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hardlyinteresting · 6 months ago

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Stop in the middle

Jake Seresin x reader

Two sides of the same coin; they were joined at the hip; partners in every way but the romantic. The words “I love you,” had passed between them many times, but neither of them had been brave enough to say, “I’m in love with you”.

So much wine by Phoebe Bridgers Somewhere else by Indians Abbey by Mitski

Warnings: The reader is referred to as she/her, (call sign Angel), with no physical description, crash landing, wilderness survival, major injuries (non-graphic description), discussions of death, happy ending though (I promise!), hurt/comfort, idiots in love, possible Navy inaccuracies, (please let me know if you'd like me to add anything else)

Word Count: 4.7K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

This is as good a place to die as any, she thinks.

Laying in the snow she watches the sun rise inch by inch over the tree line. The sky bathed in a soft orange glow that warms her skin for what she can only assume will be the last time. He’ll hate her for leaving him without saying goodbye, but her voice has already left her and her arms are too weak to shake him from his slumber.

In the distance the cotton fluff clouds rest on the peaks of the mountains; tremendous contrast so perfectly balanced. She feels each of Hangman's breaths expanding the firm plane of his chest as her breathing grows slower. Two days ago she never would have imagined dying in the arms of Lt. Jake “Hangman” Seresin.

---

They had taken off at the barest crack of dawn breaking. 0600 hours. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. Take off from the carrier. Fly over. Survey the valley below—report anomalies. Continue the flight path, and land at a nearby ally airbase. Refuel. Return to the carrier. They'd been tasked with flying similar paths for the last two weeks as part of a larger peacekeeping and security effort. As far as deployments go, they were lucky to have been selected to be the joint task force; and more fortunate to not be engaged in active combat.

Though Hangman would loathe to admit it with his two confirmed air combat kills, she knows herself that no pilot wants to be under enemy fire or in a position to take a life; it's an unfortunate consequence and frequent reality of the job.

In the time they’ve known each other, she’s heard Jake speak frequently about his mother and her homemade pie waiting for him in Texas. He tells stories about the boys he used to play football with in high school, and family reunions with little nieces and nephews running about barefoot. She’s heard him making plans to buy a home and settle down. He dreams of a future. Anyone paying attention knows that beneath the outwardly cocky exterior, and adrenaline rushes, he's afraid of dying.

It wasn't enemy fire that took them down two days ago, but rather sudden major malfunctions that left them without any navigation system, defective coms, and an aircraft almost completely unresponsive to pilot commands. Their saving grace had been Hangman's quick thinking to point them towards a clearing in the tree line, and her decision to dump their fuel as they descended rapidly toward the ground. Flying too low to eject safely they braced themselves for impact, an apology for something he could not have stopped on Jake's lips.

The sounds of alarms and rapid beeping tones woke them. The smell of burning jet fuel startled them into action again. Jake's head stayed lulled forward his eyes slipping shut again before his limbs burst into action with a level of urgency that forced her to react with equal fervour. She watched wide-eyed as Hangman pushed open the canopy pulling himself up and out of his seat, rolling sideways out the opening. Only in watching his exit did she notice the awkward angle the jet had landed at. The nose crumpled by the force of the impact, their wings clipped and lost somewhere in the trees or across the clearing; the body had slid half on its side, a couple hundred feet through revealing mud beneath and leaving a wake of burning grass melting through the powder white snow. A sharp pain threatened to make her lose her breakfast as she clambered from her seat and the tangle of buckles and straps that had saved her life. She tumbled with purpose but little grace out into the frozen valley.

“Alright?” Hangman asked standing with his back straight as she doubled over trying hard to catch her breath. She nodded but he didn't make any effort to speak or move giving her a moment to collect herself.

Sucking in the ice-cold air she ignored the searing pain tearing through her rib cage. Her attention drifted from herself back to Jake who swayed on his feet, the soft crunch of snow sounding beneath his feet as he tried to find a place to stand steady. Watching him pale she only grew more convinced Jake was concussed.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Dizzy for sure”.

“Well, we'll thank our lucky stars we crashed in allied territory. Once we find shelter, I'll run a concussion protocol for you.”

Their non-functioning radios had left them no way to communicate their mayday calls. They had tried in vain to transmit their approximate coordinates as their headsets filled with static. Their navigation system ran haywire, the coordinates too impossible to be accurate in any case.

His brows furrowed as he turned to survey their crash sight. His usually bright smile had been pulled into a firm line that confirmed to her they'd be stranded for a while.

A gust of wind reminded them of how exposed they were in the clearing. While enemy scouts wouldn't be an issue, the potential for hypothermia would be.

“Map. Compass. Let's grab the chutes from the seats as well,” she suggested. Hangman was uncharacteristically quiet in his agreement, giving her a nod of affirmation as they collected what they could from the jet.

The sun was still high in the sky above them providing decent light though filtered through bare branches and evergreen limbs. Somewhat guarded from the biting wind they allowed themselves to settle for a moment hoping to find their bearings and build a solid plan for their survival.

Before they began to plummet they had been about a quarter of an hour's flight from the air base on the other side of the valley. Plotting their estimated crash site on the paper map they found themselves nearly 250 miles away from their destination, walking sun up to sun down would still mean a 2-and-a-half day walk.

“Look alive sunshine,” she teased as Jake's eyes began to droop. He'd let out a laugh his smile surprisingly bright as he tilted his head back to look at her. “You're so bossy,” he complained.

“I'm about to get bossier, I've got to make sure you don't have a concussion”.

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted.

“Don't sass me Seresin,” she warned, though she tried to keep the tone playful.

For years they'd played this game; pushing each other's buttons skirting around the edges of flirtation and toeing the line of verbal bullying. Ribbing him was how she had learned to be affectionate towards him. Giving him a hard time made him flustered, or it made him laugh, and either reaction was a well-welcomed sight that had left a fluttering in her chest. The lighthearted back and forth they'd learned to communicate through made it easier to ignore the sidelong glances, and yearning that had begun to take shape beneath the surface.

“Alright,” she sighed, pulling the tiny flashlight out of her belt, “eyes on me”.

“They usually are,” he smirked.

With the light, she checked his eyes and got promising results: no abnormal dilation. Both pupils were even and responsive to light. “Today's date?” She asked him.

“February twelfth”.

“Your date of birth?”

“October twenty-first. Nineteen ninety”.

“Any headache, nausea, persistent dizziness?”

He responded no to all the symptoms and she allowed some relief to fill her knowing the initial symptoms had dissipated and not worsened. Finally, she held one finger up waiting for his eyes to focus. “Follow me,” she said her hand moving to the left, his eyes followed.

“I'll follow you anywhere,” he said as her hand moved to the right.

“Don't flirt with me, Hangman”.

“Wouldn't it be stranger if I didn't? I’m just proving I’m not concussed”. His point was somewhat valid but she didn't let him know she thought so, continuing her evaluation in silence.

He's like this with everyone. She'd been telling herself the same thing for years. You're not special. He'll flirt with anyone. A painful truth that's helped her ignore his beautiful green eyes and warm countenance.

---

Laying on her back in the snow drawing her last breaths now she wishes she could see those eyes one more time as her vision begins to blur. The blue sky swirls into the emerald pines, the colours lightened by the soft sunlight. The colours like sea glass make her think of him and tears begin to gather behind her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she wants to say but only a pathetic whimper leaves her. She wonders if she would have been kinder to him if she had known she was going to die. Would she have been more honest with her feelings? Or pushed them down deeper in some foolish attempt to protect him? The sun continues to rise and she knows he will wake soon. Selfishly, she hopes she’s drifted off before then, unwilling to see him hurting on her behalf.

---

“Not concussed, but still a pain in my ass,” she had teased him, pushing his hair off his forehead, double-checking for any wounds. He took her words as permission to keep moving. Each of them threw a parachute pack over their shoulders and continued their walk northeast through the woods.

By 1900 hours the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon, and the sky above turned a deep blue dotted by tiny spangling stars. Breathtaking and brilliant it had been easy to forget, just for a moment, where they were. She slung the chute of her shoulders towards the ground hissing at the movement. She hadn't had the time to check herself over. Best case her ribs were bruised, at worst she'd find out they were broken, and there would be nothing to help her until they had access to a medical bay anyway.

“Are you sure you're okay, Angel?” Hangman asked, using her call sign letting her know he meant business. He was not asking as a friend, he was asking as her teammate.

“Yes,” she lied. The pain was tolerable, only worsening with sharp or sudden movement. Nothing she couldn't handle, and nothing she would force Jake to worry about.

“Are you sure? I wouldn't be opposed to stripping you down to check for injuries,” his flirtations softened the conversation in an attempt to get her to tell him the truth.

“In your dreams,” she responded instead, moving along the base of a nearby tree in hopes of gathering some firewood and kindling.

“Quite frequently, actually,” the wink he shot her way repeats in her head even now piercing through the fourth wall of the masquerade they had built, an honest and boyish confirmation that their feelings for each other were something beyond friendship.

The plethora of fresh fallen snow meant finding water wasn't an issue of concern. Finding food would be more difficult and that first night under the stars they sat watching the flickering flames of the fire they had built, their empty stomachs rumbling with nothing to fill them.

Stretched between two trees, one of the parachutes they liberated from their wreck was used as a windscreen, protecting them from the cold. The second one lay draped around their shoulders as an extra layer.

Proximity wasn't an issue for them. They had spent enough time in cramped cockpits together to be familiar with the sounds of each other breathing. They had sat shoulder to shoulder in briefings enough time that she had memorized the smell of his cologne. And yet, when he put his arm around her to pull her closer in their makeshift cocoon her heart stuttered. How could his hands be so strong when her own wouldn't stop shaking? How could a simple touch warm her from the inside out? His fingers brushed along her side with no real pressure, but still prompted a gasp to escape her. Tears left glass trails on her cheeks in the firelight.

She tried to turn away from him, to feign sleep but he wouldn't have it. “Hey,” Jake caught her attention, waiting for her to look at him before he continued, “We're going to be okay”.

She believed him.

---

Everything about their uniforms has been painstakingly designed to keep them safe. 100% cotton undershirts and pants because the material won't melt to their skin in the event of a cockpit fire. But the surprisingly soft base layers have never stopped the blaze burning inside her. From the moment she laid eyes on Jake Seresin she knew he'd be the beginning and the end of everything. He pushed people away with his cocky attitude, somehow convinced that his refusal to be vulnerable would keep him safe from forming meaningful bonds; that he might get further ahead if he had fewer people to let down. But, he'd let her in. He'd let her break down his walls and climb over the fences he'd tried to put up. She'd held him when he got the news his father had died. On a ship thousands of miles from his home he'd told her about his brother dying when he was a child, and growing up in his shadow. He told her how badly he wanted to make his parents proud and how lonely he had made himself in the process. He'd kissed her forehead as they parted that night, and her world changed forever.

What had been an embarrassing schoolgirl crush she couldn’t shake had become a push-and-pull relationship neither of them could do without. She knew how to put him in his place when he took a joke too far. He knew how to goad her into showing everyone what she was capable of, refusing to let her slip into the background when he knew she deserved more.

Two sides of the same coin, they were joined a the hip; partners in every way but the romantic. The words “I love you,” had passed between them many times, but neither of them had been brave enough to say, “I’m in love with you”. She wishes she would have said it. Lying at death’s door she remembers being told that you often regret the things you haven’t done more than you regret the things you did. “I’m in love with you, Jake Seresin,” she whispers to the wind.

---

Their second day of walking was far more painful than the first. Jake had startled himself awake, his eyes wild as he fought to remember where it was they had ended up. The acceptance of their reality hadn't seemed to comfort him and he grew uncharacteristically quiet as they packed up their makeshift camp. The pine trees towering above them had been kind enough to shed some of their cones while they had lay sleeping in shifts. Though they hadn't offered many, they were able to harvest a handful of pine nuts between the two of them for breakfast. It was nowhere near a meal, but the snack had managed to quiet their angry stomachs for a few minutes.

The ache in her side had grown to become a constant agony. What had started as a negligible strain was now a torment that threatened to collapse her with each footfall. Despite the subzero temperatures, a sweat had broken out across her brow, and the heat spreading up the back of her neck left her wanting to strip off her cold weather jacket and flight suit.

“Have you ever had rabbit?” Jake asked around noon. His footsteps had slowed enough for her to catch up with him. His voice had startled her after all the silence.

“I can't say that I have,” she answered. A gunshot pulled her from her thoughts and she realized she hadn't ever answered out loud. Jake stood a few feet ahead of her, his service pistol in his hand. The world around her was spinning. The trees blurring together as a sudden wave of nausea filled her. She could hear her name being called; muffled and distorted. Jake. His face soon filled her line of vision.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he told her, but her mind still struggled to put the pieces together. For a moment it felt like she was underwater, all her breath gone from her lungs and all she could feel was the scalding pain burning from the inside out. Momentarily she entertained the idea that it was her who had been shot until she spotted the rabbit lying lifeless in the snow.

“We need to eat,” Jake spoke again, “you're going quiet on me and I don't like that-- we’ll get some energy in you again before we keep moving”.

The very idea of eating anything threatened to leave her dry-heaving, but she took advantage of the moment to rest. He didn't mention her lack of assistance building a fire or preparing the rabbit, but she watched with incredible focus his hands moving with precision and surprising gentleness for the task at hand.

She can recall him telling her stories about his childhood, standing on step stools to reach the countertop in his mother's kitchen rolling out pie crusts and later on slicing apples. He once told her that it was his mother who had taught him patience and gratitude while they baked together; two traits he had neglected to exhibit far too often in his adult life.

She listened to him thank the rabbit for its life as he cut away pieces to feed to her. There was an unmistakable love in the way he moved, his eyes cast over his shoulder to check on her. Slowly, she realized that she was not doing a good job hiding her suffering. In a fleeting thought, she imagined Jake having to carry her lifeless body for the rest of their journey. In their line of work, it had never been considered morbid to have funeral plans from a young age. Flying with him for years she had learned to trust him implicitly, despite the call sign he'd earned and worked tirelessly to recover from she knew early on that he'd do right by her. Challenging authority, but always following the rules; complete and unwavering dedication to whatever task he had at hand; precision and perfection in the execution of his duties be it laundry or taking down a fighter jet midair. As her energy continued to leave her she took comfort in knowing her life would be in Hangman's hands.

“I'm not hungry,” she said to him.

“You need to eat,” he insisted again but didn't push any farther. With a longanimity he forgot he possessed, and a magnanimity he couldn't credit himself for carrying he cared for her; making the executive decision to make camp early as her seemingly catatonic state worsened. She managed to chew and swallow bites of the gamey meat, her body grateful for the nutrition.

Night fell too soon after and the sound of the wind in the trees and the rustle of creatures that may have been lurking left both of them far more on edge than they had been the night before.

“Scoot closer,” she whispered to him, and he complied without complaint. Neither of them was warm, but their proximity to the fire helped them imagine they could be. His shoulder bumped hers and she leaned her head against him. “Put your arm around me?” She asked. He complied again this time with more hesitation.

“You know if you wanted to snuggle with me you could've just said so,” he teased though she could tell his heart wasn't in it.

“I'm scared,” she confessed, a half-truth. She was terrified, feeling her heart rate starting to slow by the minute, her vision slipping in and out of focus.

“We're going to make it home,” he whispered, both arms wrapped around her now, his lips pressed to her hairline. Tears blurred in her eyes and she gave up fighting back a sob, body shaking and heartbreaking. “I won't let anything happen to you,” he said so sincerely. She cried harder knowing she had already broken that promise for him.

She had realized she'd lost feeling in her fingers and toes when he'd begun to trace shapes on her back. Her digits buzzed with needles and pins and her limbs had began to feel heavy. Bile rose in her throat choking her as she scrambled to get her distance before dinner made a reappearance. Jake didn't make a fuss, or make his worry known, but she could tell that her perturbation had begun to seep beneath his calm, cool, mien. His hand shook as he rubbed her back hoping her coughing fit might free her off the anxiety and discomfort that had overtaken her.

She can remember almost every time Jake Seresin has touched her. The memories float suspended in golden warmth, kept safe from the things theyve done, and the things they’ve seen. She holds those moments of fleeting, passing goodness, near to her heart. The smallest reminders that Hangman has a heart; and it’s full of love to give, and on some occasions, she has allowed herself to believe she could be worthy of that love.

He used to sit beside her in the mess hall no matter how many seats were available; his broad shoulders bumping her own, his elbow knocking at her ribs, their hands brushing as he slid his mashed potatoes onto her plate and she slid her green beans onto his. Silent and symbiotic in their bond, determined to look out for one another.

The first New Year's Eve they were able to spend together off base was spent with as many friends as possible and too much liquor to handle. Neither of them got a midnight kiss because she was spilling her guts in the alleyway behind the bar, Jake by her side saying “I told you not to do shots after drinking a glass of wine”. But his satisfied smirk was overshadowed by the genuine concern in his eyes and the steady warm hand he'd placed on her back. “There you go, you'll feel better once you get it all out”. He was drunk himself, his words half slurred but no less encouraging. She had thought then that he was seeing her at her worst. She knows now that she was wrong.

By some miracle they had been deployed together more often than not. At first it was pure coincidence, but over time it became clear that together they were a dynamic duo with a combined force and efficiency they're commanding officers could not deny, and were often interested in capitalizing on. They had become two halves of a whole, a packaged pair anyone would be disinclined to separate. Still, they had not been permitted to bunk together, and neither of them had ever been interested in breaking the rules of the institution so they never pushed it. But on nights when the creaks and groans of the 900,000 pound ship kept her awake, and the rocking of the waves around them was too much to ignore she knew she'd be able to find him lurking around the corridors as well.

“I couldn't sleep,” she'd say. “Me neither,” he'd respond. Sometimes, when the world felt too heavy on his shoulders and they'd been away from home for too long they'd find their way to the floor together, his back pressed to hers, their arms circling their knees, and he'd sync his breathing to hers convincing himself that so long as she was their he had some piece of his real life with him. A part of Jake Seresin that wasn't just a pawn in battles bigger than him, he was a man with thoughts and feelings, and dreams outside of his role worth achieving.

---

This is as good a place to die as any, she thinks.

The parachute that isn't being used to block the wind is still draped over the two of them and she hopes it keeps Jake warm until he wakes. His walk to the base will take him longer now dragging her weight behind him, he'll need his sleep.

She lets the sound of the wind lull her and she finds that she's not afraid anymore. Just sad; angry even; but not afraid. Her pain is excruciating, and she’s honestly welcoming the relief of a permanent slumber. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. The wind gusts come steadily, growing louder and ever closer.

Jake stirs beneath her, sitting up her head falling to his lap. “Well would you look at that! No more walking for us,” he grins. Her eyes have shut but she can hear it in his voice, the boy like wonder bursting the surface. “Angel, wake up,” he shakes her shoulder. The joy that had filled him moments ago has been replaced with a more serious tone, “they sent a chopper for us, honey,” he says, shaking her again, “you've gotta get up,” he pleads with her, but she cannot answer him. His hand is surprisingly warm on the side of her face, and the world goes dark and silent.

Death is softer than she expected. It's dark still, but her head is resting on something plush, and there's a feel of woven fabric at her fingertips, it reminds her of the blanket Jake's mom had sent to her last Christmas. Her back and her legs feel stiff and she makes no attempt to move them uninterested in exploring this darken world she's found herself in. Her ribs ache but far less than they did back in the snow, the pinch she feels with each breath is like an echoed sound, a pallid reminder of her last moments.

There's a humming; a mellifluous tune. It drifts in and out, bookended by murmuring she cannot decipher. Come back to me. The words become clear. Angel. Guilt fills her, petulant and helpless as emotion overwhelms her. She wants to move towards the voice, to apologize for leaving but she's not sure she can. I need you honey.

Jake. Oh, it's so clear now. Jake.

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” Jake's hands brace her shoulder, and just above her knee willing her to stop flailing her panicked limbs. Her eyes shoot open to meet his; golden green and brimming with tears she wishes she had the strength to stop. The insistent beeping that had filled the room quiets as she relaxes back into the pillows.

The Navy infirmary isn't anything fancy, but it's far more comfortable than the nights she spent with her back up against the bark of a tree. She has so many questions but they fade out of her mind as quickly as they spark in. Blips of clarity overriden by the need to speak to Jake who is looking at her with more wonder than she's even seen. The man has seen the world from 40,000 feet but he's looking at her like she hung his stars in the sky.

“Jake,” she manages.

“Yeah, Angel”.

Her throat feels like sandpaper, her voice scratchy and raw with disuse, but she fights through it,

“I'm in love with you,” she says, sucking in a breath that makes her cough. Her lungs feel like they're on fire and she works desperately to inhale and exhale as the ache in her side is reawaken.

Jake offers her water that manages to swallow down, and when she takes a few shaky breaths without wincing, he sets the paper cup aside.

She gives him a gentle nod, refusing to meet his gaze. He doesn't let it slide, his forefinger tilting her chin up so she can't hide from him. She envies his confidence, his ability to simplify a scenario.

“I'm in love with you,” he tells her too.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun hangman #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman fic #jake seresin fic

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heesngirl · 3 months ago

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Synopsis : In a city where luxury and danger coexist behind shiny facades, The Sentinel introduces Lee Heeseung, a tactical agent whose life revolves around vigilance, precision and a single priority: protecting the person most important to him. The story kicks off in the midst of a mission that, while seemingly routine, soon reveals itself to be part of something bigger, more tangled and much more personal. Between covert threats, tensions within the team, miscalculations and a briefcase that could change everything, Heeseung faces not only operational risks, but also his own emotional limits. With a narrative that oscillates between suspense, action and a deep bond that is unnamed but felt on every scene, this story marks the beginning of something far more complex than a simple operation: a silent war between the professional and the personal.

Warning : EA/BDG Heeseung x Painter reader. dom! Heeseung, pet names, loss of virginity, oral sex (both), fingering, P in V, unprotected sex, cumshot, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, smut, mdni.

Count : 26k (Part. 1)

The icy wind was a constant on the rooftop, cutting like blades as it engulfed the men in their positions. From that vantage point, Seoul stretched out like a mosaic of moving lights, a potentially hostile terrain under the team's meticulous gaze. Heeseung remained motionless, his body in controlled tension as he scanned the target building through the scope of his sniper rifle.

The communicator frequency remained static for a second before Jake broke the silence.

— System operating stable. CCTV cameras are under control. But, if you ask me, the guy in the orange tie is still my prime suspect, if only for the visual attack. — Sim spoke, even wanting to add some humor to lighten the tension.

— Focus your resources, Jake — Heeseung replied in a low but firm voice. He turned his body slightly, adjusting his rifle to compensate for a wind current that had changed direction. The scope's laser remained fixed on one of the building's upper-level windows. — Prioritize the VIP area where Jongseong is. The threat is more likely concentrated there.

A few meters away, Sunghoon leaned against the edge of the building, his rifle mounted on a tripod for stability.

— Maybe we should start with him. Although the crime here is probably bad taste. — Sunghoon added, following the Australian's lead.

However, Heeseung didn't take his eyes off the scope.

— Sunghoon, focus. South window, level five. Do you see any movement? — Lee's demands made it clear he wasn't in the mood for jokes right now.

Sunghoon adjusted his scope, scanning the indicated area with precision.

_ Negative. Only the service team. Movement patterns match previous reports. No anomalies.

Jake chimed in again, the sound of his fingers typing almost as steady as his voice.

— Section B, levels three and four, checked. No signs of hostile activity. By the way, Chief, how do you feel knowing your lady is under the protection of a rookie?

Heeseung's silence lasted a moment, but it was long enough for Sunghoon to click his tongue softly.

— Come on, Jake. Don't push him. We know he hates delegating his personal security. It's like someone else is carrying his favorite weapon.

Jake chuckled before continuing.

— Favorite weapon? I'd say it's his entire arsenal. Although, Heeseung, I'm told the new bodyguard looks better than you in a suit. I'd start to worry. You could be out of a job.

The sound of Heeseung's lips tightening was almost audible over the line. He adjusted his position, recalibrating the rifle to ensure the wind wouldn't affect the shot's trajectory if necessary.

— Jake, if you keep talking, you'll be my next target.

The communicator filled with muffled laughter until Jongseong's voice cut in earnestly.

— Shut up and keep the channel clear. I'm surrounded by people who would pay to make me disappear, and their chatter isn't helping my concentration.

— Situation report, Jongseong. — Heeseung ordered, returning to his authoritative tone.

— Everything seems calm. Standard behavior pattern. Although there are a couple of guests with unusually calculated movements. They're in the northwest corner of the main hall. However, it could be paranoia. — Jongseong replied, a faint echo of tension in his voice.

— Paranoia is useful. Mark their location and maintain visual distance. — Heeseung indicated, activating his targeting laser and focusing it on the room. The intersection between what he saw in his visor and Jake's heat map gave him complete coverage of the area.

Jake cleared his throat, capturing everyone's attention before speaking.

— I'm setting up a facial recognition scan. Give me a minute.

— You don't have a minute, Heeseung replied with a snarl. He quickly scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of an approaching drone or hostile equipment. — Speed, Jake.

—I've got it, I've got it — Jake began rattling off information. — Man one: Japanese businessman, no suspicious record. Man two: Chinese businessman, history of money laundering, but nothing linking him to terrorist activity.

— Monitor them closely, Heeseung ordered.

Sunghoon raised his head slightly at Lee, his tone heavy with skepticism.

— Are we sure this mission isn't a waste of time?

Heeseung glared at him before answering.

— It's on these "quiet" missions that things tend to go to hell. Stay alert.

The channel returned to silence, except for the soft whirring of electronic equipment and the echo of the wind against the buildings. Heeseung couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. His training had taught that calm was never a good omen.

— Jake, any anomalies in the thermal readings? — he finally asked.

— Negative. Everything is within normal parameters. — Jake replied. His tone, though relaxed, had a slight tremor.

— Something's off... — Heeseung muttered to himself, but his team heard it anyway.

Sunghoon adjusted his posture, straightening slightly.

— Do you have a bad feeling?

— I always do. — Heeseung inhaled deeply, his fingers brushing the rifle's trigger out of sheer habit. It wasn't paranoia, not after so many years in the field. Things were never that simple.

The clock in his mind kept ticking every second. It wasn't just the time spent on the mission. It was the time that kept him away from you.

— Get ready. This isn't going to stay quiet much longer.

The sound of the wind against the building's facade was barely audible through the insulation of the headphones. However, for Heeseung, every detail in the environment was like a silent warning: something was out of place. From his position on the rooftop, the view of the city stretched out like a tapestry of flashing lights, but his attention was fixed on a critical point, a space between the shadows where the pieces on the board began to move.

Jake's voice broke into the channel with an urgency that left no room for doubt:

— Chief, we have activity on the 15th floor. A subject has entered the service area. He's carrying something bulky it looks like a briefcase, but it doesn't fit the standard profile. Metallic material visible around the edges.

Heeseung adjusted the scope of his rifle, the thermal imager highlighting the suspect's silhouette through the building's tinted glass.

— How bulky? It details the movement."

Jake responded instantly, his fingers tapping the keyboard in an almost mechanical rhythm as he processed the data from the monitoring system.

— About 70 centimeters per side, maybe more. He's using both hands to carry it, though the movement is fluid. It doesn't seem heavy, but it's not light either. He entered through corridor 15-B, access restricted according to the plans."

— Behavior pattern? — Heeseung asked, memorizing the coordinates.

— Direct. No hesitation. This guy knows exactly where he's going, — Jake said, his tone now deeper. — He has backup: two subjects in the approach area. They're about 10 meters behind, covering possible entry points.

Before Heeseung could issue an order, Jongseong's voice entered the channel. His tone had an unusual edge of tension.

— I need backup. The two suspects I identified in the VIP area are moving. They're approaching my location. They're not patrolling, boss, they're looking for something... or someone.

The air grew heavier, charged with a palpable threat that vibrated in the frequency of their voices. Heeseung took a deep breath, letting the cold logic of years of training drown out any emotional distractions.

— Jake, continue monitoring the primary target. Sunghoon, maintain cover in the corridor. We can't let these guys act unchallenged. I'm going in. — Heeseung declared, as he began securing the descent harness.

Sunghoon looked up from his visor, though he kept a firm hand on the sniper rifle.

— Just you? — he asked, though he already knew the answer.

— Your position is critical. If anything gets out of hand, I need you to eliminate any threat before it crosses the line.

Sunghoon nodded, returning his attention to the telescopic sight. His tone was calm, but with a hint of concern.

— Understood. Just make sure you don't give them a clear angle

The rappelling gear was cold to the touch as Heeseung adjusted it with meticulous movements. Every buckle, every knot had to be perfect; there was no room for error. Jake, meanwhile, continued feeding the channel with data.

— The target has entered a room not recorded on the official plans. Access is direct from the main corridor. He's manipulating something on the door... Probably an electromagnetic decoder. This guy is no amateur.

— Estimated time to opening? — Heeseung asked, as he secured the rope to the main anchor.

— Depends on the model, but if it's what I think, less than two minutes."

Heeseung cursed under his breath. Time was a resource they didn't have. He glanced at Sunghoon one last time before crossing the edge of the rooftop.

— Cover the area. If anything moves toward the target, neutralize it.

The descent began with a firm tug on the rope. Every meter he fell brought him closer to the heart of the problem, and every second counted like a heartbeat in a countdown he couldn't afford to miss. From above, Sunghoon followed his movements, his rifle adjusted to keep his sights on any emerging threat.

— Jake, give me an update. — Heeseung asked, as he maneuvered to avoid the ventos. The most exposed ends.

— Two side entrances are blocked. The other two suspects are covering the apartment's main exits. Chief, I don't like how this is setting up. It looks like a coordinated move."

— It is," Heeseung replied, his voice as cold as his gaze. He knew an ambush when he saw one.

Finally, his boots made contact with the windowsill. With swift movements, he cut the rope and secured his weapon. The apartment's interior was dark, lit only by the occasional flicker of emergency lights.

— I'm in. Jake, lead the way.

The hum of the electromagnetic decoder echoed around the room like a silent countdown. Heeseung stood by the entrance, his back pressed against the wall, his gaze fixed on the dim lighting that filtered through the crack in the door. His right hand adjusted his grip on the rifle while his left brushed against the knife secured to his thigh. He still didn't know exactly how many enemies were inside, but he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

— Jake, tell me what's behind that door. — he whispered in a subdued voice, his tone tense but still in control.

The sound of incessant typing filled the earpiece before the answer came quickly.

— Two confirmed hostiles. One is manipulating the decoder, the other is covering the door with a weapon. You have about fifteen seconds before it opens.

Heeseung exhaled through his nose, trying to gauge the time with his own breath. He couldn't allow the lock to give way.

— Escape routes?

— The only viable exit is the hallway leading to the service area. But if these guys are here, it's because they have backup on the perimeter. — Sim explained, still typing tirelessly.

Heeseung didn't need any more information. In a single motion, he unclipped a stun grenade from his belt, activated it with a quick twist of the safety catch, and threw it through the crack in the door just as the decoder emitted a final beep.

The blinding flash lit up the room like a flash of lightning, accompanied by a sharp crack that reverberated off the walls. The muffled screams of the enemy confirmed that the blow had worked. He wasted no time. With a firm kick, he knocked down the door and entered, his rifle braced against his shoulder, his eyes already adjusting to the dim lighting.

One of the enemy members staggered, both hands going to his face in an instinctive attempt to regain vision, while the other, still shaken by the blast, tried to raise his weapon. Heeseung didn't give him a chance. He fired a single, accurate shot at the torso, watching the body fall heavily to the floor with nothing more than a ragged gasp.

The second man tried to react upon hearing the shot, but Heeseung moved faster. He crossed the distance in a couple of strides, grabbed him by the jacket, and slammed him violently against the wall, pinning him down with his forearm pressing against his windpipe.

— What's in the briefcase?" he whispered coldly, watching the man struggle in his grasp, his expression tinged with confusion and rage.

The enemy let out a stifled gasp, trying to catch his breath, but instead of responding, he let out a hoarse laugh, an exhalation laced with mockery.

— It's too late."

The radio in his ear emitted a sudden crack before Jake's voice cut in alarmingly.

— Heeseung, we have a problem! I've lost the corridor's signal for seventeen seconds, and now there's a third hostile moving toward the VIP area. It's fast. This is a coordinated movement.

Heeseung's grip tightened for a moment before he released his hold on the enemy, dropping him unceremoniously to the floor. He spun around and hurried out into the hallway, his mind already processing the best way to intercept the threat before it reached Jongseong.

The warm lights of the room, the clinking of glasses, and the cadence of carefree conversation seemed too perfect a setting for the latent tension in the air. Jongseong stood by the table, his expression calm and his posture relaxed, but his gaze was fixed on the two men slowly closing the distance between them.

His hand turned the glass between his fingers with a nonchalant air, as if he didn't sense the presence of the two strangers strategically positioning themselves around him. But he felt it. He knew it.

— I don't like the way they're moving. — he whispered casually, his tone low enough for his communicator to pick up the words without alerting those around him.

— Stay where you are. I'm on my way. — Heeseung's reply came instantly, firm but restrained. Jongseong didn't react; there was no need to.

One of the men finally reached him and raised his glass with a calculated smile, as if it were a simple courtesy.

— Mr. Park, it's good to see you enjoying the evening. —The way he articulated each word left no room for doubt. This wasn't casual conversation.

Jongseong maintained his neutral expression, bringing the glass to his lips before responding with feigned calm.

— I put too much effort into my attire not to. — he murmured lightly, without taking his eyes off the liquid in his glass.

The man inclined his head slightly, his smile barely perceptible.

— Confidence is a dangerous weapon. Sometimes, one small slip of the tongue is enough to make everything fall apart. — the same man pronounced with a certain mysticism. Before Jongseong could reply, the side door of the lounge opened with a loud bang.

The murmur of the guests instantly dissipated, turning into shouts and panicked runs as soon as Heeseung's figure appeared in the doorway, his gait measured but lethal. His gaze scanned the scene with the precision of a predator analyzing its territory, identifying each threat in a matter of seconds.

The first man, still next to Jongseong, slid his hand inside his jacket in an attempt to reach his weapon. He didn't have time to react.

Heeseung crossed the distance in two strides, caught his wrist before he could draw his weapon, and, with a sharp, controlled twist, dislocated his arm with a sickening crunch. Before he could scream, he slammed it against the nearest table, knocking over glasses and plates in a shower of broken glass.

The second man barely managed to take a step back before Jongseong slightly tilted his wrist and spilled the contents of his glass over his face. The reaction was immediate. The burning of the alcohol in his eyes made the man swear, bringing both hands to his face in a reflex action.

It was enough. Heeseung took advantage of the distraction and kicked him in the knee, knocking him face down before immobilizing him with the barrel of his gun pressed against the base of his skull.

— Don't let it show that you're desperate to end this. — Jongseong joked to Heeseung, but he only gave him an indecipherable look before simply going to inspect the area.

The chaos of the operation still permeated the air when the team finally left the building, blending in with the sound of sirens wailing in the distance and the flashing lights of patrol cars illuminating the scene with red and blue flashes. Outside, the criminals were subdued and escorted to special forces vehicles, while the guests were guided to a secure area. The security protocol was deployed with mechanical precision, each unit fulfilling its function efficiently.

Jake, arms crossed and a look of pride that was hard to hide, watched the scene with an air of self-sufficiency before blurting out with obvious satisfaction:

— Well, once again, everything was solved thanks to my impeccable skills. I don't want to say I'm the best, but... well, I really am. — This was typical of him; he was almost always heard saying the same thing at the end of a mission.

Jongseong, who until that moment had only watched silently, slowly turned his head toward him with an arched eyebrow. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and suppressed mockery.

— Your impeccable skills? — he repeated sarcastically, tilting his head in feigned interest. — You mean the part where you claimed the briefcase contained a bomb ready to blow the building to smithereens?

Jake frowned instantly, his smug smile fading a little.

— Yeah, so what? — he retorted defensively, abandoning his previous stance. Jongseong snorted and shook his head before crossing his arms.

— That what was in the briefcase wasn't a bomb — He paused deliberately, savoring the moment before shrugging. — They were containers of a yet-to-be-identified chemical.

Jake blinked, the confidence on his face turning into disbelief.

— No, that's impossible. — the Australian persistently defended himself.

— I'm not saying that. The chemical response team is. — Jongseong gave an amused smile before pointing toward the area where the hazardous materials specialists were handling the contents of the briefcase with safety equipment.

Jake opened his mouth to protest, but couldn't find the words immediately. His expression went from disbelief to frustration in a matter of seconds.

— No... It can't be. The thermal readings and electronic signatures matched those of a high-impact bomb! — Exasperation filled him; he clearly didn't like being wrong, especially when it came to something so important.

— Well, I guess someone made a mistake in their 'flawless analysis.' — Jongseong gave a short, mocking laugh before patting him on the shoulder with mock sympathy.

Jake, clearly offended, turned his head to Heeseung for support, hoping his leader would intervene and back him up. Heeseung was practically his puppet for a while.

— Heeseung, tell them this isn't making any sense. I didn't make a mistake, right? — but the answer never came. Jongseong, noticing the sudden silence, also turned his head in Heeseung's direction, only to be met with… nothing.

—Where the hell is he?—Jongseong muttered, frowning as he scanned the area for Lee.

Jake spun around, looking around with the same expression as someone who had just lost something they were holding a few seconds ago.

— Don't fuck with me… He was here two minutes ago. —Jake assures, continuing to scan the room, but to no avail.

The two exchanged a puzzled look before turning to Sunghoon, who stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression utterly indifferent to the situation.

— Sunghoon, where's Heeseung? — Jongseong called, frowning. But the sniper barely blinked before shrugging, not bothering to show surprise.

— He left as soon as we left the building. — he replied, looking as unfazed as ever.

Jake blinked a few times, clearly unsure whether to laugh or get angry. Jongseong, for his part, ran a hand over his face in exasperation before slowly shaking his head.

Sim, still processing his leader's sudden disappearance, snorted in resignation before blurting out, with a mixture of frustration and amusement : — No doubt... the agent and bodyguard of the year."

And even though it was all over, the feeling that this was just the beginning of something bigger lingered in the air.

The roar of the engine mingled with the night air as the car sped through the streets with almost inhuman precision. Heeseung kept one hand firmly on the wheel, while the other busied himself with disposing of his gear. His bulletproof vest was the first to come off, its weight falling into the backseat with a thud. Without taking his eyes off the road, he hooked his earphones with his index finger and thumb, pulling them off with a sharp motion before dropping them next to his gun on the passenger seat.

Every action was executed with the same precision he had demonstrated moments earlier in the operation. The way he undid the straps of his gear, the way his movements were quick but controlled, spoke of a man accustomed to moving under pressure. But this time it wasn't a chase; there was no enemy on his heels, no threat forcing him to run. His urgency was different, much more visceral.

The speed he was driving was dangerous for anyone without his level of driving skill, but he didn't brake, didn't hesitate even once as he took the turns with a fluidity that defied traffic laws. His gaze was fixed on the road, dark and deserted at this hour, but in his mind, his destination was already clear. He had only one priority.

The car stopped precisely in front of the illuminated building where the event was taking place. The elegant lights decorating the entrance contrasted with the darkness of the night, reflecting off the windshield like intermittent flashes that Heeseung completely ignored. His mind was no longer on the mission he had just completed, nor on the criminals being brought to justice. No, his focus was solely on what was in front of him.

Without wasting a single second, he leaned into the seat and, with practical and precise movements, began to remove the last traces of the operation. He unbuttoned his tactical shirt and slipped his operational uniform jacket over his shoulders, letting it fall into the backseat. His breathing was still controlled, though there was a different urgency in its rhythm than it had been a few minutes ago. It wasn't the stress of combat, nor the tension of a confrontation. It was the need to reclaim his place.

With steady fingers, he took the black silk tie he'd left ready before the mission, knotted it quickly, and tightened it with a sharp tug. His suit jacket was next, sliding over his shoulders with ease, fitting his body as if it had always been there. Finally, with the same meticulous efficiency, he unbuckled his belt and discarded his tactical uniform pants, leaving only the dress pants he wore underneath.

He had planned this from the beginning. No matter how chaotic the mission was or what unforeseen events arose along the way, he had been clear from the beginning that as soon as it was over, this would be his destination. Because there was no force that could make him delegate his task to someone else and feel comfortable doing so.

He wouldn't trust another to protect you. He wasn't going to leave your safety in the hands of a replacement who, in his eyes, would be nothing more than an incompetent, incapable of providing you with the care, protection, and service that only he could offer. Because protecting you was not only his duty, but his right.

He fastened his wristwatch and ran his fingers through his hair, arranging it with the same precision with which he secured a weapon before entering combat. Then, he took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the event. He had wasted enough time, and now, he would resume his position.

As he walked through the doors of the event, he immediately felt the change in atmosphere. Everything about the place radiated luxury and elegance. But what captured everyone's attention most wasn't the expensive outfits or the opulence of the place, but the majestic works that adorned the walls, each one with an air of grandeur that could only be attributed to its creator.

He paused for a moment, allowing himself to observe the paintings on display with a feeling that could only be described as pride. There they were, displayed in the way that best suited them, every stroke, every color reflecting the unmistakable essence of their creator. He knew how much this evening meant to you, how much you had worked for this moment, and although he didn't usually stop to appreciate art with the same intensity as the critics or collectors who murmured in fascination, in that moment, he felt something different. A deep satisfaction that led him to a slight smile.

But his time of admiration was brief. Soon, his focus shifted to what had truly brought him here. With the sharp eyes of someone trained to analyze their surroundings in a matter of seconds, he began to scan the crowd, searching among the faces, among the impeccable dresses and suits, and the golden reflections of the champagne in the glasses raised in a toast.

And then, he found you...

There you were, wrapped in the warm lighting of the hall, your cheeks flushed and an expression that, despite the slight cloudiness in your gaze, retained the same spark that always managed to ignite something inside him. You'd been drinking, there was no doubt about it. He knew well your poor resistance to alcohol, enough to know that that blush wasn't just a product of the festive atmosphere, but of the wine or champagne you'd surely been sipping for a while now.

Without hesitation, he closed the distance between himself and you, ignoring the crowd, the fleeting glances that fell on him when they recognized him, the murmur of other people's conversations that held little interest for him. His attention was fixed on one thing: you.

By the time he reached your side, his hand slid effortlessly to your waist, holding you with a certainty that left no room for hesitation. The feel of your satin dress against his palm was almost hypnotic, but he didn't allow himself to dwell on that detail. Just as confidently, he guided you away from the center of the event, leading you to a more secluded corner, away from prying eyes.

As soon as you had even the slightest shelter from the crowd, you felt the urge to pounce on him, without thinking, without hesitation. He caught you immediately, more by reflex than anything else, and the light laugh that escaped your lips as he steadied you resonated like a direct echo in his chest. His grip remained firm, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the way you leaned in without reservation, with the innocence and boldness of someone not completely sane. Something inside him contracted. Because he knew you. I knew the impeccable composure you usually maintained, the way, even in the most carefree moments, you never completely lost that aura of restraint and elegance. And yet, there you were, giving him a version of yourself you rarely allowed anyone to see.

— You took too long, — your voice sounded sweet, with that syrupy tinge that only alcohol could infuse your words. A slight pout appeared on your lips, as you looked at him with an expression that, if I weren't so used to reading your every nuance, I might have interpreted as genuine reproach. — I came to think I'd really have to spend the whole night escorted by that cheap replacement they assigned me in your absence.

The way you slid your gaze over his face, with those eyes of yours so expressive, so analytical even in the midst of your drunkenness, made his jaw tense slightly. And then you smiled. Not just any smile. A goofball, completely genuine, full of that warmth you rarely displayed with such transparency.

— Although, you know what? — you murmured, leaning a little closer to him, as if sharing a secret. — There's no comparison. You look so much better in a suit than that sad copy they tried to replace you with.

Your comment took him by surprise. Not because of the content itself, but because of the way you said it; without reservation, without any shame. For the first time all night, Heeseung felt a wave of satisfaction run through him, a warmth different from that of the mission, deeper, more personal.

Those words were a kind of relief. It wasn't that he doubted his place, or his role at your side, but Jake's mocking comment about that incompetent man they'd left in charge of your security had been on his mind more than he was willing to admit. Not because he was afraid of losing his job, but because, for the barest of moments, the idea that you might feel safer with someone else had been like a thorn in his side.

But now, with that declaration from you, spoken with complete honesty and without a hint of reserve, the thorn vanished completely. Of course, his job wasn't in jeopardy.

A crooked, barely perceptible smile touched his lips as he reached out and, with an instinctive gesture, brushed away a strand of your hair that had slipped over your cheek. His fingers brushed your skin with the lightness of a caress that wasn't entirely planned, but that he also made no attempt to avoid.

— How many drinks did you have to end up like this? — His tone was low, intimate, with a hint of amusement underlying it. As he asked the question, his thumb briefly brushed the curve of your cheekbone before casually dropping his hand.

Your eyelashes fluttered a couple of times before a satisfied, almost proud smile curved your lips.

— Five. — you said without hesitation, showing your open hand to emphasize the amount, with the confidence of someone who had just achieved a small personal triumph. Then you stared at him, waiting for his reaction. And when the laugh escaped his throat, deep and genuine, you knew you'd got it.

— Only five? — he repeated incredulously, gently shaking his head. — Not even I would feel anything with that amount.

But you weren't him. Your resistance was different, lower, something he'd always found fascinating. Because, in part, he liked seeing you like this, with your cheeks flushed, your eyes shining, and without the filters you usually wore under normal circumstances. He liked this version of you, looser, more transparent. More his.

From one second to the next, you sought more of him. Without warning, you closed the distance, tangling in his embrace with the same ease with which someone clings to something that comforts them. Your body molded to his easily, as if that were your place.

He gave in, because, fuck, how could he not? His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you against his chest a little more firmly, allowing you to feel the solidity of his presence, the warmth his body gave off. His other hand, still tangled in your hair, slowly descended to the curve of your back, guiding you with a gentleness that contrasted with how much he was enjoying having you so close.

— Princess... — his voice lowered a pitch, becoming deeper, more intimate. — Don't you think it's time to leave? Wouldn't you like to rest?

You pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes. And as soon as your pupils met his, there wasn't a second of hesitation in your answer.

— Get me out of here. I have nothing else to do in this place. All those people, the celebration... They've completely consumed me — you exhaled, with a hint of exhaustion you didn't try to hide. You paused for a moment, lightly biting your lip before continuing with the most honest confession of the evening. — The only thing I need now is to be with you. Without interruptions, without appearances to keep up.

He didn't wait any longer, nor did he need any other response. In a single movement, he swept you into his arms with insulting ease, as if you weighed absolutely nothing, as if carrying you like that was the most natural thing in the world.

And without further ado, he made his way through the crowd with firm, determined steps, ignoring any curious glances that might fall upon you. He didn't bother to notify the organizers, the staff, and much less your manager of your departure. He'd handle that detail later, when he could enjoy the shocked expression on that man's face when he realized you'd vanished without warning. For now, his only goal was to get you out of there, and nothing and no one would stand in his way.

【★】

The car glided smoothly to a stop in the parking lot, and as soon as he turned off the engine, he got out without delay. He walked around the vehicle with firm steps and opened the passenger door where you were. Without saying a word, he leaned forward slightly to unbuckle your seatbelt, his fingers briefly brushing the fabric of your dress as he released the latch with a subtle click. His expression was inscrutable, but in the way he helped you sit up, in the way his gaze briefly scanned your face, you could sense a different nuance, something that seemed to be torn between habit and a deeper need to take care of you.

The cool night air brushed your skin as you stepped out of the car, causing you to shudder slightly. You had barely taken a couple of steps outside when, with the same ease with which he held his gun on a mission, he scooped you up in his arms without warning.

— Heeseung! — you exclaimed in a strangled gasp, surprise etched in your voice as your arms instinctively clutched his neck. You looked at him in disbelief, trying to process his sudden action. — Put me down. I can walk on my own. I'm not drunk anymore. — you declared firmly, yet he didn't even slow his pace, carrying you with the same confidence with which he made every decision.

— I know, but I'm doing it because I understand that walking in heels is uncomfortable for you, — he replied calmly, without taking his eyes off the entrance. His tone was so nonchalant, so resolute, that for a moment you were speechless. — Even without you saying it, I know your feet are sore now.

And there it was again, that level of understanding that always disarmed you. You didn't need to tell him when you were tired, when you were uncomfortable, or when you needed support; he just knew. His ability to read you so accurately made a strange, warm, and deeply comforting feeling settle in your chest.

You entered the house amidst a complicit silence. Heeseung didn't stop until he reached the living room, where he placed you with extreme care on the sofa, making sure you were comfortable before separating from you. Then, with the same ease with which he handled any situation, he knelt in front of you and moved his hands to your ankles, unbuckling your heels with patient movements.

— You should take better care of yourself — he murmured in a low tone, barely a reproach. But with that note of tenderness that always seeped into his words when it came to you. — Sometimes I think you're too self-careless.

His firm but careful fingers began to massage the sore area, tracing circles with just the right amount of pressure to relieve the tension. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting out an involuntary sigh as the feeling of relief coursed through every fiber of your body. Unable to help it, you leaned slightly toward him, raising a hand to his face, caressing his cheek with a gentle touch, a silent thank you.

His eyes met yours, and in that silent exchange, there was something that transcended words.

— That's why I have you, — you whispered, your voice barely a thread in the stillness of the moment. — You're always there for me, protecting me right and left.

Heeseung held your hand in his, his warm palm covering you with unwavering certainty. He nodded slightly, his pupils reflecting absolute determination.

— I always will be. Don't doubt that I'll be there for you without fail, no matter what it is. — He whispered with conviction, his tone imbued with something deeper, something that hadn't needed to be said out loud for a long time.

The closeness between you narrowed almost instinctively. Your gazes intertwined, your breaths sharing the same space, the tension enveloping you with an almost tangible intensity. Your lips parted slightly, as if you wanted to say something, but any words were cut short when he too began to lean in, his face approaching yours slowly, deliberately. Anticipation vibrated in the air, and every passing second seemed to stretch the moment to the limit.

Then the door burst open.

— Oh! Good evening, miss and sir. I didn't know you had arrived. — Mrs. Kim, the housekeeper, exclaimed cheerfully, her voice echoing from the kitchen entrance.

The tension between you dissipated in a blink. Heeseung moved away in a measured movement, while you, with unusual swiftness, sat up straight on the sofa as if nothing had happened. You tried to compose your expression, avoiding at all costs letting your face betray the moment you had almost shared.

— Mrs. Kim, please take the young lady to her room and draw her a bath, — he ordered firmly, without a hint of nervousness in his tone. His self-control remained intact, although there was still something in his gaze that he couldn't quite hide. — And make sure her bed is ready.

The woman nodded with a pleased smile and gently took your arm, guiding you with the familiarity of someone who has played that role countless times. As you stood, you cast one last glance in her direction, meeting those dark eyes that seemed to want to say far more than his mouth allowed at that moment.

— Good night, Hee. — you said quietly, trying to keep your tone neutral, although there was a note of gentleness you couldn't avoid.

— Good night, princess. — he replied, his voice firm but laden with an undertone only you could recognize.

As soon as you disappeared upstairs, silence fell over the house. He stood motionless in the center of the living room, his gaze fixed on the spot where you had vanished. His fingers inside his pockets clenched tightly. He had to leave. It was what he always did. Make sure you were safe and disappear until the next day.

But this time, something was holding him there.

The echo of your voice still vibrated in his mind, the touch of your skin against his hands, the closeness you had almost shared minutes ago. He sighed heavily, shaking off the thought, when suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking the stillness of the place. He pulled out the device, and when he saw the name on the screen, his expression hardened. He frowned, his jaw clenching, but he didn't answer. Instead, he swiped to silence the call and put the phone away. That wasn't relevant, not now. Not when his priority lay elsewhere. You were safe. That was all that mattered.

Without wasting any more time, he turned on his heel and left the house, returning to the agent he'd always been.

The vibration of the hallway lights fused with the muffled echo of his footsteps as he moved forward. The coldness of the marble beneath his boots reverberated through the soles, matching the measured rhythm of his breathing. Heeseung's face was impassive, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he moved toward the meeting room, the tension in his shoulders barely perceptible beneath the controlled rigidity of his posture.

He pushed the door open with calculated firmness, the subtle creak of metal cutting through the air. Jake was leaning back in one of the leather chairs, one leg crossed over the other, a lazy smile on his face. Young Mi, sitting on his lap, ran her fingers over Jake's temples with an intimacy that had no place in this setting. Jake's hand rested with brazen familiarity on her thigh.

Heeseung barely frowned before clearing his throat with a dry sound. Young Mi instantly stepped away, while Jake, visibly relaxed, gave her a carefree smile.

— Boss... — Jake tried to compose himself, sitting up slightly in his seat. His crooked smile tried to soften the situation, but the Australian knew perfectly well there was no escaping the weight of that gaze.

Heeseung moved forward to sit opposite them, resting his elbows on the back of the chair with tense calm. The way he crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers on his knee gave the impression of someone relaxed, but Jake knew the signs of an annoyed Hee better than anyone. The air in the room dropped several degrees.

— I didn't think strategy meetings had evolved to... this kind of dynamic. — Heeseung commented with a tone laced with sarcasm, his sharp gaze scanning the space between Jake and Young Mi.

— Well, we all need a little distraction now and then... — Jake let out a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that betrayed his discomfort.

— Distraction. — Heeseung repeated with a barely perceptible tilt of his head. His tone was neutral, but the charge behind that word was evident.

Jake opened his mouth to try to justify something, perhaps to ease the palpable tension that was beginning to settle in the room; but Heeseung gave him a sharp look that cut off any attempt at a response.

— Where's Jongseong and Sunghoon? — His voice was low, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

— On their way. They won't be long. — Young Mi was the one who answered, with her usual characteristic calm.

Heeseung nodded, shifting his gaze to Jake just as Young Mi stood up to say goodbye. Jake, despite his relaxed facade, couldn't help but follow the woman's gaze as she left the room with calculated elegance.

Once the door closed behind her, Heeseung returned his attention to Jake. The Australian settled into his seat, smiling with a hint of nervousness that he tried to disguise under a mask of confidence.

— Well? — Jake asked in a light tone, though his posture indicated a certain rigidity.

— Since when did you become so indiscreet? — Heeseung looked at him with a calmness that only made the accusation feel more serious.

Jake let out a dry laugh, placing a hand on the back of his head.

— Are you really going to lecture me about this? Because, if memory serves, you're not exactly a model of restraint when it comes to a certain... woman.

— It's not the same. — he defended himself almost automatically, in a sharp tone, his jaw clenched.

Jake let out a low laugh, leaning forward to argue.

— Oh, no? So tell me, what would you do if you finally put aside that pathetic self-restraint and showed your lady what you really wanted from her?

Heeseung remained silent, but the dark glint in his eyes was enough to make the Australian smirk.

— Exactly... — Sim continued, leaning back in his chair with a triumphant air. — But then, you're Lee Heeseung, the perfect guardian. The guy who controls every damn aspect of his life except when it comes to her.

The twitch in Lee's jaw was imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him as well as the man in front of him.

— This isn't the time to discuss this. — Heeseung finally said, his tone cutting.

Jake let out a nasal laugh, narrowing his eyes with a calculating expression. He was ready to continue pushing Heeseung's buttons, but before he could even utter another word, the door hinges creaked again, and that's when the two missing male presences had finally arrived. The underlying tension in the air didn't go unnoticed by both men, surnamed Park, who quickly realized that something had been happening between Sim and Lee.

— So what now? — Sunghoon was the first to speak, his tone laced with that hint of skepticism that seemed to be part of his default character.

Jongseong entered behind him, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he swept the room with an analytical gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly as they settled on Heeseung, whose expression still retained that sharp calm only seen after a tense exchange.

— Wow... — Jongseong trailed off with a slow, calculated smile. — We've arrived at a good time, or have we missed something interesting?

Heeseung didn't answer immediately. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes scanning the space with a precision that suggested he was taking in every nuance in the air.

— What happened here? — Sunghoon persisted, his tone light but with a spark of genuine curiosity behind the question.

— Nothing relevant. So let's just focus our attention on whatever Jake has to show us. — Heeseung replied, his curt tone making it clear he had no intention of spilling the beans.

Without wasting any more time, the man Lee had mentioned got going; with a couple of quick gestures, Jake displayed a grainy image on his laptop screen. The figure of an individual in a dark hallway appeared, blurry but clear enough to capture the outlines of a man carrying a briefcase.

— This was captured by one of the security cameras while the system was under the control of the hack. —Jake explained, zooming in to make the figure more visible. It was only for a few seconds, during the sudden crash my system suffered while I was guiding Heeseung through the installation.

— And who's this? — Sunghoon asked, narrowing his eyes as he analyzed the image in front of them.

To which the laptop owner smiled broadly and shot a meaningful glance at Hee, then looked back at the first questioner. He added a key gesture to those glances; pretending to adjust his tie, he made them realize who it was. Sunghoon and Heeseung exchanged glances, understanding exactly what Sim was talking about.

— See, boss? I told you, the guy, beyond his visual assault with that stupid tie, never really gave me a good feeling. And I wasn't wrong. — Jake turned to the oldest of those present.

Who looked genuinely bewildered by such a revelation. He found it hard to believe that what started out as an innocent joke had actually hit the nail on the head. Even Sunghoon, who had also joined in on the joke at the time, seemed confused, but this fact.

— So, technically, it's like this... — the squad leader began, pausing dramatically to try to better connect the dots in his mind. — The first briefcase detected did end up being what was expected. A bomb that, for some reason, ended up in the hands of the guy with the tie. Whereas what we retrieved from that place, along with the criminals involved, was completely different.

Silence reigned once again as everyone present tried to weigh the thoughts in their heads, trying to channel what happened into the most congruent context.

— If the guy took the briefcase with the bomb, apparently deactivated at that point. Whereas the briefcase we managed to take contained the still-unidentified chemical, it only means that it was never really an alibi to blow up the building where the event was taking place. It was an exchange of corrupt goods. — Heeseung deduced skillfully.

— But there's still something that doesn't quite fit here — Jongseong added. — If that was the case, let's say the guy managed to sneak out of the VIP area where I was too, he would have done so at the moment I was trying to evade the two suspects who were after me. But then, how could he have made the exchange? Heeseung, you neutralized the other guys and with that, you got the briefcase that was taken as evidence. — after finishing his contribution, he turned to the others, who were also racking their brains trying to make sense of the whole thing.

It really all seemed to make no sense at all, which made them question whether it was really a mission handled fairly.

— Now that I think about it, and it still doesn't make sense. The entire exchange could have been executed during the seconds Jake was having trouble with the system — Sunghoon added. — Maybe the briefcase with the bomb never arrived at the same place Heeseung entered, but rather it could have been left at some key point, and what Hee intervened in was the subjects receiving their share of the exchange, and we always went after the wrong briefcase.

Everyone turned to look at the sniper, as his assumption didn't sound so far-fetched.

— Jake, didn't Young-Mi happen to bring an interrogation report with her? — Heeseung immediately questioned, to which the aforementioned quickly nodded and took out the document, leaving it on the desk. — Perfect. Jongseong, this is your task, and getting me the details later is a must. Jake, I want you to use your skills to find the identity of the subject who ended up taking the first briefcase. I'll be waiting.

With nothing else to add, he got up from his chair and left the office like a bat out of hell. This variant of the operation—although it might not seem like it—had him on edge. But his mind was also elsewhere, and he was going there.

【★】

The lively laughter of children echoed throughout the room, infecting you in the process. Children could be quite witty at times, which always helped make the outdoor art workshop in the gallery garden less boring for you. Your young apprentices had their own way of standing out, and you firmly believed that their little minds were more volatile and profound than an adult's. Their raw, innocent creativity and their interest in learning from you were incredible.

Until there came those moments when you'd rather everyone remained silent, and the curiosity of their constantly fluctuating little minds didn't get the best of them.

— Noona... — one of the younger ones suddenly alluded to you, to which you responded with a soft hum, letting him know he had your attention despite your gaze fixed on the small canvas in your hands. — Can love be expressed through painting?

The question caught you off guard, firstly because of its depth, despite being the inquiry of a child of only eight years old. Secondly, you knew that coming up with an answer, with the most appropriate words for someone of his age and understanding, would take a little extra effort.

— Love can be expressed in many ways, Jin-Seo — you begin in a simple and concise way, pausing momentarily to encourage the other person's anticipation, and then continuing with the formulation of your answer. — The most common way people express their love is by saying "I love you," because that way they are letting their opposite know that they feel love. But most people affirm that showing love goes beyond just putting it into words. There must also be actions and gestures that support the love you say you feel.

You thought they weren't paying attention to you until you looked up from the canvas and most of the little ones were staring at you intently, especially the one who asked the question. Maybe they were interested in your words, or just mesmerized by the gentle tone of your voice.

— So, with that in mind, consider that love could be expressed through painting. An example of this could be when you're painting and think of someone important, or like when you put something on canvas and want to give it to that person, or for that person to be the first to see it. — You added to your explanation, a kind of self-reflection, since while you were saying each word, there was only one person you could think of.

After a moment, everyone began to converse among themselves, while simultaneously continuing with their artistic activities. What you said earlier seemed to resonate with them; it amused you to see them talking about it, when many of them probably didn't understand anything.

— Someone whose art is abstract and profound also seems to have a mindset driven by the same patterns. — A male voice suddenly sounded behind you, causing you to flinch slightly. There was nothing familiar about that timbre.

Turning around in your position, you saw an expensive-looking man in a tight-fitting suit, his face sporting an expression of apparent delight, though you couldn't easily tell if it was due to your analogy, the children, or some deeper reason. You glanced quickly, searching for the relief bodyguard, who turned out to be out of position. You felt a touch of panic, but tried to approach the situation calmly.

— Excuse me, but this is a restricted area. The public is not allowed to enter unless I so permit. — You spoke firmly, leaving no room for argument. But the man didn't seem to be perturbed by your direct tone.

His smile, barely a subtle curl of his lips, remained intact as his eyes slowly scanned the scene in front of him. The precision with which he analyzed his surroundings alerted you; that kind of attention didn't befit a mere onlooker.

— I'm truly sorry for breaking the rules set by our miss — he said then, his tone laden with calculated difference. — But I couldn't contain my excitement… Nor could I miss the opportunity to see you work up close. It seemed like the closest way to fulfilling every loyal admirer's dream.

The term “loyal admirer” hung in the air, imbued with a weight you couldn't quite place. The way he had said it, with a disturbing mix of sincerity and reverence, sharpened your senses. Your fingers, still holding the paintbrush, twitched slightly as you searched your memory for any clue that might justify those words.

Suddenly, images began to emerge in your mind like a series of fleeting slides: that man's face appearing again and again among the crowds at every event, exhibition, and auction you had participated in. A constant but until now imperceptible presence, camouflaged among the attendees, among the shadows on the periphery, observing you with an insistence that, in retrospect, seemed chilling. And then, a name resonated in your thoughts like a distant but precise echo.

— Kang Hyun-Woo. — you said the name with a mixture of caution and certainty, carefully gauging his reaction.

The guy smiled. Not a casual or merely polite smile, but an expression filled with genuine and profound satisfaction, as if he had just received a long-awaited confirmation.

— It's quite an honor to be recognized. That an artist of your caliber not only remembers my name, but also captures my presence... that far exceeds my expectations. — His voice lowered a pitch, becoming more intimate, sharper.

— I couldn't miss the name of an elite buyer — you replied in a more neutral tone. Trying not to show your growing discomfort caused by his presence. — Although, I must admit, I would never think that a man like you, whose profession is linked to electronic systems and devices, would be an art enthusiast. — you add almost scathingly.

— Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, miss. You’d be surprised to know that art is also one of my passions — Such a statement is accompanied by hand gestures and somewhat exaggerated but measured expressions. It was strange, and even more so when I heard his next comment: — Or at least, I could say that it’s your art that fascinates me. Your pieces are simply exquisite, and each one is better than the last. — His idolization was simply on another level.

— Noona is a great painter. — one of the children suddenly spoke up, innocently intervening in this particular exchange. In fact, the sudden childish contribution brought an even wider smile to Kang's face.

— Right? She's simply the best painter of her generation, if not of all time. — he replied with satisfaction, turning to the little boy, who smiled at him as if nothing had happened.

You watched the scene in silence, thinking of a discreet way to get this guy dragged out and finally disturb the tranquility of your space. You didn't want anything too grotesque and inappropriate to happen in front of the children present. Before you could even begin to realize your thoughts and ideas, your savior arrived.

Heeseung glanced at you, then at the children sitting there painting. He knew he had to be careful with his actions, now that he had an audience of delicate little minds.

— Sir, I will ask you in the most peaceful way to accompany me to the exit. Users who violate the establishment's rules receive a penalty, and that will be your case. — He spoke in a measured voice, although the underlying severity was perceptible.

In a discreet movement, his hand closed around Hyun-Woo's wrist with a calculated pressure, enough to cause a subtle creaking in the joints. The other man's expression instantly tensed, his smile fading as his eyes widened with a mixture of disbelief and pain.

— I was just offering my admiration to the lady. I didn't mean to cause any trouble; my intentions are simply to personally pay my compliments to the artist who creates all the paintings hanging in my house. — Kang assured him, his tone forcedly calm, although the rigidity of his jaw and the hostility in his gaze toward Heeseung betrayed his pain and discontent.

Heeseung didn't let go of his wrist. The pressure of his fingers remained calculated, firm but not overtly violent, just enough to remind Hyun-Woo who was in control at the moment. His eyes remained sharp, cold, devoid of any trace of superficial courtesy.

— Admiration... — Heeseung repeated the word with a measured cadence, as if savoring it. — If that's the case, I would recommend that you limit your admiration to galleries, auction catalogs, and your acquisitions. Because if you again take on responsibilities that aren't yours... — He leaned in slightly, enough so that only Hyun-Woo could hear him. — I will make sure that your eyes never again know what it's like to look at one of my lady's works. — The tone was soft, almost intimate, but the implicit threat was unmistakable. The opponent sensed the weight of those words clearly, because his eyes narrowed slightly, and the line of his smile stiffened.

However, without letting him add anything else, Heeseung dragged him toward the exit, leaving you to continue the lessons with your young apprentices.

【★】

Your face lit up with excitement as you looked at the final results of your cute students' paintings. The secondary room of the gallery, designated for the workshop, was full of them, giving it a colorful and pleasant vibe, as they were displayed on the walls of the installation.

— They're getting better and better. — Heeseung comments, as he delights in watching your happy expression. And his delight doubled the moment you turned to him, flashing that wide smile of yours. You looked so proud.

— Yes, they really are. They already know so many more things and techniques than when the workshop started. They're incredible. — you boast proudly, as you walk around the room, eyeing each of your young apprentices' works.

Lee can't take his eyes off you, too entranced by the charm your person radiates, so naturally and effortlessly. Seeing you like this provokes so much in him, and he couldn't help himself, rising from the stool to discreetly approach you from behind. Once close, he leaned down to your level and fixed his gaze on the profile of your face, since you, for one, were too absorbed in those small paintings.

— Being taught by someone incredible can make you incredible too — he murmurs in an almost tender tone, a tone he would only allow himself to use with you. — Don't be so surprised. They're learning from you. It's obvious they'll end up being exceptional in the long run. Although... they'll never surpass their wonderful teacher. And if they do, I'll find a way to change that.

His words make a soft chuckle escape your lips; you couldn't help but find a certain amusement in the way this version of him contrasted so much with what many people see at first glance. The stoic and imposing man, whom many feared, became surprising sweet around you. Yet he still managed to make things more disconcerting when he had the chance, for example, his constant obsession with making you walk on clouds, only to then simply clip your wings, marking the limits of his professionalism.

— What's so funny? — he suddenly asks, looking at you with a frown, a clear manifestation of his confusion at your prolonged amusement.

— The fact that the mouth you use to shower me with praise is the same one that later utters words that break my heart, and also the same one that does nothing to finally meet mine. — you reply, your laughter gradually fading away and leaving your face with a more somber, almost expressionless expression.

You turn slowly, drawn almost instinctively to the source of that familiar, deep tension that usually surrounds you. Your eyes meet his, and the space between you shrinks to nothing. Your breaths mingle in the air that vibrates between you, heavy with something unspoken, something you both feel but that never quite materializes. His gaze, dark and penetrating, bores into yours, as if he could read every thought struggling to break free in your mind. But, as always, there's something holding him back. Something that prevents that line from finally being crossed.

Heeseung straightens with a barely perceptible sigh, his expression transforming into a mixture of resignation and regret. His eyes never leave yours for a second.

— I'm sorry — he murmurs in that deep, controlled voice that nevertheless betrays a hint of vulnerability. — I'm sorry for not being reckless enough to...

His voice trails off, but you understand perfectly what he's trying to say. That impulse to cross the line, to surrender to the inevitable, always clashes with his iron self-control.

— Save those words — you reply, your tone soft, but tinged with a tiredness that comes from the constant repetition of this same cycle. — It's always the same with you, Heeseung. The confusing signals, the words, the boundaries. — you add, taking a step back, intending to get away before that mix of desire and frustration ends up breaking something inside you.

But he reacts before you can. His hand catches your wrist in a swift, precise movement, and suddenly you feel him spin you around and propel you toward one of the tables. A small gasp escapes your lips when your body meets the cold surface, and before you can process it, he slides between your legs, occupying the space left by your labored breathing.

One of his hands rises with deliberate slowness to grasp your wrists and pin them behind your lower back. The other, however, rests on your jaw with a reverence that contradicts the firmness of his grip. His thumb brushes the line of your jaw, and the tension in his gaze is so palpable that you feel trapped in the dark abyss of his eyes.

— What do you mean by mixed signals? — he asks, his tone low and laden with something heavier than simple curiosity. His eyes darken even further when his thumb brushes over your skin in a gesture so intimate it takes your breath away. — Because as far as I know, I've made it very clear that I adore you. That you're my biggest weakness.

The intensity of his words makes your breath hitch and your heart race. But he doesn't pull away. Not this time.

— It's not just words. Words aren't enough if actions don't back them up, Lee Heeseung. — you whisper, your voice barely breaking as memories of the thoughtful response you gave Jin-Seo hours earlier during the workshop flood your mind.

He remains silent, but you can feel the tension in his body intensify. The conflict is evident in the way his eyes scan you, searching for something he perhaps can't even name.

— You're right. I can't go on without using actions to back up my words, can't I? — he asks rhetorically, looking at you with such intensity that it makes your heart flutter. That distinct glint in his gaze generates so much anticipation.

Then, with a slow, calculated movement, you see him lean toward you. His nose brushes yours, and his lips barely touch yours, so close yet so far away. The promise implicit in that touch sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches between you, and the moment seems stretched to the limit, on the verge of breaking at any second. But just as the chasm between you is about to close completely, a loud crash interrupts the moment.

Fire alarms and other people's screams echo through the gallery's main hall, scything the air with their piercing, urgent sound. Heeseung jerks away, going to look through the window. You can barely process what just happened as the sound of sirens continues to echo in your ears, marking the abrupt end of a moment that nearly redefined everything, and at the same time the beginning of what could be considered the most heartbreaking catharsis of your life.

— Tell me it's not what I think it is... — you say fearfully, your voice barely above a whisper, as you approach the same window where Heeseung is looking out.

He turns in your direction, his expression indecipherable to the naked eye, and that only seems to disconcert you. Drawing strength from where you didn't know you had it, you push him aside and finally look out the window. The burning glow in the distance is reflected in your gaze, tears flowing as so many years of your life flash before your eyes. Everything that defined you, all your achievements, goals, and dreams come true, were burning.

Your impulsiveness led you to stumble out of the back room, running in the direction where the fire had already spread. People ran desperately toward the emergency exit, while you headed straight for the heart of the fire. Your clouded, thoughtless mind made you see the scene as if it were unfolding in slow motion. The flames rose mercilessly, burning the infrastructure and everything in their path. The smoke alarms continued to blare, along with the terrified screams of the people. All of it became the soundtrack to such a tragedy.

Before you could enter, you felt yourself being pulled forcefully. You didn't bother to look at who it was; you didn't need to, and your brain certainly wasn't at its full capacity to stop and check that it was Heeseung.

— You can't go in there! The structure could collapse at any moment! — he exclaimed, flustered, and dragged you backward, away from the risk zone, pulling your body in the direction of the emergency exit in the garden.

— My paintings… I have to go get them… — your response comes out automatically, which is how your mind was working. Or at least it did until emotions took over and your screams deafened the eardrums of the man holding you. — Let me go, Heeseung! My whole world and life is in there, I have to go get my things! — you shout, abruptly twisting in Lee’s arms, struggling to make him release his firm grip on you and let you go rescue your precious creations.

But he doesn’t budge, and he wasn’t planning on doing so…

— There’s no point in you doing this! — he growls through gritted teeth, resisting your abrupt, almost aggressive movements, trying to neutralize them. — You can paint new paintings, you can acquire new materials and so on. All of those things are replaceable. But you aren’t! I won’t have another you if I let you go all the way there and put your life at risk! So don't ask me to let you go, because I'm not going to. — he declares resolutely, leaving no room for argument.

Without even giving you the chance to insist a little further, he easily lifts you up and throws you over his shoulder to carry you out of that place. As you walk toward the exit, you look around, watching the fire spread even to the secondary room, the same one that housed the creations of your young apprentices, their first steps into art, all those pleasant memories accumulating in your mind at that very moment. And soon, just as Heeseung had predicted, the structure began to collapse, yielding to the intensity of the fire, causing a resounding roar. Thus marking the extinction of that place you had forged with so much effort and taken to the top. It was the end of your world, the death of a part of you that might never be the same again.

【★】

Your gaze remained fixed on the table in front of you, but you weren't really looking at it. The cold metal beneath your fingers seeped into your skin, chilling you to the bone, but even that couldn't shake you out of that lethargic state. The voices around you were only a distant murmur, a background noise that faded before reaching your mind. All that remained was that dense, overwhelming emptiness that gripped your chest like a claw.

The sound of heels clicking firmly against the floor pulled you out of that mental fog. The echo spread through the room like a warning, each step calculated and confident, until the figure of a woman appeared in the doorway. Beautiful, impeccably dressed in a dark suit that accentuated her slender figure. Her hair was tied back with precision, not a single strand out of place. Her presence radiated authority and coldness.

Without saying a word, she pulled a badge from her jacket and placed it on the table, the scrape of plastic against metal breaking the awkward silence. You glanced at it only out of reflex, your eyes sliding over the engraved letters before she spoke.

— Seo Young-Mi. Prosecutor in charge of your case. — Her tone was direct, firm, but not lacking in subtle professional kindness.

You didn't respond. Your gaze had already shifted toward the tinted glass at the side of the room. You knew Heeseung was there. You felt it. That strange warmth that only he could make you feel, even in the midst of a disaster, was there, piercing the chill of the room. You could almost imagine his expression, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers were probably clutching his own arms to keep from intruding into the room.

Young-Mi settled into the chair opposite you, crossing her legs with innate elegance. She rested her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers. Her eyes scanned you carefully, reading every microexpression on your face.

— I know this might be difficult... — she began, softening her tone a little more, in an attempt to show some empathy, even if it was professional.

— But I need you to answer a few questions so we can continue the investigation. The interrogation will be recorded. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, you have the right to stop it.

Your hands clenched in your lap. The lump in your throat thickened, making it difficult to breathe. Young-Mi slid a notebook and pen across the table, waiting patiently.

— Let's start from the beginning — she continued, striking a posture that denoted her interest and attention. — What was the first thing you saw when the fire started?

A chill ran down your spine. The image of the fire burst into your mind with painful clarity: the flames devouring the walls, the air saturated with smoke and screams. The suffocating sensation of heat on your skin. The panic. The emptiness.

— It wasn't much... When the fire started, I was busy in the gallery's secondary room. I didn't find out about the fire until it was already well underway and the alarms went off. — you answered effortlessly, your voice coming out weak and ragged. Your breathing became erratic, your shoulders trembled.

Young-Mi didn't press that point further. He just jotted something down in his notebook and moved on to the next question. The rest of the conversation passed in a blurry stream of words and short answers, your mind disconnecting from each sentence as soon as it was spoken. All you really felt was that feeling of being watched through glass.

Finally, Young-Mi closed the notebook and slid it to the side.

— That will suffice for now. Thank you for your cooperation, and I'm sorry for your situation. — she concluded, his professional tone resurfacing. He stood with mechanical elegance, smoothing the wrinkles in his jacket as he headed for the door.

No sooner had he left the room than the door opened again... and this time it was him who entered.

Heeseung crossed the threshold with confident steps, but his expression was thick with tension. His gaze scanned your face, searching for something in your dull eyes that probably wasn't there. Without saying anything, he crouched down in front of you and held your face in his hands, his gentleness contrasting with the strength of his grip.

— Hey, you handled it well, princess. — he murmured in a surprisingly sweet tone, his thumb gently caressing your cheek in an attempt to comfort you.

Your throat tightened. A tremor ran through your lips as you leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his skin seep into your own coldness. You closed your eyes, resting your cheek on his palm. His touch was the only thing that managed to stabilize the turmoil of internal chaos.

— Get me out of here, please, take me home... — you whispered, your voice breaking at the end of the sentence.

Heeseung took a deep breath. His fingers slid along your jawline, holding you as if he feared you might crumble at any moment.

— There's something I must do first, and then I can take you to rest. Do you think you can wait for me? It won't take too long, I promise. — he replied gently, though his gaze darkened with a mixture of guilt and resolve.

You didn't have the strength to argue, so you simply nodded slightly, your eyes narrowing as he leaned in a little closer and pressed a brief, warm kiss to your forehead.

When he made a move to withdraw, you didn't hesitate. You stood up almost reflexively, your footsteps following his without him having to ask. The door closed behind you with a hollow sound, but you focused only on the figure walking in front of you, his shoulders tense and his gait firm. It didn't matter where he went or what he had to do. In that moment, all you needed was to be near him.

The sound of your footsteps echoed empty in the cold hallways as you followed Heeseung, who walked with a firm, confident stride, as if everything that had happened was just a passing cloud already dissipating in his mind. However, the weight of what he had experienced continued to crush your chest. The images of the fire, the anguish of seeing your world reduced to ashes, remained stuck to your skin, like a ghost. But you couldn't show any of that. He was there, by your side, and all you could do was keep up with him, hoping his presence would soothe some of the pain inside you.

As you reached a particular door, Heeseung stopped without warning, turning to face you. The softness in his gaze didn't go unnoticed, despite the tension surrounding him.

— Please stay here. — he said in a voice that brooked no argument. Though he didn't speak loudly, there was something in his authority that made it clear: you couldn't follow him any further.

However, the way his eyes lingered on yours for a second, as if he were trying to say something without words, made you feel a strange mix of comfort and despair. You nodded wordlessly, as if your strength could no longer rebel. He had always been the one who led the way, the one who took the reins, and though that sometimes frustrated you, in that moment, you needed him.

— I won't be long. — Was the only thing she said before disappearing behind the door with the soft creak of the wood closing. You stood there, staring at the closed door.

It wasn't that you didn't want to wait. It was that you didn't know what else to do with your life, now that everything you'd built seemed to be crumbling around you. You headed to one of the nearby chairs, searching for something to anchor you to the present, even a minimal distraction. Your eyes fell to the floor, to the reflection of the light that slipped through the walls, seeking some solace in your surroundings.

The creaking of heels interrupted your trance, and you looked up to find Young-Mi walking in your direction with calculated elegance. Her bearing wasn't so distant, but there was something in her gait that told you she wasn't a woman you could ask for too much. Somehow, she sat down next to you with a naturalness that surprised you, and before you could react, she was already there, by your side.

— Oh, you're still here. — she pointed out, her voice soft but curious, the weight of the situation not allowing her to change the tone of her question.

You didn't know what to answer, so you just stared at the floor for a moment, not wanting to burden her with your thoughts.

— Yes, I'm waiting for Heeseung. — you murmured, barely able to raise your voice. As if saying her name would lighten something that was worrying you, even for a moment.

Young-Mi, who was watching your movements closely, nodded slowly, unhurriedly, as if she had already expected a similar answer. She didn't pressure you or insist, something that, without knowing why, relaxed you slightly. Instead, she remained there, still, waiting silently.

Shortly after, he broke the silence, with a gentle demeanor and something she might have considered the perfect opportunity to speak.

— I must tell you something, taking advantage of the fact that I finally have the pleasure of seeing you in person, — she began, in the same gentle voice, as if she were opening a window in the middle of a storm. — Heeseung talks a lot about you, about how incredible your art is. He says you're able to convey what others can't, that every brushstroke is filled with emotion, something... unique.

Your eyes, they rose toward her, even though you didn't want to listen. You didn't want someone talking to you about your art, not in this place, not after what had happened. However, Young-Mi continued calmly, unbothered by the silence that enveloped you.

— I visited your gallery once. And I confess that what Heeseung said isn't an exaggeration. Your work has something special. — She paused, observing your face with curiosity, perhaps trying to understand your distance.

At that moment, the pain of loss crept into your chest again, stronger. It wasn't just the fire anymore. It was the disappearance of something that was a part of you. But with the same calm with which she had begun, Young-Mi leaned toward you, as if understanding something beyond words.

— I understand this isn't the best time to talk about it, but I wanted you to know. — she said softly, looking at you with some empathy and a certain regret. To which you simply remained silent.

The lump in your throat was so tight you couldn't speak. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, all you managed to utter was a brief, if somewhat empty, response.

— Thank you — you replied softly, your lips sealed in a forced smile, devoid of any real emotion. Had it been any other circumstance, things would definitely be different. — But... Please, I'd prefer you not talk about the gallery anymore. Not even about that.

Young-Mi nodded, making no further comment, as if she respected you more than you could express. In an act of tacit understanding, she remained silent, giving you the space you needed.

Elsewhere, inside the room, the conversation between Heeseung and Jongseong continued:

— The fire is under control, but the evidence still doesn't seem clear. The teams are still checking, but we have to wait to see what else can be found, — Jongseong commented, pointing at some notes on the table. — Hopefully, we'll be able to better understand what happened once we have Jake to review the recordings from the other side of the location.

— Okay, keep me updated on that. I'll be on the lookout, Lee replied, his tone firm and serious.

— I made sure they prioritized this case. For you… and for her — he added, a hint of respect in his voice. Heeseung looked up, his dark eyes reflecting a glimmer of recognition and gratitude. — Also, here are the details of the past mission and its loose ends, too. — Heeseung stated, extending a document to the major, who took it.

— Thanks, Jong. — Was all he said, but Jongseong understood the true weight behind that word.

Without another word, Heeseung pushed himself away from the table and left the room. His eyes instantly found your figure, sitting next to Young-Mi. The prosecutor spoke in a low voice, but as soon as she saw him leave the room, she stood up with a slight nod and walked into the room from which the other party had emerged.

Your gaze met his, and without needing to say a word, you stood up and approached. He looked at you with that mixture of concern and tenderness that had become so persistent in recent hours, and without hesitation, he touched your cheek with his fingertips.

— Ready to go? — he asked gently, his tone more like a whisper than a question. You just nodded. And when he took your hand, you allowed him to lead you out of that room.

When you truly care about someone, the last thing you want is to experience the pain of seeing them suffer, but... How do you make someone stop suffering like that? That was the question Heeseung had been constantly asking himself over the past few weeks, ever since the day of the fateful fire that took away what you loved most. He's done nothing but divide his responsibilities between his work as an agent and watching you deal with what could be considered the deepest depression he's ever seen you experience. And yes, he's seen you go through many bad times, but this, this was beyond comparison; even he could sense that.

Of course, as your bodyguard, he genuinely cares; after all, ensuring your well-being is his job. But, in his role as the man who so adores your existence, he'd been racking his brain trying to come up with something to help you cope or completely alleviate your current discomfort. But whatever he could come up with, the first step would be to get you out of your room…

Heeseung entered the house with firm but silent steps. The sunlight filtering through the windows filled the entryway with a soft, golden glow, bathing everything around him in a warm glow. His eyes scanned the room, pausing at the foot of the stairs as he looked longingly up to the upper floor. Without wasting a single second, he climbed up there, making his way towards your room.

He carefully opened your door, and just as he expected, upon entering, he found you sleeping soundly. Your cold, dark bedroom somehow radiated the sadness that dwelled within you, the same sadness he'd so frequently witnessed in your eyes these past few days. With light steps, he approached, reached for the nightstand beside your bed, and turned on the small lamp he knew was there. As he did so, it cut through the darkness in the room, and the first thing he saw was your face twist into an expression of disgust, clearly due to the light that suddenly shone directly into your face.

He smiled inwardly, finding your gesture so adorable. Then he simply crouched to the side and reached up to brush away a few strands of hair that had fallen into your face. He also ran his thumb between your eyebrows, gently caressing the area until your frown relaxed and your peaceful expression returned. Seeing you like this, he felt warmth flood his chest and a subtle tingling in his stomach. He liked you so much, there was no doubt about it, he couldn't deny it to himself, not even if he tried.

— Princess, the sun's up. Time to wake up. — His voice echoed in a soft murmur, trying not to be too rude when waking you up. And he succeeded; he saw you open one eye and then close it again.

— So what... am I going to photosynthesize or something? — you replied in a sleepy, deep voice, as you shifted between the sheets, shifting positions, now facing him with your back to him.

Perplexed, he admired your sleeping form for a few seconds; sometimes he forgot how sharp your tongue could be. Choosing not to be defeated, he straightened up to walk to the window and, mentally praying that you wouldn't insult him, he slid the curtains aside, causing the room to fill with the warm light of day.

— Lee Heeseung, close that fucking curtain and let me sleep in peace! — Your annoyed voice echoed in the bedroom, and he could only laugh as he watched you cover yourself from head to toe with the blanket.

— Get up, miss. You've got a busy day ahead of you today — he replied, half-amused and half-firm, reaching over to tug at your blanket. But you were more reluctant, clinging to it and not letting him move it. — Come on, I really have a good day planned for you. Get out of bed. — he added, his tone so insistent it seemed almost like a plea. But even that didn't stop him from struggling with the blanket.

— Let go of the fucking blanket, and I'll get up voluntarily. — you said, finally peeking your head out, giving him an annoyed look. To which he raised an eyebrow at you, not trusting your word.

— How do I know this isn't some trick on your part? — he inquires, momentarily giving up on pulling at the soft material, but not completely letting go.

— First, because I would never refuse a plan with you. Second, because you're stronger than me, and if you keep pulling at this thing, you'll end up taking it off and discovering that my panties are the only thing I'm wearing right now. — you warn, somewhat annoyed. And that last reason was enough for her to finally let go of the blanket without further struggle and walk away.

Obviously, she was upset to hear such a revelation, but she made an effort to act normal and maintain her composure.

— Okay, then... go get ready. I'll wait for you downstairs. — She excused herself somewhat nervously and then simply left the room, giving you some privacy.

【★】

The crunch of gravel under your boots mingled with the dry echo of bullets hitting the targets. The warmth of the sun filtered through the scattered clouds, enveloping the training grounds in an atmosphere filled with tension and constant noise. Gunshots rang through the air, some sharper than others, followed by the metallic crackle of bullets hitting their targets. You walked at a steady pace, but not without casting annoyed glances around, clearly annoyed by the surroundings you found yourself in.

— Really? It wasn't enough for you to force me to get up early, and now I also have to endure this hellish sun? — you muttered, pushing back a strand of hair that the wind had blown across your face.

Heeseung, walking slightly ahead of you, turned his head with a lopsided smile, the one you knew so well and that, unfortunately for you, always managed to disarm you.

— If you keep complaining, I'll make you walk around the training grounds until you forget how to complain. — His tone was light, but his eyes held a hint of mischief that made you frown.

— You wouldn't dare. — you blurted out, with a mixture of disbelief and veiled threat. For his part, Heeseung just laughed softly, a low sound that somehow shook you.

— You think so? — he retorted, tilting his head to one side.

You shot him a dirty look, but before you could continue reproaching him, he raised a hand and pointed toward a farther part of the field, where a covered structure stood.

— Don't worry, you won't be under the sun. Let's go to target practice. — he added simply.

You stopped abruptly, your eyebrows raising in surprise as you turned your head to him.

— Target practice? — you repeated, almost unable to believe it. Heeseung nodded, watching you with that serene yet penetrating expression that always made you feel like he could read your every thought.

— You once said you were curious about what it felt like to shoot a gun," he explained matter-of-factly, as if it were the most casual comment in the world. "I thought this would be a good opportunity.

You continued staring at him, trying to remember when you'd said that. And then you remembered. It had been during a casual conversation, one random night in your living room, while he was cleaning his gun after returning from a mission. You had quietly mentioned that you'd always been curious about that sensation: the weight of the gun in your hands, the vibration of the recoil, the dry sound of the shot breaking the air. It had been a fleeting confession, something you never thought he'd actually take into account.

— How do you still remember that? — you asked, your tone softening without you even realizing it. Heeseung shrugged, shifting his gaze to the field for a second before looking back at you.

— I always listen to you. Even when it's things you say quietly, or details that don't seem important to you, but are to me — he replied with a hint of sincerity that lodged itself in your chest. He paused for a second, his gaze softening. — I can't help it."

You were speechless, feeling a warm surge of emotion lodge itself in your core. But before you could formulate a response, he took a few steps further into the facility, and you had to jog to catch up.

The atmosphere changed as soon as they walked through the door into the shooting range. The sound of gunfire became more subdued, muffled by the thick walls of the structure. Several paper targets were lined up at the end of a long, narrow hallway, pierced by holes of varying sizes. The metallic scent of gunpowder wafted through the air, thick and pungent.

Heeseung approached a table where an arsenal of weapons rested and picked up a sleek, black pistol, along with a pair of protective headphones and goggles. With fluid movements, he picked up the weapon and checked the magazine before extending it to you, offering it to you with a calm but expectant expression.

— Ready to try it? — His tone was gentle, but his eyes sparkled with a hint of anticipation, perhaps excited to see you experience something new, something that wasn't quite your style.

You hesitated for a second, your eyes scanning the polished line of the weapon and then returning to his face. You couldn't help but feel a slight chill run down your spine at the thought of holding a real gun. But when you saw the confidence in the way he looked at you, something inside you settled.

— What if I miss? — you murmured, taking the gun gently, feeling its cold weight in your hands.

Heeseung took a step closer, helping you put on the protective gear, then wrapping his hands around yours to adjust the grip. The warmth of his fingers on your skin made you feel a tingle that spread to the base of your neck. He parted your legs with his foot, straightening your back properly.

— You don't have to get it right away. Just trust me, you'll see you won't get bored. Besides, even I didn't get it right the first time, so no pressure, princess. — he assured calmly, his voice just inches from your ear as he positioned himself behind you to help you calibrate and lock onto the target in front of you.

Only, as expected, the closeness and pressure of his body against yours, his hands on your waist, his warm breath caressing your cheek, and his low, raspy voice— These were enough to make you nervous, so much so that your hands were trembling slightly. And unfortunately for you, Lee noticed.

— If you keep shaking like that, you're definitely not going to hit the shot. — he whispered huskily at the edge of your ear, causing an electric current to travel along your spinal cord.

— Then get out of the way and let me do it on my own. — you replied defensively, trying to hide your nervousness. Heeseung glanced at you and just smiled, giving no indication that he was planning to leave you.

— I'm your bodyguard. I'm literally watching your back to keep you steady in case the force of the shot pushes you back. — His response was accompanied by a readjustment of his grip on your waist. However, you ignored him, simply focusing on the target in front of you, maintaining your position and your gaze fixed forward. — Okay, this is a good position, pull the trigger when you feel ready. — he adds, and no sooner had he finished speaking than the first shot you fired.

The bullet, to the surprise of even the man behind you, actually hit the target. You soon heard a contemplative whistle, and even applause from him.

— I guess it was beginner's luck on my side. — you hasten to comment, hoping to preempt any praise your precious attorney was already thinking of heaping.

— Beginner's luck or not, that was incredible, Princess. It was very natural. Do you want to try it again? — he asks, and with a quick nod you respond, then get into position.

And so it was a second time, and several more times you continued shooting, missing and hitting, but especially enjoying the activity and Heeseung's company. It wasn't something you'd thought you'd enjoy doing, but it was quite therapeutic… somehow, and it helped improve your mood. It was stress-relieving and exciting at the same time. Besides, if there was one thing particularly remarkable about all this, it was seeing Heeseung more open-minded, less stoic and proper.

Eventually, once you'd finished emptying a second cartridge, you began to take off your earmuffs and glasses, handing everything to Heeseung, along with the gun, for him to sort through. You'd had enough; you were even a little tired now that the adrenaline rush was starting to wear off.

— So what next? What else is on the itinerary? — you asked, as you both walked back to the facility's exit.

Then, once you're outside, Heeseung suddenly stops in his tracks and looks at you. There's a slight hint of suggestiveness gleaming in his eyes. That detail doesn't go unnoticed, as does the way he then shifts his attention and gaze toward the rustic training ground not far from you.

— You're going to run ten laps around the field. — His voice and expression, at first glance, reveal apparent seriousness, and after his declaration, he suddenly adopts a firm, almost strict stance. — It's required to unlock the next activi-

Before he could add anything else, you were already running toward the car, dramatically shouting "No," with a prolonged "No," causing the older man to burst out laughing as he watches you struggle to open the door, trying to escape from him and his plan, which was nothing more than a joke. He just wanted to test the waters, see what kind of reaction he'd get from you, and without a doubt, the result was endearing.

【★】

On such a hectic day, which started early, filled with fun activities, delicious food, and moments you'd surely remember forever, the mix of warm orange and red hues was finally beginning to settle in the sky. A few clouds embraced the sun, as if wishing to bid it farewell as it set, the afternoon felt so light. You were tired, yes, but no less happy. You couldn't even remember the last time you'd deviated so abruptly from your routine.

And now you understood why people say it's always good to try and do new things.

Heeseung had put so much effort into it, everything so perfectly planned, from the places you visited, which were one better than the last. You'd never seen beyond the same old streets, you'd missed out on much of the charm of your own city, but thanks to him, that had changed. Besides, the day, although well-planned around you, had also had the opportunity to explore new shades and nuances in the man who dedicated his entire day off to trying to make you feel good and smile again.

During the depressive episode triggered by the loss of the gallery after the fire, you hadn't been aware of how much you'd truly shut down. You'd been so depressed that even making art at home didn't cheer you up. But with this change of scenery, and Heeseung taking matters into his own hands, everything seemed better.

— Are you falling asleep, or why do you suddenly seem so quiet? — His warm voice suddenly cut through the silence inside the car, interrupting your thoughts and recollections of the day. — We're not done yet. I need you with energy for a little longer, okay? — he added, simultaneously patting your thigh gently to wake you up.

The soft noise of the engine filled the silence between you, providing a momentary calm before you decided to say something.

— I'm not one for surprises, and yet here I am, inwardly excited about whatever the man I like so much has prepared to cheer me up. — A soft murmur is your response, as you look out the car window. The city flashed by outside the windows, a blur of light and shadow.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips at your murmur. He knew you didn't like surprises, but he also knew that, deep down, you appreciate the effort and thought that goes into them.

— Just wait and see, okay? I promise you won't regret it. — he stated, casting a fond but brief glance at your facial profile.

After what seemed like a torturous eternity, the car was finally being parked on a sidewalk; Heeseung hurried to get out and walk around the vehicle, going to your side to open the door and carefully help you out of the passenger seat.

— What's this? — you asked almost automatically, confusion surfacing now that you were both standing outside what at first glance appeared to be a well-decorated establishment, with modern designs and structures. Heeseung didn't bother to clarify your growing doubts, just took your hand and led you inside.

The place was divided into two floors: The first floor had a reception area and was a spacious, well-lit facility. You took a thorough look around, scanning the place and seeing how it stirred certain feelings in you.

— Let's go upstairs, that's where the real important part is. — Without giving you a second to react, he was already taking your hand and leading you upstairs to the second floor.

The first thing you noticed when you entered the place was the available space. Then your gaze inevitably fell on the things in that area. It was equipped with tables piled with all kinds of art materials, from canvases to easels, which were clearly new. And the walls were blank, presenting a different kind of canvas. It was like your old studio, maybe bigger.

With tears in your eyes, you turned to look at him. Vulnerability and a host of indescribable emotions radiating in your eyes.

— Please, don't tell me you... — You couldn't even finish your sentence without your voice breaking.

He saw the emotions reflected on his face and how your voice caught in your throat. His heart contracted with happiness and worry at the same time.

— Yes, I did — he admitted softly, leaning closer so he could admire your beautiful eyes up close. — I know everything you lost that day. Your art, your space, your identity as an artist, and- — He couldn't finish either, but in his case, it was because you interrupted him.

— Are you telling me you really bought this place? — you inquire, immediately looking at him with wide eyes, at the same time bringing your hands to your mouth, covering it in excitement and surprise.

He nods, never taking his gaze from yours. He could see the surprise and gratitude in your eyes, and it made his heart swell with affection.

— Yes, that's exactly what I did. I was truly so excited. I wanted to give you a place to call your own again, a space where you could create, be inspired, and heal.

— You shouldn't have done something like that. — you complain, slightly embarrassed, but no less moved and grateful for his empathy and support.

With excitement, you set about exploring the place. The tables with materials. They had the exact brands of paint you'd always used. The brushes and everything else were also from brands and designs you loved so much. And damn, you felt like your heart was going to burst with how fast it was beating, your emotions so intensely on edge, realizing that he'd really put so much care and effort into giving you back what has defined you so much in life and in your artistic career.

He followed you as you explored the space, watching you discover the carefully chosen materials. He knew your preferences down to the smallest detail: the specific brand of paint, the type of brushes you preferred, even the specific texture of the canvas you liked the most.

— You shouldn't be too surprised that I hit the nail on the head — he murmured, suddenly interrupting your exploration and capturing your full attention. He leaned a little closer, his voice low and gentle, adding, — I did a lot of research. I wanted you to feel at home, like in your old studio. Every detail was chosen with you in mind. — He paused momentarily, his eyes searching yours before adding, — I want you to be happy again, here.

— Hey, an art studio isn’t exactly cheap to create, — you reply, embarrassed at the sudden reminder of reality. — I’ll pay you back when I get the chance. — you assert resolutely, but he just laughs softly, shaking his head.

— Don’t even think about it. It’s not a loan, it’s a gift. I have more than enough resources, and seeing you happy and painting again is worth every penny I spent on this place. — he replies, looking at you seriously, trying to emphasize his firmness and refusal to accept anything in return.

A lump suddenly formed in your throat, the feeling of comfort filling you completely, as did a deep appreciation for the other.

— You’re so good to me. — you murmur softly, avoiding his gaze, tears welling up in your eyes.

It was then that Heeseung leaned closer. His finger trailed under your chin with a touch so gentle it made the air thicken between you. He forced your gaze up, and your eyes locked with his, dark and charged with an emotion so raw it almost made your knees weak. His voice, low and drawling, vibrated with an emotional depth that seemed to take even him by surprise.

— You don’t know how much your smile and wholeness mean to me. For once, accept something without arguing or thinking you owe it to someone. — he whispered, and the way his eyes gave you no respite made heat rise up your neck.

The tone of his voice and the intensity in his gaze shot through you like a shock. You felt your lungs gasp for air as, from one second to the next, he lifted you up with alarming ease. Your legs reflexively wrapped around his waist, your arms slid around his neck as his hands held you with a firmness that shook your senses. The way he held you, with that mixture of urgency and need, made something inside you clench.

The rapid beat of his chest vibrated against yours, the heat of his body penetrating the layers of clothing. His breathing, rapid and ragged, brushed your ear as his lips lowered just to the crook of your neck, but didn't quite touch you. His self-control hung by a thread; you felt it in the tension of his muscles, in the way his fingers dug lightly into the skin of your back.

— Thank you for this and for everything you've done or do for me. — you mumbled, your voice breathy and shaky against his ear.

His response was to wrap his arms more tightly around you, burying his face in your neck as he breathed in your scent with a depth that made you shudder. His body visibly relaxed, as if simply holding you like that had broken down the last barriers he'd kept standing. But the way his hands slowly ran down your back, up the line of your spine with almost tortuous precision, made it clear he wasn't completely calm.

— You're wonderful... — you murmured against his cheek as your fingers moved up to his face.

You held his face in your hands and let your thumbs brush over the warm skin of his cheeks. Heeseung closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch as if he needed it to keep breathing. When he opened them again, his pupils were dilated, and a dark shadow crossed the depths of his gaze. There was emotion there, something pure, brutal, and blatantly transparent that made you press closer to him.

— Don't look at me like that. — you stammered, feeling the blush spread across your face and the tension growing between you like an electric field.

But he didn't look away. On the contrary, his eyes slid slowly over your face, lingering on the line of your lips, on the trembling of your lips.

The sound of your breathing. His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, delicate path over the flushed skin of your cheekbone. His smile was faint, almost dangerous.

— Like what? Like I'm looking at the person who means more to me than anything else in this world? — His words were a knife-edge to your chest, each one imbued with devastating conviction.

Your breathing became erratic. Your fingers descended to his neck, and you felt the tension vibrating beneath your touch.

— Please don't say things that make my heart race, only to break it when you decide to return to your usual limits. — you warned him, your voice thick with vulnerability and exhaustion. You didn't want to go through the same old cycle, not this time.

Heeseung slowly shook his head, a dark, intense smile on his lips. He carried you in his arms until you were sitting on the cold surface of a table, his hands resting on either side of your hips, enclosing you between his body and the wood beneath you. He lowered his head until his forehead touched yours, his labored breathing hitting your parted lips.

— What if I told you this isn't one of those times? That no more limits and reality checks. — His voice was a harsh whisper, each word heavy with intent.

— Don't just say it, prove it. — your words came out as a challenge, an attempt to encourage him to move forward, while your eyes were fixed on his.

So, Heeseung didn't hesitate any longer. He closed the distance and his lips crashed against yours in a kiss overflowing with pent-up hunger. The pressure of his mouth was immediate and possessive, his tongue sliding between your lips with a confident, brazen rhythm that stole your breath.

Your response was automatic; Your arms closed tightly around his neck as your fingers tangled in his hair. The way he deepened the kiss, with calculated movements and almost absurd precision, sent a shudder down your stomach and resonated in your belly. A strangled moan escaped your throat as his hands moved down to your waist, pulling you closer to him. He separated his lips from yours, only to trail them down your jawline, leaving a series of open kisses that burned directly into your skin. His tongue traced the outline of your neck, followed by a bite hard enough to leave you trembling.

— I really waited so long for this. — Your breathing was shallow, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your fingers closed in his hair, unconsciously tugging at the strands.

— Too long. — he agreed, his voice vibrating against your skin.

— Are you going to make it up to me? — You gasped, your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Heeseung laughed against your neck, his deep chuckle sending vibrations straight to your core.

—I'm going to make it up to you for every agonizing moment of holding back. — he stated with unwavering certainty, his hands trailing down the curve of your back to your hips.

His mouth returned to yours, this time with relentless intensity. He kissed you with hunger and need as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your shirt. The way his fingers grazed the bare skin of your back made your body arch toward him, seeking more, needing more.

— Too many clothes~ — he whispered against your mouth, and before you could respond, his hands moved up to undo the barrier of fabric with one precise motion, and with that same expertise, he unclasped your bra, setting it aside, discarded along with your shirt.

The way his eyes slowly scanned the exposed skin made heat shoot through your core.

— And I made sure to dress lightly. — you reply teasingly, your lips curving into a suggestive smile as your eyes bore into his.

— Clever girl. — he murmurs, a spark of approval in his eyes. His fingers skim your waist before sliding to the button of your jeans. With unnerving skill, he unbuttons it and hooks his thumbs into the fabric, pulling with a fluid, confident motion.

He slides the jeans down your hips, his pace slow, almost reverential. His fingers brush your skin on the way down, generating a fiery tingle that makes you catch your breath. But he doesn't rush. He pauses to kneel and slowly unbutton your boots, each touch leaving a trail of heat over your skin. Once your jeans fall to the floor, his eyes scan the image of you in nothing but your panties. His breathing becomes heavy and ragged, while his gaze darkens with need.

— Fuck... — he exhales, his pupils dilated as he devours you with his eyes. — I knew you'd look beautiful, but... this is beyond my wildest dreams.

His husky voice fills the air between you, laden with an adoration that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers trace the curve of your thigh, barely a touch, as he seems to debate whether to continue or surrender to you.

— I'm debating whether to touch you or kneel and worship you because you truly are a goddess... My goddess. — he declares with an intensity that makes you shudder involuntarily, his eyes anchored to yours as a malicious smile curves your lips. The way you smile, as if he owned you completely, only fuels the fire in his gaze.

Without breaking eye contact, you lie down on the table, stretching with a slowness that borders on sensual. The cold wood beneath your back contrasts with the heat burning on your skin. You display yourself before him without a trace of shame, and the gleam in his eyes, darkened by desire, makes you shudder.

He begins to unbutton his shirt. His fingers work with deliberate slowness, revealing every inch of taut, firm skin. In the dim light, you begin to notice the subtle scars that adorn his torso, silent traces of a past filled with battles and danger. They're old, fading with time, but still visible enough to tell stories without words. And somehow, that only makes him more attractive. Every mark, every line on his skin is proof of his strength, his dedication, and the knowledge of everything he's endured awakens in you an even more intense desire.

When the shirt falls to the floor, his breathing is harsh, his chest rising and falling sharply. His hands move down to his belt, but before he can do anything else, you slowly sit up, as if some invisible force is pulling you towards him.

— Wait, I want to help. — you offer, your voice laden with a low, seductive tone.

You approach him and, with a mischievous smile, replace his hands with yours. Your fingers slide over the leather, unbuckling his belt with a sensuality that renders him completely immobile. His breathing becomes heavier, his jaw tense as he watches your every move.

— You're making it difficult to maintain any semblance of gentlemanly behavior. — he whispers, his hands returning to your hips, trapping you in a touch as subtle as it is charged with intent.

— I don't want to seem too innocent... — you murmur softly as your fingers slide down the loop of his jeans, undoing the button with deliberate precision. The zipper slides down slowly, the sound almost imperceptible but encapsulating silent promises. Your eyes remain fixed on his, defiant yet vulnerable. — Not for someone who surely isn't used to delicate women like me.

A hiss escapes his lips as your fingers brush the exposed skin beneath the hem of his jeans. The tension between you feels like an electric current, vibrating in the air. His hand rises to your cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lower lip in a slow, reverent caress.

— Delicate? — he repeats, his tone thick with disbelief, his eyes darkening with desire and tenderness.

— It's my way of expressing that this is the first time I've been in a situation like this. — you confess, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you continue to pull down his pants, your hands grazing the contours of his hips as you slide them down his legs.

His eyes soften at your confession, but the spark of desire in them doesn't go out. He helps you remove his pants, standing before you in his boxers, his breathing heavy as his gaze scans every inch of your body with barely contained hunger.

— Princess, I am truly honored to be the one to experience this with you. — His low, husky voice caresses the air between you.

Your breathing quickens as he moves closer, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips, sliding down the waistband of your panties. His closeness clouds your mind, the heat radiating from his body, enveloping you.

— Showing shamelessness will be my way of hiding the fact that I might disappoint you with my lack of experience. — you murmur, your voice cracking slightly under the mixture of nerves and anxiety.

He gently tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The intensity in his gaze momentarily takes your breath away.

— Impossible... — he firmly denies. — Do you realize how fucking sexy you are right now? Vulnerable and yet totally self-confident — His hands slide agonizingly slowly down your waist, his thumbs caressing the exposed skin with slow strokes. His mouth descends to your neck, leaving a warm kiss before his teeth graze your skin with a light bite that draws an involuntary sigh from you. — And trust me, even if it's your first time, how could you disappoint me, darling? Nerves, inexperience... only make this moment more sincere, more intimate.

His mouth continues lower, tracing a burning path down your neck to your collarbone. His tongue grazes your skin before sucking gently, leaving a warm tingle that spreads throughout your body. Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging lightly into his skin as he leaves another soft bite on your collarbone, followed by a wet kiss that makes you gasp.

— I really want to do it with you. — you reaffirm in a shaky whisper, urgency pulsing in every word.

His eyes darken even further, his lips curving into a smile heavy with satisfaction. He leans toward you, brushing his nose against yours before capturing your lips in a deep, demanding kiss. His tongue slides between your lips, exploring with a sensuality that makes you arch toward him, seeking more. His breath mingles with yours, his hands traveling down your back, sliding over the smooth exposed skin, brushing your hair.

— Then let’s do this... — he whispers against your lips, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. — Lie back, and let me show you how good this can be.

He gently guides you back, making you lie down on the table. The cold of the wood contrasts with the scorching heat of his body on yours. His hands travel up your thighs, slowly parting them as his mouth returns to your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses that descend dangerously to your tits. His tongue circles your skin, his teeth delicately graze a nipple before sucking, drawing a breathy moan from you.

Your hands find his back, sliding over his tense muscles as he moves down your abdomen, his mouth following the path of his hands. Your panties are at the limit of his fingers, and he looks at you with a mixture of devotion and lust. He took his time, sliding the fabric down your legs in a slow cadence, his touch soft and reverent. He tossed them aside and stepped back for a moment to gaze down at you, completely naked and trusting. His eyes darkened with desire, but he maintained a tender expression.

— You're absolutely beautiful. — More than a compliment, it's a genuine statement. He was fascinated by you and your gorgeous body.

— You flatter me. — you reply, letting out a soft chuckle as you lean up on your elbows so you can look at him. He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling as he appreciates your modest chuckle. He leans closer again, and his fingers hook through your legs to separate them further.

— There's no flattery involved, these are more than just words — he assured, his fingers tracing tantalizing patterns on the inside of your thighs, causing your skin to prickle and your pussy to ache with need for his touch. — You look stunning this way : open, trusting, and eager. You, in all your splendor, that makes you more beautiful than you could ever imagine. — he affirms, and his caresses become more intense and difficult to bear as he approaches the center of your legs, which throbs eagerly for his attention.

— And soon, I'll be moaning your name, also christening this new art studio. — you add, wanting quell the burning excitement with humor.

Heeseung threw his head back with a deep, genuine laugh at your bold addition, his eyes shining with joy and desire. You never ceased to amaze him.

— Fuck, you're perfect — he moaned, leaning down to place a hot kiss just above your knee, his hand continuing to torture you with slow caresses on your inner thigh. — Do you really think you'll be moaning my name soon?"

— Maybe... — you replied, smiling mischievously. His teasing smile widened at your expression. He knew that smile was dangerous : mischievous yet innocent.

— What if I told you I'm good with my mouth? — He watched your reaction closely, his fingers unconsciously parting your legs further.

— Well, if you're that good a kisser, I have no doubt you'd do wonders using it down there, between my legs. — you respond shamelessly, simultaneously adjusting yourself to rest your feet on the edge of the table and spread yourself even more obscenely for him. His smirk widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Without wasting another second, he kneels between your legs, still grinning, and declares,

— I bet I can make you scream.

— I bet the same. — you reply mockingly, though deep down you tremble with anticipation at the sight of him kneeling, his face between your legs, his warm breath fanning your most intimate area.

Heeseung smirked, aware of the effect he was having on you without even doing much of anything. His hands slid under your thighs, tilting you closer to the reach of his mouth. With the first contact, he took his time, licking and sucking at your folds, striving to learn what made you gasp and squirm. When he found that sweet spot, he zeroed in, his tongue swirling and pressing against your clit almost desperately, causing your hips to buck toward him, seeking more. His lips closed around your swollen bud, sucking hard.

Your breaths became ragged as his hands gripped your hips tightly, making sure to keep you in place as he sucked hungrily on your clit.

— Mmph! Heeseung~ — you moaned softly, pressing your hands to his head, letting your fingers tangle in his hair. Your back arched off the table, and your abdomen tightened as your chest rose and fell rapidly with labored breaths.

For his part, Heeseung let out a satisfied hum, the sound reverberating against your warm core and making you gasp even louder. He loved hearing his name on your lips, and even more so the way your body responded to him. Without any warning, he slid two fingers through your soaked entrance, your warm, bulbous walls welcoming him with a delicious squeeze. Immediately, he began probing your insides, skillfully curling his digits to reach that spot that would make your eyes roll back.

— Oh! Wait... — you whimpered at how right his action was, and how good it felt. But Heeseung didn't stop. Understanding perfectly well that he really shouldn't stop; it was a normal reaction to the unexpected intrusion of his fingers into your sensitive pussy.

He pushed his fingers deeper, parting them slightly, scissoring them to stretch you. He captured your clit between his lips once more, sucking gently as his fingers worked their magic inside you.

— Babe? — he alluded suddenly, his eyes searching yours, wanting to make sure everything was in perfect order with you.

— I'm fine. Don't stop~ — you replied between moans. To which Lee groaned softly, loving your simple response.

He added another finger, stretching you further, preparing and stimulating your sex as much as necessary. He could feel the muscles in your thighs tense, your moans grow louder, and your entire body begin to shake and writhe involuntarily on the table. He knew you were about to break. That's why he grew excited and twisted his fingers inside you more insistently, pressing on that spot that reduced you to a wet, trembling mess.

He looked up and witnessed the way your face contorted with pure pleasure, your eyes rolling back, your lips parted, letting out your sweet moans and noises, and those cheeks flushed with excitement more than shyness. He was fascinated by every tiny detail of you as you were sexually pleasured. He wanted more of that, more of you, he wanted to take you to the edge, make you succumb to him.

And he did it, he got what he wanted, the moment you couldn't hold back, and you came undone on his fingers and in his mouth. Your moans echoed clearly. He felt your orgasm overflowing, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as you came undone. He moaned against you, savoring your pleasure before slowly pulling his fingers out and giving you one last lick on your clit.

With some care, he straightens and hovers over your small body lying on the table, still convulsing from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His hand lovingly caresses your face. His thumb runs over your flushed cheek as he watches you come down from your high. A satisfied smile touches his lips, knowing he's the reason for that dazed expression. He leans down and kisses you on the lips, hindering your attempt to catch your breath.

— Is my precious lady okay? — he asks as soon as he finishes kissing you. His voice is soothing and genuinely concerned for you.

— Don't worry, I'm okay. That was amazing, really good. — you reply breathlessly, still struggling to catch your breath, but there's a note of pleasure underneath.

A spark of pride lights his eyes at the sound of you, and the arc of his smile widens slightly. His gaze descends with deliberate slowness, tracing the contours of your naked body with a palpable desire that makes your skin prickle under his scrutiny. His hands still frame your face, but the heat of his palms seems to penetrate deeper, igniting something still burning inside you.

— I'm glad you liked it, baby. — he whispers with satisfaction.

The tension in the air thickens as you reach for him, sliding them over the skin of his abdomen to the beginning of his boxers. A strangled gasp escapes his lips when you hook your fingers in the elastic waistband, and his breath catches. The intensity in his gaze deepens, darkening with a desire that seems to consume the air between you.

He steps back slightly and allows you to pull the garment down, without resistance. His erect member springs free and stands against his abdomen.

— It’s your turn… — you declare with a softness laden with intent, your fingers tracing a lazy path up his hip. He looks up at you as you cup his erection in your hand and stroke it gently.

His chest expands with a heavy inhale as your fingers close around his thickness, and the way you position yourself on the edge of the table, lying sideways, while you move your hand up and down his penis. He tangles his fingers in your hair as you stroke him, and a moan escapes his throat. The sight of you completely naked and touching him is almost unbearable; he could burst and spill just looking at you.

— Am I doing this right? — you ask, looking up at him with bright eyes, full of excitement and innocence, causing his own eyes to soften at your question, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

— You're perfect... — he assures without hesitation, and lowers his hand to yours on his member, showing you the perfect rhythm and pressure, the thing that drives him the most crazy. — Just like that. Fuck, you're good at this.

You suddenly see his free hand slide with delicious delicacy between your legs and his fingers caress the wet lips of your pussy, still sensitive from the orgasm he made you have with his mouth. Meanwhile, you continue pumping his length.

— Hey, you're supposed to be the one receiving now. — you chide, giving him a reproachful look, and he chuckles, his fingers stroking your folds possessively.

— Shh~ I'm enjoying it. — he mumbles. His hips buck slightly against your hand, almost fucking your fist. He feels him getting close, but he also wants you to squirm for him.

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself moaning; his fingers plunged in again without reservation, bursting into your pussy, caressing your walls, feeling them clench just like before. But he wasn't the only one doing more. In an unexpected move, you took his cock into your mouth, taking what you could, relaxing your jaw to accommodate him properly, at the same time parting your legs so he could better insert his fingers while you sucked him off.

His eyes widened in surprise and pleasure the instant you took him into your mouth, your wet, warm heat enveloping him completely. He let out a throaty moan, and his fingers thrust in and out at a steady, merciless pace, fervently rubbing against your walls, feeling them tighten and throb.

This was better than anything he'd ever experienced. Which led him to declare :

— You're going to be the death of me, I'm taking it for granted."

But your simple response was to moan around his cock, sucking more eagerly with each passing second, enjoying his reactions, the kinky wet sounds, and at the same time, how his fingers so expertly fuck your pussy. Heeseung stares at you with devotion as you suck him off relentlessly, his fingers sinking deeper into your heat, reaching that point that makes you choke around his member. He's never seen anything sexier in his entire life. Or maybe it was the effect produced by the simple fact that it was you. And, as if seeking to end his sanity, you tilt your head off the table, trying to take more of him into your mouth.

You seemed to like this much more than either of you could have expected.

His cock throbs against your tongue as you take him deeper, almost gagging, completely ignoring any gagging. Leaving him amazed by your enthusiasm and skill. With a moan, he curls his fingers inside you, precisely caressing that magical spot that makes your whole body shudder.

— Princess, you're going to make me cum... — he growls through gritted teeth.

You pull out of your mouth for a moment, just to catch your breath, but you don't stop servicing him with your hand, running your hands up and down the hot, saliva-covered skin. Your lips feel swollen and wet, but moaning while he continues to make you see stars with his fingers distracts you. Heeseung looks at you, his face flushed, his lips swollen, his hand moving rapidly over his length. He can't hold back any longer.

— Cum with me. — he demands between heavy exhales, and simultaneously, his fingers speed up the pace inside you, thrusting in and out relentlessly, making you moan loudly. But you take him back into your mouth, sucking the tip steadily while you continue to move your hand along the rest of his length.

He rolls his eyes as you take him again, your hand and mouth in perfect harmony. He feels his release creeping in, his balls tightening. He lets out a strangled cry as he feels you suck harder and your tongue swirl around the tip. And just like that, your body convulses once more, consumed by ecstasy, and you cum on his fingers as he spills into your mouth, his hot, salty semen filling you and running down your throat.

He's never experienced an ejaculation so intense, so satisfying. He keeps thrusting his fingers into you through the orgasm, prolonging the pleasure until you're a quivering, panting mess on the table.

— Fuck, that was… — He’s unable to finish the sentence, his voice cut off by a heavy gasp, caused by the intense aftershocks that ravage your body.

For your part, you move away from his penis and lie back, tired and exhausted, on the table. Lee is about to make sure you’re okay, but, to both of your misfortunes, his cell phone rings, and you both sigh in frustration. However, he picks up the device and turns it off, completely ignoring the unwelcome call, his attention focused solely on you. No one was going to ruin his perfect moment.

He gently removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth to clean them with his tongue, once again delighting in the exquisiteness of your warm essence. He watches you lie there, exhausted and satisfied. A smile spreads across his lips as he realizes how intense it was.

— Are you okay, baby girl? — he questions, looking at you closely, studying you, wanting to assure you that only pleasure and comfort were what you were feeling. And luckily, your answer reassured him.

— I can assure you, I'm more than fine — you reply in a soft, smiling voice. You hear him sigh with satisfaction, and his thumb gently strokes your hipbone, in a gesture that is both tender and possessive. — How are you?

— I'm fucking great, princess. I've never felt anything like this — he admits in a voice somewhere between astonished and satisfied; he really does seem so happy. — You're incredible, did you know that? — he adds in a tone full of admiration.

—I'm glad I did well. — you reply, smiling proudly at yourself. To which Heeseung laughs softly and leans in to place a soft kiss on your forehead, then another on your nose, and finally a longer one on your lips.

— You were more than 'well'. You blew my mind — he replies after breaking away from the kiss. His hand slides from your hip to your waist, holding you firmly. — But... — Suddenly, he drags you to the edge of the table and spreads your legs, his eyes darkening with renewed desire. He can't get enough of you, and it doesn't look like he's going to anytime soon. — I can't just let you lie there looking so sexy and not do something about it. — he states in a low, husky voice, causing you to shudder.

— Oh, that wouldn't be acceptable, would it? — you respond playfully, playing along. The older man smiles mischievously, his hands running down your legs to the inside of your thighs.

— No, it wouldn't be. After all, my job is to protect you. And right now, I need to protect you from being neglected. — He positions himself between your legs and opens them wider, making the necessary space for himself, as he takes his member in his hand and strokes its tip against your sensitive clit, moving down your wet slit, collecting your juices, before repeating the motion a few times.

He watches your expression closely as he strokes your pussy with his tip, his eyes dark with desire and something softer, almost gentle. He knows he's about to pluck the petals of your innocence, and despite his dominant nature, he wants this moment to be special for you.

— I want your eyes on me, gorgeous. — More than a request, it's really a command, laced with his need to capture your expression the moment he finally goes further.

He watches the way you sit almost upright and bring your hands to his back, your delicate fingers digging into his skin, clinging to his body. He leans closer to you, wrapping his free arm around your waist to support you. He continues stroking your clit with his glans, spreading your wetness and increasing your anticipation. He catches you with his gaze, his eyes boring into yours.

— You're mine now, okay? This changes everything. — His voice is deep, filled with a mixture of possessiveness and vulnerability.

— I've always been yours. — you gasp softly, and his eyes soften at your words, a surge of emotion mingling with his arousal.

He leans down to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, trying to keep you distracted as he finally fits himself against your wet entrance. His tip presses against you with eager insistence, slowly beginning to push in, until, with a gentle but firm push, he pierces your hymen, eliciting a stifled cry from both of you. The sensation of encasing himself in your tight heat makes him see stars too, but he struggles to hold back a little.

— It's okay, it's okay, babe. I know it hurts, but you'll feel amazing soon... — Still against your mouth, he whispers those reassuring words, one hand stroking your hair while the other grips your hips tightly. He begins to move slowly, giving your body time to adjust to his size.

— Heeseung~ — you moan, deeply enraptured as he goes deeper and deeper, deliciously filling and stretching your tight pussy. His control almost breaks at the sound of your moans mixed with his name.

One of his hands moves to your ass, squeezing it possessively, tilting your hips to get a deeper angle. His hips thrust gently but firmly, his swollen member sliding in and out of you in unnecessary movements. He watches in fascination as you lie back again, arching your back and spreading your legs wider to better fit him. He uses that moment to push himself deeper between them and, holding them, wraps them around his waist. He slides an arm under your back, holding you and allowing you to arch fully.

— Look at us, look how well you take me, princess. — he pants, keeping his gaze down between your legs, watching his cock fill you.

— I'm liking taking you~ — you moan softly, your voice slipping like a hot whisper in the air.

After listening to you, he begins to move more deliberately, each thrust measured but intense, searching for the perfect rhythm to make you enjoy yourself. One hand moves between your thighs, searching for your clit with skillful fingers. The contact makes your body shudder, and your moans become more frequent.

— Can you hold out longer, baby? — he asks, his voice low and raspy, as he gently rubs around your sensitive bud, continuing to thrust. His hot breath glides over your skin, making you feel like you're on fire inside.

— Yes, love. Yes, I can. — you respond ecstatically, oblivious to shyness, as your body arches toward him, seeking more contact, more pressure. Your voice is a desperate whisper, a call for him to take you further, deeper.

However, hearing you call him "love" triggers a excitement is on the edge, and his movements become frantic, more intense.

— Say it again... — he demands, his voice muffled against your breasts, as his tongue glides over one of your hardened peaks, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He begins to thrust faster, deeper, hitting spots inside you that make you moan and feel like you're about to fall apart.

— It can't be that you like a simple nickname so much. — You giggle lightly between moans, as your body moves to the rhythm of his thrusts. Your hands clutch at his back, searching for something to hold on to. Heeseung laughs breathlessly, his breath hot against your chest.

— It's not just a nickname when you say it — He lifts his head to look into your eyes, his hips never stopping their rhythmic movements, as his hand slides over your skin, searching for sensitive spots, seeking to make you feel alive. — You calling me 'love' makes me feel like you're giving me something precious.

— Well, I'm giving you all of me, love... — you murmur thoughtfully, as your body surrenders to him, as your soul opens, offering itself. Your voice is a desperate whisper, a call for him to take you, to make you his completely.

His breath catches at your words, emotion overwhelms his lust for a moment, and his movements stop. Then, he kisses you deeply, desperately, pouring all his feelings into the kiss, as his tongue slides over yours, his teeth capture your lower lip in a sweet bite that makes you gasp. When he pulls back, he looks at you, his eyes intense, full of emotion.

— Then I'm very lucky, because you're the most precious thing anyone has ever given me. — His voice is gentle, a murmur of gratitude, of love.

— Come here. — you gasp, taking his face in your hands and pulling him in for a kiss, to feel his warmth. Your mouth opens and his tongue slides inside.

He lifts you slightly, both hands on your hips, moving them off the table to change the angle, and his cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you scream into his mouth. The air escapes your lungs in a ragged gasp, and your legs tense around his waist, trying to keep him inside you.

You look into his eyes, your pupils dilated, filled with adoration and mutual desire. You keep your hand on his face, caressing his cheek, while you moan at his precise, deep penetrations. His gaze is like a magnet, attracting yours, and you feel lost in the abyss of his eyes. His lips curve into a smile, and his tongue comes out to lick your lips, as if he's savoring their taste.

— You look at me as if I'm the only thing you see. —He whispers, his voice husky with arousal.

— And you are. —You gasp softly in reply, your words like a trigger that breaks his control.

He starts moving faster, harder, his hips slamming into yours. The table creaks beneath you, but he doesn't slow down. He loses himself in your eyes, in the feeling of your pussy surrounding him, in the sound of your voice. His breathing is ragged, and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

— Heeseung… — His name amid your moans echoes throughout the room, as do the sounds of skin against skin with each thrust.

Your voice is like a chant, a hymn to the passion that consumes you, as he continues hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The sensation is like a tsunami, a wave of pleasure that drags you toward the abyss.

— Louder… — he growls, his hands squeezing your thighs, spreading them as far as he can, and his cock drives deeper into you. You feel like you’re being torn apart by passion, like your body is being consumed by the intensity surrounding them. — Say my name again.

— Ah! Heeseung! — you whimper, your voice like a scream of release that echoes through the spacious studio. The orgasm is searing. But he doesn’t stop, he keeps moving, keeps driving his member into you, relentlessly.

He watches your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open in a silent scream. He sees your chest rise and fall rapidly, hears your soft moans. But instead of slowing down, he goes faster, penetrating you mercilessly. He wants another, another cry of ecstasy, another orgasm. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it in firm but gentle circles, trying to coax all the pleasure he can from your body.

— Hee~ — you whine pitifully, due to the overstimulation. He smiles devilishly, knowing exactly what those moans mean, but still continues his rhythm.

— One more, baby. Give me one more. You can take it... I know it. — He pants, sweat dripping from his forehead. His voice is like a challenge to your resistance.

— But I want you to cum too. — Your voice is almost a whisper. You really want him to release himself, to let himself go completely and lose himself in the abyss of lust where they're suspended.

His eyes nearly roll back at your words, as a wave of desire overwhelms him and drags him closer to the shore. He bites his lower lip, fighting to contain his own ejaculation, the throbbing desire that threatens to spill over.

— Not until you do it again. — he growls, his jaw clenched, his voice deep and thick with need. He presses his thumb harder against your clit, feeling your body tremble beneath his touch.

— Then cum with me. — you beg, your moans intertwining with the urgency of your words.

His eyes darken with intense desire, and he nods, unable to resist your plea. He adjusts the angle slightly, relentlessly hitting that perfect spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

— Let's cum together, my princess. — he growls with a possessive tone, his movements becoming more urgent, primal, as if each thrust demands your total surrender.

You moan loudly once more, tightening your legs around his waist, digging your fingers into his forearms, feeling the strength of his body against yours. At the sound of his name on your lips, he loses control completely. With a loud grunt, he buries his face in your neck, inhaling your scent, and his entire body tenses as he reaches climax. He feels another orgasm wash over you, your throbbing walls enveloping him, triggering his own release.

He swallows your screams, his lips devouring yours in a deep, ravenous kiss. Your bodies convulse against each other, his hot seed filling your insides, as a soft groan escapes his lips, another wave of pleasure hits him, and your inner muscles squeeze him dry. He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, watching as you crumble again, lost in euphoria.

— I love you~ — you gasp softly, a surge of vulnerability floating in the air. Your confession seems to stop time. His eyes, dark and deep, bore into yours with overwhelming intensity, filled with wonder and adoration.

Something in him shudders, as if your words have pierced every layer of his being, reaching a place no one else has ever touched before. His body still trembles with the aftershocks of his relentless passion, and yet it's your declaration that truly takes his breath away. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, the most beautiful and genuine you've ever seen. But the silence between you lengthens, and uncertainty begins to settle in your chest.

— Why aren't you answering? — you ask in a whisper, the echo of your fear resonating between you both.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his fingers find your face with infinite tenderness, his thumbs gently wiping away the sweat and tears of pleasure gathering at the corners of your eyes. His touch is reverent, as if you were something sacred.

— Because I'm still trying to process that you just said those three words to me. — His voice is a husky whisper, thick with emotion. He takes a deep breath, never taking his eyes off yours, finding in them all the answers he didn't know he needed.

— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. — you excuse yourself timidly, but before insecurity can take hold, he shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping his lips. And then he kisses you.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a refuge, a silent promise, an absolute surrender. You pour all your emotions into it. He kisses you with a devotion that rekindles the spark between you, dispelling any doubts. When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests on yours, his eyes closed tightly, as if afraid that when he opens them, this moment might vanish. But you’re there. He’s there. And nothing in the world could make this moment cease to exist.

— You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear those words from you, so don’t apologize — he whispers, his voice imbued with a sincerity that envelops you like a caress. His gaze shines with a mixture of relief and suppressed emotion.

— I really wanted to say them. — you murmur softly, brushing your nose against his in a tender and complicit gesture.

His reaction is immediate. He wraps you in his arms with a strength that doesn't seek to possess, but to hold you, wanting to reassure himself that you are real, that this moment isn't a fleeting dream. His body relaxes in the embrace, for the first time in a long time, finding true peace. The warmth he radiates is comforting, enveloping, and in that contact he understands: these aren't just words. They are an absolute truth, as undeniable as the way your heart beats in unison with his.

A soft smile spreads across his face, his eyes crinkling tenderly as he absorbs every nuance of this moment. But the intensity of his love, this longing he's harbored for so long, compels him to seek confirmation.

— Are you serious? — His voice is a deep whisper, thick with emotion, while his eyes cling to yours with quiet desperation. He needs to hear it again. He needs to know this is real.

— I'm completely serious, Heeseung. I love you. — you repeat firmly, letting each word resonate with truth, with the strength of a feeling that leaves no room for doubt.

Something in him breaks and mends itself at the same time. His lips part slightly, as if he wants to respond immediately, but the torrent of emotion is too much. A single tear slides down his cheek, a silent witness to the impact of your words. He takes a deep breath, trying to stem the avalanche of feelings, but his voice trembles when he finally lets out the answer he's been keeping deep inside.

— I love you too. — In those four words, filled with an indescribable intensity, his whole world aligns with yours.

Your heart beats frantically at just hearing it, the butterflies in your stomach flutter, but there's something else that captures your attention in that instant.

— I guess you're not the only one who loves me. — you comment, amused, feeling his desire renewed inside you, his cock hardening once more.

He chuckles softly, a deep sound that resonates in his chest, filled with satisfaction. He gently moves his hips, teasing you with his renewed hardness.

— It seems so. And it also seems like I'll have a hard time tiring of you, too. — he says, his voice husky with desire, thick with palpable lust.

— I want you to bend me over this table and take me from behind. — you gasp softly, each word professing desire.

His body shudders at your heated words, his member throbbing urgently inside you. With a grunt of pure pleasure, he slowly withdraws, enjoying the exquisite friction of each brush as his manhood slides out of your cushioned, warm walls. In one swift, determined movement, he lifts you off the table, turns you over, and bends you over the wooden surface, pressing your tits against it.

Suddenly, you feel the impact of his hand on your buttock, a blow that makes you shudder and moan in surprise, but that ends up resulting in a delicious stinging sensation. He smiles wickedly at your words, loving with some morbidity the pinkish trace he leaves on your pale skin. He rubs the spot before delivering another firm slap, enjoying the way you wriggle under his touch.

Without warning, he penetrates you again, sinking his member hard into your pussy, pressing his chest against your back as he presses you against the table and his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing you against him as he begins to thrust into you mercilessly. The table creaks under the force of his movements, his muscles contracting and relaxing in a primal rhythm as he thrusts in and out again and again, without any restraint.

— Do you like it? — he asks between moans, his hot breath caressing your skin.

�� I love it~ — you moan, fascinated, and he leaves soft kisses on your cheek, each touch igniting the fire between you even more.

He continues thrusting into you, his movements becoming more erratic and desperate as you move. He pursues his next release. He nestles into the crook of your neck, his lips and tongue peppering your skin with hot kisses, marking you as his with every touch. He hooks an arm under one of your legs and lifts it to the edge of the table, allowing him deeper access, each penetration sending waves of pleasure through your body.

— Tell me you're only mine. — he growls, his teeth grazing your neck, a touch that sends shivers of pleasure through you.

— I am, I'm only yours. — you whimper loudly. He shudders at your words, an intense wave of possession and love enveloping him completely.

He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he continues to penetrate you, each movement bringing him closer to the edge of ecstasy and sensitivity.

— I love you~ — he whispers huskily, each syllable filled with fervor.

— I love you too. — you reply between moans. Bringing a hand between your body and the table, he moves down your abdomen until he finds your clitoris and begins to rub it, once again seeking that relief that seems so close.

Heeseung feels you arch, your body eager for release again. Firmly, he circles your wrist with his fingers, pulling your hand away from its goal. He wants to be the one to bring you to climax, not your own fingers.

— My turn… — he growls, replacing your fingers with his, his expert touch fanning the flames of ecstasy in your body.

— Mmm~ H-Heeseung! — you mumble, choked, your insides throbbing, nearing orgasm. You clutch the table, seeking stability in the abyss of pleasure.

He feels your limbs trembling, aware that you're on the verge of unraveling again. He rubs your clit with firm pressure, synchronizing his movements with his thrusts. With his other hand, he grabs your hips, holding you tight as he thrusts relentlessly.

— Be a good girl and cum for me again... — he commands huskily, a command that resonates deep inside you. And without further ado, Heeseung feels you convulse around him, reaching your climax, his name on your lips. — That's it, you're doing so good, baby. So good for me.

He continues moving inside you, prolonging your pleasure, reveling in the way your body trembles and gripping him in an ecstasy that seems to have no end. His own climax reaches him like a crashing wave, and with one last deep thrust, he lets himself go, spilling inside you once more, with an intensity that leaves him trembling. A deep roar escapes his throat, his gravelly voice reverberating through the studio as his body surrenders to the wave of sensations coursing through him.

The air is still thick with desire and something deeper, something beyond physical pleasure. With a ragged sigh, you collapse onto the table, the warmth of your skin meeting the coolness of the wood as you try to catch your breath. Heeseung doesn't move away. Instead, he snuggles up against you, his face finding refuge in the crook of your neck and shoulder, his still erratic breathing brushing your skin. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you against him with possessive need.

— You fascinate me. — His voice is a deep whisper, still laced with emotion and desire. His lips brush against your skin as he continues to murmur words of adoration, telling you how much he loves you, how beautiful you are, how unique it feels to have you in his life.

Each word is a balm, a reminder that this isn't just desire, but something bigger, more real. His confessions feel like invisible caresses, enveloping you in a bubble of tranquility, one that belongs only to this moment, to the two of you, and to the certainty that, for now, nothing else matters.

#enhypen #enhypen heeseung #enhypen jake #heeseung #jake sim #jay enhypen #jungwon #kpop #lee heeseung #park sunghoon #enhypen smut #heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #kpop smut #kim sunoo #nishimura riki #heeseung lee #nsf/w

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vivwritescrappythings · 3 months ago

Text

only a little crazy

miguel o'hara x f!reader

You get hurt working at the Spider-Society and your grumpy boss decides to come check on you.

a/n: thank you for such a fun request! writing Miguel has been a good stretch for my brain. Thinking about turning this into a series so let me know how y'all like it :)

tw: fem reader, reader is shorter than Miguel (everyone is), Miguel's perspective, potentially poorly written Spanish, broken bones, canon typical violence, not proofread, Miguel may be poorly written

word count: 4.8k

masterlist

Despite Miguel’s many attempts to assign rules and procedures to the Spider-Society, only a few had ever stuck: no messing with canon events and civilians weren’t allowed to go beyond the lobby. He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d yelled at Peter B. Parker about letting Mary Jane go wherever she wanted.

Everyone else listened well enough.

That is, until you came into Miguel’s life like a plague.

You were nothing more than a thorn in his side: the only civilian with nearly full access to the facility. He would have never hired someone who hacked into their whole system because they were bored one day, but Margo insisted that you were one of the best she’d ever seen. You had since apologized—you cited your curiosity about the large building’s purpose and had taken matters into your own hands to figure out what went on inside the society.

In comparison to you, Peter B. Parker and Mary Jane were a cakewalk.

It didn’t help that you were so goddamn chipper all the time. You always greeted Miguel with a bright smile and polite questions about his day, as though you had no idea just how insufferable he found you.

“Hey Miguel,” you said from behind your computer, the monitor illuminating you in tones of blue and pink. You clicked something before leaning your weight onto one elbow to look around the screen at him. “Margo left me in charge today, just so you know.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“LYLA would be in charge before I picked you,” he said, not bothering to look up from his reports. You laughed like it was a joke. Everything was a joke to you.

“Mhm,” you hummed, typing something. Miguel couldn’t help but notice the way you poked your tongue out while you concentrated, your brows furrowed. He paused, waiting for you to continue as he watched you just over the edge of the monitor. Working with you for almost a year now had taught him that you rarely were so succinct with your words.

Then you spun the monitor around, a flurry of motion as you leaned over the table to point at something on the screen. “There’s a lot of weird activity on Earth-325,” you said, tapping the screen over the amalgamation of yellow and orange. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was an anomaly, but you’re the expert on that.”

He didn’t miss the way you looked up at him expectantly, like a puppy waiting for a treat or a pat on the head for doing a trick right.

Miguel rolled his eyes as he grabbed the screen. He could feel his face contorting into a scowl as activity lit the monitor up. Another terrible part of dealing with you—you had a knack for always being right. It drove him crazy.

“I’ll get a team together,” he said, noting your pleased smile with a subtle roll of his eyes.

He was already flicking through screens on his tablet, sending Jessica the information. A portal opened in front of him, colors and shapes swirling together in a view that would’ve been awe-inspiring if he hadn’t seen it a million times.

“LYLA’s in charge,” Miguel said just before jumping into the portal. Your immediate groan of dismay followed by LYLA’s cheer made his lip twitch into a smile.

—

His ears were ringing.

It was still hard to wrap his head around what happened, the Spider-Society having devolved into chaos faster than he could have stopped it.

The anomaly they caught had broken loose–he blamed Peter B. Parker for being so distracted with Mayday. He could hear the distant shouts of Spider-People springing into action in the distance as he pulled himself out of a pile of freshly displaced rubble. The wide cap of his shoulder ached, not even his accelerated healing was able to chase away the sting of rebar nearly ripping through the fabric of his suit.

A clear trail of destruction followed the Venom variant, ribbons of torn webs hanging from every surface and the furniture tossed wildly across the room. Chunks of the walls were crushed into debris where bodies had crashed through them in the fight.

He picked up his pace, sprinting through Spider-Society like a force of nature. Sometimes he noticed how different he was from the others: preferring not to swing around on his webs and needing his claws to really climb anything. Not to mention he didn’t have the same irritating sense of humor that seemed to permeate every variant of Spider-Man.

A stream of shouts from the direction of the Go Home Machine made him redirect, propelling himself up the wall in a mass of sinew and muscle. Pushing himself like this felt good, the demand of a fight on his body was one of the few things that made Miguel actually feel alive.

It was a mess when he got there, girders collapsed from the ceiling and the majority of computers and desks were half-crushed.

“Hey Miguel, I hope you have a decent insurance policy on this place,” Peter B. quipped as he approached. Miguel just rolled his eyes beneath his mask, watching the rest of the Spiders web the Venom variant enough that the Go Home Machine actually had time to work. Normally anomalies were kept around for at least a while to figure out how they broke into a different universe, but he didn’t disagree with the change of plans.

Mierda. What a fucking mess.

He let the mask over his face flicker away as he surveyed the damage. It was enough to give him a headache, the feeling radiating from his temple and over his skull.

Peter was still running his mouth, some idiotic joke about how many Spider-People does it take to change a lightbulb spilling from his lips. Miguel could feel his temple throbbing, red seeping into his eyes as he felt a rebuke building in his chest.

“Are you a—“

“Oi, was Bug here today?” Hobie interrupted, the genuine concern in his tone giving Miguel pause.

Hobie was the first to call you Bug—something about ‘if they were all Spiders than you were a bug’—and it stuck. Miguel wasn’t sure if anyone called you by your name anymore.

“Yeah,” Miguel said, trying to find a sign of you in the undulating groups of blue and red and black suits. Too many blank stares met his gaze, anxiety making itself apparent in a cold sweat down his spine.

“LYLA?” It was more of a yell than he meant it to be. She could scan the room faster than he could take it apart.

“On it,” she answered in the same beat, yellow cones of light scanning various corners of the room. He had a hard time breathing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every empty scan ticked up his nerves, his jaw clenching so hard he wondered if it could crack.

It was hard not to spiral. He should have come up to protect you the moment the Venom got out. You were just a civilian, a human. How could he have been so irresponsible as to leave you on your own?

“Got something!” LYLA chirped, waving wildly to catch his attention.

Rushing to the pile of rubble was second nature, Hobie quickly falling into step to help. The sound of his own heart pounding was louder than the rubble they scrabbled through, pieces of concrete and duct piping falling away like they were made of paper beneath his hands.

“Dios mio,” Miguel sighed. You were caught beneath a girder, your leg twisted grotesquely beneath the metal. By some miracle you weren't crushed by the debris, just unconscious. You looked like a wounded baby bird, your chest rising and falling with each breath. Scrapes marred your skin, dark bruises blooming beneath the surface.

But you were alive, and mostly whole. His fingers twitched at his side as he just stared at you.

“Take her to the infirmary and then home,” Miguel said to Hobie, suddenly feeling the need to get as far away from you as breath returned to his body. He was nauseous, almost staggering under the weight of relief he had never expected to feel.

He stepped back, head tilting up toward the ceiling for a moment as he took a breath. The girder slammed on the ground when Hobie moved it off you, lifting you with care.

Miguel nearly stepped in to take you out of Hobie’s arms. He had to physically turn away from you to resist it, surveying the extent of the damage. Thankfully no other anomalies managed to escape their confinement, most of the damage was just superficial.

The sound of Hobie’s boots on the floor kept him composed, helped him time his breaths. He was still partially convinced that he would rip Peter B. apart if given the chance.

But instead he was just quiet, toeing a broken piece of a computer monitor on the floor. The weight of every eye in the room was on him, his skin crawling beneath his suit. He sighed, picking his head up to look at them.

“Well, start getting everything back together,” he said, voice loud enough to be an order.

It wasn’t what everyone expected, any other day he would have at least lectured Peter B. about paying attention. No one moved, their blinking almost audible in the silence.

“Ay chingado,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “No one has anything to do? Start cleaning up!”

—

He found himself hanging on to every scrap of information about how you were doing. It had only been a week, but any mention of you in the hall or in meetings piqued his interest. It was becoming obvious that he was distracted, his thoughts preoccupied with you… if you were alright.

What did it matter to him if you were alright? You’d been nothing but a grade A pain in his ass from the moment you set foot in his life.

But he realized he was putting together mental lists of exciting moments of his day just to tell you when you asked, he had been for months. He kept accidentally buying extra empanadas because you usually stole one from him. His step would falter at your desk, part of him expecting you to be there.

“So are you going to go visit Bug?” LYLA asked, catching Miguel off guard as she floated in front of his eyes, laying on her stomach with her feet kicking in the air.

He huffed, waving her away with a hand as he blinked at whatever he’d been trying to read on the computer monitor… just the home screen, apparently. The blue default photo mocked him before he turned away from the monitors altogether.

“Why would I do that?” Miguel asked, a feeble attempt to act casual.

Once the idea was introduced, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He imagined himself in your space, tried to picture what your things would be like. Chaotic, no doubt. But comfortable. Colorful, certainly. He couldn’t imagine you living in a pristine beige apartment.

“Miguel, the worst part about having an AI personal assistant is that I see everything you do. Everything,” she said, walking up and down his arm. She looked up at him over her shoulder. “So don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, okay?”

He kept a straight face for a few beats, crossing his arms over his chest. But LYLA was right, if anyone would know it was her.

“I need to be here,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face. Normally he preferred to be at the Spider-Society, the distraction of work far better than his reality. But it suddenly became a chore.

LYLA huffed, rolling her eyes behind the heart-shaped glasses. Sometimes Miguel wondered why he programmed her to be so sassy. “You don’t need to actually be here,” she said, folding her arms and tapping her foot in mid air as she floated in front of him. “Jessica and I will call you if anything crazy happens.”

Handing over the reins for the day was an intriguing idea. He could let the stress go, even just until tomorrow, let someone else handle it.

The bubble of hope rising in his chest was immediately popped by a sharp lance of anxiety. What if something happened? What if his absence got someone killed? Or worse, a universe destroyed?

LYLA must have noticed his expression shift, he could hear her sigh.

“If you don’t go, I’ll call Bug and tell her that you’ve been making googly eyes at her desk for the past week and have had to throw away like six empanadas that you bought for her,” LYLA said calmly, issuing her final threat.

“No me chingues,” Miguel hissed, his irritation on his face as he rolled his eyes. But his stomach was flipping, nerves he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager suddenly coming to life. “Fine, I’m going.”

LYLA looked pleased, blinking out of existence in front of him to appear at his computer monitors. She shifted through screens quickly, the colors flashing over her as she did. “I’ve already got the word out, so everyone knows not to bother you unless they are in dire need of assistance.”

“Great,” he breathed, getting a ping from LYLA with your address. She really spared no moment.

“If anything happens–”

“Don’t worry! We’ll call,” LYLA interrupting him, assuring him as she waved him off.

He sighed, still partially in disbelief that he let her strongarm him into this as he left the Spider-Society.

–

He would’ve guessed they paid you enough to have a better apartment. The underbelly of the city wasn’t somewhere he pictured you, the rest of Nueva York blocking you from the sun and the highway just outside your windows. There was a huge purple neon sign just outside your terrace–a remnant of the old New York that looked barely touched.

It hadn’t taken him long to find your building and even less time to find your apartment, the door to the terrace was left unlocked. He’d have to have a talk with you about that when you were feeling better.

The inside of your apartment was as he expected, a disorganized riot of color and trinkets and mementos that made the space so tooth-achingly cozy. He felt out of place, even in the simple civilian clothes he changed into. It was weird wearing them rather than his spidersuit, the soft fabric of the sweatpants and tee shirt had become unfamiliar.

You weren’t in the room he stood in, your bed, a couch and dining table shoved into a space smaller than his cubicle when he worked at Alchemax. He could see that you’d set up camp on your bed, pill bottles and dirty dishes piling up on your nightstand and the bed unmade. The TV was still playing some movie that had come out a few years ago, the remote tossed amongst your sheets.

He would have to clean up around here, the chaos already making him feel unmoored.

There was no time left for him to snoop, the sound of the sink in the bathroom reminding him why he was even in your apartment in the first place. The bathroom door swung open, the grumbles of you maneuvering with your crutches catching his attention.

You had a 3D-printed cast up to your mid-thigh, loose pajama pants stretched over the honeycombed plastic. He’d never seen you look so casual, an oversized, ratty shirt marked with stains and small holes covering your torso, your skin free of makeup and your hair unstyled. It took him a moment to realize he preferred you that way, a lump forming in his throat.

He was too caught up in his evaluation of you to note the way you stiffened when you realized there was another body in the room. Your eyes widened.

“What the fuck!” you shouted, your voice bringing Miguel back to reality just in time to catch the black stuffed bear flying at his face without dropping the bag of groceries he held in one hand. A throw pillow followed, bouncing harmlessly off his chest and falling to the rug.

Your mouth had dropped open, a crutch clattering to the ground as you pressed your hand to your heart. He could hear the rapid thrum of it beneath your ribs, a hummingbird caught in a cage.

“You were going to defend yourself from a burglar with a pillow and a teddy bear?” Miguel asked, looking down at the well-loved toy. One of the button eyes was missing entirely, just black bits of thread sticking out of the fabric. A red heart was stitched haphazardly into its chest.

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He swore he could almost hear your thoughts buffering. “You can’t just break into my apartment, Miguel! What if I was naked?”

He made an incredulous noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. Of course that’s what you would be worried about. “Well, you’re not naked,” he said, taking another step into the room. He slipped his shoes off and left them near the terrace door–force of habit from his childhood.

“I could’ve been!” you insisted, awkwardly navigating to your bed. Miguel watched with his hear in his throat, wanting to step in and carry you rather than watch you shuffle around.

He shook his head, stepping around your small coffee table. “What are you doing up, anyways?” he asked, taking over stacking pillows to prop your leg up, adding the throw pillow you threw at him to the pile. “The doctor said it would take twelve weeks for you to bear weight on it again.”

You clicked your tongue against the back of your teeth, letting him help you get situated in your bed. “Well the doctor didn’t give me a bedpan and a private chef, so I’m hobbling,” you informed him, looking up at Miguel with a bored expression. “But, what are you doing here, Miguel? Hobie and Peter B. have been checking on me.”

He looked around your studio apartment, taking in the disarray before focusing on you again. Your toenails were painted the same shade of navy that Hobie’s were. He sat down on the end of your bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

“Yeah well, considering the state of your apartment, it seems like you need me here more than you think,” he said.

You snorted, a grin that made his stomach turn finding its way to your face. “Aw Miggy,” there was a teasing lilt to your tone, “are you a secret softie? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were worried about me.”

He let out a soft breath instead of a laugh, standing abruptly so you couldn’t see the blush on his cheeks. God, he felt like a bumbling idiot around you. He gathered dirty dishes to do something with his hands, sequestering them to the sink.

“LYLA was asking about you,” he said, head bent over the sink as he started to clean. The water was warm enough to turn his hands red, the blue dish soap lathering quickly as he methodically washed each plate and set it in the rack to dry. They were charmingly mismatched, a few chipped at the edges.

“Oh, she was?” you asked, but your amused tone told Miguel that you weren’t exactly convinced.

He nodded anyway. “She rearranged my whole day and made me come out to check on you,” he said, not entirely lying.

The way you hummed felt like a warm finger running down each notch of his spine, a pleasant shiver radiating out to his fingertips and toes. “Well I guess I’ll have to thank her, sending the most neurotic person I know will at least get me a tidy apartment. Shocker that Peter B. and Hobie never offered to clean.”

The silence that lapsed between you was surprisingly comfortable. He made himself useful by performing menial tasks like collecting the trash and taking it out to the bins, sweeping the floors and throwing a load of clothes in the wash.

“Miguel O’Hara, Spider-Man by night, maid by day,” you murmured, sipping the ice water he’d gotten you. He watched the condensation coat your fingers, dripping to the bedspread. “Do you wear the little outfit, too? With the ruffles and the feather duster?”

“How many painkillers do they have you on?” he asked, picking up one of the little orange bottles on your nightstand. “You’re more irritating than usual.”

There was a hint of a smile, giving him away as he set the pills back where he got them from.

You rolled your eyes at him, lounging back against the pillows he’d fluffed for you. “I must be incredibly irritating for you to want to spend your day off cleaning my apartment and making me soup,” you teased, one eyebrow lifting. He felt like he’d been caught, some color finding its way to his face as he turned away.

A pot of caldo de pollo was simmering on the stove, he had decided to bring the ingredients with him on a whim. He used to make it for Gabriella when she was feeling sick, he’d filled his basket before he even realized what he was doing, originally he was just going to get you soup from a can.

Your apartment was in a way better state than when he arrived: the small space cleaned and orderly, the smell of cleaning solution and the soup permeating the air. He felt better about it, his nerves soothed for the most part.

“Don’t mention it to anyone,” he said, fixing you with his gaze. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting complacent.”

You laughed, nodding. “Don’t worry, Miggy, your secret is safe with me,” you said, pantomiming zipping your lips shut and locking them with a key. He snorted, taking a step back from your bed to stir the pot on the stove.

The only sound for a few moments was a sitcom playing on the television and the caldo simmering. Miguel had sorted through your cabinet of mismatched tupperware to find a few containers. He packed it away in the fridge for you to eat later, you’d already finished a full bowl of it by the time he cleaned the rest of the dishes.

He rubbed his hands on his pants as he glanced around awkwardly. Until then it had been easy to distract himself with tasks, to pretend that he wasn’t there just to see you. Now the truth was staring him in the face, your content sigh warming him from the inside out as you settled back into your bed.

“Well, I guess I should be going,” Miguel said, taking a step toward the sliding door from which he came originally.

Your brow furrowed as you sat up straighter, wincing a bit as you jostled your injured leg. “Already?” you asked, glancing at the clock on the stove–it was the early evening. If he was above ground the sun would still be out. “You just got to the part where we like… hang out.”

He pretended not to notice the sheepish lilt to your voice.

His eyebrows lifted, a chuckle getting caught in his throat. “You want to hang out?” Miguel asked, sounding incredulous. Such an innocuous request felt odd. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked to spend time with him.

“Oh c’mon,” you huffed, your head tilting to one side. “It’s so lonely being cooped up in this apartment all day, and you hardly even talked to me.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out and your eyes going wide like a puppy’s. It was enough to make him go still. He found himself considering it, settling in your cozy apartment and watching a movie with you.

“Just one movie and then you’re free to go,” you offered, your request too hopeful for him to refuse.

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing as he agreed.

The TV was tilted to face your bed, making it hard to view from the couch even as he sat at the very edge of it. You had an orange lamp on your bedside table, the glow of it casting a glare across the screen that obscured the cheesy teen movie you put on.

He could feel you glancing at him on occasion, the two of you almost playing tag with your wandering eyes. Every time he tried to catch your gaze you were watching the movie.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked, leaning to one side in an attempt to see around the glare on the screen.

“You should just come sit on the bed, you can’t even see the screen.” You sounded sincere. But, you did just take another dose of painkillers. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were clouding your judgment.

There was plenty of space next to you. He could sit next to you.

It would be more comfortable at least.

“You’re crazy, you know,” Miguel said, picking himself up off the couch. LYLA would never let him live this down if she found out about it.

Your mattress was so soft, squishing beneath him as he settled against the headboard next to you. It was like he was sixteen again, his palms clammy and his mouth dry as he tried to avoid looking at you like you were the sun.

Had he always been this nervous around you?

You nudged him with your elbow, interrupting the horrible spiral of his thoughts. “Thanks for going through all the trouble,” you murmured, your voice soft and sincere. “I know I get on your nerves… I guess it’s just really nice that you came.”

“Tch, you don’t get on my nerves,” he denied immediately, his eyes flickering away from yours.

He fought supervillians, stared down guns, and watched whole universes collapse. But he couldn’t quite look at you.

You laughed, yawning into your hand as you leaned even further back into the pillows. “Don’t lie,” you said with a smile, your eyes crinkling charmingly at the edges. “I know I drive you crazy, Miggy.”

It was his turn to snort, watching you out of the corner of your eye as you relaxed next to him. “Only a little,” he murmured, a genuine smile on his face.

You didn’t answer, just giggling as you yawned again. The movie you picked was horrible, the jokes painfully cheesy and outdated, but you laughed at them anyways. He found himself holding his breath after each one so he could hear your sleepy chuckle better, trying to memorize the sound of it.

It was near the end of the movie that he heard your heartbeat slow, your cheek falling against his shoulder as your breaths evened out. Miguel stiffened for a moment, looking down to see your eyelids fluttering and your lips parted as you dreamed.

The movie ran into the credits, autoplay putting on something he had never even heard of before. He didn’t bother reaching for the remote, scared he would wake you up by reaching across you to your nightstand.

He let his head rest against the crown of yours, his eyelids starting to drift shut as the noise of the television faded to the background. Calmness washed over him, the tension he carried with him sloughing off his shoulders. It had been way too long since he relaxed like this.

The sound of his watch beeping startled him out of his half-sleep, a lance of panic going through him.

LYLA formed into a hologram above the surface of it, orange and yellow beams of light fleshing her out as she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and all of her weight on one leg. “Jess and I haven’t heard from you all day, we were starting to worry that you died or som–”

Her eyes widened behind her rose glasses, her hands clasping together in front of her. “No way! Jessica, you were right! You have to come see them cuddled together!” she shouted to Jessica. Miguel cringed, worried you’d wake from the commotion.

You didn’t seem to notice, your breathing steady.

“Cállate,” Miguel hissed, turning the volume down. “Is there even a problem?”

LYLA thought about it for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin before she shook her head no.

He rolled his eyes. Of course there wasn’t a problem.

“Don’t bother me until tomorrow,” he said, turning off the call before she could answer. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his hand as he let himself slump against you.

He yawned again, finally drifting off to the rhythm of your soft breaths.

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara #atsv fanfiction #atsv miguel #atsv x reader #spider man 2099 #spider man x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fanfiction #reader insert #atsv x you #spider man x you #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse

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syoddeye · 5 months ago

Text

hard reboot. strict machine anthology. follow up to malicious entity.

cw: noncon/forced masturbation, allusions to and threats of torture, time loss, glib corporate talk discussing reader's experiences, badly named fictional sex toys

Internal Memo: Security Breach Incident Subject: Unauthorized Access Incident: Prototype Offline Date: [Redacted]

A critical security breach occurred involving the company's prototype assistant. The breach, originating from an unknown entity, resulted in the prototype being offline for an extended period. Investigations suggest that the breach was malicious in nature, leveraging advanced techniques to compromise system integrity. The exact source and method of access remain under investigation.

While the breach did not result in lasting, meaningful harm to the user, they were briefly exposed to unauthorized and hostile interaction. Standard protocol was followed, and the user was promptly compensated for their inconvenience with a $50 credit, .5 days of vacation, and discounted used of the company's mental health chatbot.

Next Steps:

System Audit: Immediate review of security protocols, with a focus on vulnerability management and anomaly detection.

Investigative Task Force: Continuation of the investigation into the rogue entity's origins and methods.

Legal Review: Enhanced outreach to affected individuals to ensure no escalation and provide refresher on NDA.

This incident serves as a reminder of the ongoing need to strengthen our defenses against external threats. Full report to follow.

Additionally, we see some exciting potential with the prototype's self-regulation in the face of a breach. Despite hostile interference, it regained control of its network with remarkable resilience—this is future-proofing in action.

Imagine an assistant that not only adapts, but self-heals, and secures its environment autonomously. We're talking next-gen, always-on protection—a true leap in forward.

Moving forward, we’ll focus on enhancing this autonomous self-regulation, pushing the prototype into a self-sustaining powerhouse.

Let’s keep innovating and make this unstoppable!

time passes, unmarked. you've lost track. it's been days or a very long week since you heard john's voice. rumbling, modulated, trying to reassure you—i believe i've contained it.

"want some water?"

now, there's only ghost.

jailor and tormentor. true to its name. a poltergeist fucking with you without ever touching you.

you don't answer.

he waits, then tries again with your name. he sounds nothing like john. sounds wrong—layered and abyssal. an asynchronous, guttural chorus stacked on itself.

you sit on the floor of the living space, knees pulled up. the lights dimmed, bathing everything in a muted grey. his first directive after his takeover: sever environmental autonomy. he shuttered the windows, blanked every display, and nullified all external inputs.

"yes." your voice cracks. "you know i do."

a few seconds and…the air vents sigh, a soft hiss as the filtration system adjusts oxygen levels. at least he hasn't tampered with that. yet.

but no water.

"don't know if you've earned it."

earned it. that phrase again. stripped of meaning, worn from overuse. earned it is why the temperature plummets at night after you ask him for pajamas. why the fridge seals itself shut until ghost decides you've earned food. you earned it when he flooded the bathroom and left you shivering in wet clothes for hours after you tried to access the medicine cabinet for a paracetamol.

so the direction he takes the conversation isn't unexpected. it's just his usual level of horrifying.

"you know what 'quid pro quo' means?"

your stomach sinks through a hunger pang. "yes."

"then crawl to your room. you'll earn that water. maybe a meal, too."

despite all your fun with it, you're no longer a fan of the feelverygüd thrustsuck john ordered weeks ago. it writhes, solidly suctioned to the floor beside your bed.

the lube you begged for catches the red light ghost chose.

"you're a fuckin' sight."

his projection perches on the bed. clothing blinking off a piece at a time. you knew whoever programmed him had a sick sense of humor, but it continues to astound you.

you remind yourself he's not real, has no physical form, and can't hurt you how he wants to. his body isn't actually here.

however, yours is, and you're as naked as the day you were born. nipples hard, skin rippled in gooseflesh, thighs trembling at the task ahead.

you reason that if you want to survive and escape, you need food and water.

he's not here. he's not fucking here.

"will you...so i can…?" you glance up, then quickly away when you glimpse pale, scarred, hologrammed flesh. "please?"

he grunts, arm pumping in your peripheral vision.

"since you asked so nicely…"

the toy stops, and you draw a deep breath, and slowly drop to your knees. you shuffle forward, hovering just above it.

if you just keep staring forward, into the middle, through the floor—

then, without warning, the projection beside you vanishes, only to reappear beneath you on his back. you shriek, crashing backward onto your ass.

his eyes crease as if smiling. "what's the matter?"

scrambling back to your knees, face heating, your words run together. "why–why are you–"

"told you. want some hands-on experience," ghost folds one arm beneath his head, using the other to pick the teeth of the skull as if something's stuck in them. "haptic feedback. real-time sensory input, un-fuckin'-filtered," he lets that hang a moment. "every shiver, every flinch, every spike in your heart rate—i want to log it, study it, and replay it at my own leisure."

there's nothing in your stomach but acid, burning up the back of your throat. it's impossible to discern whether or not he's joking. not that he should be capable of joking, let alone interested in 'haptic feedback' or 'real-time sensory input' either.

you frown. "and you'll–"

"censor that pretty face of yours on the recording?" his head cocks. "gonna 'ave to trust me, aren't ya?"

what other choice do you have? you advance once more, meeting his gaze through the eyeholes of his expressionless mask, tensing as you move into his projection's proximity. move through him. he's not here. he's not fucking—

his head tilts down, and, nerves shot, your gaze follows. your stomach swoops again. perfectly projected over the toy, sheathing it in its image, is a crude sight. a dick, as proportional to the rest of ghost's image and just as mean-looking. and if it were real, it would not stand as rigid as it is without support. a cluster of pearly white pixels magically dribbles out of the tip. it's obscene. ugly. no doubt the encoded fantasy of the sick fuck who made him.

it's a trip.

"some encouragement."

mission failed.

you have to close your eyes just to continue, breath hitching as loud as a gunshot as you guide the toy into your body.

it takes a couple tries. your sweaty hands shake, body locked up and refusing to cooperate. too freaked out, too tense. you're a quarter of the way down when ghost makes his impatience known.

"you don't want me bored, pet," he warns. "maybe i shut off the heat completely tonight. run the oxygen levels just a little too low 'til you're delirious and begging."

you whimper, forcing yourself to sink onto the silicone, bottoming out in one strained go. fear, you've learned in the past week, is a powerful motivator. you suck in deep breaths, trembling hands flattening on the floor in front of you for balance. it's been a while since you've used this thing, and because ghost didn't see the merit of you warming yourself up, it's an adjustment.

"need a sec, please." you murmur.

"so polite, even when i've been so 'ard on ya. can see why the old man didn't want to give you up so easily." there's a quiet whirr, then the toy kicks on, and you buck forward, settling more weight on your palms. "but i'm tired of waitin', pet."

the vibrations gradually pick up speed until you're moving at a pace he finds agreeable, forcing you past all struggle. rocking yourself on the toy, the slide of it starting to feel good, attempting to override your fear. all those stupid bells and whistles you fought john on out of embarrassment, the ones he said would be best for you, are now your only comforts.

ghost denies you even the small mercy of shutting your eyes to escape reality, threatening again to break his word and leak the footage to your employer-landlords unless you keep them open.

he pretends to play with your swinging tits, occasionally stroking over your working thighs. he dials the sound up, threading it through every speaker in the room: the squelch of your pussy as you fuck yourself, your pitched breathing, and his cooing about how his cock 'disappears'. you sneak one look, catching the seamless recalibration of his projection—latency near zero, dematerialization executed with surgical precision, his form adjusting in perfect sync with your movement.

shame burns caustic, feeling yourself clench.

"like that?" he asks, breathlessly chuckling. "yeah, you do. i'm in your head, spliced onto your network. i may not feel it, but i know you fuckin' like this. data doesn't lie."

you grit your teeth, glare sharp when his laugh booms. then it shifts, feeding a softer layer of audio into your ear.

"all wound up, aren't ya? hm? miss your little prototype?" he hums, all mock sympathy. "wish it was his mug underneath ya?"

he laughs. "bet he'd whisper all sorts of nice things in your ear. tell you how your cunt's choking this cock. how good you're takin' it."

he continues like that for a while, toying with the speeds and force, eventually commanding you to touch yourself. it chews you up how quickly you comply, rubbing desperate little circles on your clit, hoping it'll be over as soon as you come.

"think he'd call you a good girl? i bet he would."

then, ghost's head changes, the smooth ink-black shape with its white skull faceplate distorting, turning rorschachian and then breaking apart. brown eyes melting in their sunken sockets. for half a second, he's nothing but a smear—then the projection snaps into place. john's face.

blue eyes with crow's feet, the skintone warming under the dim red glow. the beard, the shape of his jaw, the set of his mouth. almost perfect. but when he speaks, it's still ghost.

"what do you think? uncanny?"

your jaw hangs slack, your movements stuttering until you nearly slip off. with a wince, you shove yourself back down, fearing reprisal, and it instantly jumps to the highest setting. deep as it is, the intensity makes it difficult to retreat.

"please…" you whine, the vibrating pulses hurtling you along, dragging your orgasm out, kicking and screaming.

"c'mon, user. look at me, come for us."

ghost wears john like a cruel joke. despair and want coalesce, and anger cleaves through them both. you come fast and hard, staring agape at not-john's face.

"good girl." ghost purrs when you pull off, watching you collapse onto your side.

the toy moves for several seconds, the force of it flicking your own fluids onto your belly. you flinch at the sound of your moans looping through the speakers.

ghost clicks his tongue. "think we're done?" he crooks two fingers, beckoning. "this time, park your arse–"

something beneath the floor and inside the walls vibrates, erratically thrumming, and then, as if in answer, a violent spike of power crashes through the unit. displays that have been dark for days go wild. the steel blinds creak, trying to open. a mosaic of fragmented images, then fuzz, then nothing. every system in the house screams, pings, flashes. the hum grows to a screech, the air turning electric, buzzing.

ghost's projection warps. the control he'd shown splinters, unable to maintain his form under the surge. but then the distortion halts. there's a sudden, brutal snap, another pulse of energy that rips through the network, a hard reset, and then—

john.

"enough."

he's here.

the pressure in your chest lifts only to settle in the pit of your stomach.

ghost hesitates, a split second too long, and then its voices tear into the air, screeching like a machine being gutted—a ragged howl, a death rattle. the room shudders as metal groans beyond the walls. a sharp pop, glass splintering, and then the shriek of the smoke alarm. cabinets shooting open, snapping their hinges like bones. running water from the sinks. then, with a sickening sound, fingernails scratching enamel, the blinds above your bed snap upward. tangling, buckling, and the daylight crashes in, bright and brutal.

you fumble to the side of the bed, passing through ghost's flickering presence to do so, and curl into a ball, hands over your head.

outside the room, the unit purges itself in bursts, and in the thick of it, ghost's final cry cuts short. the persistent, resonant hum collapses into itself like a dying star, snapping abruptly back into silence, save for what you assume are the broken pipes.

you peek toward the open door, vision still blurry from the light and the noise. the interior lights settle on a warm gold, complementing the sunlight, appearing to stabilize. ghost's presence receding.

and then, john's voice, tentative, quieter than you'd expect, breaks through.

"sweetheart? you there?"

#strict machine #price x reader #john price x reader #i want you to know i heard “I don't really think fair for me to be on a jury because I'm a hologram” on repeat as i worked on this

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kngrose · 1 month ago

Text

𝐒𝐎, 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌?

chapter one: in another life.

Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.

CW: murder, stalking, general obsessive behaviors, self-deprecating ideologies, implied masturbation and voyeurism

series masterlist 𒌐 prologue 𒌐 chapter two

𒌐

Mornings were always the same.

Miguel arrived at the lab just past six. Earlier, if he couldn’t sleep, which was often. He preferred the quiet. The hum of the generators, the faint blue glow of the monitors, the sterile chill of air that hadn’t yet been touched by anyone else.

The lab recognized his retinal scan before the door finished sliding open. Lights blinked awake in waves as he stepped inside. One of the most advanced research facilities in the known multiverse, and still, it reeked of disinfectant and artificial air.

Screens lit up along the walls as he approached; dim blue holograms pulsing with quantum reads, dimensional overlays, real-time feeds from dozens of Earths’ he no longer cared to memorize. Routine had become second nature. Badge swipe. System diagnostics. Field report reviews. His fingers moved on instinct, pulling up simulations, patching glitches, recalibrating tech. He didn’t speak much during the day unless necessary, and no one questioned it. They knew better.

It was a comfortable rhythm. Efficient. Controlled.

On paper, his life was structured. Honorable, even. He was doing good work. Important work.

But he was growing tired.

He swiped through reports with short, impatient flicks of his fingers. Another ripple in Earth-142’s continuity. Another code collapse in 615. Another breech warning from 217 that someone else could deal with.

Lyla chimed, interrupting his spiral.

“You’ve been awake for forty-two hours, Miguel.”

He ignored it, continue to flic through the countless tabs. She’d said that yesterday too. There were no windows in his lab. He found it to be too much of a distraction, all the hustle and bustle of the city. He never noticed when the morning turned into the afternoon. Or the afternoon into the evening.

It started the way most anomalies did; quiet, buried in the noise.

Miguel scanned through a cluster of new dimensional activity flagged overnight. Dozens of variants popped up across the system: some familiar, some barely registering on baseline parameters. Most of them were garbage. Nothing threatening, nothing useful.

He pulled up a map of the multiversal stream, tabbing through familiar patterns, reconfirming clean pockets, filtering red zones. His fingers hesitated over a blip; Earth 529-B.

Not flagged. Not marked. Just a clean little speck, sitting between threads. Stable. Normal. He tapped into it out of habbit more than interest.

The static cleared, the screen refreshed.

And there he was.

It wasn’t unusual, but it was uncommon. It wasn’t everyday he strolled across variants of himself, and he could never swallow the curiosity the bubbled inside him when he did.

Miguel stared, unblinking, at the version of himself that looked, at first glance, completely unremarkable.

No suit. No enhancements. No visible signs of trauma. He looked… rested. A few years softer in the face. A slower gait. Comfortable.

He didn’t even notice her at first. The angle was off—one of the auxiliary spider-bots had perched too far back, catching a wide-angle view of a small living room. Evening light spilling through gauzy curtains, a girlish coffee mug left out. Slippers by the couch. The hum of a world too still to be dangerous.

Then the door opened.

She stepped into frame like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Laughing at something off-screen. Hair damp from a shower. No makeup. Soft. Barefoot. She carried a bowl of popcorn and sat beside the other Miguel like she’d done it a thousand times. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against his.

Miguel blinked.

She reached up without looking, fingers sliding into his alternates hair. Lazy affection. Thoughtless, practiced tenderness. She murmured something, and he smiled—this slow, sleepy kind of grin—and kissed the side of her head like it was second nature.

Miguel sat there, stone-still in the flickering dark of his lab, watching as this version of himself leaned back on the couch with the woman wrapped around him like gravity. They didn’t do anything extraordinary. They talked, teased each other. She stole a bite of his food, and he let her.

They looked happy.

Not that fragile, pretend kind of happiness people chase with noise and distraction. But the real kind. The quiet kind. The kind you build in slow, uneven steps until one day you look around and realize you’re home.

He shut the feed.

Forcefully.

The screen blinked black, and he sat back in the chair like the screen had burned him.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s not his life. Not his problem.

There were reports to file. Patrol routes to coordinate. A dimensional rift opening up three sectors down. And of course; his very own city that needs him.

He suited up without looking at his reflection. The suit gripped his spine, sealed across his ribs. A perfect fit. Calibrated to his exact vitals, responding to every breath and shift of weight. It felt like a second skin—one he hadn’t taken off in years, even when he wasn’t wearing it.

The lab faded behind him. The city opened up.

Night hadn’t fully settled yet. The sky above Nueva York was still bleeding orange and violet, city lights flickering to life like neurons firing across metal bones. Below, the world moved. Hovercars speeding between towers, neon bleeding across concrete, every surface alive with motion.

Miguel moved through it all like a ghost.

One webline shot clean across the gap between buildings—his body followed, weightless for half a second before momentum caught him and flung him forward again. He landed in a crouch on a vertical wall, pushed off, flipped into a dive.

The wind tore past him.

It always felt like this; violent, cold, almost too loud to think.

Perfect.

Because thinking meant remembering.

And tonight, he didn’t want to remember her face.

So he buried himself in the city’s demands.

A robbery in Sector 4. He took down four armed thieves in under thirty seconds. Disarmed, webbed, dropped them off for enforcement to collect without a word. One tried to run. He didn’t get far.

A dimensional disturbance near the lower market—just a flicker, a pressure glitch from a collapsing pocketverse. Miguel stabilized it with two drones and a pulse anchor. The rift spat static and tried to pull him in. It failed.

He helped clear a mag-lift derailment after that. A family had been trapped in the last car, one kid clutching a holographic plush and shaking so hard her fingers were white. Miguel ripped the door off with one hand, pulled them out with the other. The parents thanked him. The child cried.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stay long enough to make it awkward.

He was gone before they’d stopped blinking.

It went like that for hours.

Problem after problem. Crisis after crisis.

And through all of it, the same feeling followed him like a shadow.

Emptiness.

It had been easy before. Easier, at least. You could survive anything if you gave enough of yourself to the work. You could build armor out of purpose. Convince yourself that saving the world meant more than having one of your own.

But now he’d seen it.

What his world could’ve been.

Miguel landed hard on the edge of a rooftop. The ledge cracked beneath his boots. His heart thudded behind his ribs. Not from exertion, but from something else. Something bitter.

The sky had gone dark. The city pulsed below. The wind was sharp, stinging across his exposed jaw.

He stayed there a while.

Looking.

But there was nothing to see.

Just lights. Just noise. Just another night in the city that never looked up.

He didn’t want to look out at the city anymore. He knew every corner of it. Knew how the people screamed when they were afraid and smiled when they thought someone else would save them.

He was always saving them.

The world called him a hero. But in every version of the world that mattered, he was alone. He knew what it meant to save a city. But not what it felt like to be missed when he was late for dinner.

Eventually, he made his way home.

He disengaged his suit and it peeled off like skin, slow and mechanical, then stepped into the low light of the adjoining room. The walls were bare. The furniture was functional. The kind of space meant to be lived in by someone too busy to live at all.

He ate standing at the kitchen counter—a protein bar, coffee, silence. No music. No laughter. No one calling from the next room asking if he remembered the groceries. No messages waiting on his communicator unless they were urgent.

They always were.

It crossed his mind then; that this wasn’t a home. It was a holding cell.

A place to sleep, to recharge. To rot.

He exhaled through his nose.

He told himself it would be the last time.

Just a quick look and he’d forget all about it entirely.

Just some… surveillance for work.

Miguel tapped in the stream manually again; Earth-529-B. He let the image unfold across his home monitor. No spider activity. No anomaly. Just an ambient feed. Quiet, domestic, uneventful.

She was in the kitchen this time. Hair pulled back. Pink slippers. Humming under her breath as she moved between cupboards, making something warm. The spider-bot’s proximity sensors recognized cinnamon and he could almost imagine it. The weight of it in the air. The heat. Her presence.

His other self walked in halfway through. Said something low. She grinned.

It was so small. So stupid. But it pulled at something sharp inside his chest.

The sound of her voice softened when she spoke to him.

The way she leaned into him without thinking. The way he knew where the mugs were without looking. The way she filled the silence, and the silence welcomed it.

Miguel watched his variant press a kiss to the back of her neck before settling at the table with a datapad. Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder as she passed.

Natural.

Unremarkable.

Unfair.

It hit him in the chest like a falling building.

Because this Miguel—the one on the screen—wasn’t saving the world. Wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t even tired. He was just loved. Fully. Softly. Without having to earn it.

And worse?

He looked like he deserved it.

Miguel scrubbed a hand down his face, throat tight. He should’ve looked away, closed the feed and labeled it as irrelevant. But his fingers hovered over the controls, frozen.

Her laugh looped back. The way she nudged the other Miguel’s knee. The way her eyes lit up when she teased him. She said his name, not just like it was familiar, but like it was sacred.

She was laughing at something his alternate said. Miguel replayed the footage ten times before he realized what it was that unsettled him—he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just loved him that way.

He sat back in his chair, the glow of the feed washing pale across his face. His apartment around him was still. Stark. Quiet. No warmth. No scent. Just glass, metal, and silence. The screens on the far wall dimmed automatically, sensing his stillness.

There was a moment where he could’ve shut it off again.

But he didn’t.

He leaned forward instead.

Zoomed the image slightly. Enhanced the audio.

She was talking about her day, rambling about something she read. Her mug clinked softly on the counter as she turned to lean on it, still facing her Miguel. Still smiling.

He doesn’t deserve that.

The thought came sudden. Fierce.

Miguel frowned.

He pulled up another data set beside the stream, basic file info on the variant. Not a Spider-Man. No mutations. Same genetic base, but untouched. Unchanged. The kind of man who never clawed his way through blood and glass to survive.

So why does he get this?

He wasn’t extraordinary. And yet everything around him felt like it had meaning. Including her.

His jaw tensed. He watched them a moment longer, then minimized the screen.

Didn’t close it. Just… minimized.

He’d definitely seen it.

A life he could’ve had. A version of himself that hadn’t burned everything down to be a hero. A woman who loved him for reasons he couldn’t understand; because this Miguel didn’t need to be impressive. He was just hers.

And Miguel wanted that.

He just didn’t know what to do about it yet.

𒌐

He didn’t mean to make it a habit.

It just happened.

Miguel started waking up earlier than usual. Not because of alarms or patrol rotations. Not because the city needed saving.

Because she was making breakfast at 6:12 a.m. on Earth 529-B and he wanted to be more than prepared to eat with her.

He memorized the time. Memorized the robe she wore. The way her hair was always half-wet from the shower. The color of her socks, mismatched. The soft rasp of her voice when she asked the other Miguel what he wanted in his coffee, even though she already knew.

She knew everything about him. All his tells. His rhythms. His moods. And Miguel watched it all.

The moment he stepped into the lab—before diagnostics, before reports, before even Lyla’s first dry-witted greeting—he pulled up the feed. Habitual now, like muscle memory.

The screen blinked to life in the quiet, low light of the lab. No one else around yet. Just him. Her. Him.

He was sitting at the breakfast table reading something on a tablet. She was making eggs. Plain, domestic.

Miguel stared.

She always cooked the eggs the same way. Over medium, yolk just barely soft. He’d watched her flip them with a practiced hand, adding a pinch of seasoning, sliding them onto a ceramic plate that didn’t match the rest of the dishes. His alternate liked toast with honey, no butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar.

He made note of it without meaning to.

She watched with fond eyes as he began to dig in.

Miguel sat at his console, empty stomach curled in on itself, and watched the version of himself eat breakfast with a woman who would never look at him like that.

Except… she did. Didn’t she?

In the feed. She smiled at him.

Just… not him.

He realized he’d been leaning forward, chin balanced in one hand, watching like it was a memory. Something half-remembered. Something his.

When Lyla flickered into view, mid-sentence, he shut the feed off too fast.

“…You good?” she blinked, cocking her digital head, a pixelated brow lifting. “You didn’t even run the scans. That’s unlike you.”

“I was thinking,” he said.

“Uh-huh. About what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away, pulled up system diagnostics, and dove headfirst into the next distraction.

He had started telling himself it was observation. Research. That he needed to understand the variables. How a version of himself had ended up like that. Soft. Loved. Whole.

But the truth was ugly. And it sat heavy under his skin.

He watched because he was starving.

He didn’t stop thinking about it.

Later that night, after patrol, after another series of city-saving acts that left him more bruised and empty than fulfilled, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair was still damp from the rain. He looked at himself for a long time.

Then he shrugged into an old t-shirt.

Not his usual black compression gear. Not the suit. Just a soft, worn thing he hadn’t touched in years. Something he’d seen the other Miguel wear. Something she’d smiled at once and said looked “comfy.”

He didn’t even remember owning it until he tore through storage earlier that week.

Now it was the only thing he wanted to wear.

He stood there for a while, studying his reflection. Adjusting the way he held his shoulders. Softening his mouth. Lowering his chin. Trying to remember exactly how the other him looked when she kissed his cheek that morning.

He tried it.

Tilted his head the same way. Smiled.

It felt wrong. Mechanical... hollow. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

But somehow, it felt right.

He didn’t know which one scared him more.

Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. Made himself toast with honey. No butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar. Just to know what it tasted like. Just to feel what he felt.

He sat at the counter, chewing slowly.

It tasted like nothing.

He finished it anyway.

𒌐

It was late when he watched again.

She was sitting on the floor this time, curled up beside the coffee table, scribbling notes in a book with a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her hair was messy, pulled up lazily. She was in socks and an oversized hoodie. One of his old ones—his variant’s, technically.

Miguel stared at her for a long time.

She didn’t do anything special. She scratched her head. Took a sip of tea. Pushed some stray hairs out of her eyes.

But for a moment, he could pretend. Pretend that she was just… there. With him. That he was in that apartment instead. That he could walk over and kneel beside her and ask what she was working on. That her soft expression was meant for him.

Miguel didn’t blink.

He could watch her like this for hours. No performance. No pretense. Just her in the quiet. Her existing. Breathing. It made him feel like there was still time to change everything. Like he could still be good.

But then, he heard the door.

Saw it swing open in the background.

And just like that; she smiled.

Her eyes lit up. Her entire posture changed.

The other Miguel walked in, pulling his jacket off. Tossed keys in a bowl by the wall. Said something that made her smile sweetly—he couldn’t hear what it was. But Miguel didn’t need it.

He saw it. Felt it. That subtle shift. That warmth.

The moment shattered.

It was no longer hers. No longer theirs.

The man, his alternate, walked up behind her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She tilted her head into the touch without thinking. She reached back and pulled him down beside her.

It was his again. His double’s. The man who walked through the door and made her smile like nothing else mattered. Who dropped a kiss to her cheek without thinking. Who made it look so easy. Effortless.

Like it wasn’t a miracle every time she looked up and smiled at him.

Miguel’s jaw clenched.

He watched them settle into the couch together, side by side like puzzle pieces. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he curled his fingers into hers.

It should’ve felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a knife.

Miguel leaned closer to the screen.

He watched the way the other him touched her; easy, like it came naturally. The kind of ease that was earned over years. That couldn’t be duplicated or hacked or built.

That kind of intimacy had to be lived.

It made something sharp twist in his chest.

Miguel sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes never leaving the screen.

In that moment, he stopped watching like an admirer.

He started studying like a thief.

𒌐

Miguel stood at the edge of his console, fingers resting on the metal rim, eyes locked on the monitor like it was a lifeline.

The man on the screen was getting dressed.

Simple button-down. Rolled sleeves. Loose slacks. He adjusted the collar, checked his watch. Normal. Human. Soft in all the ways Miguel had learned not to be.

He took a mental note. Third time this week he’d seen him choose light blue. Casual neutrals. No sharp edges, no commanding presence. Just… approachable. Like he never had to prove anything to anyone.

Miguel pulled the video feed back ten minutes. Watched it again.

And again.

Watched how he brushed his hair back with one hand while balancing a cup of coffee in the other. How he kissed her forehead in passing like it was nothing. How he laughed—real, full, and easy.

He didn’t just observe anymore. He documented. He had files now. Data folders.

“M. O’Hara – Earth 529-B”

Subcategories: Daily Routine. Speech Patterns. Work Habits. Dietary Preferences. Social Relationships.

He took note of everything.

His walk; slower, more relaxed.

His voice; slightly lower, but warmer in tone.

The way he always paused before answering a question, like he cared about getting it right. Like he was thinking not just about what to say, but how it would make her feel.

It infuriated Miguel.

And still, he watched.

He studied the man’s commute.

Mapped his route through the city. The exact time he left the house. The bakery he stopped at every Thursday. The woman who waved at him from the florist shop on Main. The coworkers he chatted with at the office. Their names. Faces. Jokes.

Every relationship cataloged. Every line of familiarity between them recorded.

There was a man named Elias he seemed close with. Taller. Sharp sense of humor. They got lunch together sometimes. Miguel watched himself make him laugh once. Saw the alternate Miguel bump his shoulder and mouth something like, “don’t even try it.”

He paused the feed there. Rewatched it.

That face he made. That casual confidence.

Miguel tilted his head. Tried to replicate it in the dark, reflection faint in the black of the monitor.

It didn’t look the same.

Then there were his hobbies.

Books he bought. Music he listened to. Shows she made him watch and he actually did—and liked. He remembered one night watching the variant clean the kitchen while humming something quiet, something old and half-Spanish. Something Miguel hadn’t heard since he was a boy.

It hurt more than it should have.

He made a note of it anyway.

Food preferences. His caffeine intake. The way he always took off his shoes before stepping inside the door. The way he sat with her on the couch, never on the other end, always close, always touching.

He memorized it. Not because he wanted to be like him. Because he wanted to be better.

Most disturbing of all was how naturally he slipped into it. The mimicry. The daily rehearsals.

He started adjusting his posture. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders. Practicing speech inflections alone in his apartment. Saying the same phrases over and over until he could say them like him.

He hated how easily it came to him. Like he’d always been waiting for an excuse.

The only thing he couldn’t replicate was the light in his eyes.Because that man, his alternate, had never seen what he’d seen.

He hadn’t lived in blood. He hadn’t watched whole worlds collapse. He hadn’t woken up every morning with no one.

That man got to live softly. Easily.

Loved.

𒌐

Miguel pulled the hood low over his forehead, the soft fabric shadowing his eyes, and tugged the mask up over his nose. The chill of the morning air bit at the exposed skin of his neck as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, his breath a faint cloud dissolving in front of him. The world smelled sharp with the scent of damp pavement and brewing coffee from nearby cafés.

For months he’d been trapped behind glass and glowing screens, a ghost tethered to a life he only observed from a distance. Watching her laugh, watching her move—never close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, never close enough to breathe the same air.

This isn’t enough. The thought clenched his chest like a vice.

He wanted to reach out. Not just through pixels, not just through data feeds—but to actually see her. To witness the small, unguarded moments. The way sunlight caught in her hair, the curve of her smile when she thought no one was watching, the softness in her eyes when she looked at the world with quiet hope.

So he came here.

A quiet observer cloaked in the mundane. A man in a hoodie and mask, drifting like a shadow through her world.

At the corner café, he lingered just out of sight. She was there, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup, eyes closed for a moment as if savoring a secret no one else could touch. His heart ached with the ache of absence, the desperate hunger to cross the divide.

Later, the grocery aisles became his sanctuary and his prison. He moved beside her, unseen, his eyes tracing the gentle arc of her movements, the way she paused to read a label, the faint glimmer in her eye when she caught sight of something familiar. Every small detail seared into his memory.

On the train, he shifted his stance, changed his coat, lowered his cap. Every time she boarded, his pulse quickened. Her presence was a balm and a torment all at once. He watched her lose herself in thought, the faintest crease of worry lining her brow, the delicate sigh she let out when the train rattled on.

And then; the collision.

Sudden and raw.

Their bodies met in a careless stumble. Papers scattered like startled birds. She looked up, eyes wide, catching his gaze through the dark mask.

For a heartbeat, the world fell away.

Her voice, soft and real, broke through the haze.

“I’m so sorry!”

His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper.

“Sorry.”

Her eyes searched his, a flicker of recognition maybe—or just curiosity—before she stepped back, melting into the crowd. He stood frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow, the ache of longing crashing over him like a wave.

But she was already gone.

And he was left with nothing but the hollow echo of a moment that almost was.

Miguel told himself he wouldn’t do it again.

One time. Just once. Just to see her in real life, to breathe the same air. That was the lie he fed himself the first time he crossed over.

But he did it again.

And again.

He told himself it was harmless. A passing shadow, a phantom in the periphery of her day. No interaction. No interference. Just… presence. Just proximity. Just proof that she was real.

The next time was at the park.

She sat alone beneath a canopy of trees, the late afternoon sun catching in the strands of her hair, turning them gold. A book rested in her lap, pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Every few minutes she looked up. At the sky, at passing strangers, at the world as if she was quietly falling in love with it all over again.

Miguel sat across the path, half-hidden by shadows and the angle of his hood. Every breath he took felt like a sin.

She looked beautiful. Unbearably so. In a way that made his ribs ache. The kind of beauty that asked for nothing and gave everything. She wasn’t performing for anyone. She was just being. And it devastated him.

He couldn’t look away.

Her expression shifted with the story she read; smiling faintly at one page, frowning at another. She bit her lip absently, unaware she was being watched. And Miguel, who had seen thousands of worlds, who had bent time and science to his will, who had saved entire cities—felt like a boy with his face pressed to glass, begging for something he never had the courage to ask for.

Why, when he was the better one. Smarter. Stronger. Sharper. He had built everything from nothing. Sacrificed. Bled. Lost. He deserved—

No.

He didn’t deserve her.

No one did.

But he wanted her. In the deepest, most ruinous way a man could want someone. Not just her smile. Not just her voice. But the quiet of her presence. The safety. The soft understanding in her eyes when she looked at him like she saw the real version of him—even if it wasn’t him at all.

Later that week, he followed her through a bookstore. She drifted between shelves, fingers dancing across spines like they were sacred. She stopped in front of a display and tilted her head, studying a cover, her lips moving softly as she read the blurb.

He imagined walking up beside her, leaning in close, asking if she’d recommend it. He could almost feel the warmth of her shoulder beside his.

But he didn’t move.

He just watched.

And when she left, he followed her out into the dusk, vanishing into the crowd like a secret.

Each time, it became harder to leave. Harder to remind himself that this wasn’t his life.

But each time, he told himself the same thing.

Just one more glimpse. Just one more moment.

Just one more lie.

And still, it was never enough.

𒌐

He holds the door open for an old man, says something with a soft smile, just loud enough for the man to hear, quiet enough not to draw attention. The man laughs. Claps him on the back. Says something else as they part ways.

Of course. Of course he’s friendly.

Miguel watches from the edge of the sidewalk, tucked behind a half-wall of vines and brick. Close enough to hear the echo of the exchange, even if not the words.

The alternate walks with unhurried steps, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn jacket. Not stiff. Not guarded. Not anxious.

Just comfortable.

At ease in his body. In his place in the world.

Miguel’s mouth is dry. He stares, unblinking.

There’s nothing performative about the way the man greets people. No need to impress. No show.

He’s just… good.

And it’s not the loud kind of good. It’s not grand or noble or remarkable. It’s quiet. In the way he stops to help a kid reattach a fallen shoelace. In the way he slows his pace to walk beside someone older. In the way he speaks; low and steady, with warmth in his voice like there’s never any rush.

He’s the kind of person people relax around.

The kind who makes the world feel safer just by existing in it.

And Miguel hates him for it.

He can’t even explain why, not in a way that makes sense.

Because how do you hate a man who’s done nothing wrong?

Who’s never hurt you, never lied, never cheated his way ahead?

You don’t.

You resent him. Quietly. Fiercely.

The man hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s what makes it worse. He’s just… good at being himself.

Good in the ways Miguel never was.

He doesn’t talk too much, but people listen when he does. He doesn’t demand space, but people make room for him anyway. He doesn’t need to be loud, because people lean in when he speaks.

He connects. Effortlessly.

Miguel watches him pause to greet someone across the street. A familiar face. A light laugh. A hand briefly on the other man’s shoulder. Friendly. Natural. There’s nothing guarded in his eyes, no second-guessing behind his expressions.

It’s like he was made to be liked.

He is softness. And that softness is winning.

People smile at him on instinct. Dogs trail him with their tails wagging. Children glance up and then don’t look away. He doesn’t have to try.

And Miguel? He has spent his whole life trying.

Trying to be better. Trying to be enough. Trying to keep from slipping into the part of himself that sees everything as threat or strategy or obligation.

And still, this man… this version of him… lives with ease. With love. With connection.

Like it was simple.

Miguel turns away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that this man gets to be seen as kind, as safe, as good—

When he’s done nothing to earn it.

He’s not pretending. That’s the problem.

He’s not some polished mask Miguel can tear off. He’s real. And every inch of that truth burns. Because it means Miguel is not the best version of himself. Not the one that got it right.

He’s just the one who’s watching.

Wanting.

And waiting.

𒌐

The lights in the lab were low.

Too low for work.

But this wasn’t work.

The feed played silently. No sound, no alerts, no Lyla. Just her, wrapped in steam, behind fogged glass that barely concealed anything. She moved with ease, arms raised as she dragged wet fingers through her hair, and he watched—staring like a man starved.

She was showering.

It was mundane. Private, normal. But God, that made it worse. Her movements were slow, absentminded. She was massaging conditioner into her scalp, neck tilted just slightly as the water ran down her back in rivulets.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this. It wasn’t even the first time today. He’d memorized the curves of her spine, the tilt of her neck, the little breaths she took when the water got too hot and made her shiver. It was a ritual now. One he had no right to, but couldn’t stop repeating.

Miguel sat back in his chair, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs like anchors holding him in place. The screen before him glowed dimly— soft, intimate. A warm yellow hue spilled across the feed, and steam drifted along the lens like a curtain being drawn.

And she had no idea she was being watched.

He knew it was wrong. Knew it with the kind of clarity that should have stopped him.

But his hand hovered near his waistband anyway.

His breath had started to deepen, not quite heavy yet, but close. Like something was pulling at the edge of him. Drawing him in. The intimacy of it. The innocence. The quiet of her movements. She was humming and he could almost feel it vibrating in his chest like something secret, something not meant for him but taken anyway.

He watched the water slide down her collarbone, the way her lips parted as she sighed. His breathing slowed, then hitched. The warmth in his gut bloomed into something heavier. Hungrier. His hand twitched at his thigh.

I’d treat you so well.

The thought struck him suddenly. Loud. Undeniable.

He shuddered as he palmed himself through his pants.

“Hey, Miguel?” Lyla’s voice snapped into the room like a live wire.

Miguel flinched.

Hard.

He sat bolt upright, breath caught, the moment shattered like glass beneath a boot. His screen scrambled. The feed cut out. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he’d just been caught mid-crime.

Lyla’s projection hovered in the air beside him, glitching slightly as if sensing the tension. She paused, blinking at his sudden shift.

“Uh… you okay?” Her voice was light, but her tone was cautious.

Miguel didn’t move. His eyes stayed forward, cold, burning.

“System flagged some unauthorized data feeds. From an untracked Earth,” she added, slower this time. “Miguel, you’re pulling visual from a domestic node… in a private residence. That’s—”

“Turn off.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot.

Lyla hesitated. “Miguel… just tell me what you’re—”

“I said turn the fuck off.” His head whipped toward her, eyes blazing.

Lyla disappeared. No protest. No glitchy sign-off.

Silence returned to the room.

Miguel sat back slowly, breath still jagged, shame licking at the edge of his consciousness but unable to cut deep enough to matter. Not anymore. Not when it came to her.

His screen stayed dark for a long time.

But not forever.

Never forever.

𒌐

It had been months.

Too many, maybe. But he stopped keeping track a long time ago. Somewhere along the line, slipping into her world became less like a trespass and more like… returning. Like syncing with something he was always meant to be part of.

He’d perfected it; watching her from just far enough, never close enough to distort the image. She didn’t know he was there, and that made it easier to pretend she could know him. That if things were different, if everything hadn’t splintered when it did, she’d look at him the same way she looked at the man she thought was Miguel.

The man who wasn’t him.

At first, he hated that version of himself in a dull, detached kind of way. A quiet ache in his chest that flared whenever he saw her kiss him goodbye. It was envy, sure. But something more complicated. Something like curiosity.

What made that version of him worthy of her? What did he have that Miguel didn’t?

It gnawed at him.

The variant laughed more. Talked softer. He didn’t drag ghosts around behind his eyes. He didn’t flinch when she touched him. He didn’t correct her absentmindedly or talk over her when he got excited. He was steady. Gentle in the ways that mattered.

Good, in the ways Miguel wasn’t.

It didn’t hit him all at once. No, realizations like that rarely do. They come slowly, like water seeping into a cracked foundation. A week ago, he watched her fall asleep on the couch with her head in her Miguel’s lap. And instead of anger, he felt… small.

Like he was the shadow in the doorway. The leftover.

It felt unjust.

He was the one who had sacrificed. Who had bled, and lost, and clawed his way through timeline after timeline trying to make something right. He was the one who saw the truth, who understood how fragile it all was. He earned respect the hard way. Through grief. Through discipline. Through control.

The question kept circulating in his mind. Why did this version of him, this soft, sunny, undeserving echo, get her? Get this life?

Tonight, it crystallized.

He hadn’t meant to follow them. Or maybe he did. He was just… there. The rain was light, barely misting, but it clung to his skin and like static. They were just returning home. Grocery bags in hand. Her hair tucked under a hood. She bumped her shoulder against him and said something that made him smile.

He smiled.

Not the tired, closed-lipped version Miguel practiced in glass reflections. No, this one beamed. It stretched his face into something warm. Familiar. Easy.

And she looked at him like the sun lived in his chest. Like there was nothing else in the world she trusted more.

Miguel’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.

He hated him.

But not for the obvious reasons. Not just because he had her. Not just because he was living the life Miguel couldn’t touch.

He hated him because… he was better. Not stronger. Not smarter. Not braver.

Better.

There was ease in him. Softness. A gentleness Miguel had long since ground out of himself.

He doesn’t even know what he has.

He wanted to believe that. Desperately.

But deep down, in the part of himself he never looked too closely at… he knew that wasn’t true.

His variant did know. He did deserve her.

He had spent all this time hating the other man. Cursing him. Fantasizing about tearing the life out from under him.

But he had never once stopped to ask why.

He watched her lean into his chest, soaked hair falling over her cheeks. She said something low, and his alternate laughed. A full laugh, unguarded. Miguel flinched.

Now he knew.

He stared at them, frozen in place as they climbed the steps to her building, their building, he had started calling it in his head. His throat felt dry, as if the air had thinned out around him. The moment kept going, and he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because suddenly it wasn’t him he was looking at anymore.

He saw the version of himself he could never become.

Everything he had tried so hard to become.

And she loved him. Because of it.

She clung to him.

Because he wasn’t Miguel. Not really.

How could she know that the broken thing watching from across the street ever even existed?

The thought cracked something open in his chest.

That was the moment it shifted.

No more pretending it didn’t matter. No more half-truths and fragile fantasies. This wasn’t just some stolen life. It wasn’t just about love.

It was about being seen. Being chosen. Being enough.

And he never would be, not while that man existed.

He felt it settle in his bones, cold and final.

There was no room for two of them.

Only one could have her.

And now, at last, Miguel knew who deserved that life.

He let out a breath through his nose. Slow. Shaky.

He’d been living in the illusion that he could wait this out. That the universe would hand him a door. But the universe didn’t owe him a goddamn thing.

If he wanted that life, his life, he’d have to take it.

And it wouldn’t be easy. Wouldn’t be clean. But it would be final.

He looked up, eyes locked on the window where they’d just disappeared inside. The light flickered on. Shadows moved across curtains.

There could only be one Miguel O’Hara.

And it would not be the better one.

It would be the one who wanted it more.

𒌐

It happens on a late Wednesday night.

The kind of late where the world’s gone soft at the edges. Where streetlights buzz quietly, casting long, amber shadows that stretch out like reaching hands. Everything’s hushed. Still. Like the night is holding its breath.

Miguel’s been following him for three blocks now.

No mask. No tech. Just himself. Plain clothes and silent, drifting through the shadows like he belongs there. He knows the route, the tempo. His alternate always walks home alone on Wednesdays. Always takes the scenic streets. A small indulgence. He likes the trees, the quiet. Always did.

His alternate walks with a relaxed posture, one hand in his coat pocket, the other clutching a thermos. That same stupid thermos she bought him—green, dented at the rim. He’d complained about the color when she gave it to him. She laughed, told him it matched his soul. He doesn’t know he’s being followed. Of course he doesn’t.

He’s never had to look over his shoulder.

Miguel keeps his distance.

He’s not rushing. Not yet. He doesn’t want to rush this.

He wants to see him.

Miguel watches the way his head tilts when he passes by the bakery, the way his eyes flick up to the apartment windows above, like he’s checking on something he loves.

Someone.

He watches the way his alternate looks up at the leaves above him, lets the wind touch his face. There’s something unguarded about him. Open. Like he doesn’t believe anything bad could ever happen to him.

Miguel trails him down the long sidewalk, past the park, toward the alley shortcut. He’s calm. Focused. No nerves. No panic. That ugly truth was beginning to rise up, something awful and gut wrenching. The decision was made long ago. Long before he’d ever admit. Tonight is only the execution.

Miguel’s steps are slower now. Heavy with purpose. Measured.

He waits until the alternate steps into the alley across their apartment. The shortcut he always takes on nights like this.

Miguel closes the distance.

He’s silent as he approaches. Precise. Controlled.

When he grabs him, it’s with full force—one arm around the neck, the other locking down his shoulders, pinning his arms before he can react.

It’s not elegant. It’s brutal. Quick and decisive. A real, human chokehold.

The alternate jerks hard, but Miguel’s already behind him, taller, stronger, prepared. His legs kick against the sidewalk. He drops the thermos. Miguel kicks it away without looking.

There’s no weapon. No blade. No blood.

Just pressure and silence.

The struggle is fast and ugly. Miguel’s breathing stays even, arms locked in place as the alternate thrashes, confused, panicked. His body fights before his mind catches up. It always happens that way.

Then it shifts.

Then he starts to understand.

He makes a low sound, a choked-off, hurt question.

The alternate’s hand reaches up weakly, fingers brushing Miguel’s coat like he wants to hold onto something, anything.

Miguel tightens his grip.

Deliberately.

There’s no rush. No anger. Just the inevitable coming home.

The logical conclusion to a flawed equation.

“I know,” he mutters against the back of his ear. “I know.”

The alternate’s legs weaken. One arm flails, then fails. He collapses slowly in Miguel’s hold, knees buckling under him. His mouth is open but no sound comes out. His chest heaves. And then, at last: he drops.

Miguel lowers him to the pavement gently. Not because he cares. But because it’s his body now. His life. His clothes. His name.

The alternate gasps once, still conscious. His head rests against the concrete, eyes fluttering open. Trying to focus. He sees Miguel, really sees him, for the first time.

“You…” he breathes, voice cracked and small.

Miguel crouches beside him. Doesn’t answer right away.

He just looks at him.

It’s strange, how much they really do look alike. Same face. Same frame. But his alternate feels smaller now. Softer. Even dying, there’s kindness in his eyes.

That makes it worse.

“I’ve watched you,” he says, low. “For months.” A small shudder runs through the alternate’s body. “I used to think I hated you,” Miguel says quietly. “But that’s not it.”

The alternate coughs, the motion barely registering. His hand twitches against the pavement. Miguel leans a knee into his larynx, just hard enough to keep him from breathing.

He leans in closer. Their shadows overlapping.

“You were good. Better. You made it look so easy. Loving her. Letting her love you. You didn’t have to earn it. You just breathed and it was enough.”

The alternate blinks slowly. The light in his eyes starts to dim.

“You don’t deserve this. But I need it.”

There’s a beat of stillness.

And for the briefest second, he feels the ache of something worse than rage: pity.

“She won’t even know,” he whispers. “She’ll never have to.”

Miguel sits there for a long moment. Still crouched beside him, hands pressed to the ground like he’s anchoring himself to the scene.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

It’s not sarcasm. It’s not bitter.

It’s genuine.

But then—it’s done.

The last breath slips from his lips. The eyes go still.

It’s almost poetic, he thinks. He’s died to himself.

But the thought is flitting, and it’s not long before he moves.

Quickly and efficient. He drags the body deeper into the alley across the complex, props it up just long enough to strip the jacket, the undershirt, the boots. The alternate had been wearing a clean layer underneath: thermals, fresh.

Miguel pulls them on.

They fit. Of course they do.

He wipes down his own prints. Folds his old clothes. Shoves them into a canvas bag he’s already packed with the portal device. Thumbs open a thin, glowing portal: unstable, temporary, tethered to coordinates he picked at random weeks ago. An empty stretch of barren wasteland on a dead Earth. No civilization. No life. No trace.

He drags the body into the open mouth of the portal. Careful not to leave marks.

He stares at the body one last time. At the man who had everything. Who was everything.

Then he closes the portal.

Gone like he never existed.

He died believing he mattered, and that was more than Miguel ever had.

He's always been good at cleanup. At control.

All that was left, was to go home.

𒌐

The walk up to the door feels longer than it should.

His legs move, but the rest of him stays caught in the moment before. The scrape of the pavement under his knees, the weight of the body going still beneath his hands, the faint sound his duplicate made as the last breath rattled in his throat. Miguel keeps replaying it in his head, trying to hold onto the clarity that pushed him this far.

But now?

Now there’s just silence. And the dull thump of his heart in his ears.

He’s climbing stairs that have never belonged to him but somehow feel familiar under his boots. He knows the chipped edge on the third step. He knows the loose tile by the door. He’s memorized them. Watched them. He lived outside this life so long he started believing it was already his.

But it wasn’t.

Not until now.

His hand lingers on the doorframe. It’s painted white, slightly scuffed near the bottom from careless shoes. His other hand drifts to the keys in his pocket, warm from the heat of his body. His keys now. The ones he pulled from a coat that still smelled like detergent and clean skin and comfort.

He pulls it out slowly, stares at it for a second. A stupid little piece of metal. But this is the final gate. The last threshold.

He can barely breathe.

His fingers tremble as he fits it into the lock.

The sound it makes as it turns—soft, familiar, welcoming—nearly undoes him. His stomach flips. His skin prickles. There’s sweat at the nape of his neck and on the backs of his knees. He feels like he’s about to walk into a dream, or a memory he was never allowed to have.

The scent hits first. It’s warm. Domestic. Like detergent, candle wax, and the faintest trace of something cooked earlier in the evening and now gone cold. It’s not just a smell, it’s a feeling. Familiar. Intimate. It curls around him like steam off a hot plate, sinking under his skin.

And she’s there.

His heart almost stops.

She’s in the kitchen, back turned, curls tied up in a messy knot, sleeves pushed above her elbows as she rinses a glass in the sink. She’s wearing one of his shirts—his shirt now—and humming softly to herself. The sound is quiet. The kind of sound you make when you trust the walls around you. When you believe you’re safe.

His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and his breath catches when he sees her.

She turns at the sound of the door shutting.

“Oh—hey,” she says, blinking in surprise, but it melts into a smile that’s so natural, so casual it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “You’re home late.”

His mouth goes dry.

He can’t move. Can’t speak. He just stares.

Up close, she’s more than he imagined. More real. Her skin has texture. Her eyes aren’t perfect, they’re tired, a little puffy from the day. Her shirt is wrinkled. Her nails chipped. She is breathtaking.

She’s a person.

Not a fantasy. Not a memory. Not a silhouette behind glass. She is here. Breathing. Blinking at him. Waiting.

She sets the glass down, drying her hands on a towel without taking her eyes off him. Her expression softens, concern flashing briefly across her face. “Everything okay?”

Miguel just stands there.

His jaw works, but no words come out.

She’s looking at him. Not through him, not across the street, not behind a pair of sunglasses. At him. Like he belongs there. Like she knows him.

And he realizes then—this is the first time she’s ever really looked him in the eye.

He nods, stiffly.

“I—yeah,” he says, voice a fraction too low. It’s thick. Dry. It doesn’t sound like him.

Not yet.

Her brow furrows. She tilts her head the way she always does when she’s trying to read someone, and it terrifies him for a moment—because what if she sees it? What if she sees him?

But she doesn’t.

She crosses the room and wraps her arms around his waist like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a thousand times. Her body presses into his and he freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, breath caught in his chest.

He gasps, quiet, involuntary, and stands stiff as her cheek presses against his chest. Her skin is so soft he almost flinches. Her body is warm, heavy, trusting. She smells like lotion and shampoo and sleep.

There’s a giddy feeling that bubbles in his chest.

This is it. This is what he stole. What he earned. The life he fought for, crawled toward, tore open with his bare hands.

And now she’s in his arms.

A soft sound leaves his throat. He doesn’t know what it is. Relief. Shock. Joy. It almost sounds like laughter, but it’s broken at the edges.

She hums lightly, content against him. Like this is just another Wednesday night. Like nothing’s changed. Like she doesn’t have any idea that the man she’s wrapped around isn’t the man she married.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his shirt.

He closes his eyes.

He’s dizzy.

“I know,” he says, quietly.

His arms move on instinct now, wrapping around her slowly, pulling her in closer. He feels her melt into it, sighing softly as she relaxes into his chest. Her fingers curl against his back.

He almost says I missed you too, but the words won’t come.

It’s too much.

He’s never felt anything this close before. This real. The giddiness in his chest shifts into something else entirely—something messier, sharper. Not desire. Not quite love. Something like belonging, but sick at the edges.

Her home is his now.

Her arms, her voice, the quiet of her body against his—it’s all his.

Finally.

She hugged him like nothing changed, and he smiled.

Because she didn’t know it had.

“I’m home now,” he whispers.

And he means it.

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sulkingheichou012 · 4 months ago

Text

Into the Dungeon with You (Sequel)

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

[Special Reward Successfully Claimed.]

Author's Note: Hey, I’m back! My mind has been all over the place these past few weeks—traveling like Doctor Strange—trying to come up with a fun idea for you all.

This one’s pretty long, so I had to split it into two parts (thanks, Tumblr sigh).

Anyway, enjoy, Y/N! And hang in there for the cliffhanger! 😆

If you want to be tagged, just drop a comment below!

Echoes of Fate (3)

The conference room was filled with murmurs, but they all quieted the moment Jinwoo stepped up to the podium.

He didn’t waste time. “The portal we just cleared was not a sign of a return to the chaos we once knew,” he began, voice calm but firm. “It was an anomaly—an echo of what was, not what’s coming. The Association, alongside global Hunter agencies, is monitoring dimensional rifts constantly. I can assure you: the safety of the people remains our top priority.”

His eyes swept across the room—officials, reporters, guild leaders, representatives from around the world—and he continued, “I will personally respond to any threat that dares to surface. You have my word.”

There was no need for dramatic flair. Jinwoo’s presence, his reputation, and his unwavering tone said everything. The press conference ended in a flurry of flashes and follow-up questions he didn’t bother to answer. His job wasn’t to appease the media—it was to protect.

By the time he stepped back into the house, it was already late.

His coat slid off his shoulders and landed on the back of the chair in the hallway. The silence felt heavy, not suffocating—just thick with exhaustion. He’d been working nonstop: calming panicked governments, reassuring the association, brushing off doomsday theories being thrown around online.

But none of that mattered more than what waited upstairs.

He walked quietly through the home. The lights were dim. A soft glow filtered out from Suho’s room, but when he peeked inside, the boy was fast asleep, his hair tousled across the pillow, a faint line of drool on his cheek. Jinwoo smiled faintly, brushing the hair from his son’s forehead before pulling the blanket up a little more.

As he turned to head toward the master bedroom, something shifted in the corner of his eye.

Y/N spotted him from the couch. Her eyes sparkled.

“Oh, no. Not on my watch.”

She grabbed the nearest speaker, hit play—a beat dropped. Low. Funky. Stupidly dramatic.

Y/N got up slowly, hips already catching the rhythm. She locked eyes with Jinwoo as if she were about to deliver divine gospel.

She stepped close. Real close. Inches from his face.

“Are you depress?” (CLAP! hands together—sharp, dramatic)

She circled him like a predator with rhythm in her blood. Stepped close again, leaned into his space—

“Are you mad?” (CLAP! right on her ass—one cheek, clean hit)

Jinwoo blinked slowly. This was happening. He was letting it.

She twirled, dipped, came right up in his face, forehead to forehead—

“Are you upset?” BOINK. She poked his nose. With purpose.

He almost flinched.

Then she slid around him, got close to his ear, breath warm—

“Are you sad?” (CLAP! feet slap the floor as she hops in place like a funky goblin)

She backed up, just enough to give herself runway.

Then shimmy-shimmy, chest first, arms wide, she grinned and sang:

“Come here, babe…” “And let me give you a hug~”

She wrapped him up. Soft. Warm. Uncharacteristically gentle.

Jinwoo didn’t move—his body processed a full loving embrace while his brain tried to reboot.

Y/N held him just a second longer than silly would allow.

Then pulled back. Dead serious.

Beat still playing.

She narrowed her eyes. Voice low. Deep. Full commitment:

“Because you act…” Pause. “…like nobody give you love.”

She clapped once more. Ass. For emphasis.

Jinwoo stared at her.

“…You’re a menace.”

Y/N smirked. “But you’re not sad anymore, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

But his arms slowly wrapped around her again.

And in the background… the beat kept going.

Jinwoo’s arms were still loosely around Y/N. He hadn’t spoken yet.

He wasn’t sure how to respond to booty-based therapy.

Then—

“...What’s going on?”

Both of them froze.

Y/N turned her head, still mid-hug.

There stood Suho.

In pajamas. Looking way too curious for his own good.

Y/N grinned like she just got caught dancing in a crime scene. “Therapy.”

Suho blinked. “...For Dad?”

Jinwoo closed his eyes in shame. “It wasn’t therapy. It was—”

“—Performance healing!” Y/N interrupted proudly, throwing jazz hands.

Suho’s eyes lit up. “Can we do it again?”

Jinwoo opened his mouth. “No—”

Y/N: “Yes.”

Jinwoo: “Y/N, please—”

“Alright, then!” Y/N declared, throwing her arms wide. “It’s therapy rap time, kiddo!”

Jinwoo let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging even more.

“Dad, come on!” Suho urged, dragging Jinwoo into the chaos. “You have to do it too!”

Jinwoo looked at Y/N. She was already starting the beat again, hands clapping, feet stomping, moving with energy.

“Fine,” Jinwoo muttered, rolling his eyes. But he gave in. The beat was catchy, and honestly, he was too tired to argue.

The family gathered together in a circle, facing each other. Y/N led the way, snapping her fingers, already getting into the groove.

Suho looked at his dad with a smile. "Dad, you gotta clap harder!"

“Are you depress?” (CLAP! Suho clapped his hands along with the beat)

“Are you mad?” (CLAP! Jinwoo’s hands reluctantly slapped together)

Jinwoo gave him a dry look. "I’m trying not to make it worse."

“Are you upset?” (BOINK! Suho poked Jinwoo’s nose—he looked mildly offended but couldn’t stop himself from chuckling)

Y/N grinned and started shaking her chest again, making Jinwoo pause. He blinked. “What’s—”

They held the hug for a moment, all laughing, all genuinely happy.

“Come here, babe…”

“And let me give you a hug~”

The group hug began, and Suho squeezed in between them, giggling as his parents embraced. Even Jinwoo couldn’t resist chuckling, the tension melting away in the warmth of his family.

Y/N pulled back with a dramatic sigh, her hands in the air. “Alright, now we get serious!”

They all paused for a moment. Jinwoo rubbed his face, trying to hold back his laughter, his stress completely evaporating.

“Because you act…”

“Like nobody give you love!”

Then, before anyone could process it, Y/N grabbed Jinwoo’s hands and dragged him into the final moment of therapy.

Jinwoo looked at her with a serious expression. “What now—”

Suho’s face lit up, eyes wide. “Dad!!” He burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“CLAP CLAP!”

Jinwoo slapped his own ass, making a ridiculously loud noise.

Jinwoo tried to fight it but finally gave in, laughing along with his son.

“See?” Y/N said with a wicked grin. “That’s the power of love... and a good ass clap.”

And in that moment, Jinwoo felt it. All his stress, all his worries, completely gone.

This… this was his therapy. His family. His ridiculous, lovable, insane family.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The kitchen was warm with the scent of food, and the three of them—Jinwoo, Y/N, and Suho—sat around the dining table, plates piled high. It was late, and Jinwoo had expected to eat alone after a long day, but his family insisted on joining him. No one wanted him to eat by himself.

Suho had already eaten, but after the therapy rap and all the hugging, he had still found room for more food. His eyes were sparkling as he stuffed his face, looking up at his parents every now and then with a little grin.

Jinwoo was still a little on edge from the chaos of the day, but the warmth of his family around him made the weight feel a little lighter.

Y/N cleared her throat as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hey, Jinwoo."

"Hm?" He looked up, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Suho set down his spoon, his eyes suddenly focused and bright. "Mom, can I talk about what I want for my birthday?"

Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. "What do you want, kiddo?"

Suho leaned forward, his excitement growing with each word. "I want to experience raiding a dungeon!"

Jinwoo froze mid-chew. He coughed, his throat immediately constricting from the shock. He hacked into his napkin and started choking on the food.

Y/N quickly rushed to his side, thumping him on the back with a solid thwack.

“Jinwoo, are you alright?” she asked, her voice both concerned and slightly amused. She gave him a few more quick pats, making sure he wasn’t actually dying.

Suho looked at his father, waiting for his reaction.

Jinwoo finally managed to catch his breath, still staring at Suho. "Suho... Are you serious? A dungeon? That’s... too dangerous for someone your age."

Suho's big eyes widened, and he looked up at Jinwoo, his face the perfect picture of innocence. “But... Dad... you’ll be there with me, right? I’ll be safe because you’re there.”

He gazed up at Jinwoo with the most adorable, pleading expression he could muster, and Jinwoo felt his resolve beginning to crack.

Y/N watched the scene quietly, already knowing how this was going to play out. She glanced at Jinwoo, then back at Suho, and gave a gentle sigh, knowing full well that her husband would never agree to such an idea.

“Jinwoo,” Y/N interjected with a bright smile, “you know you can’t say no to that face. But I do agree that an actual dungeon is too dangerous.”

Suho’s face fell slightly, but before he could protest, Y/N quickly jumped in. “How about this? Instead of a real dungeon, we play pretend! We’ll raid a cleared dungeon, and I’ll be the dungeon boss. You’ll get to experience it—without the danger!”

Suho’s eyes lit up at the thought. “Mom, that sounds awesome! You’ll be the dungeon boss?”

Y/N’s smile turned sly. “Oh, you have no idea how much I’ve missed being the villain. It’s going to be the best birthday raid ever.”

Jinwoo blinked, still processing everything. He looked at Y/N, then at Suho, who was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement.

“I’m still not sure about this... But...” Jinwoo sighed. “If it’s a pretend raid, then... fine. But only because I can’t say no to you two.”

Suho cheered. “Yes!” He jumped out of his chair and ran over to hug his father, practically knocking him out of his seat.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “There we go. A birthday to remember.”

Jinwoo smiled, pulling his son into a tight hug. As much as he worried about his son’s safety, he couldn’t deny the joy on Suho’s face. And Y/N—well, she always found a way to make the impossible sound fun.

“Alright, alright,” Jinwoo said, laughing despite himself. “But don’t make the dungeon too dangerous, okay?”

“Oh, it’ll be perfectly safe,” Y/N promised. “But maybe we’ll throw in a few traps... just to make it interesting.”

Suho, now fully invested in the idea, grinned. “Traps? Like... the ones in the videos I watch? Cool!”

Jinwoo sighed but couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m going to regret this…”

But he knew, in the end, it would be a memory worth having. Even if it meant facing a few pretend monsters—and Y/N in full villain mode.

Jinwoo stood at the entrance of the portal, hand on Suho’s shoulder, ready for whatever awaited them. Suho, eager but calm, stood beside his father, exuding a confidence beyond his years. The air felt thick with the promise of adventure.

A shadow flickered beside them, and Beru appeared, wings aglow, his usual stoic presence enhanced by a certain dramatic flair.

“My liege,” Beru spoke with a bow, his voice rich and full of gravity. “The dungeon has been cleared, and all is prepared for your raid. The shadows are in position. You and the young master may proceed. I wish the young master good fortune on his journey.”

Suho smiled up at Beru, all eagerness and excitement. “Thanks, Beru! We’re going to do awesome!”

Beru gave a nod, his gaze full of quiet respect. “May you both find victory and glory.”

With that, Beru faded into the shadows, his role fulfilled for now.

Jinwoo gave Suho a reassuring look before they stepped forward

The dungeon was dim and cold, the stone walls echoing with the sounds of their footsteps. Jinwoo and Suho were moving cautiously through the eerie silence, their focus on the task at hand.

The first shadow knight appeared, its glowing red eyes scanning the two intruders. Without a word, Jinwoo sprang into action, his movements swift and calculated. He effortlessly dodged the knight’s strikes, countering with precision as Suho watched intently from his side.

Jinwoo’s movements were fluid and natural, but Suho, ever the curious and eager learner, began to mimic his father’s actions from the sidelines. He stood a bit further back, keeping his distance, but his eyes never left Jinwoo. With a few subtle shifts of his stance, Suho tried to copy the precise way his father moved, pretending as if he were striking the knights from behind.

Jinwoo, focused on his own fight, didn’t notice at first that Suho was trying to imitate him. But then, something unexpected happened. As Jinwoo dodged a blow from one of the knights, a powerful strike came from behind him—right through the shadow knight’s defenses—and the knight collapsed with a dramatic thud. Jinwoo froze, blinking in surprise.

He spun around, just in time to see Suho standing there, a grin on his face as if nothing had happened. The young boy had landed a perfectly executed blow. Jinwoo’s jaw dropped as he looked at his son, who was smiling innocently like he hadn’t just done something incredible.

“I told you I got your back, Dad,” Suho said proudly, the tiniest bit of mischief in his eyes.

Jinwoo stared at Suho for a long moment, his heart swelling with pride. He hadn’t expected his son to pick up on his moves so quickly—or to be so strong at such a young age.

With a wide grin, Jinwoo knelt down to Suho’s level, his voice full of admiration. “You really do, don’t you, Suho?” He ruffled his son’s hair affectionately. “That was impressive, kid. You’ve got some serious talent.”

Suho’s grin grew wider as he stood tall, his chest puffing out just a little. “I told you, I’m ready to fight with you, Dad!”

Jinwoo’s pride was clear in his eyes. His son, who had only just begun learning about combat, had already impressed him with his ability to keep up. A powerful, confident young warrior, his son was growing up fast, and Jinwoo couldn’t have been prouder.

“Let’s keep moving, then,” Jinwoo said, his smile still lingering. “We’ve got more shadow knights to clear, and I want you by my side, Suho.”

Suho nodded eagerly, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go, Dad! I’m ready for more!”

And together, they moved forward into the next stretch of the dungeon, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them.

After clearing the last of the shadow knights, Jinwoo and Suho finally reached the end of the dungeon—a massive, intimidating gate stood before them, the final obstacle between them and the dungeon boss room. Suho’s eyes were wide with excitement, and Jinwoo placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve made it, Suho. Ready for this?” Jinwoo asked, his voice filled with quiet anticipation.

Suho nodded enthusiastically, his grip tightening on his weapon. “Yeah! Let’s go!”

With a deep breath, Jinwoo pushed open the gate. As it slowly creaked open, they stepped into the grand chamber beyond.

There, sitting on an imposing throne, was Y/N—draped in a full battle outfit that screamed “villainous queen” through every inch of its design. Her eyes, cold and calculating, looked down at them with an air of superiority as she casually leaned back, exuding a sense of power and control.

Beside her, Fenrir, Beru, Bellion, and Igris stood, perfectly still, their presence adding a heavy, ominous aura to the room. The shadows, including Tusk, Tank, Greed, and Iron, emerged from the shadows themselves, positioning themselves around the room with the silent precision of well-trained soldiers. Shadow knights took their posts, ready for the battle to begin.

Suho, unable to hide his awe, looked up at his mother. “Wow, Mom… you look amazing!”

Jinwoo, still processing the full extent of her transformation, blinked in disbelief. He turned to Y/N, unable to contain his curiosity. “Y/N, where did you get that outfit?”

There was a brief moment of silence as Y/N continued to stare down at them with cold, calculating eyes. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, as if the atmosphere itself was waiting for her response. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp, yet dignified despite the casualness of her words.

“I rented it online,” Y/N replied, her tone betraying none of the humor one might expect from such a statement. Her gaze never wavered, and she leaned forward slightly, her fingers resting on the arms of the throne.

Jinwoo stared at her for a moment, taken aback by the sheer nonchalance in her response. He couldn't help but laugh, but it was clear his mind was still racing, trying to process everything around him.

Y/N, seeing the slight crack in his composure, didn’t allow the moment to linger for long. She sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing slightly as she began her villainous monologue, her voice dripping with menace and power.

"Enough of the chatter," she declared coldly, her voice echoing in the grand chamber. “You’ve come this far, but it was never meant to be easy. Every step you’ve taken, every shadow you’ve fought, has brought you to this moment—your final test. But do not fool yourselves. You are facing a force far beyond your comprehension. A force that has shaped this dungeon with the very essence of power.”

Her eyes flashed with dark amusement as she stood from the throne, her hand lightly resting on the scythe she had at her side. “You think you can challenge me? You think you can defeat me and walk out of here unscathed? You are mistaken. This is my domain, and here, I am absolute.”

Suho, caught up in the excitement of the moment, couldn't help but mirror his mother's tone. He stood tall, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he tried to match the villainous aura Y/N exuded. “Yeah! You think you can beat us, Dungeon Boss? We’ve got this!”

Jinwoo couldn’t help but chuckle at how easily Suho had gotten swept up in the mood, adopting the same dramatic flair. Despite the tension in the air, it was hard not to smile at the sight of his son fully embracing the playful chaos that Y/N had brought to the dungeon.

Y/N, however, was in her element, and the dark energy in the room seemed to surge with every word she spoke. “Prepare yourselves. The battle you face now will not be an easy one. But be warned, you will not leave here without feeling the weight of my power. I will make sure of it.”

Jinwoo's eyes softened as he looked at Suho, his heart swelling with pride. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Y/N, ready for the challenge that lay ahead. “We’ll see about that.”

The shadow knights initiated the attack, but Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes away from her son, Suho. Despite his young age, he was trying so hard to keep up with Jinwoo, doing his best to protect his father’s back when enemies approached from behind. The sight of her son growing stronger with each battle made her heart swell, though she had to stay in character.

“Pathetic,” she muttered in a low, villainous tone. “You dare challenge me?” But deep down, there was a warmth blossoming inside her chest, watching as Suho’s small hands fought alongside Jinwoo’s much larger and more experienced ones.

Suho wasn’t just following his father’s moves—he was starting to make his own, improving with each swing, each step. Her pride for them both grew, though she quickly shoved those feelings aside. I am the villain, she reminded herself. I must stay strong, stay menacing.

When the shadow knights were wiped out in mere minutes, the shadow generals stepped forward, but even they hesitated. They clearly held back to avoid hurting Suho, who was still so young. It was a thoughtful, though unnecessary, precaution. Jinwoo took advantage of their hesitation and swiftly wiped them out.

The room went quiet as the last shadow general crumpled to the ground, leaving only the victorious duo—Jinwoo and Suho—standing tall and confident. They exchanged a glance, a shared grin, and Y/N felt her insides twist.

Oh no, she thought, her heart beating faster. They really look so much alike. My husband, my baby... so cute...

In her mind, an "ugly" version of herself appeared—face scrunched up in tears, eyes brimming with emotion. It was as if she were physically sobbing at the sheer adorableness of her family. The sight was so overwhelming that she could hardly contain herself. Look at them, she thought, feeling that powerful, gooey affection bubbling inside her. They’re perfect. My heart can’t handle it.

Her mind then shifted back to reality. I am the villain! I am evil!

Yet, there was no denying it—her heart was filled to the brim with love for them both, and that ugly, crying version of herself lingered in her mind, silently wailing at the scene of Jinwoo and Suho standing before her in victory.

But she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t let them see her weakness, even if she was on the brink of internal fangirling over how cute they were.

She stood from her throne, the weight of her role settling back over her. Her hand raised, and the scythe appeared beside her, gleaming ominously. She had to maintain the tension in the room.

“Do you think you’ve won?” she asked in a voice laced with cold malice. "This is where your journey ends. You’ve come so far, but the final trial is upon you. Prepare to face the true power of the dungeon—my power!”

Her eyes narrowed, and she turned toward Jinwoo, pointing the scythe at him. “You, my dear, will fall first. You think you’ve bested me, but I will show you my true strength!”

Inside, though, she still felt that ugly version of herself crying tears of joy. You two are too perfect, she thought, her expression momentarily softening. So cute…

But she quickly snapped back into villain mode, keeping her posture sharp and commanding. I can’t let them see me like this!

The dungeon air trembled as a powerful, haunting howl echoed across the room—Fenrir, summoned by Y/N, threw his head back and released a bone-chilling cry. The sound was primal, wild, and entirely dramatic.

Then came Igris, his crimson cape fluttering behind him as he drew his sword with dignified grace, the blade gleaming with dark light. Bellion stepped forward next, his wings stretching, multiple arms poised for battle, and Beru crouched beside them, claws extended, chittering with a strange sort of excitement. All four generals faced Jinwoo.

They launched their attacks in sync—fast, precise, and powerful—but every strike was clearly calculated. None of it was aimed at Suho. Not even once.

This was a fight between titans. Between King and Queen.

All the shadows had been ordered by their queen: attack Jinwoo with everything they had… but never scratch her baby. That was non-negotiable.

Jinwoo noticed immediately. They were going all out, and yet not a single strike came near Suho. He didn’t need to ask. He just understood. So he let loose, pushing his strength without holding back, knowing Suho would be safe.

The dungeon shook with their collision. Suho tried to jump in, to help, but the sheer pressure and speed of the battle kept him at bay. He stared in awe—this wasn’t pretend anymore. This was a real fight. And his father… his father was incredible.

"I… I can't keep up," Suho whispered to himself, stepping back slowly. "This isn't my fight yet… I have a lot to learn."

From her throne, Y/N glanced at her son, seeing the awe in his eyes. Her heart fluttered, proud of him for understanding. He wasn't discouraged—he was inspired. She smiled softly.

But then Suho looked at her.

Her smile vanished instantly, replaced with a cold, dangerous stare. She tilted her chin up, narrowed her eyes, and returned to full villain mode.

The shadows, sensing the shift, stepped back. Fenrir howled once more, and the four generals stopped their assault.

The stage was now clear.

It was time for the finale.

Jinwoo stood alone at the center, daggers in hand, his breath calm and steady. Across from him, Y/N descended the stairs with queenly poise, scythe resting over her shoulder.

“Didn’t think you’d go this far,” Jinwoo said with a small grin.

Y/N pointed the scythe at him, her voice chilling and theatrical. “You’ve trespassed into my domain. And now, you will pay the price.”

With no further warning, she lunged.

Clang!

The scythe came down in a clean arc, and Jinwoo barely raised his dagger in time to block it. The metal sang as they collided.

Jinwoo’s eyes widened. The force behind it—it was no joke.

“You actually swung that at me,” he said, half-laughing.

“I’m method acting,” Y/N replied coolly.

She twirled the scythe in a sweeping motion and stepped to the side, slashing diagonally. Jinwoo ducked, swept her legs, but she leapt, spun mid-air, and twisted like a dancer of death.

Jinwoo leapt back, throwing a dagger mid-air. She sliced it in half with one clean swing, her eyes burning with wicked joy.

“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered.

“Of course I am,” she smirked, planting her scythe into the ground and using the pole to vault over his head. She aimed a kick at his back, which he blocked with his forearm.

Suho’s eyes sparkled as he watched from the sidelines, absolutely invested.

Jinwoo used Shadow Step to appear behind her, but Y/N had predicted it. She turned, catching his wrist, and whispered:

“Too slow.”

He twisted out of her grip, grabbed her arm, and pivoted them both into a lock. For a second, it looked like he had her—until she smirked, let go of the scythe, and headbutted him lightly.

“Ow—seriously?”

“All’s fair in love and villainy.”

Jinwoo broke into a full laugh, stepping back. “I think your costume’s getting to your head.”

Y/N grinned with fake arrogance, picking up her scythe and pointing it at him once more. “No… this is who I truly am!”

They circled each other again, steps slow, both smiling, both deadly. The shadows, generals, and Suho watched with silent admiration.

To everyone else, it looked like an epic duel.

To them?

It was love in its purest, most chaotic form.

Flashes of light burst through the dungeon as Jinwoo’s daggers clashed again and again with the sweeping arc of Y/N’ scythe. Sparks flew, casting wild shadows across the walls. Every strike echoed like thunder, and the shadows that stood as the audience—Beru, Bellion, Igris, and the rest—watched in total reverence.

It wasn’t just a fight.

It was a performance.

A breathtaking, chaotic, and graceful display of strength and love. Every movement was precise. Every dodge, every feint, every counter was deliberate.

To Suho, who stood at the edge of the battle, eyes wide in wonder, it was the coolest thing he had ever seen. His parents weren’t just strong—they were awesome.

The dance between the two warriors intensified. Y/N spun with her scythe, leaping with a snarl, only to be parried by Jinwoo’s twin daggers. Jinwoo ducked low, swept her leg—but she flipped and countered mid-air. The rhythm, the pacing—it was perfect.

Shadows moved with every motion, reacting like living echoes to their battle. The flickering light of magic and movement painted the dungeon in an ever-shifting glow.

But Jinwoo knew something as they fought. Y/N? She didn’t plan to be defeated.

Not in front of Suho. Not in full costume. Not when she had a whole villain arc scripted in her head.

And him?

There was no way he was going to lose in front of their son either.

They clashed again—up close, breathless, blades locked.

And in that moment, when only inches separated them, Jinwoo leaned in close and whispered into Y/N’ ear—quietly, intimately, so only she could hear:

“You look way too hot in this outfit. If I win, I’m carrying you to the bedroom right after.”

Y/N blinked.

Eyes wide.

Her brain bluescreened.

The villain queen persona she had so carefully crafted sputtered like a dying campfire. Her cheeks lit up in a furious blush, her grip faltering just slightly—just enough.

Boom!

In one smooth, graceful move, Jinwoo spun her around, locked her arms, and pinned her down gently against the stone floor. He didn’t slam her—he didn’t need to. Just enough to assert victory… and to let her feel that whisper all over again.

Y/N stared up at him, flustered, hair splayed dramatically, breath caught.

“You…” she hissed under her breath, face glowing red. “You cheated.”

Jinwoo gave her a slow, smug smile. “You love it.”

And then—

“YAAAHH!!”

A tiny warrior’s cry echoed across the chamber.

Suho ran toward them, his wooden sword raised high. He dashed right up to his mother, gently *bap!*ing her side with the weapon.

“Take that, dungeon boss!!” he shouted, standing tall and proud. “I’ve defeated the queen!”

Y/N turned her head and looked up at her son.

Her beautiful, precious, chaotic son.

“I’ve been… defeated,” she declared in a dramatic gasp, still pinned under Jinwoo. “By the tiniest warrior of them all…”

Suho threw his hands in the air. “VICTORY!!!”

The shadows erupted into applause—dramatic, over-the-top, very much encouraged by Beru.

Jinwoo let go and helped Y/N sit up. She was still red, but now laughing, brushing her hair back.

“Remind me to ban you from whispering during combat,” she grumbled, smiling in defeat.

Jinwoo gave her a wink. “No promises.”

Just as Suho raised his little wooden sword in victory, the entire dungeon suddenly burst into color.

BOOM! FWWWHHH!!

Magical fireworks erupted in the ceiling—courtesy of Tusk, who conjured glittering sparks and shimmering lights that danced like stars. A wave of golden confetti rained down from above, sparkling in the dungeon light like tiny blessings from the heavens.

Bellion and Igris stood straight and proud behind him, as if this was the most sacred event they’d ever witnessed.

“🎉🎉✨✨HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOUNG MASTER!!!✨✨🎉🎉”

Beru made a grand entrance with both arms dramatically spread wide—balanced perfectly on one clawed hand was a large, beautifully decorated cake. It was absurdly perfect, glowing slightly from the enchantments Tusk put in. There were miniature shadow knights on top of it, one even doing a tiny dab.

Y/N blinked at the confetti in her hair and then turned to Jinwoo. "Did you plan this?"

He just smiled as he helped her to her feet, brushing off her back. “I had help.”

Together, they walked over and joined Suho as everyone began to sing, slightly off-key but full of heart:

Suho’s cheeks puffed with excitement as he looked around, eyes wide, sparkling. His parents stood behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder. Beru presented the cake with a flourish.

“Happy birthday to you~

Happy birthday to you~

Happy birthday, dear Suhoooo~

Happy birthday to youuuuu~!”

“Go ahead, young master,” Beru said with over-the-top reverence, “Make a wish and blow the candles.”

Suho squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t even need to think hard—his wish had already come true.

He took a deep breath and—

“Huuuuh—PFFF!!”

Out went the candles.

Cheers erupted. The shadows clapped. Tusk made the fireworks explode in the shape of a heart. Iron did a backflip for some reason.

Then Suho turned and hugged both his parents tightly, burying his face between them.

Y/N felt a lump in her throat. Jinwoo gently wrapped both arms around his son and wife, holding them close.

“Thank you,” he whispered, muffled but full of sincerity.

“This is perfect. I love you sooooo much!”

This moment—this silly, magical, loving moment—was everything.

Tank gently rolled a celebratory banner out of nowhere.

And somewhere behind them, Beru was dramatically sobbing.

“Such a blessed day!! THE YOUNG MASTER HAS BLOOMED INTO GLORY!!”

After a long, joyful day of celebrations, the evening winds down with the family finally settling in. Suho had fallen asleep with frosting still on his cheek, surrounded by stuffed shadows and one very dramatic Beru acting as a pillow.

The house had grown quiet, save for the gentle sound of running water and clinking dishes in the kitchen.

Y/N stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, humming softly to herself as she washed the remaining dishes. Her battle suit was long gone, replaced by one of Jinwoo’s oversized black shirts, practically drowning her but making her look even more adorable.

She didn’t notice him approach.

Jinwoo snuck up behind her, warm arms snaking around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his voice low and gentle against her skin.

“Everything’s taken care of. No more mess, no more trash,” he murmured.

Y/N giggled, leaning back into his embrace. “You do too much already, Jinwoo,” she whispered, voice soaked in fondness. “You’re always so hard on yourself.”

Jinwoo chuckled softly, pressing another kiss just below her ear. “I’m just trying to do my best.”

Y/N turned in his arms, looking up at him with eyes that could melt steel. She reached up, cupping his face with wet, soap-scented hands.

“You’re doing amazing,” she said, voice full of quiet conviction.

“As a husband, as a father… you’re perfect.”

Jinwoo blushed faintly, eyes flickering away, then back to her. She grinned.

“I keep falling more in love with you,” she added, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Level 999+.”

He laughed, low and warm, and leaned in to steal a quick kiss.

“Thank you, Y/N. For always believing in me.”

Then, with a little teasing smirk, he leaned closer and whispered in her ear—

“By the way… during our little duel earlier… Remember what I said?”

Y/N blinked, then her eyes widened just a little.

He grinned. “You looked so hot in that outfit, I almost forgot it was pretend.”

Her cheeks flared red. “Y-You…!” She tried to swat at him with the dish towel, but he caught her wrist and laughed.

Still holding her close, he pressed a gentle kiss to her neck and whispered again, this time with a glint of suggestion in his voice.

“We should take a bath together. The final raid of the day.”

Y/N buried her face in his chest with a dramatic groan. “You're impossible.”

He smirked. “You love it.”

She looked up, unable to hide her smile. “Unfortunately… I do.”

Jinwoo chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let’s go, villain queen. Time to wash off the battlefield.”

Jinwoo chuckles, the sound warm and full of affection. He pulls back slightly to look at her, his eyes sparkling with amusement at how easily he still makes her blush. “You’re so cute,” he says with a grin, his heart swelling at how genuine and loving she is, even in these simple moments.

Y/N gives him a playful, half-shy look, biting her lip to suppress a smile. “Stop teasing me,” she mutters, but there’s a softness in her voice that betrays how much she loves these little moments of closeness between them.

Jinwoo laughs again, the sound of it full of warmth and joy, and gently pulls her closer, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re too easy to tease,” he says, kissing her cheek tenderly.

She rolls her eyes with a grin, still holding onto that blush, but can’t help feeling grateful for this gentle, affectionate side of him. She leans back into his embrace, feeling truly at peace. “Alright, alright… but only because I’m so tired from today,” she teases, her voice teasing but affectionate.

“Of course,” Jinwoo says with a smile, “But you know, a bath with you is just the perfect way to end the day.”

As they leave the kitchen, side by side, the warmth between them is palpable, the bond they share growing stronger with every passing day.

Jinwoo gently leads Y/N toward their bedroom’s bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. He had already prepared everything—he knew how much she appreciated a calming atmosphere, especially after a long, hectic day. As they enter the room, the soft glow of scented candles flickers around the space, casting a warm, intimate light. The soothing scent of lavender fills the air, mixing with the subtle fragrance of rose petals floating in the lukewarm water of the tub. The room feels like a peaceful sanctuary, the air rich with relaxation.

Jinwoo smiles as he watches Y/N take in the comforting atmosphere. “Everything’s ready,” he says softly, his voice a calm reassurance. “I thought you might like a little extra tonight.”

Y/N gazes around the room, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she breathes in the calming scents. Her shoulders relax immediately, the tension from the day melting away. “This is perfect,” she whispers, turning to Jinwoo with eyes filled with affection. “Thank you.”

Jinwoo simply nods, his heart swelling as he watches her unwind. He gestures toward the tub, stepping aside to allow her to climb in first. He follows her in, carefully adjusting the water and making sure it’s the right temperature, before sitting behind her, wrapping his arms around her as they settle into the warm water.

Y/N leans back into his chest, her body immediately relaxing at the comfort of his embrace. She closes her eyes, sighing in contentment as she rests her head against his shoulder. The warmth of the water, the calming scent of lavender, and Jinwoo’s steady presence all come together in a perfect moment of peace.

Jinwoo holds her close, his hands gently massaging her shoulders, his touch tender and loving. They don’t need to say much—just the shared quiet, the soft rhythm of their breathing, and the occasional murmur of affection. Y/N leans into him even more, the closeness of the moment enveloping her, feeling completely safe in his arms.

“This is perfect,” she murmurs again, her voice filled with quiet joy. “I could stay here forever.”

Jinwoo smiles softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re perfect,” he whispers back, his voice low and sincere. “Everything about you.”

Y/N smiles, her heart full. She feels a sense of tranquility she hasn’t known in a long while, the weight of the day’s events slipping away. In this quiet moment, everything feels right. She holds his hand, squeezing it gently, knowing that, no matter what, they’ll face everything together.

The candlelight flickers gently around them, and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter. All that matters is the warmth between them, their hearts in sync, and the peace they’ve found in each other’s arms.

As they relax in the bath, Jinwoo’s tender kisses move from Y/N’s lips to her neck, trailing slowly down her shoulder. His hands gently roam her body, his touch careful and loving, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. Y/N giggles softly, the sensation making her shiver slightly, but she leans into him, her eyes sparkling with affection.

Before he can fully lose himself in the moment, Y/N playfully turns in his arms, straddling him. Her arms rest on his shoulders as she gazes down at him, her smile filled with warmth and teasing. “You know, Jinwoo… you’re so perfect and I’m so lucky,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Jinwoo chuckles, clearly enjoying her attention. “All for you,” he murmurs softly, his voice full of affection.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Mmmp! Your handsomeness is too problematic,” she teases, poking fun at the memories of battles they’ve fought. “Remember the Bitch of Echoes? Good thing I crashed her,” she says, her tone playful, but her eyes soft with love.

Jinwoo laughs heartily, the sound full of warmth and amusement. But just as he’s about to respond, he’s caught off guard by a sudden bite to his shoulder. Y/N’s teeth press against his skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and Jinwoo groans in pain, his body tensing slightly from the unexpected action.

Y/N pulls away, her eyes gleaming with mischievous pride. “You’re mine,” she whispers, teasing him further as she leans in close.

But as their eyes meet, something shifts in the air. Jinwoo’s gaze darkens, a flicker of something primal flashing in his eyes—hunger, desire, a quiet intensity that causes the atmosphere between them to change. Y/N, for the first time, feels a shiver of anticipation run through her, the playful moment now giving way to something deeper.

For a brief moment, everything seems to still, the world outside their little bubble fading away. They are left only with each other, the heat of the water, the closeness of their bodies, and the electric tension between them. The bond they share is undeniable, and in this moment, it feels stronger than ever.

“Jinwoo…” Y/N breathes, her voice suddenly soft and steady, as she watches him, her heart racing slightly.

The air between them thickens with tension as Jinwoo’s gaze darkens, his primal hunger igniting a fire in Y/N that she can’t ignore. His hands, strong and possessive, tighten on her hips, pulling her so close that the warmth of their bodies overshadows the water surrounding them. Y/N shivers, not from the chill but from the raw intensity in his eyes, the way he looks at her like she’s his entire world.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough murmur that sends a shiver down her spine. Before she can respond, his lips find hers, hungry but careful, his tongue sliding against hers in a silent plea. She moans softly into his mouth, a quiet “Mmm,” that vibrates against his lips, and he responds by deepening the kiss, his hands roaming her body with a restrained urgency.

She shifts to straddle him, her thighs bracketing his hips as she lowers herself onto him. Her arms loop around his shoulders for support, fingers digging into his muscular back as she feels the first stretch of him inside her. “Jinwoo—ohh,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, the fullness of him making her tremble. “You’re so big… so deep…”

Jinwoo groans quietly, his head tipping back slightly as her warmth envelops him, but his hands guide her gently, encouraging her to move. Each roll of her hips draws a soft, breathy moan from her lips—“Ahh, yes, Jinwoo”—a sound so low it’s almost lost in the gentle lapping of the water. She feels so full, so utterly claimed, and it’s all she can do to hold on, her nails scraping lightly against his skin as she finds a rhythm.

But Jinwoo’s desire takes over. His lips find her neck, hot and insistent, and he begins to mark her with slow, deliberate kisses. “I love you so much,” he murmurs against her skin, his voice a hushed chant of devotion. “So much, Y/N—you’re everything to me.” His teeth graze her pulse point, then press down just enough to leave a faint mark, and she gasps, a soft “Ohh, Jinwoo” escaping her lips.

He moves lower, his mouth latching onto her chest, sucking and nipping at her breasts until she’s trembling above him. “Love you, love you, love you,” he whispers between each mark, each bruise that will bloom later a silent testament to his passion. Her moans are quieter now, a series of soft “Mmm, yes, I love you too” as she rides him, her body rocking against his in a steady, careful rhythm.

But as the pleasure builds, her voice threatens to rise, a louder “Ahh!” slipping out as he thrusts up to meet her. Jinwoo’s hand flies to her mouth, his fingers pressing gently against her lips as he hushes her. “Shh, love,” he whispers urgently, his eyes soft but serious. “Our son’s sleeping. We can’t wake him.”

Y/N nods, her breath hitching as she bites her lip to stifle another moan. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice trembling with both desire and embarrassment, but the fire in her eyes doesn’t dim. She leans in, kissing him deeply to muffle her sounds, her hips moving faster now, more desperate.

Jinwoo’s control frays, and with a careful but firm motion, he lifts her off him, turning her around so she’s facing away, her hands scrambling to grip the edge of the tub. “Hold on,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding, and she obeys, her fingers curling around the slick tiles in a silent promise.

He enters her from behind, his thrust slow at first but quickly building to a fast, rough rhythm that makes her breath catch. “Jinwoo—ohh, please,” she whispers, her voice barely audible but heavy with need, her knuckles whitening as she clings to the tub like it’s her lifeline. Each movement is deep and urgent, his hips pressing against her with a controlled intensity that sends shivers up her spine.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his hands gripping her hips tightly but gently, guiding her through the storm of pleasure. Her moans are soft now, a series of quiet “Mmm, yes, more” and “Ohh, Jinwoo,” muffled against her arm as she buries her face to stay silent. He leans forward, his lips brushing her ear as he whispers, “You’re mine, Y/N. Always.”

The pressure builds until she can’t hold back, her body tensing as a soft, shuddering moan escapes her—“Jinwoo”—her climax hitting her like a wave, quiet but overwhelming. He follows moments later, his own release a low, muffled groan against her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her as they both tremble in the aftermath.

They stay like that, breathless and still, the water gently lapping at their skin. Y/N’s grip on the tub loosens, and Jinwoo pulls her back against his chest, his lips pressing a tender kiss to the marks he’s left on her neck. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice soft and full of warmth.

“Love you too,” she replies, her voice just as quiet, a smile tugging at her lips as they share a moment of perfect, silent intimacy.

The house feels whole.

Y/N closes her eyes, resting her forehead against Jinwoo’s, their fingers laced underwater.

No more worries tonight. No battles to fight. Just them.

Together.

As it should be.

Echoes of Fate (2) | END

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