noeyil

[noeyil]

How to Emotionally Destroy Readers

✩ Gut-punches are about timing. You don't say “I love you” during the sunset. You say it in the middle of a burning building or right after they stab you.

✩ A single line of dialogue like “you were supposed to come back” hits harder than an entire page of poetic mourning.

✩ Don’t just break their hearts, break their sense of identity. Make them question who they are, what they stand for, and if it was ever worth it (That’s premium pain.)

✩ Let someone be forgiven… but not trusted again. That's the kind of heartbreak that lingers like smoke.

✩ Sometimes the most devastating line is the one they don’t say. Silence is a character too.

✩ Give them a moment of joy. Right before everything falls apart. Hope makes the fall hurt more.

✩ Someone saying “I forgive you” through tears? Powerful. Someone saying “I still love you but I can’t stay”? Absolutely soul shattering.

✩ If they die, don’t describe the death. Describe the aftermath. The coat left hanging by the door. The mug still on the table. The dog waiting.

[noeyil]

how is it that

this is mingi

and this is mingi

but this is also mingi

???

[noeyil]

I thought you were scary

charactsd: Singing X fem!reader

Summary: In the beginning of your relationship, you thought mingi was a bit scary and intimidating. But as you get to know him, you realise he's the sweetest man you've ever met

Warnings: none!

You met Mingi at a mutual friend’s gathering—loud music, too many people, and not enough chairs. He towered in the corner with arms folded, a serious look on his face, lips pressed into a firm line. When you locked eyes with him, his gaze was piercing, unreadable.

You quickly looked away.“Who’s that?” you whispered to your friend.

“Oh, that’s Mingi. He looks scary, but he’s honestly a sweetheart.”

You raised an eyebrow. Sweetheart? The man looked like he could bench press a car and would sooner break your heart than give you a hug.

Still, the next time you saw him, he surprised you.

“Do you want the last slice of pizza?” he asked, voice deep but oddly gentle, as if afraid to spook you.

You blinked. “Uh… you can have it.”

He shook his head and slid the plate toward you. “You looked hungry.”

Okay, maybe not scary-scary.

Time passed. You started texting. Then hanging out. Then officially dating.

And the more you got to know him, the more the mask fell. The intense gaze turned into soft looks he saved only for you. The quiet guy in the corner turned into someone who hummed when he cooked, sent you memes at 2 a.m., and tripped over himself to open the car door for you—even when you told him it wasn’t necessary.

He called his mom twice a week. He carried tissues because "what if you sneeze?" He cried when you showed him a video of a cat reunited with its owner.

One night, curled up on the couch, his arm draped over your shoulder, you smiled to yourself.

“What’s that face?” he asked, nuzzling your hair.

“I used to think you were scary,” you admitted, giggling.

He sat up, wide-eyed. “Me? Scary?”

“You were so serious when we met.”He looked horrified. “Nooo. That’s just my face!”

You laughed. “Well, I know better now.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I only wanna be scary when it comes to protecting you.”

Your heart melted into a puddle right there.

[noeyil]

I was like awww then ouch and OUCH again then yayyyyy then YESSS

let me count the ways

pairing: seonghwa x reader

genre: fluff, a little angst of perceived unrequited love

wc: 2.9k

summary: moments in your life where you loved him unconditionally. non idol au with best friend to lovers.

authors note: so i didn’t intend to write this?? I feel like i blinked and had 1.5k written

masterlist // request: open

——————————————————————————

You are 15.

You had moved around a lot since your age was in single digits, following behind fickle parents, chasing dreams. This is the last time, your mother had promised, smoothing her hand down your hair in an attempt to comfort. It’s a good opportunity, we can’t miss it, your dad had smiled earnestly.

You weren’t sure if you believed them but until you finished formal education, there was nothing you could do but pack your bags, climb into the back seat and let yourself embrace a new place. Again.

You’d had more first days than you could count, well rehearsed in how you introduced yourself. You offered your name, asked to be looked after, and bowed low. Your Homeroom teacher, Mrs Lim, had smiled warmly and gestured for you to take an empty seat.

The one you picked was next to him.

He was pretty, even then. Most teenagers were awkward, gangly creatures, but youth was something he wore well. His uniform was well pressed, his collar without even a curl, his tie straight. He smiled at you, wide and welcoming, and you blinked in surprised. He was, without a doubt, utterly distracting. Your teenage self felt overwhelmed, self-conscious and in love all at once. Your heart leapt in your chest, your hands felt clammy and you were sure you were staring.

He bowed his head in greeting, delicate strains of hair falling in front of his face, and introduced himself.

“I’m Seunghwa,” he whispered, keeping his voice low now that Mrs Lim had started talking to the class. “I guess we’re desk buddies.”

You weren’t to know it then, but it was that choice, that desk, that boy, that changed everything.

--

You were 17.

You were reaching that end of that phase where you didn’t really know who you were as a person; that time where you felt like everything you did was a mistake and everyone was always watching you. Your parents had actually kept to their word, you were happy to know. It was the last time, and you’d been able to see out the end of the year, working towards the next. You had good relationships with your teachers, had improved your grades consistently each term, and you had actual friends.

More importantly, you had Seunghwa.

You spent most of your time together. That day, you were in your bedroom, spread across your olive duvet with Seunghwa on the floor, back pressed against the foot of the bed. You were hunched over a controller, wire extended to reach you from the desktop, playing Stardew Valley. Seunghwa had introduced you to the game and it was part of your afternoon routines to play the cozy farming game under the murmured guidance of your closest friend. It was the last few days of the summer holidays and there was only so long you had in this moment, for the calm and the quiet, before the chaos of school and - god forbid - the threat of the future came lurching in.

“No, no, go this way,” Seunghwa said. His hand reached up onto the bed, fingers curling around yours and pressing to get you to make a right turn. The touch made you feel hot all over, the heat engulfing you so completely. When Seunghwa turned to beam at you, you felt your face burn. You ducked your head to hide it, mortified.

It was a crush, you’d accepted that a long time ago. No one was surprised. Everyone had a crush on Seunghwa, the image of the beautiful soon to be man making all that met him melt. He was popular and didn’t seem to notice the heart eyes he recieved. He’d been surprised by how many white day gifts he had received and destroyed you once again by complaining that he didn’t get one from you.

They didn’t get to see him like this though or know him the way you did. They didn’t get to see the way he could laugh so hard that he snorts. They didn’t see the way his eyes lit up when a new lego set came out, or hear how passion seeped into his voice when he spoke about a film that him completely enamoured. Only you got to see Seonghwa when he stumbled anxiously over his English language oral test practice, or how he pressed in close, hiding his face in your shoulder, when watching a movie he swore wasn’t scary. No, other people didn’t really get to see him and honestly, that made it so much worse.

You were hopelessly in love with this boy. The kind that felt ever lasting and world destroying at your age.

You’d rather end it all than Seunghwa ever find that out about you.

So you’d duck your head, hid your blush, and made a show of moving your hand from his with a complaint of “I can do it!”

He laughed. “You went left instead of right,” he pointed out.

“It’s my right,” you challenged.

Seunghwa rolled his eyes, before they landed back on you. You tried not to think too much about them, how deep the colour was, how his eyelashes framed them so beautifully, about how maybe they looked at you the way you were looking at him.

“Right is right,” he pointed out.

“Just keep directing me,” you urged.

“Your sense of direction is terrible,” Seunghwa shook his head. “What would you do without me?”

There was a sentimental answer, the kind that made your heart lurch and your throat dry to even think of confessing. Instead, you went for teasing, a safer choice. When Seunghwa gaped, offended, and demanded you take it back, you breathed easier into the friendship that bloomed there.

Because friendship was easier, safer.

--

You were 19, and things aren’t easy anymore.

Seunghwa had a girlfriend. Soojin. She was beautiful, tall, elegant. She was intelligent and interesting. She leant into conversations like she was leading the room. For all accounts, Soojin was genuinely wonderfully and didn’t that just hurt more.

Seunghwa looked at her so softly, his arms around her waist, pulling her in under his arm.

You were happy for him, you were. Even if it made your heart ache. Even if when you found out you felt like crying from how violently your heart had been ripped from your chest. Seunghwa was your oldest friend and you wanted him to be happy.

“Shots?” Wooyoung interrupted your thoughts, drawing your attention from the distant table to the bar you were currently standing at.

He was a friend that Seunghwa had met at university, along with six other ridiculously attractive art majors. As an old friend, you had been welcomed into the fold on your first visit to their shared dormitory. You didn’t go to university in the end, getting an apprenticeship in journalism where you’d learn on the job. You only really got the university experience when you made the three hour trek from your home - still with your parents, at least until you’d finally be working for money rather than experience - to the university’s campus that Seunghwa had moved to.

It wasn’t your last day but you’d be making the drive back soon. This visit had been different than before. Time that had once been just for you and him had been replaced. Seunghwa had been spending his time with Soojin - naturally, you told yourself firmly even if your traitorous heart clenched at being left behind again. It had come down to his other friends to keep you entertained.

Wooyoung especially had thrown himself into the role of chaperone, even if he was a terrible influence. You appreciated him greatly for how he chased those sad thoughts away.

“Last time we did shots, it was like lighter fluid,” you reminded him.

“We’ll get something sweeter,” he vowed and pinched your cheek when he added, “for your delicate disposition.”

You swatted the hand away and then shoved an arm over his shoulder, pulling him in close. Wooyoung linked his fingers with yours easily.

“Just stay here and keep having fun,” he said, quietly. Your eyes darted to Seunghwa and back again. Wooyoung looked at you with sad understanding.

Your feelings weren’t a secret to anybody but Seonghwa it seemed. Good, it was better that way.

You blinked back the rise of tears and made yourself smile as brightly as you could. The falsity hurt your cheeks. “I am having fun,” you promised. “How can I know with my own personal clown for entertainment?”

You fell into familiar rhythms and pretended, just for a moment, that all was okay.

When Seunghwa told you three months later, voice quieter than before, that he had broken up with his girlfriend, you were heartbroken for him. Truly, you were, because he sounded wrecked. He didn’t tell you why, not really, nothing concrete beyond “we just weren’t right for each other”.

You were too far away to offer anything more than soft words and condolences.

“You’ll find your person,” you assured him. You stared at your ceiling, hand rubbing the space over your heart as you willed it to stop its hopeful lurching, “And it’ll last.”

--

You were 22.

It’s close to midnight, but neither of you had actually slept yet. Curled under the covers of Seunghwa’s bed, a room in a 3 bed that he shared with San and Jongho, you couldn’t look away from face. The way that the streetlight crept through the gap in the curtains to highlight his features was breathtaking and you still couldn’t believe you were this close.

You’d been heartbroken, your ex’s final words to you echoing around your head as he told you that you weren’t wife material, that he didn’t see a future with you so we might as well end it now. He was an arsehole, had been your whole relationship and there was relief to see him go but the words had cut you like a knife regardless.

You’d gone to your friend in tears, broken, feeling less than. Seunghwa had held you as you sobbed for a man who didn’t deserve your tears.

“You are so much more,” he murmured into your hairline. His hands curled into your clothes, held your closer, as desperately as you were holding him. “Fuck him.”

“You told me he was an idiot,” you’d sniffed. “Say I told you so.”

Seunghwa had moved away, just enough to grip your chin, guiding your head up to make you look at him. His gaze was intense, heavy - you couldn’t look away, even if you tried. It held you there and kept you breathless. “He is a fucking idiot, but you loved him.”

You don’t know what made you say it, not really.

“I didn’t,” your voice wavered. You hadn’t said this out loud before. “I didn’t love him.”

Not the way I love you. That truth filled the silence.

“But it still hurts,” you said, “to be told you're not good enough.”

“But you are,” Seunghwa breathed it like a confession, “You are worth so much.”

His lips pressed hard against your forehead, as if he could force the weight of his words through your skin. For a moment, you let your eyes flutter shut, let yourself believe that the heartache was distant and this moment was real. A beautiful fantasy.

Seunghwa’s lips travelled, light brushes, along the curve of your nose to kiss the tip, and then lower. His forehead pressed against yours, and you felt his breath against your lips like he was touching you. Your breath hitched, your fingers flexed into the fabric at the front of his shirt. Beneath your palm, you could feel how hard his heart was pounding.

“Hwa…”

“I shouldn’t,” he cracked.

“Seonghwa…”

“Tell me to stop,” he begged, voice was rough, raw.

You swallowed and licked your lips nervously. From this angle, you could see just the hint of his tongue as he mirrored you, following the path on his own bottom lip.

You said his name again. “Please.”

The kiss was firm, desperate. A scrambling for air like you’d be drowning.

And now, you were here, bare under the stare of hooded eyelids. You didn’t reach out for each other, but your arms were pressed together, your legs tangled. Your hands were under your pillow while his were hooked over his stomach.

“Gorgeous,” Seunghwa breathed, the word soft, like he didn’t expect you to hear.

“Back at you,” you murmured.

Seunghwa smiled back, no teeth, but honest. You recognised the look in his eyes as it was reflected back at you. Love.

--

You were 25.

It was summer again. This year had been hot, sweltering. The kind that stepping out of house would leave you looking like you’d been caught in a rainstorm. The only person who had a functioning air con was Jongho, so he’d dragged it out into the living room for everyone to crowd around. The others had basically moved in the apartment, a 3 bed becoming a 9 bed over night. You were trying to work on an upcoming deadline when Yunho and Mingi burst through the apartment door and declared they should all get packed.

“Last summer before you move out,” Yunho pointed at Seonghwa, as if it were an accusation. “We’re going to the beach.”

It was too hot to argue and you had to admit, you were willing to hand over your life savings for the opportunity to dip a toe into icy salt water. It was a spontaneous scramble for clothes and supplies. Mingi had to borrow swimming shorts from San and Wooyoung was resolutely throwing out every long sleeve shirt that Hongjoong shoved into a duffel bag because “I am dying even thinking about looking at you in that, Hyung. Get those shoulders out.”

Seonghwa frowned into the fridge. “Should I bring snacks?” He wondered out loud.

You laughed. “We’re not children.”

Somewhere behind them, Yunho yelped and Jongho’s joyous laugh followed. Seonghwa arched an eyebrow at you. “Are you sure?”

“We can buy them at a rest stop on the way,” you reminded. “Hongjoong would make us stop anyway.”

“Hwa,” the man in question shouted, three doors away, “Tell Wooyoung to stop taking my shirts out of my bag.”

“Hyung, tell Hongjoong that if he brings a jumper to the beach, I’m going to throw it into the ocean,” Wooyoung retorted back.

You smothered a laugh and Seonghwa rolled his eyes to the ceiling, begging for patience. It was all a show of course, because a smile was pulling at his cheeks.

“I’ll go deal with the children,” he murmured. “Could you start packing darling?”

You hummed in agreement. He moved to drop a kiss to your forehead, then paused to add, “Please remember underwear this time.”

You blushed. “That was once,” you complained.

“You just like wearing my boxers,” Seonghwa nudged his nose against yours.

“They’re more comfortable than mine,” you argued.

“Stop kissing lovebirds,” San shouted from his doorway. “We have a train to catch.”

In a handful of hours, your group of nine would shuffle out of the train carriage, squinting at the sun, and you watched the boys argue over who was going to share a room. Seonghwa had grinned, slipped an arm around your shoulder and kissed your temple, declaring that he was glad he didn’t have to share “with any of your dirty arses.”

You had laughed and teased, “so I don’t have to share with yours, I’ll stay with Yeosang.”

The younger man had grinned, wriggled his eyebrows teasingly and slipped a hand in yours to pull you away. Seonghwa had squawked in offence and demanded that Yeosang give me back my girlfriend.

“Not a chance, hyung,” Yeo shook his head and tugged you closer, “you can room with Yunho this time.”

You did end up sharing a room with Seonghwa, of course you did, but your mini love affair with Yeosang was the joke of the holiday. Hwa really was cute when he was jealous.

--

You were older now.

You and Seonghwa had been in your forever home for nearly two years. It wasn’t the largest place - a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment with a decent-sized garden.

“A space to grow,” Seonghwa had murmured when they first saw it. In that moment, you’d imagined all the ways your future could unfold within the walls. You’d seen a space for Seonghwa’s lego models to be displayed; walls that were perfectly sized for floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A space up the stairs that could be a gallery wall of memories, the perfect place for the espresso machine on the kitchen counter.

You had filled that space well and now it would need to stretch just a little bit more.

You were in the second room, resting on your knees in front of the built in wardrobe, you looked through box after box. You’d used the space as a guest room slash ‘all the stuff that you wanted to keep but had no space for’ room. It would need to be cleared soon, to be replaced with tiny clothes and shoes.

“Darling, I said let me do it,” Seonghwa complained from the doorway. He slipped in behind you, offering his hand to help you stand, but you refused, waving his hand away.

“It’s fine, I want to,” you insisted.

Seonghwa’s lips angled downwards, unimpressed, but he didn’t argue further. You rolled your eyes in exasperation, even as affection wrapped itself around you. Ever since you’d found out that you were pregnant, he didn’t want you to do anything, insisting that “you’ve got an important job, let me do this for you.”

You presented a photo to him, a discovery from deep within an old storage box. You took the time to carefully go through each one.

“I didn’t know you took this,” you said.

It was from high school, back when you were teenagers. Back when you were still just friends, still struggling with unspoken feelings that felt like the end of the world. Seonghwa, it turned out, had been just as in love with you as you were with him, even back then.

In the picture, you were sitting in the courtyard, head down as you studied, likely for a test that you didn’t realise you had to take until it was too late. Frozen in that moment of youth forever.

“I was always taking photos,” Seonghwa reminded.

“For good or for bad,” you teased.

He squinted at the photo again. “God, I did take some terrible photos.” He sighed, “It’s a good thing that my model was so pretty.”

You elbowed him in embarrassment, but he caught it, slipping his hand along your arm to slide his fingers between yours. He squeezed them, smiling softly. “Did you think we’d get here?” He murmured.

You were honest. “No. Back then, I thought it would have destroyed my life if you found out I liked you.”

Seonghwa gasped. “You like me?”

“Hwa.”

He raised your joined hands, pressing kisses to each knuckle. “Don’t worry, darling. I like you too.”

Even after all this time, after hearing the million different ways that Seonghwa said those words and more, you still melted, still lost yourself in a tide wave of love and adoration.

“It’s a little too late to change your mind,” you reminded. In only a handful of months, this room they were seated in would be filled with cries and laughter; with dirty nappies and spit up. You were so excited to watch Seonghwa become a parent.

You felt his lips stretch against your hand. “I won’t,” his voice was quiet, warm, and your heart fluttered.

——————————————————————————

a/n: please like and reblog if you enjoyed this 💕 feel free to send my fic requests!

[noeyil]

quiet displays

pairing: san x reader

genre: tooth rotting fluff with bf!san

wc: 1.9k

summary: you've been dating san for a while and it's easy for you both to forget it's supposed to be a secret.

authors note: requested by @fyaeri. it’s not just airport fluff but there is a lot of romantic San energy. I hope you like it ♥️

masterlist // requests: open

------------------------------------------------

In retrospect, it was inevitable that something like this would happen. The lines between private and public were blurring more frequently than they should have. You wore staff labels as a means to blend in, walking beside managers and PAs. When you walked with the boys, walked with him, it was easy to forgot that it was a disguise that you were wearing.

True to his personality, San was just attentive.

He held doors open. He offered to push your suitcase or carry your bags. He’d brush lint or catch hairs off your clothes. He did that with everyone he cared about, you knew, and you were just part of that lucky collection of people.

You didn’t even blink when San fixed your hat for you, pulling strands of hair that had been caught beneath your bag strap free. You just watched as he did so, enjoying the way that you could tell he was smiling, even with his mask on. You murmured your thanks and he told you that you were cute.

“I’m going to kiss you as soon as we’re in the car,” he stated. Those words just came from him so easily, effortless and honest.

You couldn’t stop the blush that blossomed or the shy way you teased back, “promise?”

He rocked closer on his heels, enough that for a second - just a brief second - his hand touched yours. “Always.”

Wooyoung had pretended to gag next to you and San’s attention shifted, immediately teasing his friend - “ahhh, woo, don’t be jealous.” You had laughed with the rest of the group, curled your finger around your bag strap and waited for the second car to pull in to take you away from the airport.

But these moments that felt so natural to you, to all of them, weren’t private. Not really.

You were woken up from a deep slumber, curled under bedsheets that smelt like the man you loved, by worried eyebrows and eyes wide with apology. San was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing the hoodie and shorts he’d slept in the night before. His face was still swollen so it couldn’t have been that long ago that he woke up, but his gaze was alert.

“What’s wrong?” Your voice was rough from sleep and you stretched when you yawned.

“Baby,” San drew out the word, “I’m so sorry.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. The words made your stomach drop and your heart lurch. “Sorry for what?”

Photos. You looked at yourself on the small screen of San’s phone. Your face wasn’t on display, nothing about it would signal it was actually you in the image, but San - he was obvious. There was so many photos of them partly hidden by hats and mats, but there was no mistaking the broadness of his shoulders or the squint of his eyes that could be seen so clearly in the camera’s angle. He was frozen in place, still smiling, his hands with your hair running through them. It was nothing in the grand scheme of things, an innocent touch, yet it was enough.

Workplace Romance? The headline read. The article detailed rumours and suspicions that this female staff member was just a little too close with the idol.

The whole time, San watched you with puppy eyes.

“I should have been more careful,” he murmured. He pushed his hand through his hair, the strands sticking up. With one hand, you absentmindedly reached for him, only stopping when his fingers curled around yours, a tight grip. You smoothed a finger over the back of his hand.

“It’s fine,” you promised, “it’ll be worked out.”

“Hongjoong wants to meet, before I go to KQ,” San told you.

You winced, even though that was inevitable. Hongjoong looked after all of them, and all of their secrets. You felt bad that you were causing him so many problems.

“Joong oppa is going to have grey hairs at this rate,” you said, and San laughed, the sound ripped from his chest unexpectedly. It made you feel more relaxed.

In the living room, it was just the three of you. Hongjoong was still wearing sleep clothes from where he’d dragged himself upstairs to the other dorm, and blinked tiredly. He huffed and ran a hand over his face.

“Well,” he finally said, “what are we going to do about this?”

San was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His right leg shook with nerves. You smoothed your hand along his back, silent comfort all you could offer.

“Sorry hyung,” stress eased into his voice.

“There’s no point in apologising, it’s happened now,” Hongjoong waved it off and then froze you both with a firm gaze. “The way I see it, PR will give you two opinions - confirmation or silence.”

“Silence?” You echoed. The word felt empty.

“No official statement, innocuous social media posts, wait for it to blow over,” Hongjoong explained. “And going forward, you two stay at a distance unless it’s in the dorms.”

Understandable but still the words cut. Distance. You didn’t really want distance, you never had. From the moment you had met San, all you’d want is to be close to him. There was something about his presence, calm and gentle, that drew people closer and you were no different. You had accepted a long time ago that to be in these space, to remain in his breathtaking orbit, there were sacrifices. Secrets, love hidden behind secure doors and meetings organised with third parties to ensure that you were never really seen. You’d accepted it, understood it, yet the idea of needing more of it - more space, more separation - it made your poor heart ache.

You had to steady yourself. This wasn’t about you. At least, not just you. It would be selfish of you when this could affect everything San and his members had worked for. Yes, silence would hurt, distance could devastate, but you were ready to do it if you had to.

San was looking at his hyung, hadn’t even turned his head towards you, but his upper body swayed towards you, into your hands. You tried not to read too much into it.

“Or we have an official announcement drafted as soon as possible,” Hongjoong finished.

“What do you think?” San’s voice was quiet. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, a twitch of nerves.

You watched the older man roll his eyes towards the sky as he thought, audibly humming as he considered. You had a good relationship with all of the members. To spend time with San, you usually all at to be together and it was a routine you had come to enjoy. Even if you were a secret to be kept, they never treated you like it.

You remembered when Seonghwa had told you to speak to him casually; when Yunho had given you one of his hats to borrow when you had forgotten yours; when Wooyoung had dramatically shoved a ‘do not disturb’ sign on San’s door when it was your first year anniversary and kicked everyone else out of the dorm so you two could celebrate together. Yeosang shared food that he thought you’d enjoy and Jongho always remembered to bring you an extra straw if they got coffee, knowing you’d chew the first one to ruins. Mingi watched crappy reality television with you and spoke honestly about how he thought their relationship problems could be solved. Hongjoong himself always made sure you were included, your name on every list that allowed you to slip in with them.

You wondered, if in the grand scheme of things, if they would all find it easier if distance is what you took.

“I would…” Hongjoong rolled his lips, “I’d do the statement.”

“Really?” The word escaped you, surprise evident in your voice.

When he looked at you, it wasn’t with judgment or distain. It was soft, understanding. “It’s been nearly 2 years,” he murmured, “We don’t have a dating ban. Nobody knows who you really are.”

“Wouldn’t that cause problems?” You asked.

Hongjoong shrugged. “Maybe. Most likely,” he amended honestly, “but it was bound to happen eventually. San-ah just gets to be the first.”

San’s legs had stopped bouncing. He stretched his back and arms, before turning to look at you. He was still worried, you could see that in the wrinkled skin between his eyebrows, but he seemed lighter now, his gaze less heavy, warmer. The words of his hyung had offered comfort from the raging storm of anxieties that had bubbled to the surface.

He reached for your hand, pulled it close to press his lips against your knuckles. “What do you want?” he asked.

You licked your lips nervously. Your eyes flickered to Hongjoong, who purposefully angled his head upwards, looking at the ceiling. You looked back to San, still watching you, waiting. “I want you,” you whispered the words, “in secret or out in the world, I don’t really care.”

“But?” San prompted. He knew there was more. He knew you.

“But,” you hesitated for a moment, terrified to put your wants out there so openly. But San was looking at you so calmly, so ready to accept whatever you shared You couldn’t lie to him. You confessed with a shaking voice, “I would be nice to hold your hand whenever I want to.”

San couldn’t deny that the words - such a simple, innocent request - made his chest explode. You looked at him with such shy earnestness, wearing his clothes, gripping his hand as tightly as he was holding yours. For all the stress of the moment, the blinding panic he felt when he woke up to a ton of messages, it would be worth it, he thought. A smile stretched across his face, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. You blushed, embarrassed, and honestly, San couldn’t love you any more.

He moved to put his chin on your knuckles. “You want to hold my hand?” He teased.

You huffed a laugh, shoulders hunching in on yourself. “Well, yeah.”

“Nobody has to know your name,” San offered.

“I know.”

“People might find out anyway.”

“I know.”

“They might…not be kind to you.”

“I know.” You sighed, moved your hand from his to hold his cheeks. “It’s worth it.”

If anyone but Hongjoong was in the room, you would have been mocked and teased endlessly. All the captain did was clear his throat, draw attention back to him, and smiled knowingly, eyebrows raised

“Do you need me to go with you to the PR meeting?” He offered.

“It’s okay hyung,” San shook his head, “I think I’ve got this.”

“Good,” Hongjoong stood up, and yawned, beginning to make his way to the dormitory door. He suddenly looked like the man in his 20s he was, rather than the leader role he’d taken on. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me up when you get back.”

“Thank you,” you said, and Hongjoong paused, just long enough to poke your forehead affectionately.

When the door closed behind him, San moved to his feet and held out his hand to you. You blinked up at him. He grinned and wiggled his fingers purposefully. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. You slipped your fingers between his and let him lead you back to the bedroom.

You’d lay there, wrapped up in each other, distracted by sweet kisses and promises of eternity, until you absolutely have to. Even then, when San slipped away, leaving you a lingering kiss goodbye, you stayed there, wrapped under the covers and just let yourself be.

You’d get yourself dressed eventually and move to the living room, where Seunghwa would check in with encouraging words and feed you leftover kimchi jeon and rice. You’d watch YouTube clips on the sofa until San returned home, happier in his step, and draped himself over your body. You’d groan as your peace was destroyed but melt when he pressed kisses to your jaw and said, soon, soon, he’d take you to try a new seafood restaurant that he saw on the drive back.

“You can hold my hand,” he wriggled his eyebrows teasingly.

You groaned, rolled your eyes but your smile was warm, your heart beating fast in your chest. He brushed his fingers over your stomach, pushing the t-shirt you were wearing down to ensure you were comfortably covered. You touched the top of his ears gently, just stroking the sensitive edge.

“Promise?” you whispered.

San leant into your touch, turning his head to brush his lips against the palm of your hand. “Always.”

---------------

a/n: if you have any requests, please feel free to ask! I'm excited for more ideas to write. i have a request for some more dad!yeosang so I'll be working on that and ot8 x reader mafia next!

like and reblog if you liked this fic! 💕

[noeyil]

Characters: Yunho X fem!reader

Summary: Amusement park with Yunho!

Warnings: None＼(^^)／

The moment you stepped through the gates of the amusement park, Yunho’s hand found yours. His long fingers laced easily with yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles as though he needed to remind himself that you were right there beside him. The air was buzzing with the sounds of laughter, the distant creak of roller coasters, and the sugary scent of cotton candy drifting on the warm breeze.

“Where do you want to go first?” he asked, tilting his head to look down at you. His hair was slightly mussed from the wind, and there was already a spark of childlike excitement in his eyes.

You laughed. “You’re the one who’s been talking about this all week. You tell me.”

He grinned and tugged you toward the row of game booths. “Then I’m winning you something. No arguments.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Those are rigged.”

“Not for me,” he said confidently, puffing out his chest in mock bravado that made you snort.

It didn’t take long before he was at one of the booths, handing over a few bills with a grin, ready to prove himself. The challenge was simple: toss rings onto bottles. Easy to describe, impossible to win. But Yunho stood tall, eyes narrowed in concentration, like this was the most important mission of his life.

You leaned on the counter, teasing, “If you lose, I’m never letting you live it down.”

But Yunho just winked, tossed the first ring—clink—and it landed perfectly. Your jaw dropped. He landed another, then another. Each time, his grin widened, and he shot you a triumphant glance.

The booth worker clapped politely, clearly not expecting anyone to actually succeed, and gestured toward the prize wall. “Pick anything you want.”

Yunho didn’t hesitate—he pointed at the largest, fluffiest stuffed bear, the one so big you weren’t even sure you could carry it home. When the worker handed it over, Yunho turned dramatically, crouching slightly so he could hold it out to you like a knight presenting an offering.

“For my princess,” he said, eyes sparkling.

You laughed, cheeks heating, but took the bear anyway, burying your face against its plush fur to hide the ridiculous smile tugging at your lips. “It’s bigger than me!”

“Perfect size, then,” Yunho replied, sliding his arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Something to cuddle when I’m not around.”

You glanced up at him, heart skipping at how soft his gaze was in the middle of all the chaos and noise. He wasn’t just proud of winning the game—he was proud of making you smile.

And as the two of you walked away, your giant new bear tucked under one arm and Yunho’s warm hand firmly holding the other, you decided this was the best kind of magic an amusement park could offer.

[noeyil]

ot8 receiving a hand-made crochet gift from you

pairings: boyfriend!ateez x reader

warnings: headcannons, established relationships, pet names (baby, darling, love, angel), a little bit of cheesy dialogue

a/n: I SAID THIS WOULD BE POSTED AGESSSSS AGO…. i got so busy and had so much going on i had no time to finish writing this. when i was halfway through, it just didn’t save and i wanted to kms!!! so im glad it’s done. i’m really into crocheting and giving gifts rn so this is right up my alley (and hopefully yours too)

word count: 1.8k

—hongjoong

hongjoong would definitely find ways to incorporate whatever you made him into his outfits. whether it be a beanie, a keychain, a vest, a sweater, it would be shown off as much as possible. he would use your gifts so much, that they become worn and stretched out, leaving you no other choice but to make him another.

-

“what is it?” hongjoong questioned, taking the medium-sized box into his hands.

“just open it and you’ll see!” you urge him on, eager to see his reaction to your gift. it was a navy blue vest with a white border. you had purposefully kept it simple and basic just in case he wanted to accessorize or add anything onto it.

when he finally opened it his entire face lit up. “you made this? how long did it take?” hongjoong set the box down to give you a warm bear hug.

“about a week maybe? i could’ve made it quicker but it was a busy week and—“ you explain before getting cut off.

“you spent that much time on this for me? baby, thank you so much. i promise, every chance i get to wear this, i am.”

and he definitely stayed true to that. so much so that not even two months later, he comes to you asking if you’re able to make him a new one in a different color way because the old one is stretched out and worn.

-

—seonghwa

seonghwa would treasure it forever. he would find a way to display it nicely and neatly. never would he let anyone even touch it. why would he when he barely does? if your precious gift to him got ruined, seonghwa would continuously blame himself. even if you tell him it’s fine and it came be washed or remade.

-

you waltz into seonghwa’s room, hands held behind your back. seonghwa is sat in front of his computer, doing only god knows what. when he finally realizes your presence, he greets you with a hug and a forehead kiss.

“what do you have?” he asks, a curious grin growing on his face.

“give me another kiss, and i’ll let you have it.” you tease, closing your eyes and puckering your lips, waiting for his soft lips to land on yours. almost immediately after the words left your mouth, his lips were on yours.

even though it was a quick kiss, it was just as loving and exhilarating as the longer ones.

satisfied, you hand him the small white rabbit amigurumi plush you made for him. you could practically see seonghwa’s heart melt when his eyes land on it and takes it into his hands.

“oh darling, i will keep this safe forever and ever.” he assures you with another hug and third kiss. “thank you so much. i swear nothing will happen to it.”

-

—yunho

yunho would keep it on his desk or carry around with him so he has something to remind him of you while he’s away. he would show the rest of the members, almost brag about it, but never let them touch it because it was like an extension of you.

-

when you sneak up behind yunho and drape the scarf you made him over his shoulders, he looks at you confused.

“what’s this?” he asked, slowly pulling it off and looking at it.

“a scarf, duh!” you say sarcastically before laughing at his unamused expression. “it’s a gift. i made it for you.”

“you didn’t actually,” he paused for a moment, smiling at you. “did you?”

when you nod and confirm that you did in fact take the time out of your day to make him that, he engulfs you in his embrace.

“i’m going to take this everywhere with me. even if it’s not cold out. i love you so much.” yunho says as he peppers kisses all over your face while you giggle and try to push him away. “the boys are going to be so jealous of me when i show them what my baby can do.”

-

—yeosang

yeosang would forget about it after a while. not purposely though. when he first receives it he’ll obsess over it an put it away in a drawer or somewhere in his closet. after about a week or so when cleaning his room he’ll find it again. like a broken record he’ll obsess over it, put it away to keep it safe, and forget about it, then repeat.

-

about a week and a half ago, you made yeosang a keychain of a star to put on his bags, keys, whatever he wanted. when he first received it he thanked you a million times over and wore it on every bag and belt loop he could.

you knew you could only wear something so much before it got damaged in some kind of way. so when yeosang wasn’t wearing it anymore, you didn’t mind or even notice that much.

you were laid on your bed, scrolling away on your phone when you get interrupted by a facetime call from yeosang.

“hey love, what’s up?” you barely manage to get out before yeosang begins talking.

“you know that keychain you made me? the star one?” he asked with a big smile.

“yes..?” you answered suspiciously. “what about it? did something happen to it?”

“kind of? i totally forgot i put it away in my drawer! i just wanted to call and thank you again. you’re literally the best person ever and i love you so much!”

after you tell him it’s no problem and chat for a little longer, you say your goodbyes. for the next few days yeosang would send you pictures of him utilizing your gift…until he didn’t. and then the cycle repeats.

-

—san

san would die of happiness. the fact that you even thought about making something for him, let alone thought about him, just made him melt. he’ll cherish your gift to him by equally using it and displaying it. he wants to show you how grateful he is, but also wants it to remain in tact.

-

san couldn’t stop kissing your face when you handed him the finger-knit blanket you had made him. he always admired your hobby and wanted one of your projects, but he’d never ask. so the fact you made him this unprompted, made his love for you increase tenfold.

“is this really for me?” san asked, still in disbelief. this was literally a dream come true for him.

“of course it is, silly. i even made it in your favorite color.” you reassured him, pushing it into his arms. “just say thank you and take it.”

“thank you so much, baby!” san quickly takes it from you and lays it out on his bed, admiring it further. it seemed like his face had gotten stuck smiling because not once did it drop.

san would send you “update” pictures of him either actively using the blanket or draping it over his chair or bed. he wanted you to know that he loved it.

-

—mingi

mingi wouldn’t know what to do with it. he would want to use it but would be scared to break it or do something wrong. you would reassure him that it’ll be okay and that if something were to happen, you could always make him a new one. even with the reassurance, he would continue to be really cautious.

-

mingi hesitantly took the black beanie you made him into his hands. “can i really wear this? what if it gets dirty or falls apart?”

“of course you can wear it, silly. if it gets dirty i’ll wash it for you, and if it comes apart for whatever reason i’ll make you a new one.” you reassure him, going up on your tippy-toes to give him a kiss.

he returns the kiss with a smile and tightly grips the hat. despite being unsure about just how much he can wear the hat, he was really grateful for the gift.

“thank you, angel.” mingi whispers softly before pulling away.

mingi would end up wearing it a few times and even showed it off to the rest of the members, but as time went on, he leaned towards keeping it visible on his desk. a safe place for it to stay and also be admired.

-

—wooyoung

wooyoung would be the type to ask for more of your creations once you gift him one. he’d become obsessed with scrolling on whatever app, looking up “crochet projects,” finding the ones he likes, and sending them all to you asking if you could make them for him. and some you would, but most of them were maybe’s and no’s.

-

“wooyoung! i have a something for you!” you called out, a cheesy smile on your lips.

wooyoung basically came running, eager to accept your gift. you told him to close his eyes and open his hands.

“what is it? food? a photo album of us? a game?” he began listing off items before you even had the chance to put it in his hands.

“oh, will you hush? here. you can look now.” you snapped a bit, pushing the project into his hands. your first gift was a cat beanie that he adored and wore it whenever he could.

he really appreciated the gift. possibly a little too much? of course, he showered you with more affection than you could ever ask for. but once he saw what you could do, the video links never stopped.

woo: do you think you could make this? it looks really cool.

woo: i’ve been looking for some keychains, could you make me one?

woo: this looks so soft. can you make it?

the requests never seemed to stop. some of the more simple ones you would agree to make, but a vast majority of them were no’s. he became obsessed with crochet, but not in the same way you were.

-

—jongho

jongho would do some research on crocheting and really admire the time and effort you put into making his gift. he would ask about the specific stitches you used, and then ask you to show him how to do them, just out of curiosity.

-

you had crocheted jongho a nice sweater. one made out of the softest cotton yarn you could find, not wanting it to be itchy and/or uncomfortable to wear. when you gave it to him he looked a bit shocked, not expecting the gift to be a fully handmade piece of clothing. he absolutely loved it and promised to wear it on chilly autumn days.

within the following days you could hear videos on crocheting sweater coming from his phone, and only a day or so after that, he asked you to show him. which brings you to now. sitting in his lap, explaining terms to him.

“a chain is exactly what it sounds and looks like. it’s the foundation of crocheting and of most projects.” hook in one hand, yarn entangled in the other, you show him how to chain and he nods.

“did you start my sweater like this?” jongho asked curiously.

“yeah, i did actually! and then once i chained enough, i did double crochets in each chain.”

“double crochet?” he asked sweetly.

before you knew it, you had dragged him deep down inside the crochet rabbit hole.

-

[noeyil]

[noeyil]

No Cameras

Mingi x video editor!reader

Summary: You’re used to watching Mingi from a screen — loud, charming, magnetic. But when he starts lingering behind in the editing suite after hours, you realize the version of him on camera isn’t the one you’re falling for.

Word count: 1,095

Most people knew Mingi as the loud one.

The life of the party. The one dancing in the hallways, screaming in rehearsals, joking through every behind-the-scenes vlog you edited.

That was the version of him you spent hours scrubbing through every week — frame by frame, laugh by laugh.

But lately, he’d started showing up after the cameras stopped.

You’d be alone in the editing suite — the small, windowless room down the hall with LED-lit screens and far too many coffee cups. And somehow, always just before midnight, the door would creak open.

“You’re still here?” he’d ask, holding two drinks.

“So are you,” you’d answer, accepting the iced tea without question.

You never asked why he stayed.

But one night, you finally did.

“You’re not in any of the footage,” Mingi said quietly, sitting across from you with his hoodie pulled low and his eyes fixed on the preview screen. “But you’re in all of it.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, just a little. “I can tell when something’s your edit. The pacing. The music. The moments you choose to keep.”

You looked down at your keyboard. “I’m just doing my job.”

“No,” he said. “You’re making us real.”

You blinked. That wasn’t something idols usually said to staff. Especially not the loud, confident ones who looked like they were born to perform.

You studied him for a second — the curve of his jaw, the dark circles he wasn’t bothering to hide, the stillness you never saw on screen.

“You don’t talk like this in front of the camera,” you said quietly.

“I don’t feel like this in front of the camera.”

That hung in the air for a beat.

“Mingi,” you said carefully, “are you okay?”

He looked at you — really looked — and for once, didn’t smile.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But when I’m here, I feel a little closer to it.”

“To what?”

“To being myself.”

Your chest ached.

He leaned back, eyes closed. “I like that you don’t expect me to be funny.”

“I like that you let yourself be quiet.”

That made him open his eyes.

“I think about you a lot,” he said, voice soft. “Even when I’m on set. I wonder if you’re the one who’s going to watch me mess up. Or pick which parts of me get shown.”

You swallowed. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s true.”

You looked down at the paused video on your screen — Mingi, dancing shirtless in rehearsal, laughing with the crew. That version of him felt like a different person.

You clicked the spacebar.

Silence filled the room.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, voice low. “Do you ever wish you were in front of the camera?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

“Why?”

“Because I get to see the parts no one else does.”

His gaze on you deepened.

“Are you talking about me?”

You didn’t answer.

Because yes. Yes, you were.

He stood suddenly, circling the desk to stand behind you. His hands didn’t touch — just hovered, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.

“I’m tired of performing,” he whispered. “But I’m not tired of this.”

You turned in your chair to face him.

And found him closer than you’d expected.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’re my subject.”

“You’re the one editing the story,” he said. “Doesn’t that give you all the power?”

You wanted to laugh. But your throat was tight.

“I don’t want power,” you whispered. “I just wanted to do good work.”

“You did,” he said. “You made me feel seen.”

And then, carefully — so slowly you could have stopped it at any moment — he knelt in front of you.

“I don’t need a camera to remember this,” he said. “So don’t worry. This part won’t be in the footage.”

Your heart cracked open.

“Mingi…”

“I’m not asking for everything,” he said. “Just this moment. Just you.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You reached forward — one hand in his hair, the other against his cheek — and held him there. Quiet. Steady.

He closed his eyes.

And for once, you weren’t watching him from behind a screen.

You were right there with him.

No cameras.

Just you and the boy who finally stopped performing.

[noeyil]

Y/n's quiet life as a florist unravels the moment Song Mingi walks through her shop. What starts as harmless weekly bouquet orders for a mysterious client spirals into a war she never asked to be part of. Between rival gangs, shattered glass, and secrets carved into blood, Mingi drags her into his world of steel and shadows.

But in a place where nothing grows, she learns that even mafia kings can crave color — and maybe she was meant to bloom right here, tangled in his storm.

Pairing: Song Mingi × Reader (Mafia AU)

Genre: Mafia AU · Romance · Angst · Action · Found Family · Hurt/Comfort · Slow Burn → Lovers

Tropes: Sunshine × Grumpy, Forced proximity / kidnapping → protection, Found family, Protective giant · Domestic softness under chaos

Featuring: All of Ateez as supporting characters

Warnings: Violence · blood · injury · guns, Mentions of abuse (Mingi’s father, backstory), Death of a parent, Emotional trauma · grief

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

Mingi wasn’t ready when she stepped out of the guest room.

Gone was the oversized hoodie, the dull sweats that had swallowed her whole. Instead, rose-colored flowy pants brushed the tops of her feet, a crisp white shirt framed her shoulders, and over it all a cardigan patterned with soft pink tulips hung open like a bloom in motion.

For the first time since he’d carried her into this place, she looked… like herself.

Bright. Warm. Alive.

The corner of her mouth tilted upward as she caught his stare. “What?”

He swallowed hard, ears already heating. “You look…” He stopped, fumbling. Beautiful. Like the sun I’ve been orbiting for a year. The words stuck in his throat. “More like yourself.”

Her smile widened, blooming fully. And something in his chest squeezed so tight he had to glance away, pretending to fuss with the plates on the counter.

When he finally found his voice again, it came out rougher than he meant. “Do you… want to come with me? To brunch.”

She blinked. “Brunch?”

He nodded, ears red. “Every Sunday. We eat together.”

Her brows shot up. “Wait. Are you telling me mafia bosses have brunch? Like… pancakes, orange juice, avocado toast brunch?”

Mingi shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not… like that.”

Her smirk deepened. “No, go on. I need to hear this. Big scary gangsters all gathered around a table with waffles and mimosas. Please tell me you wear pastel polo shirts too.”

“Y/n.” His voice dropped, pout tugging at his mouth. “They’re my family. Hongjoong said… we should do things. Normal things. To remember we’re not only this.”

Something in his chest twisted as he said it. But it was true.

Her smirk faltered, softening into something more complicated. She looked down at the tulip patterns on her sleeves, then back up at him.

“You’re serious.”

He nodded once.

She sighed, shaking her head. “This is insane. Completely insane.”

But then she smiled again — hesitant, small, but real. “Fine. I’ll come. But if anyone serves me a mimosa, I’m leaving.”

Mingi’s lips curved despite himself. “Deal.”

And for the first time in days, he felt something almost like hope.

The elevator doors slid open, and Y/n immediately regretted agreeing to this.

The space they stepped into wasn’t some elegant dining hall like she half-expected in a mafia skyscraper. It was a large, open room with a long table stretched across the center, already loaded with food — eggs, rice, bread, fruit, steaming pots of soup.

And chaos.

Seven men already filled the room, voices overlapping in a cacophony that sounded more like a family kitchen than a den of criminals. San was arguing with Wooyoung over who had stolen the last dumpling, Jongho calmly piling food on his plate while ignoring them, Yunho moving dishes out of their reach before someone spilled something. Hongjoong sat at the far end, sipping tea like the eye of a storm, while Yeosang and Seonghwa spoke lowly at the side, clearly pretending not to hear the chaos.

Then the chaos stopped.

Seven pairs of eyes turned toward her and Mingi.

Y/n froze, suddenly aware of her rose-colored pants, her tulip cardigan, her very existence. They, on the other hand, were dressed in shades of gray, black, and white, like walking pieces of modern architecture.

No wonder Mingi gravitated toward her. She looked like a misplaced splash of color on a charcoal sketch.

Wooyoung’s grin spread slowly. “Well, well. Look who’s come to brunch.”

San whistled low, eyes flicking over her outfit. “Explains a lot.”

She shifted, tugging her cardigan tighter around herself. “Okay, listen.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “We started off badly. Really badly. And I may have, you know, yelled some… things.”

Mingi’s ears turned red beside her.

She lifted her chin. “So. Let’s try again. My name’s Y/n. I run a flower shop. I like bright clothes, I’m sarcastic when I’m scared, and apparently, I’m now… whatever this is.” She waved at the table, at all of them, at the food.

For a long moment, silence hung.

Then Hongjoong set his teacup down. His lips curved into a faint smile. “Kim Hongjoong,” he said evenly. “Leader of Ateez. I like music and order. And tea.”

“Jung Wooyoung,” Wooyoung said brightly, flashing a grin. “Mischief expert. Model-face, according to you. You weren’t wrong.”

“Choi San,” San added with a smirk. “Chaos incarnate. I laugh a lot. Sometimes at the wrong time.”

“Jeong Yunho,” Yunho said, his voice steady but warm. “The reasonable one. Usually.”

“Choi Jongho” Jongho corrected quietly, reaching for his chopsticks. “Youngest. Strongest. Also the one who doesn’t waste food fighting.”

“Kang Yeosang,” Yeosang said simply, his tone calm. “I see everything.”

“Park Seonghwa,” Seonghwa finished, voice soft but firm. “The oldest. The one who makes sure we don’t burn this place down.”

The introductions circled the table like a ritual, familiar to them, grounding to her.

Y/n swallowed, feeling the knot in her chest loosen just a little. “Well,” she said, forcing a small smile. “Nice to meet you all. Again.”

To her surprise, San grinned and pulled out a chair. “Come on, florist. Let’s see if you survive brunch.”

Y/n hadn’t known what to expect from mafia brunch.

Gun talk over coffee? Murder plans with side dishes?

But instead… it felt almost normal.

The table was crowded with food — steaming bowls of soup, eggs, rice, kimbap rolls, kimchi, bread stacked high. San and Wooyoung argued about who ate faster, Jongho quietly built a mountain of food on his plate, Yunho sighed and tried to keep the peace, and Seonghwa passed dishes around like a patient parent. Hongjoong sat at the head, sipping tea with the kind of calm authority that made him look less like a crime boss and more like a weary professor.

And beside her sat Mingi.

For once, he wasn’t brooding or terrifying. He was… smiling. Just faintly, but real. His eyes softened, his mouth curved, and it hit her like a sucker punch.

God help me, she thought. I can’t hate him. Even if I want to.

Her knee brushed against his under the table, almost without thinking.

Mingi jolted like he’d been electrocuted, nearly choking on his kimbap. He scrambled for his water, ears turning bright pink.

Y/n clapped a hand over her mouth, biting back laughter. He sent her a watery glare that only made her shoulders shake harder.

“Something funny?” Wooyoung asked, brows raised in suspicion.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”

The attention shifted, thankfully, and then Yunho glanced her way. His voice was warm. “So, Y/n. Why flowers?”

She hesitated, fiddling with her chopsticks. “…It was my mom’s shop. I worked with her after school and after I graduated, and I just… never stopped. It felt right.”

San tilted his head. “She still runs it with you?”

Y/n’s throat tightened. She shook her head. “…She passed. A few years ago.”

The table went quiet, the noise of dishes fading.

Seonghwa’s voice was low, careful. “And your father?”

“I never knew him,” she admitted. Her eyes stayed on her rice bowl. “It’s just been me for a long time.”

No one spoke for a moment. The silence wasn’t heavy, exactly — just still. Like the air itself was listening.

Then Jongho asked, his voice quiet but blunt, “No friends?”

Her lips curved into a dry smile. “Not really. Just customers. Just the shop.”

For the first time since brunch began, no one laughed, no one teased.

And next to her, Mingi’s knee brushed hers again — this time deliberate.

She didn’t move away.

The taste of rice blurred on Y/n’s tongue. The conversation around her kept moving — laughter, the scrape of chopsticks, San teasing Wooyoung about his “model face” — but her mind drifted.

Flashback

The bell above the flower shop door jingled, the sound of rain dripping outside. Y/n sat hunched behind the counter, sleeves tugged over her hands, tears stinging her eyes.

Her mother knelt beside her, tucking a bright sunflower into her hair. “You’re crying again.”

“They laughed at me,” Y/n mumbled. “For my pants. Said I looked like a clown.”

Her mom smiled softly, smoothing her cheek. “That’s because they don’t understand. Flowers don’t ask permission to bloom, Y/n. They just do. And you… you’re a garden all on your own.”

Y/n sniffled, managing a weak laugh.

“Let them laugh,” her mother whispered, pressing her forehead to hers. “You’ll outshine them all someday.”

Years later

The shop still smelled of roses, but the air was heavy now, sterile, tainted by the faint scent of medicine. Y/n, older, stood behind the counter, her mother’s scarf hanging loose around her neck.

The girls at school whispered behind her back, louder now that boys had started to notice her. Confessions folded on scraps of paper, awkward gifts stuffed into her locker. She turned them all down. Not because she didn’t care — but because her world was shrinking, centering on the one person who mattered most.

Her mother’s smile grew weaker every day. Y/n’s focus never shifted.

The jealousy only made the bullying worse. But Y/n bore it silently, choosing to spend every spare moment arranging bouquets, tending to the shop, sitting by her mother’s side.

Flowers, not people, became her language.

“…So, Y/n,” San said, yanking her back to the table. “Anyone we should contact for you? A boyfriend? Someone who’ll worry if you’re gone?”

Her chopsticks clattered against the bowl before she could stop them. The words tumbled out, blunt and unguarded.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she blurted. “Never had one.”

Silence.

Seven pairs of eyes blinked at her.

Her face heated instantly. She wanted to crawl under the table.

Wooyoung let out a low whistle. “Seriously? Not even a high school sweetheart?”

She shook her head, cheeks burning. “No.”

“Not one?” San leaned in, grinning like this was the best news he’d heard all week.

“Never,” she repeated, her voice sharper than she meant.

Mingi stiffened beside her, nearly choking on his water.

The air buzzed with new energy — a mix of curiosity, teasing, and something heavier Y/n didn’t dare name.

And she wished, desperately, that the floor would swallow her whole.

The silence after her confession stretched too long. Too heavy.

Finally, Yunho broke it, his voice careful. “You’ve… never had a boyfriend? Why?”

Y/n shrugged, picking up her chopsticks again as if the question didn’t matter. “I got confessed to. A lot, actually. Especially after I got older.” She poked at her rice, her tone flat, factual. “But I turned them all down.”

“Why?” Wooyoung pressed, leaning over the table like this was the juiciest gossip he’d ever heard.

She didn’t even look at him. “Didn’t care. Didn’t have time. My mom was sick. And before that…” She paused, swallowing. “I was bullied. For my clothes, mostly. So I just tried to be invisible at school. Easier that way.”

The words fell quiet, simple, like stating the weather.

The table, however, stilled.

San’s grin faded into something more thoughtful. Jongho set his chopsticks down, his steady gaze softening. Even Yeosang, unreadable as ever, tilted his head just slightly, like he was seeing her differently.

Y/n shrugged again, finally looking up. “It wasn’t a big deal. People wanted things from me I didn’t want to give. So I said no. End of story.”

Her bluntness seemed to settle over the table like a heavy blanket.

But next to her, Mingi’s chopsticks had stopped halfway to his mouth. His jaw was tense, his ears pink. He didn’t say a word, but she felt the weight of his silence like a second heartbeat.

The air around the table had grown too heavy, and Y/n felt the weight of her own words pressing down like a stone. She stabbed at her rice, wishing she could rewind and bite her tongue.

Then San, of course, broke the silence.

“Well,” he drawled, smirk tugging at his lips, “looks like you and Mingi have more in common than you thought.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

San grinned wider. “You’ve never had a boyfriend… and he’s never had a girlfriend.”

Y/n blinked. “Seriously?”

The table erupted in laughter.

“Oh, seriously,” Wooyoung said, clapping Mingi on the shoulder. “Our big scary enforcer? Never even held hands with anyone properly.”

“Not true,” Mingi muttered, ears turning scarlet.

“Not true?” Yunho leaned in, eyebrows raised. “You want me to remind you of the time you wrote a love poem in middle school and left it in that girl’s locker?”

Mingi groaned, dropping his face into his hands.

Jongho’s lips twitched. “Didn’t she call you ‘sweet but hopeless’ and start dating someone else the next day?”

San slapped the table, wheezing. “He made himself such a clown in school. Big, tall, terrifying-looking Mingi, tripping over his shoelaces just to hold a door open for some girl.”

Wooyoung leaned back, grinning like a cat. “We started calling him Princess Mingi after that. Still do, sometimes.”

Y/n’s jaw dropped. She turned to stare at Mingi, who was hunched in his chair, ears and neck flaming red, glaring daggers at his so-called friends.

“You…” She pressed a hand over her mouth, laughter bubbling up. “You’re Princess Mingi?”

“Don’t,” he groaned into his palms.

But it was too late. She burst out laughing, doubling over in her chair. The image of terrifying, broad-shouldered Mingi being mocked as a princess by this pack of chaotic men was too much.

For the first time since she’d been dragged into this skyscraper, her laughter rang free and real.

And the look on his pouty, mortified face only made it worse.

When she finally caught her breath, she leaned forward, eyes bright. “Wait—do you guys really know each other since middle school?”

Yunho chuckled. “Longer.”

“Elementary,” Seonghwa added with a small smile. “Some of us even earlier.”

Y/n blinked, glancing around the table. “So you’ve basically grown up together? All of you?”

“Pretty much,” San said, popping a grape into his mouth. “Which is why we get to mock him endlessly. Family privilege.”

She smiled faintly, but her curiosity tugged harder now. “And… how did you all end up in this life?”

The laughter quieted. Forks stilled, chopsticks paused midair.

The shift in the room was subtle but sharp, like a shadow falling across the table.

Hongjoong set his teacup down, eyes glinting as they met hers.

“That,” he said softly, “is a longer story.”

Y/n’s question lingered in the air like smoke.

The table, once full of laughter and teasing, had gone quiet. Even San, who never seemed to stop talking, had stilled.

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. His gaze swept over the others, silent, as though asking without words if they should tell her.

No one stopped him.

Finally, he looked back at Y/n. “We didn’t wake up one morning and decide to be this,” he said calmly. “We were kids. Just kids trying to survive in a city that didn’t care if we starved or were treated right.”

Her chest tightened.

Seonghwa’s voice joined, quiet and steady. “Most of us came from nothing. Some without families. Some with families that were worse than nothing.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Mingi, then away.

Y/n swallowed, her throat dry.

Yeosang leaned forward slightly, his tone sharper, but not unkind. “We were small, weak, easy to step on. We got pushed around. Until one day we pushed back.”

San smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long for people to notice that we didn’t break so easily. Or that we had each other’s backs, always.”

“Family,” Yunho said softly, nodding once.

“Exactly,” Hongjoong agreed. “We built a family where we had none. And then… people started to fear us. And when you’re feared, you have power. Power we decided to use.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was heavy in a different way. Not awkward — but weighted with the truth of who they were.

Y/n looked down at her hands in her lap, fingers curling against the tulip pattern of her cardigan. These weren’t just gangsters. They were boys who had grown up bruised and cornered, who had chosen survival together.

It didn’t erase what they were now. But it made it harder to hate them.

Her eyes flicked sideways. Mingi sat stiff beside her, shoulders tense, gaze locked on his untouched plate. He hadn’t said a word since her question.

And somehow… that silence told her more than any story could.

Mingi kept his eyes on his plate.

Y/n’s question had been simple. Direct. And the others had answered — Hongjoong with calm authority, Seonghwa with quiet steadiness, Yeosang with sharp honesty. They told her enough to paint the picture without dragging her into the details.

But for him, every word cracked open an old wound.

He could see it again — the cramped apartment, the empty fridge, the sound of shouting echoing through thin walls. The way his stomach ached at night when there wasn’t enough to eat. The kids at school who laughed at his size, who thought it was funny to trip the giant until he fell.

And the nights when he cried into his pillow, wishing he could be small, invisible, anything but himself.

He hadn’t been born strong. He’d been made strong. Forced into it.

The others had been his anchor. Hongjoong’s fire. Seonghwa’s steadiness. San’s laughter, even when it hurt. Yeosang’s sharp eyes that missed nothing. Yunho’s calm hand on his shoulder. Wooyoung’s chaos that made him forget, just for a little while, how heavy the world was. Jongho, steady even as the youngest.

Family.

The only reason he was still breathing.

And now Y/n — sitting beside him in her bright rose pants and tulip cardigan, a splash of color against their world of cement. She’d asked, eyes wide, wanting to understand.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her in.

But the words stuck in his throat. What good would it do, making her see the dirt, the blood, the weakness that built him into this?

His hands tightened into fists under the table.

She doesn’t need to know.

But when he risked a glance at her, he found her already looking at him. Not with fear this time. Not with hatred.

With something softer.

And it terrified him more than any rival ever could.

A week had passed.

It surprised Y/n, honestly. She hadn’t expected to last a day in the skyscraper, let alone settle into some kind of routine. But here she was — still wary, still stubborn, but breathing.

To her own surprise, she’d grown close to Yeosang. At first, she thought he hated her; he hardly spoke and always seemed to watch from the edges. But once she realized that was just… Yeosang, it had shifted. He was quiet, but sharp, and he had a dry wit that matched her sarcasm beat for beat when he chose to show it.

Now he was the one she found herself sitting with when the others got too loud. The one who pointed out where the cameras didn’t reach so she could have five minutes of privacy. The one who made her feel less like a prisoner and more like… someone who belonged.

And then there was Mingi.

She hadn’t forgotten what he’d done. Dragging her here. Throwing her life upside down. She still carried that anger, heavy in her chest.

But he’d also carried her when she was broken. He’d gone back to her apartment to bring pieces of her life into this cement-colored world. He’d cooked her breakfast. He’d listened when she yelled.

And little by little, she found herself trusting him again.

It started small. His hand brushing her elbow when they passed through a crowd in the tower’s lobby. Sitting beside him on the couch while the others argued over what movie to put on, their shoulders pressed together without either of them moving away.

Yesterday, she’d fallen asleep in the lounge, book in her lap, only to wake up under a blanket that smelled faintly like his soap.

And today —

Today, she laughed at something Wooyoung said, leaned too far to the side, and nearly dropped her chopsticks. Mingi’s hand shot out instantly, steadying her by the wrist.

The contact should’ve been nothing. Just skin against skin, his grip warm and steady. But Y/n froze, the world narrowing to that one point of touch.

When she looked up, he was already staring. His usual seriousness cracked, something raw flickering in his eyes before he dropped his hand like he’d been burned.

She pretended not to notice, biting back a smile.

But her chest was lighter than it had been in days.

Maybe, just maybe, she could survive this world after all.

The apartment smelled different tonight.

Not sterile, not heavy like it usually did. Instead, warmth spilled from the kitchen — garlic, ginger, something frying in a pan. Y/n’s laughter floated through the space, light and alive.

Mingi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

She was barefoot, her tulip cardigan draped over the back of a chair. In ist place, she wore loose, colorful pants and a shirt tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up. Music hummed low from her phone on the counter, and she moved with it — stirring the pan, swaying her hips, spinning lightly on her toes like the kitchen was her stage.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Her hair caught the light when she turned, her smile soft and unguarded, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. He’d seen her cry, seen her furious, seen her broken on a flower shop floor. But this — this radiant, dancing version of her — was something else entirely.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring.

“You’re not gonna help?” she teased, flipping something in the pan. “Or are you just planning on standing there looking intimidating while I do all the work?”

He tried to smirk but it came out softer than he meant. “You look… busy.”

Her eyes narrowed, though her lips curved. “Busy being amazing, you mean?”

“Something like that,” he admitted.

For a moment, she just watched him, her expression unreadable. Then, almost hesitantly, she held out her hand.

“Dance with me.”

His chest tightened. “What?”

“You heard me.” She stepped closer, hand still extended, her grin teasing but her eyes uncertain. “Dance with me, Mingi.”

He hesitated. He didn’t dance. Not really. Not since he was a kid tripping over his own feet. But her hand was there, open, waiting.

And he couldn’t say no.

He took it, his palm swallowing hers, and she tugged him gently into the center of the kitchen. The music swelled, soft and steady. She guided him, laughing when he stumbled, her fingers curling tighter around his.

“Relax,” she whispered, swaying closer.

He tried. God, he tried. Her body brushed against his, her head tilting up, her smile fading into something softer, more fragile.

The world narrowed to the space between them. Her breath on his lips. Her hand pressed against his chest. His heart pounding like it was trying to escape.

Closer. Just a little closer.

And then —

His phone rang.

The sharp vibration and tinny melody shattered the moment. Y/n jerked back slightly, blinking up at him with wide eyes, while he fumbled for the device on the counter.

The screen lit up with a name he didn’t want to see.

The world came rushing back in.

The name flashing on the screen made his stomach knot.

“Appa.”

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the decline button. But the ringing kept slicing through the room, and Y/n was still standing there — eyes wide, lips parted from their almost-kiss.

He swore under his breath and answered.

“Mingi-ah,” the voice slurred through the line. Drunk. Again. “My son… my big strong boy. You answer at last.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

A bitter laugh crackled back. “What do I ever want? Money. Just a little. I’ll pay you back, I swear—”

“You never do,” Mingi bit out.

“I’m your father,” the voice snapped, words tumbling over each other. “You owe me. After everything I—” The rest dissolved into curses, demands, incoherent rambling.

Mingi closed his eyes, knuckles white around the phone. His chest burned with shame, old and deep, a wound that never healed.

Finally, he muttered, “I’ll send something.” And hung up.

Silence dropped heavy in the kitchen. The music from Y/n’s phone had stopped. Only her breathing filled the space.

Mingi set his phone down slowly, staring at it like it was poison. The shame crawled up his throat, bitter and suffocating.

What was he doing? Dancing with her, almost kissing her, pretending even for a second that he could have this.

She was sunlight, laughter, tulip patterns and rose-colored pants. And he… he was cement. Heavy, gray, cracked. Dragging the weight of a father who never gave him anything but debts.

He pushed back slightly, creating space between them. “Y/n… maybe we shouldn’t—”

But before he could take another step, her hand shot out.

She grabbed his wrist, firm, steady. “Don’t.”

He froze.

Her eyes locked on his, fierce and unwavering. “Don’t you dare pull away now. Not after everything.”

Mingi’s breath caught. The shame roared in his chest, but her grip was warm, grounding, real.

And for the first time in years, he felt like maybe — just maybe — he didn’t have to face the weight alone.

The silence after his phone call was thick, almost choking. Mingi’s whole frame felt… heavier. Shoulders slumped, eyes shadowed, as though whatever voice had been on the other end had carved something out of him.

Y/n’s chest ached just watching him.

She moved closer, careful, and sat beside him at the counter. “Who was that?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look at her at first. His jaw worked, his big hands flexing against his thighs. Finally, he muttered, “My father.”

The word was sharp, bitter. She didn’t need to press for details — the look in his eyes told her everything.

“I shouldn’t have walked into your life,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough. “I should’ve left you alone. You’re too perfect for this… for me.”

Her head snapped up, anger sparking hot in her chest. “Perfect?” she repeated, incredulous. “You think I’m perfect?”

He blinked, startled.

“Let me tell you something.” She leaned forward, voice trembling, but not from fear. From fury. “I’m messy. I’m sarcastic when I shouldn’t be. I wear clothes that make people laugh at me. I get scared and run my mouth instead of shutting up. I don’t have a single friend outside of you guys, because I’ve spent my whole life hiding in a flower shop trying not to take up space. And my biggest flaw?”

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. But she forced the words out anyway.

“My biggest flaw is being fascinated by a tall idiot who ordered the weirdest flower bouquets I’ve ever had to arrange. And after everything — after the bruises, the kidnapping, the chaos — I still can’t stop thinking about him.”

The air went dead still.

Mingi stared at her, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

Y/n’s face went up in flames. Heat crawled down her neck, her chest, until she thought she might combust right there.

“Forget I said that,” she blurted, scrambling to her feet. “Forget all of it!”

Before he could move, before he could speak, she bolted for the door.

The hall outside was cold, sterile, unforgiving — but at least it didn’t have his eyes burning holes into her.

Her chest heaved as she pressed her back to the wall, heart racing. She’d said too much. Shown too much.

And now she wanted to disappear more than ever.

Her feet carried her before her brain could catch up. Away from Mingi’s apartment, away from the echo of her own humiliating words, until she stopped in front of a door she barely recognized.

Yeosang’s.

She hesitated, chewing her lip, then knocked lightly. No answer.

So she tried the handle. It clicked open.

The sight that greeted her was… not what she expected.

Every flat surface of the apartment was buried in chip bags, empty soda cans, stray candy wrappers. A half-finished pack of Pocky leaned dangerously against a pile of ramen cups. The glow of a massive monitor bathed the room in blue light, the rapid clicking of keys filling the air.

Yeosang sat hunched in a gaming chair, headset on, eyes locked on the screen. His expression was laser-focused, hands flying across the keyboard as his character dove into some frantic battle.

“Yeosang?” Y/n whispered.

He jumped so hard he nearly knocked his headset off. “Shit—!” He whipped around, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

The question should have been obvious. But her brain was still spinning, still raw from what she’d blurted to Mingi.

Words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“I—uh—I just, I needed—I said something really, really stupid, and now I can’t go back to my room because he’s there and I literally told him that I think about him all the time and now I’m going to die of embarrassment and—” She stopped only to inhale, chest heaving. “Also, wow, you eat like a college freshman. Is that three bags of chips at once? And is that… beer with gummy bears next to it? What even is this place?!”

Yeosang blinked at her, still halfway out of his chair, headset dangling around his neck.

For a long moment, he just stared, like she was speaking another language.

Then, finally, his lips twitched. “You want the chair, or the floor?”

Her jaw dropped. “…What?”

“Chair or floor,” he repeated calmly, gesturing at the chaos around them. “Because if you’re planning to ramble like that for the next hour, I should at least get you comfortable first.”

Her laugh burst out sharp, surprised. And for the first time since bolting out of Mingi’s apartment, the tightness in her chest loosened.

Yeosang shoved a handful of gummy bears into his mouth and washed them down with beer like it was the most normal thing in the world. Y/n sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by chip bags, hugging a pillow she’d stolen from his couch.

And she rambled.

“…so then I cooked dinner, and it was nice, and I was actually kind of enjoying myself, and he was smiling and then we danced.” She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “I can’t believe I danced with him. I don’t dance. Ever. And we almost—”

“Almost?” Yeosang asked through a mouthful of chips.

Her face went hot. “Almost kissed.”

He raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment, just reached for another can of soda.

“And then his phone rang,” she barreled on. “It was his dad. And suddenly it was like someone flipped a switch and he shut down. He told me I was too perfect for him, that he never should’ve walked into my life, and—” She threw her hands up. “I lost it. I yelled at him, told him all my flaws, and then—god, I said it—I told him I can’t stop thinking about him. And then I ran out like a complete idiot and ended up here in your… snack graveyard.”

Yeosang paused mid-chew, looking at her flatly. “Snack graveyard?”

She gestured around them at the half-eaten ramen packs and candy wrappers. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He shrugged, popping another chip into his mouth. “Not wrong.”

Y/n dropped her face back into the pillow with a groan. “Ugh. Kill me.”

“Tempting,” he deadpanned, reaching for more gummy bears.

She snorted despite herself.

But when she peeked up again, the humor drained from her voice. “The thing is… it wasn’t just what I said. It was what he said after his dad called. He really believes he’s bad for me. Like he’s broken or something. And that I’m too… perfect.” She rolled her eyes, but her voice trembled. “Which I’m not, by the way.”

The crunch of chips stopped.

Yeosang set the bag down slowly, his expression tightening in a way she hadn’t seen before. Sharp. Serious.

“What did you say?” he asked carefully.

“That his dad called,” she said, confused. “Why?”

For the first time since she walked in, Yeosang wasn’t casual or detached. His eyes sharpened, worry flickering through them like a storm breaking.

“Because if it was his father,” Yeosang said quietly, “then it makes sense.”

Her pulse skipped. “Makes sense?”

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, gaze still locked on her. “Mingi’s father is the one wound he’s never been able to close. And every time that man calls, he tears it open again.”

The room felt colder suddenly, the walls of Yeosang’s messy apartment pressing in.

And Y/n realized she’d stepped into something deeper than she’d ever expected.

Yeosang’s eyes stayed locked on her, sharper now, heavier.

“You really don’t know, he didn't told you.” he said softly.

Y/n swallowed. “Know what?”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “About Mingi. About his father.”

Her pulse quickened. “He just said… something about not deserving me. That I’m too perfect for him.” She scoffed, though it came out weak. “Which is ridiculous.”

Yeosang didn’t smile. He stared past her, as if the memory was alive on the wall behind her.

Flashback

It was winter. Middle school. The hallways smelled of damp coats and chalk dust.

Yeosang remembered it clearly: Mingi slouched at his desk, hoodie pulled high, knuckles split. Bruises blooming ugly purple across his cheek, the edge of his jaw.

San had whispered furiously, “Who did this?”

Mingi had shrugged, muttered something about tripping, about fighting, about nothing important.

But they all knew.

They’d seen the way his father stumbled into school once, drunk and shouting. The way Mingi flinched when voices rose too loud.

And when they tried to help — when Hongjoong offered to talk to a teacher, when Seonghwa reached out a steady hand — Mingi pushed them away.

“I don’t need saving,” he’d snapped once, his voice cracking under the weight of it.

But Yeosang remembered the truth. Mingi’s anger spilling over, fists flying at boys who shoved him in the halls, shouting louder than anyone else just to drown out the echo of home.

He carried the bruises like armor.

Yeosang’s voice was low when he spoke again. “We tried. We all did. But he shut us out. Back then… his father was the monster he couldn’t fight. So he fought everything else instead.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, her chest aching. She thought of Mingi’s fists, his towering frame, his terrifying presence. The way he’d torn through those men in her flower shop like it was nothing.

And now she saw the boy under it. The one who came to school with bruises he wouldn’t explain.

The one who never believed he was worth saving.

Her voice came out small. “He thinks that’s all he is.”

Yeosang nodded, gaze unreadable. “Exactly.”

Y/n hugged the pillow tighter to her chest, her mind spinning, her heart pounding. For the first time, she understood why Mingi’s shame ran so deep.

And it made her confession feel even more dangerous.

Yeosang broke the silence first.

“You’re confused about him,” he said simply.

Y/n tightened her grip on the pillow in her lap. “…Yeah.”

“You know he’s not dangerous,” Yeosang continued, his gaze steady. “Not to you.”

She nodded slowly. “I do. I knew that the night he bandaged my wrist. He could’ve hurt me a hundred times over, but he never has. That’s not what scares me.”

Yeosang tilted his head. “Then what does?”

Her voice was quiet, raw. “How much I think about him. How much space he takes up in my head.”

For a long moment, Yeosang just studied her. Then he leaned back, reaching casually for another chip. “That’s because he’s not what you think he is.”

Y/n frowned. “Then what is he?”

“The softest of all of us,” Yeosang said, matter-of-fact. “The one with the biggest heart. The one who never wanted this life. He followed us into it because we’re his family, not because he wanted the power or the fear that comes with it.”

Her throat tightened.

“I’ve never seen Mingi fuss over anyone the way he fusses over you,” Yeosang added. “He went back to your apartment just to pack your favorite socks. He checks if you’ve eaten. He even…” His mouth twitched faintly. “He even googled recipes last week because he was worried you didn’t like his cooking.”

Y/n blinked, heat flooding her cheeks.

Yeosang’s eyes softened, though his voice stayed flat. “If you think he doesn’t care, you’re blind. He’s terrified, Y/n. Not of you, but of losing you. That’s why he keeps pushing you away.”

Her chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

She’d suspected it — every soft glance, every blanket he tucked around her, every time his hand steadied her without asking. But hearing Yeosang say it out loud, sharp and certain, made it impossible to deny.

Mingi wasn’t dangerous. He was scared.

And maybe, just maybe… she wasn’t the only one tangled in this pull between them.

The apartment felt hollow without her.

Mingi sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the spot where she’d stood not an hour ago. The pan on the stove had gone cold, the faint smell of garlic and ginger clinging like a ghost.

Her words kept replaying, echoing sharp and soft all at once.

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

His chest twisted every time.

He’d wanted to pull her close, tell her he thought about her too — all the time, every day, since the first bouquet. But then she ran, and the shame rushed back in. The voice of his father, the weight of his past, the certainty that he didn’t deserve her.

The knock on his door was soft, followed by the sound of it opening anyway. Yunho stepped inside, his calm presence filling the room without asking permission.

“You look like hell,” Yunho said quietly, glancing at the untouched plates. He moved closer, hands in his pockets, eyes steady. “Where’s your soon-to-be girlfriend?”

Mingi’s head snapped up, heat rushing to his face. “Don’t—”

Yunho raised an eyebrow. “What? Too soon?”

Mingi groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “She’s not— She said things and then she ran. I…” He shook his head, jaw tight. “She deserves someone better. Someone clean. Not me.”

Yunho leaned against the counter, watching him with the kind of patience only Yunho had. “Mingi.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not dangerous to her,” Yunho said firmly. “You’ve never been. And she knows it. If you can’t believe in yourself yet, at least believe her.”

Mingi’s throat burned, words sticking there like thorns.

Yunho sighed, softer now. “You love her. Everyone sees it. And trust me, she’s not running because she regrets saying what she did. She’s running because it scared her to admit it.”

Mingi looked up slowly, the words cracking something in him.

Yunho’s lips tugged faintly, the ghost of a smile. “So quit staring at cold food and do something about it, Princess.”

Mingi let out a weak, embarrassed laugh despite himself — the first sound of relief in hours.

Yunho didn’t give him a choice.

One minute, Mingi was still slumped on the couch, drowning in his own thoughts; the next, Yunho hauled him up by the wrist and shoved him toward the door.

“Hyung—” Mingi tried weakly.

“Nope,” Yunho said firmly, marching him down the hall. “You’re not rotting in your apartment tonight.”

The hum of voices and laughter reached them before they pushed into the common room. San and Wooyoung were already sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle of soju between them, arguing about who could drink more shots without passing out. Jongho sat at the edge with his usual unimpressed look, though the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed the alcohol. Hongjoong nursed a glass of whiskey at the far end, Seonghwa beside him with his sleeves rolled neatly, sipping quietly.

Yeosang’s seat was empty.

“Look who I found sulking,” Yunho announced, dragging Mingi in like he was presenting a stray cat.

San whooped. “Princess Mingi returns!”

Wooyoung patted the couch beside him with a grin. “Come on, lover boy. Drink with us.”

Mingi groaned, but Yunho shoved him down into the seat anyway. A shot glass was pressed into his hand before he could argue.

One became three. Three became five. The room blurred with laughter, voices loud and overlapping, warmth buzzing under his skin.

And then… he started talking.

About the cooking. About the way she danced in his kitchen. About how beautiful she looked when she smiled, how his heart nearly stopped when she asked him to dance with her.

He told them about the almost-kiss. About his father’s call and how it ripped everything apart inside him. About how Y/n grabbed his wrist, wouldn’t let him walk away — and then confessed she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“And then,” Mingi slurred, slamming his empty glass down, “she ran. Just ran. Like I’m the monster I always knew I was.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

San’s grin faltered, replaced by something softer. Wooyoung blinked, his teasing pause mid-sentence. Even Hongjoong set his glass down, his sharp eyes steady on Mingi.

Seonghwa was the first to speak. “She’s not running from you, Mingi. She’s running from herself. From how big this feels already.”

Wooyoung leaned back, lips quirking faintly. “Still, hearing you say it out loud…” He let out a low whistle. “You’re gone, man.”

Mingi dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “I know.”

The others chuckled, the teasing back again but gentler now, cushioned by something like solidarity.

But Yeosang’s chair remained empty. And a small part of Mingi wondered if Y/n was there with him, telling her own side of the story.

The words still echoed in her head.

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, tucked into Yeosang’s couch with a blanket she’d stolen from the backrest. His apartment still looked like a snack graveyard — cans, chip bags, candy wrappers everywhere — but it was safe. Quiet. Away from Mingi.

When Yeosang returned from the kitchen with another soda, she blurted before she could stop herself.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

He froze mid-step. Then blinked at her. “…No.”

Her heart dropped. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, settling back into his chair, headset dangling around his neck. “You should talk to him.”

She buried her face in the blanket. “I can’t. Not after what I said.”

Yeosang gave her one of his long, unreadable looks. “Y/n, you look like a wreck.”

“I feel like a wreck,” she admitted, muffled into the fabric.

He sighed, setting the can down with a dull thunk. “The guys are drinking in the common room. I should probably go down there for an hour, make sure they don’t burn the place down.” His gaze softened slightly. “You can stay here until then. But after that, you know what you need to do.”

She peeked at him over the blanket. “You’re really not going to let me hide, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Yeosang said, deadpan. Then he popped open his soda and added, almost too casually, “Besides… he’s probably thinking about you right now.”

Her chest tightened, heat rising to her cheeks. She groaned and buried herself deeper in the blanket, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.

Yeosang just sipped his soda, eyes back on his screen, like he hadn’t just shattered her defenses with a single sentence.

Yeosang closed the door to his apartment behind him, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walked down the hall.

Two idiots. That’s what they were.

Y/n, wrapped up in a blanket on his couch like the world was ending. Mingi, probably pacing his apartment or staring holes into the wall. Both of them circling each other for a year — the flower shop, the bouquets, the stolen glances — and neither willing to admit it until now. And even then, they still managed to run in opposite directions.

Yeosang shook his head. “Idiots.”

The noise of the common room grew louder as he approached — laughter, voices slurring, the clink of bottles against the table.

He stepped inside and immediately found Mingi.

Or rather, Mingi found him.

The man was slouched in his chair, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy from too much soju. But the moment Yeosang entered, his gaze locked on him like a predator.

“Yeosang.” Mingi’s voice was rough, low. “Is she—” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “At your place?”

Yeosang blinked. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Oh. He was jealous.

Delicious.

“Relax,” Yeosang said smoothly, taking a seat across the room. “She’s fine. Wrapped up like a burrito, sulking into a blanket. That’s all.”

Mingi’s shoulders slumped, relief flashing across his face before it crumpled back into drunken misery.

“I need her,” he muttered, voice cracking.

Yeosang arched a brow. “We heard you the first time.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Mingi insisted, lurching forward. His words tumbled out, thick with alcohol and desperation. “I need her. I need her smile, her colors, her voice. I need her to look at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m not… him.”

The table went quiet, the laughter dimming as his confession filled the air.

Mingi dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking. “I need her,” he whispered again. “Over and over and over.”

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. But inside, he couldn’t help the small flicker of satisfaction.

At least the idiot finally said it out loud.

Mingi was a mess.

His long frame slouched in the chair, cheeks flushed pink, eyes glassy, lips pushed into a pout that made him look more like a sulky teenager than one of the most feared names in the city.

“I need her,” he muttered again, voice thick. “Right now. Y/n. She has to take me back.”

San groaned, flopping onto the couch beside him. "Just stand up. We’ll walk you to your room.”

Mingi didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Wooyoung tried next, tugging on his arm. “Come on, big guy. Bedtime.”

Mingi’s weight stayed planted, immovable as stone. He shook his head stubbornly, lips pushed out. “Not unless she’s there.”

The room went quiet for a beat. Then Jongho snorted into his drink. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose like he was gathering infinite patience. “Mingi, you don’t need Y/n to walk down one hallway.”

“Yes, I do,” Mingi mumbled, slumping lower. “Only her. She’s… mine.”

Yeosang’s lips twitched, fighting the smirk that threatened. So this is what it takes to get him to admit it in front of everyone.

Hongjoong set his glass down with a sigh. “He’s not going to move, is he?”

Yunho shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Fine,” Hongjoong muttered, rubbing his temple. “Then go get her. Before he decides to sleep here and drool all over the couch.”

Yeosang leaned back, arms crossed, eyes glinting with amusement. Perfect. I warned her she couldn’t hide forever.

And for once, he almost looked forward to watching the chaos that was about to follow.

Y/n had tried hiding in one of the empty lounges, curled into a corner chair with her knees tucked up and her cardigan wrapped tight around her. The quiet helped — at least until the knock rattled the door.

She froze.

The door creaked open, and San’s grinning face appeared in the gap. “There you are! Our missing princess handler.”

Before she could react, Wooyoung slipped in behind him, eyes sparkling. “Come on, Y/n. You’re needed.”

Her stomach sank. “I’m what?”

San beamed. “Mingi won’t move without you.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not even a little,” Wooyoung said, grabbing her wrist with infuriating cheer.

“I’m not—” she tried, but San had already hooked his arm through hers on the other side.

“Let’s go,” he sang, practically hauling her out of the room. “Your knight in sulky armor awaits.”

Her heart hammered as they dragged her down the hall toward the common room. The noise grew louder with every step — laughter, drunken voices, the clink of bottles.

And then she saw him.

Mingi was sprawled in a chair, long legs stretched out, head tipped back, cheeks flushed pink. His pout was monumental, his hair mussed, and his eyes — heavy-lidded but sharp — found her the second she stepped inside.

“There,” he slurred, voice thick with relief. “My Y/n.”

Her whole body went hot.

San and Wooyoung grinned at each other like proud matchmakers, giving her a gentle shove forward.

And suddenly she was standing in front of a six-foot-tall mafia enforcer who looked like the world’s sulkiest giant baby.

“What,” she managed, breathless, “did you drink?”

“Not enough,” Mingi muttered, reaching a hand toward her like she was the only anchor in the room. “Take me home.”

Her heart squeezed so hard she almost forgot how to breathe.

Mingi leaned heavily against her as they shuffled down the hall, his arm draped clumsily over her shoulders.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re heavy,” she shot back, huffing under his weight.

He pouted, lips brushing dangerously close to her temple. “Don’t be mean. I like you.”

Her cheeks burned. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest,” he corrected, his voice low and sulky. “Honest and drunk.”

She wrestled the door panel open and half-dragged, half-guided him inside his apartment. The moment they reached the couch, he flopped down with a dramatic sigh — only to tug her arm, pulling her down beside him.

“Mingi—” she protested, but he buried his face into her shoulder, mumbling something incoherent about tulips and pancakes.

Her heart stuttered.

“Just stay here,” he whispered, his big hand curling gently around her wrist. “Please.”

Y/n swallowed hard, frozen between the weight of his warmth and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t only drunk when he said it.

Back in the common room, the silence after they’d left hung for a beat before Wooyoung let out a bark of laughter.

“Did you see him? He was like a giant toddler clinging to his mom at daycare drop-off.”

San wheezed, practically doubled over. “My Y/n! Oh my god, I thought I was gonna die.”

Jongho rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “He’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic, but kind of sweet,” Yunho countered, pouring himself another drink. “I’ve never seen him look that relieved.”

Seonghwa shook his head, though his smile was fond. “He’s going to hate himself in the morning when he remembers half of this.”

Then he paused, setting his glass down. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “But… I don’t mind.”

The others looked at him.

“That our family is getting bigger,” Seonghwa said simply. “I actually like her.”

For once, Wooyoung and San didn’t have a quick comeback. Even Hongjoong’s sharp gaze softened as he nodded faintly.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression calm but eyes glinting. “About time, though.”

Hongjoong arched a brow. “About time for what?”

“For him to stop pretending,” Yeosang replied.

The others exchanged knowing looks, smirks tugging at their lips.

And for the first time that night, it felt less like watching a disaster unfold — and more like watching something inevitable finally fall into place.

Mingi’s weight was heavy against her, his head tucked into the crook of her neck as if he’d decided that was his permanent home. His arm draped across her waist, holding her in place no matter how much she squirmed.

“Mingi,” she whispered, trying to pry herself free.

He only grumbled, nuzzling closer. “Don’t go.”

Her heart stuttered. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do,” he mumbled, his voice low and unsteady. “I know I need you.”

Her breath caught.

“You’re… bright,” he went on, words tumbling out in uneven bursts. “Colors and flowers and laughter. And me? I’m just… cement. Heavy. Gray. But when you look at me—” His grip tightened on her wrist. “When you look at me, I don’t feel broken. I feel… alive.”

Y/n’s throat burned. She should have pulled away, should have told him to sleep it off. But she couldn’t. Not when his words wrapped around her like vines, tender and raw.

“Mingi…”

“I like you,” he confessed softly, almost childlike. “More than like. I think about you all the time. Every week, every bouquet. Every smile. I just wanted… an excuse to see you.”

Her chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

He sighed, his breath warm against her collarbone. “I don’t deserve you. But I can’t stop wanting you.”

The room fell quiet after that, his words lingering heavy in the air. His arm slackened, his breathing evened out, and soon the steady rhythm told her he’d slipped into sleep.

Y/n stayed frozen, wide-eyed, her heart racing.

Then, slowly, she let her own body relax against his.

Wrapped in his warmth, his scent, and the weight of truths she hadn’t expected to hear tonight, her eyes drifted closed.

And for the first time since being dragged into this world, she slept without fear.

Mingi woke slowly, his skull pounding, mouth dry. Definitely too much soju.

But then he realized he wasn’t alone.

Y/n was curled against his side on the couch, her cheek on his chest, her hand curled into his shirt like she’d been holding onto him all night. Her warmth, her scent, the steady rise and fall of her breathing — it wrapped around him like something he’d never thought he’d have.

He stirred, shifting slightly. She blinked awake, eyes heavy with sleep, and tilted her head up. Their faces were suddenly inches apart, her lips close enough to steal his breath.

Mingi froze. Memories from last night crashed over him — the dancing, his father’s call, her confession, his drunken rambling into her shoulder.

Shame burned hot in his chest.

“I—” His voice cracked. He looked away, ears flaming. “I’m sorry about last night. I was drunk, I said too much, and I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable and—”

“Stop.”

Her fingers brushed his jaw, gently turning his face back toward her. His breath hitched.

And then she kissed him.

Soft. Sure. Real.

The world tilted. For a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe. He kissed her back, clumsy but desperate, until she pulled away just enough to rest her forehead against his.

“Drunk or not,” she whispered, lips curving faintly, “you meant it. So did I.”

Mingi’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. The words tangled in his throat, tumbling out in a rush.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to say so much, or maybe I did, I don’t know, because I’ve been thinking it for a long time, and you’re just—everything, you’re colors and flowers and warmth, and I know I’m not good with words but I—”

He swallowed hard, breath shaking. “I like you. A lot.”

Y/n’s smile softened, her eyes shining in the dim light.

And in that moment, with her forehead pressed to his and her hand still warm against his jaw, Mingi didn’t feel broken.

He just felt like hers.

Her smile. That small, knowing smile after he’d finally said it — I like you. A lot.

It was enough to knock the breath clean out of him.

Mingi scrambled to say more, words tripping over each other like stones rolling down a hill.

“I mean, I don’t just like you, I— it’s more, but I don’t want to scare you by saying too much because I already made a fool of myself last night, and I know I’m clumsy and loud and not exactly—” He broke off, ears burning. “I just… every time you smile, I forget how to breathe. And when you’re not around, it’s like the whole place goes gray again. And I don’t want to drag you down, but I— I can’t stop wanting you here.”

Y/n blinked at him, her cheeks flushed, lips parted as if she didn’t know what to say.

He panicked. “Not that I expect you to like me back, or— or even kiss me again, though I wouldn’t mind, obviously, but—”

“Mingi,” she said, laughter bubbling in her voice.

He froze. “What?”

Her thumb brushed across his jaw, soft and steady. “You don’t have to explain everything. I got it the first time.”

His heart stuttered, the relief hitting so hard it almost made him dizzy.

And then—

The door banged open.

“Princess Mingi!” San’s voice rang out, followed by Wooyoung’s cackle. “Are you alive in here, or should we—”

Both of them froze in the doorway, grins stretching wider than the sun.

Mingi nearly fell off the couch, his entire face igniting red. “GET OUT!”

“Aw, look at him blushing,” Wooyoung sang, leaning on San’s shoulder. “Our big scary enforcer turned into a teddy bear.”

San smirked. “More like a koala. Clinging to his Y/n.”

Mingi groaned, burying his face in his hands, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole. But Y/n’s quiet laugh beside him, light and real, made it a little easier to survive the humiliation.

Because for once, she wasn’t running.

She was right there, tangled up with him.

And maybe — just maybe — that was all that mattered.

Mingi’s face burned so hot he thought he might combust on the spot.

San and Wooyoung were doubled over in the doorway, laughing so hard they nearly fell into each other.

“Koala Mingi!” San wheezed, clutching his stomach.

“My Y/n!” Wooyoung mocked, clutching at his chest like a lovesick fool. “You should’ve seen yourself—”

“GET OUT!” Mingi shouted again, voice cracking, but that only made them laugh harder.

And worst of all? Y/n was laughing too.

Not the nervous, sarcastic laugh he’d heard before. But real laughter — bright, free, bubbling up until she leaned into him, shaking with it.

His embarrassment should’ve swallowed him whole. Instead, something softer took root in his chest.

Because he’d never seen her so unguarded. And if being their punchline meant he could hear that sound again, maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Finally, Seonghwa’s sharp voice rang down the hall, dragging the others away with promises of “one more round.” The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Mingi and Y/n in the quiet aftermath.

She was still smiling when she looked up at him. “Princess Mingi, huh?”

He groaned, dragging his palms over his face. “I’m never living this down.”

Her smile softened, her hand reaching out to tug his fingers away. “I like it.”

His heart stumbled.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“Y/n, I… I can’t promise I’ll do everything right.” His voice was low, rough. “I’ll mess up. I’ll say the wrong things. I’ll probably drive you crazy. But—” His throat tightened. “I’ve only had eyes for you. For over a year. Every week… it was never about the flowers. It was about seeing you.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide.

Heat rushed to his cheeks, but he pressed on, desperate to make her understand. “There’s never been anyone else. Just you.”

The silence between them thrummed, heavy and alive. Then her hand cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheekbone.

“Mingi,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I know.”

And she kissed him.

This time, it wasn’t hesitant or fleeting. It was deep, slow, certain — her fingers cradling his face, his hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

Every ounce of shame, of fear, of doubt burned away under the weight of her mouth on his.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, her breath mingled with his.

“I like you too,” she murmured. “A lot.”

Mingi’s chest ached with so much relief, so much joy, he thought he might explode.

And as he held her there, her laughter still echoing in his ears, he knew there was no turning back.

Only her. Always her.

The tower was quiet in the lull after brunch, the common room filled with the easy sprawl of family. Yunho leaned at the counter with a half-finished coffee, Jongho ate pears with military precision, and San and Wooyoung laughed over a phone screen until Seonghwa confiscated it with one sharp glance. Yeosang stood at the window, gaze unfocused but sharp, while Hongjoong sat at the table tapping a pen, each click deliberate.

Mingi sat among them, still carrying the glow of last night. I like you too. A lot. The words replayed like a rhythm under his skin, steadying him in ways he didn’t dare speak aloud.

The security line rang.

Yeosang answered on speaker.

“Front reception,” a guard said. “We have a walk-in demanding to see Mr. Song.”

All eyes turned to Mingi.

He set down his cup. “Name?”

Static, then the guard again: “Says he’s your father.”

The room froze. Even Wooyoung’s grin died.

Mingi forced himself to breathe. “I’ll come down.”

The others rose with him, unspoken. Yunho close at his side, Seonghwa steady, Hongjoong already moving. San and Wooyoung fell in behind, Yeosang and Jongho forming the rear. Family, closing ranks.

The elevator ride was silent, the city humming beyond the glass.

The lobby gleamed cold. Two guards stood near, eyes wary.

And there he was.

Mingi’s father.

Disheveled, sour with drink, shirt half-done, eyes bloodshot. He sneered the moment he saw his son. “Mingi-ah. There he is. My big, strong boy.”

Reflex locked Mingi’s shoulders. His chest went tight.

His father spread his arms wide in mock welcome. “Look at you. Playing king in a glass box. Thought you’d be too important to see your own father.”

“Appa,” Mingi said flatly. He signaled the guards back.

The others shifted closer, silent but alert.

His father’s laugh was sharp, ugly. “What do you even do up there? Arrange flowers? You always liked flowers. Things that die fast.”

Mingi clenched his jaw.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Money. What else?”

The venomous smirk widened. “You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you,” Mingi snapped before he could stop himself.

That was when his father shoved him.

Hard.

Mingi rocked back a step, catching himself before he stumbled.

“Ungrateful brat,” the man spat. His hand came up again, jabbing at Mingi’s chest, shoving once, twice. “You think you’re a man because you wear a suit and hide behind these—” He spat then, saliva hitting Mingi’s jacket, sliding down the lapel.

San lunged, fury bright in his eyes, but Mingi’s hand shot out to stop him. “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, hoarse.

Wooyoung swore under his breath, fists trembling at his sides. Yunho’s jaw tightened. Even Hongjoong shifted forward, eyes cold and sharp.

But Mingi held them all back with a single shake of his head.

His father saw it. Smelled it. The power in restraint. He smiled, teeth yellowed, and pressed closer.

“You’re nothing,” he hissed, breath wet with whiskey. “Nothing but the soft boy I should’ve beaten harder. Too big, too small, too weak.” He shoved again, fingers digging into Mingi’s chest. “No one saves you. No one.”

Mingi’s throat locked. The old terror surged, dragging him back into nights when shouting cracked the walls. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

The elevator chimed behind them. The doors slid open.

Warmth spilled into the lobby like sunlight breaking stormclouds. A presence he knew better than his own heartbeat.

Y/n.

“I told you,” his father spat, turning his head, “no one saves you.”

“Wrong,” Hongjoong said, his voice like steel drawn.

And then Y/n’s voice cut through the lobby, sharp and certain.

“Enough.”

The word hit harder than any shove.

Mingi’s eyes closed for a heartbeat. Then he turned toward her.

The elevator doors slid open, and Y/n stepped into the lobby, her pulse hammering.

She hadn’t known what to expect when Yeosang found her upstairs, his voice calm but urgent: “It’s his father. You should be there.” She hadn’t had time to think, only to follow the pull in her chest that said Mingi needed her.

Now she saw him.

Mingi stood rigid, shoulders tense, his father’s spit sliding down his jacket like an insult carved into fabric. The older man was still in his face, shoving, barking words that dripped venom. The others ringed the scene, ready to strike, but held back by a single look from Mingi.

It broke something inside her.

Her feet carried her forward before she knew she’d decided.

“Enough,” she said, her voice cutting through the space like glass breaking.

Every head turned.

Mingi’s father blinked at her, eyes narrowing, confusion curdling into disdain. “And who the hell are you?”

Y/n didn’t flinch. She stepped closer, sliding herself between the man and his son, planting her feet firmly on the cold floor.

“I’m the one who’s going to say what nobody else has,” she said evenly.

She could feel Mingi behind her, the weight of him, tall and silent, like a shadow caught in place.

“You have no right,” Y/n continued, her voice growing stronger, steadier. “No right to push him, spit on him, call him weak. Do you even see him? Do you even understand who he is?”

His father laughed, harsh and ugly. “I made him. He’s mine.”

“No,” Y/n snapped, the word sharp as a blade. “You don’t get to claim him. You don’t get to tear him down and call it fatherhood. You didn’t make him who he is. He did that himself. And he is stronger, braver, and more of a man than you will ever be.”

The words rang out, filling the lobby, echoing back from steel and glass. Even the guards froze.

Her chest heaved, but she didn’t move. Didn’t back down.

Behind her, she felt Mingi stir — a shift in the air, a breath caught like he couldn’t believe she’d said it.

His father’s face twisted, ugly with rage, but Y/n held his gaze. Unflinching.

“You lost the right to call him your son the first time you raised a hand against him,” she said, her voice steady now, cold as ice. “And you sure as hell won’t hurt him again. Not while I’m here.”

Silence rippled through the room. Even Ateez, who had seen blood spilled and enemies fall, looked shaken.

For the first time in years, Mingi’s father faltered.

And for the first time, Mingi saw someone stand between him and the man who had haunted every corner of his youth.

For a heartbeat, the lobby was silent.

Y/n stood tall, her words still hanging in the air, every nerve alight. Mingi’s father glared at her, lips curling like he was about to spit another insult.

And then—

The crack of a gunshot split the room.

Y/n flinched, breath catching. Warm wetness splattered across her cheek. For a half-second she didn’t understand — and then she saw it.

Mingi’s father staggered, eyes wide, a crimson bloom spreading across his chest. His knees buckled, his body crumpling to the floor at her feet.

Blood dotted her skin, hot against the cold shock that froze her in place.

The scream lodged in her throat never made it out, drowned by the chaos that followed.

The lobby doors slammed open. Armed men poured in, shouting, guns raised, faces masked.

Rival gang.

Time snapped back into motion.

“Down!” Yunho’s voice rang, already pulling her backward, shielding her with his body. Seonghwa stepped forward in the same breath, gun drawn, his calm precision a stark contrast to the storm exploding around them.

San and Wooyoung moved like unleashed chaos, low and fast, knocking weapons from hands with brutal efficiency. Jongho’s fist cracked bone, one man collapsing with a groan. Yeosang’s eyes tracked every angle, every movement, sharp and lethal.

Mingi didn’t move at first. He stood staring at the body on the floor, blood pooling out like a tide. His fists trembled at his sides, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Mingi!” Hongjoong’s voice snapped him back.

Something shifted in him, hard and violent. His head snapped up, eyes blazing. In two strides he was across the floor, slamming an attacker against the wall so hard the plaster cracked, ripping the weapon from his hands. The sound of bone breaking followed, wet and final.

Y/n stumbled back with Yunho, her pulse wild, her cheek sticky where blood clung. She wanted to wipe it off, wanted to scream, but her body refused to move, every sense overwhelmed by the storm in front of her.

The boys fought like a machine, each one sliding into their role as if they’d done this dance a thousand times — because they had. Precision and brutality wrapped in chaos, terrifying and mesmerizing all at once.

But all Y/n could see was Mingi.

The fury in him. The grief. The boy who had just lost the man who’d broken him — and who hadn’t even had time to feel it before being forced to fight.

Her stomach twisted. Her chest ached. She couldn’t look away.

The fight was over in minutes.

The last rival hit the floor with a groan, Wooyoung’s boot planted on his chest, Jongho’s fist cocked to end it if he twitched. The lobby smelled of gunpowder and blood.

Mingi didn’t see any of it.

His eyes were locked on the body at his feet.

His father.

Blood spread across polished tile, inching toward his knees. The man’s hand, the same hand that had shoved him minutes ago, lay palm-up and empty, as though even death had taken something from him.

Mingi sank down slowly, as if his legs had stopped belonging to him. His chest heaved. His hands trembled, reaching but never daring to touch.

He hated him. God, he’d hated him for years. But not like this. Not sprawled on the ground, cut down by a bullet from someone else’s war.

“I thought I wanted him gone,” Mingi whispered hoarsely. His voice broke on the words. “I thought I… I dreamed of it sometimes. But not like this. Not like this.”

No one moved. Not Hongjoong, not Seonghwa, not even San and Wooyoung who always had something to say. They all stood still, watching, as if understanding this was not theirs to touch.

A warmth brushed his shoulder.

Y/n.

She knelt beside him without hesitation, not caring that blood stained the floor, not caring that everyone else was watching. Her hands slid to his face, steadying him when everything inside him threatened to crack.

“Mingi,” she said softly. Her eyes shone, fierce and steady at once. “You’re not him. You never were.”

He stared at her, breath shuddering, unable to speak past the ache in his throat.

“You have family,” she whispered, her voice breaking now too. “You have me. He doesn’t get the last word. Not anymore.”

Something inside him gave way. Not in the old way, where he’d shatter alone in the dark. This time, the pieces fell into her hands.

He leaned into her, forehead against hers, eyes closing as her arms wrapped around his shoulders. The blood was still on the floor, still on her cheek where it had splattered, but she didn’t flinch. She held him like she’d been born to.

And for the first time in years, Mingi believed it.

He wasn’t alone.

The sirens in his head didn’t fade when the fighting stopped.

The bodies were being dragged out, rivals groaning or silent, guards securing the lobby again. The marble floor was smeared with streaks of red, bullet holes pocking the walls. But Mingi didn’t see the damage, not really. His gaze kept drifting back to where his father’s body lay, already covered with a black sheet.

It didn’t seem real. The man who had towered over him as a boy, the voice that had filled every silence of his childhood, reduced to stillness under a square of fabric.

The hand that had shoved him minutes ago. Gone.

A deep ache pressed against his ribs, one he couldn’t name. Grief. Rage. Relief. Guilt. Maybe all of it tangled together until he couldn’t breathe.

Y/n’s hand was still on his arm. Warm. Steady. If she hadn’t been there, he wasn’t sure he’d still be kneeling — he might’ve gone down harder than his father had.

“Up,” Seonghwa said gently. Not an order, not a command — just a lifeline.

Mingi stood on legs that didn’t want to hold him. The others shifted closer, a wall forming without thought. Wooyoung’s grin was gone, San’s eyes sharper than he’d ever seen them. Jongho stood at his shoulder like an anchor. Yunho hovered just behind Y/n, protective even now.

And Hongjoong — Hongjoong’s eyes held him steady. Not pity. Not judgment. Just that quiet, iron weight that said: You’re still one of us.

Mingi swallowed, the lump in his throat jagged.

“I hated him,” he said finally, voice raw. “I hated him for everything. For what he did. For what he didn’t do. And I still—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw until it hurt. “And I still didn’t want this.”

No one spoke.

Y/n turned to him then, her cheeks streaked with drying blood that wasn’t hers. She didn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes burned into him, fierce and soft all at once.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she whispered.

His chest squeezed so hard it hurt.

For so long, he had believed that was all there was — carrying it alone. Bearing weight until it broke him. But now… the way she looked at him, the way the others stood around him, silent but solid — maybe he didn’t have to.

Mingi exhaled, the sound shaking, ragged. He nodded once.

Not a promise. Not forgiveness. Just survival. For now, it was enough.

Hours later, the skyscraper was quiet again. Too quiet.

The lobby had been scrubbed clean, though she could still see it when she closed her eyes — the spray of blood, the way it had landed warm on her cheek, the way Mingi’s father’s body had folded to the ground. Her hands had shaken when Seonghwa gently wiped her face with a damp cloth, murmuring something she hadn’t really heard.

Now she sat in Mingi’s apartment, wrapped in one of his hoodies that hung loose and heavy on her frame. The fabric smelled faintly like him, like clean laundry and something darker underneath. It should have been comforting. It was, a little. But the weight of the night still pressed against her chest.

She wasn’t sure when Mingi had come in. One moment she was alone on the couch, staring at the city lights through the glass; the next, the couch dipped beside her, and his presence filled the space like a storm cloud rolling in.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

For a long moment, they just sat. The silence wasn’t empty, but thick, vibrating with everything unspoken.

Then his arm moved, hesitant but sure, sliding around her shoulders. A gentle tug.

She went willingly.

Her head fell against his chest, and his chin came down to rest on her hair. His heartbeat was uneven beneath her cheek, his breaths too shallow, but the steadiness of his body grounded her. She curled into him, her hand finding the fabric of his shirt and clutching it like it was the only solid thing in the world.

He tightened his hold, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

“I can still feel it,” she whispered into the silence. “The blood. Even though it’s gone.”

His chest rose under her, a slow, shuddering breath. “Me too.”

That broke something in her. She shifted, sliding her arms around his waist, burying her face against him. He let out a low sound — half-pain, half-relief — and folded around her like he’d been waiting years to do it.

When she finally lifted her head, her eyes met his. His face was pale, drawn, grief still etched into every line — but his gaze on her was soft. Fragile, almost, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he looked too long.

Y/n reached up, brushing her thumb lightly over his cheek. “You’re still here,” she whispered.

“So are you,” he murmured.

The distance between them disappeared before she could think. Her lips brushed his — light, tentative, a question more than a claim. He stilled, breath catching, then answered with the gentlest pressure, returning the kiss like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

It wasn’t deep, or heated. It was soft, lingering. A promise whispered between trembling mouths.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

And in the silence that followed, Y/n knew: even with blood still fresh in her memory, even with danger pressing in at the walls, this — they — were what she would hold on to.

Two months later, the skyscraper hummed with a different kind of life.

The lobby was spotless again, the damage long repaired. Security had doubled. Rival gangs had gone quiet, their attempt to breach Ateez’s fortress ending in failure they hadn’t dared repeat.

And tucked into one corner of the building’s third floor, glass walls now framed rows of fresh blooms. Tulips. Daisies. Roses. A garden blooming above the city.

Her flower shop.

Not the little storefront where her mother’s laughter still echoed, but something new. Something safer. Something theirs.

She still cried the first time she stepped inside — at the sight of San trying not to crush a tray of delicate seedlings, at Jongho carefully aligning pots with military precision, at Hongjoong crouching to screw in the last shelf himself. Even Seonghwa had dirt under his nails by the time it was done.

Now, mornings felt different. Safer. Full of possibility.

Y/n smiled as she set plates on the table, the faint scent of fresh bread wafting through the apartment. Behind her, the kitchen sizzled with the sound of eggs hitting the pan.

She turned — and nearly dropped the stack of spoons.

Mingi stood at the stove in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, hair a messy halo around his head, humming low under his breath. The muscles across his back shifted with every move, scars catching in the early light.

She bit her lip, warmth rising up her neck. He still made her heart trip after all this time.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head, lips quirking into a crooked grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, setting the spoons down with exaggerated care. “Just enjoying the view.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he slid eggs onto two plates. “You’re shameless.”

She waited until he set the plates down, until his tall frame leaned slightly too close as he reached for salt. Then she caught his hand, pulling him down before he could retreat.

“I love you,” she said.

The words hung there, clear, steady. Not whispered in fear. Not tangled in grief. Just true.

Mingi froze, eyes wide, breath caught.

Then he laughed, soft and incredulous, as if he’d been waiting forever to hear it. His free hand cupped her jaw, and before she could say anything else, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was nothing like the soft brushes they’d shared before. It was heated, hungry, all the tension and tenderness of months poured into one desperate press of lips. He pulled her close, one hand sliding to the small of her back, anchoring her against him.

She melted into him, arms curling around his neck, tasting salt and warmth and everything she’d been afraid to lose.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathless, she whispered again, just to feel the truth of it on her tongue.

“I love you.”

Mingi’s grin was boyish and raw, his voice low and wrecked. “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

Breakfast went cold on the table, forgotten.

But for the first time since everything began — since flowers and gunfire and ghosts of the past — Y/n felt truly at home.

Breakfast went cold on the table.

Mingi’s mouth was still on hers, hungry and unguarded, his hands gripping her waist like he feared she might vanish if he let go. Y/n pressed closer, drinking in every sound he made, every shuddering breath.

When she broke the kiss, her lips lingered by his ear. “Let me,” she whispered.

He froze, stunned, pupils blown wide. His voice cracked, almost pleading. “Y/n…”

She kissed the curve of his throat, tracing a slow path downward, and he trembled under her mouth. His hands clutched at the edge of the table, knuckles white. “You don’t—” The protest broke apart in a low groan as her lips and hands wandered lower still, a trail of fire that left him helpless.

“I want to,” she murmured, breath warm against his skin.

And then she was kneeling before him, devotion in her eyes, the morning light crowning her hair like something holy. Her mouth brushed against his cock, soft at first, reverent, before taking more, deeper, until his head tipped back and a raw sound tore from his throat.

His breath came ragged, words falling apart between gasps. “Oh god, Y/n…”

The heat of her, the rhythm she set, unraveled him. He had faced blades and bullets without flinching, but this—this stripped him bare, left him trembling, undone by her hands, her lips, her care.

He looked down once, and the sight nearly undid him completely: her lashes fluttering, her hands steady, her mouth wrapped around every part of him he’d thought unworthy of love.

He gripped the table harder, fighting for control, but there was none to be found. She had all of him, body and soul.

When he broke, it was with her name spilling from his lips like a prayer, his whole body shuddering under the force of it, every wall he’d built collapsing into her hands.

Breathless, undone, he pulled her up to him, cradling her against his chest, covering her face with frantic kisses — cheeks, temple, lips, anywhere he could reach.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice raw, again and again like the words themselves could keep her tethered to him.

Her smile curved against his mouth, her whispered reply steady and sure.

“I love you too.”

And Mingi knew, with a certainty that steadied him more than any fortress ever could: he was finally home.

The flower shop smelled like spring.

Even in the middle of the steel-and-glass tower, it carried that soft fragrance of earth and petals, sunlight trapped in stems. It didn’t belong in their world — and maybe that was why it worked.

Yeosang leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching as Y/n fussed over a row of tulips. She wore a cardigan patterned with tiny daisies, her hair tucked behind her ear, her smile so natural it looked like it had always belonged here.

And in the corner, Mingi carried a crate of soil like it weighed nothing, pretending not to glance at her every other second.

Yeosang’s lips quirked. Two months ago, Mingi had been a storm contained in too large a body, all fists and fury and silence. Now… now he was still a storm, but one with sunlight bleeding through.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Wooyoung said at his shoulder, breaking the quiet. “Princess Mingi hauling dirt with a grin on his face.”

San laughed. “You mean My Y/n’s Mingi.”

Mingi scowled over his shoulder. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” Wooyoung called back, grinning. “We weren’t exactly whispering.”

Seonghwa walked past them, setting a new vase on the counter. “Don’t tease too much. It suits him.” His tone was calm, but there was warmth there too.

Hongjoong lingered by the window, surveying the space with his sharp eyes. He didn’t speak, but Yeosang caught the faint smile tugging at his lips before he looked away.

Yunho and Jongho carried in another shelf, the younger muttering about balance and stability while Yunho just grinned, unbothered.

It was chaos, but softer than their usual brand. Different.

Family, Yeosang thought. Bigger now. Stronger for it.

Y/n straightened, brushing dirt from her hands, and looked toward Mingi. He froze under the weight of her smile, then ducked his head, ears pink.

Yeosang shook his head, amused. After all this time, after everything they’d survived, the giant was still undone by a girl with flowers in her hair.

Maybe that was exactly what they needed.

The skyscraper would always be steel and glass and shadows. But now, tucked inside it, was something else. Something that bloomed.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

[noeyil]

I've been noticing recently that because Jongho has been showing a little more skin, people who have never shown him any interest before are now talking about how hot he is. This seems to be an ongoing trend for some members. It's great that people show attention to the members that don't always get it but they disappear real quick when the members stop being sexy or whatever it is they find attractive.

Normalise loving and supporting all the members all the time, not just when they're deemed to be hot.

[noeyil]

MY MUSE - K.HJ

paring: brothersbestfriend!k.hj x f!reader

summary: you've known hongjoong as long as you've been alive, but it shocks you when he reveals he’s written songs about you

warning(s): none

wc: 3.9k

🎧: heavenly

based on this!

for 🫧

Your hair’s whipping in the wind, it smells like cigarette smoke and diesel outside. You have a love-hate relationship with riding in your brother's car. He always has the roof down, and the music blasts so loud that it vibrates the car and everything around it. Sometimes, it's embarrassing, but most times, it feels like being on cloud nine when he's pressed down on the gas, the car flying forward and going ninety in a seventy.

It's a habit, a tradition. You and your brother, Seonghwa— have always been close, he was your other half, yin to your yang. He's grinning at you from the driver's seat, daring you to tell him to slow down. Did you? Hell no. If anything, you'd be going even faster than he was if you were in that seat. You would laugh alongside him, singing your heart out to the song he had on the radio, letting the cars beside you disappear as you entered your own little world.

He's slowing down, easing his foot off the gas when he spots traffic up ahead, fingers tapping on the leather steering wheel. The radio fizzles, songs coming to a stop, and then there's the sound of an announcer's voice.

“Next up, we've got an upcoming artist who's been making his way all across the charts.”

Neither of you is paying any attention, but when the intro blasts through his speakers you're both perking up. You recognize the beat, the bass, all of it. It's his song, Hongjoong’s music, the one you spent nearly a year watching him make.

Seonghwa slaps the steering wheel, a wide grin on his face when he turns over to you.

“Hell yeah! I told you he'd make it big.” his voice is brimming with pride, “I fucking knew it.” He shouts.

He keeps talking, but you barely hear him.

You're too busy listening to the song. He's added lyrics and backing vocals. You never heard them before, never even saw him write out the lyrics. Every word feels like there's a hidden meaning somewhere deep inside. You're overanalyzing the whole thing—because, of course, you are. That's what you do.

He's always been passionate about music, you remember when he and your brother would come home from school with an open notebook in hand— full of incoherent writing that they only seemed to understand. They'd be huddled in your brother's room, hunched over an old laptop and making weird beats on some random software he'd downloaded onto it. It was weird, but you were used to it.

Hongjoong was only a year older than you, the same as your brother. He's never not been there, always invited to every and any family gathering, every vacation, and any holiday he could make it to. Always there. Seonghwa had the pleasure of meeting him in preschool, walking up to the poor boy as he sat on the swings. And it was out of pure dumb luck that he decided to stick with your brother. You think that might've been one of his worst mistakes in life.

And now? Hearing the same boy’s voice blasting through the speakers felt surreal. He doesn't sound like the same boy who'd stay up all night, forcing you and your brother to sit with him at his desk and listen to two samples of a song he was writing (two samples of which sounded the same but he kept insisting they weren't). He didn't sound like the same boy who'd purposefully burst into your room, singing a random song at the top of his lungs just to annoy you.

But he sounded like the boy who sat you in his studio room, right in the chair he had designated just for you. Older, mature, familiar.

Seonghwa’s still grinning, singing along to the lyrics even though he doesn't even know the words. He's loud, excited, unbelievably proud. And you are too, but you're quiet, pride caught in your chest.

You're resting your head on the headrest, listening as the last of the chorus fades out into the instrumentals. Your brother’s still hyped, fingers tapping even harder on the steering wheel and he's half shouting over the music.

“Can you fucking believe that? Next thing you know he's gonna be playing at concerts and I betcha he’ll let us backstage.”

You're turning your head to look at him, just enough to see the grin he has in his face, his other hand resting on the outside of the car. He's practically glowing, and you already know he's going over to Hongjoong's house to get wasted. You'd watch him stumbling into your shared apartment, drunkenly laughing about something they did while Hongjoong would walk in after him somehow completely sober.

The two of them are like water and fire, somehow working well together no matter how much people think they don't. Your brother's reckless, loud, and over the top. And then there's Hongjoong, confident, calm, a leader. Of course, they have their moments where suddenly they're sixteen again, excitedly screaming over each other about something stupid.

But they aren't sixteen anymore, they're twenty-seven now, still as close as ever. You see it all, hear it all, every last bit of it. But what Seonghwa doesn't see is how Hongjoong acts around you. Maybe you read too much into it, you do it a lot. But, he's softer with you, not in a brotherly way. He buys you treats you've talked about in the past, claiming the only reason he got it for you was because it was on the way to your apartment.

Even though the bakery he got it from is out of the way from yours and his apartment.

And what your brother especially doesn't know is that Hongjoong invites you over to his apartment late at night under the pretense of having you “write” music with him. Even if that "writing" consists of you sitting in the rolling chair having not a clue in the world as to what was happening. Even if you tell Seonghwa you’re going out with a friend, he wouldn’t dare question you.

It's not supposed to be secretive, it's not something he's embarrassed of. Neither of you are. But it's a sacred thing, something only you both can hold onto and enjoy without your brother being overly stupid and loud in his studio. Sometimes, Hongjoong thinks he prefers you— sorry, he knows he prefers you. And yes, he's your brother's friend, best friend. But god forbid a man likes it when something's simple, quiet.

And you're exactly that, simple and quiet. But not in a boring way. You’re quiet when you listen to his music, humming along to a beat you like and then giving him that pretty smile of yours before telling him how much you liked it. Because you always did— like it. You say the simplest things, but those simple things always have his heart growing in his chest, sending warm waves of some emotion he doesn’t seem to understand.

Since then, it's stayed that way— even when the three of you parted ways after high school. Seonghwa going off to work at a dance studio, Hongjoong moving further into the heart of New York to pursue his passion. And then there’s you, the girl who had nothing going for herself. The girl who didn’t know why she wanted to study even in her senior year of high school. So, you took a chance, signing up for a nursing degree at a university like you had any clue in the world of what that meant.

By some miracle it worked, this being your second year of working as a registered nurse at your local hospital. Sometimes you still think you aren’t cut out for it, the sleepless nights, the days you go without eating on accident, rude patients. It’s crazy how you haven’t grown a full head of gray hair by now. But you always show up, always sitting there on the couch when the boys get home with a smile on your face, food waiting for them in the microwave even if it’s seven in the morning and you’ve also just gotten home.

They notice, or at least Hongjoong does. Your brother is always one to fuss, complaining that you should be in bed by the time you open the front door to your shared apartment. You shouldn’t wait for him to get home because you know Hongjoong would get him there safely. But he’s always silent, chuckling to himself when he notices how you’ve mentally clocked out, not even bothering to pay attention to your brother's whines.

So it sometimes surprises him when you walk through the door of his studio, a large iced coffee in your hand and wearing the biggest pajamas he thinks he’s ever seen. Looking like a reincarnation of Adam Sandler walking through those doors. You’d sit on your chair, or maybe lay on the couch that sits in the back of the room. But he’d mess with a beat before he’d turn to you and ask about your day.

You’d shrug, sleepily staring off at his computer screen before complaining about the long hours, the little things most people wouldn’t care to listen to. But he’d listen. He always would.

You’re not surprised when Seonghwa decides to go left instead of right, making his way through empty streets to the one place you knew would be coming up in about fifteen minutes. Hongjoong's place. The radios moved on to a different artist, playing through the speakers but his song is still stuck in your head. You’ve only ever heard the music aiming out of his speakers, only coming from him. So now? Hearing them coming from the radio felt like a dream.

But at this moment you’re groaning, you can already imagine the beer bottles, the smell of cheese pizza from the local shop down the road, the too loud laughter coming from them. You don’t join them at parties, you’ve learned your lesson a long time ago. You’ll probably just watch them from his white couch, his hoodie pulled over you, smelling like him, and you’d gnaw on the strings as you’d watch them film some stupid tik tok video.

And you know what comes after, when you’re brothers knocked out on the couch and you’ve left to find solitude in the quiet of his studio, he’d find you. He’d sit next to you, make up some dumb question just to get you talking and then you’d be on your way home— Seonghwa knocked out in the back seat.

The inevitable comes, he’s pulling to the curb in front of the apartment, the roof closing with the click of a button. The engine falls to a silence when he clicks the off button, headlights clicking off. Your brother’s somehow already unbuckled and basically leaping out of the car— throwing you the keys into your lap before skipping over to the front door.

The metal keys are cold against your bare thigh, and you’re moving to follow your brother. Although slower. You can already hear the shouting, the deep cheering of Seonghwa’s voice from the open door. And you chuckle to yourself, locking the car behind you and tiredly making your way through the open front door— closing it behind you. The house smells nice, like cinnamon coffee and woodsy cologne. You’re taking off your shoes and leaving them neatly by the door, you don’t see your brothers but you know they’ll be somewhere scattered in the living room.

You’re padding down the hallway, metal car keys swinging in your hand. Floorboards creaking under the pressure.

And there they are, here he is.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a wide grin on his face, completely focused on the way your brother is pulling out his phone and waving it around. But you know Hongjoong isn’t really listening, just nodding along to whatever your brother is spewing out. Because when he glances over to the doorway— there you are. In all of your pajama glory, a too big navy tee on and your black sleep shorts.

He gives you a smile, it’s not like the one he gave Seonghwa. It’s smaller, but it still reaches his eyes and makes the ends of his lips curl up. You’re giving him a small nod, immediately heading over to his couch and sitting down with your phone in hand. And of course, you don’t notice the way his eyes are trailing you. The way he’s looking you up and down, eyeing the way the bottom of your shirt gets caught right above the curve of your ass, the way your toned thighs look under the lamp light. And you especially don’t notice the way he’s ogling the way your ass moves in those little shorts, so loose.

Your brothers laughing at his own jokes, hand wrapped tightly around a random beer he found in the fridge. He’s not even paying attention to his surroundings, voice bouncing off of the walls and somehow louder than the tv playing not even twenty feet away. Hongjoong just stays there, sweaty palms against the marbling of his kitchen counter top, eyes still flickering over to you. He's staring hard every so often, your legs bent under you, head laid back against the couch, thumb lazily scrolling on what he thinks is instagram.

He shouldn’t be staring, really shouldn’t be. Not with your protective older brother right in front of him. But he can’t help it, how could he? You’re beautiful, stunning. You always have been, at least to him. Even when you were going through that awkward phase in middle school, he still thought you were beautiful. But maybe it was the forced proximity, the coincidence of you just so happening to live in the same house as his best friend, your brother. But damn, it’s been twenty-four years and never once has he ever taken his eyes off you, not even when he got his first girlfriend in high school. And definitely not when you dated that guy in your junior year. Chan?? whatever his name was.

You’re Seonghwa’s little sister, a forbidden treasure he isn’t allowed to touch. Like a museum exhibit. But he’s watching you when your eyes begin to stray away from your phone, to the tv screen, to your brother then back to your phone. The way your lips form into a tight line when Seonghwa does something stupid, the way you shift on the couch for a comfier position. And holy shit, the way your shirt gets caught on your shoulder when you stretch, showcasing the smallest sliver of your skin to him before you drop your arms back into your lap.

“Bro? Hello?”

Oh shit.

“Huh?” He chokes, eyes ripping from you and over Seonghwa who’s waving a hand in front of his face.

“Did you even hear me? You’ve been staring at the TV for like forever.” He’s chuckling, a hand running through his messy locks before taking another sip of his beer.

Hongjoong’s scratching the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I heard you man. I just got distracted.”

Seonghwa huffs at that, leaning back against the counter across from Hongjoong and he’s already starting up about something else. Something about helping him make a song?

Hah, he’s funny.

Seonghwa’s good, really good actually. But that spot’s already taken, has your name written all over it. There’s literally a chair in his studio right now with little stickers plastered all over it, a little drawing of flowers you did in metallic sharpies— and Seonghwa sure as hell didn’t put them there.

The night moves on, you’ve found your way into his studio at the back of the apartment, the boys sitting on the couch. And it doesn’t take long, four beers and Seonghwa’s knocked out against the plush cushions. His phones’ slipped out of his hand and onto the floor, the screen lighting up with his Lock Screen before shutting off. Hongjoong thinks this is the funniest thing ever, even if he’s seen it everytime Seonghwa comes over.

It’s quiet now, the TV on mute, the kitchen lights dimmed. It’s late, maybe past midnight at this point. The fridge is emanating out a small hum, Seonghwa’s snoring against his arm. You’re not there, he knows where you are.

So he’s pushing off of the couch, your brother's empty beer bottle in hand. He’s placing it onto the cherry wood coffee table, careful to place it quietly to not wake Seonghwa like it’d make a difference. He’s knocked out, a train horn wouldn’t wake up the poor man. He's carefully making his way down the empty hallway, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. The floorboards are creaking under his weight, and he can see the bright light of your phone seeping out from under the door. He doesn’t knock, just turning the cold handle open with his palm and pushing it open.

And there you are, sitting crisscrossed in your chair.

There’s wires all over the edges of the wall meeting the floor, his monitors are on, casting a purple light around the room. He knows you’ve turned them on, and his heart slightly warms when he notices his latest work displayed on the screen.

“New song?” You murmur, voice quiet like if you’re any louder you’d scare him away. (Not possible)

He huffs out a laugh through his nose, closing the door behind him quietly with a soft click. “Yea, still a work in progress. I can’t figure it out yet.”

You hum, watching him sit down into his chair, pulling up the demo he’s written. “Lemme hear it.”

You don’t even need to wait for him, he’s already clicking play on the song, the instrumentals playing softly throughout the sound proof room. It’s something low, something heartfelt. It didn’t sound like the song he released, not like the song you heard on the radio. It’s almost like a love song, but of course there’s no lyrics to it. Just backing vocals, but it’s a pretty sound. It’s his vocals, of course it’s going to sound pretty.

It ends after a few minutes, and he’s looking at you with a sheepish look in his face, “Don’t tell me what you think yet, let me play around it first.”

So, that’s what you let him do. You’re sitting next to him in your rolling chair, mindlessly spinning around while he’s playing around with beats and samples. You’re not exactly bored because every once in a while he’ll pull on your chair, rolling it next to him and asking what you think about the new rhythm he came up with.

“What do you think of this?” He’s asking you, eyes staying in your face when you listen to it.

“It sounds good, I like it.” You’re truthful.

“Really? I don’t know how to feel about it. There’s something missing to it and I can’t figure it out. Maybe there should be a snare here, or maybe I should stretch this out to really make the vocals stand out when I write the lyrics…” Everything that’s coming out of his mouth sounds like a foreign language to you, bass this and treble that. You’re just nodding to whatever he says, he’s the professional anyway.

“I think it’s good.”

He’s giving you a glare and restarting the music. “You always think it’s good.”

You’re groaning into your hands, rubbing your face, “But that’s because it is good! I think everything you make is good.”

He’s giving you a long dramatic sigh when you whine, pausing the music then spinning in the chair to face you, “Yea but you never give me any feedback, it’s just “it’s good”, “sounds nice”, I need more because I feel like ripping out my hair whenever I make something.”

“It makes me think you’re humoring me,” he says after a pause.

“Humoring you? I’m not humoring you.”

“Then prove it.” He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink, just gives your chair another tug so you roll closer to him.

You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes shifts, less teasing, expectant. Your hand grips the arm of the chair, resisting the urge to shrink away from the situation, but he notices the way your breathing changes.

“You’re quiet now.” he smiles.

“Just thinking about how I’m supposed to prove that I’m not humoring you,” you shoot back, eyebrows knitted. He tilts his head, gaze dipping briefly to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. It’s not subtle, he wants you to notice. You notice it as soon as it happens.

You lean in, closing the last inch of space. Your lips press against his, it's sweet and soft. He’s kissing you back, his mouth hits against yours. You pull away, shrugging like your heart isn’t about to fall out of your chest.

“Is that good enough?” You ask.

“No, I think I need more.”

You’re groaning, playfully pushing him away from you with a wide smile on your face. You’re embarrassed, flustered. The way your face is burning makes you want to crawl into a little ball and die. You’ve had a crush on him since middle school, since the days he had that god awful bowl cut. You thought you’d never see the day where he’d express interest in you, you’ve dreamt about it, sure. But actually experiencing it? Actually having him basically beg you to kiss him without saying it?

Yea, you’re definitely in a dream because what the hell.

“You're so weird!” You giggle, a hand coming up to cover your face when you roll away from him.

He's just laughing at you, his face scrunched up into a wide smile. He’s not laughing at you— well he is, but that’s only because he thinks you’re cute. You’ve had your first kiss, you both have, so it’s not like kissing is some uncharted territory you’re just now exploring. You've done this a million times, but doing it with a boy you actually like has you going down a spiral.

“Cmon, just one more and I’ll let you listen to the song I wrote about you.” He chuckles.

That has your attention, you’re uncovering your eyes, furrowed brows. So you roll back over to him, “You wrote a song about me?”

He’s nodding, clicking out of the demo song before pulling up an entirely different software. “Mhm,” he hums, sucking in a breath, “I’ve had it done for years, just never shared it with anyone.”

Your jaw hangs open, and you're slapping him in the arm. “Years? Why didn’t you tell me— show me?”

He’s dramatically whining when you hit him, hands coming up to defend himself against your attacks. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, here’s a love song I wrote about you, my best friend's little sister’”

He has a point.

“Okay fine, whatever. I wanna hear it.” You tell him, arms crossing in front of your chest.

But he doesn’t make any move to press play on the keyboard, he just sits there, looking at you with a sly look on his face. And then you’re mentally facepalming when he taps in the plump skin of his lips.

You’re narrowing your eyes at him, but reluctantly you’re leaning forward, closer to him. He’s looking at you, eyes blown out and he has his signature smile plastered onto his lips. So, you kiss him, hand fisting the soft cotton of the collar of his shirt and you’re kissing him slowly. Lips perfectly slotted against yours, applying the perfect amount of pressure.

When you pull away, your hands are shaking. “Play it.” You choke out.

He chuckles, finally scooting himself closer to the keyboard and pressing down onto the space bar. “Fine, only because you asked so politely.”

masterlist

[noeyil]

Y/N, a grad student in engineering, is caught in the wrong place at the wrong time when she’s taken hostage by a rival gang to get to Wooyoung. What starts as fear and survival turns into trust, closeness, and eventually love. With threats in the shadows and unlikely allies along the way, Y/N and Wooyoung discover that home isn’t a place—it’s each other.

Pairing: Y/N × Wooyoung (ATEEZ)

Genre: Mafia AU • Romance • Angst • Smut • Found Family

Trope: Wrong place, wrong time • Forced proximity → trust • Clingy!Wooyoung • Protective × Brave • Slow-burn → Lovers • Found family warmth • Bickering side couple (Hongjoong × Nari)

Featuring: Ateez as Wooyoung’s gang/found family • Nari (Y/N’s best friend & chaos gremlin) • Seijun (enemy → ally) • Y/N’s grandmother (mentioned, emotional thread)

⚠️ Triggers: Violence, Kidnapping / hostage situation, Threats of sexual assault (non-con elements • harassment • forceful kissing/touching → not carried through), Blood • injuries • shooting, Angst • panic • fear responses (trauma aftermath, humiliation), Explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

“Then explain it,” Nari shot back. “Because right now all I see is a bunch of guys with guns and my best friend wearing one of your shirts. Do you think that doesn’t set off alarms in my head?”

Wooyoung smirked from the couch, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show. “Told you she’s scary,” he muttered under his breath.

Hongjoong ignored him, eyes still locked on Nari. “You think threatening me with some mercenary off the dark web changes anything? This world doesn’t play by those rules. Your loyalty is admirable, but misplaced. She’s safer here with us than she will ever be out there.”

Nari’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Safer? Locked in some hideout with eight dangerous men and no windows? Excuse me if I don’t see the safety brochure.” San nearly choked trying to smother his laughter.

Yeosang leaned forward, eyebrow raised. “You’re not scared?”

Nari turned her glare on him. “Of you? Please. I’ve seen scarier things in the girls’ bathroom on campus.”

Mingi snorted so loud the couch shook.

Hongjoong’s jaw ticked once — the tiniest crack in his composure — before he smoothed it over. “You mistake fearlessness for wisdom. Staying here means survival. Out there, she’s a target. And now that you’ve shown your face here? You’re one too.”

For the first time, Nari hesitated. Just a flicker. Y/N saw it — the way her friend’s jaw clenched tighter, the way her shoulders stiffened even more to hide the tremor.

But Nari lifted her chin anyway. “Then I guess you’re stuck with both of us. Because I’m not leaving her. And if you want me gone, you’ll have to drag me out yourself.”

The room froze.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. “Nari—”

But Hongjoong only studied her, gaze sharp as a scalpel. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved. “Terrifying,” he admitted softly. “And loyal.”

He finally stepped back, just enough for Nari to drop her hand. His eyes flicked to Y/N, then back to Nari. “Fine. She stays. For now. But if you even think of compromising us, I’ll know.”

Nari smirked, tiny and dangerous. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

San clapped his hands together, laughing so hard he bent double. “Oh, this is beautiful.”

Wooyoung leaned close to Y/N, his lips brushing her ear as he muttered, amused and fond, “Remind me never to piss off your best friend.”

Y/N groaned into her hands again.

The room was still buzzing faintly from Nari’s clash with Hongjoong. San was still wheezing laughter into his sleeve, Mingi muttered “unbelievable” every few seconds, and even Seonghwa looked a little dazed.

Nari, though, was unbothered. She marched straight to the couch and dropped down beside Y/N, arms crossed, foot tapping hard against the floor.

“Okay.” She turned, eyes blazing. “What the fuck happened?”

Y/N’s throat went tight. She tugged Wooyoung’s oversized shirt tighter around herself, wishing she could disappear inside it.

Nari’s eyes narrowed. “And don’t even think about giving me a half-answer. You’ve been missing, your phone’s blowing up, and now you’re here with…” She paused, glaring across the couch. “…him.”

Wooyoung, lounging with one arm draped along the backrest behind Y/N, smirked lazily. “Nice to meet you too.”

Nari’s glare sharpened like a blade. “You. Don’t talk.”

He raised his brows, grin widening. “Terrifying. No wonder she keeps you around.”

Y/N groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Nari, please—”

But Nari leaned forward, pointing between the two of them. “What is this? Why are you wearing his clothes? And why does he look like he’s glued himself to your side?”

Her cheeks burned hot. “It’s not— It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Nari repeated, unimpressed. She folded her arms tighter. “Well, I’m not moving until you uncomplicate it.”

Wooyoung chuckled low, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“Enough.” Y/N finally snapped, louder than she meant. She grabbed Nari’s wrist, squeezing. “Sit. Please. Let me explain.”

Nari blinked, then huffed, slumping back against the couch. “Fine. Talk. But if he so much as breathes wrong at you, I’m cutting his throat in his sleep.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a weak laugh. She drew in a shaky breath, clutching her sleeves, and began.

“I was walking home. After work. After we met.” Her voice wavered. “And then… it happened. They grabbed me. Tied me up. Because they thought I was—connected to him.” Her gaze flicked to Wooyoung, just for a second.

Nari’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“They wanted to use me to break him,” Y/N continued, her throat tightening. “It was… bad. They—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. “But we got out. Together.”

Silence followed.

Nari’s eyes softened, just slightly, as she studied her best friend. Then she turned her glare on Wooyoung again. “And you. You let her go through that?”

Wooyoung sat up straighter, smirk fading into something colder. “I didn’t let anything. I was tied to a chair too, sweetheart.” His eyes flicked to Y/N briefly, softening just enough. “She’s the reason we got out.”

Nari blinked at that, thrown for a second. She glanced back at Y/N, who nodded faintly.

“I fought back,” Y/N whispered. “I don’t even know how. But I… I did.”

Nari’s jaw worked, anger and relief warring on her face. Finally, she reached out, tugging Y/N into a quick, fierce hug. “You’re insane,” she muttered into her hair. “Insane. But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Y/N’s throat burned. She clutched her best friend back, eyes stinging.

Over Nari’s shoulder, she saw Wooyoung watching them, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

The hug barely ended before Nari turned, her sharp gaze locking back onto the group. And unfortunately, her eyes landed on Hongjoong.

She gave him a once-over, slow and deliberate, then arched a brow. “And you. What’s your deal? You look like someone shoved a model into a thrift store and told him to pose with a gun.”

The room froze.

San actually spit out the sip of water he’d just taken. Mingi doubled over, coughing on laughter. Even Yeosang’s lips twitched, though he tried to hide it behind his hand.

Hongjoong, however, didn’t flinch. His expression stayed smooth, unreadable — except for the faint tick of his jaw.

“My role?” he said evenly, voice like a blade sheathed in velvet. “Why don’t you guess?”

Nari smirked, folding her arms. “Driver? Coffee fetcher? Maybe you’re in charge of… I don’t know… gun modeling. Strike a pose, look broody, everyone claps?”

Laughter broke out again. San slapped Yunho’s arm, wheezing, “Gun modeling!” Yunho tried and failed to keep a straight face.

Hongjoong’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t humor. It was dangerous.

He stepped forward. Slow. Controlled. Every move deliberate. He stopped so close to Nari that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

“I’m the boss.”

The words dropped like lead into the room.

The laughter cut off instantly.

Even Nari blinked, thrown for the first time since she stormed in. She looked him up and down again, the confidence wavered just a fraction—then her chin lifted higher.

“Well,” she said, voice sharp again, “then this whole operation needs better branding. Because ‘pretty but scuffed’ doesn’t exactly scream terrifying crime lord.”

San groaned into his hands. Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose. Yunho muttered, “She’s going to get herself killed.”

But Hongjoong only leaned down further, his voice dropping low, for her alone. “Careful, little hacker. Being bold is admirable. But in my world, it can get you buried.”

For a heartbeat, the air was thick enough to choke on.

Then Nari smirked, sharp and unflinching. “Good thing I don’t plan on joining your world. I’m just here for her.” She jabbed her thumb toward Y/N. “So boss or not, deal with it.”

The air in the room had turned electric.

Hongjoong stood like a blade poised to strike, Nari glaring up at him with all five-foot-nothing of fury. The others sat frozen, caught between horror and fascination.

“You really want to keep poking me?” Hongjoong asked softly, dangerously.

Nari smirked. “Only because it’s so easy.”

San’s jaw dropped. Mingi muttered, “She’s signing her death certificate,” under his breath, though his eyes shone like he was watching the best show of his life.

Hongjoong tilted his head, considering her. “For someone so small, you’ve got a dangerous mouth.”

“And for someone so ego centric,” Nari snapped back instantly, “you’ve got nothing better to do than loom over women half your size? Congratulations, I’m terrified.”

San burst out laughing. Yunho tried to stifle his smile, shoulders shaking.

Hongjoong’s lips curved. Not a smile—something sharper. “Careful. You might make me think you like my attention.”

The room went silent.

Y/N nearly choked on air. “What—?! Hongjoong—!”

But Nari didn’t miss a beat. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “If I wanted your attention, Pretty Boy, I’d have asked you to fetch me a drink. Or maybe strike a pose by the window so I can judge your angles.”

Mingi slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from howling. Yeosang actually let out a quiet laugh before catching himself.

And Hongjoong… Hongjoong laughed. Low, dark, genuine. He leaned down further, so close Nari had to tilt her chin higher, refusing to back an inch.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I like it.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Are you—are you flirting with her?!”

San fell sideways on the couch, clutching his stomach. “Oh my god, this is better than TV.”

Seonghwa dragged a hand over his face, muttering something about children.

Nari smirked wider, sharp and victorious. “Good. Because I don’t care if you’re the boss or the janitor. Hurt her, and you’ll find out just how dangerous I can be.”

Hongjoong held her gaze for a long, tense beat. Then, impossibly, he smiled.

“Noted.”

The silence that followed was broken only by San gasping for breath, Mingi shaking his head in disbelief, and Wooyoung muttering to Y/N, half amused, half horrified, “Your best friend just made our boss blush.”

“HE DID NOT,” Y/N hissed, mortified.

But when she glanced up at Hongjoong, she wasn’t so sure.

Later that night, when the laughter and muttering had finally faded, Y/N found herself curled on the narrow bed of the room they’d given her. Nari sat cross-legged at the foot, arms folded, eyes sharp.

“So.” Her voice was deceptively casual. “What the hell was that?”

Y/N blinked. “What was what?”

Nari gave her a flat look. “Don’t play dumb. You. Him.” She jabbed a finger toward the door, toward wherever Wooyoung was. “All that hand-holding and jacket-sharing and eye contact that belongs in a K-drama poster.”

Y/N groaned, dragging the blanket over her head. “Nari…”

“Nope. Not letting it go.” Nari yanked the blanket down just enough to meet her eyes. “Talk. What’s going on between you and Smug Boy?”

Y/N hesitated. Then, slowly, quietly, she admitted, “He… isn’t bad.”

Nari snorted. “That’s a glowing endorsement.”

Y/N ignored her. “He cares. I can see it. The jokes, the smirk—yeah, he hides behind them. But he kept me alive. Protected me. And when I look at him…” Her voice faltered, cheeks warming. “I feel… safe. And I can’t pretend I don’t notice him. He’s—” She swallowed hard. “He’s handsome. And I’m… attracted to him.”

The silence stretched.

Then Nari let out a low whistle. “Wow. So you actually have a crush on a gang member.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what? Like it’s insane?” Nari’s mouth curved into a wicked smirk. “Because yeah, it’s insane. But—” she leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially— “I can’t even judge you.”

Y/N peeked at her through her fingers. “…Why?”

Nari’s smirk widened into a grin. “Because your terrifying mafia boss? Hongjoong? Pretty Boy with the scuffed aura? He had me on a choke hold earlier, and let me tell you…” She fanned herself dramatically. “I get it.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Nari!”

“What?!” Nari laughed, hands raised. “I’m just saying. You’ve got your thing, I’ve got mine. Apparently, we’ve both got questionable taste in men with dangerous jobs.”

Y/N groaned again, collapsing back onto the pillow. “This is a nightmare.”

Nari smirked, leaning back against the wall. “Or the start of a very messy romance novel. Either way—” She winked. “I’m here for it.”

Despite herself, Y/N laughed. A small, shaky laugh that loosened the knot in her chest.

For the first time since this had all started, with her best friend sitting across from her, it almost felt like home.

The HQ buzzed long after Y/N had pulled Nari away down the hall.

The common room lights burned low, but none of the boys moved toward their beds. They lingered in clusters, sprawled across the couch, chairs tipped back on two legs, arms folded. It was the kind of restless energy that came after chaos—too much to sleep, too little to act on.

San was still half doubled over on the couch, retelling the story like he hadn’t already done it three times.

“And then—” he wheezed, wiping at his eyes, “she poked him in the chest! Like bam, bam, bam! Our fearless leader, stabbed by the world’s tiniest finger.”

Mingi collapsed sideways against the armrest, groaning with laughter. “The way Hongjoong just stood there. I thought she’d break her hand before he flinched.”

Even Yunho was grinning, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anyone walk in here and act like that. She didn’t even blink.”

Wooyoung leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth. He wasn’t about to admit it, but it had been… entertaining. Watching Nari tear into Hongjoong like a storm was something he’d replay for weeks.

But what unsettled him more was that Hongjoong hadn’t just tolerated it.

He’d liked it.

Seonghwa sighed from the armchair, pressing his knuckles against his temple. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Yeosang’s lips quirked. “Or very entertaining.”

Jongho, silent in the corner, muttered, “Scarier than most of the guys we fight.”

San perked up again, grin wide. “Boss, you’re not even gonna deny it, are you? You like her.”

All eyes turned to Hongjoong.

The leader leaned back in his chair, arms loose, gaze calm. But there was something in the corner of his mouth—smug, self-satisfied, like a cat who’d cornered the canary.

“She’s… interesting,” Hongjoong said smoothly.

The room erupted.

“Interesting?!” Mingi spluttered. “That’s your word? She literally threatened to hire a dark web hitman to take you out.”

“And she meant it,” Yunho added, grinning.

Hongjoong only shrugged, his smirk sharpening. “I’ve had worse threats. Not half as… creative.”

San practically slid off the couch, cackling. “Creative?! Oh my god, he’s gone. Our boss is gone.”

Even Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”

Wooyoung snorted, shaking his head. “You’re actually flirting with her.”

Hongjoong’s eyes slid to him, sharp and deliberate. “And you’re not with y/n?”

The laughter cut off like a gunshot.

Wooyoung froze. “…Excuse me?”

The room went very still, every gaze swinging between them.

Hongjoong leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. His smile was slow, dangerous. “You think we haven’t noticed?”

“Ohhh,” San drawled, eyes lighting up like fireworks. “Here we go.”

Mingi pointed dramatically. “Mister ‘she’s with me.’ Mister jacket-sharer. Mister glue-hand.”

Heat pricked up Wooyoung’s neck. “I was protecting her.”

“Protecting?” Yunho arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s wearing your clothes all the time” Yeosang said dryly. “Big coincidence, I’m sure.”

Seonghwa’s gaze was more thoughtful, less sharp—but no less pointed. “You don’t joke around her the same way. You stopped the second she looked scared.”

San smirked, wicked. “And let’s not forget the couch incident. Almost kiss? Ring any bells?”

Wooyoung’s smirk faltered. “You—”

Hongjoong tapped his temple. “Walls have ears and eyes. And mouths, apparently.”

The room exploded again—laughter, groans, whistles.

“Oh my god,” San gasped. “He almost kissed her! I knew it!”

Mingi thumped his fist against the armrest, howling. “This is the best night of my life.”

Even Jongho gave a quiet grunt of agreement, muttering, “Obvious.”

Wooyoung clenched his jaw, heat crawling up his skin. He leaned heavier against the wall, smirk snapping back into place like armor. “You’re all pathetic. Making things up because you’re bored.”

But his chest felt too tight. Because Hongjoong wasn’t making things up.

He remembered it too clearly: the way she’d looked at him, wide-eyed, soft, trembling but unafraid of him. The way her lips had parted, her breath warm against his own. The way the world had narrowed to just her—until Seonghwa’s voice had shattered it.

His heart kicked hard against his ribs. He shoved the memory down, smirk sharpening. “She’s just different. That’s all.”

Hongjoong tilted his head, gaze narrowing in on him like a hawk. “Different enough that you’d kill anyone who touched her. Different enough that you haven’t taken your eyes off her since she walked in. Different enough that she’s the one person who makes you drop the act.”

The smirk slipped for a fraction of a second.

Wooyoung pushed off the wall, stalking toward the counter to grab a glass, anything to break the weight of the eyes on him. “You’re all imagining things.”

San whistled low. “Denial looks good on you, Woo.”

“Shut up.”

He poured water, grip tight on the glass. The laughter behind him was too loud, too knowing.

But when he lifted the glass to his lips, the reflection in the darkened window betrayed him: his own eyes, softer than they should be, fixed not on the glass, not on the boys—

On the hallway where she’d disappeared.

The laughter still echoed behind him as he stalked down the hall, water glass forgotten on the counter.

“Obvious.”

“Almost kissed her.”

“Denial looks good on you, Woo.”

Their voices rattled in his skull, but it wasn’t their words that burned. It was the memory. Her eyes, wide and gold-flecked in the lamplight. The way she’d leaned closer without even realizing. The way his chest had clenched like something caged wanted out.

He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

He should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve ignored the itch in his chest, the heat crawling under his skin. But his feet carried him down the hallway anyway, past the locked doors, toward the one where he knew she’d be.

The door cracked open before he even knocked.

Y/N stood there, oversized shirt draped over her, damp hair brushing her shoulders. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him. “Wooyoung?”

His smirk came out instinctive, armor. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She hesitated, then pulled the door wider, stepping back just enough for him to enter.

Nari wasn’t there—thank god. Just her.

The small room smelled faintly of her shampoo, warm and soft. She perched on the edge of the bed, hands twisting in her sleeves. He leaned against the wall, watching her.

Silence stretched, heavy, filled with everything unspoken.

Finally, she broke it. “The guys were loud. What were they talking about?”

His jaw flexed. He should lie. Deflect. Throw out some joke about Mingi’s terrible poker face or San’s endless noise.

Instead, he pushed off the wall and crossed the room.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

He stopped in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his thighs where he stood. Close enough to see the freckles across her nose, the flecks of gold in her irises.

His hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair back behind her ear.

She froze, trembling under his touch.

“You really want to know what they said?” he murmured.

She nodded once, small, uncertain.

“That I can’t hide it.” His voice dropped lower. “That I look at you different. That I’d kill for you. That I almost kissed you.”

Her breath caught, chest rising fast. “Wooyoung—”

He leaned down, closing the space, until his forehead nearly touched hers. His thumb traced along her jaw, steady, grounding.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he whispered.

Her lips parted. She didn’t pull back.

So he kissed her.

Slow at first, testing, the barest brush of his mouth against hers. Heat sparked through his chest like fire catching on kindling.

She leaned in. Just enough. Enough to answer him. Enough to burn.

The kiss deepened, his hand cupping her cheek, hers fisting in the hem of his shirt. For a moment, the world narrowed again, all the noise, the danger, the madness falling away until there was only this—her lips, soft and certain against his, and the sharp ache in his chest that said he was already too far gone.

When they finally broke apart, she was breathless, eyes wide, lips pink.

He smirked, softer this time, almost tender. “Guess they were right.”

Her laugh came shaky, but real. “About what?”

His thumb brushed her cheek again. “That I can’t hide it.”

The first kiss should’ve been enough.

Slow. Testing. A secret they could tuck away and pretend never happened.

But the second her fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him back in, every thought shattered.

He kissed her harder. No hesitation this time, no pretense of control. His mouth slanted over hers, greedy, desperate, like he could pour every unsaid word into the shape of her lips.

Her breath hitched, her hand sliding up to his shoulder. He pressed closer, crowding into her space until there was nowhere left for her to go but backwards.

She stumbled, knees brushing the edge of the bed, and then she fell onto it with a soft gasp.

He stopped just long enough to look.

She lay sprawled across the blanket, hair fanned like a halo, cheeks flushed, chest rising fast. Her eyes locked on him, steady despite the trembling in her breath, her hand lifting, reaching for him.

And something inside his chest snapped.

He was ruined. Absolutely ruined.

For all the danger, for all the darkness that clung to him, he’d never seen anything as devastating as her looking at him like that—wanting him, trusting him.

His heart squeezed so hard it hurt.

He braced one hand on the bed beside her hip, leaning down until his shadow swallowed her whole. His other hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her flushed skin.

Then he kissed her again.

Not careful this time. Not tentative.

Claiming.

His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the ache clawing through his chest. She met him, lips parting, breath mingling, her hands clutching at his shirt like she needed him closer, closer still.

He kissed her until her gasp melted into a soft sound against his mouth, until the world outside the four walls of that room ceased to exist.

When he pulled back, it was only enough to press his forehead to hers, his breath ragged.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, voice rough, “what you’ve done to me.”

Her eyes searched his, wide and unflinching. “Then show me.”

His chest clenched again, sharp, unstoppable. He kissed her once more, sealing the promise he couldn’t say aloud:

Whatever came for them—he’d protect her. No matter what.

Because he was already hers.

And if the day came when she needed protecting from him—from the blood on his hands, from the darkness that lived in his world—then he would protect her from that too.

Even if it broke him.

The HQ in the morning felt strange. Too quiet for how many bodies lived inside it, too warm with all the eyes that followed her.

Nari sipped her coffee, bitter and strong, perched at the kitchen counter like she owned it. Y/N had shut herself away in the room, textbooks spread like armor across the desk, pretending she was still just another grad student cramming before exams.

But Nari had seen her best friend’s face when she walked past earlier.

Flushed cheeks. Tangled hair. Lips too pink.

Not exhaustion. Not studying.

Something else.

And sitting across the counter, flipping a knife through his fingers with infuriating smugness, was the culprit.

Wooyoung.

Nari narrowed her eyes. “So…”

He didn’t look up. “So what?”

“My friend.” She tilted her head, watching the way his knuckles tightened slightly around the knife. “She looked like she’d been… I don’t know. Kissed stupid.”

The knife faltered. Just a heartbeat, but she caught it. He recovered smoothly, spinning the blade again. “You’ve got an overactive imagination.”

“Mmhm.” She smirked, swirling the last sip of coffee in her mug. “Funny, because I’ve never seen you look like that either.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp. “Like what?”

“Like someone stole your puppy.” Her grin widened, wicked. “Or maybe like someone let you have it, then locked it back in the kennel before morning.”

Mingi choked on his water. San burst out laughing, nearly sliding off the couch.

Wooyoung muttered something sharp under his breath in Korean, shoved the knife into his pocket, and stalked out of the kitchen without another word.

Nari smirked into her coffee. “Thought so.”

The others were staring now—half entertained, half horrified.

And of course, her gaze landed on Hongjoong.

He sat like a king in his chair, tea balanced delicately in his hand, eyes unreadable as ever.

Nari leaned her chin on her palm, her smile sharp. “So, Boss. Why does your smug little chess piece look like that? Did someone knock over your perfect board? Or do you just hate when your pawns start acting human?”

The silence was immediate.

San’s mouth fell open. Yeosang muttered, “She’s going to get herself killed.”

But Hongjoong only smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Careful, little hacker. Keep poking, and you’ll find yourself on the board too.”

Nari arched a brow. “What am I then? A knight? A rook? Or are you just hoping I’ll be your queen?”

Mingi nearly spat his drink across the floor. Yunho groaned into his hands. Even Seonghwa muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Hongjoong didn’t blink. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “A queen’s too obvious. You’re a wildcard. Unpredictable. Dangerous if left unchecked.”

Nari smirked. “And yet here I am. Checking you.”

That drew a ripple of laughter around the room, though uneasy.

Hongjoong’s smile sharpened. “Tell me, Nari. What exactly do you think you’re doing here?”

She straightened, uncrossing her arms. “Protecting her. Because clearly, none of you can be trusted to.”

That earned her several sharp looks, but she didn’t flinch.

“She was dragged into this because of him.” Nari jabbed her finger toward the hallway where Wooyoung had disappeared. “And because of you. This whole operation—this world—chewed her up and spit her into your laps. So forgive me if I don’t sit pretty and thank you for letting her breathe.”

The air went heavy.

Hongjoong’s smirk slipped into something colder, sharper. “She’s alive because of us. Because of him. Out there, she’d be dead already. Do you really think your loyalty means more than that?”

Nari leaned forward across the counter, eyes blazing. “My loyalty means I’ll burn this place down before I let her die in it.”

A few of the boys shifted uncomfortably. Jongho muttered, “She’s insane.”

But Hongjoong… laughed. Low, dark, amused.

“You really think you scare me?” he asked, voice almost fond.

Nari smirked. “No. But I annoy you. Which is better.”

The room buzzed again—San wheezing, Mingi openly grinning, Yeosang shaking his head.

Hongjoong tilted his head, gaze glinting. “You’ve got guts. Loyalty. Fire. Dangerous combination.”

“And you’ve got smugness, a good bone structure, and a god complex,” Nari shot back. “Also a dangerous combination.”

That earned her another round of half-choked laughter from the couches.

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, lips curving slowly. “You think this is a game.”

“No.” Nari’s smirk softened into something sharper, steadier. “I think this is her life. And I’ll keep fighting until she’s safe, whether you like it or not.”

For once, the silence that followed didn’t feel heavy. It felt like something shifting.

Hongjoong studied her for a long moment, then smiled. “Good.”

Her brows shot up. “Good?”

“Good.” He sipped his tea like he hadn’t just threatened and complimented her in the same breath. “I like dangerous.”

San’s jaw hit the floor. Mingi slapped Yunho’s shoulder. Even Seonghwa looked like he’d aged five years.

And Nari, smirking into her empty mug, thought, Good. Then we understand each other.

The walls of the HQ pressed too close. The laughter and voices in the common room, Nari’s fire and Wooyoung’s smug silence—they all tangled in her chest until she couldn’t breathe.

So she slipped out. Quiet, unnoticed, sliding down the back corridor until the heavy door opened and night air hit her face.

Cold. Sharp. Real.

She wrapped her arms around herself, stepping into the shadows, head tipped back to the stars. But even the bite of the wind couldn’t push away the heat still burning under her skin.

The memory.

The bed.

The way Wooyoung had kissed her like he was drowning and she was the only thing keeping him afloat. The way his mouth had claimed hers, his body braced above her, her hair fanned across the blanket, his eyes dark and desperate. She’d thought—God, she’d thought—

But then he’d pulled back.

She remembered the way his chest had heaved, the way his eyes had burned into hers. For one perfect, breathless moment she’d thought he would say it—thought he would finally put words to the way he looked at her.

Instead, his voice had broken the world in two.

“That can’t happen again.”

Her stomach had dropped. She’d reached for him, fingers trembling, but he’d pulled away like her touch burned.

Her voice had cracked. “Why not?”

He hadn’t looked at her. His gaze had fixed somewhere over her shoulder, anywhere but her. “Because it was a mistake. You’re just…” His jaw clenched. “You’re just someone I have a responsibility for. I kissed you because I felt like it. Nothing more.”

The words had sliced clean through her.

But she’d seen it—the flicker when his smirk had faltered, the tightness in his jaw. She’d seen straight through the mask he’d scrambled to pull back over his face.

“You’re lying,” she’d whispered, anger trembling under the ache. “You don’t get to pretend it meant nothing when I can see it all over you. I like you. I am falling for you.”

But he hadn’t answered. Just stood, shoulders stiff, mask firmly in place, until the silence pressed too heavy between them.

Now, outside in the night air, Y/N pressed her palms to her eyes, the sting of tears hot and humiliating.

She’d told him the truth—I like you. I’m falling for you. And he’d buried it under that damn smirk, under the same armor he used on everyone else.

“Coward,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You’re a coward.”

She turned away, stumbling further into the alley, wiping her face furiously. She needed distance, needed to breathe without his shadow choking her.

Her steps faltered when she realized she wasn’t alone.

Boots scuffed against the concrete ahead.

She looked up—heart lurching—to see a figure stepping out of the dark, blocking her path.

The night air burned her lungs as she sucked it in, trying to steady her racing thoughts.

She’d only wanted distance. A breath away from him, from the suffocating walls, from the ache that still clung to her lips.

Instead, she found herself staring at shadows that moved.

Three figures detached themselves from the alley wall like they’d been waiting all along. Her blood froze.

Recognition hit her like a blade to the gut.

The calm one. His sharp jaw, his unreadable eyes. The one who had touched her face, cut her hoodie away like she was nothing. Beside him, the two others who’d held Wooyoung down, who’d tied her wrists raw.

Her breath stuttered.

“Well,” the calm one murmured, voice smooth as ice. “Look who wandered right back to us.”

Her legs locked. Her mind screamed run, but her body wouldn’t move fast enough.

They surged forward.

“No—”

A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting the sound short. She thrashed, panic clawing through her chest. Teeth sank into his palm, hard, until the copper tang of blood filled her mouth.

The man hissed, jerking back, but another arm caught her, yanking her tight against a chest that smelled of smoke and sweat.

She kicked, wild, her foot slamming into a shin. A curse exploded in her ear.

The calm one didn’t flinch. He simply stepped closer, tilting his head. “Still fighting. Good. It makes it more fun when we break you.”

Terror ripped through her—but so did fury. She tried to scream, throat tearing as sound ripped free—

“HELP!”

The cry echoed down the street, sharp and raw. For a second, she thought maybe—maybe someone would hear—

But the hand was back, brutal against her mouth. Her words muffled into nothing as they dragged her toward the curb.

The door of a black car swung open.

Her heels scraped the pavement, her fists pounding against arms that felt like iron. She twisted, bit, screamed again, but they shoved her inside with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs.

The door slammed. Locks clicked.

Her chest heaved, tears stinging hot in her eyes.

The calm one slid into the seat across from her, watching like a predator who had all the time in the world.

“Round two,” he said softly, smirk curving. “Let’s see how long you last this time.”

The engine roared to life.

And the building—the only place she’d felt even a shred of safety—disappeared behind her.

The leather seat was cold against her arms where they’d shoved her down. The smell of gasoline and sweat clung to the air, the low growl of the engine vibrating through her bones.

Her wrists burned from their grip. Her chest heaved, each breath sharp and fast.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

She forced herself to sit upright, even as the man across from her leaned back casually, like this was just another night drive. His dark eyes never left her face.

The calm one.

Her skin crawled.

He smiled faintly, tilting his head. “You should know my name.”

She swallowed hard, refusing to look away.

“So you’ll have something to cry out later.”

The front seat erupted with laughter, harsh and cruel.

Her stomach twisted, but she pressed her back against the seat, locking her jaw. Silence.

He watched her, unbothered by her lack of response. “Seijun.” His voice was low, deliberate. “Remember it. You’ll be begging it before the night is done.”

The laughter grew louder, one of the men slapping the dashboard.

Y/N clenched her fists tight in her lap, nails biting her palms. She refused to speak. Refused to give them the satisfaction.

Seijun’s smile widened. “Strong, hm? Good. The boss likes them with fire. Makes it more entertaining to put it out.”

Her pulse stuttered.

The boss.

Every time they said the word, her chest tightened. Whoever sat above these men—whoever was waiting for her—was worse. She knew it. She felt it in her bones.

But she stayed silent. Because if all she had was her silence, then she would wield it like a weapon.

The man in the passenger seat twisted back to leer at her. “He’s been asking about you. Can’t wait to meet the girl who made Wooyoung bleed.”

The driver snorted. “Bet she won’t last five minutes.”

The laughter burned in her ears.

Her jaw ached from clenching so tight. Her heart hammered. She thought of Nari upstairs, of the boys in that stupid noisy common room, of Wooyoung’s lips still burning against hers—

And she forced herself to sit taller.

She wouldn’t let them see her break.

The sound hit like a bullet.

High. Sharp. Desperate.

A scream that shredded through the HQ walls and tore right into his chest

Wooyoung’s glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the counter. He didn’t even hear it hit. His body was already moving, heart slamming so hard it rattled his ribs.

“Wooyoung?” Yunho’s voice rose behind him, confused.

But he was already sprinting down the hall. Boots slammed against the floor, his breath ripping through his throat. He ripped open the side door—

And the world tilted.

Under the dim glow of the streetlamp, three shadows wrestled her toward a car.

Her hair tangled, her limbs flailing. Her voice ripped raw into the night—Help!—before a hand clamped over her mouth again.

His blood went cold. His vision tunneled.

“No,” he whispered, voice strangled. Then louder, a roar from somewhere deep and primal: “NO!”

He was out the door before thought caught up.

Behind him, the HQ exploded into chaos.

San’s voice cracked, “Holy shit—”

Mingi cursed violently.

Seonghwa snapped something sharp and fast, already moving.

And Nari—Nari’s scream sliced through him almost as deep as Y/N’s had. “Y/N!”

The car door slammed. Tires screeched.

Wooyoung ran harder, legs burning, lungs tearing. The pavement blurred under his feet. But the car was already moving, pulling away, taillights flashing red like mocking eyes.

He reached the curb just as it sped off.

Too far. Too late.

His chest cracked open. His hands curled into fists so tight his nails cut his palms.

They’d taken her.

Again.

Hands grabbed his arms, dragging him back before he could chase the impossible.

“Wooyoung!” Yunho’s grip bit into his shoulder. “You can’t—!”

“Let me GO!” he snarled, twisting, teeth bared. Rage burned through every vein, hot and choking.

San skidded to his other side, eyes wide. “She’s gone, she’s already gone!”

“Shut up!” His voice cracked, throat raw. His chest heaved, vision still full of her face pressed to the window, eyes wide with terror.

Nari’s sob broke behind him. “They—they took her—”

Seonghwa’s voice cut through the panic, sharp as a blade. “We have to think. We can’t run blind.”

But Wooyoung’s ears rang with nothing but the echo of her scream. The feel of her hands clutching his shirt. The memory of her lips against his.

I like you. I’m falling for you.

And he had told her it meant nothing.

Now she was gone.

Because of him.

His knees nearly buckled, but he forced them straight, rage hardening into something lethal. His hands shook, his chest still heaving.

Hongjoong’s voice snapped from the doorway, sharp and commanding. “Inside. Now.”

The others hesitated, breathless, staring between Wooyoung and the empty street.

But Wooyoung didn’t move. Couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on the dark road where the car had vanished, his chest carved hollow.

His voice came low, breaking. “I’m going to kill them.”

No one doubted he meant it.

The HQ was chaos.

San paced the length of the common room like a caged dog, running both hands through his hair. Mingi was swearing in the garage, the clatter of metal echoing through the concrete walls. Seonghwa stood at the map table, voice clipped and sharp as he tried to keep the pieces together.

Wooyoung sat apart.

Elbows braced on his knees, hands tangled in his hair, head bowed. His chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough. The air never reached his lungs.

The others’ voices blurred together, a cacophony he couldn’t process. All he could hear—over and over—was the sound of her scream splitting the night.

And then her voice. Softer. Shaking.

“I like you. I’m falling for you.”

The words cut deeper now than when she’d said them. He’d lied to her face. Told her she was nothing but responsibility. Watched her eyes dim when she realized he wouldn’t admit the truth.

Now she was gone.

And all he could think was that she’d died believing he didn’t care.

His stomach twisted hard. His hands shook where they dug into his scalp.

“Wooyoung.” Yunho crouched in front of him, steady hand on his shoulder. “Breathe.”

He couldn’t. His chest locked, air scraping.

The blur of voices sharpened suddenly.

“Enough.” Hongjoong’s command cut across the room like glass breaking. Instantly, everyone stilled. “We don’t waste time panicking. We track the car. Now. Yunho, board. Yeosang, feeds. San, gear. Seonghwa—blueprints.”

Everyone scattered into motion. Everyone but him.

He sat frozen, shame curdling in his gut, until a new voice cracked sharp.

“Move.”

Nari.

She shoved Yeosang out of the chair at the computer and dropped into it, her fingers already flying across the keyboard.

Yeosang bristled. “What are you—”

“Hacking,” she snapped. The big monitor filled with flashing error messages. Her jaw clenched as her hands blurred over the keys. “Unless you’d rather sit here useless while they drive off with her.”

The room went dead quiet.

Traffic cameras began to light up one by one across the screen. Grainy feeds of intersections and streets, headlights crawling like ants.

San gaped. “You’re actually—”

“Yes, genius,” Nari cut him off, eyes darting between screens. “Shut up so I can work.”

Her voice trembled with fury, but her hands never slowed. She traced feed after feed, pulling up maps, layering the city grid across the screen. Then she stilled, zooming in.

“There.” She boxed a car. “Black sedan, rear glass has a smudge. That’s them.”

The feed jumped—one intersection, then another—as the car was tracked east.

Wooyoung’s head snapped up. His pulse kicked hard. “Pier Thirty. The warehouses.” His voice was hoarse, but sure.

Hongjoong’s gaze flicked to him, sharp. “You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Nari’s mouth curved in a grim little smile. “Got them.”

The room held ist breath.

Then Hongjoong straightened, his voice cutting like a blade. “Gear up. We move.”

Wooyoung’s hands curled into fists. Her voice still echoed in his head. His chest still ached with guilt.

But this time—this time—he wouldn’t let go.

The warehouse smelled of rust and oil, every step echoing against hollow walls. Their grip on her arms was bruising, forcing her forward no matter how she dug her heels into the concrete.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, but she kept her chin lifted. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

They dragged her through a set of double doors into a wide room lit by a single strip of fluorescent light. At the far end sat a man in a tailored suit, a glass of amber liquor in his hand.

The boss.

He looked younger than she expected, but his eyes were sharp, calculating — the kind that stripped everything bare. His smile didn’t reach them.

“Finally.” His voice was smooth, measured. “The girl who managed to slip out of my men’s hands once already.” He gestured lazily. “Bring her here.”

The men shoved her forward until her knees hit the edge of a rug. She stumbled, catching herself just in time. Her pulse thundered, but she forced herself to meet his eyes.

He studied her like she was a puzzle piece he’d been missing. “So. You’re the one Wooyoung risked his neck for. Interesting.” He swirled his glass, gaze flicking to her and then past her, like he could already see the strings that tied her to Ateez. “Through you, we get to him. Through him, we get to Hongjoong.”

The name sent a ripple of dread through her. She knew enough now to understand: this wasn’t just about her. This was about war.

Her palms dampened, but she pressed them into fists at her sides. Stay calm. Don’t let him see you shake.

The boss leaned back, smiling faintly. “But I don’t like rushing. Fear needs time to bloom. And you, girl—you’ll be the perfect seed.”

Her stomach twisted.

Then his gaze shifted, sliding over her shoulder. “Seijun.”

Her blood ran cold.

The calm one stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall. Seijun’s eyes caught the light, glinting with something sharp. A slow, suggestive smirk tugged at his lips.

Y/N’s chest tightened.

The boss tipped his chin toward her. “She’s yours to watch.”

Seijun’s smirk widened. He tilted his head, gaze dragging over her like a blade. “Anything I can’t do to her?” His tone was smooth, playful, as if he were asking about dinner instead of her body.

The boss chuckled into his glass. “Keep her sane. Don’t break her. Not too much.”

Heat crawled down her spine. The walls felt too close, the air too thin.

Seijun’s eyes found hers again, and the promise in his smile made her stomach turn.

Y/N forced herself to stay standing tall, fists still tight at her sides, even as her pulse thundered.

But inside, all she could hear was one thought, over and over—

Wooyoung, please hurry.

The door slammed shut, the lock sliding home with a metallic click that echoed too loudly in the hollow room.

Silence.

Her breath came too fast. She pressed it down, forcing her chest to steady, eyes locked on the man standing between her and the door.

Seijun.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He only stood, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on her with that same unnerving stillness.

She braced herself, nails biting into her palms. She expected the taunting words, the leer, the hand reaching for her like before.

But nothing came.

The quiet stretched until it wrapped around her throat.

Finally, his voice broke it. Low. Even.

“Your grandmother. She used to live by the south clinic, didn’t she?”

Y/N blinked. Her breath caught. “How do you—”

“She kept bandages in a kitchen drawer.” His eyes shifted away, just for a moment. “She didn’t ask questions when a boy knocked on her door at midnight, bleeding all over her steps.”

Her stomach twisted.

“She patched me up more times than I can count.” His voice softened, something fraying at the edges. “Fed me when I hadn’t eaten in days. Hummed while she worked. Never asked who I was, or what I’d done.”

The memory was so vivid in his tone it made her chest ache. She could almost see it—her grandmother at the stove, ladle in one hand, reaching with the other to check a bandage, scolding and smiling in the same breath.

Seijun finally met her eyes again. “That boy was me.

Her knees weakened.

“I owe her everything,” he said. “She was the only one who treated me like I wasn’t dirt. Like I could still be something.” His jaw clenched. “She’s gone. And you… you’re all that’s left of her.”

Her throat worked. She wanted to scream at him, spit at him, tell him he didn’t deserve to speak her grandmother’s name. But the look in his eyes—raw, unguarded—froze her words.

“You tried to—” Her voice shook, anger sparking under her fear. “You put your hands on me. You cut my clothes off. You—”

“I know.” His mask cracked. For the first time, he looked away in something close to shame. “And I’m sorry.”

The apology rocked her harder than the threats ever had.

“I was playing the role expected of me,” he said, quieter now. “The one that keeps me alive. Cruel. Untouchable. It’s what he—” his head tilted toward the boss’s office beyond the wall “—expects. What he rewards.�� He swallowed, the sound harsh. “I hated it the second I knew who you were. Even though it is a weak reason.“

Y/N’s chest ached. “Then why didn’t you stop?”

His jaw flexed. “Because fear keeps me alive. Fear of looking weak. Fear of what he’d do if I didn’t.” His voice roughened. “Hurting people is the only language I learned to survive. Until her. Until you.”

She stared at him, torn between fury and disbelief.

Then, slowly, he stepped back. Put deliberate space between them.

“I’ll keep you alive,” he said quietly. “That’s all I can promise. I can’t fight him. But I can make sure you come out of this breathing.” His eyes flicked to hers, steady. “No one else will touch you if I can stop it.”

Her breath trembled. Something fragile flickered in her chest—something she wanted to crush but couldn’t.

Hope.

Still, she wrapped her arms around herself, glaring at him through the burn of tears. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Don’t.”

The silence pressed heavy again. Seijun finally moved to a chair against the wall, sinking into it with a sigh, his face unguarded now, stripped bare of smugness. He looked younger like that.

When he spoke again, it was almost to himself. “I’ll keep you breathing. That’s the least I can do for her.”

Y/N curled against the opposite wall, pulse hammering, whispering into her knees where he couldn’t hear—

The minutes ticked heavy in the silence. Y/N sat with her back against the cold wall, knees hugged to her chest. Across the room, Seijun leaned in his chair, eyes half-lidded but always watchful, like a predator resting but never asleep.

She hated how calm he looked. Hated more that his words still tangled in her chest.

I’ll keep you alive. That’s all I can promise.

She wanted to scoff, spit at him, tell him she didn’t need his pity. But her grandmother’s memory lingered in the space between them, weaving threads she couldn’t untangle.

After a long while, his voice cut through. “She used to tell me stories, you know. Your grandmother. About the war. About the way people survived with nothing but scraps and stubbornness.”

Y/N blinked, startled. “She never told me those.”

A small, almost wistful smirk flicked at his mouth. “She said I reminded her of the men she grew up with. Too stubborn to die.” He leaned back further, eyes flicking to her. “She called me reckless. She wasn’t wrong.”

Her throat tightened. Against her will, she pictured her grandmother’s warm laugh, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes. The image twisted painfully against the sharp lines of Seijun’s face.

Silence stretched again before he asked, sudden and blunt, “You and Wooyoung. Are you really a thing?”

Her breath caught. Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I—”

What could she say? That she’d kissed him? That he’d kissed her like she was the only thing in the world, then pushed her away like it meant nothing? That her chest still ached with the echo of her confession?

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Seijun studied her, unreadable, but whatever he might have said next was cut off by the clang of the door.

The other two strolled in, grinning like wolves.

“Boss keeping you busy, Seijun?” one drawled, his eyes sliding over Y/N in a way that made her stomach lurch. “Maybe you let us have a little fun, eh? She looks bored.”

Her blood iced.

Seijun’s face smoothed into the cold mask she recognized, his voice flat. “She’s mine. Boss’s orders.”

The second one snorted. “Orders, orders. He’s not here now. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Yeah,” the first sneered. “Come on, Seijun. Don’t be selfish.”

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears. She pressed back against the wall, panic clawing up her throat.

Seijun’s eyes flicked once to her, then back to them. His smirk returned, but sharper this time. “I said. She’s. Mine.”

The men laughed. One stepped closer. “Since when do you share nothing, Seijun? Always so greedy—”

He didn’t finish.

Seijun moved like lightning, a blur of controlled violence. His fist cracked into the man’s jaw with a sound that echoed through the walls. The man crumpled before he could even curse.

The second lunged, rage flashing—but Seijun caught him by the collar, yanked him forward, and slammed his head into the wall. The body went limp, sliding boneless to the floor.

The silence after was deafening.

Y/N’s chest heaved, eyes wide, heart hammering. She stared at the two unconscious bodies sprawled on the concrete, then at Seijun.

He turned to her, his calm restored, though his chest rose just slightly faster than before. “We need to go. Now.”

Her legs felt shaky as she scrambled up, but she followed.

He led her fast and quiet through the back corridor, every step calculated, every corner checked. For a flicker of a moment, she believed him. Believed he might actually get her out.

The door was in sight, faint moonlight spilling through the crack.

And then it wasn’t.

Figures stepped from the shadows. Men with guns. And at their center, the boss himself, sipping calmly from a new glass.

“Well, well,” the boss said, voice smooth and amused. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you grow a heart, Seijun?”

Seijun froze, then stepped forward, placing himself between Y/N and the danger. His stance was steady, protective.

The boss’s smile sharpened. “I should’ve known. The moment I heard she was that old woman’s granddaughter, I stopped trusting you with her.” His eyes glinted, cruel. “But I was curious. How long would it take before you cracked?”

He swirled his drink lazily, gaze cutting into him. “Turns out, not long at all. My perfect blade, dulled by a girl.”

Y/N’s pulse stuttered. Seijun didn’t move. He stood solid, a wall of stillness shielding her.

And for the first time, she wondered if the monster she’d feared might just be her only chance.

The warehouse loomed in front of them, black against the night sky. Its windows were blind eyes, its walls breathing faint drafts of cold air that smelled of rust and oil.

Wooyoung sat rigid in the passenger seat, staring at it like he could burn through the concrete with nothing but rage. Every nerve in his body screamed to run, to storm through the doors barehanded if he had to. But Hongjoong’s steady voice over comms held him frozen in place.

“Not yet.”

San shifted in the backseat, bouncing his knee, checking and re-checking the magazine in his gun. “We’re wasting time—”

“We don’t run blind,” Hongjoong cut back.

Then Nari’s voice snapped through the headset. “Hold up.”

Everyone froze.

“What?” Hongjoong asked.

“I’ve got something.” Her fingers flew over her laptop in the backseat of Yunho’s car. The glow lit her face, her eyes sharp and unblinking. “Lucky break. I just wormed into their security loop. One of the interior cams is still alive.”

“Which one?” Seonghwa demanded.

“Storage floor. Northeast quadrant.” She bit her lip, then grinned. “And it’s got audio.”

There was a click, a hiss of static—then suddenly the feed filled their screens.

A grainy black-and-white shot of a concrete room.

Y/N.

She stood pressed to the wall, her arms tense, her chin lifted like she was holding herself together by sheer will. Across from her sat Seijun in a chair, posture loose, mask lowered.

Wooyoung’s stomach twisted. His chest clamped tight.

The sound crackled.

“…your grandmother,” Seijun was saying, voice low. “She patched me up more times than I can count. Fed me. Treated me like I wasn’t dirt.”

The car went silent.

“What the fuck—” San whispered.

Nari’s eyes flicked between the laptop and the boys. “Is he… apologizing?”

Wooyoung’s nails dug into his palms. Every word scraped him raw. Y/N’s face flickered on the screen, confusion and pain twisting together.

Then came Seijun’s question. “You and Wooyoung. Are you really a thing?”

Wooyoung’s heart stopped. His throat locked. The others whipped their heads toward him, eyes wide, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her lips parted, her face pale, but silence stretched until the door crashed open.

The feed showed the two men striding in, sneers sharp as blades.

“Maybe let us have a little fun, eh?”

Mingi swore under his breath.

“Don’t—” Wooyoung’s voice broke, low and strangled. His hand slammed against the dash.

On screen, Seijun’s mask snapped back into place. His voice was cold. “She’s mine. Boss’s orders.”

The men pushed, mocking, until Seijun exploded into motion—fist cracking into a jaw, skull slammed into the wall. Both bodies hit the ground limp.

The silence in the car was deafening.

Even San stopped breathing.

Then Seijun turned to Y/N. “We need to go. Now.”

Wooyoung’s pulse roared in his ears. His chest felt like it would split open.

The feed jolted as they moved fast through the corridor. For a flicker, hope spiked.

Then the picture froze—Seijun stopping short, the boss and a half-dozen men blocking the exit. The audio crackled sharp:

“I should’ve known,” the boss mocked, voice smooth. “The moment I heard she was that old woman’s granddaughter, I stopped trusting you with her. But I was curious. How long until you cracked?”

The camera caught Seijun stepping in front of Y/N, shielding her with his body.

“My perfect blade,” the boss continued. “Dulled by a girl.”

The feed blurred as static ate the signal, then went dark.

Nari cursed, slamming her keyboard. “Shit—lost it.”

The car filled with silence thick enough to choke.

Wooyoung’s chest heaved, every muscle vibrating with barely contained rage. He wanted to tear the warehouse apart with his bare hands.

But Hongjoong’s voice cut steady through comms. “You all saw it. We know exactly where they are.”

The rage in Wooyoung’s throat burned hotter. His hands clenched until his knuckles split.

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

The boss leaned lazily against the desk, swirling the amber liquid in his glass like this was a game he’d already won. His eyes glinted with amusement as they lingered on Seijun.

“You want out, don’t you?” His tone was silk stretched over steel. “Every dog gets tired of the leash eventually.” He nodded toward her, a cruel smile tugging at his mouth. “Hand me the girl, and you walk free. Your debt wiped. Your name cleared. You disappear. Simple.”

The words dropped into the air like stones.

Y/N’s heart lurched. Her throat dried.

Seijun’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. His posture stiffened, his jaw tightened. Then, slowly, he stepped back toward her.

His hand clamped around her arm, rough enough to bruise. She stiffened, jerking instinctively, but his grip was iron.

Her stomach dropped. He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to give me to him.

Then, under the noise of footsteps shifting, his head bent the barest fraction. His breath brushed her ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“Trust me.”

Her heart stuttered.

She looked up, and for the first time, his eyes weren’t cold, weren’t masked. They were pleading.

He dragged her forward, every motion harsh and convincing. Her pulse thundered as the boss’s smile widened.

“That’s it,” the man crooned. “Knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

They stopped in front of him. Y/N’s chest burned, fear pressing in sharp and tight.

Seijun’s smirk returned, sharp and cutting—but it wasn’t for her. It was for the man behind the desk. “Except I don’t believe you.”

The boss’s smile faltered.

“You’ll kill me the moment I let her go,” Seijun said flatly. “That’s who you are. And I’m not stupid enough to think I’d walk away alive.”

A beat of silence. Then the boss laughed, low and amused. “Smart. That’s the reason I liked you.” His glass clinked down on the desk. His smile sharpened. “Kill him.”

Everything snapped.

Seijun yanked Y/N forward and down in one violent motion, shoving her toward the floor. “Go!” he barked, his voice a whipcrack.

Her body dropped instinctively, and she scrambled forward, pushing through the sudden wall of legs and boots as chaos erupted around her.

Shouts. Gunfire. The sharp crack of a pistol discharging.

Pain ripped through Seijun’s shoulder, the sound tearing from his throat, but he still fought. He slammed a man into the wall, spun, kicked another back, blood staining his shirt.

“Run!” he roared at her, his voice breaking. “Don’t look back!”

Her heart twisted painfully. She looked once, saw him staggering but still swinging, blood blooming red.

Her chest seized. Tears blurred her eyes.

Then she turned and ran.

Her feet pounded against the concrete, lungs burning, panic clawing up her throat. The world was a blur of shadows and echoes, men shouting behind her.

She rounded a corner—

And slammed into a wall of muscle.

Her body jolted back, air knocking from her lungs. Strong hands caught her before she could fall.

Her chest heaved, terror blinding her. No—no, not another—

Then she looked up.

And the world tilted.

Wooyoung.

His face, sharp in the dim light. His eyes blazing, wide with fury and something deeper—something that made her knees weaken.

Relief cracked through her like lightning.

Her lips trembled, her voice breaking into a whisper. “Wooyoung…”

His jaw clenched, his arms steadying her as he pulled her behind him, his body already braced between her and the danger.

“You’re safe now,” he growled, low and fierce. “I’ve got you.”

Wooyoung’s grip was steady, grounding her as the world reeled. Her chest heaved, her lungs refusing to catch air, but his body between her and the chaos felt like a shield she hadn’t realized she’d been begging for.

Behind them, the sound of gunfire cracked again, echoing sharp and brutal through the warehouse. Seijun’s shout cut through it, ragged with pain.

Y/N flinched, her eyes snapping toward the corridor she’d escaped. She saw a blur of bodies struggling, heard the violent impact of fists and boots, the barked orders of the boss’s men.

Her stomach turned. Seijun was still fighting.

Wooyoung’s arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. His voice was low, a growl threaded with fury. “Don’t look. Stay behind me.”

But she couldn’t help it. Her gaze flicked past his shoulder, catching the spray of blood on concrete, the sight of Seijun staggering but still swinging, his shoulder dark with red.

Her throat closed. He’d told her to run. He’d meant it.

“Woo—” Her voice cracked. “He’s—”

“I don’t care.” Wooyoung cut her off, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle twitch. His eyes burned when they locked on hers. “I only care about you.”

The words slammed into her chest, knocking the breath out of her.

Before she could even respond, the world erupted.

The door at the far end of the warehouse exploded inward, metal screaming against concrete. Figures stormed through — Ateez, moving with terrifying precision. Hongjoong first, his gun raised and steady. San and Mingi fanned wide, eyes blazing, Yeosang and Jongho cutting in sharp at the flanks. Yunho and Seonghwa followed, every movement calculated, controlled.

The boss’s men scrambled, curses flying as bullets ricocheted and bodies crashed. The chaos drowned everything, but through it all, Wooyoung didn’t let go of her.

Her pulse pounded. The air felt too thin, too sharp.

But when Hongjoong’s voice cut across the gunfire — calm, commanding, deadly — she realized this wasn’t chaos to them. It was war.

And they were winning.

Wooyoung pulled her back toward the corner, keeping his body braced between her and the fight. His hand cupped the back of her head, pushing it against his chest when gunfire rang too close.

Y/N clung to him, trembling, her heart rattling against her ribs. She wanted to be brave, to lift her chin like she had before the boss, but her knees shook and her throat burned.

Still, she whispered, raw, “I thought I lost you.”

His hand tightened on her, his voice low against her hair. “Not a chance.”

The sound of Seijun’s voice broke through the din — a ragged shout, followed by a sharp cry of pain. Y/N’s head jerked up, eyes darting toward the corridor. She caught sight of him stumbling, blood soaking his shirt as he slammed another man into the ground.

Her stomach twisted hard.

But Wooyoung caught her chin, forcing her to look at him instead. His eyes blazed, dark and desperate. “Don’t. Don’t look at him. Look at me.”

Her breath trembled, but she nodded.

Because even though the chaos swirled around them, even though she didn’t know who would walk out alive, Wooyoung’s grip was the only thing keeping her together.

And in that moment, she believed him.

He’d find a way to get her out.

The drive back blurred into fragments. Blood. Sweat. The sharp tang of gunpowder still clinging to the air, etched into her lungs.

She remembered Wooyoung’s arm never leaving her, his grip on her hand iron all the way back to HQ. She remembered Seijun, half-conscious, slumped in the backseat of the other car, his face pale and lips cracked, still whispering the same words over and over—

“Did she get away? Did she…?”

And every time, one of the boys muttered back, “Yes. She’s safe.”

By the time they pulled into the garage and the steel doors sealed shut behind them, Y/N’s legs had gone weak with exhaustion. She stumbled out of the car and barely made it two steps before arms like a vice clamped around her.

“Do you ever want me to breathe again?”

“Nari—”

“You scared me half to death!” Her best friend’s voice cracked as she crushed Y/N tighter, her face buried in Y/N’s shoulder. “I thought you were gone, I thought they—”

“I’m here,” Y/N whispered, hugging her back just as fiercely, her throat tight with tears. “I’m here.”

When Nari finally pulled away, her cheeks were wet, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

Y/N nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in her throat.

And then the boys descended.

San was first, ruffling her hair so hard she nearly toppled. “Don’t scare us like that, you brat.”

“Honestly,” Yeosang muttered, though his usually sharp voice softened as he flicked her forehead. “Do you have any idea what you put us through?”

Mingi’s arms wrapped briefly around her shoulders before he pulled back with a grin that was too wide to hide his worry. “No more running off. Got it?”

Jongho crossed his arms, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Next time you want fresh air, take a guard with you.”

Even Seonghwa gave her a light squeeze of the shoulder, his eyes warm despite the reprimand. “We were worried.”

Her chest ached, but this time with something warm. She nodded, tears blurring her eyes again.

Then her gaze flicked to the couch.

Seijun lay there, shirt cut away, his shoulder and side bandaged, his skin pale but his chest rising in shallow, steady breaths.

She froze.

“What… what will happen to him?” Her voice was small, uncertain, but she couldn’t stop the question.

The room stilled. Every eye shifted to Hongjoong.

The leader leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze unreadable. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “When he’s healed, he can leave.”

Y/N blinked. “You’re not going to—”

“He saved you,” Hongjoong cut in smoothly. “That earns him his freedom.”

Relief flooded through her chest, so sudden it made her knees weak. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Her eyes lingered on Seijun’s still form, her heart twisting strangely.

He’d fought until he broke down, blood soaking his shirt, and the only words he’d managed were about her. Did she get away?

Her grandmother’s shadow lingered between them.

She whispered, mostly to herself, “Thank you.”

Wooyoung’s hand brushed hers, steadying her. She looked up to see his eyes on her, dark and unreadable, but softer than she’d ever seen them.

The HQ was too quiet.

For hours it had been chaos — gunfire, shouting, Nari’s voice cracking as she’d clung to Y/N, the boys trying to hide their trembling relief behind laughter. Now it was just the hum of the vents, the distant clatter of someone in the kitchen, the weight of silence.

Wooyoung sat in the common room, elbows on his knees, watching her.

Y/N’s face was pale, her shoulders slumped. She’d pulled her hand from his grasp without looking at him. “Thank you,” she’d said, voice hoarse. Then, quietly, “I want to be alone.”

Her door had shut, and something inside him had clenched so hard it hurt.

For two hours he tried to sit still. Tried to let her rest. But every time he blinked, he saw her face when they dragged her into the car. He heard her scream. He felt his chest split open again.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He didn’t knock. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was lying on her bed in nothing but shorts and a loose top, hair spilling over the pillow. The lamplight painted her in gold. Even exhausted, even angry, she was beautiful.

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp. “What do you wanhirtl

His throat worked. “I wanted to check on you.”

She scoffed, looking away. “I don’t need your pity.”

Something snapped in him.

“Pity?” His voice cracked sharp. He stepped closer, hands fisting at his sides. “You think that’s what this is?”

Her head jerked up, eyes blazing. “What else am I supposed to think? You act like you don’t care, like none of it meant anything, when I can see right through you! You—” Her voice broke, then rose again, angrier now. “You’re a coward, Wooyoung! You can’t even admit what you feel!”

The words slammed into him.

Coward.

His chest heaved. His hands shook. The dam finally broke.

“You think I don’t feel anything?” he burst out, voice raw. “I couldn’t fucking breathe when they took you! I thought I was going to lose my mind hearing you scream and not being able to reach you. Every second you were gone felt like I was being gutted alive.”

Her eyes widened, tears shining.

“I lied,” he rasped. “I lied because I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be safe. Because I don’t deserve you. But I can’t—” His voice cracked, his chest tightening. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

He stumbled forward before he could think, grabbing her face in his hands, and kissed her.

The kiss was messy, desperate, his breath shaking against her lips. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful — it was every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every ounce of fear poured into her.

For half a second she froze.

Then she kissed him back, just as fiercely, her hands curling into his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left between them.

When they broke apart, both gasping, he pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shut.

“I can’t lose you again,” he whispered.

And for the first time, the truth wasn’t hidden behind a mask.

Her lips were still swollen from his kiss.

Wooyoung’s chest heaved as he hovered over her, forehead pressed against hers. He felt like he was unraveling, every breath a thread snapping loose.

“I’m falling for you.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unpolished. His voice cracked with the weight of them. “And I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

Her breath hitched. Her eyes softened, wide and glistening in the low lamplight.

“You don’t get to decide that,” she whispered, her hand lifting slowly until her fingers brushed against his jaw. The warmth of her touch nearly undid him.

He shook his head, swallowing hard. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve had to do. Someone like me—” He broke off, his throat burning. “Someone like me doesn’t get to keep someone like you.”

Her hand slid higher, her thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “But I want you,” she said firmly, every word steady even as her body trembled. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”

The crack inside him widened. Something sharp and desperate slipped through.

His lips found hers again, not careful this time, not measured. The kiss was hungry, his hand fisting in the sheets beside her head as he tried not to crush her with everything he felt.

She pulled him closer, answering with the same urgency, and his control splintered. His hand slid down, fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist beneath her top. She shivered under his touch.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against her mouth, his forehead pressed to hers again. His hand lingered at the hem of her shirt, trembling. “Please—tell me to stop if—”

“I won’t,” she cut him off, her voice steady even as her chest rose and fell too fast. “I don’t want you to stop.”

The breath he let out was almost a groan.

Slowly, he lifted the fabric of her shirt, his fingertips trailing up the slope of her ribs. The skin was warm, soft, so real under his calloused hands it made his chest ache. He pushed the shirt higher, and when she raised her arms for him, he pulled it off entirely, tossing it to the side.

His eyes roamed over her, drinking her in. Shorts, soft cotton clinging to her hips, the swell of her breasts barely contained by the thin fabric of her bra.

“You’re—” His throat worked. His voice came out ragged. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

Color rose to her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Her eyes locked on his, daring him to keep going.

He leaned down, his lips trailing over her collarbone, down the curve of her shoulder. She gasped softly, arching into him, and his hands gripped her waist to keep himself grounded.

Every kiss was a confession. Every touch was a prayer.

And as he mouthed down her chest, slow and reverent, he thought only one thing—I’ll make her forget everything else. Tonight is only hers.

Her skin trembled beneath his mouth, each shiver feeding the hunger gnawing at his chest.

Wooyoung’s hands slid lower, over the dip of her waist, down to the edge of her shorts. His thumb brushed the soft fabric, his breath uneven. He lifted his head, eyes locking with hers. “Can I?”

She nodded without hesitation, though her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted around uneven breaths.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. Then, with hands that shook more than he wanted them to, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged the shorts down. The fabric slid over her thighs, leaving goosebumps in ist wake, until they lay forgotten on the floor.

Her legs shifted nervously against the sheets, but she didn’t cover herself. Her trust was a weight heavy in his chest.

Wooyoung knelt at the edge of the bed, his palms pressing to the outside of her thighs. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just above her knee. Her sharp intake of breath nearly undid him.

“You don’t know,” he murmured, kissing higher, “how many times I’ve thought about this. About you.” His lips traced along her inner thigh, slow, reverent, every word heavy with need. “And I told myself I didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve you.”

Her hand clenched in the sheets.

He kissed closer, close enough for her hips to twitch. His breath fanned hot over her, and he smiled faintly when she gasped.

“But tonight—” his voice dropped lower, rougher, “—I want to give you everything I’ve held back.”

Before she could answer, he lowered his mouth to her, tongue pressing against her with unrestrained hunger.

Her gasp broke into a whimper, her hips jerking despite her attempt to stay still. His hands gripped her thighs tighter, pinning her in place as his tongue licked slow, deep strokes through her heat.

“Fuck,” he breathed against her, groaning at the taste of her. “You’re perfect.”

She whimpered, her head tipping back into the pillow, one hand flying to grip his hair.

The sound sent a shiver down his spine. He pressed his mouth harder, lips wrapping around her clit, sucking gently until she gasped louder.

“Woo—” Her voice cracked, high and desperate.

His chest squeezed. He let go of restraint, licking, sucking, teasing with every ounce of devotion he had. He wanted her trembling, wanted her to forget fear, wanted to carve his name into her pleasure.

Her legs tightened around his shoulders, her moans spilling uncontrolled now.

He pulled back just enough to rasp against her skin, breathless, “Let go for me. Please. I need to see you come apart.”

Her body trembled under his mouth, her thighs tight around his shoulders. Every sound she made went straight to his chest, sharp and addictive.

Wooyoung dragged his tongue slow against her clit before pulling back just far enough to look at her. Her chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm, her hair sticking to her temple, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

God, she was beautiful like this.

“You don’t even know,” he rasped, slipping one hand from her thigh to slide a finger against her entrance. “I’ve dreamed about this. About touching you here. About making you—” His voice cracked when her hips jerked into his hand. “—mine.”

Her breath stuttered. “Wooyoung—”

The sound of his name on her lips almost undid him. He pressed a kiss to her thigh to ground himself, then slowly pushed one finger into her, groaning low when she clenched tight around him.

“Shit. You’re so warm. So perfect.”

He worked slowly at first, his mouth returning to her clit, tongue flicking gentle circles as his finger curled inside her. Her back arched, a broken moan spilling out before she could stop it.

He smiled against her. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

Her hand tightened in his hair, tugging, her thighs trembling around him. He added another finger, stretching her carefully, curling them just right until her body jerked.

“Right there?” he whispered, his lips brushing against her between licks. “Yeah, I can feel it. You’re pulsing for me already.”

Her breath hitched, her head tipping back as his pace quickened, fingers thrusting deep while his mouth worked mercilessly against her clit.

She whimpered his name again, louder this time.

His chest squeezed, heat flooding him from the inside out. “I thought I lost you,” he confessed raggedly against her skin. “When they took you, when I heard you scream—I thought my heart stopped. And I hated myself for not telling you sooner. For not saying I—” His words cut off, swallowed by the sound of her moan as her body tightened around his fingers.

Her thighs shook violently, her back arching as the wave crashed through her. He didn’t let up, sucking harder, thrusting deeper, riding her through every desperate twitch until she collapsed against the bed, boneless and gasping.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, lips wet, chest heaving. She looked wrecked, glowing, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Fuck,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes drinking her in. “I could die happy if it’s like this—seeing you come undone because of me.”

Her chest still rose and fell too fast, her hand sliding weakly from his hair to the sheets. “Wooyoung…”

He leaned over her, brushing damp strands of hair from her face, his lips grazing her temple. “I’ll never get enough of you. Never.”

Her body softened beneath him, every shiver easing until she melted into the sheets. Wooyoung kissed the inside of her thigh one last time, reverent, then pulled himself up beside her. He hadn’t even touched himself, hadn’t cared — all of him had been focused on her. And seeing her like this, lips parted, eyes heavy, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath, was worth more than any release of his own.

She blinked at him slowly, still flushed and glowing. When he brushed her hair back from her face, she leaned into his palm, her eyes closing. The simple trust in that gesture made his chest ache.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, lips curving faintly. “Better than okay.”

Relief washed through him so strong it left him dizzy. He exhaled and lowered himself to lie beside her, tugging the blanket over both of them. She shifted instantly, snuggling closer, her cheek pressing against his chest, her hand resting lightly over his heartbeat.

His throat tightened.

“I wasn’t lying before,” he murmured, his fingers stroking gently through her hair. “I’m falling for you. Harder than I thought I could.”

She tilted her head up, eyes soft but steady. “Then stop saying you don’t deserve me. Just… be here. With me.” The words hit him like sunlight through cracks. His chest swelled so full it hurt, like his ribs couldn’t contain it.

“I almost lost you,” he admitted hoarsely. “I can’t—if something happened, if you were gone—” His voice faltered. He pressed his lips to her hair, grounding himself in the warmth of her. “I don’t know if I’d survive it.”

Her arms slipped around his waist, holding him tighter, her body molding to his as if she could anchor him with sheer closeness.

“You’re here,” she whispered against him. “And so am I.”

His eyes shut, breath trembling. The hollow ache that had gnawed at him for years — the feeling of never belonging anywhere — eased for the first time.

This bed. Her warmth against him. The sound of the others somewhere in the HQ, their laughter faint but real.

This was it.

His home.

He buried his face against her hair, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever. “You and them,” he murmured softly, more to himself than her. “You’re my home.”

And as her breathing evened out against his chest, his heart swelled with the terrifying, undeniable truth: he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Sunlight leaked past the blackout curtains, slipping into the room in thin streaks of gold. It caught the edge of the bed, touched Y/N’s hair first, and made her look almost haloed where she lay curled against Wooyoung’s chest.

He hadn’t moved all morning. Couldn’t. One arm stayed wrapped around her waist, the other brushing gentle strokes through her hair. Every time she breathed out, warm against his shirt, his chest tightened until he thought it might split.

She stirred, blinking slowly, still heavy with sleep. “You’re staring,” she murmured, voice rough.

“Guilty,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The corner of her mouth twitched, but before he could say more the door banged open so loudly the walls seemed to shiver.

“Well, well, well.” Nari stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, grin already sharp as a blade. Her gaze swept once over the scene — Y/N tangled in Wooyoung’s arms, his hand still threaded through her hair — and her expression turned gleeful. “If it isn’t the freshly domesticated menace.”

Behind her, the rest of Ateez crowded like a traffic jam that had somehow learned to walk. San tried to smother a laugh behind his hand and failed. Mingi grinned over his shoulder like a kid at a carnival. Yunho sighed the sigh of a long-suffering parent. Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose. Yeosang looked like he had bullet points ready to present. Jongho, as always, judged silently. Y/N froze against Wooyoung, mortification written across every line of her body. She tried to wriggle free, but Wooyoung only tightened his grip and tucked her back under his chin.

“Nope,” he said calmly. “Cuddles are nonnegotiable.”

“Let me die,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“You’ll have to get through me first.”

“Bold,” Yeosang said dryly. “Considering your… stamina last night.”

Heat crawled up Wooyoung’s neck, but he didn’t flinch. “You’re on thin ice.”

Nari gasped, hand to her chest. “Thin ice? Thin ice? Some of us were running high-level cyber operations while you two provided the least stealthy soundtrack imaginable.”

San burst out laughing. “Translation: you were loud.”

Y/N groaned and buried her face deeper into Wooyoung’s chest, which only made the others laugh harder. He smirked, one hand smoothing her hair. If she wanted to hide, he’d let her — and if they wanted to tease, he’d ignore it.

“Everyone out,” he said, voice unbothered. “Visiting hours are over.”

Mingi leaned against the doorframe. “Counterproposal: never. This is the best television we’ve had in weeks.”

“Seconded,” San added, pointing two fingers from his eyes to Wooyoung’s.

“Thirded,” Nari said, narrowing her eyes at Wooyoung. “And for the record, if you ever make her cry again, I will hack your toothbrush to play my disapproval on loop.”

“That’s not a thing,” Yunho muttered.

“It will be,” Nari shot back without missing a beat.

Seonghwa finally spoke, his tone calm but firm. “We are happy for you.” His words, simple as they were, cut through the teasing. Y/N’s hand fisted in Wooyoung’s shirt at that, and he bent his head to kiss her hair again.

Then Hongjoong appeared last, leaning into the doorway, eyes scanning the room before settling on them. Relief flickered quick and private across his face before a smirk replaced it.

“House policy,” he said smoothly. “Noise curfew at midnight. Congratulations, though. Please stop traumatizing the surveillance system.”

Wooyoung only smirked. “Can’t believe you’re jealous of a camera.”

Hongjoong didn’t miss a beat. “Jealous of the quiet I used to have.”

Nari elbowed him as she passed, sharp grin firmly in place. The spark in his answering glare was obvious — and the beginnings of another round of their ridiculous banter.

But for the moment, the HQ was alive with laughter, teasing, and relief. Y/N hid her face in Wooyoung’s chest, and he held her closer, brushing back her hair and kissing her temple again.

She was safe. And for him, that was all that mattered.

The HQ was rarely quiet in the mornings, but today it felt like every sound was aimed at the two of them.

San had settled cross-legged on the floor like it was story time, his grin wicked. “So, is this official? Should we be buying matching mugs, or—”

“No,” Y/N muttered into Wooyoung’s chest.

“Yes,” Wooyoung corrected smoothly, stroking her hair as if the conversation was about the weather. “Official. Finally.”

“Under duress,” Yeosang cut in, his tone flat but his smirk sharp.

“Under growth,” Wooyoung shot back, sounding far too pleased with himself. He bent to press a kiss against Y/N’s temple, ignoring the chorus of groans that followed.

“Disgusting,” San announced dramatically, covering his eyes.

“Honestly, I thought you’d at least try to be subtle,” Mingi said, though his grin gave him away. “But no, you had to shake the walls.”

“Earplugs,” Seonghwa said suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Custom-molded. Highly recommended.”

Nari barked out a laugh. “Or just keep it down next time, Romeo.”

Wooyoung didn’t even flinch. He tucked Y/N tighter against him, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face. “You’ll live.”

“I almost didn’t,” Nari shot back. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to bypass city security while someone in the background is—” She cut herself off, wagging a finger at Y/N. “You know what, never mind. The important part is: you two were loud.”

Y/N groaned and shoved her face deeper into Wooyoung’s shirt. He chuckled quietly and pressed another kiss into her hairline, his arm rubbing slow circles against her back.

“Stop fussing,” she whispered.

“Never,” he murmured back, just loud enough for her to hear.

The others, unfortunately, still heard.

“You’re insufferable,” Jongho muttered, shaking his head. But his mouth twitched despite himself.

“Happy for you both,” Yunho said, more gently, though his smirk betrayed him too.

Mingi clapped his hands. “Proposal: new rule. Any time they get gross, we get free coffee.”

“Seconded,” San said instantly.

“Motion passed,” Yeosang declared.

Wooyoung ignored them all, pressing yet another kiss to Y/N’s temple, then brushing his thumb over her cheek as if she wasn’t glowing with embarrassment.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, half muffled by his chest.

“And you’re beautiful,” he replied without hesitation.

The entire room groaned in unison.

“That’s it,” Nari said, throwing her hands up. “You’re officially banned from being in the same room until you learn to behave like normal human beings.”

“Normal’s overrated,” Wooyoung said, smirking.

Hongjoong, who had been leaning casually against the wall, finally pushed off it, his arms crossed. “You two done making us sick?”

Nari pivoted toward him instantly, finger raised. “You’re one to talk, Mister ‘I never flirt’.”

His brows lifted. “Flirt? With you? You must be imagining things.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, stepping closer until she was poking him in the chest. “I’ve seen your smug little smirk every time I walk into the room.”

“That’s my normal face.”

“Then your normal face is insufferable.”

The corner of his mouth tilted. “And yet, you’re always here.”

A wave of groans rippled through the room again, louder than before.

“Not this again,” Mingi muttered.

“Worse than Wooyoung and Y/N,” San added.

Seonghwa sighed, long-suffering. “Breakfast. Now. Before this house collapses.”

But neither Nari nor Hongjoong looked ready to stop anytime soon.

Y/N peeked up from Wooyoung’s chest, her lips twitching despite the heat in her cheeks. For the first time since she woke up, she almost laughed.

The room was buzzing like a hive, but the loudest voices belonged to only two people.

Nari planted herself squarely in front of Hongjoong, arms crossed, chin tilted up. “Don’t think you can deflect by pretending you’re above all this. You’re worse than he is.” She jabbed her thumb at Wooyoung, who was still kissing Y/N’s hairline like he hadn’t heard a word.

Hongjoong raised his brows, mouth curving. “Worse? For maintaining basic house order? For keeping you lot alive?”

“For staring,” she shot back instantly. “I see you watching me every time I walk past like you’re calculating moves on a chessboard.”

His smirk sharpened. “And yet, the piece keeps moving closer to the king.”

San gagged so loudly he nearly fell over.

“Make it stop,” Yeosang muttered.

Nari leaned in until she was practically chest to chest with Hongjoong, her finger poking him again. “You’re not the king. You’re the smug little pawn who thinks he’s untouchable.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his grin only widened. He bent his head until their faces were a breath apart, his voice low and deliberate. “I’m the boss, sweetheart. Don’t forget it.”

A collective groan echoed through the room. Mingi covered his ears with both hands. “This is so much worse than last night.”

Jongho muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Unbelievable.”

Nari didn’t flinch. She tipped her head, lips quirking. “Boss, huh? Funny, because you look more like the poster boy for a gun catalog.”

Yunho actually choked. Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it looked like he was holding his skull together.

Hongjoong laughed softly, and the sound sent an odd ripple through the room. “Careful,” he warned. “Keep talking like that and people will think you’re flirting.”

“I’d rather choke,” Nari retorted, though her smirk didn’t fade.

Wooyoung finally pulled his mouth from Y/N’s hair long enough to mutter, “You two need a room.”

“Absolutely not,” Seonghwa said instantly, horrified.

Nari and Hongjoong didn’t seem to hear them. They were locked in their own gravity, words sparking like flint against steel. Y/N peeked up from the crook of Wooyoung’s arm, eyes wide. It was ridiculous, and messy, and awkward—but for a moment, she almost forgot everything else.

Then a sound cut through the banter.

A low, ragged groan.

The room stilled.

All eyes shifted to the couch where Seijun lay, bandaged and pale. His fingers twitched. His head rolled slightly to the side, and then his eyes opened, glazed but sharp enough to notice the room full of enemies staring back at him.

Y/N’s breath caught, her chest tightening. The teasing, the laughter—all of it evaporated in a heartbeat. Wooyoung’s hold on her tightened protectively. The others tensed, instinctively stepping closer to the couch. And the morning, which had felt almost normal, tilted back into something fragile and dangerous.

The room froze.

Only minutes ago it had been noisy and bright, laughter bouncing off the walls, Nari’s sharp voice rising above San’s dramatics, and Wooyoung pressing absentminded kisses into Y/N’s hair as if nothing else in the world mattered. But then a sound cut through the warmth—a low, ragged groan—and everything shifted.

On the couch across the room, Seijun stirred. His body, pale and bandaged, shifted weakly against the cushions. His lashes lifted with effort, unfocused at first before sharpening into something recognizably alert. The simple fact that he was conscious changed the entire atmosphere.

Wooyoung tensed immediately, his arm tightening protectively around Y/N’s waist. He didn’t push her behind him, but his body curved just enough to shield her from view. The others moved as if on instinct. San rose from the floor, stance suddenly sharp. Mingi’s grin vanished, his shoulders squaring. Yeosang’s expression cooled, eyes narrowing like a lens focusing. Yunho shifted his weight, positioning himself at an angle in case Seijun made a move. Jongho stayed quiet but solid, his very presence a warning.

Seonghwa appeared with the ever-present med kit in his hands, his expression unreadable. And Hongjoong—Hongjoong had already been watching, his posture deceptively relaxed but his focus pinned to Seijun with quiet authority.

Seijun swallowed hard, his voice rough as sandpaper when it broke the silence. “She’s safe.”

The words weren’t quite a question, not quite a statement either. His gaze flicked toward Y/N, caught hers for a fraction of a second, and then darted away like the sight hurt him.

No one responded. The only sound in the room was the hum of the heater and the faint ticking of the cooling stove in the kitchen. Seijun tried to sit up. The effort pulled a grimace across his face, and his injured shoulder trembled with the strain. He managed only a few inches before slumping back into the cushions, pale from exertion.

Y/N stayed still, though her heart twisted uncomfortably in her chest. She schooled her face into neutrality, but inside, worry stirred against her will. When Seijun finally found his voice again, it came quieter, steadier. “I’m sorry.”

The words landed heavily in the center of the room.

“For what I did to you,” he clarified after a moment, eyes closing briefly as if the admission itself cost him strength. “There isn’t an excuse that matters. Not the job. Not him. Not the way we were taught to survive. I did it anyway. I won’t ask for your forgiveness.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the ache in her chest deepened.

Hongjoong broke the silence with his usual precision, voice calm but cutting. “Then what are you asking?”

Seijun exhaled a rough breath, leaning his head back against the couch. “To leave.”

The word seemed to ripple across the room, drawing out small reactions from the others—San shifting restlessly, Mingi’s brows furrowing, Yeosang tilting his head in faint suspicion.

“Where?” Yunho asked simply, his voice even.

“Away,” Seijun said. He stared down at his hands like he didn’t recognize them. “From him. From all of this. I want to work.” The word sounded strange in his mouth, foreign. He repeated it, firmer this time. “A real job. Hours, pay, rent, neighbors who complain about the noise. I want to be boring enough that no one remembers I was there.”

Silence lingered again, heavy but thoughtful.

Yeosang’s voice was the next to cut through, low and edged. “You could trade information. You’d have leverage.”

“Not to you,” Seijun replied instantly. His voice wasn’t heated; it was final. “Not to anyone. I’m finished being currency.”

Yeosang’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes remained sharp. “Convenient.”

Seijun didn’t argue. He only let his head fall back, breath shallow but steady. “Maybe I’ve never been noble a day in my life. But I know debt. And I know what I owe.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward Y/N again, this time holding longer. The mask was gone, leaving something raw beneath. “Your grandmother. She was the only person who opened her door to me without asking for anything back. I can’t undo what I’ve done. But I can choose not to add to it. That’s all I have.”

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly in her lap. She didn’t let it show on her face, but the words twisted inside her, stirring memories she had fought to lock away. Seonghwa set the med kit on the table, snapping it open with practiced efficiency. “Your bandages need changing,” he said matter-of-factly, not giving Seijun a choice. “If you’re going to walk anywhere, you won’t be doing it bleeding.”

The room shifted into quiet motion. Jongho fetched gloves without being asked, Mingi pressed a bottle of water into Seijun’s hand, and San slipped an extra pillow behind his back with feigned nonchalance. Through it all, Seijun remained still, face pale, body stiff. When Seonghwa peeled back the dressing on his shoulder, he winced but didn’t flinch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said again, his voice lower but clear. “I just want out. I’m tired of waking up in rooms that smell like bleach and blood. I want to be done with it.”

Y/N stayed silent, her expression carefully composed. Inside, though, the weight of his words pressed against her. Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on Seijun for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Then we’ll change the bandages. And after that, we’ll walk you out.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of Seonghwa’s careful hands. The rip of old tape. The clean press of fresh gauze. The sharp scent of antiseptic. Seijun bore it in silence, jaw locked, breaths shallow but steady. When the bandage was secured, Seonghwa leaned back, stripping the gloves from his hands. “That will hold until you find proper treatment,” he said evenly. “Don’t test it.”

Seijun inclined his head, the closest thing to gratitude he seemed able to give.

The others lingered in a loose half-circle around the couch, a quiet guard. None lowered their suspicion. Their silence was heavy, but it left space—for Y/N.

She felt all their eyes on her, though no one said it aloud. She had been the one caught in the crossfire of Seijun’s choices, the one forced to endure his cruelty and his protection both. The final word would belong to her.

For a long moment, she only looked at him. His face was pale, dark hair damp with sweat against his forehead. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked… human. Not silent muscle, not threat. Just a man who had run out of fight.

Finally, Y/N stood. Wooyoung moved with her, his hand brushing against her back in quiet support, but he didn’t stop her.

Her voice was steady when she spoke. “I won’t forgive you.”

The words landed like a stone in still water. Seijun flinched—not much, but enough. His gaze dropped, as though he’d expected nothing less.

“But,” Y/N continued, “I am thankful for what you did.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed the words through. “You helped me when you didn’t have to. And I hope… I hope you find a life outside of this. A life that makes you happy. That gives you peace.”

Seijun’s head lifted. His eyes met hers, and for a moment something fragile flickered there—surprise, maybe even something close to relief.

He didn’t speak. He only nodded once, slow and deliberate, as though committing her words to memory.

Nari exhaled, breaking the stillness. “Well. That’s more than I would’ve said.” Her tone was sharp, but her grip on Y/N’s arm was steady, protective.

Hongjoong pushed away from the wall at last. “Then it’s decided. We’ll walk him out.”

The transition was brisk. Yunho and Jongho moved to either side of Seijun, helping him rise from the couch. He swayed once, his bandaged shoulder stiff, but his legs held. Seonghwa checked the bindings one last time, nodding in quiet approval.

They made their way toward the garage door, the others falling in step behind. Y/N walked with Wooyoung beside her, his hand brushing hers, warm and grounding.

When the heavy door rolled open, morning spilled inside. The sunlight was too bright, too clean against the oil-stained floor. Outside, the air smelled sharp with early autumn, the sky stretched wide and pale.

Seijun paused just before the threshold. He turned, his eyes finding Y/N one last time. There was no mask, no smirk, no cruel silence. Just a man stripped down to exhaustion, clinging to the possibility of something better.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Y/N’s chest tightened, but she only nodded.

And then he stepped out into the light.

The others watched until his figure disappeared down the street. No one spoke until the garage door shut again, sealing the HQ back into ist dim, familiar safety.

Only then did Y/N let herself breathe. Relief, sadness, and something else—something like closure—washed through her in uneven waves.

She felt Wooyoung’s hand slip into hers, his fingers curling firm and certain. She didn’t look at him, but she held on tightly, knowing he would never let her fall.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to believe it: this part of the story was over.

Steam curled lazily around the edges of the tub, carrying the faint scent of lavender soap. Y/N leaned back against Wooyoung’s chest, her skin flushed from the heat, her hair damp and clinging to her neck. His arms draped around her waist, loose but possessive, hands idly tracing shapes against her stomach under the water.

“You’re heavy,” she murmured, her voice soft but teasing.

“You love it,” he countered immediately, pressing a kiss to her damp shoulder.

She smiled despite herself, tilting her head back until it rested against his collarbone. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” he said smugly, tightening his arms until she squeaked in protest, laughter spilling between them. He pressed another kiss to her cheek, then her temple, then her jaw, each one lazy and unhurried.

A year ago, she never would have imagined this. Peace. Normalcy. His warmth wrapped around her without fear of losing it. Now, she was finished with university—degree in hand, her grandmother’s memory honored—and she spent her days working under Hongjoong’s watchful, infuriating eye. The gang’s headquarters had shifted into something else, too: not just a base, but a home.

And Wooyoung—Wooyoung was still the same. Still clingy, still smug, still orbiting her like he had nowhere else he’d rather be. Only now, she no longer fought it. She leaned into it, because the truth was simple: she loved him.

“Dinner,” she reminded softly, nudging his leg with hers. “If we’re late again, Nari will actually kill us.”

“She’ll be too busy arguing with Hongjoong,” he replied, grinning against her skin. “They’ll never even notice.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “True.”

They dressed slowly after, Wooyoung fussing over her like always—fixing the hem of her sweater, brushing damp strands of hair back into place, kissing her forehead three times before he let her step out of the room. She rolled her eyes but didn’t push him away.

By the time they reached the long dining table in the common room, the others were already gathered. The smell of Seonghwa’s cooking filled the air, warm and rich, the kind that clung to clothes and made the HQ feel even more like home.

“Late,” San announced the moment they entered, pointing an accusatory finger.

“Predictable,” Yeosang added dryly.

Nari sat across from Hongjoong, her arms crossed, glaring daggers. “Do you two own a clock?”

“Do you?” Hongjoong shot back smoothly, leaning an elbow on the table. “You were twenty minutes late yesterday.”

“Because I was fixing the system you fried with your so-called ‘upgrade,’” Nari snapped, jabbing a finger in his direction.

Hongjoong smirked, unfazed. “Or maybe you just wanted more time to get ready before seeing me.”

Nari froze for only half a second, her face flushing before she rolled her eyes. “Keep dreaming, pawn boy.”

“Boss,” he corrected with a grin.

Mingi groaned dramatically. “Not this again.”

“Worse than Wooyoung and Y/N,” Jongho muttered under his breath, though the fond smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

Dinner unfolded in waves of noise—Mingi stealing food from San’s plate, Seonghwa scolding him, Yunho calming the chaos with his steady voice, Yeosang delivering perfectly timed dry remarks. And through it all, Nari and Hongjoong’s back-and-forth threaded like background music, equal parts sharp and flirtatious.

Wooyoung barely joined in. He was too busy fussing over Y/N—pulling her chair closer to his, brushing hair behind her ear, nudging more food onto her plate when she wasn’t looking. Every time she tried to glare at him, he only smiled, kissed her temple, and carried on.

The others groaned, but no one told him to stop. Not really.

When the plates were cleared and laughter had dulled into softer conversation, Wooyoung leaned close, his breath warm against Y/N’s ear. “You know something?”

She tilted her head toward him, curious. “What?”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, tender and sure. “This is it. You, me, all of them. This is home.”

Her chest tightened, full and aching in the best way. She smiled, her hand finding his under the table, their fingers tangling together.

“Yeah,” she whispered back. “Home.”

Outside, the city stretched wide and restless, but inside the HQ the world felt steady. Warm. Safe.

And at the center of it, Y/N leaned into Wooyoung’s embrace, content in the truth she no longer doubted: love, after all the storms, could be soft.

The HQ had quieted after dinner. Laughter and bickering drifted down hallways, doors closed one by one, and the clatter of dishes faded until only the hum of the lights remained.

On the couch, Wooyoung sat with Y/N curled against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. She was half-asleep, her breath even, her fingers loosely tangled with his.

He watched her for a long time, memorizing every detail—the slope of her cheek pressed against him, the way her hand twitched faintly in dreams, the trust written in the way she leaned so completely into his body.

A year ago, he had thought he’d lost her. That scream still lived somewhere in the back of his mind, sharp and haunting. He had believed then that someone like him didn’t get to keep something like her.

But she was here. Warm. Safe. His.

Her laugh filled the HQ now, her voice threaded easily into the fabric of their lives. She was finished with university, working alongside Hongjoong, and had somehow made herself the heart of a place that had once been nothing more than a gang’s headquarters. The guys had accepted her without question. Nari had, somehow, folded herself into the chaos too.

And Wooyoung—he had fallen harder every day.

He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of Y/N’s head, lingering just long enough to feel her shift closer in her sleep. His chest swelled, almost unbearably tight, with a truth that had taken him years to understand.

Home wasn’t a place. It wasn’t four walls or a city street.

Home was this—her warmth in his arms, the quiet laughter of family echoing through the hallways, the peace that followed storms.

Home was Y/N.

And he would never let it go.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

[noeyil]

Y/N, a grad student in engineering, is caught in the wrong place at the wrong time when she’s taken hostage by a rival gang to get to Wooyoung. What starts as fear and survival turns into trust, closeness, and eventually love. With threats in the shadows and unlikely allies along the way, Y/N and Wooyoung discover that home isn’t a place—it’s each other.

Pairing: Y/N × Wooyoung (ATEEZ)

Genre: Mafia AU • Romance • Angst • Smut • Found Family

Trope: Wrong place, wrong time • Forced proximity → trust • Clingy!Wooyoung • Protective × Brave • Slow-burn → Lovers • Found family warmth • Bickering side couple (Hongjoong × Nari)

Featuring: Ateez as Wooyoung’s gang/found family • Nari (Y/N’s best friend & chaos gremlin) • Seijun (enemy → ally) • Y/N’s grandmother (mentioned, emotional thread)

⚠️ Triggers: Violence, Kidnapping / hostage situation, Threats of sexual assault (non-con elements • harassment • forceful kissing/touching → not carried through), Blood • injuries • shooting, Angst • panic • fear responses (trauma aftermath, humiliation), Explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

Y/N told herself that momentum was a kind of safety. If she kept moving—class, lab, job, repeat—there was less room for the familiar little anxieties to bloom into full-grown spirals. So she moved. She woke before sunrise to finish a set of problem sheets, printed figures for her research meeting, and caught the bus with a coffee that tasted like burned almonds.

The engineering building had that permanent hum specific to old ventilation systems and overworked equipment. She swiped in, the card reader chirped green, and the lab lights flickered on one by one. A stack of breadboards waited on the central bench beside a coil of jumper wires that never seemed to stay untangled. On the whiteboard, yesterday’s sketches stared back: block diagrams, signal paths, an angry circle around the words TIMING DRIFT.

She shrugged into a lab coat more out of habit than necessity and checked the notes she’d left herself. The handwriting was brisk, bullet-pointed, a small reassurance that last night’s version of her had been thinking ahead:

• re-run sensor calibration (room temp)

• log ADC noise floor w/ & w/o shield

• DO NOT touch power rail until scope connected!!!

“Don’t explode anything,” she murmured, a ritual under her breath as she clipped the oscilloscope probe and watched the waveform settle into a steady rhythm. The room smelled faintly of solder and dry erase ink. Outside, the hallway echoed with footsteps—undergrads racing to eight a.m. lectures—while the lab stayed steady and small, like a bubble.

She loved that feeling more than she’d admit. The puzzle-solving. The way problems that looked like snarled thread could be combed smooth with patience and four good measurements. She adjusted a potentiometer by a hair, logged the result, adjusted again. When the line on the screen stabilized within the tolerance window, something tight in her chest eased. A tiny victory, logged in a spreadsheet hardly anyone would ever read.

By nine, the rest of the lab trickled in. Her advisor poked his head around the door, hair already wild from a morning battle with the department’s copier. “Your preliminary plots?” he asked, bouncing on his heels.

She gestured to her laptop, the figures neatly captioned. He scanned, nodded, offered a noncommittal “Good,” and then, as an afterthought, “Don’t undersell this at group meeting. It’s solid.”

Praise landed on her like a miscalibrated weight—unexpected, almost suspicious. She managed a “Thanks,” cheeks warming, and the advisor disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Group meeting at ten was a blur of coffee breath and jargon. Y/N presented second, voice calm by sheer practice, fielded two questions without fumbling, and sat down with her heart pounding anyway. The notes she took on the next student’s slides were careful and tidy, though she’d forget half of it by afternoon. When the session ended, the others scattered in drifts of conversation. She packed up quietly.

Her phone buzzed.

Nari: survive?

Y/N: barely. prof said “good” which i think is code for “not terrible.”

Nari: that’s high praise in engineering. collect your trophy at the door 🏆

Y/N: it’s a trophy of dust and burnout

Nari: we polish burnout with bubble tea. i’m forcing you after your shift tonight.

Y/N smiled down at the screen. The idea of sugar and tapioca pearls at midnight was both comforting and absurd; her budget ledger (a color-coded sheet she updated with religious fervor) would frown. Still, she typed a noncommittal heart.

Lunch was a granola bar eaten while printing lab forms at the copy station that jammed every third page. She fixed the jam with inky fingers, washed them in the bathroom sink until the water ran clear, and then shouldered her bag for the long afternoon: TA office hours, then her own class, then the convenience store.

Office hours were the particular social gauntlet she dreaded. A first-year stood in the doorway, expression halfway to panic, clutching a notebook like a flotation device. “I tried the problem set and I—nothing matches the solution key. I think my brain is broken.”

“Your brain is fine,” Y/N said, sliding the chair out and gesturing to the seat. She walked him through step one, then two, then three, watched the light go on behind his eyes when he realized he’d been flipping a sign in the recurrence relation. He laughed at himself. She marked the key line with a highlighter and told him he’d be okay. After he left, she sat there a minute longer, staring at the door. It felt good when something clicked for someone. It always did. She tucked the feeling into her pocket like a small stone, something to hold when her hands needed something to hold.

Her own class passed in a haze of symbols and the professor’s relentless marker squeak. She copied examples with neat precision, circled two points she didn’t fully grasp, and promised herself she’d review them later. Later meant the twenty minutes before the store, scarfing a sandwich on a bench, flipping through notes while pigeons eyed her wrapper.

The convenience store’s fluorescent glare met her at five-thirty like a slap. The bell chimed. The floor was already sticky in a way a mop could only bully into submission for an hour at a time. Her manager, Ms. Park, worked the lottery machine with the focus of a surgeon.

“You’re on register first hour,” Ms. Park said without looking up. “Then stock the drinks fridge; delivery came late. And keep an eye on the college kids—some of them think ‘self-checkout’ means ‘five-finger discount.’”

“Got it,” Y/N said, tying the apron strings behind her back.

The rhythm here was different from the lab’s precise hum. It moved in spikes—rushes and lulls. A kid with a gap-toothed grin bought a ring pop and informed her solemnly that blue raspberry was scientifically the best flavor. A contractor in dusty boots slid exact change for a pack of gum across the counter and said thanks like a prayer. A woman in scrubs purchased energy drinks and eyed the clock in the way of someone who counted sleep in single digits.

Then there were the others. The man who argued the sale price on chips so aggressively that Ms. Park had to step in with a polite but immovable smile. The pair of teens who darted down the beverage aisle, laughter a fraction too loud, and reappeared at the register suddenly empty-handed. Y/N knew better than to accuse; she pressed the intercom for Ms. Park, and the teens left in a gust of mock innocence.

Between customers, she restocked the refrigerated drinks, fingers numbing as she loaded rows of iced coffees and neon sports concoctions. The glass door fogged with her breath. In her periphery, the convex mirror above the aisle watched everything with a goldfish eye. She caught her own reflection there—hair escaping its tie, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, concentration bending her mouth. For a moment, she didn’t mind the look of herself. Purpose, even if it was in neat rows of canned sugar.

At seven, she swapped back to register. Two guys stumbled in, laughing at a joke that was mostly elbows. One of them tossed a crumpled bill on the counter and asked—without looking at her—for cigarettes.

“I need to see your ID,” she said, even though she knew how this would go.

He did look at her then, slow, like turning his head took effort. “Do I look twelve?”

“I need to see your ID,” she repeated, because repetition was armor.

He made a show of sighing, dug out the card, flashed it too quickly. She didn’t flinch. “I need to hold it to scan.”

He slid it, smirking in a way he’d probably been practicing in mirrors. She scanned, rang the sale, and set the pack on the counter but didn’t release it until he picked it up properly. He notice-laughed, as if to say you’re no fun. She didn’t answer, and he left with a scoff. Ms. Park gave her a short nod—a quiet compliment.

Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket during a lull. She checked it by the coffee station where the security camera could see she wasn’t slacking.

Nari: reminder that i’m kidnapping you for boba

Y/N: criminals have budgets to keep too

Nari: then we’ll split. i’ll drink the “bub” and you drink the “ble.”

Y/N: 😑

Nari: okay okay. after your shift, i’ll walk you to the bus at least.

Y/N: you don’t have to

Nari: i want to. plus, i have piping hot drama about my lab partner’s sneaky situationship.

Y/N tucked the phone away, warmth spreading in her ribs that had nothing to do with the coffee burner radiating heat against her hip. It was too easy to step through days like they were a test she had to pass alone. Nari had a way of inserting herself into the narrative until “alone” didn’t quite fit.

At nine, the store quieted. The evening rush dissolved into slow foot traffic and the steady tick of the wall clock. Y/N mopped the entryway in methodical strokes, then redid the corner she always missed. She refilled the napkin dispenser by the hot food case and swapped the stale taquitos for fresh ones that looked marginally less like fossils. She printed the closing checklist and made neat checkmarks as if the tidiness of the page could infect the space around it.

A man in a slate jacket came in, bought a single bottle of water, and left without meeting her eyes. She watched him step into a sleek black car idling at the curb. The headlights washed the storefront in cold light for a breath, then slid away. She didn’t think much of it; expensive cars came and went in the city like weather.

It’s not a story, she told herself. It’s a car. She put the thought on a high shelf and turned back to align the candy bars with ruthless precision.

By ten-thirty, the coffee carafes were empty and Ms. Park told her to shut them down. The grinder’s roar made her skull vibrate. She rinsed the baskets, stacked them to drip dry, and wrapped the pastries in cling film for the morning shift. The last customers were a couple arguing softly in a language Y/N didn’t speak, their hands always drifting back to touch—an elbow, a sleeve—as if reminding themselves that the other person was still there. Y/N bagged their items, said goodnight, and watched them disappear into the midnight air, still tethered by their fingers.

Ms. Park stuck her head out from the tiny office. “Go ahead at eleven,” she said. “I’ll close the register. You did good tonight.”

The words made Y/N’s throat go tight for a second. She nodded, said thanks, untied the apron, and folded it with care that felt slightly absurd for a piece of stiff fabric. In the staff bathroom, she washed her hands, pressed cold water to the back of her neck, and stared at her reflection. Not glamorous. Not even particularly awake-looking. But present. Functioning. Moving.

Outside, the air had cooled further; it smelled like wet pavement even though the sidewalks were dry. The sky over the block was a pale city black—never fully dark, always leaking neon.

She texted Nari.

Y/N: off in 5. you sure about the walk? it’s late.

Nari: i’m near the bus stop already like a heroic gremlin

Y/N: heroic gremlins are known for stealing fries

Nari: bring me fries then 😤

Y/N laughed, softly enough that it didn’t echo. She slipped her backpack straps over both shoulders—the safe way, not the one-shoulder fashion she never managed. She checked her keys by feel three times: apartment key, mailbox key, lab key. She tucked her phone in an inner pocket. She told Ms. Park goodnight, waited for the bell to finish chiming as the door swung shut behind her, and stood for a moment to let her eyes adjust.

She had a route she trusted: well-lit blocks, busier streets even when “busy” meant a single person power-walking with earbuds in. The direct shortcut past the alley and the row of shuttered storefronts would shave five minutes off the trip to the bus, but she never took it. Safety, for her, was a habit built from small refusals.

She set off, steps brisk. The first block was always the hardest—transition shock between fluorescent predictability and the logic-free night. Her brain cataloged everything it could use as data: the way streetlights pooled, where shadows broke, the particular sound of someone dragging a suitcase two blocks over. She made herself breathe in counts of four, out for five, a trick Nari had taught her when deadlines piled up like sandbags.

An ambulance wailed somewhere distant, Doppler-shifting down as it tore past on a cross street. Y/N waited at the walk sign even though the road was empty, an old superstition from too many near-misses as a distracted undergrad. A cyclist ghosted by, their headlight jittering like a firefly. She felt the tug to check her phone—Nari’s little dots might be pulsing—but she kept her hand in her pocket. Eyes up. Walkers who watched their screens became shape-cutouts, easy to fold into.

The bus stop came into view at the far end of the next block, a small shelter with a scratched Plexiglas wall and a map defaced by hopeful graffiti. A figure sat on the bench, hood up. For a moment her chest tightened; then the figure lifted a hand, waved dramatically, and Y/N recognized Nari’s hurricane energy even in silhouette.

Nari: i spot you. you walk like you’re calculating trajectories.

Y/N’s phone buzzed as the text landed, and she allowed herself to look down just long enough to see the accompanying selfie—Nari cross-eyed under the shelter’s grim lighting. Y/N’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

She was three storefronts away when the wind shifted. The hair on her arms prickled. The street wasn’t empty—someone smoked in a doorway, a couple argued softly around the corner—but something in the pattern had changed. The beat of footsteps that didn’t belong to her. A car engine idling with a patient kind of attention.

Y/N’s gaze flicked, collecting data points she couldn’t quite name. She lengthened her stride without making it look like a sprint. She made a note—ridiculous and precise—that the light over the liquor store had started to flicker again and would probably burn out by the weekend, making this block feel darker.

She didn’t look backward. She didn’t have to. She felt the attention land on her like a hand through cloth.

At the shelter, Nari stood, stuffed her phone in her pocket, and called, “I was about to file a missing persons report, you took so—”

“Shh,” Y/N said automatically, softer than a shush and sharp as one. “Let me—”

She checked the street again, a quick sweep—habitual, efficient—and forced her shoulders to stay loose. The bus would be here in three minutes, according to the LED ticker perpetually two minutes wrong. Three minutes was an eternity and nothing.

“Okay?” Nari’s voice had slid from teasing to alert, eyes following Y/N’s line of sight like a well-trained theater partner taking a cue. “We can wait inside that diner if you—”

“We’re fine,” Y/N said, and believed it as an act of will. She calculated the remaining path, the places to step, the ways to keep moving forward without signaling fear. She was an engineer. She was good at systems, at inputs and outputs, at taking a mess of noise and filtering out the signal that mattered.

If something was wrong, she would see it first.

She always did.

The bus came and went, coughing exhaust as it lumbered away from the shelter. Nari climbed on, blowing Y/N a dramatic kiss through the grimy window, and Y/N waved until the bus was swallowed by the curve of the road. She had turned down Nari’s offer to ride together—I’ll be fine, it’s only ten more minutes—because pride and habit were stubborn things. Besides, the walk helped her clear the static in her head.

She tugged her hood up and set off.

The city always felt like it held ist breath at this hour. Shopfronts with their metal grates down, streetlights humming faintly, windows glowing in odd squares far above her head. The sidewalks were scattered with litter—flyers advertising tutoring services, a takeout box crushed flat. A cat darted across the road, tail vanishing into an alley, and the sudden sound made her pulse jump before she scolded herself.

Her backpack was heavy on her shoulders, not with books tonight but with the weight of her laptop and the lab notes she couldn’t leave behind. She adjusted the strap again, the action habitual.

At first, the wrongness was just a tickle. A sense that the night had shifted when she wasn’t looking.

A car. Black, sleek, idling at the curb.

She glanced once, catalogued it as detail—make unknown, windows tinted, driver invisible—and forced herself not to double back for a second look. Cars idled all the time. But she knew she had seen this one before, two nights ago, parked outside the laundromat when she carried her load home at nearly the same hour. Same license plate numbers lingering in her memory like a glitch she hadn’t meant to record.

Coincidence, she told herself. Plenty of people drive black cars.

But her steps quickened.

The next corner was worse.

A group of men lingered near a dumpster, too still for a casual gathering, too sober in their movements. Smoke curled from their cigarettes. One of them shifted just enough that the glow from the streetlight caught a slice of his face—sharp jaw, narrowed eyes tracking her approach.

Y/N’s instinct was immediate: turn back. But that would show fear. Her father’s voice, from long ago, echoed uninvited in her head: If you look like prey, you get treated like prey.

So she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and kept walking. Not fast, not slow. Eyes forward, stride even. Her heart thudded hard enough she swore it shook her chest.

That was when she saw him.

Not part of the group. Separate.

A man leaning against a lamppost just beyond the corner, posture loose like he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t belong on this street. His white shirt was too crisp, his jacket tailored, his shoes clean. Dark hair swept back in a way that spoke of time spent in front of a mirror, not in back alleys at midnight.

And yet he didn’t look out of place either. Not exactly. He looked…intentional.

His eyes weren’t on a phone. They weren’t unfocused. They were locked on the men by the dumpster, sharp, measuring.

Y/N’s gut twisted. Businessman? Detective? Something else entirely?

She forced herself to keep moving. Her footsteps echoed on the concrete, too loud, too obvious.

The man’s gaze flicked to her.

Sharp brown eyes that didn’t miss a thing.

And then—he smiled.

Not a polite smile, not even a kind one. A curve of his mouth that was half amusement, half dare. Like he had been expecting her to notice him, and was pleased she had.

Her throat tightened. Before she could stop herself, words slipped out. “What are you even doing out here at this hour?”

The man tilted his head, smirk widening like the question entertained him. His voice, when it came, was smooth, low, carrying an edge of mischief.

“Working.” A pause. A flick of his gaze over her like he’d already written her story in his head. “Wanna join?”

Y/N blinked. She couldn’t decide if he was arrogant or insane. Probably both.

“I don’t think so,” she muttered, hugging her bag strap tighter. “Try a different recruiting pitch.”

He chuckled under his breath, as though the response had confirmed something about her.

Before she could decide whether to quicken her steps or cross the street altogether, movement snapped her attention back to the group by the dumpster.

The men were shifting. Not casually. Strategically.

Fanning out.

Her stomach dropped.

“Shit,” she whispered, barely audible.

The man in the suit—still smirking, but now with a glint of steel behind his eyes—pushed off the lamppost. His posture changed subtly, loose shoulders becoming balanced, ready.

Y/N froze mid-step. She wasn’t stupid. Whatever was about to happen, she had walked straight into it.

The street tilted. Not literally, but in the way tension slanted everything out of balance. The cluster of men by the dumpster peeled away like a net cast wide, steps deliberate, eyes sharp.

“Grab them.”

The order was quiet but carried.

Y/N’s blood iced.

Her body reacted before her brain caught up—heart pounding, legs locking, throat dry. She fumbled for her phone in her pocket, but a hand clamped around her wrist before she could even close her fingers.

“Wait—!” Her voice cracked, thin in the empty street.

The grip was brutal, jerking her arm back so hard her bag slipped from her shoulder. She twisted, tried to wrench free, nails scraping skin, but another figure blocked her escape, cutting off the sidewalk ahead.

Panic spiked, sharp and cold.

Movement flickered at the edge of her vision.

The man from the lamppost wasn’t smiling anymore. The lazy smirk was gone, wiped clean. His face was sharper now, eyes flat and lethal, like a blade catching dim light.

He moved fast. Faster than she expected.

The nearest thug swung at him and missed; the stranger ducked low, drove his elbow into the man’s ribs, and twisted. The sound was sickening—air forced out in a grunt as the man collapsed sideways.

Another lunged, knife flashing.

The stranger’s hand snapped out, grabbed his wrist, turned it with brutal precision. The knife clattered to the pavement. He kicked it away without looking, expression unreadable, movements fluid and efficient.

Y/N’s chest heaved. This wasn’t a businessman. This wasn’t a detective.

This was someone used to fighting. Someone who thrived in it.

She barely registered the arm that looped suddenly around her throat from behind. Air cut off in a chokehold. She clawed at it, eyes wide, lungs burning.

“Stop playing,” one of the men barked. “We got what we came for.”

Another voice, crueler: “Boss’ll like this. Pretty little bonus to loosen his tongue.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped even lower than fear had already dragged it. They weren’t just grabbing her by mistake. They thought she mattered—to him.

Her pulse roared in her ears. “I don’t— I don’t even know him—!” she gasped, voice strangled.

But no one was listening.

A coarse fabric bag yanked over her head, darkness slamming her world shut.

Through the muffled panic, she caught one last sound—the thud of fists, the grunt of impact, the scrape of shoes on pavement. And the stranger’s voice, sharp with command, stripped of all charm:

“Let her go!”

Then the cloth twisted tight against her mouth, cutting off her scream, and the world was nothing but the press of hands dragging her backward into the dark.

The first thing she noticed was the drip.

Not loud, not even regular—just a patient tap somewhere above and to the left, landing with a soft tick that echoed off concrete. The second thing was the ache in her arms. A deep, spreading throb from wrists to shoulders, as if her joints had been swapped for raw wire. When she tried to shift, the chair complained and the rope bit harder.

She opened her eyes into gray.

A single bulb hung bare from the ceiling, the kind that made everything look colorless. The room was rectangular and unfinished: concrete walls weeping damp, a drain set crookedly into the floor, a metal door with no handle on the inside. A smell of old water and metal, like a subway tunnel after rain. Her mouth felt dry enough to crack.

Memory arrived in shreds. Streetlight. Men by the dumpster. The man in the suit leaning against the lamppost, smiling like trouble. The barked order—Grab them—and hands closing around her wrist. The sudden chokehold, fabric dragged over her head, a voice snarling something about “loosening his tongue.” The stranger’s shout—Let her go!—cut short by the bag twisting tight.

She swallowed, and the sound scratched. Panic tried to climb her throat. She sent it back down by sheer force of habit, counting in time with the drip.

One-two-three-four. Breathe in.

One-two-three-four-five. Breathe out.

She tested the ropes again, this time like an engineer testing a joint—careful, incremental, logging feedback. The chair was metal, bolted to the floor. Her wrists were tied behind it, rope rough and stiff, the knot low where her fingers couldn’t reach. Ankles, too. Whoever did it knew what they were doing.

A scrape of movement answered from across the room.

Her head snapped toward the sound too fast; stars popped at the edges of her vision. She blinked them away. There—against the opposite wall—another chair. Another figure bound to it.

The stranger.

No smirk now. The line of his mouth was neutral, almost bored, but he’d been hit since the street—an ugly blooming at his cheekbone, a split at his lower lip. Under the flat light, his eyes were less warm brown and more dark amber, reflecting the single bulb like an animal’s.

“Morning,” he said after a heartbeat, voice low and hoarse. The word made a small, ridiculous circle in the room. “Or whatever time they’ve decided it is.”

Her own voice came out small. “Where—”

“Basement, probably.” He shifted his shoulders and the rope creaked. “Two doors when they dragged us in. No windows. Smells like mold. Charming.”

She stared. He sounded like they were killing time waiting on a late train.

“Who are you?” The question came faster than she meant it to. “What is this?”

His mouth ticked at one corner. “Working,” he echoed himself softly, like a private joke that had stopped being funny. “And you were walking home. Wrong street.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you need right this second.” He glanced around again, not at her but at everything else: the bolts in the chair legs, the hairline cracks in the wall, the length of rope running off her wrists. “You hurt?”

“My wrists.” She hated how weak it sounded.

“Don’t fight the rope,” he said, not unkindly. “You’ll only shred your skin. Save it for when it matters.”

“When will it matter?”

He met her eyes finally, and for a moment she saw past the smoothness in his face to something harder, something honed. “Soon.”

Before she could ask what soon meant, a lock clanked on the far side of the door. The metal shuddered inward, and three men entered on a gust of colder air. One held a clipboard like a prop. Another carried a plastic pitcher of water and set it on a small metal table between the chairs with theatrical care. The third—the one with the narrow eyes and the kind of stillness that read as danger—closed the door and turned the bolt with a click that sank into Y/N’s chest.

Nobody looked at her first.

The still one looked at the stranger.

“Ready to talk?” he asked conversationally, as if they were about to order lunch.

The stranger smiled without his eyes. “About the weather? It’s damp.”

“Cute.” The still one stepped closer, gaze flicking up and down, cataloguing injuries the way a tailor might catalogue measurements. “Your friends aren’t as amusing.”

“I don’t have friends,” the stranger said. “I have coworkers. Terrible work-life balance all around.”

Clipboard snorted. Water Pitcher didn’t react at all.

The still one let a second pass, perhaps for menace, perhaps because he enjoyed filling the room with his silence. Then he lifted a hand and, without looking, took a folded cloth from Clipboard. He unfolded it slowly and laid it on the metal table like a placemat. On top of the cloth, he set three things in a neat row: a short length of rubber hose, a heavy flashlight, a folding knife.

Y/N’s stomach rolled. She had the strangest, sharpest urge to tell him the knife would dull if he kept dropping it on metal. She locked her jaw until the teeth hurt.

“We can do this easy,” the still one said, not looking at her at all. “You tell me what I want, we send you back above ground to keep… working.”

The stranger’s eyes stilled at that word. Only for a fraction. Then the lazy drawl returned. “You forgot to ask what you want.”

The still one’s mouth tipped like he appreciated the line, but his eyes stayed flat. “Names. Schedules. Entrances. How many. How well-armed. You know the questions.”

“And you know the answers,” the stranger said. “Or you wouldn’t be wasting both our time.”

Clipboard shifted his weight, impatience telegraphed through cheap shoes. “Boss says use the leverage,” he muttered to the still one. “We’re not here to flirt.”

The still one ignored him. Instead, he picked up the knife, opened it with a quiet click, examined the blade as if checking a reflection. Then, like it bored him, he set it down again—closer to Y/N this time, close enough that she could see the nick near the tip.

Only then did he turn to her.

Up close, his face was broadly handsome in a way that would look ordinary on a train platform and terrifying in a basement. The kind of face that was all averages and then, suddenly, the eyes were wrong—too calm, too empty.

“You,” he said. “You’re new.”

Her throat wanted to close. She made it open. “I don’t know anything.”

“Mm.” He cocked his head. “Studying?” His gaze had already taken in the sweater fraying at the cuffs, the scuffed sneakers, the deep grooves pressed into her skin where the backpack strap had cut every day for months. “You look like school.”

“Engineering,” she heard herself say, and hated that she’d answered. Old reflex: responding when questioned by an authority figure. She swallowed. “I don’t know him. I don’t know any of you.”

“We can fix that,” Clipboard said. The attempt at humor died on contact with the room.

The still one set the pad of his forefinger against the knife’s spine, thoughtful. When he spoke again, he didn’t look at her at all—he looked at the stranger.

“She seems very… breakable,” he said. “Shame.”

The stranger’s voice was light. “She’s not with me.”

“Interesting.” The still one stepped casually into Y/N’s space, close enough that she had to fight the instinct to lean away. He smelled faintly of something antiseptic, like wet wipes. “Because where I’m standing, she’s with whoever I say she’s with.”

The stranger laughed then, and it might have sounded careless if Y/N hadn’t seen his fingers flex once against the rope, the only sign of tension. “You’re going to hurt a grad student,” he said. “Tell your boss that. Tell him you couldn’t get what you wanted without threatening someone who still uses flashcards.”

Clipboard snorted again. “Flashcards. That’s funny.”

The still one didn’t smile. He reached for the pitcher and poured water into a plastic cup, the sound thunderous in the quiet. He set the cup squarely in front of Y/N on the table, where she could see condensation bead and run—and not reach it.

“Here’s how this works,” he said, like a teacher beginning a lesson. “Every time you stall, she loses something small. Not fingers. Not yet.” He gestured to the table as if unveiling a menu. “Comfort. Time. Sleep. Water.” He tapped the cup with one finger and slid it two inches farther away. “You’d be amazed what the body does without water.”

Y/N kept her eyes on his face and not the cup. She refused to follow the movement of plastic. That felt important and childish and all she had.

“You’re boring me,” the stranger said, and it wasn’t true—there was nothing bored about him now—but he said it with such lazy contempt that something in the still one’s composure thinned.

“Boring?” the still one repeated, almost pleasantly. He lifted the rubber hose, weighed it in his hand, then laid it down again. His restraint felt calculated; he wanted them to imagine what each object could do more than he wanted to use them. “All right. Let’s try another tactic. You keep playing the clown, and I test her loyalty.”

Y/N’s skin crawled. “I’m not loyal to him,” she said, quickly, before her throat could freeze. “I don’t know him.”

The still one’s attention slid over her and away like oil. “That’s sweet,” he said, to the stranger. “She wants to save you, and you don’t even appreciate the effort.”

The stranger’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re projecting.”

Clipboard shifted again, itchy with unspent energy. “Boss said—”

“I know what the boss said,” the still one snapped, the first crack in his calm. He set both hands on the table and leaned, bracing. His voice, when it returned, was soft. “Doors. Codes. Who’s on tonight.”

The stranger didn’t answer.

The still one lifted a hand without looking. Clipboard stepped forward like he’d been waiting for it and slapped the stranger with the back of his hand. A small, efficient sound, more insult than injury. The stranger’s head turned and then came back, eyes flat. The line of blood at his lip brightened. Y/N flinched and then forced herself still.

“Try again,” the still one said.

Silence.

“Again.”

Nothing.

The still one straightened. He picked up the cup of water that had been meant for Y/N and drank it himself, slow, eyes on the stranger over the rim. When he finished, he crushed the cup in one hand so the plastic squealed and tossed it into the drain with a small, bright laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all.

He nodded to Water Pitcher. “Turn the light off.”

The bulb died with a click. The gray vanished into black so complete that Y/N’s breath caught like a fishhook. The room changed shape without sight; sounds stretched into strange distances. Footsteps near, then far. The scrape of the door bolt. In the dark, the stranger made a low sound that could have been a laugh or a warning.

“You know what darkness does, sweetheart?” The still one’s voice came from somewhere to her right. It wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. “It makes your mind do the work for me.”

A whisper of air; the knife clicked shut, or maybe that was only her head supplying a noise to match the thought of metal. She stared into nothing until her eyes watered and saw nothing else.

“Two hours,” the still one said, not to her. “Maybe three. Then we’ll play again.”

The door opened. Cold edged across the floor as if the room exhaled. The bolt slid home. Silence returned, heavy as a second set of ropes.

Y/N let her breath out and realized she’d been holding it. The drip counted out the space between the beats of her heart. She kept her back straight against the chair so the fear wouldn’t fold her in half.

Across the dark, cloth rasped softly—rope against wrist, then stillness.

“Hey,” the stranger said finally, voice lower than before, stripped of everything decorative. “You still with me?”

“Yes,” she said. It emerged like a ghost of a sound. She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Good.” A pause. “Don’t bother trying to see. There’s nothing to see.”

“That’s comforting,” she muttered, and was surprised to hear the shape of sarcasm still in her mouth.

He huffed, the ghost of a laugh. “You did well.”

“I sat here.”

“You didn’t give them anything to work with,” he said. “That’s more than most.”

She swallowed. The memory of the cup hovered an inch beyond her reach. She focused on the drip instead, counting again, braiding the numbers together with his voice so neither could tangle.

“Why me?” she asked after a moment, aiming the question somewhere to the left of where she thought he was. “Why would they think… Why would they think I matter to you?”

“They don’t think,” he said. “They guess. They take a shot and hope it hits. You were there.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” she said, and hated that it fit so neatly it sounded like a cliché.

“Exactly.”

Something like anger finally crept up through the shock and took a seat beside her fear. “You could have told them,” she said, and it came out sharper than she meant. “You could have told them I’m nothing to do with you.”

“I did,” he said. “They heard me. They just liked their version better.”

She pressed her tongue to the backs of her teeth until the urge to cry receded. She wasn’t going to cry in the dark in front of a stranger. She could fall apart later, in her own bathroom, where the tile would be a witness and not a participant.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked, because it was easier than asking if they were going to die.

“Of course,” he said lightly, and then, in the next breath, less light: “But not yet. They’ll move us. That’s when we take something back.”

“We,” she repeated, skeptical landing like a small rock. “You’re very confident for someone tied to a chair.”

“Confidence is free,” he said. “And it keeps you from wasting energy on panic. Breathe.”

“I am.”

“Good. Do it again.” A rustle. “In for four. Out for five.”

She made a face in the dark and did it anyway. The numbers steadied, boring holes through the fear large enough to thread breath through. After a while, he said, quietly, “What’s your name?”

She considered not telling him, considered making one up out of habit, then decided she was too tired for that. “Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, like they were in a normal place, like one of them wasn’t bleeding. “I’m—”

The bolt scraped again. He cut himself off like someone had snipped a wire.

Light stabbed back on. The sudden brightness made her eyes water; the room swam into shape through tears. The same trio stepped in, roles unshuffled: clipboard, pitcher, calm cruelty. The still one looked the same as if the intervening darkness hadn’t touched him at all.

“Thirsty?” he asked, all sympathy. He poured another cup and set it within easy reach but made no move to let her hands go. When she didn’t answer, he smiled as if she’d told a joke. “No? All right. Next round.”

He turned to the stranger, who watched him like a cat watched a string—lazy, deadly, ready.

“Last chance before she starts to… dry out,” the still one said.

The stranger didn’t blink. “Ask better questions.”

The still one sighed, like a teacher with an obtuse student. Then he nodded to Clipboard.

Clipboard, eager, stepped to Y/N’s side and—very carefully, almost tenderly—hooked a finger under the sleeve of her hoodie, pulling it up to the elbow. The exposed skin looked pale under the light. He laid the rubber hose on the crook of her arm, measuring. Y/N’s stomach lurched, not because she didn’t know what a tourniquet was, but because she did.

“Not fingers,” the still one had said. “Not yet.”

She couldn’t help it; she flinched.

“Don’t,” the stranger said, quick and sharp, and both Clipboard and the still one looked at him like he’d finally said something interesting.

“Careful,” the still one said to his man, amused. “He’s teaching us the limits.”

Clipboard’s mouth twitched. He adjusted the hose, not tightening it, not yet—just letting the weight of it sit on her skin like a promise.

The stranger watched, eyes gone flat again. “You’re wasting time,” he said, but the drawl pronounced every consonant like a threat. “You want doors and codes? You think this gets you there?”

The still one’s smile didn’t change. “I want to see what you do.”

For a heartbeat, everything held: the rubber resting against her arm; the water glass sweating on ist ring of moisture; the stranger’s stare like a held knife; the drip slowing as if the building itself were listening.

Then the still one flicked two fingers. Clipboard took the hose away, folded it neatly, and set it down. The feint landed with surgical precision, tiny and exacting. Y/N released a breath she hadn’t permitted herself to take, and the sound startled her.

“Later,” the still one said, satisfied not by pain but by reaction. He lifted the cup again, tipped a measure of water into the drain, and set the half-full plastic back down. “We’ll see how generous you feel then.”

He straightened his jacket, an absurd gesture in a room like this, and nodded to the door. It opened and swallowed them.

Light off. Darkness. Bolt.

The drip resumed ist patient metronome.

Y/N sat very still. The place on her arm where the hose had briefly sat felt marked, as if pressure could leave a bruise without ever tightening.

Across the room, the stranger shifted, rope creaking. When he spoke, the flirt was gone completely, filed away with the light.

Silence after the door closed was louder than the men’s footsteps had been.

Y/N sat very still, her pulse a frantic metronome in her ears. The rope cut into her wrists, sweat slicking the fibers, but she didn’t dare struggle. Her breath came too fast, too shallow, and she tried to lengthen it, to count like she always did, but the numbers kept tangling in her chest.

Across the room, the stranger shifted in his chair. Rope creaked. Then his voice came, low, edged with a rasp.

“You’re not broken. That’s good.”

She almost laughed at the absurdity. Not broken? Her whole body trembled with the effort of holding herself together. “I’m tied to a chair in a basement,” she whispered. “I think the bar for ‘not broken’ is pretty low.”

“Lower than you think.” A pause, then lighter: “You didn’t give them anything. That’s more than most people manage.”

Her mouth tasted like dust. “Most people don’t end up here.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, she heard the faint rasp of rope against wood as he flexed his wrists, testing his bonds again. Every movement seemed calculated, as if he was collecting data as surely as she did in her lab.

The drip from the ceiling counted time in maddening patience..

For a long stretch, the only sound was the drip. Her shoulders ached, her jaw hurt from clenching. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t—not here, not in front of him.

So instead she asked, softly, “How can you act like this doesn’t bother you?”

He made a sound, almost like a huff of amusement. “You learn. First time is the worst. After that… it’s just noise.”

First time. That lodged in her chest. How many times has he been here? Who is he?

She didn’t get to ask. Voices drifted faintly from the other side of the door—low, impatient. She heard the scrape of a chair, the mutter of footsteps.

“Wooyoung’s not breaking.”

The name cut through the haze like a strike. Y/N’s head jerked up. She barely caught the reply:

“Then we’ll break her.”

Her blood went cold.

The footsteps faded again. The bolt didn’t slide, but the echo of the name stayed heavy in her head.

Wooyoung.

She turned toward the man across from her, though she still couldn’t see much in the dark. “…That’s your name.”

He didn’t deny it. “You shouldn’t use it here.”

Y/N licked her dry lips. “Why not?”

“Names are power,” he said simply. “Don’t give them more than they already took.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. So she stayed quiet, counting her breaths, while Wooyoung—if that was really his name—shifted again, ropes creaking like a promise.

And in the silence, she realized two things:

1. He wasn’t afraid in the same way she was.

2. That didn’t make him safe.

The darkness didn’t bother him. Not anymore.

He sat still in the chair, wrists burning from the ropes, body humming with bruises, and let the silence stretch. The drip from the ceiling marked time, steady as a clock. He catalogued it: small basement, one entrance, concrete walls damp but not crumbly, table bolted down, single bulb wired to an external switch. Useful, later.

They hadn’t searched him properly. Too rushed, too focused on the act of intimidation. His lockpick was gone, sure, but not everything. He still had a fragment of wire hidden in the sole of his shoe. Not enough for now, but maybe later.

Later. Always later.

For now, he watched her.

The girl.

She sat across from him, rope biting into her wrists, face pale even in the dark. He could hear her breathing—shaky, uneven—but not hysterical. That impressed him more than it should have. Most people cracked fast. He’d seen men twice her size begging after ten minutes under this kind of pressure. She was trembling, yes, but she was holding herself together with spit and stubbornness.

And she’d talked back to him. Out there on the street, her eyes wide and still she’d snapped—What are you even doing out here?—like she had the right to demand answers from a stranger leaning against a lamppost. Even now, she hadn’t begged.

Interesting.

Too interesting.

He let his eyes linger on her longer than necessary, memorizing the sharp line of her jaw, the way her hair stuck slightly to her temple with sweat. Attractive. More than attractive. Dangerous, because attraction meant distraction, and distraction got people killed.

He rolled his shoulders once, winced at the tug of pain, and looked away.

The men outside weren’t wrong. They wanted information—routes, rotations, codes. Hongjoong’s plans. Seonghwa’s carefully drawn schedules. Yunho’s maps. Yeosang’s surveillance. San’s decoys. Jongho’s muscle. Mingi’s firepower.

The family. His crew. Ateez.

He wasn’t about to give that up. Not for a basement, not for a rubber hose, not for water poured out onto the floor. They’d have to kill him first.

But the girl—Y/N, she’d whispered in the dark—complicated things.

Collateral. Wrong place, wrong time. He hadn’t meant for her to get dragged into this. And now the bastards thought she was his weakness.

They weren’t entirely wrong.

He flexed against the rope again, slow, testing for give. None yet. His wrists burned, but he needed her to see calm, not strain. Panic was contagious, but so was control. If he cracked, she would too. And he couldn’t afford that.

Her voice came soft, shaking. “Why didn’t you just tell them I mean nothing to you?”

He had. He’d said it clear. But the still one hadn’t cared. People like him didn’t deal in truth—they dealt in leverage, and leverage was whatever lie hurt the most.

He wanted to tell her that. Instead, he laughed under his breath and said, “I did.”

He heard her breath hitch. She didn’t believe him. Not yet.

He tilted his head back, stared into the dark. He’d been in worse places. He’d survived worse games. But something about the weight of her silence across from him tugged at him harder than it should have.

She wasn’t part of this world. He could hear it in the way she talked about herself—grad student, engineering, flashcards. Ordinary. Too ordinary to be sitting in a basement with him.

And maybe that was what made her stick in his head: she didn’t belong, and yet here she was, trembling but unbroken, eyes sharp even through the fear.

He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t.

But he did.

The bolt outside scraped, a reminder that time was short. He leaned forward in his chair as much as the ropes allowed, voice low and sharp.

“When the time comes, do exactly what I say.”

She froze. He could feel her eyes on him in the dark.

“And if I don’t?” she whispered.

“Then they win,” he said simply. “And I don’t like losing.”

He meant it like strategy, but when her breath caught and he pictured her wide-eyed in the dark, he realized he also meant it in a way that had nothing to do with the gang war.

The drip became a clock he could set his pulse to. Four seconds between each fall, sometimes five when the air stilled. He’d counted a hundred cycles, then another hundred, until the rhythm stopped being numbers and settled into his bones.

He didn’t sleep. He never did in rooms like this. Sleep meant gaps, and gaps got people hurt.

Across from him, she slept.

It happened in fits at first—her head dipping, snapping back up, a small intake of breath as if she’d startled herself on the way down. Then, finally, exhaustion took her by the scruff and dragged her under. Her chin tipped to her chest; a piece of hair slid loose and clung to her cheek. Even tied to a chair, she’d found a way to make her breathing steady, like she’d bargained her body into cooperating: ten minutes, just ten, we need this. He felt something loosen and twist inside him at the sight. Tenderness was a liability; he catalogued it anyway.

He shifted as much as the rope allowed, rolling his shoulders to keep the muscles from locking. Pain moved through his side in a dull sheet where someone’s boot had landed earlier. The split in his lip tasted metallic when his tongue found it on habit. He let it sting. Pain sharpened edges.

He mapped the room again, because maps anchored him: one door, inward swing, bolt on the outside; single bulb overhead wired to a switch in the hallway; table bolted down, chair legs welded to plates that were, in turn, bolted into the concrete. They’d thought about leverage. They hadn’t thought about time. Time made men careless. Time made patterns.

He had two: the wire hidden in the seam of his shoe and the girl across from him.

The wire was a promise with an asterisk—useful only if his hands were free. The girl… he stopped that thought where it started. She wasn’t a tool, and turning her into one would be the kind of line he didn’t cross. Not anymore.

He tilted his head, listening past the drip. Footsteps had their own grammar: the lazy shuffle of the one with the clipboard; the heavier, heel-down pace of the pitcher; the measured, almost silent tread of the still one. That last gait bothered him most. It was tidy. Men who enjoyed tidy cruelty were harder to predict.

Hongjoong would be furious when he heard. Not the loud kind—Hongjoong’s fury went quiet and precise, all the more dangerous for it. Seonghwa would already be building a timeline, tea going cold next to a spread of photos. Yunho would mark routes on a map and draw arrows through empty space as if he could push fate with graphite. Yeosang would pull feeds apart frame by frame until the city gave up a shadow. San would laugh like he didn’t care while his hands stayed very still. Jongho would roll his wrists, silent, and then go through a wall if asked. Mingi would pace until somebody told him where to aim.

They’d come. He believed that the way he believed in breathing. But he never made rescue his plan A. Plans that depended on other people arriving at the right second were fantasies dressed in tactics.

Plan A was here. Now. Rope. Door. Patterns.

The drip tripped on ist rhythm, wavered, found itself again. He checked her face. Even in the low light, he could see that sleep had peeled the set from her mouth. Without the tight line of control, she looked younger. Not young—he wasn’t an idiot—but unarmored. Vulnerable in a way that put heat in his chest that had nothing to do with anger.

He looked away, jaw flexing. Attraction was the worst kind of distraction. Dangerous not because it made him stupid, but because it made him care. Caring changed the math. He could live with pain. He didn’t do well with helplessness.

Her fingers twitched against the rope as if she was soldering something in a dream. He almost smiled at the thought and hated that he did.

A murmur drifted from the corridor—voices kept low, the wet scrape of a mop bucket, a chair leg dragged on cement. He set his breath to the drip, matched his stillness to the chair. Calm wasn’t natural; it was a manufactured state, hammered flat over years until it held.

He reviewed the last session. They’d tried deprivation, a performance of menace. Lights off to let the mind do their work for them. He’d seen worse—ice water, batteries, cello tape—but the still one hadn’t taken the bait. The restraint was deliberate. He wanted reactions, not results. He was building an index of what made each of them flinch.

The thought made Wooyoung flick a glance back to the girl. She’d flinched once, when the rubber hose lay across her arm without pressure. Not much, but enough for a man like that to write a note about. He ground his teeth once, soft, and bit down on the uselessness of fury. Anger was a tool only if it could be shaped.

He felt the rope again, the way it sat across his wrists. Natural fiber. Dry. It would bite deep before it gave. He flexed once, then stopped, because blood made rope swell and swell made knots seize. He’d learned that lesson with skin he still carried.

The bulb hummed. The drip kept time. Her breathing stayed steady.

He let his eyes close just long enough to rebuild the door bolt in his head from the sound of it sliding home: surface rust but not enough to stick, a clean click that meant it was fitted well. He pictured the length of hallway beyond, the angle to the next door, the spot a blind camera might cover if someone cheap had installed it. If they were smart, they wouldn’t keep them here long. If they were stupid, they’d think him too bound to matter.

He was deciding which to bet on when the corridor sound changed. Not footsteps. A silence—thin and purposeful—that usually preceded men who thought they owned a room.

He lifted his head. Across from him, her lashes shuttered once over her cheeks, then again, and she blinked awake with the dazed confusion of someone pulled up from too far down. For a half second she didn’t know where she was. Then she did. Fear flowed through her expression like ink through water. She locked it down fast—he admired that almost as much as he hated the reason for it.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice steady in the space between the drip and the door, and meant only breathe now, count now, look at me not them. “With me.”

A bolt slid. Metal groaned. The door opened.

Three shadows poured in and resolved into men he’d already named. Clipboard. Pitcher. And the still one, immaculate as if basements polished his shoes for him. He was, annoyingly, good-looking in the sort of clean-lined way that turned heads in places that didn’t smell like damp concrete—angles done by a good architect, eyes that gave away nothing he didn’t choose.

“Morning,” the still one said, voice soft with false civility. “How are we feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Wooyoung said. “Your hospitality is lacking.”

Pitcher made a show of filling a plastic cup halfway and setting it where neither of them could reach. The small theater of it scraped his nerves rawer than a slap.

“Let’s try again,” Clipboard said, eager. “Doors. Codes. Patrol—”

“Bored,” Wooyoung cut in, forcing the word to drip as lazily as the ceiling. “Get a new prompt. This one’s repetitive.”

The still one’s mouth tipped at a corner. “Repetition wears people down.”

“Not me.”

“Mmm.” Those eyes finally left him and slid to the girl as if drawn by a magnet he’d already felt pull at his own chest. “But maybe not everyone needs wearing.”

Wooyoung felt his back go tight. “Don’t.”

The still one’s gaze flicked back. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do.” Then, almost idly, to his men: “Out.”

Clipboard blinked. “Boss said—”

“Out,” the still one repeated, still gentle. The gentleness made it colder.

They hesitated, then obeyed, embarrassment in their gait. The door clicked. The bolt slid. The room shrank around the three of them.

The still one’s face smoothed into something like regret. “We’d been making such polite progress,” he said, and walked toward her.

Wooyoung’s vision tunneled. He nearly tipped the chair in his effort to lean forward, rope sawing at his skin. “I said—”

“You say many things,” the still one murmured, and stopped in front of her. Up close, the man’s beauty curdled into cruelty—good bones put to bad use. He lifted a hand and, with a touch that would have read as tender anywhere else, brushed his knuckles along her cheek.

She went still as glass, eyes wide. For one terrible beat, Wooyoung saw the exact moment panic broke surface tension. Her breath hitched audibly. She pressed herself back against the chair like she could merge with it.

“Your My type,” the still one said conversationally, as if commenting on a wine. “Pretty. Smarter than average. You could have a place here. With us. He won’t keep you safe.”

Wooyoung’s mouth filled with copper heat where his teeth cut his lip. “Move away from her.”

The still one leaned in as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

Wooyoung yanked against the rope so hard the chair screamed on ist bolts. Pain flared through his wrists, hot and bright. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the look in her eyes—white-rimmed, drowning—and the way his own calm cracked like thin ice around it.

He hadn’t felt fear like that in a long time. Not for himself. For someone else.

He swallowed it, forced his voice flat. “Touch her, and I’ll make sure you regret it in ways you don’t have words for.”

The still one turned his head a fraction, amused, then—because men like him loved to rewrite sentences that weren’t theirs—he returned his gaze to her, let his hand trail down to her jaw, and smiled.

“Let’s find out then,” he said softly.

The stranger bent lower. His lips pressed to hers before she could even turn her head away.

Wooyoung’s stomach dropped.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not really. It was possession masquerading as one—mouth hard, demanding, angled to take rather than ask. She made a muffled sound, panic sharp and immediate, her whole body recoiling against the chair.

Wooyoung froze. For the first time in years, he froze.

He’d seen knives sink into skin. He’d had guns pressed to his ribs, watched friends bleed in his arms. None of it cracked him like the look in her eyes did now—terror wide and wet, lashes trembling as if she was trying to disappear inside herself.

Move. Do something.

His muscles surged against the ropes. The fibers bit, cutting deeper into already raw skin, but he didn’t care. His chair rattled on the bolts, metal grinding loud in the damp silence.

“Get your hands off her!” His voice tore out rough, louder than he meant, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls.

The still one ignored him. He deepened the kiss, lips sliding, cruelly slow, one hand steadying her jaw as if she was something precious instead of prey. Then, with deliberate malice, his other hand trailed down—over her shoulder, to her arm, then lower.

She jerked against the ropes, a stifled whimper caught in her throat.

Wooyoung’s chest went white-hot. Panic and fury fused into something rawer than rage.

Think. Think. If you can’t move, you can’t fight. If you can’t fight, you wait. But she—

The still one’s hand flattened against her side, sliding down the hoodie she wore. He paused, glanced at Wooyoung with eyes that glittered sharp as broken glass, and pulled a knife from his belt.

Wooyoung’s pulse slammed once in his ears.

The man set the blade against the hem of her hoodie. For a moment, he didn’t cut—he let it rest there, letting both of them imagine what came next. Then he slid the knife upward in a slow, steady motion.

Fabric parted.

Y/N gasped, twisting in the chair, but the knife was faster, cleaner. Threads snapped and fell. The hoodie split, slumping off her shoulders in a useless bundle of gray. All that remained was the thin strap of her top, pale against the dark.

“Better,” the still one murmured, voice velvet and venom all at once. He let the fabric fall away, exposing her trembling arms. His hand hovered over her ribs, not quite touching, savoring the space between cruelty and contact.

Wooyoung’s vision tunneled.

Every instinct screamed at him to lunge, to sink his teeth into rope until it bled, to break the chair off the floor with sheer rage. His body strained so hard he felt his wrists slick with blood, rope cutting deeper. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Wooyoung snarled, teeth bared. “You touch her again, and I swear—”

The still one chuckled low in his throat. “And what will you do from over there? Bleed harder?”

He dragged the flat of the blade lightly—mockingly—against Y/N’s exposed shoulder. Not enough to cut. Just enough to make her flinch.

Her eyes darted to Wooyoung’s. Pleading, panicked, drowning.

That look shattered him.

Inside, the panic he never allowed anyone to see bloomed like wildfire. His crew, his family, he could survive their blood, their pain—it was part of the game. But her? A stranger dragged into this because of him?

No. No.

He swallowed the panic whole and forced it into a promise: I’ll end this. I don’t care how. I’ll end it before he takes another breath in your space.

The still one’s eyes gleamed with lazy hunger as he leaned in again. Wooyoung knew what was coming before it happened, and still, the sight of the man’s mouth forcing itself down onto hers wrenched something primal out of him.

Y/N jerked away, muffled protest caught in her throat, but she had nowhere to go. The kiss was hard, deliberate, meant to humiliate. When the bastard finally drew back, his lips glistened, and his smirk deepened.

Then the knife flashed again.

One swift movement—metal snagging fabric, a rip that echoed louder than it should have in the damp silence. The thin top gave way in two halves, sliding down her body until it pooled uselessly around her waist.

She gasped, instinct curling her shoulders forward, but the ropes held her cruelly open. Only her bra kept her from complete exposure.

Wooyoung’s vision blurred red. His body strained against the restraints with such fury the chair rattled on ist bolts, the rope cutting deeper into skin already raw. Pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the sheer terror carved into her face.

“Better,” the still one murmured, stepping back a pace to take in his work. His eyes traveled down her body with deliberate slowness, the way a collector might appraise a stolen painting. “Really pretty. I was right.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell, too fast, breaths coming shallow as she fought not to break.

The man’s knife lowered, trailing flat along her ribcage, deliberate in what it didn’t touch. He skimmed the edge of skin just beneath her bra line, down her side, lingering on the curve of her waist before sliding lower to trace her hip. He never touched her breasts, but the intent in the avoidance was worse—mockery, cruelty in patience.

“You’ll probably freeze a little like that,” he said conversationally, as though discussing the weather. His gaze flicked down and then up again, eyes bright with cruelty. “Already can see it. Cold does things to skin.” He smirked. “Nipples hard, and I haven’t even—”

“Don’t,” Wooyoung snarled, the word ripped raw from his throat. His whole body shook with the effort of restraint, wrists bleeding freely now where the rope bit down. Rage wasn’t enough—it felt like drowning, like being forced to watch a car crash in slow motion with no way to move.

The still one only chuckled, pleased with the reaction, gaze sliding back to Y/N.

And that’s when he missed it.

Small. Silent. A motion hidden beneath the humiliation he thought he’d orchestrated.

Y/N had worked her left wrist free. The rope still dangled, loose enough now to slip away entirely if she kept her movements measured. Her legs shifted subtly, ankles twisting until one slipped loose as well. Her eyes darted once to the side—checking him, checking the stranger watching her from across the room—and then, slowly, carefully, she slid her freed hand into the pocket of her jeans.

Wooyoung’s breath caught, but he masked it, locking his expression into a mask of fury. Inside, though, a spark lit.

Keys. She had her keys.

He forced himself to keep his gaze on the still one, not on her, not betraying her move. Every muscle screamed to lunge, to tear the man apart. But he held himself frozen, every heartbeat hammering with one thought:

Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught.

Her skin burned.

Not from the cold the man mocked, but from shame, from the weight of his eyes crawling over her like hands. Every breath scraped raw. The ripped fabric pooled uselessly at her waist; her bra felt thinner than paper under the sick glow of the bulb.

She wanted to disappear. To sink into the chair, into the concrete, into nothing. Instead she sat frozen, heart clawing against her ribs, the echo of his mouth on hers still burning like acid.

Dirty. That was the word her mind supplied, and she hated it. Hated that he’d planted it there.

The man smirked, knife lazy in his grip. He leaned back, satisfied, as if she were some exhibit he’d unveiled. “Attractive,” he said softly, like a verdict. His gaze flicked down again, and the curl of his lip made bile rise in her throat.

Wooyoung snarled something behind her—furious, desperate—but she couldn’t focus on him. Her fingers brushed metal in her pocket. Keys. Her keys.

Nari’s voice rang faintly in her head, teasing on a night when they’d watched old self-defense videos together: “You’re not helpless. Eyes, throat, groin. Don’t hesitate. Don’t stop.”

Her pulse steadied, strange and sharp.

The still one turned away from her, just a fraction, knife spinning lazily in his hand as if to admire his work.

She moved.

The rope fell from her left wrist. Her legs snapped free. She lunged forward, keys clenched between her knuckles like claws. Her body moved before her brain could doubt.

The metal jabbed under his jaw, right at the soft place where the throat met bone. He gagged, shocked, stumbling back. She drove her knee up wild, catching him in the gut. He folded, wheezing, and she slammed the keys again against his temple with every ounce of panic and fury her body had hoarded.

The crack of impact echoed in the room.

He staggered. His knife clattered. His eyes rolled, and then his body collapsed heavily onto the concrete, sprawled and motionless.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her chest heaved. Her hands shook so violently the keys rattled in her grip. She looked down at him—still, unconscious—and the first thread of real terror slashed through the adrenaline.

I did that. I—

“Y/N.”

Her head snapped up.

Across the room, Wooyoung sat bound, blood on his wrists, eyes wide and fixed on her. His voice was low, urgent. “Don’t think. Move.”

She stumbled to him. Her bare arms felt raw, exposed, but she forced herself forward, dropped to her knees behind his chair. The ropes bit into her hands as she fumbled with the knots, slipping the edge of a key under the fibers, sawing, pulling.

“Good,” Wooyoung murmured, his breath rough. “Keep going. You’re almost there.”

Her fingers burned, tears of effort blurring her eyes, but the rope frayed. One strand gave. Then another.

She worked faster.

Behind her, the drip counted time, patient and cruel.

The last rope snapped loose, frayed ends dangling from Wooyoung’s wrists. He inhaled sharply, flexing his hands, blood seeping from the raw grooves the fibers had carved.

Y/N stumbled back a step, the keys still clutched like a weapon, her breath tearing in and out of her chest.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the drip from the ceiling and the ragged edge of her breathing. Then Wooyoung moved.

He crouched in front of her, shoulders rolling with the stiffness of too many hours tied down, and without a word, shrugged out of his jacket. The lining was warm from his body heat, smelling faintly of smoke and leather. He tugged it around her bare shoulders, pulling it tight, then drew the zipper up to her chin. The motion was quick, practiced—like he’d done it a hundred times before, like he couldn’t stand to see her exposed another second.

Her fingers clenched in the fabric automatically, holding it closed.

“You okay?” His voice was low, softer than she’d ever heard it, but it carried weight, a demand for truth.

She trembled. Not from cold this time. From the surge of humiliation, fear, and relief crashing all at once. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Wooyoung hesitated—just a fraction, just long enough for his own surprise to flicker across his face. Then he reached out, one hand settling carefully at the back of her head, the other bracing against her shoulder. She collapsed into him before she knew she was moving, burying herself against his chest, shaking.

To his own shock, his body reacted without hesitation. His arms closed around her, firm, steady, pulling her into a cocoon of warmth and leather and heartbeat. He pressed his chin to the crown of her head, murmuring something she couldn’t even process at first—low, steady words meant only to ground her.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you. You did good. You’re safe.”

Her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. The tremors ran through her like aftershocks.

When she finally lifted her face, he leaned back just enough to see her, bending down until his forehead nearly touched hers. His thumb brushed her damp cheek. His gaze, usually sharp and mocking, was startlingly gentle now.

“I’ll get us out of here,” he said, each word quiet but certain, like a promise carved into stone. “I swear it.”

Y/N swallowed, eyes wide, tears clinging to her lashes. She didn’t answer, just nodded once, fragile but firm.

For the first time since the basement door had locked, Wooyoung let himself believe it too.

The room smelled like metal and old rain and fear. He shoved the fear to a far shelf.

“Eyes on me,” Wooyoung said, lowering his voice until it was a thread between them. The jacket swallowed her; it made something hot and protective kick against his ribs. “We’re going to move fast. You do exactly what I say. No heroics. Understood?”

She nodded, jerky, fingers fisted in the zipper at her throat.

He squeezed her shoulder once—steady, grounding—then pivoted to the unconscious man on the floor. The still one’s lashes lay pretty against his cheekbone, an absurd detail on a monster. Wooyoung crouched, efficient hands skimming pockets: knife, metal clip with two cards, a cheap radio, folded cash, lighter. He took the knife and the cards, switched the radio off, and tossed the cash aside. The lighter he kept; you never knew when fire could be useful.

“Roll him,” he murmured. “Help me.”

She hesitated only a beat before dropping to a knee and pushing at the man’s hip with both hands. Together they turned him facedown. Wooyoung stripped a length of rope from the chair she’d freed him from and bound the man’s wrists behind his back, quick and high, knot biting exactly where it would numb. He tore a strip from the ruined hoodie on the floor and shoved it between the man’s teeth, tying it hard behind his head.

“If he wakes, I want the first sound he makes to be useless,” he said, and stood.

Her eyes snagged on the blood running from the grooves around his wrists. Without thinking, she reached and caught his hand. He stilled, surprised by the jolt that went through him at the contact. Then her thumb swiped once across his skin, useless against the blood, but the look on her face—worried for him—felt like a match touched to dry tinder inside his chest.

“I’m fine,” he lied gently, reclaiming his hand. He passed her the lighter. “Pocket. Last resort, not a torch. Understand?”

She nodded again, shoving it deep into his jacket.

He pulled his shoe half off against the ground and dug his fingers into the seam, fishing out a sliver of wire he’d kept since a very different basement years ago. It was bent, small, inadequate for most locks—but a good failsafe if they met something with give. He tucked it under his tongue for a second, then slid it into the cuff of his sleeve where he could palm it quick.

He moved through the room like he was composing a diagram: chair here, table there, line of sight from the door to the two of them, where a man’s body naturally turned when he came in. He dragged the table half a meter, angle skewed so that ist edge became cover on the hinge side. The scrape of metal on concrete made his jaw twitch, but the building swallowed sound as if it had been eating it for decades.

“Listen.” He went back to her, close enough to feel the tremor running under her skin. “I’m going to bring them to us. Two, maybe three. First one through the door, I take. Second one, you stay behind me. If he gets past, you aim for eyes, throat, knee—whatever is there. Fast, then back.”

Her throat worked. “Okay.”

“Say it,” he said softly.

“I stay behind you,” she whispered. “Eyes, throat, knee. Fast, then back.”

“Good girl.” The old reflex slipped out before he could help it; he watched it land, almost took it back. But her eyes steadied a fraction, and he let it stand—filed under whatever works right now.

He angled her into the shadow of the table’s corner and put her hand on the underside lip. “If I say ‘drop,’ you tip this toward the door and let it go. It’ll buy us a second.”

“What about—” She glanced at the bound man on the floor. There was a flicker of something like guilt in her face, and he almost smiled at the ridiculousness of it. Even now, she worried about the collateral damage of gravity.

“He’ll live,” Wooyoung said. “Not my preference, but we don’t have time to make art.”

He stepped to the door, pressed his ear to the steel, and listened. Air shifted in the corridor. Far voices. A laugh. Someone set a mug down too hard and cursed. He pictured the path in his head: eight paces to the right before the first corner, a junction with a red EXIT sign that pointed the wrong way, a service stair that went up two flights and dumped into a loading bay. He’d clocked those details by sound and draft and a person’s instinct for distances after too long in too many rooms. It was enough.

He came back to her, touched her face—just his knuckles, a ghost of contact—and bent to her eye level. “One more thing,” he said, letting his mouth curve into the grin he usually wore like armor. “When I say run, you run. You don’t look back. You don’t wait for me to be clever. I’m clever by default. You just move.”

Her lips twitched, a small, disbelieving huff breaking through the terror. “Clever by default?”

“Tragically.” He let the grin fade, voice flattening into promise. “I’m getting you out.”

She pulled the jacket tighter around herself and nodded, that little iron streak he’d noticed earlier showing through the shock. It put fresh steel in his spine.

He took the knife in his right hand, tested the blade’s balance, slid the stolen keycards into his back pocket, then glanced around for one last resource. His gaze snagged on the plastic cup the still one had taunted her with. Half-full. He threw it against the far wall. It exploded in a loud, satisfying crack, water sheeting across concrete. He grabbed the metal chair they’d had him in and slammed ist legs once, twice, three times into the floor, the vibrations barking through the room like gunshots.

“HEY!” he shouted, switching to a petulant tone that men with clipboards couldn’t resist. “Your boyfriend fell asleep on the job!”

He moved—fast—into place on the hinge side, body pressed flat to the wall so the door, when it swung in, would shield him for the first heartbeat. He felt rather than saw Y/N curl smaller behind the table, hands white-knuckled under the edge. He forced his own breath even. Calm wasn’t an accident; it was a choice he’d practiced so long it felt like instinct.

Footsteps. Close. The scrape of a bolt. A muttered curse. The knob twisted.

He flexed his fingers once around the knife, heat collecting behind his ribs like a tide about to break.

“Stay with me,” he said, barely sound at all.

The door swung inward on a groan of hinges.

Two men stepped through fast—Clipboard first, muttering, and the other with a baton in his hand. Their eyes cut to the body on the ground, then to the empty chair.

They didn’t see him. Not yet.

Wooyoung moved.

His knife punched forward, clean, catching Clipboard square in the throat before the man could even shout. Not deep—he didn’t need deep. Just enough to make the man stumble, gagging, hands flying up. Wooyoung twisted, shoulder slamming him into the wall. The clipboard clattered.

The second man barked a curse and swung the baton down. Wooyoung caught the arc on his forearm, pain sparking white-hot, but his other hand snapped forward. He jammed the knife-hilt hard into the man’s nose. Bone crunched. The baton clanged on concrete.

Behind him, Y/N gasped.

The first man was still choking, dragging in air around his ruined windpipe. Wooyoung drove his elbow into the man’s temple. Dead weight collapsed sideways.

The second staggered back, blood pouring from his nose, fumbling at his belt for a weapon he didn’t have time to use. Wooyoung kicked the baton up, caught it midair, and cracked it down across the man’s jaw. He hit the ground and stayed there.

Silence dropped back into the room, broken only by Y/N’s fast breathing.

Wooyoung straightened, chest heaving, knife still slick in his grip. His lip curved despite the burn in his arm. “Well,” he said, voice rough but smug, “that worked.”

Y/N stared at him from behind the table, eyes wide, jacket hanging loose from her shoulders. “You—” Her voice caught, broke. She swallowed. “You just—”

He grinned sharper, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Told you. Clever by default.”

She blinked once, then let out a strangled sound that was half disbelief, half hysteria. He crossed the space in two strides, grabbed her hand, and tugged her upright.

“Stay close.” His tone left no room for argument.

She didn’t argue. Her fingers latched around his, tighter than he’d expected, and didn’t let go.

Wooyoung kicked the baton free of the fallen man’s hand, shoved the knife back into his belt, and tugged her toward the door. He peeked once into the corridor—empty but alive with echoing voices further down. They’d heard something. They’d come running.

“Eyes forward. Feet fast.” He shot her a quick glance, the edges of a grin ghosting back despite the danger. “Don’t make me carry you.”

Her mouth twitched in a tremor that might have been a laugh, might have been terror. Either way, she nodded.

He pulled her into the hall at a run.

The hallway stretched long and narrow, concrete swallowing the sound of their footfalls. Wooyoung ran ahead, Y/N’s hand gripped tight in his, dragging her in his slipstream. Shouts echoed behind them, angry voices closing the distance.

“Faster,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder. She stumbled once, but he yanked her upright without breaking stride.

The first corner opened to a junction. One guard came from the right, gun raised.

“Down!” Wooyoung shoved Y/N flat against the wall, covering her with his body as a shot cracked past his ear and pinged off the concrete. His knife was already in his hand. He sprinted low, zigzagged once, and slammed into the shooter before the man could line up again. The knife caught ribs, then throat. The guard fell, weapon clattering.

Wooyoung didn’t pause. He scooped the pistol, grabbed Y/N’s hand again, and pushed her forward.

Stairwell ahead. He barreled through the door, yanking her with him. The stairs vibrated with pursuit. Y/N’s breathing was ragged, harsh, but she kept pace.

Two flights, then a landing. Exit door—locked. He swore, slammed the stolen keycard through the reader. Green flash. The door gave.

Cold night air slapped their faces. They sprinted into another hallway that opened into the loading bay, then turned into a narrow corridor leading outside.

That was when the last one appeared.

Tall, broad, baton spinning in his grip, rage carved into his face. He blocked the only exit.

“Go,” Wooyoung barked at Y/N, shoving her slightly back.

The man lunged. Baton swung. Wooyoung ducked, blocked with the knife arm, but the shock rattled his bones. He drove a knee into the man’s gut, but the bastard absorbed it, swinging again. The baton clipped Wooyoung’s shoulder hard, jolting pain through his arm. His knife slashed up, shallow cut across the man’s chest.

They grappled. Muscles straining, the baton pressed against Wooyoung’s throat, teeth grit, stars bursting in his vision.

Then—

A yell. A blur.

Y/N.

She’d darted forward, clutching the abandoned clipboard in both hands like a weapon. She leapt onto the man’s back and brought it down on his skull with a crack. Once, twice. The man roared, faltered.

Wooyoung twisted in the split second of weakness, slamming his knee up into the man’s chin. The baton fell. One sharp twist of the knife ended it.

The man dropped heavy, unconscious or worse.

Breath tearing, Wooyoung turned. Y/N stood there, chest heaving, hands white-knuckled around the bent clipboard. Her eyes were wide but blazing.

He stared at her for a beat, shock and something fierce burning under his ribs. Then, despite the chaos, his mouth curved into a wild grin.

“Not bad,” he said, panting. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Her laugh was half a sob, half adrenaline. She dropped the clipboard, shaking.

“Come on.” He caught her hand again, pulling her toward the door. “We’re not done yet.”

They shoved through, night air swallowing them whole.

The alley spat them out into the night.

Cold air slapped his lungs, sharp and damp with city grit. Y/N stumbled, knees threatening to give, but Wooyoung’s grip on her hand stayed iron. He yanked her upright without breaking stride, hauling her behind the dumpster at the far end. His knife dripped, his shoulder throbbed, his breath came ragged—but they were outside.

They were free.

“Wooyoung!”

The voice hit him like a gunshot. He whipped his head around, knife raised, until two shapes stepped out from the mouth of the alley.

San and Mingi.

San’s grin was a razor flash under the streetlamp. Mingi’s bulk filled the space beside him, eyes sharp even as his mouth curled smug.

Relief crashed through Wooyoung so hard he almost laughed. Instead, he let the grin pull at his own mouth, sharp and grateful.

“Took you long enough,” he called, breathless but cocky.

San smirked wider. “What, you didn’t think we’d let you have all the fun?”

Mingi’s gaze flicked over Wooyoung, landing on the blood streaking his temple, the split lip, the knife still clenched in his hand. “You look like shit,” he said flatly.

Wooyoung barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Missed you too.”

Behind him, Y/N swayed, her breath ragged, jacket swallowing her frame. Wooyoung turned back quick, catching her elbow before she crumpled. Her eyes were wide, still glassy with leftover panic, but she hadn’t let go of his hand.

“You did good,” he murmured, pulling her in closer, pressing the jacket tighter around her. “Better than good. You’re still here.”

Her throat worked like she wanted to answer, but no words came. Her hands shook where they clutched the fabric shut.

San and Mingi stepped forward, ready to move, but Wooyoung angled his body between them and her, just for a second. He crouched a little, lowering his gaze to hers. His thumb brushed her cheek, gentle, steadying.

“I know you want to go home,” he said quietly, serious now, every trace of humor gone. “But you can’t. Not after this. They know your face. They’ll come for you.”

Her lip trembled, and he felt her flinch at the truth of it.

“So what—” her voice cracked, thin. “What am I supposed to do?”

Wooyoung leaned closer, so only she could hear. His forehead nearly touched hers, his breath warm against her damp cheek. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “It’s the only way you’ll be safe. I’ll get you through this. I swear it.”

Her lashes clumped with tears. For a heartbeat, she froze. Then she swayed forward and buried her face against his chest, arms trembling as they circled him.

His arms came up around her without hesitation, strong and certain. He tugged the jacket higher around her shoulders until it closed at her chin, shielding what little it could.

“You’re safe,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re with me now. And I don’t break my promises.”

He pressed his lips once to her temple before he let go. Then he caught her hand again, turned toward San and Mingi, and gave them the sharp, reckless smirk they knew so well.

“Let’s go home.”

The car smelled faintly of leather and smoke, the kind of scent that clung to everything when windows stayed closed too long. The hum of the engine vibrated under her feet, steady and relentless.

Y/N pressed herself against the cool glass of the backseat window, jacket pulled tight around her. She tried to slow her breathing, to untangle the frantic knots in her chest, but every bump in the road jolted her back into the present: a stolen car, three dangerous men, and a city sliding by in fractured blurs of neon and shadow.

Wooyoung sat beside her. His grip on her hand hadn’t eased since the alley. His thumb brushed once across her knuckles, absentminded, like he’d forgotten he was holding her at all.

In the front seats were the other two. She hadn’t seen them before—hadn’t seen anyone like them before.

The driver was tall, shoulders so broad they filled the frame of the seat. His jaw was tight, his profile sharp in the passing light. The man beside him leaned lazily against the door, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate, his grin flickering when his gaze caught hers in the rearview mirror.

Strangers. And yet… not strangers to Wooyoung.

The taller one broke the silence first. His voice was deep, calm, with an edge that made her straighten instinctively.

“Wooyoung,” he said without turning. “Who is she? And why is she here?”

Her chest locked. She felt Wooyoung shift beside her, felt his grip tighten like he’d been expecting it. But before he could answer, words stumbled out of her own mouth.

“I…” Her throat scraped. She swallowed, tried again. “I was taken. Wrong place, wrong time.” She tugged Wooyoung’s jacket higher, until it nearly brushed her chin. “I don’t— I don’t belong to any of this.”

The man in the passenger seat twisted slightly, grin spreading, not cruel but sharp. “First time I’ve heard anyone explain it like that.” His eyes narrowed, curious. “You sound like you still can’t believe it happened.”

She blinked at him. “I can’t.”

Silence pressed for a moment, filled only by the low thrum of the tires.

Then the taller one’s eyes flicked to the rearview, landing on Wooyoung. His question was quieter this time, but heavier. “And what do you plan to do with her?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer immediately. Y/N felt her stomach twist tighter. Her gaze dropped, almost desperately, to where their hands were still joined. She hadn’t even realized until now that she was clinging, white-knuckled, to him.

Mortified, she tried to pull her hand back. “Sorry—”

Before she could finish, Wooyoung’s grip locked around hers, dragging it closer between them. He smirked sideways, the corner of his mouth curving like he was enjoying every second of her embarrassment.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She froze.

“You don’t get to apologize for surviving,” he murmured, just for her. The smirk softened, almost, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers until she nodded once.

Her chest eased a fraction. And for the first time, pressed between strangers in a stolen car, she didn’t feel like she was about to shatter.

The car rattled over a speed bump, jolting her forward before Wooyoung’s hand steadied her. She sank back against the seat, pulse still jagged in her throat.

The tall driver glanced into the mirror again, his voice low but edged. “So? What’s your answer, Wooyoung? What happens to her now?”

Her stomach twisted. She braced herself for him to say it: She goes back. She’s not my problem.

But Wooyoung only leaned back, his arm resting casually along the seat, hand still threaded tight through hers. His smirk was there, but beneath it was something harder, sharper.

“I promised I’d protect her,” he said simply. “And I don’t break promises.”

The words landed heavy in the car, final in a way that made Y/N’s breath stutter.

The man in the passenger seat—San, she thought his name was—arched a brow, but didn’t argue. Mingi’s jaw worked once, like he wanted to press, but the conversation ended there. The engine hummed on.

The building looked like nothing from the outside—blank walls, dark windows, the kind of place you passed without a second glance. But inside, the atmosphere shifted.

Warm light pooled across a wide room. Sofas pushed together in the center, papers and weapons scattered across a low table, the faint smell of coffee and gun oil in the air. It looked lived in, not sterile, like the home of people who didn’t get much time to rest but tried anyway.

As soon as Wooyoung stepped in, the room stirred.

“Wooyoung!”

A sharp-eyed man with blonde streaks in his hair crossed first, relief flashing across his face before he masked it with irritation. “You’re late.” But his hand gripped Wooyoung’s shoulder hard, as if testing he was real. Others crowded in—clapping his back, muttering “We thought you were gone,” laughter cutting rough through the tension.

Y/N lingered in the doorway, jacket zipped high around her throat. The relief in the room didn’t touch her. Every eye seemed to turn eventually, curiosity sharpening.

Who’s the girl? Hung thick in the air, even if no one spoke it aloud.

And in the middle of that weight, Y/N’s brain made a mistake.

The jacket. She realized she was still wearing his jacket. That was why they were staring—wasn’t it? Heat rushed to her face. Without thinking, she pushed the zipper down and shrugged the leather from her shoulders.

The air hit her bare skin in a rush.

Only then did she remember.

The ruined top in the basement. The knife slicing through fabric. The thin straps of her bra.

She froze—half undressed, half naked—in the center of a room full of strangers.

Their eyes widened. Confusion sharpened into surprise, and something deeper she didn’t want to name.

Her stomach dropped. Panic surged up so fast she swayed. She yanked at the jacket again, but her fingers fumbled the zipper. Her throat locked, heat crawling up her neck to her ears.

Then Wooyoung was there.

He moved faster than she could breathe. His hands caught the jacket, tugged it back up around her shoulders, and zipped it to the very top with practiced precision. His palm lingered just a second against the collar under her chin.

“She’s with me,” he said flatly, eyes cutting across the room like a blade. “Don’t stare.”

Silence. Then the others looked away, conversation picking back up in low, awkward hums.

Her breath shook as she clutched the jacket shut, trembling so hard her teeth almost knocked together.

Wooyoung slid an arm firmly around her shoulders and steered her toward the hallway. His voice softened, for her alone. “Come on. You need a shower. And something clean to wear.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, shutting out the noise of the others. The room smelled faintly of soap and steam. Too normal for the night she’d just lived.

Wooyoung rummaged through a cabinet, then pressed a folded pile into her arms: sweatpants, a loose t-shirt, soft from wear. His clothes.

“They’ll be big on you,” he said, voice softer now, eyes flicking to her face. “But they’ll do.”

Her fingers trembled around the bundle. She couldn’t find words.

He touched her cheek once, quick but grounding, before stepping back. “Take your time. I’ll be right outside.”

The jacket still weighed heavy on her shoulders. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like something borrowed. It felt like protection.

The water in the sink stung like fire when it ran into the raw grooves of his wrists.

Wooyoung hissed through his teeth but didn’t stop. He scrubbed harder, letting the blood swirl pink and vanish down the drain. His reflection in the mirror above looked back at him with split lip, bruised cheek, shadows under his eyes deep enough to carve hollows. He’d worn worse. But tonight something in that reflection unsettled him—not the damage, but the look in his own eyes.

Too sharp. Too rattled.

He gripped the edge of the counter, leaning in close enough for the glass to blur. His thoughts kept circling, circling, always back to her.

Y/N.

The girl with trembling hands who’d still raised a clipboard like a weapon. The grad student who’d freed herself with nothing but desperation and a set of house keys. The stranger who had stared panic in the face and lunged at a man twice her size.

The girl who had looked at him in the dark with wide, terrified eyes—and who had somehow made him feel fear, too.

He dropped his gaze, water dripping off his chin. His chest tightened, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He smirked bitterly at his reflection. “You’re slipping,” he muttered.

A knock rattled the door.

“Wooyoung,” came Hongjoong’s voice, clipped, carrying the weight of command.

He sighed, wiped his face with the towel, and pulled the door open.

They were all waiting.

San leaned against the wall, his usual grin pulled tight. Mingi stood beside him, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, gaze sharp despite his casual posture. Hongjoong stood front and center, Seonghwa just behind his shoulder—poised, assessing. Yunho perched on the arm of the couch, long legs stretched, arms folded. Yeosang lingered near the back, quiet, eyes like scalpels. And Jongho—solid, silent, the wall no bullet could breach—watched with his arms crossed.

The family. His people.

And all of them staring at him like he’d walked in carrying a ghost.

Hongjoong didn’t waste time. “Start talking. What happened?” His voice was low but firm, leaving no room for evasion. “And who’s the girl?”

Wooyoung leaned against the sink, crossing his arms. The towel still clung damp to his wrists, hiding the rope burns. He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They wanted information. Thought I’d fold if they had leverage.”

Seonghwa’s brow creased. “Leverage?”

His smirk flattened. “Her. Y/N. They grabbed her because she was there. Wrong place, wrong time. Convenience store shift, walk home, wrong street. They thought she was mine.”

“She isn’t,” Yeosang said immediately, voice sharp like glass.

“I told them that.” Wooyoung’s tone darkened. “Didn’t matter. They don’t deal in truth. They deal in pressure.”

The room quieted. Even San’s grin slipped.

Mingi muttered, “So what—you brought a civilian back here?” His tone wasn’t cruel, just bewildered.

“She’s not just a civilian,” Wooyoung said flatly. He could feel the echo of her hand in his, small and shaking but stubborn. “She’s collateral now. They know her face. If I’d left her out there, they’d have picked her up again before she reached her apartment.”

Yunho tilted his head, studying him. “So what now? You plan on babysitting her?”

Wooyoung’s smirk sharpened. “No. I plan on keeping my promise. I told her I’d protect her. And I don’t break promises.”

That made San straighten, surprise flashing across his expression. Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed slightly, curious. Hongjoong didn’t move, but Wooyoung felt the weight of his gaze.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” he added, and pride leaked into his voice despite himself. “When one of their guys cornered me, she didn’t freeze. She grabbed a clipboard and smacked him across the head until I had an opening. Saved me seconds I didn’t have.”

Yunho let out a low whistle. “She did that?”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung allowed the grin to curve his mouth. “Engineers, huh? Guess they know something about leverage.”

That got a laugh—rough, startled. Even Jongho’s mouth twitched.

But Wooyoung wasn’t finished. He pushed off the sink, standing straighter, voice hardening. “And it wasn’t just him. She took down the silent one too. The bastard who—” His jaw clenched. He forced the words out. “The one who touched her. Kissed her. Cut her top away like she was nothing.”

The room went still.

Jongho’s knuckles cracked in the silence. San’s grin was gone entirely, replaced by a sharp, dangerous line to his jaw. Mingi muttered a curse that sounded like it could set walls on fire.

“She freed herself from the ropes,” Wooyoung continued, voice low but steady. “Used her keys like a blade. Put him on the floor. He didn’t see it coming. She bought us our chance to get out.”

For a beat, no one spoke.

Then Hongjoong exhaled, slow, measured. “And now she’s in our headquarters.”

“Because she doesn’t have anywhere else to be,” Wooyoung said, and his tone left no space for debate. “She can’t go home. Not with them watching. Not after what they’ve done. If she goes back, she dies.”

Seonghwa’s gaze softened, just a flicker, though his voice stayed calm. “You’re sure about this.”

“I’m sure.” Wooyoung’s smirk dropped completely now, voice raw, almost bare. “She’s with me. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”

His words hung in the air. For a moment, it felt like the ground might crack open under them.

Then Hongjoong nodded once, decisive. “Fine. She stays.”

The room exhaled as one. Mingi rubbed the back of his neck, muttering about trouble magnets. San leaned back against the wall again, smirk returning faintly though his eyes still burned. Yunho shook his head, amused and impressed in equal measure. Yeosang stayed silent, but his gaze softened a fraction. Jongho’s jaw was tight, fists still clenched, but he gave a single nod of agreement.

Wooyoung let his shoulders relax just enough to breathe. His chest still burned, though. Burned with the image of her trembling hands clutching his jacket, with the sound of her gasp when she realized she was exposed in front of everyone.

Burned with the weight of his own promise.

He’d keep it. Even if it killed him.

The shower cut off.

Wooyoung’s ears caught it even over San’s muttering, over Mingi pacing the length of the room. The sound pulled him tight, like a thread jerked taut inside his chest. He leaned forward on the couch arm, pretending to study the map strewn across the table, but his eyes kept flicking toward the hall.

The door opened.

She stepped out slowly, almost cautious, like she was entering another battlefield.

Her hair was damp, clinging in strands to her neck, curling at the ends where it had started to dry. His shirt—plain black, soft from wear—draped loose over her frame, the collar slipping wide against her collarbone. The sleeves swallowed her wrists, cuffs hanging past her knuckles. The sweatpants he’d given her bunched at the ankles, far too long, tied tight at the waist.

And somehow, she looked…

His throat tightened.

Pretty.

He’d thought it in the basement, once, when he was trying not to, when the still one’s hand had trailed down her side. He’d dismissed it then, fury drowning everything else. But here, in the warm light of their headquarters, bruises cleaned from her skin, freckles dusted across her nose catching the glow like flecks of gold—he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

She was pretty. And small in his clothes. And the sight unsettled him more than any blade ever pressed to his throat.

She stopped just inside the room, clutching at the hem of his shirt as if she could fold herself into it. Her eyes flicked nervously across the group—strangers, all of them, watching her with varying shades of curiosity and suspicion.

San was the first to break the silence.

“Well, well,” he drawled, smirk tugging at his mouth. “So this is her. The infamous leverage.”

Y/N startled, eyes wide, color rushing to her cheeks.

Wooyoung shot San a look sharp enough to slice. “Don’t.”

San raised his hands, grinning wider, but didn’t press.

Mingi crossed his arms, gaze sweeping up and down. “She doesn’t look like much.”

Wooyoung’s lip curled. “Funny. That’s what the clipboard guy thought too, right before she knocked him on his ass.”

That earned a snort from Yunho. “Seriously?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You actually went at him?”

Her face flushed deeper. She glanced down at her sleeves, tugging them over her hands until only the tips of her fingers showed. “He was hurting him. I couldn’t just sit there.”

Wooyoung felt something coil hot in his chest. Pride. Sharp and inconvenient.

“That’s insane,” Mingi muttered, though there was a flicker of respect in his tone now.

“Insane works,” Seonghwa said quietly, his gaze softer than the others. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.”

Y/N’s throat bobbed as she nodded, but she didn’t look up.

Jongho’s voice cut in, blunt as always. “And the quiet one? The one Wooyoung said you knocked down?”

She stiffened. Her hands twisted harder in the sleeves. “…He was close. Too close.” Her eyes flicked briefly, unwillingly, to Wooyoung, then away. “I remembered something I saw once. About using keys. So I… tried.”

“You tried,” Yeosang echoed, tone unreadable. His gaze flicked sharp over her, as though weighing the truth of her words.

“And it worked,” Wooyoung cut in, smirk flashing. “Put him on the ground before he knew what hit him. Bought us the time we needed.”

That silenced the room.

Even Hongjoong, who had been quiet through it all, watching with his arms folded, let his brow crease slightly. His gaze lingered on Y/N a moment longer before he finally spoke.

“You understand,” he said, voice low but clear, “that this isn’t a place for civilians. You shouldn’t be here.”

Her shoulders hunched, as though his words had weight. She whispered, “I didn’t choose this.”

Something twisted in Wooyoung’s chest. He opened his mouth—ready to throw his words down like cards in a game, ready to defend her again—but Hongjoong’s gaze flicked to him first, sharp.

“And yet she’s here,” the leader said.

Wooyoung leaned back on the couch arm, smirk masking the steel under his words. “She’s here because she saved my life. Twice. And because if she walks back out there alone, she won’t last an hour. They know her face now. She’s with me.”

The room shifted at that, subtle but real.

San’s smirk softened into something almost approving. Mingi grumbled, but his arms loosened over his chest. Yunho let out a low whistle. Yeosang’s gaze sharpened further, but not with hostility—with calculation. Seonghwa’s eyes softened. Jongho gave a single, heavy nod.

Y/N, still standing in the doorway, shifted uncomfortably under the weight of it all. Her hands clenched in the fabric of Wooyoung’s shirt, sleeves bunched to her chin.

“Come here,” San called suddenly, waving her over with a grin. “Don’t hover like a ghost. Sit.”

She startled, eyes darting instinctively to Wooyoung. He smirked, tilting his head. “Go on. They don’t bite. Much.”

She huffed softly, half-nervous, half-disbelieving—but her feet moved. Slowly, carefully, she crossed the room, the oversized sweats dragging on the floor. She perched on the edge of the couch like she might spring back up at any second.

Wooyoung’s eyes tracked every movement. The way her damp hair curled against her jaw. The way her freckles caught the light. The way she pulled his shirt tighter around herself, as if it could shield her from their questions.

Too pretty. Too fragile. Too much.

And he knew, sitting there with his smirk carved into place, that the promise he’d made—to protect her, to keep her safe—wasn’t just obligation anymore.

It was instinct.

And instinct didn’t break.

The room felt too warm, too crowded.

Y/N sat stiff on the edge of the couch, legs tucked close, Wooyoung’s shirt swallowing her frame. Every set of eyes seemed to burn into her, even when the guys tried not to stare outright. The low hum of conversation had died the moment she sat down.

“So.” It was San who broke the silence, leaning back in his chair, a grin curving his mouth like he’d been waiting for this. “Who are you, really?”

Y/N blinked. “I—” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat, fingers twisting in her sleeves. “I’m just… me. A student.”

“A student?” Yunho leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His tone wasn’t unkind, just curious. “What do you study?”

“Engineering,” she said softly. “Graduate program. Master’s.”

That made Mingi whistle low. “Smart girl.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I wouldn’t say—”

“She is,” Wooyoung’s voice cut in smoothly from across the room. He lounged on the couch arm, smirk sharp but eyes steady on her. “Don’t let her play it down.”

Heat curled in her chest at the words. Her gaze flicked to him—without meaning to, without being able to stop. His eyes caught hers, held for a beat too long. She looked away quickly.

Seonghwa’s voice came next, calm, even. “And why were you there tonight? Walking alone, that late?”

Her throat tightened. “I work part-time at a convenience store. After my shift I was going home. It’s usually safe, I didn’t—” She cut herself off, eyes flicking to Wooyoung again, searching his face for something. His smirk was gone, jaw set hard, watching her like every word mattered.

“And then they took you,” Jongho said bluntly.

She nodded, hands twisting tighter in her sleeves. “Yes.”

For a moment, silence stretched. She felt their weight pressing, assessing her answers, measuring if she was telling the truth. Her chest grew tight. She wanted to fold into the shirt, vanish under ist fabric.

Then Seonghwa stood.

“I cooked earlier,” he said simply, walking toward the small kitchen space. “It’ll be cold, but nothing a stove can’t fix.”

She blinked as he moved easily through the motions—pot clattering, flame hissing, the warm scent of broth filling the room. Her stomach betrayed her, growling loud enough that San snorted a laugh. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

Minutes later, Seonghwa returned with bowls balanced carefully in his hands. He set one down in front of her first. The portion was generous—more than generous, easily the biggest.

“Eat,” he said gently, crouching slightly so his eyes met hers. His tone wasn’t forceful, but steady. His mouth tipped into the faintest smile. “You’ll feel better.”

Her throat closed. No one had spoken to her like that since—since before all this. Since home.

She reached for the spoon with trembling fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Seonghwa’s hand lingered a moment near the bowl, nudging it slightly closer to her. Warmth pressed against her chest at the gesture. She glanced at him, then at Wooyoung—

And froze.

Wooyoung’s eyes were locked on Seonghwa’s hand. His jaw was tight, smirk nowhere in sight.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he snapped suddenly, voice sharper than the air deserved. He shoved off the couch arm and dropped into the seat right beside her, shoulder brushing hers. His arm stretched casually across the backrest, possessive without saying it.

Y/N startled at the sudden nearness. His heat radiated through the oversized shirt, the space between them gone.

She glanced up at him. His smirk had returned—but this one was different. Sharper. Darker. His gaze flicked to Seonghwa, then back to her, as if to say without words: She’s with me.

Her spoon trembled in her hand. She forced it to steady, forced herself to take the first bite. The broth warmed her tongue, her throat, settled in her stomach.

But the heat on her skin came from somewhere else entirely.

The food was warm, comforting in a way that made her throat ache. She ate slowly, aware of Wooyoung’s presence beside her, his arm draped along the back of the couch like a barrier between her and the rest of the room.

The others had gone back to their seats, bowls in hand, the conversation starting to hum again. But the weight of their glances lingered.

It was Yunho who asked the next question, voice gentle but steady. “Do you have family we should contact? Someone who’ll worry if you don’t come home?”

The spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

Her chest went tight. Heat crept up her neck—not from embarrassment, but from the raw sting of the memory.

“My grandmother,” she said after a pause, her voice low. “I lived with her. But she… passed away a few months ago.”

The room quieted. Even San, always grinning, dropped his smirk.

Y/N’s eyes burned. She blinked quickly, lowering the spoon. “It’s just been me since then. I’ve been… managing. School. Work. But family?” She shook her head faintly. “No.”

Mingi frowned, leaning back. “Nobody?”

She hesitated. “My best friend. Nari. She’s all I have, really. But if they know about me…” Her stomach twisted. She pressed the spoon down into the broth, watching it sink. “She could be a target too.”

The words left her trembling. Saying them out loud made them real.

Silence stretched heavy.

Then Wooyoung shifted beside her. His arm lowered, sliding across the back of the couch until his fingers brushed her shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. The contact was subtle, but grounding.

“She won’t be,” he said, voice low but certain. “We’ll make sure of it.”

She turned her head slightly, glancing up at him. His smirk was gone. His eyes were steady, serious in a way that made her chest tighten.

Hongjoong finally spoke, tone calm but edged with command. “We’ll put someone on her. Quiet. Just in case.” He looked at Y/N, his gaze softer than it had been. “You won’t have to worry about her.”

Her throat worked. Relief, sharp and aching, slid through her chest. She nodded, whispering, “Thank you.”

Seonghwa leaned forward slightly, voice quiet. “Eat, Y/N. You need your strength.” He nudged the bowl closer again, a gentle reminder.

But this time, Wooyoung was quicker. He plucked the spoon from where it rested against the bowl, dipped it into the broth, and set it back into her hand himself. “He’s right,” he muttered. “Eat.”

Her cheeks burned. She swallowed hard and obeyed, because the weight of his gaze left her no other choice.

The days blurred.

She didn’t know how many had passed since the night in the basement. Two? Three? More? The HQ had no clocks on the walls, no windows in the common rooms. Only the hum of the fridge, the scrape of chairs, the cadence of laughter or argument told her time was moving.

But she was alive. And not alone.

Wooyoung was everywhere.

The first morning, she’d found him sprawled across the couch, smirk crooked, tossing a pack of cards between his hands. “Sleep well, princess?” he’d asked, eyes glinting.

She’d flushed, muttering something about nightmares. His grin had faltered for a split second, softened. Then the mask had snapped back into place, smug and playful. “Guess that means you’ll have to stick close to me,” he’d said. “I’m excellent nightmare insurance.”

It became a pattern. Whenever she drifted into silence, he cracked a joke. Whenever fear crept back in, he leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, lips curved in that maddening smirk that dared her to roll her eyes.

But beneath the jokes, beneath the flirtation, she began to see it—the way his gaze always swept the room first, cataloguing exits, checking corners. The way his hand brushed her shoulder just enough to guide her out of a path. The way he always positioned himself between her and the door.

Smugness was his armor. Jokes were his shield. Flirtation was his distraction. Underneath it, though… he cared. Fiercely.

And she couldn’t stop watching him.

The line of his jaw when he tilted his head back laughing. The curve of his smile when he teased San into sulking. The focus in his eyes when Hongjoong explained a plan. His hands—scarred, quick, steady.

He’s handsome, she caught herself thinking once, cheeks warming. More than handsome. Dangerous, and yet… safe. For her.

The others weren’t what she’d expected either.

San was mischief and brightness, constantly leaning into her space with questions: “So, how’s life with Wooyoung as a babysitter?” or “Want me to tell you embarrassing stories about him?” (She’d said yes, and Wooyoung had nearly tackled him across the couch).

Mingi was blunt but funny, muttering sarcastic one-liners under his breath that made her choke on laughter when she least expected it.

Yunho was calm, steady, always the one to explain things in simple terms when the others argued too fast.

Seonghwa hovered like quiet gravity—always making sure she had food, or a blanket, or a seat pulled out.

Yeosang was sharp-eyed, curious, the kind who asked questions she didn’t always want to answer.

Jongho… he rarely spoke, but when he set a mug of tea beside her one evening without a word, she felt strangely safer.

It was overwhelming, at first. But little by little, their world began to fold her in.

Her phone, though, was the reminder she couldn’t escape.

Nari.

The screen lit up over and over: Where are you? Why aren’t you at uni? The store manager’s asking questions. Are you okay?

She answered as vaguely as she could. I’m fine. Busy. Don’t worry.

But it wasn’t enough. Nari kept pressing. This isn’t like you. Talk to me. Please.

Guilt clawed at her chest. She wanted to tell her everything—to pour out the truth, to hear Nari laugh and tell her it sounded like some insane drama plot. But she couldn’t. If they watched her, if they traced her, Nari would be the first they’d grab.

So she tucked the phone away, stomach twisting, and tried not to think about the world still spinning without her.

One evening, she sat at the kitchen counter while Seonghwa reheated leftovers. The warm scent of stew filled the air, making her mouth water despite the knot in her stomach.

“You’re too thin,” Seonghwa said gently, sliding the bowl toward her. The portion was big. Bigger than anyone else’s. “Eat.”

She blinked, then smiled faintly. “You sound like my grandmother.”

His eyes softened, a flicker of something kind. “Then she was a wise woman.”

Her throat tightened. She picked up the spoon, but before she could take a bite, movement caught her eye.

Wooyoung slid into the chair beside her, bumping her shoulder lightly. “What’s this? Seonghwa stealing my job?”

She frowned. “Your job?”

“Making sure you eat.” His grin curved smug. “You’re supposed to be my responsibility, remember?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but said nothing, moving back toward the stove.

Y/N ducked her head, cheeks warm. She spooned stew into her mouth, trying to ignore the way Wooyoung’s gaze lingered.

The days passed like that—fragments of normalcy stitched between tension.

San teaching her how to cheat at cards, Wooyoung loudly protesting when she beat him.

Mingi making her laugh so hard she nearly spilled water.

Yunho explaining the layout of the HQ like a tour guide.

Seonghwa fussing over her meals.

Yeosang cornering her with sharp questions about her studies.

Jongho silently fixing the chair she’d nearly broken, handing it back with the faintest smile.

And always, always, Wooyoung—smirking, teasing, leaning close with some quip, his hand brushing hers longer than it should.

She found herself looking for him in every room. And more dangerously, she found herself missing him when he wasn’t there.

But at night, when the lights dimmed and the walls pressed close, her phone glowed again.

Nari’s name. Another message. Another missed call.

Talk to me, Y/N. Please. I’m scared.

Tears burned her eyes. She curled under the blanket Wooyoung had tossed her, clutching the phone to her chest.

She wanted to answer. Wanted to tell Nari everything. Wanted to hear her voice, to feel like she wasn’t living in some parallel world cut off from the rest of her life.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t put her in danger.

So she typed the only words she could manage: I’m okay. I promise.

And she hoped, desperately, that the promise meant something.

It was late when she found him.

Most of the guys had disappeared into their rooms, the hum of the HQ settling into quiet. Only a single lamp burned in the corner of the common room. Wooyoung sat beneath it, head tipped back against the couch, eyes closed.

For a moment, she thought he was asleep. Then his mouth curved.

“Staring at me again, princess?”

Her cheeks burned. “I wasn’t—”

“Sure you weren’t.” His eyes opened, catching hers in the dim light. He shifted, patting the cushion beside him. “Come here.”

She hesitated, then sat. The warmth of his body seeped through the space between them.

For once, he didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. His gaze lingered instead, softer, unreadable. “Rough day?”

She swallowed, nodding. “I keep thinking about Nari. She’s probably… terrified. I can’t even tell her what’s happening.”

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

Silence stretched. Then, softly, she added, “And I keep thinking… what if I hadn’t gotten free? What if you weren’t there?”

He turned then, fully, his arm sliding along the backrest until his fingers brushed her shoulder. His voice was low, steady. “Don’t. You did get free. And I was there. That’s all that matters.”

Her throat tightened. She looked up—and found his face closer than she expected, eyes dark, focused entirely on her.

Her breath caught. His gaze dropped briefly, almost imperceptibly, to her lips.

And suddenly the world narrowed to this: the heat of him beside her, the faint brush of his fingers on her shoulder, the rapid thrum of her heartbeat as she leaned, just slightly, into his space.

He leaned too.

Close enough that his breath ghosted against her mouth. Close enough that the freckles on her nose must have been visible to him, that she could count the flecks of gold in his eyes.

Her lips parted.

“Y/N.”

The voice wasn’t his.

Both of them jerked back as footsteps echoed down the hall. Seonghwa appeared, phone in hand, face tight.

“You need to come,” he said, eyes flicking between them. “Now.”

Her stomach dropped. “What—?”

Wooyoung stood, expression snapping back into sharp lines, though his hand brushed hers once as if to steady her.

Seonghwa held out the phone. On the screen was a security feed—the front of the building, grainy and dark.

And there, right outside the door, stood Nari.

Her best friend.

Her face pale in the streetlight.

Her phone pressed to her ear, ringing.

Calling her.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, vibrating like it knew the world was about to tilt.

She pressed accept, raising it to her ear with shaking fingers. “Nari?”

The voice on the other end exploded.

“WHAT the hell is going on with you?!” Nari’s voice was sharp, furious, threaded through with relief. “Do you know how insane it’s been not hearing from you? Do you know what I had to do to even find you?”

Y/N swallowed hard. Her throat ached. “Nari, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Nari hissed. “I was going insane, that’s what. You vanish, no calls, no texts except vague ‘I’m fine’s—so yeah, I used what I know. Computer science, remember? I tracked your phone. And now I’m standing in front of some creepy warehouse and you’d better tell me why the hell you’re inside it.”

The room went silent around her. Every set of eyes was on her—Wooyoung tense beside her, San raising a brow, Yeosang sharp as ever.

“Nari—” Y/N’s voice cracked. “Please calm down , just… let me explain. .”

On the feed, Nari stood rigid, jaw tight, her hand still clutching her phone like a weapon.

Y/N’s chest squeezed. She turned to the guys, desperation breaking through. “Let her in.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not a good idea.”

“She’s my best friend,” Y/N snapped, sharper than she meant. “She won’t let this go. She’s here now, and if you leave her outside, she’ll just get herself hurt. Please.”

The silence stretched.

Then, surprisingly, it was Jongho who spoke. “She’s right. Leaving her out there’s worse.”

Hongjoong exhaled through his nose, sharp, but finally gave a nod. “Fine. But she stays under our eyes.”

Wooyoung moved before anyone else could, striding toward the door. His hand brushed Y/N’s shoulder as he passed, firm and grounding, before he unlocked the heavy bolt.

The door swung open.

Nari stormed in like a hurricane.

Her hair was mussed from the night wind, her eyes blazing fire. She scanned the room once—at the weapons on the table, at the sharp-eyed men scattered across couches and chairs—and her shoulders went stiff. Fear flickered, quick, but she shoved it down with something fiercer.

“Okay,” she snapped, jabbing a finger at Y/N. “You. Explain. Now.”

Y/N’s chest burned. She stood, clutching Wooyoung’s oversized shirt tighter around her. “Nari, I—”

“No excuses,” Nari cut in, marching across the floor. “You’ve been missing for days, I had to hack half the planet to find you, and now you’re here—” she flung a hand toward the others, glaring at them like they were bugs under a microscope— “with them? Who the hell are these guys?”

The room stilled. San choked on laughter, Mingi muttered, “Oh, she’s got guts,” and Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose like this was already giving him a headache.

Wooyoung smirked despite himself, leaning against the wall. “Careful,” he drawled. “You’re in a den of wolves.”

Nari’s eyes snapped to him. “And you must be the stereotyped smug one.”

Y/N slapped a hand over her face.

The tension in the room could have been cut with one of the knives lying on the table.

Y/N sat frozen on the couch, clutching Wooyoung’s shirt tighter around her frame, while Nari stood in the middle of the HQ like a spark about to ignite.

Hongjoong, leader of them all, hadn’t moved from where he stood. Calm. Composed. His eyes sharp, unreadable, his posture the kind of quiet control that made everyone else measure themselves against him.

Nari didn’t care.

She marched straight up to him, stopping so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. Y/N’s stomach clenched — her best friend was shorter than her, dwarfed by his presence, by his authority, by the silent power that clung to him.

And yet… Nari’s voice cut sharper than anything.

“You.” She jabbed a finger into his chest, forceful enough that it made his jacket shift. “I don’t care how dangerous you think you are. If you lay one hand on her—” she jabbed her finger again, “—I swear to God I will hire a contract killer off the dark web to take you out in your sleep.”

The room went dead silent.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Nari—!”

But her friend didn’t blink.

Hongjoong tilted his head, studying her like she was an alien species. His mouth curved—slow, deliberate—into something between amusement and disbelief. “A contract killer?”

“Yes.” Nari’s chin lifted higher, eyes blazing. “I know exactly where to look. I’ve got the skills, I’ve got the cash, and I don’t give a damn about your reputation. You so much as bruise her, I will find someone to do it.”

San let out a strangled laugh. Mingi choked on his drink. Even Yeosang’s mouth twitched.

Jongho muttered under his breath, “She’s scarier than half the guys we fight.”

Hongjoong’s smirk sharpened, but his eyes flicked, just briefly, to Y/N. Then back to Nari. “You have guts. I’ll give you that.”

“Not guts,” Nari snapped, jabbing him one more time in the chest for emphasis. “Loyalty. To her.” She jerked her thumb toward Y/N without breaking eye contact. “So, go ahead, play mafia boss all you want. But hurt her? You’ll find out just how fast the internet can ruin a man.”

The silence that followed was broken only by San’s quiet, wheezing laugh in the corner.

Wooyoung smirked, arms crossed, eyes glinting. “I like her.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. He didn’t move under Nari’s finger still pressing into his chest.

Most men would have backed down by now, but Hongjoong simply stared down at her like she was an interesting puzzle piece he hadn’t expected to find in the box.

“You’re brave,” he said at last, voice low, even. “But you have no idea what you’re standing in the middle of.”

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

[noeyil]

pov you’ve accidentally convinced people you’re talented because your tumblr posts sound poetic but your actual draft reads like "she walked into the room. it was… roomlike."

[noeyil]

sometimes i think the real antagonist of my story is just me being a bad writer

[noeyil]

Do you think that your theory about KBS casting San as basically the main character of Ateez+ holds true in the 4th episode?

The answer: YES.

I just watched Ep 4 today, and I'm actually kind of shocked. I don't know why I'm shocked by SanBi every time, but I am.

San is indisputably the main character of Ateez+

Affection for Choi San oozes out of every shot KBS have set up for him. The footage of him they pick. The fact that he keeps getting to comment on everyone else in an assessor's capacity, rather than a reactor (like Yunho). The editorial commentary to the side that just hypes him up or strokes his hair. They even burst into gyeongsangdo satoori for him. OMG. The way San is fully aware that this is all set up for him and him alone, such that he can beg for a second go on the rollercoaster (it doesn't matter if the filming night gets long, because this is all for San). When Yeosang turns to thank the crew for the birthday cake (which turns out to be Jongho's idea, bless him) it's just the usual Beautiful Manners of Prince Yeosang, but when San turns around to thank the crew for his wonderful day, I would bet you my bottom dollar and won and euro that SanBi (whoever and however many she be) was right there, beaming back at him. The way anyone else got a close up in the reactor room was to express envy of San, because SanBi wanted it made very, extremely clear that this was all for San. Every single kind of privileging trick there is in content production is all given to San. Not only did he get the omakase beef course meal, he got to do his favorite thing in the world from his actual bucket list, with a hyung who was all sweetness, warmth, and encouragement (more on this below), he, at the end, even got a good-guy hero setup about choosing Yeosang over his perfect day that he not only got to live but had filmed and put on the internet as a permanent record. (Yeosang speaking up in about as direct and forthright way as he is capable, objecting to this latest objectifying indignity must be noted.)

Also please note the way Yunho and Mingi had to basically film an advertisement segment for the paragliding experience, and Yeosang and Jongho had to do the same for the fishing village, but all San had to do was enjoy the experience, and talk about how he feels about life, art, his dreams, and himself. I don't mean that Yunho and Mingi didn't genuinely have a nice experience or that they were abusively FORCED to pretend to like it- but a significant portion of what they filmed and said were advertorial content in the most typical way. Same for Yeosang and Jongho.

Most importantly -

This Episode 4 was a REVELATION to me about Park Seonghwa and his ruthless showbiz discipline. The way Seonghwa proves that his fated talent really is that of being second in command to whoever has the most power by showing how seamlessly he can transition his Hong Joong support skills to San, to reap benefits for them both. Seriously, Seonghwa can generate chemistry with literally anyone. HE'S THE ONE TO WATCH. Also he wasn't joking about being snake-like. HE KNOWS WHAT HE IS. I am by the way full of admiration about this. I'm not criticizing Seonghwa. This all makes me love him more. He has demonstrated the highest level of survival skill and smooth office politics shown by any member of Ateez to date. This is how you rise together with the one who has the power. This is how you win at life. This is wisdom of a survivor at work. All of the respect to Seonghwa. Wow.

Oh and by the by -

There's a reason that so far, in four episodes, they do not have San's face on any of the thumbnails for the actual episodes of this series. This is obfuscation of the rankest kind vis-a-vis the audience, and like, a participation prize to the people who have been shafted by this production's hyper focus on San: Hongjoong, Wooyoung, Yunho and Yeosang, so far.

It's meant to be consolation to each of Hongjoong and Wooyoung - See, we got you content where your FACE is on the thumbnail of the video that has 2M and 1M views each! But Ateez members, none of whom are less than very smart, savvy guys, would not actually be fooled by this. It's just a way to shut them up from complaining. SanBi is fucking ruthless.

I'm kind of spooked, actually. It was all, as you say, just a theory. Everything I write is fanfiction, written in the form of an essay. It's entirely speculation. I don't want anyone persuaded one way or the other - i want people to participate in the analysis with me, because this is how I play. But .... damn. I am meta-ing dangerously close to the sun.