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moonriizing · 1 month ago

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dear reader... | 02z (18+)

You came seeking permanence in a place known for its impermanence. Instead, three men showed you what one unforgettable summer can teach about love, adventure, and letting go.

Genre: destination au, strangers-to-lovers, smut Pairing: ENHYPEN Jake/Sunghoon/Jay x afab!reader Warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content (18+) MDNI, Notes: 20k words. I KNOW, WHY IS IT SO LONG? Guys, it's three men. 15k words is not gonna cover it all, lmao. Loosely based on the 2018 movie, Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again!. I was rewatching the movie (for the 9868th time) and thought it would make a great fic because it's messy and dramatic, you know what I'm saying? LMAO. I hope you like this! Disclaimer: I do not know them, nor claim they would ever in real life the way they were portrayed in this fic. If you see the same exact fic in a different blog, for NCT, that is me. I did not plagiarize myself, otherwise, lmk.

Enjoy~

Paris, 2007

At a small restaurant tucked into a corner in Paris, you sat across from a guy who hadn’t stopped talking since the wine arrived. His name was Jake. You’d met him earlier that afternoon at the hotel. Or more accurately, you’d bumped into him just as he was coming back from lunch, with his paper cup of cold coffee spilling all over your shirt.

He’d looked horrified. In accented English, he started rapid-firing: “Oh god, I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you—are you okay? Did it burn? No, wait, it’s iced. Still—fuck—hang on—”

You were still blinking the splash out of your eye when he lunged forward with a bunch of napkins, dabbing at your sleeve in a panic. That only led to a series of increasingly awkward brushes and even more frantic apologies. At one point, his hand grazed your left boob and he practically launched himself backward.

“Shit—I wasn’t trying to grope you, I swear! I’m not a strange man!”

You were flustered and maybe a little annoyed. But the whole thing was so ridiculous that you just started laughing. Jake, still a little red in the face, had let out a breathy, nervous chuckle of his own. For a few seconds, he just watched you laugh with a slight crease on his forehead and a confused but curious smile on his lips.

You’d eventually stopped laughing and started waving your hand dismissively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It was just… oh my god,” you trailed off, looking away so you don’t laugh again.

“I know this is probably the worst possible timing but—would you, um—” He paused, cleared his throat, and in one breath and what you now realized was an Australian accent, blurted, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

And now here you were. He was still rambling.

“It’s just been a mess since I got here. First, the hotel mixed up my reservation, then I couldn’t figure out the train system, and don’t even get me started on the guy at the station who yelled at me in French—I think it was French. I don’t know. I really thought this trip would be like… I don’t know, healing or something?”

He paused only to take a sip of wine, then set the glass down with a sigh.

“I’m not even the spontaneous type, you know? I plan everything. But I thought, hey, maybe I’ll go off the grid for once. Have my little adventure. And so far, it’s just been a lot of me getting lost and getting sworn at in French.”

“They were probably just saying ‘hi,’” you offered, shrugging.

“Yeah, maybe. But I probably should’ve just stayed home,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Played with my dog, or something.”

You rested your chin on your hand, half a smile tugging at your lips as you watched him go on. He talked a lot about himself, but not in a way that he was trying to impress you. He was just… nervous. A little frantic, even. But there was something about the way he talked earnestly and a bit self-deprecatingly that made you want to lean in and listen. It was kind of cute.

He was kind of cute.

Jake glanced up mid-sentence. “Sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I don’t usually talk too much, but I can’t help it. You’re just so…” he trailed off and sighed. “Is it boring? Am I boring you?” he added, looking a little apologetic.

You shook your head. “Not at all. Please, I like listening.”

He smiled, relieved, and you found yourself smiling back.

Two days ago, you’d been somewhere else entirely. Standing at the airport with your two best friends, both trying not to cry, both saying you were being dramatic, that you were running away. Maybe you were. But you liked to think of it as ‘starting over’ instead.

The moment your graduation cap hit the floor of your shared apartment, you knew your youth was over, and that perfect, cookie-cutter life waiting back home would catch up to you. You didn’t want that. So you packed your bags and chose your own path.

Corsica. An island off the coast of France, where you could be whoever you wanted and do whatever you wanted.

You hadn’t made it to Corsica yet. You hadn’t even figured out how to get there. But you weren’t in a hurry. So for now, you wandered Paris. And somehow, you’d ended up here—with a very cute stranger who couldn’t stop talking.

After dinner, you ended up walking along the Seine and Jake had stopped talking. The silence was a little startling, like someone had hit pause on a very fast, very chaotic radio broadcast. But it wasn’t awkward. He kept close but not too close, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the wind.

The city lights reflected on the river, making it glimmer as you basked in the quiet and the beauty around you. Paris looked like something out of a movie, and you found yourself slowing your steps just to take it all in.

“Paris is kind of magical,” you said, just to say something.

Jake nodded slowly, then said, “It’d be a lot more magical if the people were a little nicer.”

You laughed. “Still mad about that guy at the train station?”

“He called me a donkey.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Un âne,” he said, in a terrible accent, pulling out a small dictionary from his coat pocket. “I looked it up later.”

You laughed harder, and he gave a self-pitying sigh that only made it worse. “I don’t even know what I did. I think I just stood too close to him.”

You kept walking, your steps in sync without meaning to. It seemed like Jake had finally gotten comfortable around you. He’d stopped yapping and the nervous crease on his forehead had disappeared at some point. He asked where you were from, how long you were traveling, what made you pick Paris. You answered casually, carefully. Bits and pieces. Enough to keep the conversation going without opening up too much.

But it was a good conversation, and a good walk. You enjoyed talking to him and hearing his thoughts. And from the way he looked at you when you talked, it seemed like he enjoyed it too.

When you finally made it back to the hotel, Jake lingered with you in the lobby, fidgeting with the room key in his hand. He was getting nervous again, you could tell by the way his forehead was creased, and how he couldn’t look you in the eyes.

“What?” you prompted.

Jake scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, um,” he said, voice suddenly a little hoarse, “do you… wanna go out with me tomorrow?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Are you gonna spill another drink on me?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then added, “Not on purpose.”

You bit back a smile.

“I just—” he exhaled, looking a little too earnest, “Meeting you was kind of the only good accident I’ve had this whole trip. So, if you don’t have plans, how about spending the day with me?”

That sold it. You smiled and said, “I would love to, Jake.”

He looked relieved, grinning at the carpet before finally meeting your eyes again.

You didn’t bother setting an alarm. When you wandered downstairs the next morning, Jake was already waiting in the lobby, sipping a cappuccino and tapping his foot like he wasn’t sure whether he was early or late.

His eyes lit up when he saw you. “Hey,” he said, standing up a little too fast. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

You raised a brow. “I said I will.”

“Yeah, I know, but sometimes people say yes and don’t mean it. And I’ve been ghosted before. Not that I thought you would. Just—anyway. Hi.”

You laughed and said hi back.

“You look good today,” he said, smiling toothily. “And yesterday too. I’m sure you look good every day.”

“Dude, stop,” you chuckled, already making a beeline for the exit. “Let’s just go.”

“Of course! Yeah!”

The plan, if there was one, was to wing it. You both agreed on no maps and no real agenda. Jake suggested museum-hopping, and it sounded good enough. He brought a little foldable tourist map “just in case,” which you teased him for.

You wandered through halls of oil paintings and marble statues, whispering observations like you were museum critics. Jake tried to guess what every sculpture was about—usually something tragic or wildly inappropriate. He made you laugh loud enough to earn a few shushes from other people.

“‘Femme Étendue avec un Chien.’ Sounds like a thriller.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a woman napping with her dog.”

“Still. Could be a thriller. The dog murdering its master kind of thriller.”

You got shushed by a woman in a long wool coat. Jake mimed zipping his lips but started talking again five seconds later.

After that, you ended up in Montmartre, where artists lined the cobbled square, painting everything from landscapes to caricatures. Jake insisted you both get one drawn together by a grumpy man with yellow-tinted glasses who didn’t say a word the entire time. When he finally flipped the sketch around, Jake let out a strangled noise.

“Is that my nose? I look like a pelican.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I kind of love it.”

While you were there, a man tried to sell you a tiny Eiffel Tower keychain for twenty euros and Jake got so flustered trying to say ‘non merci’ that you ended up dragging him away before he accidentally bought three.

You shared a crepe from a street vendor and walked into luxury boutiques, the kind where everything smelled expensive and the saleswomen looked allergic to budget travelers. You ran your fingers along a buttery-soft leather purse with no visible price tag.

Jake hovered behind you, blinking at the rows of gleaming handbags.

“How much do you think this is?” you asked, holding up a small purse.

“Mm… two hundred?”

You tilted the bag to find the tag. “Try two thousand.”

Jake recoiled like it burned him. “Does it read your mind? What are we paying for?”

“The aesthetic, obviously,” you said, striking a mock-model pose.

In another shop, you pointed at a pair of heels that looked like crystal. Jake pointed at a maroon scarf and said, “You’d look good in this.”

You scoffed. “If I can afford it.”

Jake tilted his head as he searched for the price tag. “Oh, I think this is the only thing we can afford from here.”

You hummed, narrowing your eyes like you were actually considering it. “Exactly how many crepes can we buy for one of those?”

He shrugged. “Twenty, give or take?”

“Yeah, nope.”

“Big nope,” he agreed, carefully putting the box back on the shelf.

By late afternoon, your feet were starting to ache. You tried to hide it, but Jake noticed.

“I know you’re tired, but we have one more stop. We’re gonna need to take a train, but I promise it’s worth it.”

You grimaced, and for a second, Jake looked like he was about to give up, but he shook his head and put on a determined face. “You can’t come to Paris and not see the Eiffel Tower.”

That made you nod. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

He took you to the Eiffel Tower. It wasn’t part of the plan—you didn’t have one, but you weren’t expecting it, not really. You’d caught glimpses of it during the day, rising above the city like a paper cutout, but standing under it at dusk felt different.

It glowed. That was the only word for it. Golden lights stretched up into the sky, and there was this hush, like the whole city had quieted just for a moment to let you take it all in.

You ended up on the lawn across the street from the Eiffel Tower, eating sandwiches from a shop you passed on the way there. The sky was turning lilac. You chewed slowly, taking it all in—lights blinking, the faint sound of a violin from somewhere down the street, the grass slightly damp beneath your coat.

“I used to think I’d work for a big hotel chain,” you said after a while. “You know, like… the Four Seasons or The Ritz.”

Jake turned his head to look at you.

“But later on, I decided I wanted one of my own,” you went on. “A little hotel. Cozy and nice. Something that feels like home for people who are far away from theirs.”

Jake hummed thoughtfully, swallowing a bite before saying, “I’d stay there.”

You turned to him. “You would?”

He nodded. “But only if there’s room service. And robes. I’m very fancy.”

You snorted. “We’re eating 2 euro sandwiches in probably the most expensive city in the world.”

“Only for now,” he replied proudly. “We’d both be doing much better and earning much more by the time you’ve built that hotel.”

You didn’t say anything to that. You just smiled at your sandwich and took another bite.

In your dimly lit hotel room, you sat on the edge of your bed, laughing at something Jake had said. You were leaning your head against the four-poster as you watched Jake in his spot on the carpeted floor, fumbling with the wine bottle and the paper cup.

He’d brought it out casually in the elevator, half-joking that he’d bought it on his first day here to take back home, but he was willing to share it with you. One thing led to another, and now here you were, drinking warm Bordeaux out of paper cups and toasting to the kind of day that felt too good to leave unfinished.

Jake finally managed to pour without spilling and handed you your paper cup.

“I wish this place at least had room service,” he sighed, shaking his head at the cup.

“You should’ve gone to a bigger, more posh hotel then,” you teased before taking a sip.

It was fruity, a little warm, and probably not very good, but in that moment, it felt perfect enough.

You talked less now. The day had wrung most of it out of you. Jake had leaned back against the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted toward the ceiling as he listened. He was just there—warm and a little flushed, wine-stained cup cradled in one hand.

He let out a contented sigh. “I don’t think I’ve ever walked this much in one day.”

You snorted. “You say that like you didn’t make me climb half of Montmartre.”

Jake gave you an indignant look. “I did make you climb, but it was me who almost died trying to keep up with you.”

“You’re such a baby,” you laughed, nudging his knee with your foot. He caught it in his palm.

You looked down, and so did he. Neither of you said anything.

Then his hand slid up, fingers wrapping loosely around your ankle—carefully, almost cautiously. You watched the way he tilted his head to meet your eyes, searching, communicating something you could understand clearly, oddly enough.

You could say it was the alcohol, willing you into something you usually wouldn’t do sober. But you knew that would be a lie. You weren’t drunk, not even tipsy. You knew what you were doing when you gave him the same look he was giving you.

Your heart picked up as Jake’s hand traveled up your leg, pausing at your knee. He leaned in, soft and slow, and planted a kiss on your skin.

You didn’t say anything. And to him, your silence—and the way you were looking at him—was encouragement enough to keep going.

He kissed the side of your knee again, a little firmer this time. When you still didn’t stop him, he shifted closer. His hand slid up your leg, pausing just above your knee.

“Tell me if this is—if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice lower than before but you could hear he was a little nervous.

“You’re not,” you said softly, offering a shy smile.

Jake gave a small, almost bashful smile, like he was relieved but still a little uncertain. Then he leaned in, placing a hand beside your hip as he kissed you. He missed your mouth the first time, catching the edge of your lip.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath.

You laughed a little against his mouth. “It’s fine. Come here.”

That helped. He kissed you again, properly this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other propped him up on the bed. Still, even as it deepened, he wasn’t rushing. You could feel how careful he was, like he didn’t want to startle you or like he wasn’t sure this was really happening.

When you tugged his shirt up, he hesitated for a second before helping you take it off, eyes darting to yours like he was checking again.

“You sure?” he asked in a whisper.

You nodded. “Are you?”

He let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah. Just… kind of feels unreal.”

That made your chest ache in a good way. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his cheek, and said, “It’s real.”

He let out a breath, nodding as he touched your waist, thumbs brushing your skin like he wanted to be gentle even now. His shyness didn’t last long once you pulled him close again, his confidence creeping in the moment he saw you responding with your hands on him, and your breath hitching under his touch.

Jake took care of the rest, his hands sliding under your top with more certainty now. His palms were warm, fingertips grazing up your sides, over your ribs, until you raised your arms and let him pull the fabric over your head. His gaze flickered downward, then back up again, clearly trying not to stare but staring anyway.

You felt beautiful under his gaze, the kind of beautiful that didn’t come from lighting or lingerie or careful timing, just the way he looked at you. Like he wanted all of you, and genuinely so.

“You’re—” he started, then bit his lip, trying to compose himself. “You’re beautiful.”

You reached for him, pulling him in until your lips met again, slower this time, deeper. When you moved further up onto the bed, Jake followed, crawling up between your legs as you tugged at the waistband of his jeans. He was quiet but not passive. His hands were all over you now, exploring, touching, squeezing with a gentle firmness that made your heart skip.

As he pulled your bottoms down and tossed them aside, his gaze trailed over every inch of bare skin with eyes of adoration and amazement. He hesitated just long enough for you to notice. His fingers were brushing the top of your thigh, his lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You reached for him instead, undoing the button of his jeans with more confidence than you felt. “Jake,” you prompted.

“Yeah,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He kissed you again, one hand traveling down from your boob to your belly, and futher down to cup your sex. He worked you up for a few moments, fingers circling your clit clumsily but with just enough pressure to make you moan.

And when he finally decided to push into you, he did it painfully slow, still being cautious. He held still, breathing hard, his hand sliding under your thigh to pull you closer. His other hand gripped the sheet near your head like he needed something to hold on to.

You let out a soft gasp, your back arching as you adjusted around him, and he kissed your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he could reach.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded again. “Yeah. You can move.”

He obliged and moved slowly at first, deeply, the kind of rhythm that made your toes curl. He kept it up until the tension coiled tight in both your bodies, until his restraint began to slip. The room filled with breathy, lewd sounds—your moans, his whispered curse when you clenched around him, the muffled thump of the headboard as his thrusts grew more desperate.

You bit your lip, eyes shut tight as you tried not to be too loud. The hotel was cheap, and the walls were unforgivingly thin.

“Jake, please,” you whimpered, mouth parting but barely making a sound, even as he drove you to the edge.

“Please what?” he asked softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek and kissing your forehead.

You gripped his arms tighter, holding his gaze. “Harder.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. With a low grunt, he adjusted his grip on your hips and drove into you harder, the rhythm picking up, deeper now, less cautious. Your head tipped back against the pillows, a sharp moan slipping out before you could stop it. Jake buried his face in your neck to muffle his own.

Each thrust made the headboard knock just slightly louder. You barely registered it anymore. All you could think about was the heat of his skin, the stretch of him inside you, and the desperation in the way he held you like he couldn’t get close enough.

“God, you feel so—” He cut himself off with a breathy groan, hands sliding up your sides. “You okay?”

You couldn’t answer with words. You just nodded frantically and wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, drawing him in deeper. He gasped, nearly losing his rhythm.

Your hand tangled in his hair as your other clawed at his back, trying to hold yourself together as he kept hitting just the right spot. The coil in your belly wound tight. You were close. His movements turned erratic, one hand slipping down to your clit, clumsily rubbing in tight circles until your body seized around him.

Your orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over every nerve. You clung to him, gasping out his name, your entire body tensing, shaking, unraveling.

Jake didn’t last much longer. The second your walls clenched around him, he let out a strangled groan, buried as deep as he could go, and spilled into you. His whole body trembled with it, the hand near your head fisting the sheet like he needed to anchor himself to something.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you said anything and it was just the sound of your breathing, oddly too loud in the quiet room.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then your cheek. And finally, your lips—slow and breathless and almost shy again.

Then, quietly, Jake asked, “Did you like it?”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was messy, and he looked so earnest that your heart squeezed a little.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I really did.”

He let out a relieved breath, then grinned bashfully, like he couldn’t quite believe this had happened.

“Good,” he said, tucking his face into the crook of your neck again. “’Cause I really liked it too.”

You chuckled. “You did well.”

He let out a soft laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “I think I just saw stars.”

He fell on the space beside you, staring at the ceiling as you both caught your breath. You curled up beside him, nuzzling against his chest that was still damp with sweat. You wanted to say something, but sleep was already catching up to you.

Jake wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then he let out a deep, contented breath.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You blinked, suddenly wide awake. You shifted to look at him, but his breathing was already slowing, his features softening.

He was fast asleep before you could say anything.

The wind blew at you as soon as you stepped off the bus, salty and cool and strong enough to tug at your sun hat. You held it in place and squinted up at the sky. It was bright and beautiful, the vivid blue hue decorated with scattered clouds.

You adjusted the handle of your carrier and followed the other passengers toward the ferry terminal. A seagull screamed overhead. Someone lit a cigarette beside you. Around you, people were chattering in what you could make out was French and some Italian. It was much noisier here than it was in Paris. Less posh and polished, more human and real.

The morning felt raw, a little too bright after a night like that. But you didn’t look back. Corsica was next. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

The port was small—just one wooden pier stretching out into the water, a few moored boats bobbing gently with the current. It was a far cry from Paris, or even the bus station you’d left this morning. Everything here moved slower, like time itself had decided not to keep up.

You walked up to the small booth, eyes darting to the analog clock above the door. 17:10.

Last Departure - 17:00Next Departure - Tomorrow, 7:10

“No, no, no,” you muttered, quickening your pace.

You shoved past a wobbly gate that probably wasn’t meant to be opened, lugging your bag like it was a boulder. “Wait!” you screamed at the ferry, your voice cracking as you sprinted along the creaky wooden pier.

“Wait for me!” you shouted, flailing your arms like a maniac.

The ferry let out a long, mournful horn and started to pull away, the wake rippling through the still water.

“Turn back!” you shrieked, weaving past a stack of plastic crates and an unimpressed fisherman. “Turn back! Damn it!”

You reached the end of the pier, panting, face red, chest burning. The ferry was already further on the horizon.

“Seriously?!” you yelled, flailing your hat in the air. “You couldn’t wait five more minutes?!”

You dropped your suitcase with a thud and bent over your knees, catching your breath. “Merde.”

“Missed your boat?” said a man from behind you.

You straightened, whipping around with a glare reserved for backhanded comments and people who cut in lines. “Wow, what gave it away?” you deadpanned. “The shouting or the visible despair?”

The man smiled smugly. His dark hair was pushed back neatly, his button-down was crisp and linen, and on his nose sat a pair of sunglasses you could swear you’d seen on display at Prada yesterday. Definitely not a local. And definitely not someone who’d taken three buses in the past ten hours.

“Both?” he said, tilting his head. “That’s too bad. The next ferry isn’t until tomorrow.”

You sighed, all the fight draining from your body at once. “Yeah. I can read.”

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer to the edge of the dock beside you. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he said, “if someone had a boat that could take you to the island?”

You let out a dry laugh. “It sure is. But it’s a little early to start hallucinating.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes flicking over you with mild amusement.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked past you, toward a gleaming white yacht docked not ten feet away.

You blinked.

He stepped onto the deck like he’d done it a hundred times before, then turned back to look at you with an infuriatingly pleasant smile. You lifted your chin, brushed your hair out of your face, and stepped forward.

“Looks like someone did have a boat that could take me to the island,” you said, flashing your best smile. “If only the owner was nice enough.”

He glanced at the yacht behind him, then back at you. “Oh, this isn’t mine. I just stand here pretending it is so women will fall for me.”

You snorted. “Gross.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “But it works.”

You scoffed, laughing under your breath as you waved him off and turned away. “Right. Bye, then.”

“I’m kidding,” he called out, still laughing. “Come aboard. My boat’s heading that way too, and I’ve got spare rooms.”

Your feet moved before your brain could offer a single warning, climbing onto the docked yacht without hesitation. No passport check, no credentials, no double-take at the stranger with movie-star hair and designer sunglasses. Just vibes. Your mother would’ve had a stroke.

Or, more likely, she would’ve shaken her head and muttered something about how you always liked to fuck around and find out.

The man turned just in time to help you onto the deck, his hand warm around yours. “I’m Jay, by the way.”

You told him your name and he chuckled. “Next time, you might wanna do a double-take and get to know people before getting into their boat,” he said.

You laughed at that, though you agree he was right. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

You glanced around the yacht. Sleek, white, and clean enough to eat off of the floor. A compact galley gleamed to the left, and a staircase led to what you assumed were the sleeping quarters.

“This is Captain Luc,” Jay said, nodding to a man in a white polo who gave you a quick salute before going back to his maps. “That’s Sofia, our cook. Pierre and Manu help out with navigation and maintenance. Don’t worry, they’re all very well-paid and only mildly resent me.”

Sofia gave you a wink as she passed with a basket of fruit, and Manu barely looked up from where he was scrubbing something on the deck.

“Nice setup,” you said, setting your suitcase down with a thunk that felt very out of place on such pristine floors.

Jay smiled. “It’s not huge, but it gets the job done.”

“That’s what they all say,” you quipped, giggling.

His grin widened. “I like you already.” He turned and motioned for you to follow him below deck. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

You followed him down a narrow staircase and into a hallway of sleek wood and soft lighting. He opened a door to a small but clean room with a porthole view and a surprisingly fluffy-looking bed.

“This one’s cozy,” he said. Then, casually added, “Mine’s a bit nicer though. Bigger bed. Better sheets. Better lighting, if that matters.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bet the women loved the lighting in your room.”

Jay leaned on the doorframe, still grinning. “They loved me more, but yeah, the lighting did suit their taste too.”

“Great.” You stepped into the room, tossed your bag onto the bed, and gave him a sweet smile. “I like dim rooms like this one better.”

But Jay wasn’t backing down yet. “You’d be surprised how effective dimmers can be.”

You gave him your fakest smile and nodded to the door. “Thanks for accommodating me. Please close the door on your way out.”

Jay chuckled and pushed off the doorframe. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be dimming the lights in advance.”

He disappeared down the hall, leaving the scent of some expensive cologne lingering behind him.

You looked around the room again, shook your head, and flopped back onto the bed.

The sun had set by the time you made it up to the deck. The sky was starry and cold, and the sea was calm, stretching endlessly in all directions. Dinner had been set on a small table with linen napkins, wine glasses, and even candles.

Jay looked up from the magazine he was reading, straightening up when he saw you walking in. “Good evening. How was your nap?” he asked, motioning to the seat across from him.

“Refreshing,” you replied, eyeing the setup. “First, you tried to seduce me with good lighting. Now it’s sea bass?”

He laughed. “Can’t a guy just offer dinner without an ulterior motive?”

You sat. “Sure, he can. But to me, you’re a walking ulterior motive.”

“Please,” he chuckled. “I just like to make my guests feel special.”

“How many guests have there been?”

Jay poured you a glass of wine and handed it over. “Too many. You’re my favorite, though.”

You smirked as Sofia walked over to fill your glass with wine. “You’re really going for it, huh?”

“Just enough to keep you entertained,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. “If I go too hard, you’ll run. If I don’t try, I’m wasting this view.”

“You mean me or the sea?”

He tilted his glass toward you. “Both. Though you’re slightly more distracting.”

Dinner was actually good. The fish was cooked perfectly, and the wine was expensive and tasted like it. Every so often, a crew member drifted in and out, clearing plates or topping off wine like it was just any ordinary day. Jay, for his part, didn’t stop flirting for more than thirty seconds at a time.

“So where exactly were you running to before you missed the ferry?” he asked, leaning in like he actually wanted to hear the answer.

“Some small village in Corsica,” you said, twirling your fork.

“Vacation?”

You shrugged. “Immigration? I’m moving there.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Identity crisis?” you offered with a chuckle. “Nothing really. Just trying to figure things out. Make something for myself.”

“Ah,” he said, sipping his wine. “My favorite kind of woman.”

“I’m sure you say that about every kind of woman.”

“Not to every kind,” he replied, smirking. “Just the ones I like.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help chuckling.

“Anyway,” he said after a beat, cutting into his food, “I may not look like it, but I’m kind of figuring things out too. So… I get it.”

“Thanks,” you said. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”

“I feel like we should toast to that,” he said, lifting his glass. “To starting over and making something of ourselves.”

You clinked yours gently against his. “To strange men and questionable decisions.”

After dinner, the two of you drifted toward the front of the yacht. You leaned against the rail, watching the faint outline of the horizon and the stars dotting the night sky.

Jay stood beside you, close but not touching. His wine glass dangled loosely in his fingers. “Not a bad way to spend a missed ferry, huh?” he said.

You hummed. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve ended up on a fishing boat with no wine.”

“Or worse,” he said, “with someone boring.”

You glanced at him. “Fine. I’ll concede and say you’re not that boring.”

Jay smirked, eyes on the sea. “I can already imagine how broken my heart would be once you leave this boat tomorrow.”

You snorted. “Did that line ever work for you? Don’t tell me it did, because I know it didn’t.”

He chuckled. “Oh, you’d be surprised. It’s my best line.”

“No, it’s not,” you replied, shaking your head and taking a sip from your glass.

“It is, though,” Jay insisted, bright grin gleaming under the light. “Although, I can see that it doesn’t work on you, and that’s just making me fall in love with you even more.”

“Stop,” you chided softly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “I won’t have sex with you.”

“Why not?”

You looked over at him, smirking. “We literally only just met.”

He bumped you back with a grin “And you’re not that kind of girl?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, then paused. “Usually,” you added, looking away.

Jay chuckled heartily, taking one step away. “Fine. But it is true that I’m falling in love with you.”

“Yeah,” you sniggered, rolling your eyes. “I'm getting that a lot these days.”

The next day arrived with the soft rock of the yacht and sunlight pouring through the porthole window. You stirred awake at noon, disoriented for a second before remembering the events of the day before—missed ferry, expensive yacht, handsome stranger with very white teeth.

By the time you made it to the deck, the coastline of Corsica was already coming into view. It was closer now and you had specifically pointed out a tiny village by the coast when the captain asked where you wanted to be delivered to.

The village was small, charming in that rustic way travel blogs loved to romanticize—whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, little boats bobbing in a quiet harbor. It looked peaceful and safe. Like the kind of place where things might finally slow down for you.

Jay was already up, leaning casually on the rail with a coffee in hand and sunglasses perched on his nose like he hadn’t stayed up half the night trying to charm you out of your room.

“Sleep well?” he asked without looking.

You stepped beside him and inhaled the salt-thick air. “Like a sloth. Must be the ocean breeze. Or the sheer emotional exhaustion of your flirting.”

He chuckled. “You wound me. I’m not a flirt, I’m a charmer.”

“Does saying that help you sleep better at night?” you asked, stretching your arms over your head.

“Most of the time,” he said, grinning. Then he nodded toward the dock. “You’re up next. Corsica awaits.”

You glanced at the approaching land, heart flickering with something between nerves and excitement. “Oh, it’s a beauty. Are you sure you won’t stop by and explore the island before you head to Sardinia?”

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m a little behind schedule.” He turned to face you fully, just for a moment. “It’s a shame, though. I was starting to enjoy your company.”

“Was?”

“Am,” he corrected, gently. “Though I suspect I’ll be enjoying the memory of you more than anything else.”

You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling anyway. “Well, thanks for the ride. And the fish. And for not being a strange man who liked to kidnap unsuspecting tourists who missed their ferries.”

Jay laughed a little too hard, head lolling back. When he recovered, he was wiping small tears from the corners of his eyes. “We’ll see each other again, though. I’m sure of it.”

You blinked at him. “That sounded oddly ominous.”

He winked. “Then I said it right.”

The yacht bumped gently against the dock. A crew member waved you toward the exit. You gave Jay a last look, one corner of your mouth lifting in amusement.

“Take care, Playboy.”

“You too, Miss Not-That-Kind-of-Girl.”

You descended the ramp with your suitcase thumping behind you, the sun warming your shoulders and your next destination waiting just ahead.

Behind you, the yacht peeled away from the dock and disappeared around the curve of the coast. But Jay’s last words echoed anyway.

We’ll see each other again.

The village was even lovelier up close. Narrow stone streets wove between crumbling old buildings, flower boxes popping color out of every window. Locals moved slowly, like they had all the time in the world. It felt like a place untouched by urgency, like nothing truly bad could happen here.

You wandered without direction, letting your feet take you uphill, away from the port and toward the cliffs that framed the coastline. The sea stretched endlessly below, crashing in soft rhythms. For a while, you just stood there and stared at it, arms folded loosely, wind tugging at your clothes. You could already picture the postcards.

Then, further ahead, something caught your eye.

It sat like a relic from another lifetime: a grand, slightly crumbling mansion with tall shuttered windows and ivy crawling halfway up the walls. The gate stood open, a “FOR SALE” sign bolted crookedly to the wrought iron. Grass had grown wild, and the gravel path was broken and overgrown, but the bones of the place were beautiful. In your mind’s eye, you could picture the grandeur and the majesty of the place.

You hesitated for a second, then stepped through the gate. The front door wasn’t locked and inside, the air was stale but not unpleasant. The ceilings were high, the rooms wide and flooded with light from broken windows. It smelled faintly of dust and sea. You moved carefully, your footsteps echoing across tiled floors and creaking wood.

In your mind, it all changed. You saw fresh white paint, wide glass doors, airy curtains that fluttered in the breeze. You pictured soft linens and warm breakfasts, travelers coming in from the harbor with sand still on their skin. You could almost hear the clink of plates in a bright little dining room and laughter echoing through the halls.

You gasped at the sheer excitement of it all, covering your mouth as you looked around the place. Then you shrieked and started twirling around. You stopped just in time, breathless at the edge of the stairs.

“This is it,” you muttered to yourself, eyes still wide. “This is the place.”

You turned to leave, determined to find out if the place was still for sale and if your savings was enough to buy it. But just as you were stepping out of the big double doors, large drops of rain started hitting the floor and your head.

The downpour came instantly, heavy and fast, drenching the gravel path before you. You froze at the doorway, then stepped back inside. The once quiet halls were filled with the sound of raindrops battering the roof and the old windows, sheets of it cascading off the eaves. There was no point trying to make a run for it.

So you wandered a little deeper into the house, hugging your arms to yourself.

“Just for a few minutes,” you murmured aloud, brushing a cobweb off a dusty banister. “I’m sure it’s just passing by.”

But hours passed and the rain didn’t let up.

What started as a drizzle had turned relentless, and by late afternoon, it was hard to tell whether the sky was getting darker from the storm or the approaching dusk. The old house groaned occasionally with the wind. Water pelted the windows like tiny stones.

You paced for a bit, hugged your knees for a while, then tried pacing again. The floorboards creaked. Somewhere upstairs, something thudded. It could’ve been the wind. Or ghosts. You chose not to think about it.

“I love this place,” you muttered to yourself. “I just don’t want to die here.”

With the rain still going strong and no sign of stopping, you resigned yourself to the possibility of staying the night, miserable, damp, and slightly haunted. You pulled your bag closer, rummaging for something that could function as a light source. Cellphone? Dead. Flashlight? Obviously, you didn’t have one. You were sure you had a lighter, though. It was your friend’s that you’d nicked at some point before leaving for France.

Just as you were deep into your luggage looking for the lighter, you heard footsteps. Your head jerked up. Then another footstep, then the sound of the front door creaking.

You froze. You weren’t imagining it—someone was inside!

Your mind raced. Was it the owner? Were you about to be arrested for trespassing? Was it a real estate agent with unfortunate timing? Or worse, some awful drifter who wandered into empty buildings looking for lone women to murder in cold blood?

The footsteps were getting closer. Your heart jumped into your throat.

Without thinking, you grabbed the closest thing—a splintered piece of wood from a broken table leg—and backed into the shadow of the stairwell, gripping it like a weapon.

They were coming down the main hall with steady, heavy steps. When the figure appeared in the doorway, you lunged.

Or, well, tried to.

A startled yelp came out of both of you as the man blocked your swing just in time, catching your wrists with both hands. “Whoa—whoa—hey!” he gasped. “I’m not—! I’m not here to rob you! Or—or murder you!”

You stared at him, breathless, wood still clutched in your hands. “Then what the hell are you doing here?!”

“Trying not to die of hypothermia,” he said quickly. He had a soaked jacket, a backpack slung off one shoulder, and water dripping from the ends of his hair. “And, uh—avoiding flying furniture, apparently.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m—I’m Sunghoon! Park Sunghoon!”

You didn’t relax yet. “Are you the owner?”

“No,” he said. “Are you?”

You hesitated. “…No.”

He slowly let go of your wrists. You slowly lowered your arm. The two of you stared at each other, breathing hard.

“Well,” you said after a few seconds, sighing in relief. “This is definitely not how I imagined meeting someone today.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “Yeah, me neither.”

You both stood there for a while, listening to the rain hammering the roof like it had no plans of stopping. You glanced at him. “Think it’ll let up soon?”

Sunghoon didn’t even look outside. “Nope.”

“…You sound so sure.”

He shrugged out of his wet jacket. “I just know a thing or two about weather.”

“Okay, Weatherman.” You made a face. “Fantastic. So what, we just wait it out? Sit on the floor until morning?”

“There’s probably a fireplace somewhere,” he said, tugging off his shoes and shaking out his soaked sleeves. “A place like this has to have one.”

You sighed, shuddering at the sight of him in wet clothes. You then turned to your suitcase and flung it open. You first found the lighter, turned it on, and rummaged through your clothes for a t-shirt.

You found a plain white oversized sweater and handed it to him. “Here.”

Sunghoon hesitated. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You said so yourself. The rain isn’t letting up anytime soon.”

He sighed, but he looked grateful when he accepted it. “Thanks.”

You turned away as he got dressed, fixing your gaze on a hallway up ahead. “I think I saw the fireplace over there earlier.”

Walking together, with the lighter illuminating the dark halls, the two of you found it the old, soot-caked hearth in what might’ve once been a formal sitting room. Tall windows lined the walls, and you could see lightning flash beyond the horizon. The fireplace was cold and cobwebbed but intact.

“Found our survival base,” you said, voice echoing off the high ceiling.

Together, you gathered anything burnable—splintered chair legs, bits of an old table that looked way beyond repair. Sunghoon kicked apart a broken door with a little too much enthusiasm.

You raised an eyebrow. “You do this a lot?”

“Breaking and entering?” he asked, dragging a long covered couch across the room. “No. But I’m good at winging things.”

He tugged the white cloth off the couch and sent a thick cloud of dust into the air. Beneath it, the upholstery was surprisingly intact—floral velvet with only one visible tear on the side.

“Not bad,” he said, flopping down. “Way better than the hostel I stayed in last night.”

You scoffed. “I appreciate your optimism.”

You dropped your bag nearby and pulled out your meager stash of chips, two chocolate bars, and a slightly squished croissant. You held them out. “Dinner?”

He held up a hand to his chest solemnly. “It’s an honor.”

You shared the food while he coaxed the fire to life. Soon enough, warmth began to seep into the room, and a yellowish glow illuminated your faces and the walls.

“Not the worst way to spend a storm,” he said, stretching out his legs toward the fire.

You gave him a look. “You realize we’re in a haunted-looking mansion, right? With barely enough food and no cell service?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, tilting his head back against the couch. “But at least we’re warm and dry, and not dead yet.”

You laughed quietly, pulling your knees up to your chest. The fire crackled between you. Rain kept pelting the windows, but in here, it was manageable. Almost safe. You were both quiet for a while, chewing in silence, listening to the fire crackle and the storm rage outside.

Then Sunghoon spoke. “I used to be scared of thunder.”

You glanced over. “Really?”

He nodded, glancing over his shoulders out at the tall windows. “I was maybe six or seven. My mom told me it was just the clouds yelling at each other.” He smiled faintly. “So I’d yell back. Thought it made me brave.”

You grinned. “Did it work?”

“Only when she was in the room.”

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. He leaned back, his gaze on the flames. “You ever have something you were embarrassed to admit you were scared of?”

You thought about it. “I’m scared of spiraling out of control.” You chuckled. “You?”

He looked over, brows lifted slightly. “Me? I don’t know,” he said, then looked away. “I think I’m scared of staying still.”

You didn’t say anything at first, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, you asked, “Did you… run away?”

“Not exactly,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I’m running away or taking a break. I had this perfectly reasonable life mapped out for me. Job, partner, apartment, future. All very respectable.” He let out a dry laugh. “But none of it felt like it belonged to me.”

You nodded slowly, understanding without needing every detail.

“So I left,” he added. “Just picked a spot on the map and left.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then you said, “Good for you.”

He looked at you. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Sometimes walking away is the braver thing.”

You took a deep breath and fixed your gaze on the fire. “I ran away, too. Everyone back home had some plan for me. What I’d study. Where I’d work. Who I’d be. And I went along with it because it was easier than fighting. Until one day I looked around and realized nothing in my life felt like mine.”

You felt your chest loosen after saying that out loud, like something unknotted inside you. A long pause followed. Then you added with a smile, “Still doesn’t explain why I walked into a random old mansion.”

“It’s a beautiful one,” he said. “Kind of poetic, really. You leave your life behind and walk straight into a ghost of someone else’s.”

You chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “Well, when you put it that way…”

The wind howled outside, but the room felt warm. Not just from the fire—something else, too. Something like understanding. You looked at him again, really looked this time. He was soaked, probably tired, and definitely not what you expected to find when you first stepped through those gates.

But somehow, running into him made perfect sense.

You woke up to sunlight pouring in from the tall windows. The high ceiling and the dust floating in the rays of morning light reminded you where you were—an abandoned mansion where you got stuck waiting out a storm.

You sat up slowly, noticing that the spot on the couch beside you was empty.

“Sunghoon?” you called out, but there was no response.

You stood up, stretching your sore arms, and glanced around. The place was as quiet as it had been the day before. The broken furniture. The high windows. The eerie vibe.

You had almost thought Sunghoon wasn’t real. That he was just a figment of your imagination that your brain cooked up out of fear of being alone in this big house, but then your eyes landed on a dark denim jacket hanging near the fireplace, still a little damp.

You smiled a little. He was real after all.

But where was he? You had no idea. Maybe he’d left as soon as morning came and simply forgotten his jacket. Not that you were expecting him to stay, but you had assumed he would at least bid you a proper goodbye.

Well, it was no use sitting around waiting for him to come back and explain himself, so you decided to start your day. After gathering your things and running a hand through your hair, you made your way out of the mansion and back through the village path. The rain had washed the streets clean, and the morning had that fresh-after-a-storm feeling.

At the heart of the village, you found the inn. It looked like it hadn’t been updated in a decade, but it had flower pots on the window sills and a hand-painted sign out front that read Chambres.

The woman at the front desk wore a knit vest, bright lipstick, and had the energy of someone who’d wrestle a bear and win. She welcomed you like you were an old friend who’d finally come home, offered a nice room, and a hearty breakfast.

By noon, you were freshly showered, had eaten something good, and were strolling through the village looking for the real estate office. You found it near a patisserie, and the woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow when you mentioned the old mansion.

“That place?” she said. “You sure?”

You told her you were, and that you had the money ready.

She blinked, then smiled. “Well, no one else was ever interested in buying it, so it’s yours if you really want it. Paperwork will take a while, but you can go ahead and start fixing it up. No one’ll stop you.”

You were halfway through signing the first form when she added, “Funny. Someone else asked about it earlier today. Young man. Seemed curious but didn’t seem interested in buying.”

“Why was he asking about it?”

“Who knows? First-time visitors to this town are always curious about that place.”

You paused for a second, then shrugged. “As long as he’s not a potential rival buyer, I’m good,” you said with a smile.

“I assure you, Miss,” the lady said, stepping out of her desk to join you. “No one wants that place. Why do you think it’s much cheaper than it’s supposed to be?”

The real estate agent handed you note after the paperwork, tapping her nail against the words written on it.

“Since the place is gonna need to be fixed up, I suggest you talk to Jean-Luc. He’s a mason, but he has a group of carpenters working for him. He does a pretty good job, though he can be a little nosy.”

“Thanks. I was just wondering where to start looking for help,” you said, smiling as you examined the name and address on the note.

Before leaving the office, the agent told you what Jean-Luc’s daily rate was and to call out his bullshit if he ever asked for more than that. You thanked her again and turned in the direction of Jean-Luc’s shop.

You met him at his shop, a wiry man in suspenders and a flat cap. He asked a few questions, but he seemed to know more about the place than you did.

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning to have a proper look, then we can negotiate.”

After that, he pointed you to a local supply shop, where you bought items you could use in the meantime, including some sturdy brooms, a pair of gloves, a few rags, and a bucket. You debated getting bleach but settled for lemon cleaner and optimism.

By the time you made your way back up the winding road to the mansion, your arms were aching from the weight of the supplies. But there was something satisfying about the ache, the breeze, and the faint scent of damp earth left by the storm.

You were surprised to see a motorbike parked outside the gates. The rain from the night before had washed the dust off the path, and the sun lit up the gravel as you stepped through the front doors of the mansion again.

Inside, the sound of hammering echoed faintly through the halls.

You followed it to the study, where the fireplace was. Sunghoon was crouched beside a wooden table, sleeves pushed up, hair damp at the temples. He held a hammer in one hand and was steadying a broken leg with the other, completely focused.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps. “Hey,” he said, straightening. “You’re back.”

You blinked. “You’re here?”

“So are you,” he said, setting the hammer down gently. “I thought you’d left for good.”

“I thought you left,” you replied, stepping inside.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Just went out to grab some food. When I came back, you weren’t here.”

You looked around. A few chairs had been repaired. One of the broken shelves stood straighter than before. He’d clearly been busy.

“You’ve been fixing things?” you asked.

He nodded. “I had time. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to help the place along a little. The woman at the real estate office said I could come by if I wanted.”

You raised a brow. “You went to the real estate office?”

“Yeah. She was friendly.” He looked sheepish, then smiled. “She said no one was ever interested in the place.”

You smiled back. “Well… someone is.”

He paused. “You?”

You nodded. He let out a short breath, like he hadn’t expected that. Then he gave a small, thoughtful smile. “Then maybe it’s good I didn’t leave.”

You tilted your head. “Why is that?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna need extra hands around here.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need a man bossing me around my own property.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that.” Sunghoon laughed. “I’m an architect, you see. I know my way around structures. If you’re planning to restore the place… I could help.”

You studied him. He didn’t seem to be lying. “…I don’t know how much I can pay you,” you said.

“Well, you fed and dressed me last night, so I’m basically alive because of you.”

That made you snort. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Just a little,” he replied, laughing. “But I’m serious. If you don’t mind having me around… I’m happy to help. That’s all.”

You were quiet for a moment, then reached into your bag and pulled out a broom. “Alright, then. Since you’re so eager… how about we start with the floors?”

He took the broom from you with a smile. “Sure.”

The first few days were chaotic in the most exciting way. You had dust in your lungs. Paint flakes in your hair. And the occasional clatter of tools or startled yelp when someone stepped on a loose board made the once eerily quiet place into a rowdy construction site.

Jean-Luc’s team of local carpenters moved in and out with efficiency, restoring what could be saved and gutting what couldn’t.

You did what you could afford. No grand hotel transformation just yet because your savings wouldn’t allow it, but enough to make the place safe, clean, and standing. You patched up what you could and left the heavy lifting to people who actually knew what they were doing. Sunghoon floated somewhere between both worlds, neither a hired worker nor idle guest.

He showed the carpenters the original layout you’d uncovered, and offered suggestions they actually listened to. You noticed the way they nodded when he spoke, how they looked to him when unsure.

One day, when the particularly exquisite wooden double doors leading to a grand ballroom broke down, everyone said your idea of putting them back in place wasn’t possible. The broken hinges had chipped a piece off one of the two doors, making it hard to put it back.

“We can repurpose the other one. Use it to replace the library door. Then maybe forgo the doors and keep the ballroom open?” Sunghoon suggested, tilting his head as he examined the doorway. He turned to you. “What do you think?”

“You’re full of solutions, aren’t you?” you said, only half-teasing.

He shrugged. “Comes with the degree.”

The architect thing came up again and again—not because he bragged, but because he made it quite useful. He knew how to brace the weakened staircase, how to check for mold behind plaster, and how to tell the difference between salvageable and unsafe. And when you asked how he knew all this labor stuff when he was supposed to be an architect, he always said, “It comes with the job.”

Together, you made progress. Slow, sweaty, stubborn progress.

You’d sweep out a room while he cleared debris. He’d rig up temporary lighting while you picked tile samples you couldn’t afford yet. Some afternoons, you’d sit together on the back steps, drinking orange juice from the orchard behind the house.

Other times, when your arms were too tired to scrub anything else, he’d ask, “Want to get out of here for a bit?” And somehow, you always did.

You rode behind him on the motorbike, hands wrapped around his waist, wind whipping at your sleeves. The roads curved sharply along the cliffs, opening into views of the sea that looked almost too blue to be real. You dipped your toes in hidden coves, ate greasy fish sandwiches by the pier, and once spent a full hour watching an old man play the accordion in the town square.

Sometimes he pointed things out—a crumbling lighthouse, a fig tree blooming near the bend—and you found yourself asking about the island, even though you knew he was as new to the island as you were.

The nights were quieter. Sometimes you cooked, sometimes you didn’t. Once, when the electricity went out, you shared a bowl of fruit by candlelight and listened to the wind sweep through the shutters. He told you about a vineyard resort project he’d worked on in Nice. You told him how you’d found this place by accident a few years ago on a trip you were never supposed to take.

Opening up to him was oddly easy for someone like you who liked to keep to herself and not let people in. He was easy to be around. Charismatic without trying. Quiet, but never cold.

You soon noticed how he always let you talk first. How he’d fix something for you without being asked to, or wipe his shoes before stepping inside even if the floors were already filthy.

The house slowly took shape. And so did whatever this was between you.

Jean-Luc’s crew was just wrapping up for the day when you stepped out, putting on your jacket and smoothing down the skirt of your dress. You’d taken the time to pick it out, simple, soft blue, not too fancy, but it was much more sophisticated than your usual work shirts and sun-stained jeans.

Jean spotted you instantly. “Ah,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag and giving you a once-over. “That dress is new.”

You gave him a look. “I had this dress for years.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You dressed up nicely for your date.”

“It’s not a date,” you said, out of habit more than conviction. “We’re just eating out because I didn’t wanna cook.”

The guys had heard Sunghoon earlier in the day when he invited you to eat at the pub in town. He did it because you complained about being too tired to make food, but Jean and his crew decided it was open to interpretation.

“Mm-hmm.” He raised a brow. “Sure. Too tired to cook, but not too tired to wear parfum, eh?” he added, glancing at his crew, who all started whistling.

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath. Their teasing had become a daily ritual ever since they started working in the house. You’d learned about Jean’s nosy nature from the get-go, but were surprised at first when you saw it firsthand. He’d asked you almost everything there was to know about you, from your education, your parents, and your decision to move into a foreign land and buy a haunted mansion.

Still, he didn’t pry too much and wasn’t annoying, so you took it all in stride. And as for his assumption that there was something going on between you and Sunghoon, well, you didn’t think much of it. If Sunghoon knew or was clueless that he was being shipped with you, you wouldn’t know because you never really talked about it.

“How about I hitch a ride to town?” you asked, already getting into their truck. “Would be a waste walking downhill in this dress, don’t you think?”

“It would be an honor to deliver you to your prince, mademoiselle.”

By the time you stepped out at the curb near the pub, the sun had dipped low, gleaming orange and gold across the sea. You caught your reflection briefly in the window and frowned. It was a nice dress. But why did you take the time to look pretty? You’d even put on lipstick, and for what? A casual dinner?

It’s just dinner! Right?

Or is it? You shook the thought away before you could overthink it.

Inside, the pub was lively but cozy, with fairy lights strung on wooden beams, a small local band playing mellow jazz near the back. Sunghoon was already seated at a corner table, nursing a glass of something amber. He looked up when you walked in and smiled.

“Wow,” he said, standing as you approached. “You look…”

He paused, and the way he searched for a word made you feel self-conscious. You hid your nervousness behind a smirk. “Weird? Disproportionate? Wicked with a hint of witchcraft and sorcery?”

He laughed. “Beautiful. Definitely beautiful.”

You smiled, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Thanks.”

He looked good, too. He’d shaved. Maybe even styled his hair. A waitress came by, dropped off menus, and you both skimmed through them, ordering a round of food that was heavier than you needed but comforting all the same. The band was playing a soft instrumental, and you leaned back in your seat, letting the atmosphere settle.

Sunghoon had been at the house every day this past week, but it occurred to you now how little you knew about his nights. He didn’t stay there, not even once. He always left just before dusk, riding off on that old motorbike. You never asked where he went, but vaguely assumed he was probably resting in his room at the inn. You were curious, but it didn’t matter much.

Until now.

Tonight, he was different. Still warm, still easy to talk to, but something in the air felt a little off-script. The way his eyes gleamed, the way he smiled when you caught him looking. It made you nervous and giddy at the same time.

“Didn’t take you for a dress person,” he said, sipping his drink.

You raised a brow. “And what kind of person did you take me for?”

He tilted his head like he was thinking of the answer. “Sawdust. Paint stains. And boots.”

You scoffed. “So… a disaster?”

“I didn’t say that.” His smile widened. “I like disasters. They’re more fun to fix.”

You narrowed your eyes, half-laughing. “Did you just call me a fixer-upper?”

“Well, no…” he trailed off, then blinked like he’d surprised himself. “Wait, did I? Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—you're actually kind of perfect.”

You laughed under your breath. “Okay, Charmer. Slow down.”

He leaned in, elbows on the table. “You’re blushing. I think you’re charmed.”

“It would take more than that to sweep me off my feet, Hoon,” you said, taking a slow sip of your drink. You smiled at him as you placed your glass back down. “But you’re on the right track.”

“Am I?” he asked, grinning, canines and dimples on full display. “Good to know. I’ll try harder then.”

He didn’t usually talk like this. You didn’t either, not with him. But neither of you stopped.

When the food came, the conversation didn’t stop either. It slipped in with the wine, with the melodic music in the background, with the occasional brush of his knee against yours beneath the table.

“You really didn’t have to dress up,” he said at one point, glancing at you over his fork.

“I didn’t,” you said. “This is me on a regular day. You should see me on a real date.”

He leaned back in his seat. “Am I not getting the real date version?”

“That depends. Is this a date?”

His brows lifted slightly, as if surprised you said it out loud. But his answer came quickly.

“I don’t know.” He smiled. “You tell me.”’

You sighed, feigning frustration. “Ugh, no. Wrong answer.”

Sunghoon winced, propped an elbow on the table, and buried his face in his hand. “Crap. Can I try again?”

“Nope,” you teased, giggling behind your glass.

The flirting stopped by dessert, and you fell into a conversation about the house and its grand architecture. Sunghoon talked about the dating of the design and the timelessness of it. At some point, you’d told him your plans of converting it into a hotel. It would take time since money was obviously a huge factor to consider, but you laid out your renovation plans, your vision, and the whole dream behind the project.

“For now, it’s just a dream,” you said, smiling as you stirred an olive in your drink. “But the first step was buying the place, and that’s a box ticked in my list.”

“That’s actually a big start.”

“Right?” you chimed, eyes gleaming. “I still have a long way to go, but it is something, right?”

“It is,” he replied, a smile gracing his lips as he watched you.

You kept talking, hands moving animatedly as you described the lounge you envisioned, the garden terrace, the way the morning sun would hit the breakfast room just right. And Sunghoon just watched you.

At first, you didn’t notice, too caught up in your own excitement. But then you glanced at him and caught the way he was looking at you—soft and focused, like he wasn’t listening at all but watching.

Your smile faltered slightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked, leaned back, and shrugged with a small grin. “Like what?”

“Like that,” you repeated, heat creeping to your cheeks. “I know you know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, eyes glinting under the dim pub lights. “No reason. I just… I’m just really proud of you.”

Your pulse raced at the way he said it. Like he meant it, and the affection in his voice wasn’t a figment of your imagination. You looked down at your drink. “Well. Thanks.”

He tilted his head. “That made you nervous.”

“No, it didn’t.”

He laughed under his breath. “You always get defensive when someone compliments you. It’s cute.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling now. “And you’re acting really out of character tonight. What’s up with you?”

“Sunghoon straightened up in his seat, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, a little too casually

Before you could say anything, he flagged down the server, asking for a pen and paper. A few minutes later, the order sheet was in front of him, along with your full attention.

“Alright,” he said, uncapping the pen. “Show me what you see.”

“What I see?”

“For your dream hotel,” he replied, beaming. “I’ll do a free sketch for you since you came here looking all pretty tonight.”

You laughed at first, but took him up on his offer. You walked him through it—the courtyard, the check-in desk, the sunlit breakfast room. He listened closely, nodding along, his hand gliding over the paper with precision. He added soft curves where you imagined sharp lines, windows where there were none, and little alcoves you hadn’t even thought of.

“This is where I’d put the courtyard,” you said, tapping the center.

“With some trees?” he asked. “A fountain?”

“Exactly,” you said. “But not a flashy one. Just charming and pretty.”

He sketched it in. You leaned over the table to get a better look, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t pull away. You didn’t either.

When he finished, he slid the paper toward you. “It’s rough, but… this is what I see when you talk about it.”

You stared at the sketch, warmth blooming in your chest. “It’s kind of perfect.”

“You’re kind of perfect,” he said, and this time, he didn’t soften it with a laugh or a tease.

Your heart thudded. He was looking at you like that again—like you were the only one in the room, like it would hurt him to peel his eyes away, like he wanted to just stare at you as much as he could.

“So… what now?” you asked, one hand hugging yourself. You felt nervous under his gaze, and not in a bad way.

“I should drive you back, but…” he paused, leaning a little closer. “Do you want to take a walk before we call it a night?”

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Outside, the air was cool and the streets mostly empty. The band’s music faded behind you as you walked side by side, a little closer than usual, not talking much. His hand brushed yours once, then again—until he finally just reached for it and laced your fingers together.

When you turned the corner and saw his bike down the road, he looked at you once with a smile before letting go of your hand.

“Will you be alright?” he asked as he mounted his bike and handed you one of the helmets. “You’re in a dress.”

“Yeah. I can manage,” you said, letting him help you put the helmet on.

His hand lingered on your jaw even after he’d fastened the helmet in. For a second, you thought he was gonna kiss you, but he just took a deep breath and turned back to his bike.

The ride was cool and quiet. You held onto him as usual, arms wrapped around his torso, balancing yourself behind him, making sure you didn’t fall. For some reason, despite the considerable distance of the town from your mansion, the drive ended too quickly.

You stopped in front of the gates but as you handed him his helmet back, something heavy settled in your chest. You didn’t want the night to end.

Neither did he, apparently. You could tell by the way he just sat there on his bike, staring at you and not saying anything but not moving to leave either.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked quietly after a minute.

He didn’t answer at first, just looked at you as if he was looking for any hint of doubt on your face.

Then, with a smile, he said, “I would love to if that’s alright with you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t need to. Because all the overthinking, the second-guessing, the usual mental tug-of-war you went through whenever something felt too close and too good just stopped.

There was only the cool night air, the sound of crickets in the distance, and Sunghoon— at you with that steady gaze of his, like he’d wait forever for your answer if he had to.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and kissed him. And he kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this all night.

His hands came to your waist, holding you. One of them slid up your back, pulling you in a little closer. You felt him smile into it and that was the moment your knees nearly gave out.

Because it was soft and sweet and beautiful and just so so melting.

When you finally pulled back, breath slightly uneven, he didn’t let go of you. “Is that a ‘yes’?” he whispered teasingly.

You giggled, eyes still closed. “That’s a yes.”

He kissed you once more. Urgently this time, like he couldn’t help himself, before reaching past you to unlock the gate.

Inside, the house was quiet, the lights were dim. You didn’t bother flicking them on. His hand found yours as you kicked your shoes off by the door, and you led him through the dim hallway like it was instinct.

You weren’t rushing, pausing every now and then at some corner to kiss and embrace each other like you couldn’t get enough.

In your room, you both paused not from hesitation, but awe. Sunghoon looked around the once lifeless space that now felt lived-in and warm. And then his gaze returned to you, and it softened, like you were the most beautiful part of the room.

“Are you nervous?” he asked quietly, holding your hands.

“A little,” you admitted, stepping close. “But not the bad kind of nervous.”

He smiled, reached up and cupped your face in both hands, drawing you in again. The kiss this time was different. Slower, surer. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the way his breath hitched when your fingers brushed the back of his neck.

His touch was careful and tender, like he was asking permission with every move. You helped him out of his jacket, then reached behind yourself to pull the zipper of your dress down, but his hands stopped you gently.

“Let me,” he murmured.

You turned, and his fingers found the zipper. You felt the brush of his knuckles against your spine, the drag of fabric slipping from your shoulders. When you turned back to face him, he just stood there for a second, eyes roaming slowly over you.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

He didn’t say it like he was trying to seduce you. He said it like he meant it. Like he’d never meant anything more.

You reached out, pulled him back to you, mouths meeting again as your hands slid down his stomach to the front of his jeans. He hissed when you pressed your palm to the bulge there, already hard for you. “Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. “Please don’t tease.”

“Sorry,” you whispered, grinning.

He picked you up gently and carried you to the bed. The sheets were cool beneath you, and the room warm around you. You pulled him down with you, mouths meeting again. His kisses grew deeper, needier, as he settled between your legs, grinding slow against your clothed sex.

You could feel him through the layers, thick and hard, and it made your body pulse with want. He slipped a hand down between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm against your core. You moaned, soft and breathy, hips tilting up to meet him.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, his lips grazing your throat. “Just from kissing me?”

“Don’t get cocky,” you mumbled, but your voice cracked on the end.

He smiled against your skin, then kissed down your body—between your breasts, your navel, lower—until he reached the edge of your panties. He looked up at you then, waiting.

You nodded.

He pulled them off slowly and settled between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The first stroke of his tongue made your back arch off the bed.

He took his time, licking deep, sucking hard until you were gasping his name. One arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you open, the other hand slid up to lace your fingers together on the sheets. You came like that—shaking, eyes squeezed shut, hand clinging to his—his mouth still on you, working you through it.

When he kissed back up your body, you were trembling. “You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded again. “Please.”

“Condoms?”

You shook your head. “I’m on the pill.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, and then positioned himself between your legs, his jaw tight like he was holding himself back. He slid into you languidly, lubricated by your own cum and his saliva.

He sank in slowly, with a deep, ragged breath, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel so good.”

You felt full, stretched in the best way. Your arms wrapped around his back, fingernails grazing his skin as he started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, rolling his hips in smooth, deliberate thrusts that made your toes curl.

He kept whispering your name, like he couldn’t stop himself. Kept asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if he should go slower—and every time, your only answer was to hold him closer.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep. Hot. And overwhelming in the most delightful way.

You kissed through it, tangled in sweat and soft moans and the sound of skin meeting skin. Your second orgasm built slowly, until he shifted your hips up just right, and you cried out, gripping his back as you came again.

He followed not long after, burying his face in your neck with a choked sound, holding you so tightly you could hardly breathe—and you didn’t want to, not if it meant letting go.

He stayed inside you for a moment after, catching his breath, lips brushing your shoulder. Then he pulled out gently and lay beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms again.

No one spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

His fingers traced soft shapes of your back as your breathing slowed. Your cheek rested against his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat still thudding fast.

“I really like you,” he said eventually, voice low, almost shy.

You closed your eyes. “I know.” And you did. “I like you too.”

The next morning, Sunghoon made coffee while you stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair messy, wearing only his oversized shirt from the night before. He’d found the beans in your pantry, ground them by hand, and hummed under his breath while the moka pot hissed on the stove. When he handed you a cup, it was with a kiss to your temple and a sleepy smile you wanted to keep in your pocket forever.

He didn’t leave that day. And the day after that. And then again the next. It wasn’t even a conversation—it just happened. One minute, he was supposed to return to his little room at the inn. The next, his toothbrush was on your sink and his boots sat neatly next to yours by the door.

“I guess I live here now,” he said with a shrug one evening, holding up a bundle of clean clothes he’d brought over.

You tried to act unbothered, but your chest felt light and strange and full. “I guess you do,” you replied.

Days spilled into each other like honey, slow and golden.

You worked the orange orchard together, side by side under the sun. He taught you how to check the fruits for ripeness, how to prune gently, how to tell if the bees were happy. You teased him for being too serious about it. He teased you for wearing perfume to pick fruit. He stole kisses in the shade of the trees, juice sticky on your fingers, the scent of citrus clinging to your skin.

“You’ve got a bit on your mouth,” he’d say, only to lean in and lick it off with a grin that made you drop the basket you were carrying.

Sometimes you ended up lying in the grass instead of working. Talking about the past, the future. Tracing invisible lines on each other’s arms. Learning the things that didn’t come up in early conversations—how he hated raisins, how you cried watching documentaries, how neither of you had felt like this in a long, long time.

Nights were warm. He’d light a fire when it got cold and pull you into his lap while you ate dinner on the couch. The two of you would read—him with his architectural journals, you with whatever novel you’d found at the local shop. Your legs tangled. His hand on your thigh. You’d fall asleep with your cheek on his chest more often than not, waking up only when he carried you to bed.

He made love to you like he was discovering something new each time. Slow. Intentional. Always watching your face like it told him a secret he didn’t want to forget. There were times he didn’t say a word, just kissed you like he meant it, like he needed it, like he’d been waiting to do it forever.

Sometimes it was lazy. Sometimes passionate. Sometimes soft, with laughter in between. One time, he brought oranges into the shower, peeled them as water ran down both your backs, fed you slices from his fingers before pressing you up against the glass.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” you told him one night, your voice quiet in the dark.

He rolled over to face you, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “Me neither.”

You explored the island on foot and by his bike, visited hidden beaches and ate at local tavernas where he introduced you as his “partner”—not girlfriend, not roommate, just something simple and solid and true.

He drew plans for your hotel idea, left them pinned up on your fridge, updated them with sticky notes that said things like “maybe French doors here?” or “do you like this arch style?”

You found yourself setting the table for two without thinking. Buying his favorite snacks when you went into town. Pulling his shirts from the laundry and holding them to your chest like a fool.

There was a routine now. A tenderness. A life. And it felt like forever.

One day, you were sitting on the dock just past the cove, legs dangling over the edge, fishing rods in hand and an old bottle of white wine between you. Neither of you knew much about fishing, but Sunghoon said that was part of the fun.

You’d caught nothing. He’d caught seaweed. Twice.

“Okay, but it looked like a fish,” he said defensively, flicking the green tangle off his line. “For a second.”

You laughed, tipping your head back as the breeze brushed your cheeks. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this with someone other than your best friends. He looked over at you, half smiling, the way he always did when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

A peaceful quiet settled between you for a minute. Then you broke it.

“I’ve pictured this place for years,” you said softly. “Not this exact dock, or this exact sunset… but the idea of it. Of being somewhere like this.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond right away. He just turned his head to listen.

“I’d imagine buying a house on some forgotten island, fixing it up myself, turning it into a little bed and breakfast or a hotel. Starting something that was just mine. A place to breathe. A place to stay.”

You swallowed, not nervous, just careful. “And I was always alone in that picture. I wasn’t lonely, I was content. I thought that’s what I wanted.” You looked at him. “And then I met you.”

His eyes stayed on you, steady. Patient.

“And now when I picture it again… I see you. Just—there. Beside me. Part of it.”

You gave a small shrug, cheeks warm. “I know it sounds crazy. We haven’t known each other long, and there’s still a lot I don’t know about you, and maybe this is too fast, but… I was wondering if you’d like to be in that picture. For real. If you’d want to try building something together.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. He just set down his fishing rod, then reached for your hand, fingers lacing between yours.

“Doesn’t sound crazy to me at all,” he said quietly.

You looked at him. He looked at you. And in that silence, something deep and certain was decided between you. Llike two pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place.

The fish still weren’t biting. But it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

That night, you lay tangled together in bed, skin still warm from the day’s sun and each other’s touch. The windows were open, and the sound of the waves slamming against the cliff below was oddly soothing despite its violence. Sunghoon’s arm lay heavy across your waist, fingers lazily stroking your bare stomach. It was quiet, the kind of silence that usually felt safe with him.

“I have to tell you something,” he said quietly.

You turned slightly to face him. “What is it?”

“I love you.”

You giggled, closing your eyes and nuzzling your nose back on his chest. “Okay, Lover Boy. I heard you.”

“And I’m engaged to someone else,” he added, making you force your eyes open.

At first, you didn’t react. The words didn’t quite register in your head. You blinked up at him, waiting for a punchline. But he just looked back at you, his eyes open and serious.

“What?”

“It’s not what it sounds like,” he said quickly, propping himself up. “It’s arranged. My family—back home—they… they set it up. I didn’t choose it. I barely know her. I’ve met her maybe three times. I don’t have feelings for her.”

Something cold seeped into your chest. You pulled away from him. “And when were you going to tell me?”

“I—I didn’t know how. I didn’t think it mattered at first. But then everything with us…” He reached for you, but you slapped his hand away. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know.”

You sat up, dragging the sheet around yourself. “You didn’t think it mattered? Are you hearing yourself?”

“I didn’t plan any of this,” he said, sitting up too. “I was just here for a little break. I didn’t plan to meet you and fall for you.”

You laughed bitterly. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t stand there and talk about falling for me like you didn’t lie by omission every single day. You let me build a whole dream around you. Around us. And you were promised to someone else this whole time?”

“It’s not real—”

“It’s real enough,” you snapped. “I don’t care if you love her or not. I don’t care if it’s just paper. You’re someone else’s, Sunghoon.”

He looked like he’d been punched. “I don’t want it! I choose you.”

“No. You don’t get to choose! You knew this would happen and you let it happen anyway.” Your voice broke then. You didn’t mean for it to, but it came out in a tremble. “Get out.”

He froze. “Please… Don’t do this.”

“Go. Just get the fuck out! Please,” you said, turning away and moving to the corner of the room.

You buried your face in your hands and sobbed, shoulder trembling, voice breaking. You could hear the soft sounds of Sunghoon’s footsteps approaching you, then his hand on your shoulder but you swatted it away.

“Just leave, Hoon!”

He left. And he never came back.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d kept your eyes closed through most of the night, but your mind never let you rest. You could still feel the ghost of his arm around your waist, the weight of his words sitting heavy on your chest.

“And I’m engaged to someone else.”

The sun had fully risen and the ocean looked far too cheerful for how you felt. You opened the door to see Amy’s familiar grin and Lea’s arms already opening for a hug. They were glowing with excitement, sunglasses in their hair, bags slung over their shoulders, and not even an ounce of awareness that your world had collapsed less than twelve hours ago.

“There she is!” Lea beamed, pulling you into a tight squeeze. “God, it smells like citrus and freedom out here. I’m never leaving.”

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Amy said with a teasing frown. “Don’t tell me you and Lover Boy were up all night doing—”

You let out a soft laugh—more exhale than amusement—and stepped aside to let them in.

The massive house felt too full suddenly. Their voices bounced off the walls, light and warm. They talked about the flight, the heat, the funny guy at customs. You listened. Smiled when appropriate. Nodded at all the right times.

It wasn’t until you’d served them fresh juice on the patio that Amy tilted her head and said, “So where is he? You were going to introduce us, right? We were ready for the whole ‘meet the boyfriend’ thing.”

You looked down at your glass, then out at the sea. “He’s not here anymore,” you said quietly. “We’re done.”

Both of them froze. “What?” Amy asked, gently.

“He’s engaged to someone else. Back home. Doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

You didn’t look at them, didn’t want to see the sympathy you knew was coming.

Lea reached across the table and touched your hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You sighed, unwilling to get into the details but wanted to share. “It’s really nothing. We were having a good time and I thought I’m in love with him. Now that he’s gone, I think it was just the moment, you know what I mean?”

Lea tilted her head, looking at you in confusion, but Amy beside her nodded in understanding. “Totally get it. I mean, two beautiful people together in a beautiful island? I’d think I’m in love too,” said Amy.

Lea shook her head. “No. It was serious when you told us about it on the phone. You sounded so…sure.”

“No, darling.” Amy tapped Lea’s cheek gently. “It was the weather. You have no idea how easy it is to mistake good vibes with being in love.”

They argued about it for a while, but they didn’t press. They didn’t ask for more than what you were willing to divulge. They simply shifted the conversation, as if by instinct, pulling you back into safer waters.

But even as they talked about their plans—about beach days and wine nights and helping you with the orchard—you couldn’t help but glance at the seat across from you. The one that had been his just yesterday.

It was supposed to be good day. You were gonna introduce him to Amy and Lea, your best friends, your true family. But that was a bust. And now it was just you again.

But at least you weren’t alone.

The week that followed blurred into a sun-soaked montage of tequila shots, sandy hair, and late-night laughter. With Amy and Lea around, it was impossible to sit still for too long. They pulled you out of the house, out of your head, and out of the quiet grief you hadn’t yet figured out how to deal with.

Amy dragged you away from the village and into the other side of the island where the beaches were packed with tourists, loud music, and overpriced mojitos. You danced barefoot in the sand, lip-synced into beer bottles, flirted with strangers you had no intention of remembering. You let the lights and noise and sea carry you for days—numbed and glowing all at once.

Amy flirted with every fine European men who so much as looked her way. Lea got into a tipsy argument with a street performer about astrology. You laughed so hard you nearly cried.

It didn’t make the pain disappear. But for a little while, it drowned it out.

And then, one afternoon, as you lay on a beach towel by the docks, the sand warm beneath you, skin glowing, a little drunk on Aperol spritz and good company, the sun suddenly vanished from your face.

You blinked up at the abrupt shadow.

And found a man holding an umbrella over your head like a knight with absolutely no armor, just absurd confidence and expensive taste. Linen shirt, half-buttoned. Sunglasses pushed up into dark brown hair. Smirk painted across his face like it had been there since birth.

“Hi there,” he greeted casually, his voice ringing with a familiarity that hit straight in your chest.

You pulled your own sunglasses down your nose and squinted up at him. “What are you doing here, Jay?”

He chuckled lightly. “It’s good to see you too.”

Amy and Lea looked between the two of you like they’d accidentally stepped into a scene from a movie they hadn’t seen the beginning of.

“No, seriously.” You sat up slowly, brushing sand off your legs. “What are you doing here?”

“Official business is concluded, so I’m heading home. But I figured I’d drop anchor for a bit.” He lowered the umbrella handle toward you. “And maybe see a friendly face.”

You blinked at him again, mouth parting slightly. This wasn’t just some coincidence. Jay was here. Jay, with his yacht and smirk and maddening presence, had found you again.

“I knew it was weird when you said we’d be seeing each other again,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully.

He grinned wider. “Miss me?”

“In your dreams,” you replied, standing up. “How long has it been?”

“Oh, just thirty-three days, give or take,” he shrugged, closing the umbrella. “It’s not like I was counting the days till I see you again,” he added with a grin.

Of course. That was the Jay you knew. Shamelessly flirty, smooth about it, and tries to talk you in sleeping with him every chance he gets. You rolled your eyes and turned to your friends, both still looking clueless. “Oh, these are my girls, Amy and Lea.”

“Hi,” said Lea.

“Lovely to meet you,” said Amy, offering a hand to Jay. “I’ve heard nothing about you,” she added, glancing knowingly at you.

You gave her an apologetic scrunch of your nose.

“Ladies, I’d hate to disturb you, but,” Jay nodded toward the water, past the dock where his boat was glistening under the sun. “How would you like some cocktails on a boat?”

You chuckled at his blatant attempt at impressing your girls. Amy perked up immediately. “A boat? That boat?” she asked, pointing at Jay’s yacht.

“Yes, Ames,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes at Jay. “Did I mention he’s got a yacht?”

Lea was already grabbing her tote. “Let’s go before he changes his mind.”

You shook your head, laughing as Jay offered you a hand up like he was inviting you to a gala. Dramatic, as always. You didn’t take it, but you did follow him, the three of you trailing after him barefoot across the sun-warmed dock.

Amy nudged your arm discreetly. “Who is he?” she whispered.

Lea leaned in on your other side. “He’s hot.”

“Hotter than the fucking sun,” Amy added.

You smirked, keeping your eyes ahead. “He’s just someone I met a while back. He helped me out when I first got stranded here.”

Amy gasped softly. “That’s the boat guy? You never said he looked like that.”

“I barely said anything,” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Lea said. “Suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. Jay was ahead now, glancing back to make sure you were all still following. He tossed you a wink and kept walking.

Amy nudged you again, lower this time. “Okay but for real—are we allowed to flirt with him or is that off-limits?”

You gave her a look. “Behave.”

“Not a no,” she sing-songed.

You sighed dramatically. “He’s a player. If you can handle someone like him, then go ahead.”

They both exchanged a knowing glance. Amy shook her head. “Yeah, no. It’s pretty obvious he came all the way here to see you, specifically.”

You had a small yacht party, just the four of you, plus Manu, Jay’s crew member-slash-silent bartender who somehow knew exactly when to top up a drink or disappear entirely. There were expensive bottles, platters of seafood and fruit laid out by the excellent Sofia, and music drifting softly through the deck speakers. You laughed, drank, danced barefoot under string lights, and watched the sun dip into the sea.

By the time night fell properly, Lea had passed out on one of the long couches, clutching a throw pillow like a lifeline. Amy had disappeared below deck with Manu about thirty minutes ago and hadn’t been seen since.

Which left you, barefoot at the railing, half a drink in hand, ocean breeze blowing your hair, talking to Jay.

“Today, you became Amy and Lea’s favorite person,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder at him. He was leaning beside you, one arm braced casually against the rail.

He gave a lazy shrug, that usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “As I should be. I did try my best. Although my main guest of honor’s a little harder to impress.”

You chuckled, but didn’t say anything.

He chuckled too, eyes glinting as he looked at you for a long moment. “You look different,” he said. “Not in a bad way. Just… different. Your eyes don’t shine like they did when we met.”

The sudden comment caught you off guard. He smiled and added, “Must’ve been hard for you after I left.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you turned back toward the dark water. “Not at all,” you said. “But… a lot’s happened since then. Been kind of a rough patch lately. Don’t really wanna talk about it. I’ll just bore you.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But for what it’s worth—I know you’ll be fine. You’re the strong, independent type. You don’t need anyone.”

You smiled faintly, touched by the unexpected sincerity.

Then, with perfect Jay timing, he tilted his head and said, “How was it? Am I sweeping you off your feet? Are you considering checking out my suite now?”

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Wow. Very subtle, Jay,” you said flatly.

He grinned, shrugging with fake innocence. “Can’t be too forward. You might think I’m desperate to have sex with you.”

That made you laugh, and he watched you with a fond smile on his lips. After a beat, you handed him your empty glass and said, “Lead the way, then.”

He blinked once. Then let out a short breath of disbelief, like he was laughing at his own luck.

“Damn,” he said, cocking his head. “Didn’t think you’d actually bite.”

You raised a brow, feigning nonchalance. “So? Lead the way.”

Jay paused. The smirk was still there, but it faltered a little. He avoided your gaze, then he leaned back just slightly, voice dropping lower.

“Nah,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Can’t mess around with drunk girls. Bad karma.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Still not gonna happen.”

You tilted your head. “That’s your excuse?”

He gave you a crooked grin, but he wasn’t meeting your eyes anymore. “It’s called principle, thanks. I’m being a gentleman for once, but don’t get used to it.”

You stared at him, trying not to laugh at his face. He was flustered. Jay, king of confidence, was caught off guard. He probably hadn’t expected you to actually call him on his bullshit. And now he was scrambling, all cool exterior but twitchy tells.

“Wow,” you teased, enjoying his struggle. “You’re not as smooth as I thought.”

“Well, whatever,” he deadpanned. “I’m gonna go make sure no one’s thrown themselves off the side of the boat.”

And with that, he turned and walked away. You smiled to yourself, shaking your head. Score one for you.

The next day was supposed to be a group outing. Jay had invited all three of you on his boat again, planning a full day of sightseeing, drinks, and whatever else the ocean had in store.

But that morning, when you stepped out in your swimsuit and cover-up, your hair still damp from the shower, Amy and Lea were both lounging on the patio, coffee mugs in hand and suspiciously smug looks on their faces.

“What are you guys doing? We have to go,” you said matter-of-factly.

Amy hummed as she shook her head. “You’re going alone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You need this, girl,” Lea said simply. “He’s hot. You’re heartbroken. And we’re tired of watching you mope.”

You scoffed indignantly. “I did not mope. When did I—”

“Go,” they said in unison.

So you did.

Jay greeted you with a grin as you boarded his boat, wind tousling his hair and sunglasses perched cockily on his nose.

“No entourage today?” he asked, helping you aboard.

“They bailed,” you said.

He smiled, clearly pleased. “Smart girls.”

The day unfolded like something out of a travel magazine. The sky was endless blue, the sea even more so. He took you to hidden coves and quiet stretches of beach, pointing out rocky cliffs and ancient ruins. You swam in the clearest water you’d ever seen, laughed until your stomach hurt, shared cold drinks and warm glances.

By late afternoon, you were stretched out beside him on the deck, towel beneath you, the sun dipping lower in the sky.

Jay turned his head toward you, that lazy smirk still in place. “I would really be heartbroken once you leave my boat, but I guess it’s worth it if it’s you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Romantic.”

He chuckled. “I can be, if that’s what you’re into.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, lying on his side, head propped on one hand, salt still glistening on his chest and sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose.

“I’ve been dying to be alone with you,” he said quietly.

You didn’t look away. “And now that you are?”

He gave a half-shrug, his smile softening. “Now I’m trying not to fuck it up.”

You smiled, leaned in just a little, and said, “Then don’t.”

It was all the permission he needed. With one swift motion, he hovered over you, his body blocking the sun as he looked down at you.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Are you?” you asked back, challenging him. “Or are you gonna get all flustered and adorable for me again?” you added, fingers tracing the curve of his abs.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game here, sweetheart,” he challenged.

“So what? Too hot for you?”

Jay smirked, visibly impressed. His eyes flicked to your lips then briefly back to your eyes before diving in to kiss you. It was warm, salty, sun-drenched. His hand was confident when it landed on your waist, rubbing, feeling. Yours curled into his damp hair as the boat rocked gently beneath you, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Below deck, the second the door shut behind you, Jay had you pressed against it.

He kissed you deep, dirty, all tongue and teeth, his hands greedy as they found your waist and pulled you closer. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the seawater still drying in patches along his chest, the faint taste of liquor on his tongue. You reached down, tugged on the waistband of his shorts, and he laughed into your mouth.

“Impatient, are we?” he murmured, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth.

You kissed him hard, arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat as his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you to the bed like you weighed nothing. Your bare legs locked around his hips. Your thighs met the warm sheets and you gasped against his mouth when he bit your lip.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this all fucking day,” he muttered, kissing down your jaw, his hands roaming greedily over your sides. “You're so goddamn sexy when you tease me.”

You tugged at his hair. “When did I do that?”

He smirked into your neck. “You obviously had no idea, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you feel very, very sorry about it.”

His lips were on you again before the words even registered. Kissing you deep, kissing you slow, until you were squirming beneath him. His hand slid up your thigh, pushed the fabric of your swimsuit aside, and his thumb brushed where you were already soaked.

“Wet and excited,” he muttered. “Just the way I like it.”

“Jay, stop talking and get on it,” you panted, hips chasing his hand.

Jay grinned. “Alright, since you asked nicely.”

You shot him a glare, but it melted fast when he dropped to his knees. Pulled your bottoms off with one fluid motion and threw them somewhere behind him.

You tipped your head back the moment his mouth touched you, one hand bracing on the counter, the other tugging at his hair again. “Jay—fuck—”

He moaned into you, rough and obscene, like he wanted you to know just how much he was enjoying it. The room was filled with wet, messy sounds, your breathy gasps echoing above it all. You gripped his hair, trying to stay still, but your body had a mind of its own, hips rocking up into his face.

“I can’t—” you choked out, thighs trembling. You came embarrassingly fast, clenching hard around nothing as you gasped his name.

Jay stood and kissed you, still tasting like you, and his hands were already pushing his shorts down. You reached for him, touched him, and he hissed in approval.

“Come here,” he growled, and then you were being turned, hands braced against the mattress, his chest pressing against your back. He slid inside you with a groan so guttural it made your toes curl.

The stretch stole your breath. “Oh, fuck—Jay—”

“God, you feel unreal,” he breathed against your shoulder, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise while the other slipped between your thighs again. “You gonna take it like a good girl or do you want to tell me what to do?”

You tried. You really tried. But every time you opened your mouth, he hit something inside you that made your thoughts scatter.

“Uh-huh,” he chuckled darkly. “That’s what I thought.”

The pace turned relentless. Fast and deep, the sounds of your bodies slapping together echoing off the cabin walls, your breathy moans mixing with his filthy praise. He told you how good you felt, how gorgeous you looked, how he’d been dreaming about this since the day he met you. You cursed, clutched the sheets, back arching, completely unraveling beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, pulling out and flipping you around.

He hovered above you, kissed you slow again, positioning himself between your legs. “You wanna ride me?” he asked, teasing.

You nodded, lips brushing his jaw. “Yeah. I do.”

He rolled onto his back immediately, hands behind his head. “Be my guest.”

It didn’t last long. You straddled him, sank down slowly, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. “Jesus Christ—”

You tried to find a rhythm, something steady, but the way he felt inside you—thick, deep, rubbing every spot perfectly—made it impossible. Especially with the way he kept watching you, mouthing filth between clenched teeth, hips bucking up to meet yours.

“You’re so fucking tight—shit—look at you,” he groaned. “If you can only see yourself right now.”

His hands gripped your ass, helping you move, but then he sat up, mouth finding your collarbone, your shoulder, and suddenly he was thrusting up into you, hard and fast, stealing every ounce of composure you had left.

You clung to him, moaning shamelessly as he fucked you from below, his voice rough in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Come on.”

You did, again, harder than before—crying out as you clenched down around him, lightheaded and spiraling in euphoria.

Jay swore under his breath, then flipped you onto your back in one fluid motion. “One more,” he rasped, driving back into you, not giving you time to catch your breath. “You’ve got one more in you, don’t you?”

You didn’t even answer. Just held on tight, nails digging into his back as he slammed into you, rough, messy, perfect. He kissed you through it, swore again when he felt you start to come undone, and then with one final thrust, he spilled into you, gasping your name against your mouth.

The silence after was satisfying. Heavy with heat and broken by his occasional grunts and your panting. You stayed tangled, sweaty and half-laughing, while he buried his face in your neck and caught his breath.

“Well,” he said eventually, voice hoarse. “I’m amazing, aren’t I?”

That made you laugh. “You’re alright.”

He laughed and kissed your shoulder. “Okay, liar,” he quipped before rolling onto the bed beside you.

You said goodbye to Jay at the dock, the same spot he’d first said goodbye to you after taking you to this place. He helped your friends load their bags onto his yacht, cracked a joke about how he wasn’t running a taxi service, and kissed you once—quick and easy, no lingering promises. You smiled at him, genuine and grateful, and then he was gone, taking the laughter and chaos and comfort with him.

And just like that, you were alone.

You hadn’t truly been alone since you arrived in France. Jake had been with you in Paris on your first day, cute and shy. Sunghoon was on this island the day you got here, charming and kind, offering you help and himself. When he left, your friends arrived with wine and sunhats, and then Jay swept in like a storm, all noise and heat. But now the house was truly empty. You hadn’t expected the silence to feel so loud.

For a while, you didn’t do much. You walked around barefoot, let the days pass lazily, ate too much fruit, and stared at the ocean. You were scared, not of the house, not of the work ahead, but of the loneliness. You’d never admitted that before. But there it was, pressing into your chest like it intended to suffocate you.

Still, you carried on.

Since you didn’t have the finances to convert the mansion into a guesthouse yet, you found work in town. Mornings were spent in a café near the harbor, brewing coffee and scribbling names on cups that always got smudged. Tourists liked you, maybe because you smiled even when you were tired, or maybe because you looked like a tourist yourself if one would take away the uniform and the beret.

At night, you waited tables at corner street restaurant, where the wine was relatively pricey and the seafood never disappointed. The hours were long, but the pay was fair, and the staff became familiar. You didn’t tell them much about yourself, just that you were from a small village a few miles away and saving up for something big.

You kept working on your plans when you got home—sketching interior designs, tallying costs, researching permits and licensing. Some nights you fell asleep with your laptop still open on your stomach. Other nights you walked down to the beach alone, letting the cool sand soothe your body and mind.

It wasn’t a glamorous life. But it was good.

And slowly, you started to feel less fragile. You didn’t miss Sunghoon, not exactly. What you missed was the closeness, the feeling of someone else’s warmth in the bed beside you, the distraction from your thoughts. But you were proud of yourself too. You were building something. Even if it wasn’t a hotel yet, even if it was just a new version of yourself.

Two months passed like that.

Work, sleep, plan, repeat. The days folded into each other like pages in a worn book—some soft and golden, others heavy with fatigue. You had slipped into a routine without realizing it. Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice at first.

Your period was late.

It didn’t hit you until one morning at the café, when the espresso machine was hissing in the background and a wave of nausea hit you out of nowhere. You brushed it off, blaming the heat. But the feeling stayed until you had to leave because you couldn’t take it anymore without throwing up.

And then came the other things. The tenderness, the fatigue, the strange aversion to the smell of coffee that made your coworkers laugh but made your stomach turn.

You tried not to spiral. Maybe it was stress. You’d read that stress could delay periods. You'd been busy and tired. But still, something gnawed at you. So you had to check.

On afternoon, after your shift ended early, you walked into a clinic two towns over, where no one knew your name. You filled out the form with shaky hands and let the nurse lead you through the halls, your heart racing in your chest.

And then came the results that were impossible to misunderstand.

You were pregnant.

When you stepped back outside, the world was too bright, the sound of cicadas were roaring in your ears. You sat on a bench just outside the building, phone clutched in your hand but no one to call.

Because now came the real question: Who? Which one?

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought of it. The possibility had been there, but hearing the confirmation made it real. And now your mind spiraled through the summer like a montage, playing back every moment, every night, every touch.

Jake. Sunghoon. Jay.

You weren’t reckless. It wasn’t about that. You had been careful—or at least you thought you had. But the lines blurred in your memory now, and all you were left with was the truth.

You were carrying a child, and you didn’t know who the father was.

You sat there for a long time. Just breathing. A little girl passed by holding her mother’s hand, chattering about ice cream. A breeze lifted your hair. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.

And you were still sitting. Still not sure what came next. But that night, you knew you needed to call Amy and Lea.

“This is why I always tell you to wrap it up,” Amy said immediately.

Neither of them knew what to say at first. You didn’t blame them. It wasn’t exactly news you could prepare them for.

“The raw way might be toe-curling, head-spinningly amazing,” Amy went on, “but it’s not worth it if it’s gonna get you knocked up out of wedlock.”

Lea scoffed audibly on the other line. “Shut up, Ames. You’re the one who always said condoms are cock-blockers and everyone should experience the ‘sheer delight’ of raw sex at least once.”

“I meant once, not—” Amy cut herself off. “Okay, never mind. We’re not talking about me.”

“You’re literally always talking about you.”

“Lea.”

“Sorry, sorry. Focus,” Lea said, clearing her throat. “So who do you think is the father?”

“Park Jay?” Amy ventured.

“Or Park Sunghoon,” Lea added. “You did say he was hot and brooding and emotionally intense, right? That sounds like potent baby-daddy energy.”

“Mm,” Amy mused. “But Jay has the boat and the abs. I’m leaning Jay.”

“Oh my god. It doesn’t matter. They’re both Parks, our baby will get the same surname regardless of who the father is,” Lea said excitedly.

You sighed. “Guys.”

“Don’t ‘guys’ us,” Amy said. “You invited us into the drama, now let us live in it.”

“Okay, but there’s someone else…”

They both went quiet. “...Don’t tell me you slept with someone else after Jay left?” Amy finally said.

You winced. “Actually, it was before. I met a guy name Jake Sim in Paris. Before coming to Corsica. Things happened.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then both of them erupted in squeals.

“Three guys in just one summer?” Amy shrieked.

Lea was laughing. “You are an icon. How does it feel to be the main character of an erotic French film?”

“I feel nauseous,” you muttered.

“Pregnancy symptom,” Amy deadpanned.

“I’m serious,” you said, running a hand over your face. “What if it was Jake and I was just insane this whole time? Like, genuinely hormonal and insane. What if that’s why I got so swept up with Sunghoon? I couldn’t keep my hands off him. Maybe I was already pregnant then. Maybe I wasn’t even in love—just horny and mental.”

“Hormones do make you horny,” Amy said thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to fall in lust under the influence of progesterone.”

“No, girl. You cried over him,” Lea reminded gently. “And you don’t really cry over guys unless it’s real.”

“Yeah, but pregnant women are crazy women. How would I know what’s real and what’s not?” you whispered. “I just thought it was love but then it wasn’t. It was just me being reckless and careless and—”

“Babe,” Amy cut in. “I know what you’re doing. You’re denying that it was real. Even if it was love and even if it wasn’t, you’re allowed to have feelings. You don’t need to justify your heartbreak to anyone. Especially not to yourself.”

You were quiet for a second. “Thanks, Ames.”

Amy added, “And I still say it’s Jay. Sunghoon probably pulls out. He sounds like a good guy. Good guys pull out.”

“Oh my god,” Lea said, cracking up. “On that note, I’m hanging up before Amy gives this baby a horoscope reading.”

“Wait, I totally should—”

Click. You stared at your phone, smiling faintly.

And then you weren’t smiling. You were just sitting again, alone in your big bedroom. A child growing inside you. A thousand things left to figure out. But at least you had friends who made you laugh along the way.

You didn’t know what to do at first. The test had been positive, the signs were there, but your thoughts had scattered into every direction at once. You considered everything—your finances, your future. Your pride.

The sheer humiliation of having to call any of the three men, let alone all of them. What would you even say? That you had a summer full of crap decisions and now needed help guessing which one was the father?

No. Just the idea made you shrink into yourself.

You kept the secret close to your chest, rolling it over and over, sleepless nights spent making pro and con lists in your head. You had reasons—dozens of them—for why you couldn’t keep the baby. And everytime you came close to making the call, to booking the appointment, something stopped you.

And then it was too late to even consider it.

You gave birth to a healthy baby girl in a cool winter night, with the help of kind women in the village who knew what to do. They guided you through labor with gentle hands and wisdom, and when you finally held your daughter in your arms, all the noise in your head quieted down.

Your daughter was perfect. Warm and pink and wailing, with one little fist curled around your finger.

You named her together. Amy and Lea had flown in as quickly as they could, flustered and crying and loud as ever, and from that moment on, the baby was theirs too. Theirs and the village’s, because it really did take a village to raise a child. The baker who always snuck pastries into her bag. Old man Jean-Luc who carved a cradle. The innkeeper who watched the baby when you picked up extra shifts.

The little girl grew into a sweet, curious child with wide eyes and smart wit. Everyone said she looked just like you. You were near-twins, people would say, shaking their heads fondly.

“She’s your spitting image. Her dad’s genes didn’t even try!”

You raised your daughter with love. You taught her to be soft with the world but never small. To be good but not naive. To be strong but not unkind.

Meanwhile, you built the bed and breakfast from the ground up—slowly, with scraped knees and secondhand furniture, but with pride. It was small but beautiful. Cozy but polished. Tourists came, then returned, drawn by the warmth of the place and the magic of the island.

It wasn’t always easy—there were long nights, missed opportunities, tired tears—but it was yours. And you were happy.

Not the kind of happy that came with a man’s hands around your waist or whispered promises in the dark. The kind that looked like laughter over breakfast, like sun-dried sheets, like a child’s muddy footprints on a kitchen floor.

You didn’t need a man, and neither did your daughter. You had built a life of your own and it was enough.

“Mommy! Someone’s here!” your daughter called from the front door.

You had two hours left before guests would arrive for her birthday party. You were in the kitchen icing cupcakes when the doorbell rang, so you called out for her to answer it, assuming it was a parent dropping off a gift early—or Amy and Lea showing up with something too big to carry alone.

“I’ll be right out!” you called, wiping your hands on a dish towel as you jogged toward the front, hair tied up in a bun, frosting smudged on your arm. “Who is it, honey?”

You froze the moment you saw who she was staring at.

Standing on your porch were three men you hadn’t seen in years.

Jake, in a navy blue suit and tie, holding a bouquet of flowers. Jay, sunglasses perched on his head, casual as ever but visibly hesitant. And Sunghoon, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking from your face to the hand you’d unconsciously placed on your daughter’s shoulder.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you let out a stunned, almost exasperated laugh.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

[the end... or is it?]

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