly that your knuckles pale, and then you break, the sobs tearing through you raw, uncontrollable.

It’s not quiet crying anymore, it’s years of love and grief and guilt spilling out of you all at once. Because told yourself this was for the best, that letting go was mercy, that love doesn’t have to mean holding on.

But God, it hurts. The kind of pain that scrapes against your ribs, that steals your breath until you’re gasping for air between sobs. You press your palms to your face, your tears soaking through your fingers, your cries echoing through the empty house like something broken and alive.

“Chris…”

The rain answers for him and you stay there, curled up at the base of the stairs, crying until your voice is hoarse and your body trembles.

When the sobs finally quiet, what’s left is an aching silence that feels worse than the storm. Because deep down, you know he’s not coming back and this—this empty house, this hollow quiet—is what you’ll have to live with.

-

You stay on the floor for what feels like forever—your body trembling, face buried in your hands, the air thick with the sound of your sobs. Every breath hurts, every heartbeat feels like it’s tearing something inside you apart.

And then, you hear the faint crunch of tires against gravel.

At first, you think it’s your mind playing tricks on you again, that you’re imagining it because you want to imagine it. But then headlights cut faintly through the rain-streaked windows, and your heart stops.

You blink through tears, rising shakily to your feet, and stumble toward the front door. Outside, the car sits in the driveway. You shouldn’t feel relief. You shouldn’t feel anything except dread. But your chest aches with something dangerously close to hope.

A moment later, the door opens and Chris steps inside, drenched from head to toe, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down from his jacket onto the floor. His eyes meet yours—wide, tired, and yet full of the same worry that always breaks you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breathless. “I—I couldn’t get the meds. The storm’s too bad, and—”

But before he can finish, something inside you snaps. “Why didn’t you go to the tunnel?” Your voice raw and trembling but sharp enough to cut through the sound of rain.

His brow furrows in confusion. “What?”

“The tunnel, Chris!” you shout again, stepping closer, desperation clawing at your voice. “You should’ve gone through it!”

He stares at you, bewildered, the rain still dripping off his sleeves. “The weather’s insane—I didn’t even know where I was going! I thought it was safer to come back—”

“No,” you whisper, clutching his arm, the words breaking against your lips. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

He looks at your hand on his sleeve, then at your face. Something dark flickers in his eyes. He gently yanks his arm away, his voice rising. “What is it about the tunnel, huh?” His tone is strained, a mixture of anger and confusion. “Why does everyone keep telling me to go there?”

“Chris—”

“No, seriously, what the hell is it?” he cuts in, voice breaking under frustration. “First that man across the street says you can’t keep me here, and now that guy at the store keeps yelling that I’m going the wrong way, that I need to go to the tunnel—and now you!”

You flinch at his voice, at the raw edge in it, but he’s not done. “I get there, I try to leave, and every road leads back to it! And now you—” He stops, breathing hard, the realization dawning in his eyes. “You knew something, didn’t you?”

You stay quiet, your lips parting but no sound coming out.

He steps closer, his jaw tight, his wet clothes clinging to him, rain still dripping from his hair. “You’ve been trying to send me there from the start,” he says slowly, as if tasting the truth on his tongue. “Why?”

You can’t answer. You can’t tell him—not yet.

He stares at you, searching your face for something, anything, and his voice breaks. “Tell me the truth, please.”

You shake your head, eyes glassy. “There’s not much time left,” you whisper. “You have to go now.”

His expression darkens, his breath trembling with disbelief and anger. “Stop saying that!” he shouts. “What does that even mean?”

“Please, Chris—”

“No!” He slams his hand against the wall, the sound echoing through the house. “You’re hiding something from me—something I need to know!”

Your tears fall faster now. “If I tell you, you won’t go,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

He stares at you—hurt, angry, desperate. “Then make me understand!”

You meet his gaze, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right there. “Because if you don’t go,” you choke out, “you’ll never leave.”

The room falls silent.

The storm rages outside, thunder crashing against the windows, but all Chris can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. He looks at you, this woman he’s loved his whole life and for the first time, he doesn’t recognize you.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he breathes, his voice small now, scared.

You look away because you can’t bear to tell him the truth that he’s not supposed to be here.

Chris’s voice rises again, raw with frustration and fear. “You keep saying I have to go—go where? You think I don’t notice how weird everything’s been since we moved in?”

You stand there, silent, tears streaking down your cheeks as he paces, words spilling from him like they’ve been waiting to escape.

“The lights flicker for no reason, the clocks don’t work right, the neighbors keep acting like they know something I don’t—hell, I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking I hear someone talking in the—”

He stops abruptly, wincing as he grips his head. “Ah—shit.”

The pain hits him fast and hard, stabbing behind his eyes, like something is trying to split his skull open from the inside. His breathing quickens, one hand braced against the wall as he squeezes his eyes shut.

You rush forward, trembling, your hands hovering near his shoulders but not daring to touch him. “Chris,” you whisper. “You should go now. Please—there’s not much time left.”

“Stop it!” he snaps, the words tearing out of him like lightning. “Just—shut up for a second!”

You flinch, startled. He didn’t mean it—he didn’t mean you. But your expression doesn’t change. You just stare at him, your tears falling soundlessly, your eyes glassy and far away like you’re looking through him, not at him.

The silence that follows is thick and wrong. He exhales shakily, regret rising in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

He stops mid-sentence as he hears a sound, faint, distant coming from upstairs. He frowns, glancing toward the staircase. “Do you hear that?”

You stammer. “W-What?”

He stares at you, your stillness, your too-even tone. You know.

The sound hums again. Muffled words, laughter and then the flicker of something electric. Upstairs.

He takes a step toward the stairs, and you move in front of him, shaking your head. “Don’t,” you whisper, your voice barely there. “Please, don’t go up there.”

But he’s already moving and his footsteps echo up the wooden stairs, his breath unsteady, the sound of rain against the roof louder now.

The noise grows clearer with every step. The faint murmur of a TV, the rhythmic hum of something alive in the walls. He reaches the landing.

The hallway stretches ahead, dim and narrow, shadows bleeding into the wallpaper and there it is, the sound, coming from behind the locked door at the end of the hall. He swallows hard, his throat dry. His hand trembles as he reaches for the doorknob and then, presses his ear to the door first.

Through the crack, he hears a voice. His voice. Then another voice joins—yours. It’s the same tone, the same words like a recording of a memory he doesn’t remember living. He grips the handle tighter, takes a deep breath and turns it.

The knob creaks. The door groans open.

-

The floorboards groan beneath his shoes when he steps into the room, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew. You were right, it’s just a storage room. Old furniture stacked against the walls, boxes collapsed in on themselves, forgotten shapes cloaked under white sheets. Nothing sinister. Nothing special.

Except for the faint, blue glow in the corner.

There, half-hidden beneath a sheet, sits an old television, the kind with the fat frame and antennae like crooked fingers. Static crackles faintly beneath the hum of rain. The noise he heard. The noise you said didn’t exist.

He swallows hard, taking a step closer. Every movement feels heavy, like the air itself doesn’t want him to reach it.

“Hello?” His voice sounds small in the stillness. “Is someone—”

The rest dies on his tongue when the static shifts, forming blurry shapes behind the fabric. There’s movement. Colors. Something’s playing.

He hesitates as fear prickles up his neck, but curiosity pulls harder. With trembling hands, he grips the edge of the white sheet and pulls it away.

The screen flickers as it plays a video. Grainy, shaky footage from inside a car. From his point of view. He’s driving at night, the faint orange of streetlights sliding over the windshield. Beside him—you. You’re turned away, staring out the window, your reflection trembling in the glass.

“So what? That’s it? You don’t want to keep trying?”

He doesn’t answer. You just shake your head, your hand wiping at tears that won’t stop.

“Then maybe… maybe we shouldn’t be dating in the first place if you don’t even want to try.”

And then it happens fast— A flash of lights ahead, a honk, tires screeching— Metal crunches. Glass shatters. The world flips. Screams. Then—black.

Chris staggers back, clutching his head as memories crash through him like breaking waves. The dinner with your parents. The argument on the way home. The sound of your sobs beside him. The lights. The chaos. The pain. The way his hand reaching for yours.

He gasps, choking on air that won’t fill his lungs. “No, no, no, no—”

It’s all there now. Every moment he forgot. Every second he refused to remember. The move to this house. The blank in his memory before it. The quiet neighborhood. The flickering lights. The hospital gown. The neighbors who spoke to him like he didn’t belong. The tunnel everyone kept telling him to go to.

The truth lands hard, cold, merciless: This isn’t life.

He slowly turns toward the doorway, his breath trembling. You’re standing there with tears spilling down your cheeks. Your eyes meet his, and he knows. He knows without you saying a word.

Still, his voice breaks as he stammers, “Are we…”

You nod once, painfully, like it hurts to move.

He stares at your familiar face, your trembling smile, the sorrow in your eyes that suddenly makes sense. His knees almost give out beneath him. “So this is…” He can’t finish the sentence.

Your voice comes soft, a whisper carved out of grief. “We didn’t make it, Chris.”

His heart lurches. “But I—I've been here, with you. I saw you. I touched you.”

“You were never supposed to stay,” you whisper, tears slipping down your chin. “This place—it’s in between. Neither here nor there.”

He shakes his head, refusing. “No. No, I don’t— I can’t—”

You take a shaky step toward him. “The tunnel…” your voice falters, “It’s the only way back. It’s where you have to go, Chris.”

He looks at you then—not just at your face, but at the faint glow around you, soft and dim, like light fading at sunset. For the first time, he sees the truth he’d been blind to all along. It isn’t life holding him here. It’s his own refusal to let go.

-

The air feels wrong—too thin, too heavy, too sharp. His hands tremble as he runs them through his hair, the memories flooding faster than he can catch them. The crash. The metal bending. Your scream. The flash of headlights. The cold.

The pain.

He feels not just the ache in his chest but the hollowness of something missing, something ripped away. His body isn’t here. His soul… it’s floating somewhere it doesn’t belong. He’s not alive. Not really.

His gaze lifts to you, standing there at the edge of the doorway, looking so heartbreakingly small beneath the dim light. “Is that why you wanted me to go through the tunnel?”

You hesitate, your lips trembling before you finally nod.

And Chris—God, he thinks he understands now. The tunnel isn’t just a way out. It’s the way out. The only path back. Back to the world of the living.

“So that’s it,” he mutters under his breath, voice raw. “We just have to go through the tunnel, right? That’s how we get out.”

Before you can speak, he takes your hand. His grip is warm, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll fade if he lets go. “Let’s go,” he says, voice breaking but determined. “We’ll go together.”

You pull against his hold. “Chris, no—”

But he’s already dragging you toward the stairs, steps frantic, heart pounding. “You said there’s not much time left, right? Then come on, let’s go! We can make it if we hurry!”

He’s halfway down when you yank your hand free, hard enough that it echoes through the empty house. “Chris.” Your voice cracks, breaking apart into a sob. “It’s too late for me.”

The words hang between you, soft and final. Slowly, he turns toward you, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

You swallow hard, your chin trembling as you meet his eyes. “It’s too late for me, Chris,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “I’m… there’s no turning back for me. This is it for me.”

Tears spill freely down your cheeks now, your breath hitching as you force the words out.

Chris stares at you, chest rising and falling as he tries to process what you’ve just said. His throat closes around something sharp and heavy. “No…” he whispers, shaking his head slowly. “No, no, that’s not— You mean—”

But he knows exactly what you mean and it guts him. You’re gone. You’ve been gone all along. And he’s the only one who still has a chance.

You reach out, your hand trembling as you tug gently at his arm. “But you have to go,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Now.”

He stares at you like you’ve just asked him to cut his heart out. “No.”

“Chris—”

“No!” His voice cracks, raw and furious and terrified all at once. “I’m not leaving you here! I’m not—”

You take a shaky step closer, but he backs away, shaking his head like if he denies it enough, it won’t be true. “You don’t understand,” you say, your own voice breaking under the weight of it. “If you stay, you’ll never wake up. You’ll be stuck here forever. Chris, please—”

But he’s not hearing you anymore. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, his chest heaving as the grief swallows him whole. “No, no, I can’t—” His words collapse into a sob as he turns away from you, stumbling toward his studio.

“Chris—!”

He doesn’t look back. He just keeps moving, blind with heartbreak, until he’s inside the studio and the door slams shut behind him.

For a long second, there’s silence and then, the sound of his body hitting the door as he sinks down against it, sliding until he’s sitting on the cold floor, his hands clutching at his hair. His whole body trembles as the sobs finally rip out of him, raw and unrestrained.

Chris can barely breathe. He sits there on the cold wooden floor, his back pressed to the door, his chest heaving with sobs that won’t stop coming. His throat burns from crying, but he can’t stop because every breath feels like it’s tearing him apart from the inside out.

And then, he hears you. A whisper through the wood, fragile and trembling like a ghost trying to reach him. “You promised,” you rasp, your voice barely audible above the rain outside. “You promised me, Chris…”

The words sink deep into his chest, twisting there, making it harder to breathe.

“You promised me that no matter what happens, you’ll keep chasing your dream.”

Chris shakes his head, his hand curling into a fist against the floor. “Don’t—” His voice comes out broken, hoarse. “Don’t say that.”

But you keep going, your tone softer now, tender but full of heartbreak. “You told me once that music was what kept you alive. That it was what made you feel real. I want you to keep going, Chris. Keep being that musician you always wanted to be… because everyone needs to hear your music.”

He bites down hard on a sob, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes as if he could stop the tears from coming even though he knows it’s useless. He can almost feel you there on the other side of the door—the warmth of your palm, trembling, resting right where his shoulder leans.

The faint sound of your own sobs bleeds through the wood, broken and uneven. Then your voice again, cracked but steady enough to break him all over. “You have to go,” you whisper. “Continue the rest of your life, chasing your hopes and dreams. You have a future to live.”

He shakes his head violently, his knuckles white as he grips his knees. “Stop—please stop,” he chokes out, his voice splintering.

“You still have a lot of things you want to do,” you continue, your breath hitching between words. “So do them. For me… but mostly for you, Chris.”

That’s what finally makes him break. A sound rips out of him, something raw and ugly, halfway between a sob and a scream. He slams the back of his head against the door once, twice, until his vision blurs from the pain, as if hurting himself could make this ache inside stop.

Tears stream down his face, hot and endless as he’s imagining what it means to live without you. To wake up and not see your smile, not hear your laugh, not feel you beside him. The thought tears into him like glass shards, slicing through every fragile piece of him left intact.

And then your speak again, softer now, fraying at the edges. “It’s okay, Chris,” you whisper, your words trembling. “You can go. You can do it. You can live without me.”

God, he hears it, feels it. The way your voice cracks tells him that even you don’t believe it. The silence after stretches thin, broken only by the sound of your crying on the other side and through the quiet, comes your last, desperate plea— “Please, Chris…”

Just that. Over and over. Your voice trembling, fading. “Please…”

Chris presses both hands over his ears, shaking his head as if he could block out the sound. He can’t. He can still hear your sobs, your voice, the way it shatters. He whispers it through his teeth, broken and breathless— “How can I live without you?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and hopeless, swallowed by the storm outside.

-

The sound of his sobs from behind the door fades into shallow, broken breaths, and the silence that replaces it is deafening that it presses down on your chest until it hurts. You stay there for a moment longer, your forehead leaning gently against the wood, as if you could reach through and touch him one last time.

You’ve already said too much. You’ve already broken him enough. So you force yourself to move. Slowly, you push yourself off the floor, your legs trembling beneath you. Every step away from that door feels like a knife sliding deeper into your ribs. You take one last look at the door, at the invisible outline of him sitting behind it and you whisper so quietly it’s almost lost to the air, “I love you, Chris.”

Then you turn away, dragging your feet through the hallway, each step echoing against the walls that still carry his laughter, his voice, the sound of life you’ll soon have to lose.

When you reach the bedroom, you sit down on the edge of the bed, the same one where you held him last night, where he fell asleep with your words wrapped around him. The sheets are still warm on his side, and that’s all it takes for the tears to start again. You clutch the blanket to your chest and cry quietly, trying not to make any sound, as if the house itself could feel your grief.

Letting him go feels like tearing yourself apart with bare hands. Every memory plays on a loop in your head until you can barely breathe, but you know this is what you have to do. You can’t let him stay here. Not when he still has a world waiting for him—songs unwritten, dreams unfinished, a life that still has space for a lot of good, even better things. You can’t keep him trapped in this in-between, not when you’re the reason he’s stuck.

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand, but they keep falling anyway. You tell yourself this is love—real love—the kind that lets go even when it hurts, the kind that sacrifices everything so the other can live. Even if it means you’ll never see him again. Even if it means you’ll have to learn how to exist without him here, in the quiet, in the dark.

You pull your knees close to your chest and bury your face against them, sobbing until your body shakes, whispering over and over, “You have to live, Chris. Even if I can’t.”

-

You don’t know how long you sit there, curled on the edge of the bed, drowning in silence. The night stretches endlessly—no clock ticking, no wind outside, just the low hum of a house that feels too big without him.

Then, somewhere between one breath and the next, you hear the soft footsteps.

You lift your head, and there he is, standing in the doorway, bathed in the dim, bluish glow from the window. Chris looks ruined. His hair is a mess, his eyes swollen red from crying, his lips trembling as if he’s run out of strength to even hold them still. The sight of him cracks something deep inside you.

You rise slowly, wiping the wetness from your cheeks even though there’s no point anymore. He looks at you like he’s memorizing you, every line of your face, every breath you take as if trying to burn you into his memory.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Then, in a voice so hoarse it sounds like it’s tearing him apart, he whispers, “Yes… I can live without you.”

The words hit you like a punch, a truth disguised as cruelty and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying again. But before you can respond, he takes a step closer. His gaze doesn’t waver, even though his eyes glisten under the dim light. Another step, and another, until he’s standing right in front of you, so close you can feel the faint tremble of his breath.

He shakes his head, voice breaking as he mutters, “But do I want to live without you?”

His throat works to swallow the sob trying to escape. “No… I don’t want to live without you.”

That’s all it takes. He steps forward and pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His embrace is desperate, trembling, full of the kind of love that feels like both salvation and punishment. You clutch at the back of his shirt, your fingers curling into the fabric as you bury your face into his shoulder.

Neither of you says anything. You just hold each other, breathing through the shared ache, through the agony of knowing that this might be the last time. His heartbeat thunders against your chest and you wish you could stop time, stay here, suspended between life and what comes after.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that never seem to stop. His eyes glisten under the soft light, full of everything he can’t say—love, sorrow, regret, all tangled together.

“Chris…” you whisper, but he doesn’t let you finish.

He leans in and kisses you. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s a kiss that feels like every emotion collapsing at once—sadness and love, desperation and anger, grief and longing—all poured into one fragile, trembling touch. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your tears mixing with his as you both cling tighter, as if trying to fuse into one before everything falls apart.

The world outside ceases to exist. It’s just him and you, clinging to a love that was never meant to last but too deep to ever fade.

-

The kiss deepens, softening into something slower, something that trembles with every unspoken word between you. Chris’s hands linger against your skin, not to claim, but to remember. Every touch feels like a goodbye disguised as love, every breath shared between you like the echo of a promise that can’t be kept.

Soon, all clothes are off. It’s just you and him, skin to skin. Nothing in between. Your body melts against his, guided by the steady warmth of his palms and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

Chris makes love to you, tenderly. Heavy with emotion. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, to the soft spot beneath your ear, where he lowly, lovingly murmurs your name, sending a shiver through you, and you tilt your head back, inviting him closer, needing him closer.

He whispers I love you against your skin, again and again, between the slow, steady thrust, between the scatter of his kisses. The words spill out of him like a confession, like he’s pouring every piece of himself into you. His fingertips drag down your spine, drawing slow, trembling lines that make you gasp softly against his shoulder. You respond to every touch like it’s your last, clutching at him, pulling him back when he tries to slow down because you both know that time is slipping away.

The room feels thick with heat and sadness. The kind that lingers in your throat, in your chest, and behind your eyes. You move together with a rhythm that feels more like remembering than wanting, it’s slow, deep, and full of ache. His body against yours feels both grounding and unbearable, a reminder of everything you’ll lose once he’s gone.

When your eyes meet, it’s not lust that passes between you, it’s something rawer, something that hurts to look at. He brushes a tear off your cheek with his thumb, his touch trembling, and then he kisses you again, gentler this time, as though trying to soothe the pain he can’t take away.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. His answer comes with a quiet, broken smile. “I love you.”

And when he finally moves inside you, it’s slow, tender like an apology and a promise woven together. You cling to him, to the sound of his breathing, to the warmth of his body, to everything that feels alive. Every sigh, every whisper, every touch blurs together into something sacred, something that exists only here, in this moment, between the living and the dead.

Chris moves with you like time itself has slowed to match your breaths. His eyes stay on you, searching your face as though he’s imprinting these little detais of you: the tremor in your lips, the way your brows knit when you whisper his name, the faint shimmer of tears that haven’t yet fallen.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not with this much desperation. Not with this much love. It feels as if he’s trying to give you everything—every unspoken word, every unfinished song, every promise that will never reach the daylight.

Your hands cradle his face, your thumbs brushing at the corners of his eyes, and he leans into your touch, breathing you in like he could live off the scent of your skin. He’s gentle but trembling, every movement charged with sorrow, with the knowledge that this might be the last time he gets to hold you like this, to feel you breathe against him, to hear you whisper his name like it means something more than goodbye.

When the moment crests, it isn’t just release—it’s heartbreak. His chest heaves as it all rushes through him: the grief, the love, the unbearable weight of what’s coming. And when it’s over, when he buries his head into the crook of your neck, it isn’t from exhaustion. It’s because he can’t bear to look at you knowing what he has to do next.

The sound that escapes him is a sob, quiet, raw, and trembling against your skin. You can feel it, the way his whole body shudders as he clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

Your fingers thread through his hair, your lips pressing to his temple as you whisper through your own tears, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

But it isn’t. You both know it isn’t. He shakes his head against you, his tears dampening your skin as he mumbles something incoherent—apologies, maybe. Or maybe he’s just saying your name over and over, because he doesn’t know what else to hold onto anymore.

You hold him tighter anyway, as if your arms can shield him from what’s inevitable. His tears keep falling, and your own start again, quiet and hopeless, the sound of two people breaking together in the dark.

-

The storm outside has quieted, but inside, the air still trembles with something fragile, something that could shatter with the wrong breath.

Chris’s head still rests against your chest, his cheek damp against your skin, his breathing uneven but slowly settling. You can feel the weight of him there—his grief, his exhaustion, his surrender. Your fingers move slowly through his hair, soothing him like you’re memorizing the feel of it.

After a while, you whisper, “Don’t be sad too long, mmh?”

Your voice is soft, barely a murmur but he hears it. His chest tightens as you continue, “You have to keep your promise to me.”

That alone makes his heart stumble. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t move, only listens as you speak, each word carving another mark into him.

“Do what you always wanted to do,” you say. “Live your life to the fullest… find someone new…” your voice trembles, breaking in the middle of the sentence, “and fall in love, grow a family and just…” You stop, biting back another wave of tears. “Be happy, okay?”

Chris thought he had no tears left. He thought he’d emptied himself of sorrow hours ago, but one slips free anyway, rolling down the corner of his eye and landing against your skin like a confession. The thought of loving someone else, of living a life where your laughter doesn’t echo through the same space as his… it’s unthinkable. It’s like imagining a world without sunlight.

His throat is too tight, his heart too raw. So he stays where he is, clinging to the rhythm of your heartbeat, pretending for just a little longer that time isn’t moving forward without you.

Then, after what feels like forever, he shifts. Slowly, carefully, he props himself up on one elbow, his face hovering above yours. His eyes are red, swollen, but soft when he looks at you. The moonlight paints a faint shimmer across his tear-streaked cheeks.

“I’ll keep your promise,” he murmurs, voice rough from crying, “as long as you keep yours.”

You blink, confused, your brows furrowing. “What promise?”

He brushes his thumb over your cheek, tender, reverent, like you’re something too precious to touch. “That you’ll be waiting for me in the next life.”

The corner of your lips trembles into a small, fragile smile, but so full of love it hurts. “I will,” you whisper.

Chris nods, a ghost of a smile flickering through his grief. “Don’t fall in love with someone else, okay? Wait for me.”

Your eyes glisten, but you manage another nod. “I promise.”

He leans in, pressing his lips to yours. It’s not a goodbye kiss—it’s a lifetime condensed into one. It tastes of salt and heartbreak, of all the years you’ll never get, all the mornings that will never come. It’s desperate and soft, trembling and deep, the kind of kiss that feels like a memory being written into the soul.

When you finally part, your foreheads stay pressed together. Neither of you speaks, afraid that words will make it real—that this, right here, is the last night you’ll ever share.

Outside, the world is still. Inside, two hearts beat for the last time in unison, both breaking and promising at once.

-

The morning air feels soft and heavy all at once — the kind that carries a quiet chill before the sun fully takes over the horizon. You and Chris stand side by side on the front porch, shoulders brushing, pretending this is just another morning, pretending the ache between you isn’t growing heavier by the second.

The world is still damp from the night’s rain; dew clings to the wooden railings, and the lake shimmers faintly in the distance. Chris tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to look casual when every part of him feels like it’s unraveling.

Across the street, the neighbor lingers by the window like as usual, a shadowed figure half-hidden behind the curtain. Chris lifts a hand and waves, forcing a grin. “See that? He’s gonna soften up to me eventually. Just needs a few more smiles from yours truly,” he says, glancing sideways at you with that teasing glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes, biting back a soft laugh. “Sure, baby. Maybe next lifetime.”

“Hey, I’m a people person.”

“Not to ghosts, apparently.”

That makes him laugh, the kind that spills out warm and real, but fades too quickly, leaving behind that thin, brittle smile. His gaze lingers on your face, memorizing every detail like it’s the last photograph he’ll ever get to keep: the light in your eyes, the small curve of your lips, the way the morning sun paints gold along your hair.

Silence slips in then, soft and weighted and you both know what’s coming. Chris exhales slowly, his chest rising and falling with the kind of effort that feels like it’s carrying the world. “Guess this is it, huh?”

You don’t answer right away. You just stare back at him, the tears you’ve been holding back threatening to spill, and then, with a small, shaky smile, you whisper, “Don’t forget to take a right after you come out of the tunnel.”

That earns you another laugh from him, breathy and broken. “Right. Got it. Wouldn’t want to end up in the wrong afterlife or something.”

You try to laugh too, but it trembles halfway through. He reaches for you then, his hand finding your face like it’s meant to fit there, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, tracing where your tears haven’t fallen yet. His heart feels too big for his chest. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, “look at me.”

You do and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours — a long, lingering kiss that holds everything you both can’t say. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath shallow as he whispers, “I’ll be back soon.”

It takes everything in you to smile, your throat tight, voice trembling when you reply, “And I’ll be waiting.”

Your eyes glisten, and it breaks him — that small, brave smile you wear like armor. He pulls you into his arms, holding you tight, burying his face in your hair as if he could freeze time, as if he could keep you both here, just like this. You can feel the quiet hitch in his breath, the way he holds you too long, too close and then, finally, he lets go.

The parting is slow, your hands slip from his, fingertips brushing until there’s nothing left between them. He doesn’t look back. Because he knows if he does, he would run back to you. So he keeps walking, the sound of his footsteps fading against the gravel road, and the morning sun rises higher, spilling gold across the porch where you stand — alone, watching him disappear into the light.

-

The tunnel yawns before him, vast and unending — a gaping mouth of darkness that swallows the morning light behind him. Chris stands at the edge of it, his breath fogging in the cool air, his heart beating so hard he swears it echoes off the concrete walls.

This is it.

The words feel final in his chest, heavy but steady. He’s been here before and every time, it’s the same: silent, cold, endless. The kind of dark that feels alive. But this time, it’s different. The fear isn’t there anymore. Just a strange calm settling over him, like acceptance.

He looks back once and sees the sunlight hits the edge of the road, warm and golden, reaching toward him but not quite touching. Somewhere beyond it, he knows you’re still standing on the porch, watching, waiting. A promise to keep.

He takes his first step in and then another. And another. The light fades fast behind him, until the world turns to shades of shadow and sound. His footsteps echo low and soft like heartbeats. The air smells like rain and stone, familiar in a way he can’t explain.

And all of a sudden, a flicker. A memory. You, laughing under a summer storm, your hair sticking to your face as you yelled for him to hurry inside. The taste of rain on your lips when he kissed you anyway. The way you looked at him that night like you saw something in him he didn’t know was there.

He keeps walking. Another flicker of memory. You again, curled up on the couch with your head on his lap, eyes half-lidded, saying, “Don’t move, I’m comfortable.” He even remembers the details so vividly — the smell of your shampoo, the sound of your soft breathing, the way you called his name, soft and full of love. “Chris, baby…”

He stumbles, a sob catching in his throat. The memories keep coming, faster now — your hands in his, your smile, your tears, the morning light hitting your face as you whispered, “And I’ll be waiting.”

Tears come before he realizes it, hot and quiet, rolling down his cheeks as he walks deeper into the dark. His breath shudders, his hand brushing the rough wall beside him to steady himself. He stands still for a moment, trembling in the dark, the sound of his heartbeat filling the emptiness.

He wipes at his face, breath hitching, and forces himself to look up again and that’s when he sees a shimmer of light far ahead, a single thread breaking through the black.

A light. An end. A way out.

He takes a step toward it, then another, slow and unsure. The ground beneath him feels softer now, lighter. With every step, the glow grows, stretching wider and warmer. And for a moment, he lets himself believe that maybe this is what freedom feels like — release, redemption, a promise kept.

Something tugs at him, it’s faint at first like a whisper caught in the dark and it grows stronger, deeper, pulling from somewhere inside his chest. He stops walking. The air feels heavier again, his breath catching as flashes of you flood back — your smile, your touch, the way your voice cracked when you said “And I’ll be waiting.”

It feels like gravity, like your hand reaching out to him, like the universe itself is asking him not to go just yet.

Chris turns his head, his heart twisting painfully. The tunnel behind him is nothing but black yet he swears he can feel you there. Waiting.

The light flickers ahead, beckoning. The pull behind him aches like love. He stands frozen between them, trembling and then, he takes another step. -

The studio feels wrong without him.

You linger on the doorway at first, your fingers brushing against the wooden frame, the air inside thick and still, like even the walls know he’s gone. His absence doesn’t echo; it presses. A quiet that swallows everything whole.

Your bare feet move slowly across the room, your hands reaching for the familiar things that once felt alive with him. You trace the edges of his vinyl records, the spines worn from the way he’d always pick them up with too much excitement, like each one held a secret. Then to his guitar resting against the shelf, strings catching faint light, silent and waiting for hands that won’t play it here anymore.

Your touch trembles when it meets the photo strip tucked to the corner of the framed album poster, of two faces side by side, all smiles and soft light, his arm slung around you. He’d kissed your cheek in the last frame, and you’d laughed like you had forever. But they’re not real. None of it is. They’re only shadows, mirrored fragments of the life that belongs to him out there. Not you.

You swallow a sob, but it doesn’t stay down. It rips its way out of you, and tears burst out hot and heavy, spilling faster than you can wipe them. This house is too big for one heart to fill. Too quiet when the person who made it home isn’t here anymore. The nights will be cold now. Empty.

But the worst part—Chris isn’t here.

With blurry eyes, you move toward the record shelf, pulling out the one that holds a piece of your beginning. A song from your first date, when the world was still whole and love was just blooming between you. Your fingers fumble a little as you set the vinyl on the turntable, and when the needle lands, the soft crackle fills the air, followed by the first familiar note.

Your knees give out more than you sit on the couch, curling yourself into a small, fragile ball. The music wraps around you like it always used to, only this time it doesn’t warm you. It only reminds you of what you’ve lost. You close your eyes, and the memories rush in— The way he looked at you across that tiny table. The way your laugh tangled with his. The way everything felt infinite then. Your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe, and your tears fall harder, soaking the fabric beneath you. This is all you have of him now. Just echoes. Just a song. Just… memories.

-

The song still plays, its melody soft and distant like a heartbeat fading into the walls. You lie there on the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, letting the music fill the silence Chris used to occupy. The ache in your chest feels quieter now, dulled into something that almost resembles peace.

He must be back by now and that thought settles gently in your mind. Chris is somewhere on the other side, breathing, living. Maybe he’s waking up to real sunlight spilling through real windows. Maybe he’s smiling again. Maybe he’s remembering his promise.

A faint smile touches your lips, even as your eyes sting. It hurts knowing he’s gone for good, knowing this distance is forever but the pain feels right, almost sacred. It means he was real. You were real.

You close your eyes, whispering into the quiet, “I hope you made it, baby.”

And then you hear the footsteps. Soft, distant enough that you think it’s the record crackling, but then, more footsteps.

Your eyes snap open and the room is dim, washed in the golden haze of early morning light, and yet, there’s movement beyond the doorway. A shadow stretching across the floorboards, shifting, approaching.

Your body goes still, breath caught in your throat as the footsteps come again, echoing faintly against the wooden floor. You push yourself upright and you can’t tell if you’re scared or desperate to believe.

“Hello? Who’s there?” you whisper with a trembling voice.

Someone appears in the doorway. The same soft hair, the same eyes and that same look that once held you together when everything else fell apart. For a heartbeat, the world stops and you forget how to breathe.

He’s here. Chris is here.

Your heart lurches, torn between disbelief and hope, fear and longing.

He takes a slow step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “...I found my way back.”

The record skips. The world holds its breath. And you stand there, tears slipping down your cheeks as something inside you breaks—sweet and unbearable all at once. Because maybe he’s not supposed to be here, but he is and he’s looking at you like he’s home.

For a moment, you almost forget to breathe, but then the weight of it sinks in, heavy and cold. You take a shaky step toward him, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you go? Chris, you’re running out of time.”

He only shakes his head, his eyes soft but full of something broken, something final. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, taking slow steps until he’s standing right in front of you. His voice cracks as he adds, “I’m sorry that I can’t keep your promise. And if this is what I get for it…” he swallows, a tear slipping down his cheek, “…then so be it.”

Your heart twists because you know what that means. There’s no turning back. He’s stuck here now—just like you. You should feel happy. You should. But instead, it feels like grief in reverse—a mourning for the life he just gave up. His music. His dreams. His future. All of it traded away just to stand here with you.

“Oh, Chris…” The words leave your lips in a trembling breath before the sob hits you. The pain is too much—it’s too much love, too much loss, too much everything all at once—and your knees almost buckle.

He catches you before you fall, his arms wrapping around you tight, like he’s afraid the world will rip you apart again. His voice shakes against your ear as he mutters, “I choose you. I’ll always choose you.”

And that breaks something inside you. You cry harder, the sound muffled against his chest as his hand cradles the back of your head, holding you closer like it could stop time, like it could undo everything that’s already been done.

When you finally pull back, your face is wet, your eyes blurry, and his hands come up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs brush away your tears with trembling gentleness as he looks at you with that same unwavering tenderness that’s both your undoing and your salvation.

“Even then,” he whispers, “even now, I’ll always choose you.”

You can see it in his eyes—the love, the regret, the ache—and it’s all too much. You don’t know whether to kiss him or beg him to take it back, to go while he still can.

But Chris leans in, closing the distance between you. “I love you,” he breathes.

The next thing you know, his lips are on yours. His kiss is soft and desperate all at once, a kiss soaked in all the words you’ll never get to say, all the lives you’ll never get to live. His hands tremble against your skin, your tears mingle, and for that fleeting, fragile moment… it feels like the whole world disappears, leaving only the two of you, trapped between love and forever.

-

The world doesn’t move the same way here—time feels slower, gentler, softer around the edges. The air carries no weight, only a quiet calm, as if everything that ever hurt has faded into the distance.

Some mornings begin by the lake. You spread a blanket on the grass while Chris strums his guitar lazily beside you, the melody mingling with the soft ripples of the water. You feed him bits of strawberries, and he laughs, and the sound of it feels like sunlight against your skin. There’s no rush here. No ticking clock. Just you, him, and the sound of the breeze whispering through the trees.

On other days, the two of you stay in. You organize his record collection together, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his studio. You tease him for owning three copies of the same album, and he insists each one “has a different soul.” He’s meticulous about the order—alphabetical, then chronological—but you sneak one out of place every now and then just to see the look on his face when he notices. He always does. And he always smiles.

Sometimes he teaches you how to play guitar. Your fingers ache from pressing the strings, your notes sound clumsy, but Chris only grins and says, “You’ll get it.” Then he slides behind you, guiding your hands, his chest warm against your back, his voice low as he hums the melody you’re trying to find. And somehow, the music starts to sound right, maybe not because you’re good at it, but because it’s you and him, together, making something that only exists here.

You take walks to the convenience store, even though you don’t need anything. You argue over which snacks to pick, you let him win, and he pretends not to notice. The clerk behind the counter still gives him that knowing nod, the one that never quite feels real, and Chris only chuckles, lacing his fingers through yours as the two of you walk back home under the same gray sky.

When it rains, you sit together on the front porch. The drops hit the wooden railing like a lullaby, and Chris wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. The world smells like earth and comfort, and you lean back into him, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He hums a song you know by heart and you murmur the lyrics, the two of you quietly harmonizing with the rain.

This is all there is now. No gigs. No patients to see. No noise from the world that used to spin too fast. Just this quiet eternity, where the air always smells like rain and laughter and old records.

Chris tightens his hold around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His thoughts drift like the clouds above, unhurried, full. Maybe this isn’t the life he thought he’d live but it’s still life, in its own way. A world made of the things he loves most—your voice, your laughter, your heartbeat against his.

He exhales, his chest rising and falling against your back, and a small smile ghosts across his lips.

This is his forever now.

-

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[yubinism]

loved the ending so much, this holds dear to my heart. hands down, this is the best way to end my weekend and thank you for that my dear effie! im extremely and deeply proud of you and im amazed by you as always. cant wait for what you have next up in your sleeve 😚