#everything is Wrong and Bad and Wrong and Bad

[teaboot]

Question that I suspect is autism related

I have, on more than one occasion over multiple decades, been told that I “need to have the last word” and that I “have a response for everything”.

Additionally and in a similar vein, I’ve been told that “everything is an argument with you” and I “always have to say something”.

When I was a little kid I was bad at conversations. People said stuff I had no opinion on or didn’t need follow-up and so I wouldn’t answer and they’d get bored. And eventually through trial and error I figured out that if someone said something to me, all I had to do was say something related back, and the interaction could go on as long as it needed to.

But then as a teen- and now as an adult- a number of people (mostly people I’ve found to be very delicate and particular about things in a sort of need-to-be-in-control authoritarian way) have expressed the identical observation about how I naturally try to converse, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

And the thing is, I have a sibling that talks like this too. We bicker all the time. He changes his own opinions seemingly at a whim for the purpose of being contrary, and it’s impossible to make a statement or observation out loud without him contradicting it, and even when he is demonstrably, factually wrong about something, he will dig his heels into the dirt and defend his stance to the grave.

And like. I hear myself responding, or adding on to people’s comments, but I don’t hear the ‘arguing’ they describe, or the contrarian habits of my sibling. Even when I’m paying attention and being bery careful not to follow up too much or speak too often or disagree or correct something that isn’t important, I get called out for “picking a fight”. They say something, I answer, they reply, I continue, then seemingly out of nowhere they snap. I think everything’s fine until suddenly it isn’t.

And so I guess my question is, how can you tell if you’re a contrary sort of person? How can you tell when to respond or follow up on a person’s statement and how do you know when to leave it in silence? Does everybody see me this way, and is it only people who are already short-tempered who are willing to say it?

I honestly don’t really have that much to say, and half the time I don’t even really want to talk at all, but I’ve been told countless times that I “just seem to like the sound of your own voice” and have to just be “tuned out after a while”. So if it isn’t necessary and I don’t even want to, why am I doing it?

Is there a reason I’m like this? Why is my sibling like this? How do I stop talking when there’s nothing to say, and how can I tell the difference between a conversation and an argument before the other person visibly snaps?

I’m a full grown adult

[usedpidemo]

Brand new day (Twice Sana & Dahyun)

23.5k words

—————

The air in the JYP practice room hangs thick and used. It smells like stale sweat, the sharp tang of disinfectant trying and failing to win, and of faint, hot ozone smell from overworked electronics. The polished floor reflects the harsh overhead lights and nine exhausted figures slumped against mirrored walls. It’s Stray Kids, weeks away from their official debut—at least on reality TV. 

Limbs tremble. Chests heave. Hyunjin massages a vicious cramp in his calf, his face tight. Felix leans heavily against Changbin, his usual sunshine dimmed to a faint, flickering glow. Chan, ever the anchor, runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his eyes scanning invisible footage, dissecting every misstep, every beat slightly off from their brutal evaluation session.

"Alright," Chan rasps, his inflection rough as sandpaper. "Good effort today. Brutal, but good." He points toward Minho. "We tighten the transition into the second chorus. Minho, your pivot felt late."

Too spent for words, Minho just grunts. 

Silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the group’s ragged breathing. It’s the moment. The awful, suffocating moment you’ve carried for weeks, pressing down like the humid Seoul heat outside. It claws its way up your throat, bitter and sharp. The words drop like stones into the stagnant air. 

Now. 

"I’m quitting."

The ragged breathing stops. A bomb detonates in the stillness. 

Felix’s head snaps up. Changbin stops mid-sip, water bottle hovering halfway to his lips. Hyunjin’s hands freeze on his leg. Seungmin’s analytical gaze locks onto you, sharp and questioning. Jisung’s jaw drops. Jeongin blinks, wide-eyed, uncomprehending. Minho slowly pushes himself upright. Chan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t gasp. His eyes narrow, the exhaustion vanishing, replaced by a terrifying, laser-focused intensity. He takes a single step towards you, the squeak of his sneaker impossibly loud on the polished floor.

"What did you just say?"

You force yourself to meet his gaze. The weight of everyone’s judgment feels gargantuan. 

"I said I’m quitting. Dropping out. Before the reveal." 

The stunned silence shatters like glass.

"Quitting?" Changbin explodes, surging to his feet, fatigue instantaneously disappearing. The water bottle clatters forgotten. Disbelief and betrayal fuel his words. "Are you insane? Weeks away! After everything? The hell is wrong with you?" 

Hyunjin scrambles up beside him, his expressive face tight with confusion and dawning hurt. "Hyung, this isn’t funny. What are you talking about?"

Felix looks devastated, his deep cadence now sounding unusually small. "But—we're a team. Stray Kids. All of us."

Questions overlap, sharp as shrapnel.

"Did something happen?"

"Did the evaluation go that bad?"

"Is it pressure? We can help!"

"You can’t just leave!"

Chan holds up a hand. The room falls silent again, tension crackling through the place like static electricity. He takes another step closer. Not shouting. Worse. It’s low and controlled, vibrating with a fury simmering beneath the leader’s calm. 

"Explain. Right now. Because this?" His gesture is sharp, encompassing the room, the years of grueling training, the imminent debut they’ve bled for. "This isn’t just about you. You don’t get to just quit because you're tired, or scared, or had a bad day." His eyes bore into yours, searching for weakness, for the selfishness he thinks he sees. "You owe us that much. An explanation for this—this selfishness."

His accusation, the emphasis on selfishness, hits harder than any vocal coach’s criticism. It echoes the doubt gnawing at your own insides. You flinch. You see the flicker of confusion in Chan's eyes—he sees the flinch, but not the defiance he expected. He sees exhaustion deeper than practice, pain unrelated to sore muscles.

Your shoulders slump. The weight you’ve carried alone, the secret festering in the dark corners of your mind while you smiled through practice—it all crashes down. Your eyes drop to your worn sneakers, the laces frayed from countless hours in this room. The sterile image of a hospital floods your senses, replacing sweat and floor polish.

"My brother," you mutter. The word hangs heavy, thick with brotherly dread. You force your head up, meeting Chan's gaze again. His rigid anger falters, replaced by wary confusion. "My younger brother. He's—he's sick. Really sick." 

Your voice cracks. "They called me earlier. Today. After evaluation." 

You swallow hard. The memory of your father's voice, thick with a fear you've never heard before, scrapes your nerves. "He's been in the hospital. For weeks. They—they didn't want to tell me. Didn't want to distract me." A bitter, hollow laugh escapes your throat. "Distract me."

Utter, deafening silence. Even the hum of the air conditioning seems to fade. All eyes lock on you, their anger replaced by dawning horror.

"They thought it was just a bad flu at first. Then it wasn't." The words come out flat, mechanical, like reciting a terrible script. "His fever won't break. His lungs—they're struggling. The bills—" You shake your head, the sheer, suffocating weight pressing down. "My parents—they're trying. Selling things. Borrowing. But it just keeps growing. It won’t stop.”

You look around at the faces of your team—your brothers in everything but blood. Sudden realization replaces anger on Changbin’s face. Empathy floods Felix’s eyes. Protective concern hardening Hyunjin’s jaw. Jisung covers his mouth. Minho looks stricken. Seungmin’s analytical gaze fills with painful comprehension. Jeongin looks like he might cry. 

"And I'm here," you continue, the guilt and weight of responsibility spilling over. "I'm here, dancing, singing, worrying about hitting a note or nailing a step, while he's fighting just to breathe. While my parents are drowning." 

Your voice rises, trembling. "How can I stand on stage? How can I smile for the cameras? How can I chase this dream when my family is breaking apart? I don't deserve it. I haven't earned the right. Not now." You rake a hand through your hair, unable to face them any further. "That's why—why I've been off. Why the energy's gone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you. I just—I couldn't find the words. Didn't want to burden you."

The silence that follows is profound and heavy. Saturated with newly-shared pain. Chan’s rigid posture dissolves. The fury is gone, replaced by deep, aching sorrow. He takes the final step, closing the distance. Not to confront, but to connect. His hand reaches out, hesitates, then lands firmly on your shoulder. 

It’s not the grip of a leader. It's a friend’s. An anchor.

"Oh, man," he breathes, anger suddenly gone, leaving only compassion. His despair thickens. "Why—why didn't you say something?"

Before you can answer, Changbin moves. He steps forward to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a tight, almost crushing hug. 

Right there, everything shatters. 

A sob escapes you, muffled against his shoulder. Hyunjin is there, adding his weight, his hand gripping your arm. Then Felix presses in, his smaller frame radiating warmth. The others soon converge into a wave of silent, overwhelming support. 

Arms encircle you; heads press close. A tangle of limbs, shared breath, and tears you can no longer hold back. Chan’s hand remains on your shoulder, grounding you within their rigid, unconditional solidarity. The weight in your heart doesn’t lift, but for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you're carrying it alone.

The practice room door swings open with a cheerful squeak, shattering the tear-stained silence.

"Delivery service!" Sana’s bright, melodic timbre rings out, instantly followed by the rustle of plastic bags and soft footsteps. "We brought fuel for the warriors! Who's ready for—" Her words trail off as she takes in the unusual scene.

The other Twice members stand framed in the doorway, laden with takeout and drinks. Jihyo leads, her confident expression morphing into wide-eyed surprise. Nayeon peers over her shoulder, eyebrows arched high. Momo tilts her head, confused. Tzuyu blinks slowly. Mina’s gaze softens instantly. Chaeyoung nudges Jeongyeon, who frowns. Sana, holding a bag aloft, freezes mid-step, her infectious smile vanishing in real-time, replaced by pure bewilderment. Beside her, Dahyun’s sharp eyes scan the huddled mass of Stray Kids, lingering on your tear-streaked face pressed against Changbin’s shoulder, then flick to Chan’s hand on your arm, to the emotions etched on every face.

Jihyo recovers first, gentle and cautious. "Whoa. Did—did we interrupt something? Bad time?" She lowers her bags slowly.

The Stray Kids huddle loosens slightly, but the protective circle around you remains. Chan clears his throat, roughed up with tears. "No, it's—it's okay. Just—some heavy news."

Still holding you, Changbin shifts. "His brother," he states simply, "Really sick. Hospital. Terrible."

The explanation ripples through the Twice members. Concern overrides confusion. Nayeon’s playful energy vanishes. Momo’s expression turns serious. Mina takes a small step forward, eyes filled with quiet empathy.

You pull back slightly from Changbin, wiping your face roughly with your sleeve. Feeling exposed under nine more pairs of eyes. You take a shaky breath. "Yeah. My little brother. He's—been in the hospital. Weeks. It's—not good. The bills—it's a lot." You swallow, every word sounding more repulsive. "I just—I told the guys—I need to quit. Go home. Be with my family. I can't—I can't do this right now. It wouldn't be fair. To them. Or to Stray Kids."

A soft murmur of sympathy runs through them. Jihyo nods slowly, understanding. Nayeon bites her lip. Momo whispers something, her expression pained.

Sana moves first. She carefully places the bag down and walks towards the group, her bubbly energy replaced by profound, gentle solemnity. She stops close, large, expressive eyes fixed on yours, shimmering with unshed tears. 

"Your little brother—that's—" She shakes her head, unable to find the word, devastation clear. "I'm so, so sorry."

Her sincerity is a warm balm on a raw wound.

Dahyun steps up beside Sana, quieter but intensely present. Her sharp, observant gaze holds yours, cutting through the haze of your grief. She doesn’t offer platitudes. "That's—incredibly heavy," she states, devoid of her usual wit. "Family comes first. Always." 

There's quiet strength in her conviction. Then, something softer, more personal, crosses her features. "We're—really going to miss you around here, you know?" 

The admission is quiet, almost shy, but lands with surprising weight. It’s not just about a trainee; it’s about the person they’d come to know.

Jihyo steps forward, placing a comforting hand on Sana’s shoulder. "They're right," she says, firm yet kind. "Your family needs you. That's where you belong right now." She offers a small, encouraging smile. "Be strong for them. And for yourself."

"Yeah, kick that illness's butt for your brother! We’ll be rooting for him!" Nayeon adds, her cheerfulness is genuine, if a little misaligned. Mina nods silently, her gentle eyes radiating support.

The combined empathy, from both your brothers-in-arms and the seniors you admired, is overwhelming. Beyond measure. The Stray Kids group hug tightens again briefly, a final show of unified strength.

Chan finally speaks, thick but resolute. "Don't you dare apologize for wanting to be with your family. That's not selfishness. That's—that's love." He meets your weary eyes. "We'll hold it down here. Go. Be where you need to be."

As the hug dissolves, Sana reaches out. Her hand finds yours, giving it a quick, firm squeeze. Her touch is warm, grounding. "Be strong," she whispers. Dahyun offers a small, solemn nod beside her, her dark eyes holding yours for a second longer. 

The unspoken ‘We'll miss you’ hangs thick in the air. 

—————

The wind bites. Always does up here, even in late spring. It whips across the hillside like a restless spirit, tugging at your worn flannel shirt, carrying the scent of damp earth, animal dung, and wild thyme. 

Eight years. Eight years since you left Seoul’s neon haze, the mirrored practice rooms of sweat and desperation. The crushing weight of a dream deferred not for failure, but for family. Now, your kingdom is this: a thousand shades of green rolling towards a misty horizon, the plaintive bleating of sheep, and the low, contented rumble of the dairy herd grazing further down the slope.

Your brother wrestles with Bessie. Or rather, Bessie—a placid, hulking Friesian with eyes like chocolate marbles—tolerates his attempts to coax her away from a particularly lush patch of clover crowding the fence line. He’s sixteen now, all limbs and earnest clumsiness, the traces of his childhood illness lingering only in the slight, almost imperceptible fragility around his eyes, the way he sometimes gets winded quicker than he should. 

He’s healthy, though. Vibrantly, stubbornly alive. That’s the miracle you tend every day, more precious than any debut stage.

"Come on, Bessie," he pleads, pushing uselessly against her broad flank. "The good grass is over there. See? By the water trough?" 

Bessie swings her massive head, regarding him with bovine indifference before tearing another mouthful of tasty green.

You lean on the weathered fence post. A little smile plays on your lips. "Try the magic word."

He shoots you a withering look, the kind only a teenager can muster. "She doesn't speak English, big bro. Or Korean. Just—cow."

"Try 'please.’ Universal language." 

You push off the post, your boots sinking slightly into the soft, rain-damp earth. The reflex—the one that makes you scan for the wobble before the fall, the tremor before the shout—it’s ingrained now, deeper than any dance move ever was. You catch it: your brother, frustrated, plants his feet wrong on the uneven ground as he gives Bessie a firmer shove. His boot slips on a slick patch of mud hidden beneath the clover.

"Whoa!" His arms pinwheel: a comical, slow-motion ballet of impending disaster. Startled, Bessie finally shifts—but away from him, her heavy hoof coming down perilously close to his sprawled leg.

You’re moving before the gasp fully leaves his lips. Not the flashy acrobatics of another life, but the efficient, grounded motion of someone who knows this land and its animals. Two long strides, a firm hand grabbing the back of his jacket, hauling him upright and clear right as Bessie’s hoof squelches into the mud where his ankle had been.

He stumbles against you, breathless, face flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment. "S-sorry, brother. Didn't see the mud."

"Neither did Bessie," you grunt, steadying him. Your heart hammers against your ribs with that old, unwelcome thrum of responsibility. "Alright, move her properly. Shoulders against her shoulder, not her ribs. Steady pressure. She’ll follow." 

You demonstrate, guiding his hands, feeling the immense, warm bulk of the cow yield under your combined, gentle insistence. 

The clover is abandoned. The water trough is reached. A small victory on a windswept hill. 

It’s the Parker luck in play: saving the day, getting mud on your jeans, no applause or recognition given.

—————

The drive back to the cottage is a bumpy affair along the rutted track cutting through the endless grassy plains. Sheep scatter like grey clouds before the battered SUV. Your brother chatters beside you, retelling the Bessie incident with increasing dramatic flair, his earlier clumsiness forgotten in the glow of near-miss heroics. You half-listen, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open window frame, whistling the radio’s tune. 

The air here is clean, vast, scoured free of the cloying exhaust and frantic energy of city life. It smells of sun-warmed grass, distant pine, and the faint, mineral tang of the stream cutting through the lower pastures. Disconnected. Safe. A world away from everything that came before. You breathe it in, trying to let the wide sky push the lingering image of polished practice room floors from your mind. 

Eight years is a lifetime. Almost.

The cottage emerges from the landscape like a stone itself: low, sturdy, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. Home. Scents of roasting chicken and herbs hit you before you even kill the engine, warm and welcoming, weaving through the crisp air.

Lunch is a noisy, affectionate affair around the scarred wooden table. Your mother fusses, piling your plate high. Your father recounts the morning’s minor dramas with the tractor. Your brother, mouth full, mimes his epic struggle with Bessie, earning indulgent laughter. Sunlight streams through the small kitchen window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It’s simple. It’s good. It’s everything you ripped your old life apart for.

Your father clears his throat, reaching for the chipped ceramic jug of water. "Had a bit of an odd post this morning," he says, pouring slowly. "Foreign. Fancy envelope. Addressed to you."

You pause, a forkful of chicken halfway to your mouth. A post for you. Odd indeed. Here, it’s rare. Bills, farm suppliers, that’s it. "Foreign?"

"Mm-hmm." He takes a sip of water. "Looked official. Had a name on it—" He frowns, scratching his temple. "J.Y. something? Park? Looked like one of those investment scams, you know? Promising millions if you just send them your bank details first. Nearly tossed it in the burner." He chuckles: a dry, warm sound. "Your mother said hold on, it might be important. Wasn't heavy. No gold bars inside, eh?"

JYP.

The name hits you like a wicked blow, low and sudden in the gut. The taste of chicken turns to live coal in your mouth. The warm kitchen seems to tilt slightly. The laughter, the sunlight, the scent of herbs—it all recedes, muffled, replaced by the phantom echo of a metronome clicking in a sterile room, reeking of disinfectant and teenage ambition, and the crushing weight of a phone call received in a JYP hallway eight years ago. 

Your fingers tighten around the fork. JYP. The letters you wrote, painstakingly, hopefully, for years after leaving—2020, maybe 2021—bleeding your confusion and lingering grief onto paper, sent into a void that barely whispered back. Silence, mostly. A few brief, polite responses that felt like formalities, the distance widening with each unanswered letter until you finally stopped sending them. Gave up hoping. Blocked it out. Buried that part of your life deep beneath cattle shit and rolling green hills.

"It's—it's not a scam, dad," you manage, sounding strangely calm despite the tremor in your hands. You set the fork down carefully. "It's—the company. From before. In Korea. The one I trained with."

The table falls quiet. Your brother stops miming. Your mother's eyes, ever perceptive, fix on your face, filled with quiet concern. Your father nods slowly, understanding dawning. 

"Ah. That lot. Them singers." He pushes his chair back. "Well, it's on the sideboard. Didn't look like it would explode." 

He gives you a brief, reassuring pat on the shoulder as he gets up, heading towards the small sideboard near the door.

You don't taste the rest of your lunch. You force it down, mechanically, while the conversation cautiously resumes around you, skirting the sudden tension. The envelope sits on the sideboard like a warrant. A grenade with a JYP logo.

—————

The stairs to your small room under the eaves creak their familiar protest under your weight. The envelope feels unnaturally heavy in your hand, the thick, expensive paper stock alien against your calloused fingertips. You close the door, the solid wood a flimsy barrier against the past flooding back. Dust motes shimmer in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the small window, illuminating the simple bed, the worn desk, the shelves holding farming manuals and a few well-thumbed novels. 

No trainee manuals. No dance shoes. No posters of idols. Just the smell of old wood, sun-warmed plaster, and the faint, ever-present scent of grass carried on the breeze.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning softly. The return address is unmistakable: JYP Entertainment, Seoul. Your name, written in neat, unfamiliar handwriting. European postmarks layered over Korean ones. It feels like a message from another planet. Or a ghost.

With fingers that feel thick and clumsy, you tear open the flap. Not a bill. Not a scam offer. A folded sheet of thick, cream-colored paper, and nestled within it, four smaller, glossy rectangles. Tickets.

Your eyes scan the handwritten note first. The script is neat, precise, familiar in a way that twists something deep inside you.

Hey Mate,

Long time. Seriously long. Hope this finds you well, wherever you are. We were sorting tour logistics for the European leg (crazy, right?) and your name came up. Chan-hyung remembered you mentioned moving your family somewhere out there for your brother's recovery after—everything. Took some digging (blame Minho, he’s weirdly good at that stuff), but we figured out the rough area.

We’re playing a show in Zürich next month (attached dates/location – hope it’s not too far!). Feels like a lifetime ago, that practice room. Remembering the chaos, the laughs—and how you walked away for the right reasons. Always respected that. We talk about it sometimes, how brave that was.

Just wanted you to know we remember you. Hope life’s treating you kindly. Found some old photos the other day – you looked about twelve, hair ridiculous. Made us all laugh.

If you’re around and fancy a blast from the past (no pressure, seriously!), we’ve put four tickets aside. For you, your brother, your folks. Backstage passes too, if you want to say a quick hello. Be genuinely good to see you, even just for five minutes. No expectations.

Take care of yourself.

 - Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, I.N

(Stray Kids)

The words blur. Zürich. Next month. We remember you. 

The casual mention of your brother’s recovery—a fact you’d shared in one of those early, desperate letters, seeking connection. They’d kept it. They’d looked.

A wave of heat rises up your neck, pricking behind your eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not joy either. A confusing surge of something raw and long-buried. The tickets are real in your hand, cool and smooth. Four gateways to a world of screaming crowds, blinding lights, and the deafening beat of music you once knew by heart. A world you associated with sterile hospital waiting rooms, frantic phone calls home, the gnawing guilt of pursuing a dream while your family fractured.

You haven’t listened to K-pop in years. Blocked the channels. Deleted the apps. The very sound of an idol song could trigger a visceral recoil, a flood of memories associated with the worst period of your life. Stray Kids’ music belonged to the ghosts. To the boy who wrote those hopeful, unanswered letters, clinging to a thread of brotherhood that seemed to fray with every silent month.

You stare at the tickets. Premium seats. Backstage passes. A tangible, expensive olive branch flung across eight years and a continent. 

No pressure, seriously!

The urge is immediate: crumple the letter, shred the tickets, toss it all into the small woodstove in the corner. Watch the past turn to ash. Move on. Finally move on completely. 

You don't need this. You have the hills, the sheep, the smell of earth, your brother’s clumsy grin. You have peace. Simplicity. A life rebuilt brick by brick, far from Seoul’s gilded cage.

You stand up, the letter trembling in your hand. Walk towards the stove. The small iron door hangs open, cold ashes inside from last night.

But your feet stop.

You look down at the signatures. Bang Chan’s neat script. The little doodle Felix always used to add—a tiny sunshine. The earnestness in the words: We talk about it sometimes—Always respected that.

The unanswered letters—the silence—it hadn’t been malice. Just distance. Growth. The insane, all-consuming trajectory of becoming Stray Kids. They’d been kids too, back then. Now they were megastars, yet they'd remembered. They’d reached out.

A deep, shuddering breath escapes you. You lean your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall beside the window. Outside, the vast expanse of your present life stretches out. The green hills, the grazing sheep, the distant line of pines against the sky. Peaceful. Isolated.

The tickets feel heavy. They’re more than just paper; they’re a key. A key to a door you’d welded shut years ago. Opening it means letting the noise, the light, the complicated ache of the past flood back in. It means facing the ghosts: the boy you were, the dream you abandoned, the lingering "what if" you’d worked so hard to submerge beneath the rhythm of quiet rural life.

But beneath the fear, beneath the instinct to burn it all, something else stirs. A flicker of that old fondness. Not for the stage, not for the dream, but for them. The shared struggle in those mirrored rooms. The stupid jokes during breaks. The passionate, fleeting bond forged in the pressure cooker of trainee life. The respect in Bang Chan’s words.

You don’t want any part of it. You carved out this new life, here, for a reason.

And yet the tickets are here. An invitation, not a summons. Like they said: no expectations.

Your fingers smooth the crumpled edge of the letter. Carefully folding it back around the tickets. You don’t open the stove door, instead walking back to the bed and sitting down heavily as the envelope rests on your knees like a sleeping animal. You stare out the window at the endless green, the wind rustling the long grass, carrying the faint, comforting bleat of a sheep.

The past has caught up. It’s sitting in your lap. And suddenly, throwing it away feels less like moving on, and more like running away. Again. The Peter Parker luck: responsibility, even when you don't want it. Especially then.

Decision coils in your chest, tight and unresolved. You’ll tell them. At dinner. Show them the letter. Hear what they say. See what you say when the words actually leave your mouth. 

The farm, the peace, the quiet life you built—it feels suddenly fragile, balanced on the edge of four glossy pieces of cardstock. The hillside feels vast, but the world, with its flashing lights and pounding bass, just got a whole lot closer.

—————

Dinner smells like rosemary and burnt crust—mom’s attempt at shepherd’s pie, a staple that usually tastes better than it looks. Tonight, it sits heavy in your stomach before you even lift a fork. 

The letter, folded tight and square, is a lodestone in your pocket, pulling your thoughts down, away from the warm lamplight and the comfortable clatter of cutlery. Your brother inhales his food with teenage fervor, regaling your parents with an over-the-top dramatization of the Great Bessie Standoff, complete with sound effects. Meanwhile, you silently push peas around your plate.

The moment stretches, thick as the gravy. You catch your mother’s eye—that quiet, knowing look that misses nothing. Your father chews methodically, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window, on the darkening hills. The peace you fought for, bled for, feels suddenly fragile and paper-thin.

"Dad," you start, cutting through your brother’s enthusiastic bovine impersonation. "That letter. The one from—JYP."

Your brother freezes, his fork suspended mid-air. "JYP? Like the JYP? Park Jin-young? The company?" His eyes widen, saucer-like, darting between you and your father. "What'd they want? Are they scouting me? Did they see my TikTok dance covers?" He vibrates in his seat, a live wire of sudden, impossible hope.

Your father swallows, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Not a scam, then. As you said." He nods towards you. "Well? What was in it?"

The weight in your pocket feels like stone. You pull out the envelope, the crisp paper stark against the worn wood of the table. The attached tickets slide out slightly: glossy rectangles, stark black and neon against the cream. You lay them down without fanfare. 

"Concert tickets. For Stray Kids. In Zürich. Next month." The words taste like dust. "Four of them. Backstage passes too. For all of us."

Silence. Thick, stunned silence. The only sound is the wind picking up outside, whistling faintly around the eaves.

Your brother’s jaw drops. Literally. His fork clatters onto his plate. "Stray Kids?" he breathes, the name a reverent whisper. He lunges for the tickets, snatching them up before you can react. He stares, transfixed, tracing the embossed logo, the dates. "Premium seats—Backstage passes— big brother, how?" His gaze snaps to you, bewildered, ecstatic. "Do you know someone? Did you win a contest? Is this because of my fan letters?" Hope, bright and blinding, radiates off him.

Your mother reaches over, gently placing her hand over yours where it rests, white-knuckled, on the tablecloth. Her touch is warm, grounding. "They remembered you," she says softly. It’s not a question; it’s fact.

You can’t look at them. You stare at the half-eaten shepherd’s pie, the congealing gravy. "Chan wrote. Bang Chan. He—remembered I mentioned we were out here. After." You gesture vaguely, the word ‘after’ hanging heavy, encompassing hospitals, fear, the desperate flight away from Seoul. "They’re touring. Thought—we might like to go." You force a shrug, aiming for nonchalance, landing somewhere near brittle. "Sentimental, I guess. Or PR. Who knows."

"What will you do?" your father asks, low and steady. Practical. Always practical.

The answer bursts out, harsh, surprising even you. "Nothing. Burn it. Like you should have, dad." 

You meet his gaze finally. There’s no anger there, just a deep, weathered understanding. "That life—it’s done. Over. It belongs to hospitals and endless debt and feeling like I was drowning while trying to stand on a stage. I don’t want it back. Not a single echo." 

The bitterness is acrid on your tongue, a taste you thought you’d buried deep under the peat and the cattle. "We have peace here. We have him." You nod towards your brother, who’s still staring at the tickets like they’re holy relics. "Healthy. That’s the only dream that mattered. That’s the only one that came true. I’d choose it again. Every time."

Your brother flinches. The radiant excitement on his face flickers, dimming as your words sink in. He glances from the tickets to you, his expression shifting from starstruck awe to gradual, horrified comprehension. When it comes, his voice sounds small, stripped of its usual energy.

"You—you were training? With JYP? With—with Stray Kids?" He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like the calloused hands, the mud-stained boots, the quiet man who fixes tractors and wrestles cattle, has suddenly peeled away to reveal a complete stranger. "You were—you could have been—one of them?"

The unspoken accusation hangs in the air: You gave it up? For me?

You see the guilt flood his eyes, swift and devastating. He looks down at the tickets in his hand like they’ve turned radioactive. 

"Oh," he whispers. Then, louder, more frantic, "Oh, big brother, no. I didn’t—I didn’t know." He shoves the tickets back across the table towards you, recoiling as if burned. "Burn them. Yeah. Burn them. Right now. I don’t want them. I don’t want anything from them." 

His voice cracks. "I stole your dream."

"Hey!" Mom is sharp, cutting through his rising panic. "Don’t be foolish." She turns her stern gaze on you. "And you. Stop talking like a martyr. You made a choice. A hard one. A good one. For family. There is no shame in that. Only strength."

Your father nods slowly, his gaze moving from your brother’s stricken face to yours, shadowed with the ghosts of the past. "Your mother is right. Throwing away kindness, even from an old life, solves nothing. It just leaves ashes." He picks up one of the tickets, studying it thoughtfully, the glossy surface reflecting the lamplight. "Stray Kids—they were your friends? Brothers, even, for a time?"

Emphasis on were. The thought stings. Like jellyfish bubbling up to terrorize unsuspecting souls on the beach.

"Something like that," you mutter, looking away. "A lifetime ago."

"And they remembered," your mother presses, her hand tightening slightly on yours. "After all this time. In the middle of their big world tour, they tracked you down. Sent tickets. For all of us." She gestures around the table. "That’s not nothing. That’s—human."

"Think of the experience!" your brother blurts out, his guilt momentarily overridden by the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the opportunity. "Zürich! A real concert! Backstage! Big brother, they’re legends!" His inherent enthusiasm is reasserting itself, battling the shock. "Twice trained there! ITZY! NMIXX! JYP is everything! And you knew them? Before they were—them?" The fanboy in him is re-emerging, wide-eyed and desperate.

You sigh, pinching your temples. The headache is back, a dull throb behind your eyes. The thought of the noise, the crowds, the sheer, overwhelming presence of that world—the world you fled—makes your skin crawl. The polite distance in those late, sparse replies to your letters echoes in your mind. 

No expectations, Chan wrote. Easy for him to say, standing in the spotlight.

"But why go back?" you ask, the question directed more at yourself than them. "It’s done. I moved on. We moved on. Why dredge it all up?" The bitterness is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges, worn down by your brother’s puzzled awe and your mother’s quiet insistence.

"Maybe," your father says slowly, placing the ticket back down, "it’s not about going back. Maybe it’s about seeing how far you’ve come." He looks at you, his gaze steady and kind. "Maybe it’s about showing your brother a different kind of stage. And maybe—" He pauses, a rare hint of something softer in his eyes. "—maybe it’s about letting those boys see the man their old friend became. The one who chose right."

The silence returns, but it’s different now. Less charged with your resistance, more filled with a quiet, shared contemplation. The wind moans outside, a reminder of the vast, isolating peace beyond the cottage walls. Inside, the lamplight glows warm on the four tickets lying on the scratched table.

Your brother looks at you, his earlier guilt tempered by a dawning, hesitant excitement. "We—we could just go? For the music? As fans?" He bites his lip. "I mean—if you really don’t want to see them backstage—we don’t have to. But—the concert, big bro—it’s supposed to be insane. Felix’s voice—Changbin’s rapping—" He trails off, the fanboy winning out, his hope quarreling with the fear of pushing you too far.

Your mother squeezes your hand. "We’ll be with you. All of us. Whatever you decide."

The options crystallize: Burn the past—literally. Watch the expensive paper curl and blacken in the stove, a final, defiant act of closure. Or step, just once, back into the roaring river you escaped, armored with your family, to see if you can stand on the bank without being swept away. To see if the ghosts look different in the strobe lights.

You look at the tickets. At your brother’s anxious, hopeful face. At your parents’ steady, supportive presence. The Peter tingle twinges—not the spider-sense, but the deeper one: responsibility to the hope in your brother’s eyes, responsibility to the kindness offered, however complicated, responsibility to finally face the shadow of the boys you left behind in that practice room, not with animosity, but perhaps with a quiet acknowledgment.

The hills outside are dark, silent, immense. Safe. Zürich feels like another planet, loud and bright and terrifyingly full of memory.

You take a deep breath, the scent of rosemary and home filling your lungs. It doesn’t erase the phantom scent of disinfectant and ambition, but it anchors you. Here. Now.

"Alright," you say, the word leaving your lips before you fully register the decision. It feels less like surrender, and more like stepping onto shaky ground. "Alright. We’ll go. To the concert." You meet your brother’s ecstatic, disbelieving gaze. "As fans." 

You pick up one of the tickets, the glossy surface cool against your calloused fingers. The past stares back, bold and neon. "But we’re keeping the backstage passes. Just—just in case." 

Just in case you can stand it. Just in case the ghost recognizes the man.

The sigh that escapes you is heavy, laden with eight years of avoidance. But beneath it, tangled in the roots of your bitterness, a tiny, stubborn shoot of something else pushes through. Not excitement—not yet—but curiosity. And maybe, just maybe, the faintest echo of that old, complicated fondness, reaching back across the wind-scrubbed plains. 

—————

The roar hits you first. A physical thing, a wall of sound that slams into your chest the moment you step into Letzigrund Stadium. It vibrates up through the soles of your worn boots: sturdy, practical, utterly alien in this glittering cavern of neon and anticipation. Eight years of wind-whipped silence shatter in an instant. Beside you, your brother vibrates like a plucked guitar string, with eyes wide as saucers darting everywhere—the dizzying light rigs, the colossal screens flickering with pre-show animations, the sea of screaming, lightstick-wielding fans.

"Look!" he shouts over the din, grabbing your arm. "Look at the size of it! And our seats!" He points upwards, towards the section cordoned off near the mixing desk, away from the pulsating heart of the crowd. Premium. Detached. Safe. Exactly what you’d hoped for. An observation deck above the storm.

You simply nod, your throat tight. The sheer scale of it all is overwhelming. The smell–popcorn, sweat, cheap beer, and an undercurrent of expensive perfume–is a relentless sensory assault compared to the clean, grassy tang of home. You feel like a ghost haunting a future you abandoned, translucent and out of place. Your parents flank you, your mother’s hand finding the small of your back. 

"Alright?" she mouths, her eyes searching yours. You force a tight smile. 

Fine. You’re fine. You have to be. For him.

Your brother bounces on the balls of his feet as you navigate the steep steps to the seats. "The passes," he hisses, barely containing himself, fingers twitching towards the lanyard tucked inside your jacket. "We have to use them after! Promise? Please?"

"Focus on the show first," you tell him, rough against the rising tide of noise. The command comes out sharper than intended, a reflex honed by years of watching him stumble towards danger—cliffs, bulls, now this glittering precipice of teenage obsession. "Just—be here. In the moment. Okay?"

He deflates slightly but nods, eyes already glued to the empty stage as the house lights dim. The roar intensifies, a primal, collective intake of breath. Then darkness. A single, searing spotlight punches down. And they’re there.

They’re not the boys you knew. Not anymore. Amplified, electrified, moving with a synchronicity that’s almost alien. Bang Chan stands center stage, a figure carved from shadow and confidence, his opening cry booming through the stadium, a mature leader forged in the crucible you once shared. Felix’s impossible baritone resonates in your bones, Hyunjin’s limbs carve arcs of pure kinetic energy through the air, Changbin’s rapid-fire verses crackle like lightning. It’s polished and powerful, a machine operating at peak performance. You watch with arms crossed, a statue carved from bitter stone. 

This is what you walked away from. This is the dream you sacrificed.

The first few songs are a blur of noise and light, observed through a thick pane of detachment. You catalogue the changes: Minho’s sharper angles, Seungmin’s effortless vocal control, the sheer presence radiating from Jeongin. They’re men now. Stars. Worlds away from the sweaty teenagers crammed into that mirrored room, sharing cheap tteokbokki and dreams between punishing rehearsals. 

Your brother is lost, screaming lyrics, waving the borrowed lightstick like a maniac. You keep a hand lightly on his shoulder, an anchor in the raging waves of his enthusiasm, your own gaze distant, analytical. Safe.

Then, halfway through, it happens. A familiar synth line weaves through the bombast, a melody from the early days—one they’d struggled with, argued over, practiced until dawn in that cramped studio. A song about perseverance, about holding onto hope when the path seems dark. Chan cracks, just slightly, on a high note. Not a mistake. Raw emotion. And suddenly, you’re not in Zürich.

You’re eighteen, slumped against the practice room mirror, muscles screaming, lungs burning. Chan crouches beside you, offering a water bottle, his own face pale with exhaustion. "We’ll get it," he rasps, that same stubborn certainty in his eyes. "One more time. For us." 

Changbin throws a sweaty towel at your head, laughing. "Yeah, unless you’re scared, old man!” Felix just grins, offering a fist bump. 

The shared struggle. The stupid jokes. The fragile, resolute belief in each other. The memory hits like a sucker punch. 

Another song follows, a ballad this time. Seungmin steps forward, pure and achingly vulnerable. The lyrics speak of distance, of time passing, of bonds that stretch but don’t break. You see Minho, not the dancer on stage, but the quiet boy who’d silently shared his lunch when yours was forgotten. You see Hyunjin, not as the flamboyant performer, but the kid who’d nervously asked for feedback on his first self-composed rap. The faces of brothers, not idols. The shared hardship, the relentless grind, the dumb, joyful moments that made it bearable—it floods back in, a torrent breaching the walls you’d built brick by brick over eight long years.

Your vision blurs. You look down, blinking fiercely, focusing on the rough fabric of your jeans—the same ones stained with mud from the hillside. The contrast is jarring and painful. As the music swells, the crowd sings along, tens of thousands united. Your brother grabs your arm, his face alight with pure, unadulterated joy. And something deep within you, something frozen and buried, begins to thaw. It’s not envy. Not regret. It’s a profound, bittersweet ache: the recognition of a bond that never truly died, only hibernated through the long, seemingly endless winter of your absence. The stone in your chest isn’t cold anymore; it’s heavy with a warmth you’d forgotten, a warmth that feels suspiciously like grief for the brothers you left behind.

The final notes crash, the lights explode in a blinding crescendo, and the roar becomes a physical force shaking the arena. It’s over. Just like that. 

The house lights flicker on, harsh and revealing. People begin shuffling out, buzzing with post-concert euphoria. You stand frozen, adrift in the sudden silence within the fading noise, the echoes of the music and memories still reverberating through your bones.

"Hey." Your mother’s gentle touch on your elbow startles you. Her eyes are soft, knowing. "They were incredible." 

Beside her, your father nods in agreement, a rare look of deep respect on his face. Your brother is practically vibrating again, his earlier plea forgotten in the afterglow until he remembers.

"The passes!" he gasps, eyes wide, desperate. "Can we? Please? Now? Before they leave!"

You look at his face, flushed with excitement, eyes shining with the magic of the night. You look at your parents, their quiet support unwavering. The thought of facing them—those polished stars who were once your ragged brothers—sends a fresh wave of uncomfortable dread through you. The farm boy amidst the glitter. The one who walked away. 

But the warmth, the bittersweet ache in your chest, the responsibility to this kid who looks at you like you hung the moon—it wins.

"Yeah," you hear yourself say, the word thick. "Okay. Let’s go."

Backstage is a different kind of chaos. A labyrinth of concrete corridors buzzing with roadies hauling equipment, harried staff barking into headsets, and the lingering smell of sweat and hairspray. A security guard checks the passes with bored efficiency, then waves you through a heavy door marked ‘Artist Only.’ The noise drops to a muffled hum. Your brother clutches your arm, suddenly wide-eyed and silent, the enormity hitting him.

They’re gathered in a large, brightly lit lounge area, still abuzz with adrenaline, towels draped around necks, sipping water. The transformation is jarring up close. Stage personas are shed; they look exhausted, human, drenched in sweat but grinning. Chan spots you first. His eyes widen, then crinkle into a smile that’s pure, unguarded warmth—the same smile he’d given you after nailing that impossible choreography sequence years ago.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he calls out, hoarse but genuine. He strides over, bypassing your outstretched hand and pulling you into a brief, hard hug. The scent of stage makeup, sweat, and something uniquely Chan—earnest and familiar—hits you. "You made it!"

The others turn. A chorus of surprised shouts, your name echoing off the concrete walls. Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. Changbin grins, slapping Felix’s arm. "Told you he wouldn’t chicken out!" Hyunjin beams, Seungmin offers a shy wave, Jeongin bounces over. The initial awkwardness you feared evaporates in an instant. There’s no distance, no starry aloofness. Just eight guys momentarily forgetting they’re Stray Kids, greeting an old friend. The brotherhood wasn’t gone. It was just sleeping.

"These must be your parents," Chan says, turning with impeccable politeness, bowing slightly. "Sir, Ma’am. It’s an honor." The others follow suit, a wave of respectful bows and murmured greetings. Your usually stoic father looks genuinely touched. Your mother beams, immediately launching into praise for the performance.

"And this," you say, gently nudging your shell-shocked brother forward, "is the number one fan. Knows every lyric, every dance move since—well, probably since he was eight."

Your brother turns beet red, stammering. Felix crouches down slightly, his sunshine smile dialed up to eleven. "No way! Really? What’s your favorite song?" 

The floodgates open. Your brother’s earlier nervousness vanishes, replaced by hyperactive fanboy energy. He breathlessly gushes about Felix’s voice, Changbin’s rapping, Minho’s dancing, and so much more. Minho ruffles his hair playfully. Changbin challenges him to a (very) brief rap battle. Jeongin shows him a silly handshake. They treat him not just as your brother, but as one of their own: a kid sharing in their joy. You watch, a lump forming in your throat again, the protective tension easing from your shoulders. 

They’re good people. Always were.

After a whirlwind of photos, autographs (your brother nearly faints), and your parents expressing heartfelt thanks, your father clears his throat. "We should get this young man home," he says, placing a hand on your brother’s shoulder. "Big day tomorrow, early start." He looks at you, then at the group. "You’ll be alright getting back? You remember the city?"

You nod. Zürich’s efficient trams are a world away from navigating muddy hillsides. "Yeah. I know my way around."

Your mother gives your arm a squeeze, her eyes saying everything. We’re proud. We’re here. Talk to them. 

"Don’t be too late," she murmurs. Your brother, still riding that high, gives you a quick hug.

"Thanks, bro. Best. Night. Ever." 

And then they’re gone, absorbed back into the corridor’s dimness, leaving you alone with the echoes of your past.

The atmosphere shifts. The playful energy settles into something quieter, more intimate. Bottled water is passed around. They collapse onto couches, the exhaustion of the performance finally showing. You lean against a table stacked with equipment cases.

"So," Chan starts, stretching his arms. "The farm life? Suits you. You look—solid." There’s no judgment, just observation.

"Hard work," you admit. "Different kind of tired. But good. My brother—he’s healthy. Strong. That’s what matters." The words are simple, but they carry the weight of eight years of struggle and relief.

Felix nods vigorously. "We saw the photos Chan dug up. Kid looks great. Seriously." There’s genuine warmth in his words.

Changbin leans forward. "And you? Really alright? Not just saying it?" The directness is pure Changbin, cutting through the pleasantries.

You meet his gaze. "It was hard. Leaving. The guilt—the what-ifs—they don’t vanish overnight. But seeing him run, laugh, be a normal pain-in-the-neck teenager—yeah. I’m alright. More than." You take a breath. "Meanwhile you—this?" You gesture around the room, encompassing the venue beyond. "It’s insane. You built this."

Minho snorts. "Built it? Sometimes feels like we’re still holding it together with duct tape and hope backstage." But he’s smiling.

They talk, not as global superstars, but as young men catching up. The grueling tour schedule, the creative pressures, the weird food cravings in different countries. Chan mentions a particularly disastrous attempt at making pasta in Madrid. Hyunjin complains about losing his favorite sketchbook. Seungmin talks about missing his dog. Mundane details, shared exhaustion, lingering humor—it’s familiar. The years melt away. The brotherhood isn’t a relic; it’s a living thing, picking up threads as if you’d just stepped out for coffee.

During a lull, Chan pushes himself off the couch. "Almost forgot," he says, walking towards a cluttered desk in the corner. He rummages through a bag and pulls out a small, elegantly wrapped gift box: silver paper, a simple black ribbon. "Got handed this before the show. Strict instructions: give it to you, only after the concert, and only when you were alone with us." 

He holds it out, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No hints. Sworn to secrecy."

You stare intently at the box. Suspicion quarrels with confusion. Who in this world, connected to this orbit, would send you a gift. 

You take it, the paper feeling smooth and cool under your work-roughened fingers. The others watch, puzzled and curious. Untying the ribbon, the silence feels suddenly thick. Peeling back the paper reveals a plain white box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, are two things.

First, a small, exquisitely crafted silver pin in the shape of a stylized candy. Instantly recognizable. Second, a folded note card. You open it. The handwriting is bubbly, playful, unmistakable even after all these years.

Surprise! Bet you never thought you’d hear from us! Saw Chan-ssi was tracking you down (don’t worry, we made him swear secrecy!) and just HAD to say hello properly. We remember the practice rooms, the shared struggles—the real stuff. Heard about your brother—so happy he’s well! Just letting you know we’ll be in Paris next week for Lollapalooza. If you’re feeling brave (or just nostalgic!), come find us. We’d love to see the man our quiet trainee friend became. No pressure, just old friends!

– Sana & Dahyun ♡

(P.S. The candy’s for luck—and because Sana couldn’t resist!)

You stare at the note, the elegant pin gleaming in your palm. Sana. Dahyun. The other pillar of that shared generation, the sunshines whose success and determination mirrored your own struggles in different practice rooms down the hall. 

Memories flash: Sana’s infectious laugh echoing in a cafeteria, Dahyun’s quiet, observant wit during rare breaks, a shared nod of exhausted solidarity passing in a hallway. You’d been ships in the same storm, focused on survival, not friendship. Yet they remembered. They also reached out.

A disbelieving laugh escapes you, shaky at first, then genuine. You look up. Eight pairs of eyes watch you, various expressions of amusement and curiosity on their faces. Chan’s knowing smile is the widest.

"Candy?" Felix asks, peering at the pin.

"From Sana and Dahyun," you manage, holding up the note. "They—they want to meet. In Paris."

Changbin whistles. Minho smirks. 

"Twice? Man, you’re moving up in the world!"

Chan chuckles, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. "Told you they remembered. Our generation sticks together, even across the years—and sheep pastures." His gaze is warm, understanding the earthquake this simple gift represents. 

"Looks like your past," he says softly, nodding at the pin now resting in your palm, a tiny, gleaming bridge across years and continents, "isn’t quite done catching up with you yet."

Laughter bursts out before you can stop it—a dry, brittle sound in the plush backstage quiet. The hibernation, it seems, is well and truly over.

"Paris? With Twice? Come on, guys." You pocket the silver candy pin, its edges sharp against your thumb. "This whole thing," you gesture vaguely at the lingering concert energy, the expensive lounge, them, "it was a gift. For him. One incredible night. That’s enough."

Felix leans forward, sunshine dimmed to earnest warmth. "But they asked for you. Sana and Dahyun—they remembered. Like we did." His tone softens. "The quiet trainee who fixed our choreography mistakes and never bragged."

"Yeah, and also stole our snacks.” Changbin scoffs, but it’s fond and in light jest. “Point is, it’s not just about the past. It’s about now. Seeing you." He locks eyes with you, the playful rapper replaced by something steady. "We missed you, man. Properly."

Their sincerity hits like a physical pressure against your ribs. You look away, focusing on a scuff mark on your worn boot. "Missed you too. More than I let myself remember." The admission scrapes your throat. "But this life—the farm, the sheep, my brother waking up healthy every morning—that’s my now. It’s good. Solid. I’m not chasing ghosts in Paris."

Chan’s hand lands on your shoulder, a familiar anchor. "No one’s asking you to chase ghosts. Just—reconnect. See familiar faces who care. Consider it a break. A thank you." He glances at his members, a silent agreement passing between them. "We’ll handle everything. Flights, accomodation—consider it added tour perks."

The offer hangs, bountiful and impossible. You shake your head, a tight smile playing on your lips. "Generous. Seriously. You guys are doing the most. But gifts won’t shear sheep or mend fences. The farm doesn’t run on autopilot." 

You meet their concerned looks. "This," you pat your chest, over the pocket holding the pin, "this was the universe throwing me a wild curveball. Seeing you guys—hearing that old song—it was—healing an old wound. But Paris? That’s a different league. I’m content right here."

Minho raises an eyebrow, a trace of his old smirk returning. "Content? Or scared?"

The question nips because it rings true. He’s right. You’re scared. Of the noise, the lights, the sheer weight of that glittering world you fled. Of seeing Sana’s dazzling smile up close, Dahyun’s sharp gaze dissecting your farm-calloused hands. Of wanting something you swore you’d buried.

"Maybe a bit of both," you admit, the honesty surprising you. "But mostly, it’s responsibility. My responsibility is here."

Seungmin, ever perceptive, nods slowly. "We get it. Just—think about it? The offer stands. No pressure." He offers a small, understanding smile. "The brotherhood doesn't expire, you know. Eight years, eighty, or even eight hundred—you’re still one of us."

One of us—the phrase lodges in your chest, warm and undeniable. 

You clasp hands, a wordless echo of the solidarity that held you up years ago in that sterile practice room. The connection hums, strong as ever across time and continents. 

"Always," you rasp.

—————

Dawn at the farm is a symphony of baaing sheep and low murmurs of the dairy herd. Mist clings to the rolling hills as you help your father wrestle a stubborn feed bin lid. The crisp, homely air smells of damp earth and wild thyme, a grounding contrast to the lingering scent of stage smoke and expensive cologne in your memory.

Over breakfast–over thick slices of your mother’s soda bread and strong tea–your silence feels heavy. 

"The guys—they offered something else," you start, tracing the rim of your mug. "After the concert. Twice—well, Sana and Dahyun, to be more exact—they sent a gift. With an invitation. To Paris. Next week."

Your mother’s spoon stops against her porridge bowl. Your father pauses, a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. "Paris?" your mother echoes. "The singers? The ones you trained with?"

You pull the silver candy pin from your pocket, placing it gently on the worn wooden table beside the butter dish. It glints, alien and elegant. "Yeah. They also remembered. Wanted to—reconnect."

Dad chews slowly, studying the pin. "And Stray Kids offered to send you?"

"They did. Flights, hotel—the lot." You push the pin slightly with your fingertip. "Said it was a thank you. A break."

"And you said no," states Mother, softly—not a question. Her eyes, wise and tired, hold yours.

"Of course I said no," you reply a touch too quickly. "The farm—the season—the lambs due next month—"

"Lambs can wait a week," your father interrupts, gruff but gentle. He sets down his meal. "Son, look at me." 

You meet his steady gaze. "You’ve spent eight years living for this family. For your brother. For these hills. You dug us out of a hole so deep I thought we’d never see daylight." He gestures around the cozy, cluttered kitchen, encompassing the house. "This peace? This life? You built it with your own two hands, and your sacrifice. Don’t think we don’t know the cost."

Mom reaches across the table, covers your hand with her own, worn and toughened by work. "He’s right. You poured yourself out, love. Every drop. For us." Her thumb strokes your knuckles. "Seeing you yesterday—when you came back after that concert—there was a light in your eyes we haven’t seen since before Seoul. Since you were that hopeful boy with a dream."

"It was just a night out," you protest, but the words lack conviction.

"It was more," she insists. "It was a piece of you coming back. The universe doesn’t send tickets and backstage passes and—“ she huffs, “—fancy candy pins for no reason. Maybe it’s not just a thank you from them. Maybe it’s a thank you to you. A chance to step out of the furrow for a minute. Breathe different air." 

She gently squeezes your hand. "You deserve a break. More than anyone."

Suddenly, the kitchen door bangs open. Your brother bursts in, cheeks flushed from the morning chill, eyes still wide with the afterglow of yesterday’s concert. "Bessie’s being a menace again! Whoa, what’s that?" He spots the pin immediately, pouncing on it. "Shiny! Is it candy?"

"It’s a pin," you say, watching him turn it over in his grubby hands. "From—from Twice."

His head snaps up. "Twice?! Like the Twice? Nayeon? Momo? Chaeyoung?!" His shriek hits a pitch only dogs should hear.

You explain briefly: the gift, the invitation, Stray Kids' offer, your refusal. His face falls, crumpling into disbelief. "You said no? To meeting Twice? In Paris?!" He looks at you like you’ve announced you’re joining a monastery on Mars. "Are you fucking insane?!"

"Language," Mom chides automatically, but she’s smiling.

"Think of the farm, kiddo," you say, trying to reason aimlessly. "The work—"

"Dad and I can handle Bessie!" he declares, puffing out his chest. "And the feed! And the fence by the stream! For a week!" He leans across the table, the pin clutched tight. "You have to go! It’s Twice! It’s Paris! It’s—it’s magic!" 

Alight with pure fan fervor, his eyes lock onto yours. Then, a sly grin spreads across his face. "Okay, fine. But you gotta promise me one thing."

"What’s that?" you warily ask.

He thrusts the pin back towards you. "You bring me back Dahyun’s autograph. No, wait—Sana’s! No—both! Definitely both." He nods decisively. "That’s the price. Go to Paris. See your idol friends. And come back with proof!"

The sheer audacity of it all, the collision of your tangled past and his simple, starstruck present, breaks the tension. A surprised laugh escapes you, rough but genuine. Your parents join in, the sound warm and filling the kitchen.

Looking at their faces—your father’s quiet pride, your mother’s tender insistence, your brother’s ridiculous, unwavering excitement—the resistance inside you, the wall built of duty and fear and eight years of careful isolation, finally begins to crumble. Not with a bang, but with the soft, persistent pressure of love.

The candy pin feels warm in your palm. Paris still feels impossibly loud, terrifyingly bright. But maybe—just maybe—facing those particular ghosts, with the weight of this family’s blessing at your back, isn’t running back to the past. Maybe it’s just—stepping into a different field for a while. Taking the break you never allowed yourself.

You close your fingers around the pin. "Alright," you say, the reluctant acceptance feeling strange, like a new flavor on your tongue. "Alright. I’ll think about it. Seriously." You meet your brother’s triumphant stare. "But you’re definitely helping Dad fix that fence."

He whoops, bouncing on his heels. The farmhouse walls seem to vibrate with his energy, a chaotic, hopeful counterpoint to the quiet green hills outside. The past had crashed back in, demanding attention. And for the first time in eight years, you weren’t immediately building a wall against it. You were just—holding the door open a crack, letting in a sliver of unexpected light.

—————

The private jet’s engines whine down to a whisper as the stairs unfold onto the Parisian tarmac. Three days early. Three days too early, your gut insists. 

The air here smells different. Jet fuel and damp concrete, not earth and sheep. Chan echoes in your head, gruff but insistent: "Take the jet. Seriously. Consider it—farm equipment for the soul." 

You’d laughed then, a nervous bark swallowed by the roar of your tractor back home. But now, stepping onto French soil in clothes that cost more than your best ram, the joke feels heavy and sour.

A man in a sharp black suit emerges as you diverge from the Arrivals terminal and step out the airport, holding a discreet sign with your name. Only your name. Not ‘the farmer’ or ‘big brother.’ Just you. 

"Welcome to Paris, sir. Your car is this way." 

The greeting is smooth, impersonal. 

Sir. It sounds—off. Like it’s meant for anyone but you.

Internally, you flinch. Eight years of calluses don’t disappear beneath soft Italian cashmere. The Stray Kids stylist had worked miracles: dark, perfectly fitted trousers, a sweater the colour of storm clouds that felt like touching a cloud, shoes that gleamed with a predatory shine. The result speaks for itself. You look—polished. Powerful. Like someone who belonged in this chrome-and-glass world. But you feel more like a prize bull dressed for market, acutely aware of every stitch.

The car is a silent, obsidian beast, purring like contented machinery. Inside, it smells of leather and something faintly citrus. Cold. Sterile. You sink into seats softer than any hay bale, watching Charles de Gaulle Airport blur past the tinted window. Rain streaks the glass, turning the world outside into a smudged watercolour. 

Flashbacks flicker, unwanted:

Changbin shoving a sleek garment bag into your arms backstage in Zürich, grinning. "Got you covered, farm boy. Try not to get sheep shit on the Armani."

Felix bouncing beside him. "Think of it as—undercover work! Blending in with the pop star elite!"

Minho, quieter, handing you a platinum card. "For essentials. Food. Don’t—don’t go buying a tractor with it." A rare, almost shy smirk.

Blending in. Right. 

As the car glides onto the highway, sleek buildings rise like monuments. Paris unfurls: grand, imposing, a stark contrast to your rolling green hills. This is the life they live. The life you could have lived. Private jets, luxury cars, clothes that feel like armor. It’s not envy that twists inside you, but a profound dislocation. This opulence isn't freedom, it’s a gilded cage—a dizzying glimpse into an alternate timeline where you stayed, where the farm faded into a bittersweet memory, not becoming your bedrock. 

You fiddle with the impossibly smooth cuff of your sweater, missing the familiar roughness of your worn flannel.

The hotel is more than lavish; it’s a silent opera of wealth. Marble floors gleam like frozen lakes. Crystal chandeliers hang like captured constellations. The air inside the main reception hums with quiet efficiency and the scent of money—of polished wood and expensive flowers. Your suite occupies a corner of the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of rain-slicked rooftops and the distant, hazy outline of the Eiffel Tower. It’s breathtaking. And utterly alien. 

The silence in your new room is oppressive after the constant lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. You drop your small duffel bag—the only thing from home besides the candy pin tucked in your pocket—onto a bed wider than your tractor seat. It feels like sinking into a cloud. Unreal.

The video call chime echoes sharply in the vast room. You fumble with the sleek tablet provided, relief flooding you at the sight of your parents' familiar faces, pixelated but warm against the stark hotel backdrop.

"Look at you!" Your mother gasps, leaning closer to their screen. "Like a movie star!"

Your father just nods, a slow, appraising look in his eyes. "Suits you, son. But—you alright? Looks—big."

"It is," you admit, running a hand through hair still unused to the expensive cut. "Feels like I’m trespassing in someone else’s life." You motion vaguely at the background of opulence behind you. "This—it’s not me."

"Don’t be daft," your mother chides gently. "It’s part of you. The part that deserves a bit of shine after so long in the muck. Enjoy it! Soak in that fancy bathtub! Eat something ridiculous!"

"Everything’s fine here," your father adds, ever the steady anchor. "Bessie’s behaving. Fence by the stream’s half done. Your brother—" He glances off-screen, a faint smile touching his lips. "He’s out there right now, wrestling with that new post-hole digger like it owes him money. Determined to earn those autographs."

The mention of your brother’s obsession pulls a real grin from you. "Tell him the pressure’s on. Sana and Dahyun’s signatures or bust."

"He knows," your mother laughs. "He’s already cleared a spot on his wall. Now stop worrying about sheep and rain. Look out that window! You’re in Paris! Breathe it in. Let yourself—be here. For us, if not for you."

Their unwavering support is a tangible warmth cutting through the hotel’s dull chill. "I’ll try," you promise, the tightness in your chest easing slightly. "Love you."

"Love you more," your mother beams. "Now go! Explore! Have fun!"

The screen goes dark. Silence rushes back, but it feels less hollow now. 

You walk over to the window, pressing a hand against the cool glass. Paris sprawls below: a glittering, rain-washed labyrinth. Let yourself be here. Easier said than done. You’re still the man who checks fences at dawn, not the man who orders room service in a suite that costs more per night than your monthly feed bill.

A soft knock interrupts your train of thought. Opening the door, a bellhop stands there, holding a slim, elegant envelope. "Complimentary welcome gift, sir."

It’s thicker than the first. Cream-colored paper, slightly textured. Your name is written in the same bubbly, energetic script as before, but there are two distinct hands this time. Opening it carefully, you find not just a note, but a small, beautifully wrapped box.

The note unfolds:

Surprise Again! ✨

Guess who just landed early (well, we did! Shhh, don’t tell management!)?! Paris is calling and we couldn’t wait! Saw you got in safe (Chan’s very sneaky with updates!).

Tomorrow feels too far away. We want to see our quiet hero NOW!

Meet us? Please?

Under the Iron Lady herself—the Eiffel Tower! South Pillar, 5 PM sharp?

We’ll be the ones looking wildly out of place (or maybe not, knowing Paris!). Look for the candy! 🍬 (And maybe—some very excited hugs?)

P.S. Open the box! Sana insisted. (Dahyun thinks it’s cheesy, but secretly loves it too.)

– Your Parisian Partners-in-Crime (and Candy!),

Sana & Dahyun ♡♡

P.P.S. DON’T BE LATE! Or Sana might cry. (Okay, maybe not. But she’ll definitely pout.)

A warmth, different from your family’s, blooms in your chest. Their energy leaps off the page: Sana’s infectious enthusiasm, Dahyun’s dry wit beneath the surface. The mention of ‘excited hugs’ paints a vivid picture of their closeness, that easy, touchy-feely bond you’d sometimes glimpsed years ago in crowded JYP hallways. It’s personal. Intimate. A direct line from the past, abuzz with anticipation.

You open the small box. Nestled in black velvet are two additional gifts: another exquisite silver candy pin, identical to the first, and—a tiny, ridiculously soft plush sheep, no bigger than your thumb. 

A handwritten tag hangs from its fleece: ‘So you don’t feel too homesick! - S&D’

You burst out laughing, a genuine, surprised sound that echoes in the luxurious silence. The sheep is absurd. Perfect. A tiny piece of your muddy, woolly reality nestled right here in this concrete canyon. 

Sana’s playful care, Dahyun’s thoughtful grounding—it’s all there. You hold the little sheep in one hand, the new candy pin in the other. 

Paris seems less imposing now. Less like a monument to a life you missed, and more like—a city. Just a city. One where two women who remembered the quiet trainee, who sent candy and sheep, and wanted to see him again. Tomorrow, 5 PM. Under the Eiffel Tower.

You pocket their gifts, the room key feeling a little less alien against them. The reservations are still there, the unease blending itself with the cashmere armor. But underneath, a flicker of something else ignites. Not the swagger of new clothes, but the quiet, stubborn anticipation of seeing a familiar face—or two—under the Parisian lights. 

You trace the tiny sheep’s fleece. Okay, universe. Point taken. Let’s see what Paris has in store. 

The gilded cage door feels ajar. You might just step through.

—————

Late afternoon the next day, Paris hums of exhaust fumes, baking bread, and damp stone as you approach the Champ de Mars. The Eiffel Tower looms, an impossible lattice of iron against the bruised plum and gold streaks of the setting sky. 

You feel absurdly conspicuous. The storm-grey cashmere sweater Chan’s stylist insisted on feels alien against your skin: too soft, too quiet. The dark trousers are impeccably tailored, the shoes polished, unscuffed mirrors. A man carved from a different life, varnished and presented back to the glittering world he fled. A walking ‘what if.’ The little plush sheep in your pocket is your only anchor to reality.

Then you see them.

A cluster of figures near the South Pillar, radiating an aura of contained chaos even from a distance. Nine women. All impossibly recognizable faces. Not images on billboards, magazine scans, or screens, but flesh and blood, breathing the same Parisian air. The sheer magnitude of their presence hits you like a physical wave: global superstars, Asia’s girl group, casually waiting under the Iron Lady. Your feet stutter on the cobblestones.

They spot you almost simultaneously. A ripple goes through the group. Then, they’re moving towards you, a wave of warmth and vibrant energy crashing over the cool reserve. The greetings unfold like a carefully choreographed, yet beautifully organic, dance of reconnection.

Mina—she’s first, her approach graceful, almost hesitant. A soft, shy smile rests on her lips. Her handshake is gentle but warm. "It’s truly wonderful to see you again," she murmurs, like falling water. Her eyes, large and observant, hold a quiet, sincere affection. "Paris suits you."

It’s a silent kindness, a bridge carefully rebuilt over eight years of silence.

Momo bounces forward second, crackling with coiled energy. "Woah! Look at you!" she exclaims in Japanese, before seamlessly switching to Korean-accented English, grinning. "City slicker now, huh? Almost didn't recognize you without the—uh—farm smell!" 

Her laugh is loud and infectious. She gives your arm a playful punch, the familiarity startling and welcome.

Tzuyu’s third. Towering and elegant. She offers a deep, respectful bow, her expression serene but her eyes bright with curiosity. "Hello," she says, clear and melodic. "It has been a very long time. You look well." The greeting is formal, yet imbued with a quiet sincerity that cuts through the initial awkwardness.

Chaeyoung’s up fourth. She sidles up with an artist’s assessing gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She doesn’t offer a hand, just nods. "The quiet one returns. With a makeover." Eyes flick over your clothes, then back to your face, sharp and intelligent. "Suits the Parisian vibe. Good call." Her approval feels like a hard-won prize.

Nayeon’s fifth. She steps forward with unapologetic confidence, her gaze sweeping over you with playful intensity. "Well, well, well," she declares, hands on her hips. "The prodigal trainee! Look at you, all fancy (ooh)! Did Stray Kids finally drag you out the mud?" 

Her laugh is bright and teasing, but there’s a layer of genuine amazement underneath. She pulls you into a brief, surprisingly strong hug. "But seriously—so good to see you."

Next up is Jihyo. The leader steps forward, radiating a calm, powerful warmth. Her smile is wide and sincere, lighting up her whole face. She takes both your hands in hers, squeezing them firmly. "Welcome back," she says, resonant and full of emotion. "Truly. Seeing you here—it feels right." 

Her gaze holds yours, acknowledging the years, the distance, the sheer unlikeliness of this moment. "We’ve missed your quiet presence."

Jeongyeon follows right after. She approaches with a more grounded energy and a wry smile on her face. "Took you long enough," she says, her gruff but affectionate. She claps you firmly on the shoulder—a solid, mooring touch. "Glad you made it. Heard you’ve been busy building an empire of—sheep? Her chuckle is dry. "Respect. Now, let’s get up this monstrosity before Sana vibrates out of her skin." She subtly herds the group towards the elevator entrance.

Fame is a tangible entity. A hum in the space around them, drawing glances, hushed whispers, phone cameras discreetly raised. Yet, within their circle, it feels—surprisingly normal. Or as normal as reuniting with nine celebrities under the Eiffel Tower can be. They talk over each other, tease, laugh—a dynamic, living tapestry of personalities you remember in fragments, now vividly real.

Then, the final two detach themselves from the group hug forming around Jihyo.

First, Sana. She practically launches herself at you. Without hesitation. 

Her arms wrap tightly around your neck, her face buried momentarily against the expensive cashmere. "You’re here!" she breathes, thick with unbridled excitement, muffled against your shoulder. That trademark smile and those animated eyes gleam radiance, but softer, more personal. She holds your face in her hands, her touch warm and insistent. "Look at you! So handsome! And tall! Did you get taller?" Fussing with your collar, her fingers brush your neck, permeating unfiltered joy and affection. "We got your message! You liked the sheep? Dahyun thought it was silly, but I knew!"

And finally, Dahyun. She hangs back a beat, letting Sana have her moment. Her smile is quieter, more contained than Sana’s infectious charm, but no less warm. Sharp and observant as ever, she scans your face, taking in the changes, the lingering traces of the farm in your eyes despite the foreign clothes. 

When Sana finally releases you, Dahyun steps forward. Her hug is different: firm, grounding, one arm around your waist, the other hand a steady pressure between your shoulder blades. It’s a hug that says I see you. I remember. "Welcome to Paris," she says, low and modest, a counterpoint to Sana’s effervescence. She pulls back slightly, keeping a hand on your arm. "Glad the jet didn’t scare you off. You look—good. Really good." 

There’s a depth in her gaze, an unspoken understanding that bypasses the years.

Sana immediately loops her arm through Dahyun’s free one, pulling her close, resting her head briefly on Dahyun’s shoulder—that easy, tactile intimacy between them as natural as breathing. Dahyun leans into it, a small, private smile touching her lips as she looks at Sana, then back at you. 

"She hasn’t stopped talking about this since she heard the guys were going to Zürich," confides Dahyun, her thumb rubbing a small circle on your forearm where her hand still rests. "Practically packed a month early."

The elevator ride to the summit is a blur of sparkling city lights unfolding beneath the glass walls, mingled with the warm cacophony of catching up. Higher and higher, the panoramic view is staggering: Paris laid out like a jewelled map, the Seine a dark ribbon catching the last fiery glints of sunset. But the view inside the elevator is equally captivating.

Jihyo asks about the farm, her eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "Sheep? Really? Is it—peaceful?"

Nayeon interjects, "Peaceful? It sounds muddy! But tell us about your brother! Is he really strong now? Stray Kids said he’s a fan!" Her grin is infectious.

Jeongyeon adds dryly, "Yeah, apparently we owe him autographs. Pressure’s on."

You find yourself talking. About the rhythm of farm life, the satisfaction of hard work, the breathtaking relief of seeing your brother healthy and strong. You mention Stray Kids' concert gift, the shock of seeing them again, the casualness of the reunion, the overwhelming generosity. "They’re—incredible," you admit, your words feeling inadequate. "Like no time passed at all."

Momo bounces. "They’re monsters now! World domination! We see them sometimes, award shows, backstage—they’re still loud."

Chaeyoung smirks and raises an eyebrow. "Loud? Understatement of the century. But good loud. They work hard."

Jihyo nods in agreement, pride evident. "We all started in those same practice rooms. Seeing them soar—it feels like a shared victory." She gestures around the elevator, encompassing her group. "We’ve been lucky too. Tours, albums, been going nonstop—Lollapalooza feels like another dream." She mentions their own world tour plans, with a casual throwaway about Zürich next year. "You’ll have to come," she adds, looking directly at you. "Bring the brother. Front row this time."

Tzuyu smiles serenely. "The mountains there are beautiful. Different from your hills, but—peaceful too, maybe."

Mina simply nods in agreement, her quiet presence a calming counterpoint to Nayeon’s playful and random interrogation about whether Bessie the cow has a favorite song.

Throughout the ascent, Sana remains glued to your side, her arm hooked through yours now, her warmth a constant. Dahyun stands closely parallel, her shoulder occasionally brushing yours, her presence a steady, watchful pillar amidst the swirling conversation. Their casual touches—Sana squeezing your arm when you mention your brother’s health, Dahyun’s hand briefly resting on your back when the elevator gives a slight lurch—speak volumes of their connection to you, a silent reassurance cutting through the grandeur.

Near the top observation deck, Sana tugs gently on your arm. "Come! Dahyunnie and I want to steal you for a minute! The view is best over here!" 

She shoots a look at Jihyo, who nods with a knowing smile. Dahyun gives a small, confirming nod, her fingers briefly brushing yours as she guides you subtly away from the main group clustering near the eastern railing.

You follow them to a slightly less crowded spot facing west. The city lights are fully awake now, a breathtaking sea of diamonds stretching to the horizon. The Eiffel Tower’s own lights begin their hourly sparkle, bathing you all in a fleeting, magical shimmer. The noise of the crowd and the other members fades slightly, leaving a bubble of intimacy high above the world.

Sana leans her elbows on the cold railing, gazing out, but her body angles towards you. Dahyun mirrors her posture on your other side, closer than necessary, her arm pressed lightly against yours. The city’s hum is a distant thrum beneath you.

"It’s really good," Dahyun starts, words almost lost in the breeze, but her eyes are fixed on your profile, "seeing you like this. Healthy. Properly settled." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "We—we heard things. Back then. When you left."

Sana turns fully towards you now, her usual effervescence replaced by a profound seriousness. Her eyes search yours, glistening under the tower’s intermittent sparkle. "It was awful," she whispers, the word sharp against the world’s panoramic beauty. "We heard about your brother—the hospital—the bills." She swallows hard. "Everyone at the company was worried, but you—you just vanished. Stopped answering."

You nod, the old knot of helplessness and fear tightening in your chest despite the years. "It was—a nightmare. Everything happened so fast. The debt—it was crushing. We were drowning." Looking down at your hands, the city lights reflect dully in the polished leather of your borrowed shoes. "Leaving Korea—was difficult. Switzerland—it was the only way. A clean start. A chance for him."

Dahyun’s hand finds yours on the railing. Her touch is cool and firm. "We know," she says simply.

You look up, confused. "Know?"

Sana takes a deep breath, exchanging a glance with Dahyun, who gives a nearly imperceptible nod. "We—helped," she answers, trembling slightly. "Not—not officially. Not through the company. It would have been—complicated."

Dahyun picks up the thread effortlessly, grounding Sana’s emotion. "We had—resources starting to come in. Not like now, but enough." She looks out at the city, averting your glare, as if confessing to the lights. "We found out which hospital. We—anonymously settled the outstanding balance. The biggest one."

The world tilts. The glittering city below blurs. The sound of the wind rushes in your ears, louder than the tower’s hum. 

"You—what?" The words are a choked whisper.

Sana nods, tears spilling over now, tracing paths down her cheeks. "And the debt collectors—the ones your parents were terrified of—Dahyun knew someone who knew someone—" She sniffles, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "They made them—go away. Quietly."

Dahyun squeezes your hand. "It wasn’t charity," she adds firmly, finally meeting your stunned gaze. Her dark eyes hold yours, intense and sincere. "It was—investment. In your family’s survival. In your peace. We saw you fight, in those practice rooms. We saw the weight you carried, even before—before everything collapsed. We saw the kindness." She glances at Sana, whose tear-streaked face is now lit by a watery smile. "Sana wouldn’t stop crying about it. We had to do something. Something real."

The revelation crashes over you. The inexplicable easing of the financial pressure back then, the way the most aggressive sharks suddenly backed off—it hadn’t been luck. It hadn’t been a bureaucratic miracle. It had been them. Sana’s ardent compassion and Dahyun’s quiet, strategic intervention. Their secret generosity had been the unseen current that carried your family to the shores of Switzerland, to the hillside, to this very moment high above Paris. The weight of it all: the magnitude of their unasked-for, unacknowledged gift—it steals your breath.

"I—" You struggle, the words tangling in your throat, dense with unshed tears. "I never knew. We could never—we can never repay you. That money—"

"Stop." Sana’s interruption is sharp, cutting through your stammering. She places both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look into her tear-filled, determined eyes. "Look at me. Look at Dahyun." 

Turning your head slightly, Dahyun’s gaze is equally unwavering. "Seeing you here," Sana continues, trembling but strong, "seeing your brother healthy, hearing about your farm—your life—that’s the payment. That’s all we ever wanted. Happiness. Peace. For you and your family." 

She strokes your cheek with her thumb, an irrevocably tender gesture. "You paid it back a thousand times just by surviving. By building that life."

Dahyun nods, hand still clasping yours. "Sana’s right. We didn’t do it for gratitude. We did it because it was right. Because you were one of us, once. Because we cared." She gives your hand another squeeze. "Knowing you’re okay—knowing your family is safe—that’s worth more than any amount of money we could ever have."

The Tower chooses this exact moment to erupt in its full sparkling glory. Thousands of lights dance like captured stars. It illuminates Sana’s tear-streaked, radiant face, Dahyun’s steady, compassionate gaze, and the overwhelming surge of gratitude, disbelief, and profound love that floods you. This is more than borrowed luxury or what-ifs. This is about the enduring, invisible threads of human kindness that had held your world together when it was falling apart. Threads spun by these two women standing beside you underneath the Parisian stars.

You pull them both into a hug. Sana melts against you instantly, while Dahyun stiffens for only a fraction of a second before relaxing into the embrace, with her arm wrapping firmly around your waist. Holding them tight, the glittering Eiffel Tower is a silent, magnificent witness. Words feel inadequate. The embrace says everything: shock, gratitude, and the profound, humbling realization of a debt you can never repay, but that they refuse to acknowledge. It’s a silent communion high above the city, a moment suspended in light and shared history.

Eventually, Jihyo gently calls out, "Hey lovebirds! Group photo time before security kicks us out for monopolizing the view!"

Reluctantly, you separate. Sana wipes her eyes again, beaming, her usual brightness returning tenfold. Dahyun smooths her jacket. A faint blush forms on her cheeks, but her eyes hold yours with a deep, satisfied warmth. "Told you we’d find you," she murmurs, echoing her note.

The descent is filled with laughter and the bright chatter of nine women planning out their next few days. At the base, amidst the throngs of tourists, the goodbyes are warm but tinged with the understanding that tomorrow is the calm before their Lollapalooza storm.

"Front row Saturday," Jihyo reminds you firmly, pulling you into another quick hug. "Don’t be late!"

"Bring earplugs!" Nayeon yells over Jeongyeon’s shoulder.

“Wreck your hotel room!” Jeongyeon smirks beneath that matter-of-fact cadence.

"Enjoy Paris!" Tzuyu simply smiles.

"Find some good cheese!" Momo adds.

"Think of Bessie for me!" Chaeyoung laughs after.

Mina simply waves, her serene smile saying it all.

Finally, Sana and Dahyun step forward together. Sana throws her arms around you one last time. "Explore!" she commands, pulling back but keeping hold of your hands. "Be fancy! Eat everything! See everything! Our treat!"

Dahyun hands you yet another sleek envelope. This one feels heavier, containing what you suspect is a second access card and likely another alarmingly generous gesture. "Don’t argue," she instructs, anticipating your protest, her eyes holding that familiar, grounding intensity. "Consider it operational funding for—reconnaissance. French sheep markets, maybe?" 

A tiny smile touches her lips. "We’ll see you at Lolla. Front and center."

They then melt back into the group. Sana immediately links arms with Jihyo, chattering excitedly, Dahyun falling into step beside Jeongyeon, already checking her phone. They disappear into the night, a whirlwind of talent and light heading towards their next arena.

You stand alone on the Champ de Mars as the Eiffel Tower sparkles majestically above you. Paris’ nighttime air feels clean in your lungs. The weight of the past, the secret burden of your family's salvation, has been lifted, replaced by a profound, humbling lightness. The envelope in your hand feels less like a key to forbidden luxury now, and more like a key to possibility—a chance to explore this dazzling city, not as an imposter, but as a man finally seeing the full, unexpected map of his journey. You touch the little sheep in your pocket, then the silver candy pin on your lapel. 

High above, the Tower’s lights shimmer like a promise. In two days, the music. Tonight, Paris. Tomorrow, the world is yours.

And beneath it all, the unshakeable foundation of a quiet pasture, a healthy brother, and the enduring, secret kindness of stars. You take a deep breath and step forward into the glittering Parisian night.

—————

The plush sheep digs into your thigh as you shift on the hotel bed. Dawn bleeds gray light through rain-streaked windows. Paris sighs under a quilt of clouds, its grandiosity softened by light drizzle that paints the boulevards in liquid silver. A reminder of home, you trace the sheep’s frayed ear, before tucking it beside the silver candy pin on the nightstand. 

Dahyun’s advice echoes in your head: "A day for you. Just you."  

So you wander. Not far. Just enough to feel the city’s pulse beneath its muted veneer. 

The Seine glistens like tarnished pewter, barges cutting through mist. In a cramped boutique near Pont Neuf, you find gifts: for your brother, a miniature Eiffel Tower paperweight ("So he remembers not to be too provincial," you mutter); for your mother, lavender sachets that smell of Provence; for your father, a leather-bound notebook. Practical. Grounded. Unlike the tremor in your hands when you spot them.  

First, Mina and Chaeyoung materialize outside a patisserie, huddled beneath a single umbrella. Chaeyoung’s laugh—a wind chime in fog—carries across the street. Mina nods solemnly at a macaron, as if judging its soul. You slip away before they get an opportunity to notice.  

Then, as fate would have it, Sana and Dahyun meet you before lunch.  

They find you at a tiny tea shop, steam fogging the windows. Sana bursts through the door like a sunbeam piercing clouds, rain jewels caught in her hair. Dahyun follows, a shadow in a charcoal trench coat, calm as still water.  

"Farm boy!" Sana sing-songs, sliding into your booth. Her knee bumps yours. Electric. "Playing hooky?"  

Dahyun’s eyes scan your modest pile of gifts. "Lavender? Smart. Hides the smell of sheep dung." 

Blunt. She’s always been blunt to a fault.  

You laugh, but your chest tightens. Sana’s proximity is a live wire: her cherry-blossom perfume, the way her sweater sleeve brushes your wrist. Dahyun watches you, that unnerving stillness in her gaze. They see too much. 

"You should try the madeleines," suggests Dahyun, pushing a plate toward you. "They’re like edible sunlight."  

Sana steals one, nibbling the edge. "He needs adventure, Dubu. Not more carbs." She leans in, conspiratorial. "There’s a vintage kimono shop in Le Marais—"  

"Which you’ll get lost finding," Dahyun interrupts dryly. "Stick to the plan. His day. His choice."  

They buy you a box of pistachio macarons ("For your family! Tell them Twice approves!"). As they leave, Sana squeezes your hand, lingering. Dahyun’s fingers brush your shoulder—a fleeting anchor. "Dinner at our hotel tonight," the younger woman reminds you, handing you a small card with their address written on it. "You’re invited. Don’t be late."  

Later that evening, the hotel ballroom is a lavish collision of worlds. Crystal chandeliers scatter light like fractured diamonds. Velvet drapes pool on marble floors. The normally packed restaurant had been closed off for dinner tonight, despite the presence of countless affluent guests. And then you see why—them.  

Twice descends the grand staircase like jewels spilling from a high-security vault. Jihyo in emerald silk, a queen commanding storms. Nayeon’s crimson gown slashes the air like a blade. Momo, a shimmering obsidian statue come to life. But your breath snags on two.  

Sana floats toward you in champagne satin, the dress whispering secrets with every step. It bares one shoulder, the line of her collarbone a masterstroke. Her hair spills in molten waves, lips stained pomegranate-red. She’s luminosity incarnate: a supernova in human form.  

"Like it?" She spins, the skirt flaring. "Dahyun said it’s ‘excessive.’" She pouts. "I say it’s you-worthy."  

Then, you settle on Dahyun.  

She wears midnight blue—sleek, severe, a blade sheathed in velvet. The dress cuts straight lines, revealing only the sharp wings of her shoulders. No jewelry. Just her eyes, dark and fathomable, pinning you beneath chandelier glow. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant tension in her neck.  

"Stop staring," she says, but it lacks bite. A faint smirk plays on her mouth. "Sana insisted we ‘dazzle’ you."  

You’re not dazzled. It’s more than that. You’re ruined.  

The realization hits like Bessie’s hoof to the ribs: this isn’t gratitude. Not admiration. It’s love: terrifying, improbable love. Not for one, but both. Sana’s effervescent warmth, Dahyun’s grounding steel. They flank you at dinner. Sana’s laugh bubbles over as she steals a bite of your foie gras. Dahyun dissects the wine’s notes with clinical precision, then quietly swaps your glass for water when she sees your daze.  

"They planned this," Jihyo smiles from across the table, gesturing at the excess of opulence. "Said you needed proof that farm boys clean up nice."  

Sana beams, squeezing your arm. Dahyun sips her wine, eyes never leaving yours. "Paris deserves to see you shine," she mumbles. "Even if it’s just one night."  

You choke on flattering compliments. "You look—transcendent, Sana. And Dahyun, you’re stunning. Like midnight given form."  

Sana preens. Dahyun’s cheekbones flush faintly. The other members quietly giggle and laugh at the remarks. 

Only Jeongyeon has something to say, and it’s quite the tell: “Guy hasn’t seen a pretty woman in eight years. Good excuse to stare, honestly.”

But beneath the glitter and gold, the call of the hills tugs hard. Sheep due next month. Fences unmended. Your brother’s expectant grin. This isn’t your world. These women—goddesses in couture—aren’t your future. 

You lock the unspoken confession away, burying it under layers of restraint and expensive meat.

—————

Saturday arrives ruthless and bright. Paris sheds the gray skin it’s worn for days, now basking in honeyed sunlight. A town car whisks you to Lollapalooza. The festival erupts in neon and noise: a fever dream of tie-dye, lightsticks, and deafening screams.  

Then Twice takes the main stage.   

The first synth notes of Feel Special crackle like static electricity. Jihyo’s voice is a clarion call tearing through the crowd. Fifty thousand strong roar back the chorus. Nayeon commands the center, her wink setting off seismic screams. Dahyun weaves through formations, her rap a lightning strike—sharp, brilliant, gone too soon.  

Fancy ignites the field. Sana becomes pure incandescence—hips swaying, smile lethal. She blows a kiss toward your VIP perch. Your heart stutters. Mina dances like water given will, fluid and ethereal, a counterpoint to Momo’s precision detonations.  

The Feels is a sugar-fueled pop rush. Dahyun’s rap slices through the bubblegum beat, crisp and deadpan. Her eyes find yours mid-verse: a quick, knowing flicker. Jeongyeon’s thunderous vocals anchor the chorus, while Tzuyu’s sheer presence—regal, untouchable—silences entire sections of the crowd.  

Talk That Talk is a shared heartbeat. The crowd chants the chorus like a prayer. Jihyo soars. Sana and Dahyun lock hands during a shared run, their harmony seamless—sun and moon colliding.  

Strategy closes their over hour-long set. A masterclass in controlled frenzy. Formation shifts are knife-sharp. Dahyun’s smirk as she nails a complex footwork sequence. Sana’s ad-libs, playful grenades tossed into the roar. The final pose: nine warriors, breathless, drenched in sweat and triumph. The crowd’s screams could shatter sky.  

Backstage is humid victory. Confetti clings to extensions and hair. Security funnels you through a scrum of crew and cameras. Twice surrounds you—hugs, laughter, the smell of stage smoke and ambition.  

"You saw?" Sana pants, grabbing your hands. Her stage makeup is smudged, eyes blazing. "We killed it for you!"  

Dahyun wipes sweat from her temple with a towel. "Mostly for the crowd. Partly for you." Her bluntness cracks your tension.  

Jihyo throws an arm around your shoulders. "Afterparty at our hotel! Bigger. Louder." 

Nayeon shoots a playful wink. "Better champagne than last night!"  

You agree. Of course you agree. Who are you to turn down angels like them. But as you turn toward the exit, a cold wire snags your gut. Something’s off. 

The plush sheep in your pocket feels suddenly heavy. Dahyun’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Sana’s hug lingers a second too long—less joy, more—farewell. You brush it aside as festival adrenaline and emotional whiplash. Nothing more.  

Yet the unease coils, tight and silent, as the limousine pulls away.

————— The limousine swallows you whole. Plush leather, chilled air, the fading roar of Lollapalooza replaced by the hushed purr of the hybrid engine. Sana vibrates beside you, a live wire still buzzing from their set, a thigh pressed firmly against yours. Dahyun sits across, a silhouette against passing Parisian lights, her unreadable gaze fixed out the window. The champagne flute in your hand feels alien, a prop in someone else’s life. The plush sheep is a hard lump in your pocket, a grounding point against this dizzying unreality.

Strange tension lingers. That cold wire in your gut tightens with every city block passed, amplified by the silence stretching between Sana’s excited chatter about the crowd’s energy and Dahyun’s quiet contemplation. The invitation feels weighted with finality. It’s not just an afterparty, but a destination with a definitive conclusion.

Their hotel is a fortress of glass and light. Security melts away as you step into the private elevator, Sana humming Talk That Talk’s melody under her breath, and Dahyun hitting the button efficiently to a shared penthouse suite. The ascent is swift, silent, charged. Doors slide open directly into a living space of staggering affluence: floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering Eiffel Tower, low-slung white sofas, abstract art that probably costs more than your farm yields in a year. It smells faintly of Sana’s cherry blossom perfume and Dahyun’s clean, ozone-like scent.

"Home sweet home!" Sana chirps, kicking off her designer heels with a sigh. She pads barefoot across the deep pile rug towards a minibar gleaming under recessed lights. "Champagne? Whiskey? Water? We raided the good stuff." Her smile is bright, but her eyes flicker towards Dahyun, seeking confirmation, seeking—something.

Dahyun doesn’t move from the window, her back to you, a dark, still figure against the city’s glow. "Sit," she orders, refusing to turn. Less a request, more a command.

You perch on the edge of a sofa, feeling impossibly out of place in your slightly rumpled clothes amidst this sterile showcase of luxury. Sana brings over two flutes of champagne, her fingers brushing yours as she hands you one. Her touch lingers, startling and putting you on edge. She sits close, tucking a leg beneath her, her satin stage shirt shimmering.

Dahyun finally turns. Her face is indecipherable in the dim light, her sharp features sculpted by the city’s glow behind her. She walks towards you, silence thickening with each step. Stopping before you, she glances down. Her gaze travels over your face, lingering on the fading marks on your neck from Seoul—from a lifetime ago, from a different continent. 

There’s no judgment behind her eyes, just assessment.

"You look tense, farm boy," she remarks, matter-of-fact, blunt as ever.

Sana shifts beside you. "Dubu—" she murmurs, a gentle warning.

"No," Dahyun cuts her off, her eyes still firmly locked on yours. "We’ve danced around this long enough. Since Zürich. Since the Tower. Since the fucking farm. Why are you here?"

Dahyun’s question hangs, sharp and heavy. You take a shaky sip of champagne. The bubbles feel sharp on your tongue. "You invited me," you manage, rough with nervous tension.

Wrong answer.

"Don’t play stupid," she snaps, a flicker of impatience breaking her calm. "We sent the tickets. We hunted you down. We paid your brother’s hospital bills, for fuck’s sake. We brought you to Paris. We dazzled you with dinners and stages. Why?" She takes another step closer, invading your space. Her perfume is subtle but potent now, a clean, expensive scent that makes your head swim. "Out of the goodness of our hearts? Nostalgia for the quiet trainee who fixed our choreography?"

Sana places a calming hand on Dahyun’s arm. "Dubu, please. Be gentle."

Dahyun ignores her, her dark eyes boring into yours. Into the depths of your soul. "There’s something underneath all that, isn’t there? Something you feel. Something we feel. And it scares you. Because of the sheep. Because of the fences. Because you think this," she gestures around the room, encompassing everything including herself and Sana, "isn’t your world."

Her words strip away any form of pretense. The farm responsibilities, the deep-seated love for your family, the sheer impossibility of it all—it crashes over you. 

"It isn't," you rasp, setting the champagne flute down with a clatter. "You’re stars. You live in luxury cars and penthouses. I fix tractors and shovel manure. You gave me an incredible gift, Dahyun. You too, Sana. More than I could ever repay. But this—" You gesture between the three of you. "This fantasy? It ends tonight. I have to go back. I need to go back."

Sana’s hand tightens on your knee, her eyes wide and shimmering. Dahyun doesn’t flinch. She studies you, that unnerving glare never wavering.

Then, a slow, deliberate smile touches her lips. It’s not warm. It’s fierce. Possessive. 

"You think this is about dragging you into our world? Making you an idol?" She shakes her head, a dark lock falling across her forehead. "We don’t want you in our world, farm boy. We want you. The man you became because of the sheep, the fences, the fucking manure." Dahyun then drops to a husky whisper. "We saw it in Zürich. The strength. The quiet loyalty. The man who chose his family and built a life with his hands. We’re proud of you."

Sana surges forward, her hand cupping your cheek, turning your face to hers. "So proud," she breathes, thick with unshed tears. "And we missed you. Not the trainee. The man." Her thumb brushes your lower lip. "We love you. Both of us. Have done, for longer than we admitted, even to ourselves."

The shared confession hangs in the air, fragile and monumental. The carefully constructed walls around your heart, reinforced by years of distance and duty, crumble. The love you’ve repressed since those trainee days, buried under responsibility and the sheer audacity of the thought, surges forward, now undeniable. More than admiration. More than gratitude. A deep, consuming love for Sana’s radiant warmth and Dahyun’s grounding steel. For them.

"I—" The words cling to your tongue, stifled by emotion. You look at Sana, her eyes luminous pools of affection and hope. Then at Dahyun, her pride softened into something vulnerable, expectant. "I love you too," you finally whisper, the truth tearing itself free. "Both of you. Since back then. Seeing you again—it didn’t just reawaken that, it just made it impossible to ignore any longer."

Sana lets out a soft, gasping sob of relief and joy. Dahyun’s sharp intake of breath is the only sign of her own emotion. 

“Finally.” 

The word is simple, weighed with years of unconfessed desire.

Dahyun’s hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back. The other grips your jaw. Her lips crash down on yours—hard, demanding, a collision of pent-up longing and fierce possession. It’s fire and steel: a kiss that sears away doubt, that brands you as hers. Groaning into her mouth, your hands instinctively fly to her waist, pulling her flush against you. Her sweet taste—champagne and something uniquely Dubu, sharp and clean—floods your senses.

Before you can fully process Dahyun’s assault, Sana is right there. She doesn’t wait for an invitation. She captures Dahyun’s lips in a deep, hungry kiss, her fingers tangling in Dahyun’s hair. It’s a sight that steals your breath: two idols, lost in each other for a heartbeat, sharing breath and fire, united in their desire for you. 

Then Sana breaks away, her eyes wild, and descends on you. Her kiss is different: passionate, seeking, full of sweet desperation. Cherry blossom and champagne, warmth and yielding softness. You kiss her back with equal ferocity, one hand still anchored on Dahyun’s hip, the other burying itself in Sana’s impossibly soft hair.

Dahyun breaks the kiss first. Her eyes, dark and dilated, hold a predatory glint. "Bed," she commands, rough but flared with authority. "Now."

She doesn’t wait for compliance. She pushes you backwards. You stumble, falling onto the impossibly soft expanse of a king-sized bed covered in dove-gray silk. Before you can right yourself, they’re all over you.

Sana moves like liquid sunlight, straddling your chest, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your head. Her stage shirt is already halfway down her waist, revealing the swell of her tits encased in delicate lace. She grinds down, the heat of her core palpable even through the layers of fabric separating you. 

"Missed this," she purrs, leaning down and nipping at your earlobe. "Missed you." Her fingers work the remaining buttons of her shirt, shrugging it off to reveal a matching lace bra.

Dahyun, meanwhile, kneels between your legs. Her movements are efficient, deliberate. She unbuckles your belt, the rasp of leather loud in the sudden quiet. Her fingers pop the button of your jeans, drags down the zipper. Cold air hits your skin, followed immediately by the warmth of her hand palming the hard outline of your cock straining against your boxers. A low groan escapes you.

"Eager," remarks Dahyun, her cadence a low thrum that vibrates through your bones. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your boxers and jeans, peeling them down your thighs in one smooth motion. Your cock springs free, already achingly hard, glistening precociously at the tip. The younger woman’s eyes track its movement, a flicker of pure hunger in their depths before her usual composure slams back down. "Sana," she says, her gaze never departing your shaft. "Get him ready for me."

Sana doesn’t need a second telling. With a mischievous grin, she shuffles backwards, settling her hips directly over your face. The scent of her is overwhelming: musky, sweet, distinctly Sana. Already drenched panties, a scrap of lavender silk, press against your lips. 

"Make me feel good, farm boy," she breathes, full of lewd want. Grinding her ass down on your face, her damp underwear feels sharp against your mouth.

There’s not a moment of hesitation. You tilt your head up, nuzzling against the heated fabric, inhaling her deeply. Your hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as you mouth her through the slit, feeling her jerk and whimper above you. Hooking your fingers into the sides of her panties, dragging them down her legs. They catch on her ankles, kicked away impatiently.

She’s bare. Gloriously bare. Her pussy is a perfect, glistening pink, already swollen and wet, the delicate folds parted slightly, the pull outright irresistible. The sight, the scent, the proximity—all intoxicating. You dive in. Your tongue is a flat stroke up her center, gathering her slick, salty-sweet and addictive. 

Sana cries out, her hands flying to your hair, fingers gripping tight. "Yes! Oh God, yes!" 

You focus, swirling your tongue around her clit, finding the hard little nub beneath its hood. Sucking gently, then harder, flicking with the tip. Sana bucks against your mouth, her moans escalating, high and breathless. Then you slide a finger down, finding her entrance slick and welcoming. One finger slips inside easily, then a second, curling upwards, searching for that sweet spot.

"Fuck! There!" whines Sana, pressing down hard on your fingers and mouth. "Don’t stop! Please—please don’t stop!"

While you devour Sana, Dahyun undresses efficiently. The sleek dress pools at her feet, revealing a simple sky blue bra and panties that do little to hide her divinely-crafted figure. Climbing onto the bed, she straddles your hips, facing Sana. Her ass is a perfect curve just above your aching cock. Reaching back, her hand wraps around your shaft, giving it a firm, purposeful stroke that makes your hips jerk all over the bed. Her thumb swipes over the leaking tip, spreading the precum around her fingers.

"Watch him, Sana," Dahyun commands, coiled with steel, fueled by bubbling arousal. "Watch him make you cum." 

Dahyun lifts herself up, positioning the head of your cock at her own entrance. Bare too now, her panties forgotten somewhere on the floor. You catch a glimpse of her pussy, neat and glistening, before she sinks down.

It’s tight. Unbelievably, suffocatingly hot. 

Slowly, Dahyun takes you inch by dangerous inch, eliciting a low groan rumbling in her chest. Slick, but the stretch is intense. You feel every ridge, every clenching muscle as she sheathes you completely, her ass finally resting comfortably against your hips. She’s deep, impossibly deep. You cry out against Sana’s heat, the vibration making her shriek.

She begins to move. Not frantic, not yet. 

A slow, deliberate roll of her hips, grinding down on you, taking you deep with every rotation. Her walls clench rhythmically around your shaft, milking you. She leans forward slightly, bracing her hands on Sana’s thighs, bringing their flushed, pleasure-laden faces close.

"Look at him," Dahyun rasps to Sana, her own breath hitching. "Look how hard he makes you cum." She captures Sana’s lips in a searing kiss as she continues to ride your cock, her pace gradually increasing, catching you off-rhythm.

It leaves you lost in overwhelming sensation. The wet, hot suction of Sana’s pussy on your mouth and fingers, the rhythmic clenching of Dahyun’s tight channel around your cock, the sight of them kissing above you, sharing your body. All overpowering and decadent. You redouble your efforts on Sana, curling your fingers hard inside her, sucking her clit desperately.

Sana detaches from Dahyun’s mouth with a charged gasp. "I’m gonna—Oh God, I’m cumming!" 

Her body locks up, her luscious thighs clamping harshly around your head. A guttural cry tears from her throat as her pussy pulses violently around your fingers and face, drenching your chin. Wave after wave rocks her, her moans dissolving into whimpers as she collapses forward onto Dahyun’s shoulder, trembling.

Dahyun watches Sana’s climax, her own movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. Her hips piston faster, slamming down onto your cock, taking you to the hilt with each stroke. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, a symphony of passionate cries and stupendous sensations. 

"So good," she grunts, her composure fracturing, her breathing reduced to ragged gasps. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me." She reaches back, her hand finding yours where it grips her hip, intertwining your fingers. Her clutch is iron, inescapable and unforgiving.

The pressure in your balls is a molten coil, tightening beyond your control. Watching Dahyun ride you, feeling her tight heat, seeing Sana spent and trembling beside her—it’s all too much. 

"Dahyun—I’m close," you warn, strangled, losing your intonation.

"Not yet," she gasps, increasing her pace, bouncing against you hard. "Fill me. Cum inside me. Now!" 

Her command is sharp, undeniable.

The coil snaps. With a cry muffled by Sana’s thigh, you explode. Thick, hot pulses of cum erupt deep into Dahyun’s inviting cunt. She cries out, her body convulsing around you, her inner walls fluttering wildly as her own orgasm rips through her, triggered by your own release. She grinds down hard, milking every last drop of cum from you, her head thrown back, a look of relentless ecstasy dawning on her face.

You both crash back onto the bed in a sudden collapse, gasping, slick with sweat and utter release. Sana stirs beside Dahyun with a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. She traces a finger down the younger woman’s sweat-slicked spine. "My turn," she murmurs, husky and already spent.

Still recovering, Dahyun manages a weak smirk. She slides off you, your softening cock slipping from her with a wet sound. She gestures towards Sana. "Flip her."

The command kindles renewed energy. Still reeling from your own orgasm, you move, gently guiding the pliant Sana onto her hands and knees on the bed. Her perfect ass is presented to you, still glistening, dripping down her legs. You kneel behind her, running your hands over the smooth curves of her back, down to her hips. She arches her back, pushing herself flush against you. A needy whimper escapes her lips as your cock faintly ghosts her inviting hole.

Dahyun arranges herself on the bed in front of Sana. She lies back against a mountain of pillows, spreading her legs wide. Her pussy is flushed, glistening, her folds still swollen from her recent climax. She looks utterly debauched and in command. 

"Come here, Sana," she orders, regaining her low thrum.

Sana eagerly crawls forward, settling between Dahyun’s thighs. Dahyun reaches down, tangling her fingers in Sana’s hair. "Make me cum," she demands, guiding Sana’s face towards her exposed core. "Use that pretty tongue of yours."

Sana needs no further encouragement. She dives in with a hungry moan, her tongue lapping eagerly at Dahyun’s slick folds. The sight is incendiary, lighting a fire within you: Sana’s head buried between Dahyun’s thighs, Dahyun’s head thrown back, her eyes slammed shut, a low moan starting deep in her chest.

Positioning yourself behind Sana, your cock hardens again, fueled by the erotic tableau unraveling before your very eyes. You guide the tip through Sana’s slick folds from behind. She’s incredibly wet, freshly sensitive, her inner muscles fluttering as you push inside her warmth. Sana gasps against Dahyun’s pussy, her moan sending shockwaves against Dahyun’s clit.

"Fuck her," Dahyun commands, her eyes suddenly opening, dark and intense, briefly locking onto yours. "Fuck her while she eats me. Make her scream."

You and Dahyun’s goals align. It’s a demand that sets you off. 

Gripping Sana’s shapely hips you thrust deep, burying yourself to the hilt and in her welcoming heat. She cries out, the sound muffled sharply against Dahyun’s cunt. Setting a punishing rhythm, dragging your shaft almost all the way out before slamming back in, the force drives Sana’s face harder and closer against Dahyun’s core. Sana moans continuously, a desperate, pleading sound, her tongue working furiously on Dahyun even as you pound relentlessly into her.

Dahyun’s composure shatters. Her hips buck off the bed, meeting Sana’s mouth. Her moans escalate, sharp and gasping. "Yes! Oh fuck, yes! Just like that, Sana! Harder!" 

Her fingers tighten painfully in Sana’s hair, holding her in place. "And you," she pants, flashing a glance in your direction, her eyes wild with ecstasy, "fuck her harder! Make her feel it!"

Redoubling your efforts, your thrusts become brutal and focused. The bed creaks in protest. The sounds are obscene: the sloppy clap of your hips against Sana’s ass, her muffled cries and desperate licks, complemented by Dahyun’s escalating gasps and sharp commands. You watch Sana’s back arch to your rhythm, hear the pitch of her cries change, becoming higher, more frantic. She’s close again.

"Now, Sana!" Dahyun sighs, her body tensing like a bowstring. "Make me cum! Now!"

Sana responds with a muffled cry, her tongue lashing Dahyun’s clit with haphazard intensity. At the same time, you slam into her deep and hold, grinding your cock against her ass, thrusting the depths of her cunt with relentless pressure.

The older woman screams, her body convulsing around your cock, her orgasm ripping through her with violent force. Her inner walls clamp down on you like a vise, draining you even as she shakes.

Above her, Dahyun lets out a guttural cry, her back arching clear off the bed. "Fuck! Sana!” 

Her thighs clamp around Sana’s head as her own climax crashes over her, intense and shuddering. Torrential slick pulses visibly, wetness coating Sana’s chin and cheeks.

Holding deep inside Sana as she rides out the last of her tremors, your own orgasm held back only by sheer will. As Sana collapses, spent and trembling, you continue to fuck into her cunt. Dahyun is panting, her eyes closed, a dense sheen of sweat covering her body. Still, she manages to cry out orders. “She’s earned it. Cum in her.”

There’s no denying it; not even your body can hold on any longer. 

Stretching her pussy, groaning from the depth of your lungs, hands wrapped on her silky waist. The orgasm wrecks through your very soul. Shot after shot of thick load, you unload in Sana’s creamy, warm cunt. The sensation burns through your muscles, your body enduring far more punishment than any amount of labor, leaving you utterly breathless. She cries faint, airy whimpers, taking all your worth, earning every well-deserved drop.

As the embers die out, you’re clung to her hip, your only anchor as you struggle to steady yourself through the aftermath of your climax.

Dahyun opens her eyes, her gaze finding yours, still dark but softened and sated by overwhelming pleasure. She gestures weakly towards Sana, then pats the space beside her on the bed. "Bring her."

Gently gathering the boneless Sana, you lift her from her hands and knees. Reduced to incoherent murmurs, she nuzzles against your chest. You carry her to the side of the bed opposite Dahyun and lay her down. She curls onto her side immediately, already half-asleep.

You move to the other side, collapsing onto your back between them. The mattress dips. Dahyun shifts closer, her body radiating heat. She turns onto her side, facing you, one arm draping possessively over your chest. Her fingers trace the fading sheep bite mark on your neck. On your other side, Sana mirrors her, snuggling close, her head pillowed on your shoulder, one leg thrown over yours. Her hair fans out like a silken blanket.

The collective silence is profound, broken only by their slowing breaths and the distant hum of Paris far below. Exhaustion, deep and bone-melting, settles over you. The scent of shared sex, sweat, Sana’s cherry blossom, and Dahyun’s ozone-clean skin mingle in the air. Home feels a million miles away, yet its pull remains—not a demand in this moment, but a deep, resonant hum beneath the sated stillness.

Sana sighs in contentment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach before they stop on your chest. "Love you, farm boy," she murmurs, already drifting off.

Dahyun’s fingers cling to your neck. She doesn’t speak, but she presses a soft, lingering kiss just below your ear. It’s an answer; a promise. A temporary surrender to a fantasy that feels, in this exhausted, sex-slicked aftermath, heartbreakingly real.

You close your eyes. A faint command from Dahyun’s lips emanates in your ear: Stay. 

The combined weight of them: Sana’s warmth, Dahyun’s solid presence—they anchor you in the luxurious present, even as the image of green hills and bleating sheep flickers, persistent, on the edge of your consciousness. Spent and utterly conquered, you let the darkness claim you, sandwiched between impossible stars.

—————

Early the next day, cerulean dawn filters through gauzy curtains, painting Sana’s sleeping face in ethereal silver. Her arm rests possessively across your chest, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your bare chest. Dahyun’s back presses warm and solid against yours, her slow, even breaths a metronome in the stillness. 

Peace. Deep, syrupy, and utterly alien. The city murmurs outside, a distant hum beneath the cocoon of shared warmth and soft linen. You exist in a suspended bubble, the plush sheep a forgotten lump beneath your pillow, the pair of candy pins gleaming dully on the nightstand like discarded constellations. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. A calm that feels like heaven.

Then, the shriek.

It claws through the tranquility: your phone, vibrating with frantic urgency on the polished oak surface, shatters the silence like dropped crystal. Sana jerks awake, a soft gasp escaping her lips, eyes wide open and disoriented. Dahyun shifts instantly, her body tensing, a calm anchor replaced by wary alertness.

"Whose—?" Sana mumbles, dense with bedroom haze, reaching blindly towards the offending device before you can react. Her thumb swipes the screen. "Hello?" Her tone is polite, confused.

The change is instantaneous. Her sleep-soft features harden. The color drains from her cheeks, replaced by a waxy pallor. Her free hand flies to her mouth, eyes locking onto yours, wide with a dawning horror that chills you to the marrow.

"—Slow down, please. Slow down." Sana trembles. "Who is this? Looking for—? Him?" 

Her gaze bores into you, filled with a panic that mirrors the frantic crackle suddenly audible from the receiver. She thrusts the phone towards you as if it were scalding. "It’s—it’s your parents. They sound—terrified."

In an instant, the peaceful haze evaporates. Ice floods your veins. You grab the phone, your own fingers numb and clumsy. "Mom? Dad? What’s—"

The voices on the other end are a distorted wail of pure panic. Words tumbling over each other, choked with pained sobs. "Where are you?! We need you! Your brother—he’s—"

Your world tilts. The plush Parisian room, Sana’s terrified face, Dahyun’s steadying hand suddenly on your arm—it all feels vain and hollow. All you hear is the despair in your mother’s voice, the phantom echo of sirens screaming down a rural lane eight years ago. The polished wood floor beneath your bare feet might as well be the cold linoleum of a hospital corridor you know all too well. The scent of Sana’s cherry blossom perfume twists into the sharp, nauseating tang of needles and antiseptic.

"Where?" You gravel, scraping your throat. "Which hospital? Tell me!"

—————

Eight years of peace dissolve. You’re eighteen again, lost and drowning in a familiar, traumatizing smell.

The fluorescent lights of University Hospital Zürich buzz like angry wasps, casting a sickly green pallor over everything. The scent hits you first—that same brutal cocktail of disinfectant, fear, and stale coffee that plagued your nightmares for years. It’s a direct punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs the moment you push through the heavy ER doors. 

Your parents are huddled on rigid plastic chairs, looking impossibly small and helpless. Mother’s face is ravaged, tear tracks cutting through the exhaustion. Dad stares blankly at the scuffed floor, his shoulders slumped under an invisible, crushing weight. They look up as you sprint towards them, your suitcases forgotten somewhere near the entrance.

"Mom. Dad." You hush, falling to your knees before them, gripping your mother’s cold hands. "Where is he? What happened?"

"He was helping me," your father rasps, sounding like stones grinded together. He won’t meet your eyes. "Fixing the fence by the stream—Bessie spooked—he slipped—fell backwards—hit his head on a rock." He swallows convulsively. "So much blood—Oh God, the blood—"

Your mother clutches your hands, her grip desperate. "He just—crumpled. Didn’t get up. Didn’t make a sound—" A fresh sob wracks her frame.

The description ignites a flashback, vivid and cruel: not of Bessie, but of a feverish younger brother gasping for breath in a sterile bed in Seoul, beeping monitors a frantic counterpoint to your own heartbeat. The helplessness. The crushing weight of responsibility you couldn’t shoulder alone. The smell—it was always the smell.

You push past them, drawn like iron to a magnet towards the curtained bay the nurse wordlessly indicates. Your footsteps echo too loudly in the hushed corridor before yanking the curtain aside.

He lies unnervingly still on the narrow gurney, dwarfed by wires and blinking machines. A thick bandage wraps his head, stark white against his too-pale skin. His face, usually animated with clumsy teenage energy, is slack. Peaceful, almost. Worryingly so. An oxygen cannula snakes under his nose. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor is the only sound, its every pulse a direct blow against your ribs.

The awful sight completely upends you. 

You stagger, bracing a hand against the cold metal rail of the bed. The room spins. The sterile white walls bleed into the memory of another hospital room, another still form, another desperate vigil. Eight years. A lifetime of vigilance, of sacrifice, poured into keeping him safe, healthy, alive. And the one time—the one fucking time you choose something for yourself, choose the glittering lights, choose them—

A tsunami of self-loathing, guilt, and remorse crashes over you. It’s corrosive, burning through any relief at arriving in time, disregarding any gratitude for the doctors. It floods your mouth with the taste of bile.

Your fault.

The words scream inside your skull, drowning out the monitor’s steady beat.

You left.

You abandoned your post. You shirked the one responsibility that truly mattered. You played the tourist in Paris while he bled on your family’s land.

Parker luck. 

The bitter phrase tastes foul. Power? No. Responsibility. And the universe exacts a brutal toll for forgetting it. Every. Single. Time.

If you’d been there—

The what-if is agonizingly clear: you, strong and steady, grabbing his jacket collar just in time, hauling him back from the slippery edge, Bessie’s hoof thudding harmlessly into mud. You would have seen the loose rock. You would have anticipated the spook. You would have been there.

Instead, you were sipping champagne under chandeliers, drowning in the impossible warmth of Sana’s smile, the quiet intensity of Dahyun’s gaze. Loving them. Choosing them, however briefly, over him.

A choked sound escapes you—part sob, part snarl, but complete frustration. Slamming your fist against the metal rail, the sharp clang echoes in the confined space. Your parents flinch behind you.

"Idiot!" The word hisses out, venomous, directed squarely at yourself. "Selfish, stupid idiot! Goddamn it!"

Outside the curtain, the nurse in charge stirs, muffled but concerned. "Sir? Is everything—?"

You can’t stay. Can’t breathe this antiseptic-scented air dense with your own failure. Can’t look at his still face and be reminded that you failed him. Again. 

Turning blindly, you shove past the curtain, past your parents’ startled, tear-stricken faces. Your father reaches out, his mouth opening, probably to say the doctor had been by, that the scans were clear, that he was stable, that he’d wake soon. 

But you don’t hear it. You don’t want to hear it. The good news doesn’t matter. It doesn’t erase the fact that it happened. The reality of the situation is this: it came about because you weren’t there.

You stalk down the corridor, away from the beeping monitors, away from the damning proof of your catastrophic lapse in judgment. Effulgent lights above buzz their relentless verdict. The ghost of that sick, traumatized eighteen-year-old boy walks beside you. A constant, accusing shadow. 

Responsibility isn't a choice. It’s an obligation. And you’d just proven, brutally, what happens when you try to break free. 

—————

Inside the hospital room, the atmosphere is cautiously lifting. The harsh overhead lights seem less accusing now. Your parents sit beside the bed where your brother rests, still pale but breathing steadily without the oxygen tubes. A doctor had just left, confirming the scans were clear, the concussion moderate, and complete recovery expected. 

Relief hangs palpable in the air, fragile but real.

The door clicks open. Your mother looks up, expecting you, but her eyes widen in surprise. Standing hesitantly in the doorway are Sana and Dahyun. Sana clutches a ridiculously oversized, bright bouquet of sunflowers and daisies, while Dahyun holds a tasteful basket of fruit and what appears to be premium ginseng packets.

"Um! Hi!" chirps Sana, a little too loud for the hushed ward, her usual effervescence tempered by visible nervousness. She bobs a quick, awkward bow. "We're—friends. Of your son. We heard about—" She gestures vaguely towards the bed with the bouquet.

Dahyun steps smoothly beside her, offering a deeper, more composed bow. "We apologize for the intrusion. We just—wanted to offer our support and well wishes." 

Her gaze flicks to your brother, then back to your parents, calm but watchful.

The air inside crackles with awkwardness. Your parents, weathered by farm life and recent events, stare at these two impossibly glamorous young women who look like they stepped out of a magazine spread. 

Your father clears his throat. "Thank you. That's—kind. He's—the doctors say he'll be alright. Woke up groggy but knew his name. Just needs plenty of rest." The relief as he delivers the good news is profound, softening the lines of stress on his tired face.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Sana exhales, her shoulders slumping visibly. Tension in the room eases a fraction. She beams, the genuine warmth in her smile momentarily banishing the sterile gloom. "We were so worried!"

Dahyun nods, placing the fruit basket carefully on a side table. "That’s excellent news. We're very glad to hear it." She hesitates, then meets your father’s eyes directly. Her usual calm is present, but there’s an atypical gravity bubbling underneath. "Actually, while we’re here, there’s something we’ve been wanting to say for a very long time."

Sana fidgets with the sunflower stems, suddenly pensive and straight. "Yes. Eight years, actually."

Your parents exchange a confused glance. "Eight years?" your mother echoes.

Dahyun takes a small breath. "When your son left Seoul—when your family faced—the medical bills. And the debt collectors." She pauses, ensuring she has their full, bewildered attention. "It was us. Sana and I. We arranged for the debts to be settled. We paid the main hospital bill. And—the more troublesome collectors were persuaded to leave you alone."

Your mother’s hand flies to her mouth. Your father stares at Dahyun, then Sana, his jaw slack with disbelief. 

Sana rushes to fill in the gaps; her words come tumbling out. "We didn't do it for thanks! Or anything! We just—we knew him from his trainee days. We saw how hard he fought, how much he loved you all. And we heard—how bad it was. We had just started earning—it wasn't a lot, but it was enough to help. We wanted you to have peace. To focus on getting your son well." Again she gestures towards your sleeping brother. "We wanted him," she nods towards the door, indicating you, "to be able to breathe."

Tears well in your mother’s eyes, emotion spilling over. "You—you did that? All those years ago?"

Dahyun nods once. Simple, definitive. "Yes. Anonymously, because the company—it was complicated. And we didn't want to intrude. Or create obligation."

"Obligation?" your father rasps. He shifts his gaze from Dahyun’s calm demeanor to Sana’s earnest one, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Young ladies—you gave us our lives back. You gave him," he too nods towards the door, now filled with gratitude, "a chance to save his brother without drowning." He shakes his head, overwhelmed. "We could never—thank you enough."

Sana waves her hands dismissively, blushing. "No, no! Please! Seeing him now—seeing the man he became? Strong, kind, responsible—loving." She softens. "You raised an incredible son. We're—we're just so proud to know him. Proud of him." 

As she looks at your brother one more time, a soft smile touches her lips. "And we're so glad this one is going to be okay too."

————— The antiseptic glare of the hospital corridor feels like an accusation to your decision. You slump on a cold, molded plastic bench just outside the sliding entrance doors, the weak morning sun doing nothing to calm the jitter in your bones. Paris feels like a fever dream, a gilded cage you foolishly stepped into. The scent of Sana’s cherry blossom shampoo still clings faintly to your borrowed sweater, a bitter foil to the pervasive smell of bleach and despair. Every breath rasps in your chest, full of self-loathing.

Your brother’s pale, bandaged face, so terrifyingly still, merges with the ghostly memory of him gasping in a hospital bed eight years ago. The crushing weight of responsibility you’d carried since then—the early mornings, the calloused hands, the buried dreams—feels like it’s physically pressing you into the cheap plastic. And for what. To have it all unravel the moment you dared to want something for yourself. To feel something beyond the relentless rhythm of the farm.

Your fault. The words are an incessant drumbeat banging through your skull, synchronized with the phantom beep of the monitor inside. 

You left him. You chose champagne and chandeliers over fences and feed bins. You chose—them. You chose—poorly.

"Stupid," you mutter, the self-reproach scraping your throat. You rake trembling hands through your hair, pulling hard enough to sting. "Selfish. Fucking. Idiot." 

Parker luck. A gift disguised as a curse. Responsibility always collects its due, with interest. The universe doesn’t forgive moments of weakness. Especially yours. You picture the slick mud by the stream, the loose rock, Bessie’s startled movement. If you’d been there, your reflexes honed by years of anticipating disaster, you would have grabbed his collar, hauled him back. Simple. Instinctive. Your job. Instead, you were—

The memory ambushes you: Sana’s luminous smile across a candlelit table, Dahyun’s quiet intensity as her hand brushed yours. The dizzying warmth of their hotel room, the taste of Dahyun’s lips, the sound Sana made when— Guilt, sharp and acidic, floods your mouth. You weren’t just shirking responsibility; you were betraying it. Indulging in deep-rooted fantasies while your brother bled to death. "I touched them," you whisper hoarsely to the uncaring concrete. "I wanted them. While he—" 

The sentence chokes off. It’s replaced by a rather harsh yet familiar call.

"Rough night, farm boy?"

Your head snaps up. Blinking against the harsh light, you see them. Not ghosts, but anomalies. Nayeon, Jihyo, Momo, Mina, Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, Jeongyeon—filtering through the hospital entrance like a needed burst of unexpected color in the dull gloom. They’re dressed down—jeans, sweaters, faces free of makeup—but their presence is still jarring. Surreal.

Nayeon arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her arms crossed. "You look like you wrestled Bessie and lost." Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp and assessing.

Jihyo steps forward, her usual commanding presence softened by concern. "We heard," she states simply. "How is he?"

"How—how are you here?" you stammer, awed and confused at their uncanny presence here, of all places. "You had flights—schedules—"

Jeongyeon shrugs, her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. "Sana and Dahyun happened. Once they got the full picture after you bolted from Paris like your pants were on fire—" She shoots a glance at Jihyo. "Let’s just say they can be very persuasive when motivated. Especially together. And honestly? After Lolla, our schedule had some breathing room. They insisted we come. We wanted to."

Momo nods, her expression unusually serious. "They were frantic. Worried about you. About him." She gestures vaguely towards the hospital.

Tzuyu offers a small, solemn nod of agreement. Mina’s large eyes hold only quiet empathy.

"But why?" The question bursts out, edged with anger simmering beneath the despair. "You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have been there. None of this—" You gesture wildly, encompassing the hospital, your brother’s health, your own shattered state, "This is all on me! I left. I took my eyes off the ball for one second, one selfish trip, and look!" 

Your voice cracks. "He could have died! Because I was off playing tourist, drowning in—in—" 

You can’t bring yourself to say it outright. Not in front of them. In Sana’s laugh. In Dahyun’s touch. In the terrible, beautiful feeling of falling for them both.

Chaeyoung crouches down in front of your bench, her sharp glare fixed on yours. "Playing tourist? Is that what you call facing down a past you buried for eight years? What you call finally letting yourself breathe something other than animal shit and regret?"

"You don't understand!" The words tumble out, bitter and scathing. "Responsibility isn't a choice! It's a chain! And I dropped it! I let myself get—distracted. By lights. By music. By them. I wanted something—something just for me. And the universe punished me for it. Hard. Because that's how it works! You step out of line, you face the consequences. My brother paid the price for my—my fucking overindulgence." 

The implication of your time with Sana and Dahyun hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but perfectly understood.

Jihyo sits beside you on the bench, the plastic groaning. Her presence is solid, anchoring. "Listen to me," she answers, low but resonant. "Love isn't indulgence. Wanting happiness isn't betrayal. What happened to your brother was a freak accident. A slip on wet grass. A spooked cow. That’s bad luck, not divine punishment for daring to visit Paris."

Mina speaks softly, her timbre like clear water. "You carry so much weight. For so long. You built a life, a safe place, for your family. That is not nothing. Taking a few days, letting people care for you—that isn't dropping the chain. It's giving your hands rest, if for a moment."

Jeongyeon leans against a pillar, her expression pragmatic. "Accidents happen, kid. On farms, in cities, on stage. You think one of us hasn't slipped during practice? Gotten hurt? Does that mean the others weren't doing their jobs? That they were 'indulging' by taking a breath? Life is messy. It doesn't follow a script where the hero’s vigilance prevents every fall."

Nayeon crouches next to Chaeyoung. "Stop martyring yourself," she says, surprisingly gentle despite the bluntness of her remark. Something your mother told you not that long ago. "It's exhausting to watch. And honestly? Unfair. To you, and to them." 

Tzuyu jerks her head towards the hospital doors. "You think your brother would want you bound to that farm forever out of guilt? That your parents would?"

Their words of wisdom get lost in translation. In your mind, it feels like they’re speaking a different language. 

You shake your head, tears finally welling, teeming with anger and shame. "You really don't get it. I should have been there. I knew Bessie. I knew that slope. If I hadn't gone—if I hadn't let myself—" The image of tangled limbs and whispered promises in a Parisian hotel room flashes, sharp and painful. "Wanted them—"

"You think wanting love makes you weak?" Jihyo questions softly. "Or human?"

A choked sob escapes, then another, tearing from your chest with ragged force. The carefully constructed walls of control, the stoicism worn like armor for eight years, disintegrate into dust. You fold forward, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands, shoulders shaking with the burdensome pressure of grief, guilt, and sheer, overwhelming exhaustion. The tears are a flood, silent at first, then wrenching gasps that cut through your very soul.

You don't see them move, but suddenly, they’re there. Arms encircle you. Not just one or two, but many. Jihyo’s firm grip on your shoulder. Momo’s arm around your back. Mina’s hand resting lightly on your arm. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu pressing close. Nayeon’s hand rubbing slow circles on your shoulder blades. Jeongyeon’s mature presence by your side. It’s a cocoon of warmth, comfort and unconditional, wordless support. A silent fortress against an unforgiving world.

Suddenly, two more sets of arms slide themselves into the embrace. You feel them before you see it. Sana, pressing her cheek against the top of your head, her frame trembling slightly. Dahyun, her hand finding yours where it grips your knee, her fingers interlacing with yours in a grounding squeeze. No words, just their presence, anchoring you in the storm. Solid. Real. 

The collective strength of nine women who crossed an ocean for you finally cracks through the impenetrable core of your isolation and self-pity. You weep freely; the sobs wrack your body. Years of buried fear, relentless responsibility, and newfound love pour out onto the shoulders of an unlikely sanctuary.

—————

The sliding doors hiss open. You step back into the hospital corridor, feeling vulnerable but strangely lighter. Lingering tear tracks stiff on your face. The group hug had dispersed, with the members giving you space but following close by like a protective constellation. Jihyo meets your eyes, a silent question. You manage a shaky nod. He’s okay. She smiles, small and reassuring.

You need to see him. To say the words burning holes through your guilt-ridden heart. 

He’s awake. Propped up slightly, looking groggy but blessedly alert. His eyes, the same warm brown as yours, focus blearily on you as you approach the bed. Your parents offer small, encouraging smiles. Sana and Dahyun stand quietly near the window, Sana giving you a tentative, hopeful thumbs-up.

The sight of him awake and alive unleashes a fresh wave of sadness laced with shame. You reach the bedside, your hand hovering over his before gently grasping it. 

"Hey—kiddo."

He blinks slowly. "Hey, big bro." 

He sounds raspy and frail. You feel the pang of guilt coming back stronger the longer your gaze lingers on his fragile state.

Tears threaten once more. You fight them, swallowing hard. "I—I am so sorry. So, so sorry. I wasn't there. I should have been there. I promised—I promised I’d always be there to watch your back. And I wasn't." The words spill out, drenched in regret. "I let you down. I got—distracted. I was selfish. And you got hurt because of it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry." 

Your head bows, weighed from countless failures pressing down.

A beat of silence. Then, a weak chuckle. You look up, startled.

"Bessie," he murmurs, a trace of his usual grin stirring his lips. "Being—Bessie. Dumb cow." He takes a shallow breath. "My fault—wasn't watching—my own feet. Slippery mud—after the rain. Dad yelled—but I was too slow." 

He squeezes your hand weakly. "Sorry I—scared you." His eyes drift closed for a second, then reopen, focusing with greater clarity. "Shoulda—called you—for backup. You’re better—with her."

His simple, matter-of-fact absolution, blaming only the cow and his own clumsiness, is a balm you didn’t know you needed. It doesn’t erase the guilt—far from it—but it cracks its suffocating hold. 

A watery laugh escapes you. You squeeze his hand back. "Yeah. Bessie’s a menace. That damned cow." 

He manages a slightly wider grin. "Signatures?" he whispers, the childish gleam momentarily overriding the grogginess. "You got 'em? Sana? Dahyun?"

You look over at Sana and Dahyun by the window. Sana beams. Dahyun offers a small, knowing nod. Behind them, the others’ eyes are peeking through. 

Then you turn back to your brother, smiling. "Better than signatures, kid."

Stepping back towards the door, it opens wide, and you beckon.

They file in. Not just Sana and Dahyun, but all nine. A sudden, vibrant explosion of gentle energy fills the small hospital room. They crowd near the foot of the bed, offering shy waves, warm smiles, and soft hellos.

Your brother’s eyes widen—and widen. They’re dying to pop out.

His jaw drops. He stares, utterly starstruck, his gaze darting from one face to another. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out. His face flushes bright red. Then, his eyes roll back slightly in his head, and he slumps dramatically back against the pillows, feigning a dead faint, a ridiculous, over-the-top grin still plastered on his face before he ‘passes out.’

A beat of stunned silence. Suddenly, laughter erupts. Bright, genuine, relieving joy. 

Sana claps her hands, giggling. Dahyun shakes her head, a smile finally breaking through her calm facade. Nayeon snorts. Momo laughs out loud. Chaeyoung cheekily grins. Tzuyu looks adorably confused. Mina covers her mouth, suppressing her own chortle. Jeongyeon casually chuckles. Jihyo shakes her head, smiling warmly at the performance.

Your parents stand together, your mother wiping happy tears from her eyes, your father’s arm around her shoulders. They watch you through the window—their son, surrounded by these bright stars who crossed an ocean for him, looking at your brother with exasperated affection—and their faces radiate with pride. Not just for surviving, but for building a life strong enough to hold both responsibility and unexpected love. For becoming a man worthy of such loyalty, such kindness, and yes, such chaos.

The farm is still there. There are fences that need mending. Bessie is probably plotting her next move. But in this sun-dappled hospital room, the future feels less like a burden and more like a wide, open field, waiting.

————— (A/N: Please fucking help me I can't— In all seriousness, this was a story I never thought I could crack. I've actually put it off for like more than a year cause there wasn't anything I could come up with that clicked. But upon one more revisit of the prompt, I figured the best way to tackle it was to tell a fish out-of-water story from his perspective. Combining his personal duty to family with a pang of nostalgia helped ease in the gaps. Beyond that, Sana and Dahyun are a very special pair, so hopefully I did them both a service! Full album on the way, member solos, Tzuyu's homecoming, and a massive world tour? Something tells me this might be their last big activity for a good while. Thank you for reading!)

[dreamer-milore]

--misinterpretations.

// first meetings with our beloved deliverer

IN WHICH • You firmly believe a certain Chrisos Heir has his eyes on someone, and it's definitely not you, based on the numerous times you've seen him with the Prince of Kremnos. You conclude that they're in a secret relationship. Or perhaps you've misinterpreted everything all along? (You're fully convinced Phainon is attracted to Mydei).

FEATURING • Phainon

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You've seen enough for you to come to a conclusion. You have visual evidence, so you're not being unreasonable. And your claim is completely logical and rational.

That blue-haired knight you keep seeing is homosexual, who may or may not be in a secret relationship with the Prince of Kremnos.

You don't know that knight's name, but you are sure that he's well accustomed to the perils of the battlefield.

Well, if you were being honest, you barely know anything about Okhema. You were just a refugee who came from a distant city-state that was now in ruins thanks to the Black Tide.

You arrived just a few weeks ago, bruises and cuts littered your body--the marks of a warrior, they say-- and you're sure you'll be decorated in scars after a few weeks.

But that'd be the case if you do manage to last, and you did, otherwise you wouldn't be witnessing the secrets of that certain knight.

(You don't know the name of that blue-haired knight, so you just gave him the nickname 'knight.')

You didn't bother to ask for his name, since you're a hikikomori and you'd much rather prefer to stay within your living quarters. The Black Tide just had you in a 'cowardly' state. You find comfort and security within the confines of your home, believing that the place not within the walls of your house is dangerous.

Though, there are times where you did step out of your home, but the occurrence is rare, and the duration of your visits to the outside world is short. Not lasting more than a few hours. (The most you've done is 2 hours).

During these trips of yours, you would sometimes catch glimpses of the knight with an ash blonde-haired individual who you learned was Mydeimos, Prince of Kremnos. And during those times, you always, always, saw the two in a very close distance--one that you could not just dismiss as that of friends.

This continued on, with each and every one of your trips, you would accidentally spot those two.

One instance, you saw the two really really close to each other, as if they just finished a kissing scene. (They were whispering about top-secret confidential case. You just saw it wrong).

And you also take note of the trust they put into each other, which you observed via eavesdropping on them, but you could only make out very few lines.

You're sure those two are in a secret relationship. So when rumors broke out that of a certain knight asking a florist for courting rituals, you concluded that the lucky girl, or more accurately, the lucky guy, was Mydeimos.

You knew someone who's been crushing on Phainon for a while now, and you can't deny that you feel bad for them sometimes. But it's not like you could do anything. I mean, you can't just tell her to confess, since Phainon will definitely reject her, and you don't want that happening, so you end up discouraging her instead. You know it's a grim method, but you suppose it's still helpful, right?

So when you got called to the Council of Elders, you had no choice but to abide by them. You went there, begrudgingly, and it seems like it's for a mission to save a group of refugees that are en route to Okhema.

You are aware of how dangerous the outside of Okhema is, so you don't mind why the Council takes the matter seriously. Since you were a former knight yourself (of course you have trauma), you were deployed to handle the mission, along with some others. (You didn't want to go, but you have to abide by it. And it's also kind of obligatory.)

That was the case, until one member argued that Okhema is running low in manpower, and there are various other matters to attend to, so they suggested that a Chrisos heir should handle the current mission, accompanied by you.

The Chrisos heir they wanted to deploy? The 'knight.' More accurately, Phainon. You learned his name is Phainon.

The Council agreed to the member who gave the suggestion.

(The Chrisos heirs are the chosen ones from the prophecy, no? Shouldn't it be fit that they handle things like these? If you view it from this angle, it seems about right. It's objective. The Council is just being rational and objective. Totally not because of their disdain for the Chrisos heirs. And how considerate of them, for putting you into this mess. How truly kind.

As agreed by the Council, you were sent to the borders of Okhema to meet up with Phainon, so the two of you could start the mission. You two made your way to the location of the refugees, carefully navigating through the outside lands of Amphoreus.

You barely spoke a word to him, so he, too, didn't say much in return. It was only when you both reached the location did he start being a little bit more talkative. He'd tell you some snippets from his life, and whatnot. And it wasn't just you, but he also talked to the refugees to ease their worries.

Just from that alone, you can tell Phainon is a really good guy, and now you know why people seem to like him.

When monsters emerged, you were quick to shoot them down with your gun. Though you're not very skilled in close combat, sniping with your gun is where lies your true talent. Even Phainon heavily complimented this talent of yours. (It saved him, after all.)

It took a while, but you slowly began to talk more to him, and to the refugees too.

At last, you reached Okhema safely, with no harm done to the refugees.

After that mission, you and Phainon helped the refugees get settled in. Afterwards, the two of you reported back to the Council. The Council was delighted, and dismissed you two.

(Finally, one less thing to worry about.)

You walked outside of the Council's place, with Phainon at your side. You've grown to be acquainted with him, and the same can be said for him. Only that, his might be a little more complicated.

You already bid him farewell, but he cut you off and asked you if he could treat you for lunch. You were taken aback, but said nothing. (You can't really say no to free food now, can you?)

As much as possible, Phainon wants to prolong this. He finds something akin to comfort while he's in your presence. With you, he doesn't need to act strong and brave, nor feel the need to act according to his title--Phainon, the Chrisos heir, Phainon, the Deliverer.

He's just Phainon. And he likes it that way.

He has no explanation for this phenomena, but he suppose it can be attributed to that one time you saved him. You've met before, a few weeks ago, when you first came to Okhema. Clones of Nikador attacked the Holy City, therefore a battle ensued. But this time, he was on the losing side. Heavily injured, with barely any comrades to aid him, Phainon fought with the best he could do. And when he was cornered, he fell to his knees, and prayed for a savior. His prayers were answered, in the form of a refugee with one heck of an expertise with guns--You, in short.

Shortly after, Mydei and the others came, but by the time Phainon was well, his savior was no longer around to be thanked.

Phainon is not sure if you still remember.

But he'll definitely make it up to you.

"Hey, I actually have this friend Aglea. The demigod? I just need to talk to her after. Do you mind tagging along?" Phainon asks you, his tone light as always. Or at least, that's what you think, when actually, he's been meaning to tell you that minutes ago. He can't help but choose his words carefully out of nervousness.

You nod with a hum. "I don't mind. You're already treating me to food, so why not?"

True to his words, Phainon indeed treated you to lunch, at a quite expensive-looking eatery, which made you raise an eyebrow at him. His eyes consistently stayed glued to your face, staring and gazing as the two of you talked. Mostly about the battlefield, since it's a shared aspect between the two of you. Barely anything personal, really. Phainon takes note of that. Maybe you weren't as open as he thought you were. He will absolutely make sure you'd gradually loosen up to him, someday.

After the two of you finished lunch, you accompanied Phainon to the bath house, where Aglea is. You notice how the people there (Phainon's Chrisos buddies) kept looking at you. Strange, so you made sure to keep your guard up. You finally bid farewell after that.

When you got home, the first thing you noticed was that your bedroom door was slightly ajar. You could've sworn you closed it before your departure. But oh, nevermind.

Consecutively, Phainon kept visiting you without fail for the past few weeks. He even introduced you to the rest of his friends. Including Mydeimos, or Mydei.

So there are friends but are secretly in a relationship? That must mean the others don't know, you thought.

Well, what you didn't know, was that your conclusion was absolutely wrong. You found this out in the most unimaginable way possible.

"Hey Phainon, is that the girl you've been crushing on?" A little girl with red hair, asked.

All of Phainon's friends stared at the little girl, shocked and defeated for unearthing the 'secret' they've been keeping for a while now.

(Phainon told everyone about you. It was always you that he could yap about the past few weeks, ever since you saved him. And since then, he's also made sure to keep a really close eye on you, watching you from a distance. Or from the window of your home.)

You look to Phainon, whose face was burning red. He catches your gaze for a second, his mind short-circuits as he looks away.

"So, uhhh... Tribbie..." Phainon managed to say, "this is (Name)."

Wait, so he's bi?

[thewritingfairy]

HERE ME OUT: We get hit by some sort of deaging ray, resulting in us turning into our seven year old self. The thing is, we still have all our memories, our body may have changed but our mind hasn't.

Just imagine the absolute chaos the batfam would cause. Like their baby is an ACTUAL baby now, just a tiny angry lil thing squeaking about needing to be turned back to their original age. The cuteness aggression is unreal, and we have to hide away from the fam cause they are just full on 'OH MY BABY' mode.

Like we're just huddled up in a hiding space, Dick trying to coax us out cause he NEEDS to drown us in affection.

Bro is just like "come out my sweet baby! Oh look at your tiny hands! *incoherent babytalk and cooing*"

We're just like "STAY BACK YOU FOUL BEAST!"

I think the story alluded to is; જ⁀➴Nobody's child bad ending

You know what the worst part about that is? Your pain would feel 10x more intense due to your young body. The younger you are the more your body is still getting used to everything, so it's like your body has never felt pain bfore constantly and is in a high defense mode.

It would absolutely make you cranky and your family would find it both adorable and dangerous.

The batboys? They would be overjoyed attempting to play with you like they couldn't before. They could have, if they had just been there for you. They would force you into activities you used to like, they would keep you from gioong outside. They are the main people keeping you in the mansion forcibly.

Bruce and Alfred? They would attempt to help you with everything and the worst part is you have to let them. You can't reach the stove, you can't reach the showerhead, none of your clothes fit and your toddler clothes are too painful to put on on your own for some reason. (This is because of Bruce) And Alfred would absolute convince Bruce to put a tracker in you with an excuse that if you transform back you might leave and now you can't fight back!

The girls? The girls are better. Cassandra would help you hide from time to time, while Stephanie and Barbara would force you to play dress up and such in exchange for them defending you against Bruce. Basically they would trade favors for favors with you.

Now Duke? Duke is the one truly on your side. He's searching for a way to get you the fuck back to your usual body, he got medication ready for your toddler body. He's helping you with your hair, he's helping you by finding better clothes that don't trigger the fuck out of you. But he's also jealous... Don't get him wrong, he wants to be your favourite so he would block your communication with your friends. You don't want them to worry, right? :( But hey, he'll make it up to you by going out to the park sometimes!

[nobodyfamousposts]

It all started with a smoothie that went wrong. And not even in the normal ways a smoothie could go wrong.

It had been a good smoothie. Honestly one of the better ones she’d had. A nice mix of flavors with the added satisfaction of the fortune that brought everything together to create it.

Someone had left a pomegranate in her locker. No idea why. She checked around to see if it belonged to anyone. Maybe someone put it in her locker by mistake? Or if it was a gift, she at least wanted to know so she could thank them.

Sadly, no one knew. And no one else wanted it. Regardless, it felt a little sad to just leave it there. Not to mention wasteful. And Marinette hated wasting food. She was sure she could make something out of the fruit! Macarons? Tarts? Molasses? 

She was still debating the options when she happened upon an outdoor fruit stand. Which was rather unusual but not completely uncommon. And the nice man seemed to have some good stock to choose from, even if they weren’t in season yet. So she walked away with a fresh pear.

How lucky to get a pomegranate AND a pear? She was a little surprised to get them. Weren’t they supposed to be fall fruits? How were they even this fresh and ripe? It was still summer, after all.

Regardless, she took them home planning to make something out of them…only to forget about them for a couple of days until an all-nighter and a particularly rushed morning left her needing to make something quick for the go and she figured a smoothie would be good enough. Especially since she needed to eat them before they went bad. So chopped up and into the blender they went.

Which in retrospect, probably wasn’t the best idea.

In her defense, Marinette was very busy. Very busy and on an increasingly tight schedule. She had exams coming up, a report to right, and a commission she needed to complete, and a mock up she needed to start for her project—which was going to be evaluated by an outside panel of judges in an official setting, which she was completely unprepared for as it was. And if she thought she was unprepared for that, there was no way she was prepared for…this!

This being two unnatural but still very handsome men in her living room arguing with each other over which of them got to take her home. Which would sound very flattering and maybe enticing under most normal circumstances if the “Home“ in this case didn’t refer to places that weren’t even on earth. And that she had only vaguely heard of in stories that she was pretty sure weren’t real.

Or at least she HAD been sure before today. Will wonders ever cease?

Or maybe she was hallucinating?

“She ate the fruit of the Land of the Dead.” The blond one insisted, his voice rich and sending shivers down her spine in a rather intense and interesting way she hadn’t known could be a thing before. “That puts her under my jurisdiction.”

“I would disagree. She ate the fruit of the Wilds and thus is bound to my claim.” The blue—yes, blue haired man countered with a smile that would make her melt if not for the teeth. The unusual and sharp teeth.

Both of these men were otherworldly beings summoned apparently by her smoothie.

Both were also ridiculously hot.

And she absolutely did NOT have time for this!

“Look,” she interrupted their stare-off, bringing both gazes to her. “I’m late enough as it is. If you two could break and enter some other time, that would be wonderful.”

They both stared at her. And yes, she should be more concerned about these two (incredibly handsome) strangers in her apartment, but she was going to be late if she didn’t leave now and run—literally run to her first class as fast as possible.

She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her bags.

“Thanks! Don’t steal my stuff—you probably can’t use it anyway. Bye!” She called as she left.

The door shut behind her, leaving the two men behind in silence and a now empty apartment.

“Did she just leave us?” Asked His Majesty Thanatos, God of Death, Judge of Souls, and the current Ruler of the Underworld.

“So it would seem.” Replied The Erlking, Lord of the Wilds, King of Fae, and current Ruler of Underhill.

The two sized each other up while considering their position and options. It would be difficult to continue the argument without the subject present. Though it was quite off-putting that she would simply leave when they were in the midst of such an important battle to determine her future.

At this point, it appeared there was little more to do but wait. That was fine.

They were nothing if not patient after all…

Somehow, some way, a human managed to acquire both a pomegranate from the underworld and fruit from the realm of the Fae, then made a smoothie out of them. Now, Hades and the Fae are in a fierce argument regarding who the human belongs to.

[nofilterwaterfilter]

also on the voice thing, we all know kris is one of the most autism coded characters to ever exist, but i really do love everything that both routes of chapter four when taken in conjunction told us about kris, being nonverbal, and how that's not painted as a bad thing?

it's pretty common i've seen for silent protagonists to be headcanoned as nonverbal autistic, but i think this is the first time i've seen it be explicitly canon, and also have it be pretty intrinsic to the narrative?

and like no, kris isn't entirely nonverbal, they do speak occasionally. but deltarune in general, and particularly ch4, paints a very strong picture of someone who (at least when they have control over their own voice) does not use words as their primary method of communication

like you can start with quiet people piss me off, or the fact that music is such an important avenue of self expression for them (made all the worse when they're not in control). noelle in ch1 asks if kris is okay when the player asks her the same background/lore questions we can ask everyone, because kris talking this much pings immediately as wrong to her. then there's everything we know about kris as a kid, and how yeah they had a bit of a mean sense of humor, but also pranks and fucking with people was a very good way for them to get attention without having to talk at all

noelle's story of the ferris wheel if you listen to all her and susie's dialogue in dess' room sticks out to me for this, and i really do love that anecdote. noelle mentions she and kris were pushed into riding the ferris wheel together as kids, she didn't really want to be there. and kris didn't say anything the whole time, for the first half they were just looking out the window. but then they decided to jump up and down and shake the entire capsule, and that's when they turned to noelle and smiled. susie goes "is that good or bad?" in response to that story and noelle says she doesn't know, but it's one of the things that gets kris' attention! and whether you believe that they were doing it to freak noelle out or because they also thought this was dumb and wanted to make it more fun for both of them (noelle isn't sure which it was either), that is how they communicate!

and when they do use words. this is the bit that makes me most emotional - noelle in weird route describes kris' voice as deadpan and mumbly. they don't like being loud, they don't talk very often, and they really struggle with inflection. all things that are normally criticisms when directed at autistic people, they're stuff autism moms use to justify their "i know my real child is in there somewhere" bullshit. but when noelle hears it again from soulless kris for the first time since the soul stuff started, she starts crying over how much she's missed hearing them talk. the soul (as we know from a variety of susie and noelle conversations) is louder, more charismatic, more confident and articulate, and it's not kris. so all those traits that are normally things autistic people get told to be more, are explicitly condemned by the narrative

and that's what makes kris being largely nonverbal such an excellent additional dimension to their story. because everything the soul does, at least in the normal routes, pretty much aligns with how people are expected to behave? kris under our control has a great social life, has friends, is likeable, isn't weird and hard to understand. and a crueler person, the kind autistic people have to deal with far too often, would say "well it's good we gave them a voice, they're not using theirs anyway"

but that's what makes it evil! it doesn't matter if kris is the kind of autistic that everyone hates, if there are things about them that don't fit in with society but that they either can't or don't want to change. their life and their voice, as infrequently heard as it is, is still theirs. and they deserve the freedom to use it however they want to

[allsteddie]

Steve and Eddie secretly dating.

It's not that they don't want to tell their friends, or that they think their friends won't accept them. They just want to enjoy their relationship a little bit before sharing the news with everybody else. And it's kinda fun, sneaking around to make out behind their friends' backs. Thrilling, even.

But since everything must come to an end someday, their little secret comes out during one of the Party's countless gatherings.

Everybody's at Steve's, making good use of his pool and stuffing their faces with so much junk food Steve's getting a little nauseous just from watching. Robin and Eddie are there as well because there’s no fucking way in hell Steve’s gonna deal with those gremlins alone.

It’s chaos, mostly, since Eddie and Robin can be as bad as the kids, but Steve’s heart is full as he watches everybody having fun and truly enjoying themselves, a stark contrast to what their lives had been a year ago.

At some point, he catches Eddie’s eyes and notices the meaningful glance his boyfriend is giving him. Steve knows that look too well and exactly what it means. He tells Robin he’s going to the kitchen, then goes inside the house. Not two minutes later Eddie is there with him.

Steve pulls him into the laundry room, giggling and stumbling, so they can make out in peace. They lose themselves a little, mouths coming together and hands touching as much skin as they can reach. It’s easy for Steve, really, to forget everything else when Eddie’s nibbling down his neck and chest and grinding against him in a maddening way.

“The others are gonna hear you, baby,” Eddie whispers in his ear and just then Steve realizes he’s been making too much noise.

He pulls his boyfriend up for another deep kiss.

“We gotta go back,” Steve mumbles against his lips.

“We do,” Eddie agrees.

It still takes then a little while to part, though. When they do, they fix their clothes and hair the best they can. Eddie pulls the door open and makes sure there’s no one around before stepping out. Steve follows, making his way to the hallway.

The idea is for Eddie to go back out first, whilst Steve waits a few more minutes in the kitchen. Their plan goes to hell before they can even reach the kitchen, because the bathroom door opens out of nowhere just as they are walking by and the two of them stop, caught by surprise.

They’re even more surprised when they see Mike fucking Wheeler and Will Byers walk out of the bathroom, still grinning at each other all dopey and completely unaware of Steve and Eddie’s presence. At least until Wheeler literally walks into Eddie.

“The fuck!?” Mike snaps, at the same time as Steve says, “What the hell were two you doing there?”

“Kinda obvious what they were doing, Stevie,” Eddie snorts.

And he’s right. Steve knows what those two were doing; their lips are too swollen and there’s a scratch down Wheeler’s neck that looks too much like nail scratching for Steve not to know what those two were doing in his fucking bathroom, but he’s choosing to be in denial here. They are children, his children, he doesn’t want to picture whatever it was happening in that bathroom.

“You’re one to talk,” Mike retorts, eyebrows raised and sending Eddie the bitchiest face Steve has ever seen. “What’s wrong with your collarbone, Stevie? Wild animal attack?”

“Mike, shut up,” Will begged, pulling the other boy by the arm.

“But it’s true!”

“Okay, Will is right, shut the fuck up everybody!” Steve hisses. Beside him Eddie is clearly trying not to laugh, but he doesn’t say anything so Steve considers it a win. Small victories. He shoots a warning glance to his boyfriend before facing the other two. Poor Will looks like he wants to be anywhere but there. “Look, I don’t care what you guys were doing, good for you. But I’m guessing you haven’t told anyone about it, if you’re sneaking around like that.”

They keep quiet, but Byers red face is answer enough for Steve.

“Alright, we also haven’t told anyone, so here’s what we’re doing…”

By the time they are out back with their friends, everything is back to normal. Steve’s hickeys are covered by his shirt and Mikey’s scratches are hidden under band-aids, some bullshit story about bumping into the murderous corner of a cabinet is given as an excuse and, surprisingly enough, the kids buy it.

“You know, we should have seen that one coming,” Eddie says, pointing out to the other side of the pool where Will and Mike are laughing together, apart from the others. They have the same dopey expressions they did when Steve and Eddie caught them red-handed a few minutes ago.

“Yeah, we should have,” Steve agrees. He bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s. “You know Wheeler is gonna be insufferable now that he knows about us, right? He’s gonna hold this shit over our heads forever.”

Eddie laughs hard. “That kid is a bitch when he wants to be, but he’s not cruel. He might try to use this to get free rides to school or access to R-rated movies, but I doubt he’s gonna tell anyone. Byers would kill him if he said anything and poor Mike is whipped. He’s not gonna risk it.”

“I am not letting him get any R-rated movies. He can tell whatever he wants to whoever he wants, I don’t care.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Eddie scoots closer, eyes shining with amusement as he leans in. “Thought you wanted to keep the secret for a little longer.”

Steve leans in a little, his eyes dropping to Eddie’s mouth on instinct. “Hm… I did, because it’s fun sneaking around and fool everyone. But now Wheeler and Byers know, so I don’t see what would be the point anymore.”

Eddie smiles. “Yeah? So I can…”

“Yeah, you can,” Steve nods, and that’s everything he manages to say before Eddie kisses him, right there by the poolside.

Someone wolf-whistles (Max or Robin, probably), there’re some giggles (Erica and El, maybe Will too, Steve bets) and then…

“What the actual FUCK!?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dustin!!” That one is Wheeler for sure.

Steve might let him have his R-rated movies after all.

[brokenbough]

Thinking of mean!Ghost who just... does it wrong.

At first, you were into it. Yeah, maybe you liked being manhandled in bed, liked when he squeezed just a little too hard, liked when he put you where he wanted.

And yeah, maybe you liked being told what to do, liked challenging him only to lose in the most delicious way.

But you've had sort of a shitty day and being called dumb time and time again hasn't had the best effect on your already decaying sense of pride.

"Cmon doll." He sneers, the way you like, pulling your hair a little to get you to look at him.

You'd usually like it, but now it just hurts and you think it's giving you a headache.

He doesn't clock his mistake immediately, only realizing when your wrestling his hand away from you, mumbling about him being too mean.

He's confused, rightfully so, because usually you'd be pulling him closer, asking him what he'd do if you didn't listen.

"Can't hear ya, speak up." His says with his usual gruff tone. He tries putting his finger under your chin, making you look at him-- just the way you like it-- but you're pulling away and he just doesn't understand.

"You're being mean." You say again, unable to look at him.

He tilts his head, looking like you just told him the sky isn't blue.

"You-- huh? You said you liked that." He says, defensive. Like you're the problem. "That's what this whole thing was." He argues as if you're not just trying to have a conversation with him.

"Yeah, but you just..." you start, mulling over your next words. "I... just not right now." You explain.

His words aren't as reassuring as you would've hoped. The opposite in fact.

"So, you just pick and choose when you feel like being degraded and I'm supposed to read your mind?" He says more like a statement than a question. Blunt as ever. Something you usually like but now he's sounding like a dick.

"I didn't say that, I just--"

"That is exactly what you said." He scoffs, pulling away. "Come to me when you're in a better mood, yeah?" He states curtly before just leaving you there to sift and sort through your actions and his words.

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

You spend the rest of the day holed up in your room. You start to question most of everything, wondering if you were in the wrong and overreacting or if he was being a dick to you. You question if you even want to be around him anymore.

He doesn't give you much choice in the matter because he's at your door at the end of the day, incessantly knocking.

You open the door, much to your annoyance. "I thought you didn't want me around until I was in a 'better mood'." You say, immediately coming in with the venom.

He realized around noon that he was in the wrong and would take whatever you threw at him. He should've listened to you instead of painting you as the bad guy because you didn't stick to a set of rules he made up in his head.

You hadn't followed the agreement in his head, and he had blamed you for it.

He knows now you weren't something he could put in a mold and control. You had feelings too. You weren't a mind reader either.

The silence between the two of you stretches on before he sighs, shaking his head.

"I was being an asshole. Sorry."

"I don't accept your apology. You.." you quiet down. "You hurt my feelings." You admit barely above a whisper.

He sucks in another breath. "I know. I..." He mulls over his own words, looking at you properly now.

Your face was tear streaked, puffy, red eyes and cheeks. All accompanied by dark circles under your eyes.

It wasn't in him to feel bad, but it made his stomach churn and chest tighten in a way he wasn't used to.

"I was being mean, and you didn't like it. I understand that now." He finally says, forefinger under your chin. But he wasn't squeezing, he wasn't grabbing, he was... holding. "I'm sorry." He says again.

You stare at him for a long moment, not wanting to give in just yet, but it was exactly what you needed to hear. Accountability and an apology.

You huff, rolling your eyes at him and pulling away from his hand. It pains him in a way he can't describe. He isn't sure what to do as you take a step back, looking at him again.

His hand falls back down to his side but you haven't shut your door on him yet and that sliver of hope is carving its way up and up and over each vein, climbing higher and higher before burying itself in his chest. His very heart.

"I'll be nicer." He coos, looking at your reaction. You almost seem to recoil at the very thought.

"I don't want you nicer, Simon." You say quickly, the thought almost laughable. Almost.

"Then what do you want?" He says, his voice sounding more pleading than he intended.

"I- I don't know. I just... I don't want you nicer, but I don't want you mean right now." You explain looking at your fuzzy socks, wording it the best way you could.

"Alright. I can... I can do that." He answers as if he knows exactly what you mean.

A breath of relief flooding between the two of you at the same time.

"Don't cry over me though. 'M not worth your tears." He says, smoothing the pad of his thumb over your face again. You hadn't even noticed you started crying again. He doesn't know if he can live with himself knowing he made you cry.

When you start full on sobbing, he pulls you to his chest, walking the two of you backwards into your room, into your bed. You curl up to his side, clinging to his shirt. And despite how uncomfortable he is-- your tears wetting his shirt and all-- he lets you. Cause these tears aren't for him, they're for the shitty day or week or month you've had. That he can live with.

He doesn't question or prod. He just stays.

Plus, he's sure you'll tell him all about it in the morning.

[kathartic-kat]

Honestly some of those absolutely line up with what life has been like for me post tuberculosis. I don't know what the fuck it did to me but it was a pretty bad case and even the doctors were surprised at how effective the medication was first (they did not expect them to work and were prepared to go for stronger stuff). Nowadays:

- For some reason, I cant stand the heat. Middle of winter and I need a fan to fall asleep. I need my room 18C or lower most of the time to be genuinely comfortable.

- I've always been light sensitive but now it kinda burns in a very uncomfortable way and is worse. I can't even look up at a cloudy sky sometimes because it's too bright and hurts my eyes.

- I gotta avoid the sun anyway cause I'm touch sensitive and I feel it burning my skin.

- My gut and digestive system is a mess. I'm relearning everything about what is good and what isn't because the safe foods I grew up eating are no longer safe for me anymore. I can eat food well past it's expiry date and be perfectly fine and yet a single 'wrong' food can also leave me bedridden. I get weird ass cravings now that are genuinely really difficult to control. I've never had much of a relationship with food before so it feels alien to me to actually feel like I NEED to eat something specific.

- My organs are all wack now. My gallbladder was so bad that the nurses doing the ultrasound looked genuinely confused and worried about the way it looked. I got contacted a few weeks after it was removed because they found dead TB on it. My liver is also apparently scarred enough that the surgeons were worried I had an STI (I don't). My lungs are also permanently scarred. My ribs will randomly inflame and genuinely burn from inside. It's horrible and honestly at its worst, I wanted to die.

thinking again about vampirism as disability

[revelboo]

I had terrible PPD when my son was born. It was so bad that I was almost hospitalized. I lied through my teeth to get out of it, because I didn't want to leave my son. But man, that crying did something to me.

May I request a scenario where reader and Megatron both get PPD? As always, you don't have to if you don't wanna. Thank you!

P.S. We all survived. The baby will be 18 soon. :)

Sure- I can only imagine that would be particularly stressful if they won’t stop crying

Stress

TFP Megatron x Reader

• “Please, please stop,” you whisper, sitting crosslegged on the berth with your son in your arms, rocking him and yourself as you curl forward around him. And his venting is hitching noisily as he wails and he’s been at it so long, he’s rasping now, optics squeezed shut and tiny servos curled in fists. It’s you. It must be you, you’re failing him. Not cut out for this as the anxiety cranks higher until you’re crying, too. Bent forward over him sobbing. “I’m trying.”

• Freezing when he lets himself into the habsuite and he’s greeted with his sparkling screaming, his jaw clenches. Half tempted to just go right back out, because he can’t take that spark wrenching noise. And you look up, eyes red and tears running down your face. Sees the fear and panic in your eyes, the way your shoulders hunch and it’s like a physical blow that you act like you think he’s about to yell at you. Head lowering as your shoulders tremble, tears dripping on his son’s head as you cup the sparkling to you and Megatron crosses the floor, mass shifting to join you. Doesn’t know what to do with this, how to fix it, both of you sobbing brokenly. Hurting. Reaches for you and you flinch, still not looking at him. Do you really think he’s that much of a monster? Except, that is how he’s acted, isn’t it?

• Wails faltering into hiccuping chirps and ragged hisses as soon as your son spots Megatron, you go limp and docile as he sits and drags you into his, his thighs on either side of you. Because the only time he’s not screaming is when he’s hissing at his big, asshole sire. Everything about this wrong. You’d loved your son the second you’d held him in your arms, but you feel like you’re failing him. That’s why he’s screaming, it’s you. It has to be you. “He won’t stop,” you whisper, sobbing as Megatron’s chin brushes your head and you hang onto his arm.

• Almost resents his own sparkling, almost despises him for hurting you like this, because you faced him head on. Never backed down even when you were scared, but this is breaking you and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Hears his son hissing and clearing his vents in little coughs, upset and stressed. And you’re crying, holding the sparkling and shaking against him. “I can’t do this,” you sob and he presses his mouth against the top of your head.

• Need him, need the warmth of that little frame against you. Those little servos clinging to your fingers or Megatron’s harness. But you feel like you’re unraveling every time he cries and you don’t know how to make it better. Shouldn’t you just know? Instead you’re struggling, depressed and anxious and failing him. And Megatron’s arms come around you even as your son warbles his distress and your big mate is rocking you, cheek sliding against your own. “We’ll figure this out,” he growls, voice gruff as your son’s face crumples and he wails even louder.

[silently-standingstill]

LITTLE GRASSY!!

[thyvora]

This thought came to me when I was trying to sleep and it kept me up so I had to write it. I’ve seen so many Dc x Dp crossover but never one where Dick and Barbara are Danny parents alternate versions so I figured I write it. Also this is a revealed that went wrong.

———

Danny Fenton’s life falls apart after the truth gets out — not just about being half-ghost, but everything. Amity Park turns on him. The GIW and his parents come crashing in. Jazz telling him to run, and he listens.

He escapes through the Ghost Zone, hoping for a safe place to regroup.

Instead, he crashes into another reality — Gotham.

———

The rooftop cracked under the weight of the portal’s collapse.

Nightwing landed with escrima sticks already drawn, eyes narrowed at the point of impact. Debris scattered. Something had come through.

Then—movement.

A boy staggered out of the smoke.

Black hair. Bright blue eyes. Pale. Blood soaked suit clinging to him like a second skin. He looked terrified — and familiar. Too familiar.

Nightwing took one cautious step forward.

“Hey. You okay, kid?”

Danny looked up.

And froze.

His eyes went wide, panic sharp and immediate. For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Then something cracked behind Danny’s gaze — recognition, heartbreak, fear.

He didn’t answer. He just turned invisible.

“Wait—!”

Too late. He vanished.

Nightwing was left alone with the faint trace of blood still glowing on the rooftop, heart pounding like he’d just watched something slip through his fingers.

He didn’t know that boy.

———

When Nightwing went to the Cave, he said nothing lost in his thought — just dropped the small sample of blood into Tim’s hands.

Tim ran the test. The results processed fast.

Too fast.

Tim frowned. “So. Uh… you might want to sit down.”

Dick spoke up for the first time he entered. “What is it?

Tim gestured to the screen. “Blood sample came back human…but with Lazarus water in it.”

Jason blinked. “So… the kid died and got brought back with the Lazarus Pit? Happens all the time. Hey, look at me—I was brought back to life because of it.”

“That’s not the weird part.” Tim murmured. “In his blood it was stabilized. Balanced. His blood is saturated with it. It’s not corrupting him — I don’t even know what going on — Like his body was built for it.”

Silence

“But that’s not even the weird part.”

The monitor flickered as it loaded the second half of the report. Two genetic matches lit up on-screen:

PARENTAL GENETIC MATCH FOUND

Richard. Grayson and Barbara. Gordon

Dick stared at it like it might blink out of existence if he looked too hard.

Everyone in the Batfam assumes the obvious.

Jason frowned, eyes sharp. “So someone made a cloned of dickwing and spliced in Babs’ DNA? That’s dark, even for Gotham.”

Tim frowned. “If CADMUS is involved, it’s bad news. They never stop.”

Damian: “We should have incinerated that lab when we had the chance.”

Dick presses a hand to his chest and whispers, “No.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What??”

Dick’s gaze hardened. “I think he’s my son somehow, not a cloned because even before the results, when I saw that boy on the rooftop, for that split second — it felt him my hearts stuttered. Like my body recognized something my minds couldn’t name yet.”

The whole batfam is silent.

Tim, staring hard at the data: “If he’s a clone, he’s… weirdly clean. There’s none of the degradation markers, no artificial telomere tampering, no lab-grown sequences. This is full-genome, natural structure. Like—like a real person.”

Dick’s voice was hoarse. “He saw me and ran.”

Jason scoffed. “Can’t blame him. I’d run too if I saw a weird younger version of my dad who didn’t remember me.”

So now the Batfam is hunting down Dick and Barbara kid across Gotham.

[chronic-conjuring]

Doomerism will rot your brain and hollow you out as a person.

It will make you needlessly cruel and unpleasant to be around, and if all you look for is the bad, that’s all you’ll ever see. You HAVE to look for the good, the hope and the actions we can take to improve things, if you don’t you’ll end up like this anon. Someone who can’t see any point in fighting for what we have and what we could build because they’ve done the bad guy’s job for them and given up.

By adopting this way of thinking you’re hurting yourself and those around you and actively aiding those who seek to ruin all that we’ve worked so hard for. And honestly it’s just sad. You don’t have to stay in such a negative headspace, you can start to see hope and the things that are going right in the world if you truly want to. And there’s a lot of it if you know where to look! Everyday people work insanely hard to preserve the good things in this world and protect it and us, to discredit their efforts is ignorant and one dimensional.

Even if it really is for nothing, and we are doomed, at least we will have people fighting until the very end to build something better, to fix the wrongs of others despite it all because you HAVE to in order to keep going. We don’t cheer for those who roll over and take whatever shafting they are served and we never have. Those that give up so easily aren’t so kindly looked upon later on down the line, and often criticized for giving up so willingly, for playing a part in all the destruction, loss, pain and suffering that results in inaction in the face of truly horrific circumstances. Who are you to tell others how to deal with the issues we face when your decision so far has been to just give up? To quit and walk away from the rest of humanity and everything that lives here? You’re sad, and really need to examine why you care so little about everything. It must be a truly miserable existence, to have such pervasive apathy towards everyone and everything, and I feel sorry for anyone who thinks like this. Of course everything will look bleak and meaningless if that all you’re looking for, so look for the good instead and see just how far you can go with it

why bother caring about the environment when 1. It’s so obviously a lost cause and 2. There’s definitely going to be a nuclear war?

And what are you doing about it Anon? Learn about ecological restoration or get out of my way.

[shikiii-skadi]

What is Wrong with being a little Bad? || Prologue

SUMMARY: After a potion incident caused by your three disaster-prone friends, you're now stuck with an accidental villain arc.

WARNINGS: none

NAVIGATION: Twisted Wonderland Masterlist

PARTS: Prologue | Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

As usual, the three idiots you called friends had gotten you into trouble. It could have been an ordinary alchemy lesson with Professor Crewel, but Ace just had to make fun of Grim, comparing him to the shriveled gray tuber you were supposed to use for your potion.

Of course, Ace kept provoking Grim until he snapped and tried to burn the tuber. Only to accidentally set a table on fire. Professor Crewel was not pleased, to say the least. So now, as punishment, you, Grim, Ace, and Deuce had to stay after class and finish the potion within the next hour and present it to Professor Crewel. Which was a tough task in itself, even without the troublesome behaviour of your friends.

You were discussing the next step with Deuce when, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Ace trying to silently sneak toward the door.

"Ace!"  you scolded, causing him to freeze mid-step. "Don't even try to sneak off on us, or you will be glued to the cauldron."

"Geez, I wasn't even trying to go anywhere. Just wanted to check if we need anything from the shelf over there," he lied very unconvincingly.

"We already have all the ingredients we need," you reminded him, before practically feeling the mischievous energy emanating from the cat monster somewhere behind you. "Grim. Don't even think about trying anything."

Deuce shook his head, exasperated after witnessing you scold both Ace and Grim. "Seriously, it's the fault of both of you that we are in this situation."

"The Great Grim ain't done anything at all. Everything is Ace's fault!" Grim shot back immediately, puffing out his chest.

“You set a table on fire,” you reminded him.

Grim stomped his little feet in protest, while Ace only snickered. "Only because Ace made fun of me!"

You were about to launch into another lecture about why that was absolutely no excuse to use fire, but Deuce interrupted, his voice suddenly bright with excitement. “Wait—I think I’ve got it!”

Curious, the three of you crowded around the cauldron to see what Deuce had concocted. But something was off. The potion was a watery, reddish color. Nothing like the shimmering blue one Professor Crewel had demonstrated in class.

“The color’s way off,” Ace said, wrinkling his nose. “Even a blind guy could tell.”

After looking at the liquid in the cauldron for a few more seconds, you nodded. "Yeah, I have to agree... It was more blue and had this red shimmer."

"And Crewel's potion was more bubbly," Grim commented, but you had the feeling it wasn't really an observation and more a case of Grim just saying something to sound smart.

Ace shot Deuce a look. “Great job, Deuce. Now we have to start all over.”

"Excuse me? You didn't even do anything."

"Don't start another argument," you said, trying to be the voice of reason in all of this. And also to prevent any more tables from potentially landing in the crossfire. "Let's just try to get this over with."

While the three of you were distracted, Grim saw the perfect opportunity to "fix" your potion. He didn't want to spend hours making a new one, and a talented mage like him could fix this no problem, he thought wrongly.

Grim confidently grabbed a jar filled with bright green liquid and generously poured it into the cauldron. You only noticed what Grim was doing because his actions resulted in a dark green smoke that filled a good chunk of the laboratory in a matter of seconds, shrouding you in a green vision.

You coughed, waving your hand in front of your face, and stumbled blindly toward the window, trying to remember the way. Behind you, Deuce’s voice rang out, muffled by the haze: “Grim, you’re ruining the potion!”

"Don't just randomly mix stuff together," Ace said, followed by a cough, as if he wouldn't do the exact same thing.

You could barely see, but you heard Grim’s triumphant voice: “I’m fixing it! Just wait and see!”

"Stop mixing things!" you called out after hearing what sounded suspiciously like Grim throwing something else into the potion.

You reached the window and opened it, but it wasn't really effective in getting rid of the smoke. The sound of something heavy being dropped into liquid could be heard. The smoke thickened, then, just as suddenly, began to swirl and collapse, sucked back into the cauldron in a single, unnatural breath.

“There! Fixed!” Grim declared, sounding far too pleased with himself.

"You caused the smoke," Deuce retorted, before grabbing Grims' paw, stopping him from making things worse. Grim tried to wiggle free.

"Just stop, Grim," you said as you made your way over to them. But Grim didn't listen to anyone. He thrashed, and in the commotion, the little stepladder he was standing on, so he could reach the cauldron, tipped over. The ladder collided with the cauldron. Grim leapt away just in time, or he would have landed in the potion, but the ladder crashed into the cauldron, sending it toppling toward you.

You, on the other hand, were not so lucky. Instinctively, you tried to catch the stepladder falling your way, which meant you couldn’t get out of the way in time. The cauldron tips to one side completely, spilling its contents onto you.

You gasped in shock as the cold mixture made contact with your skin. Unlike before, it was no longer watery but gloppy, almost rubbery, as it stuck on you and your lab coat. Fortunately, your eyes were spared thanks to the protection of the goggles. You could feel an unpleasant prickling sensation on your skin just as the liquid suddenly evaporated. It was as if you had absorbed it.

Your friends asked you if everything was alright. You wanted to tell them that nothing was wrong. But suddenly, your annoyance about the situation turned into pure anger. "You incompetent fools! You should be skinned alive and eaten by feral animals! Why do I even keep you around?” you snap, barely recognizing your own voice.

Your three friends looked at you with startled faces. They certainly weren't expecting this reaction. Ace was the first to say something. "Ouch, where is that suddenly coming from?"

Deuce tried to help you up from the ground, but you ignored his hand, standing up on your own. "Don't touch me with your unwashed hands."

"I always wash my hands!" Deuce replied immediately, but you weren't interested in his words.

"Are you sure you are fine?", Ace asked, while Grim added, "Yeah, you are acting really weird."

You glared at them. "I was fine until we crossed paths."

Ace exchanged a nervous glance with Deuce, edging away from the cauldron as if whatever had effected you, might spread to him. “Okay, seriously, what was in that potion?” he whispered.

Deuce frowned, studying you with concern. “You don’t look hurt, but… you’re acting all… villainous.”

“We need to tell Professor Crewel,” Deuce said quietly. “Something’s really wrong.”

Ace hesitated. “Are you kidding? If we tell him, we’re doomed for sure! He’ll have us scrubbing cauldrons until graduation.”

“But my hench-human is clearly broken! We can’t leave them like this," Grim protested.

"I didn't say we should leave them like that. You can stop looking at me like that,“ Ace said, ”We shouldn't tell Crewel, we should tell the Headmage."

Even though Ace, Grim and Deuce were whispering among themselves, you could clearly hear every word. "Are you seriously going to the most irresponsible adult on campus with this?" you said, sounding almost offended.

"That's exactly why we should go to the Headmage. Crewel will only punish us more for this. The Headmage on the other hand..." Ace trailed off, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. You didn’t need him to finish the sentence; his expression said it all.

At that moment, you realize, with a new, almost sinister clarity, that the three accomplices you had gathered here were perhaps not such a bad choice after all. Ace was devious, Deuce mostly naive, and Grim a cat arsonist. And all three of them were dumb enough to be easily manipulated.

[oaksgrove]

hi love! I hope you're doing alright ♡

im here to request a tiny, little angsty piece. I can picture John being so, so tired from work that he just can't stand being touched, but his beloved needs it so badly, so they go for it (holding his hand) —don't get them wrong, they always ask! but they also had a bad day. John snaps, accidentally smacking their hand away.

little angst, with John comforting withdrawn neurodivergent reader after he accidentally snaps at them, which turns into them comforting each other because "you're tired - no, you are tired", until John moves to seek their touch himself

Tired.

Pairing: John Price x Neurodivergent!Reader

Synopsis: Some days are too much. Too loud, too bright, too sharp. When the world presses in, you don’t need grand gestures. You just need John to understand.

Warning: Sensory overload, brief miscommunication/startled response, hurt/comfort, soft reconciliation

The kettle was screaming again.

High-pitched. Piercing. It had only just started, but it dragged across your nerves like nails on glass. You stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, jumper sleeves stretched down past your hands and gripped tight in your fists.

It was just a kettle.

But it wasn’t.

The hallway light was flickering again, same as yesterday, the bulb stuttering in the corner of your vision. The drawer next to the stove was open again—your carefully organized cutlery now out of order, one large spoon stuffed awkwardly into the teaspoon slot like a mistake you couldn’t fix. And the boots—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

John’s heavy steps across the kitchen floor, back and forth, back and forth like a pacing bear in a too-small cage. He was muttering again, voice low but rough with frustration.

“Fucking brass—changing the op schedule last minute—bloody nightmare—”

You winced.

You weren’t scared of him. Never had been. But the noise, the pressure, the weight of it all pressing down around your shoulders—it was too much today. Too loud. Too bright. Too off.

You didn’t even realize you’d whispered his name until his voice cut through the air, sharp and fast.

“What?” he snapped, turning with a furrowed brow, hand half-raised in mid-gesture.

It wasn’t loud. Not really.

But it cracked something in you.

Your whole body stiffened. Like a rubber band stretched too thin. Your shoulders drew up high and your chin tucked down, sleeves clenched in your fists, throat closing up.

John stopped.

Instantly.

His face changed—brows falling, mouth parting with regret blooming like a bruise behind his eyes.

“Shit—no, love—wait—” he stepped toward you quickly, one hand out, then hesitated, hovering like he didn’t want to crowd you. “I didn’t mean that. Christ, I’m sorry.”

You said nothing. You looked down.

And that was somehow worse.

“I was just—” he started again, then cut himself off with a frustrated sound, softer this time. “Fuck, I was bein’ a right bastard.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he said.

You tried to breathe. The room felt too big and too tight all at once. The kettle shrieked one last time before clicking off. Still too late.

“I didn’t mean to be in your way,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just—everything’s loud today. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

John stared at you. His mouth twitched like he was about to argue—but then he caught himself. He crouched a little in front of you instead, like he was trying to shrink himself. His voice lowered.

“You’re not makin’ it worse. I am,” he admitted. “I know when I get like this—loud, angry—I make things heavier. And you’re carryin’ too much as it is.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Just tried to unknot your fingers from your sleeves.

“I don’t always have the words,” you said finally, voice thin. “Some days I just… can’t talk properly. Or explain why everything feels so sharp.”

John’s gaze dropped to your hands, your tight shoulders, the way you were trying so hard to regulate even as your body rebelled against the room.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “Not to me.”

You looked at him. A flicker of disbelief passed across your face.

“I’m not good at being…” you trailed off. “Easy. Or quiet. Or normal.”

John’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“I didn’t marry you because I wanted normal,” he said. “I married you because you feel like home.”

A beat of silence. The flickering light still buzzed. But it felt dimmer now—like the world had shifted, just slightly, around him.

“You’re tired,” you said softly. “You’ve been pacing since you got back.”

His mouth tugged into a wry smile. “No, you’re tired.”

You blinked. “Okay. We’re both tired.”

He huffed a warm, half-laugh. Then—very carefully—he leaned his forehead against your chest. Not heavy, just enough for you to feel the quiet weight of him.

“You always let me come back,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I act like a grumpy sod.”

Your hand came up without thinking. Just resting gently in his hair. Fingers threading through the soft, short strands at his crown.

“I love you,” you said quietly. “Even when you’re a grumpy sod.”

He exhaled. His arms wrapped around your waist.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” he murmured. “Sorry for making today harder.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. “You just startled me. That’s all.”

You held each other for a long while—standing in the middle of the kitchen, kettle off, boots stilled, lights flickering quietly above. Nothing had changed. But everything had softened.

And when John eventually pulled back to press a kiss to your forehead, he didn’t say anything more.

He just reached over, finally closed the drawer the proper way, and turned off the light.

“C’mon, love,” he said gently. “Let’s go sit down. I’ll make you tea.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[nocturnebite]

Someone Like You ౨ৎ

(Its always been you) - bestfriend!enha (ot7) x fem!reader

synopsis: You’ve had enough of bad dates and bare-minimum effort. But when your best friend shows up for you in their own soft, thoughtful way… you start to wonder why you’ve never looked at them like that. Turns out, they’ve been waiting for you to. fic notes: friends to lovers || comfort & fluff || soft confessions || bad date recovery || dreamy slowburn mutual pining || emotional support kings wc: about 800ish per member (5.7k total)

ash's notes: heyy back again! this one was so fun for me to write, i'm a sucker for friends to lovers troupes.. especially when it's "they knew all along". get me a man like this PLEASE.. enjoy :3

౨ৎ Heeseung - You always know

The door clicks softly behind you as you slump inside your apartment, heels dangling from your hand, mascara slightly smudged from the stress of the night. Another date gone wrong. Another charming-on-text loser who spent more time talking about himself than asking a single question about you. At one point he even took a call at the table. You’d sat there swirling a straw in a watered-down drink, wishing you were literally anywhere else.

You drop your bag by the couch and sigh into the quiet. It hums back at you with the same kind of hollow loneliness you’ve gotten too used to.

Your fingers tap against your phone screen before you even think about it.

you: had another trash date lol sorry if im bothering u just rly bummed out

You don’t expect a reply right away. But before you can even toss your phone aside, it buzzes.

hee ౨ৎ: open the door

You blink. Then look up.

Another buzz.

hee ౨ৎ: i was already on my way. figured something was up

Heart hiccuping, you shuffle to the door, unlocking it slowly—and there he is. Hoodie half-zipped, hair tousled like he just left in a hurry, one hand clutching your favorite takeout and the other carrying a fuzzy blanket you've been trying to steal from him for weeks.

“I didn’t know if you’d eaten,” Heeseung says, stepping inside like he always belongs here. He doesn't wait for an answer, just sets everything down on the coffee table and opens his arms.

You melt.

Your face tucks into the curve of his neck like it’s muscle memory. He’s warm and steady and smells like laundry detergent and vanilla and home.

You mumble, “You really were already on your way?”

“Mmhm,” he hums against your hair. “Just had a feeling.”

You don’t even question it. He always knows.

You eat curled up on opposite ends of the couch, his long legs tangled with yours under the blanket. He doesn’t ask about the date. He doesn’t need to. He just listens while you vent, eyes soft, gaze focused on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

Eventually, you’re lying with your head in his lap while he scrolls through movies on the TV.

“Something comforting,” he murmurs, already queuing up your favorite. “The one with the sad girl who finds herself and the cottage with the vines—”

“That’s a romance,” you whisper, half-laughing.

Heeseung just smirks. “Exactly.”

As the movie plays, you watch him in the flickering light — the soft shadows against his jawline, the slight smile when a familiar line hits, the way he rests his hand gently over your arm like he wants to keep you tethered here with him.

And somewhere between your chest aching and your heart warming, it slips out.

“Why can’t the guys I date be more like you…”

Heeseung flinches.

The remote fumbles in his hand and clatters to the ground with a sharp clack.

Your eyes widen. He stiffens. “Oops—uh. Sorry.” He leans down too fast to grab it, smacking his head lightly on the table and cursing under his breath.

You blink at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just—clumsy.” He clears his throat, setting the remote back carefully like it might explode again. His ears are glowing pink.

You stare at him, heart thudding.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans back against the couch and mutters, “Want me to rewind the movie?”

You pause. “No. I’m good.”

He nods, quiet.

But the atmosphere has changed. Charged. He’s still close, still comforting, but his posture’s too stiff now, too careful, like he’s thinking too hard about breathing near you.

Later, when the movie ends and you both sit in the hush of the credits, you speak again.

“I just…” you whisper, watching the glow from the screen reflect in his eyes. “I wish I could find someone who treats me like you do. You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Heeseung freezes.

Then turns to you slowly, expression unreadable. His voice is low.

“Then why don’t you date me?”

You laugh, confused. “What—”

“I’m serious.”

You blink.

His eyes are locked on yours. No teasing. No smirk. Just honest, vulnerable silence.

“You’re serious?” you whisper.

He nods once. “I’ve always known it was you. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. And then—flutters.

His fingers inch toward yours, tentative, until they’re brushing lightly, and when you don’t pull away, he laces them together.

“I didn’t think…” You breathe out. “I didn’t think you felt the same.”

“I do.” Heeseung smiles softly, then leans forward until your foreheads touch. “I have. Every time I showed up for you, every night I stayed over just to keep you company, every moment I wished you’d look at me like that…”

You do now.

And this time, when he leans in — slow, careful, trembling with hope — you meet him halfway.

౨ৎ Jay - The way you look at me

You’re already in tears by the time you leave the restaurant.

Not the dramatic, mascara-running kind. Just the quiet, aching kind — the ones that slip out even when you don’t want them to. This one stung a little more than usual. The guy didn’t just talk over you — he insulted your interests, made snide jokes about “emotional girls,” and scoffed when you said you wanted something real. It left you wondering if you were asking for too much.

You don’t text Jay.

You don’t have to.

The second your key turns in the door, the smell hits you — warm, comforting, something buttery and spiced — like childhood and safety all rolled into one.

You step inside and blink.

Jay stands in your kitchen in a dark t-shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a striped apron tied lazily around his waist. He looks up like he’s been caught red-handed.

“I was gonna text and say come over,” you mumble.

“I figured you’d need something sooner,” he says simply, stirring the pan once before lowering the heat. “So I let myself in.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s a pot on the stove, steam rising lazily from it. A pan of something golden browning beside it. Plates already set. A candle burning low.

“You made—” Your voice cracks. “You made the pasta?”

“The one you said reminds you of your mom’s.” He shrugs, trying to seem casual. “You sounded tired last time we talked. Thought you’d need it tonight.”

Your throat feels too full to respond. You cross the kitchen slowly, eyes burning in that way that says thank you without the words.

He glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, stepping behind him, letting your arms wrap around his middle as you press your face into his back. He stills, surprised—but only for a moment. Then one of his hands reaches down to cover yours.

“You’re not asking for too much,” he says softly, like he’s already guessed the thing you didn’t say.

You don’t speak. You just hold on tighter.

Dinner is quiet, the way it always is when you’re feeling raw and Jay is being careful with you — soft glances, gentle hands when he passes the parmesan, a million unspoken things in every motion. Afterward, he makes tea and sets up the couch for a movie night without asking.

“You pick,” he says, stretching across the cushions to pass you the remote.

You curl under the throw blanket and sigh, not even looking at the screen.

Jay turns his head toward you. “Wanna do nothing instead?”

You nod.

So you sit. Shoulder to shoulder. Familiar and close and quiet.

After a while, he gets up and starts tidying the kitchen. And that’s when you catch yourself watching.

The way he moves—careful, confident, focused. The way he takes his time with everything. The soft hum in his throat as he dries dishes. The way he set aside the last bite of garlic bread because he knew it was your favorite.

And suddenly, something slips out.

“I wish the guys I went out on dates with were more like.. you.”

The sound of ceramic shattering on tile cuts the air in half.

You jump.

Jay freezes mid-motion, staring down at the cracked plate on the floor like it betrayed him. “Shit—sorry.” He crouches quickly to clean it, not looking at you.

You rush to help. “It’s okay, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s—” He’s already sweeping the pieces into his hand, face turned so you can’t see it. “It’s fine.”

But his hands are trembling.

You blink. “Jay?”

He doesn’t answer.

You touch his wrist lightly. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

He finally looks at you, and it’s like the air has changed again — his expression unreadable, jaw tight, eyes searching yours for something you don’t quite understand.

You try to laugh it off, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, that was kind of a weird thing to say.”

Jay finishes sweeping and stands slowly, leaning against the counter like he needs a second to think.

Then you say it again, more quietly. “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

He lets out a breath — sharp, disbelieving.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Why not?”

“Because…” He looks at you like you’ve cracked something in him. “I’ve been trying so hard not to say it first.”

The silence that follows is thick.

You stare. “Say what?”

Jay steps toward you, then stops — unsure, unreadable.

“That I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. “That I’ve been in love with you. That every time you cry about some guy who couldn’t see how lucky he was, it kills me because I’m right here. And I’ve been here.”

Your lips part, but you can’t speak.

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes wild and warm and terrified. “I know you weren’t ready. And I never wanted to make you feel like you had to see me that way, but tonight—” His voice softens. “Tonight you looked at me like you finally saw what I’ve been trying to show you this whole time.”

Your heart thunders.

You had looked at him that way. You’d always admired him — his calm, his kindness, the fire in him that always warmed you up when you felt too cold. You just never thought…

“I didn’t think you’d want me,” you whisper.

Jay’s breath catches. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He takes another step.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose you. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more than this.”

You look at him—really look at him—and all the times he showed up for you play in your mind like flashes of sunlight.

Slowly, you take his hand. It’s still a little shaky, but when you hold on, he steadies.

You whisper, “What if I want more too?”

He doesn’t speak. He just pulls you in and kisses your forehead, gently, reverently—like he’s waited a lifetime for this moment to finally arrive.

౨ৎ Jake - Never not you

It starts with your phone vibrating on your chest, just as your eyes are starting to sting from holding back tears too long.

You don’t check the screen. You don’t want to talk to anyone. You just stare at the ceiling of your bedroom, replaying the disaster of tonight’s date — the awkward silences, the backhanded compliments, the fake polite goodbye at the end. All you wanted was someone who’d make you feel seen. Instead, you feel lonelier than before.

Another buzz.

Then another.

Then a knock at your door.

You sit up, confused, wiping your eyes.

“Delivery?” you mumble, shuffling to open it.

But it’s not food.

It’s Jake.

He’s standing there, hair a little windblown, hoodie zipped up halfway and cheeks pink from the chill. In one hand, he’s holding a small bouquet of fresh wildflowers. In the other, a bag from your favorite bakery—the one that’s only open late on Fridays.

“I was already on my way,” he says softly. “Something told me you needed me.”

Your bottom lip wobbles.

You don’t cry, but you do fold into him the second he opens his arms.

He doesn’t say anything. Just hugs you so tight it’s like he’s holding together all the parts of you that want to fall apart.

Twenty minutes later, you’re in your pajamas under a mountain of blankets on the couch. The warm scent of baked pastries fills the air. Jake’s got your feet in his lap, his thumbs gently massaging the arch like he’s trying to erase all the tension of the night.

You’re both watching one of those cheesy rom-coms he secretly loves more than you do, though he always pretends otherwise.

“Tonight sucked,” you mutter.

He doesn’t ask for details. He just leans back, still holding your feet. “He didn’t see you, did he?”

You glance at him. “How do you always know?”

Jake shrugs one shoulder. “Because if he had, you’d be smiling. You always light up when someone gets you.”

Your breath catches. You don’t respond. You just look at him.

His profile is soft in the glow of the TV. There’s a slight crease in his brow, like he’s still worried. You want to reach out and smooth it with your thumb.

Instead, you say quietly, “Why can’t guys be more like you…”

Jake stills.

His eyes don’t leave the screen, but his fingers stop moving.

You sit up a little, trying to meet his eyes. “Seriously. You’re so thoughtful. You always know what I need. You never make me feel like I’m too much or not enough—”

Jake suddenly fumbles the pastry bag in his lap and spills the last croissant right onto the floor.

“Ah..shit—sorry,” he blurts, scrambling to grab it. He drops the tongs trying to pick it up.

You blink. “You okay?”

“Fine!” he squeaks. Then clears his throat and tries to play it off. “Yeah. Just… butter fingers.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

He nods a little too quickly. “Totally. I just… wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He carefully places the rescued croissant on a napkin, still not looking at you. “That you wish guys were like me.”

Your voice softens. “Well… I do.”

The silence stretches, almost like the room’s holding its breath with you.

And then, because the ache in your chest is too much to sit with, you add, “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Jake turns to you, eyes wide.

He looks like you just told him the moon said his name.

Then, very quietly, he says, “Then… why not me?”

Your heart skips.

You blink. “Wait..what..? Are you serious?”

He nods, slowly this time. The corners of his mouth twitch up—hopeful, nervous, a little amazed you haven’t laughed him off yet.

“I know we’ve been best friends forever,” he says gently, “but I’ve loved you for almost as long. I didn’t want to ruin what we had by saying anything. But it’s you. It’s never not been you.”

Your lips part. “Jake…”

“I didn’t want to be another guy who hurt you,” he whispers, voice shaking a little. “I wanted to be the one who reminded you how loved you are. I just never thought you’d actually—feel the same.”

You swallow hard.

Your chest is doing that tight fluttery thing again. Because you do. Deep down, you’ve always known it. The way you’d light up when his name appeared on your phone. The way his laugh made everything easier. The way you looked for him in every crowd.

You whisper, “I think I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

Jake beams.

Not a smirk. Not a flirty grin. A full, radiant, stunned smile like you’ve just made his entire year.

He reaches for your hand, then changes his mind and gently cups your cheek instead, brushing his thumb just under your eye.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, breathlessly.

You nod.

And when he leans in, it’s slow and sweet and full of every unspoken thing you’ve both carried for so long. And when he pulls back just barely, lips still brushing yours, he murmurs,

“You’re my favorite everything.”

౨ৎ Sunghoon - Say something

It’s late.

The kind of late where the streets outside are quiet and your bedroom ceiling is glowing dimly with the light of passing cars. You’re curled up under a blanket in your hoodie, trying not to cry but very much failing. Again.

The guy from tonight wasn’t mean, exactly. Just… indifferent. He scrolled through his phone when you talked. Showed up twenty minutes late with no explanation. Didn’t even pretend to walk you home.

And maybe it wouldn’t sting so much if it didn’t feel like a pattern.

You don’t text anyone. You just throw your phone facedown and try to forget it.

Until, barely five minutes later, there’s a knock at your window.

You freeze.

Another knock.

You scramble out of bed and yank the curtains aside — and there he is.

Sunghoon. In his gray zip-up and a beanie pulled low over his brows, standing on your fire escape holding two steaming cups of hot chocolate and a very unimpressed expression.

You open the window with wide eyes. “What the—Hoon??”

“I figured he’d flake,” he says flatly, climbing in like this is something he does every day. “You ghosted the group chat. That’s never a good sign.”

You blink as he hands you one of the cups.

“I made it with that fancy cocoa you like,” he mumbles. “With the cinnamon.”

You stare at him.

Sunghoon doesn't meet your eyes. He just kicks off his shoes and settles onto your bed like it’s his.

“I didn’t get ghosted,” you say quietly, sitting beside him.

He nods. “But you are sad.”

You sip the cocoa. “How do you always know?”

He shrugs. “You always blink a lot when you’re trying not to cry.”

Your throat tightens.

Silence passes for a bit. Your room is dim, your fairy lights casting soft little shadows across his jawline. You watch him — the way his hands cradle the mug, the furrow in his brows even now. He’s always like this. A little standoffish. A little too observant. And yet always there the second you fall apart.

And maybe it’s the warmth in your hands, or the fact that you’re so, so tired of being disappointed — but the words come out before you can stop them.

“Why can’t guys be more like you…”

He freezes.

Like actually freezes.

No blink. No breath. Just wide, stunned deer-in-headlights stillness.

Then he promptly chokes on his hot chocolate.

You lunge to pat his back. “Hoon??”

“I’m good—” cough cough “Totally fine—” cough “Jesus—”

You bite back a laugh. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m great.” He clears his throat aggressively and looks everywhere but at you. “Just… went down the wrong pipe.”

“Mmhmm,” you say, clearly not buying it.

He shifts on the bed, suddenly tense. “You… didn’t mean that, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He swallows, hard.

You lean back against the pillows, watching him over the rim of your cup. “Seriously. You’re thoughtful, reliable, good with your words—when you use them—”

“Okay—”

“You always show up when I need you,” you add, voice soft now. “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Sunghoon just stares at you.

You don’t even realize how intense your gaze is until he finally looks away, the tips of his ears glowing red.

“You’re messing with me,” he mutters.

“No, I’m not.”

He sets down his cup slowly. His voice is quieter when he says, “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

You sit up straighter. “But I do mean it.”

Sunghoon finally meets your eyes, and there’s something raw there now. Something just barely holding itself together.

And then, because he’s Sunghoon and horrible at vulnerability, he blurts:

“Then maybe you should date me.”

Your mouth opens. “What?”

He looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You reach for his hand before he can pull it away. “Sunghoon. Look at me.”

He hesitates—then does. And your heart cracks wide open.

“I want to say yes,” you whisper.

He blinks. “You do?”

You nod. “I didn’t think you liked me that way.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever look at me that way,” he breathes. “You’re always chasing guys who treat you like crap. Meanwhile, I’m here, dying every time you tell me about them, and all I want to do is tell you they don’t deserve you.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I was scared.” His voice rises slightly, then softens again. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But tonight… when you said that…”

He pauses, then lets out a soft breath.

“I wanted to kiss you so bad I forgot how to breathe.”

Your eyes soften. You shift closer.

“Then don’t forget now.”

He stares at you.

And then he kisses you.

It’s tentative at first — almost like he doesn’t believe it’s happening — but it grows, slow and sure and full of everything he’s held back for so long.

When you pull apart, you press your forehead against his and whisper,

“You know you can come through the door next time, right?”

He grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

౨ৎ Sunoo - If only you knew

You don’t say anything when the door swings open.

You just step inside, drop your purse on the floor, and crawl straight onto the couch face-down, muffling a scream into the cushions.

There's silence.

Then the sound of slippers shuffling quickly across hardwood.

Then:

“Oh no. Which flavor of man failed you this time?”

You peek out of the couch to see Sunoo standing over you in an oversized sweatshirt, hair in a clip, face cream still dotted on his cheeks like he was mid-self-care ritual when you texted the dreaded “can I come over”.

You groan. “The worst one.”

He gasps. “Worse than finance bro?”

“Worse than vape in the Uber guy.”

“Girl.”

“I know.”

Sunoo lets out the most offended noise you've ever heard and immediately shuffles toward the kitchen. “I’m making tea. And I’m putting on that sad cottage movie you like. You’re not allowed to argue.”

You don’t.

You just melt further into the couch and let yourself exhale.

Because somehow, Sunoo always knows exactly what to do when the world feels heavy.

By the time the kettle whistles, you’ve been tucked in with three blankets and a stuffed animal you pretend isn’t yours.

Sunoo returns with a tray of snacks, two mugs of tea, and a disgusted look on his face.

“So what did he do? Tell me everything. I’m ready to judge.”

You shake your head. “He… didn’t even try, Nuu.”

He sets the tray down and climbs onto the couch beside you. “Try what?”

“To know me. To see me. I spent half the night trying to think of things to talk about. It felt like I was trying to impress someone who couldn’t care less.”

Sunoo's eyes narrow. “Should I fight him?”

You let out a laugh — small, watery.

He leans his head on your shoulder. “You know you’re not hard to love, right?”

You stay quiet.

Sunoo reaches for your hand under the blanket and squeezes it. “Some people just don’t know what they’re holding until it’s gone.”

You glance at him, heart aching.

He’s right here. Warm and thoughtful and sharp as ever. He always has been.

And somehow, you whisper it before you can think better of it.

“I wish guys were more like you…”

You feel him tense.

He sits up, blinking, and nearly spills the tray trying to set his cup down.

You blink back. “Nuu?”

“Did you mean that?” he says quickly, voice just slightly higher than usual.

“I—yeah?”

He just stares at you, lips parted, like his brain has fully exited the building.

You sit up. “Why does that freak you out so much?”

Sunoo clears his throat, crosses his legs, and clasps his hands like he's giving a TED talk to himself. “No no I’m fine. Totally calm. Just casually losing my mind that the person I’m in love with just said that.”

You blink. “Wait. What.”

He freezes.

You gape. “You’re in love with me??”

“OH MY GOSH,” he says, loudly, throwing a pillow over his own face. “FORGET I SAID THAT—”

“Nuu!” You pull the pillow away and stare at him, heart pounding.

He groans. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out, okay?! It’s not like I planned to tell you after a garbage date like some B-list plot twist—”

“You’re in love with me?”

He falters, looks at you properly — flushed, anxious, but still so Sunoo.

“…Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ve been in love with you for a while.”

Your chest tightens.

“You… never said anything.”

He gives a tiny, shy shrug. “You were always dating someone. I didn’t want to confuse things. Or ruin us.”

“But you always—” Your voice cracks. “You always take care of me.”

He smiles sadly. “Because I want to. Because you deserve someone who actually shows up when it counts.”

You look at him — really look at him — and suddenly, all the late nights, all the surprise coffee deliveries, all the “I brought your favorite just because” texts make perfect, blinding sense.

And suddenly, this feels like the only real thing you’ve ever known.

“I think…” you whisper, “I’ve been in love with you too. I just didn’t let myself believe it.”

Sunoo blinks, stunned.

“You what?”

“I kept waiting for someone who’d treat me like you do,” you murmur, leaning in. “I just didn’t think that person could be you.”

“Why not?! I’m amazing!”

You laugh through a tear.

He grins, then cups your face with both hands. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but so fondly it makes your stomach flip.

Then, very softly, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod, heart in your throat.

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime — careful, steady, warm. When he pulls away, you’re still smiling.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “You’re never going to cry over another date again.”

“Because you’re going to fight them?”

“No.” He grins. “Because you’re done dating losers. You’re dating me now.”

౨ৎ Jungwon - What took you so long 

You don’t expect anyone to be waiting when you get home.

Your date was forgettable in the worst way — vague answers, barely-there eye contact, the kind of guy who asked questions only to talk about himself. You left early and walked home alone under a gray sky, the city lights blurred through a curtain of drizzle.

You don’t text anyone. You don’t want to talk. You just want the night to be over.

So when you push open your apartment door and find Jungwon sitting on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands and a small box of takeout on his lap, you stop in your tracks.

He looks up casually. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

You blink. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I figured you’d need me.”

The way he says it — need me — sinks under your skin like something dangerous.

You walk in slowly, wet hair dripping onto your shirt, and collapse onto the couch beside him without a word.

“I brought your favorite,” he adds, offering the box. “That noodle thing you get when you’re upset but pretending not to be.”

You take it silently, the warmth of the container grounding you.

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t have to.

A while later, you’re curled up together under the same blanket, the food half-eaten and a soft playlist humming through the room. You’re both quiet, the way you always are when things get too heavy to name.

You tilt your head toward him.

Jungwon’s watching the rain trail down the window, his profile lit faintly by the glow of the streetlights. One arm rests behind your head, casual but close enough that your shoulders touch. Always close. Always almost.

“You know,” you say softly, “you’d make the perfect boyfriend.”

He blinks.

Then — too quickly — he shifts.

The blanket slips from his shoulder as he moves to set his drink down, knocking over a napkin in the process. He fumbles it. Misses. Swears quietly under his breath.

You blink. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he mumbles. Then, softer, “Just… surprised you’d say that.”

You smile faintly. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick toward yours, unreadable. “Because you’re always chasing guys who aren’t me.”

The words land like a pin dropped in a still room.

You stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungwon lets out a long breath, then looks at you fully — not shy, not sarcastic, not teasing. Just… honest.

“It means I’ve been here this whole time,” he says quietly. “Watching you get your heart broken over and over and wishing you’d just look at me.”

Your heart lurches.

“Jungwon…”

“I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe you already knew,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “But tonight, when you said that—when you said that—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure you can.

“I know I’m quiet about how I feel,” he murmurs. “But I show up. I always show up for you. Because I love you. And I’ve been loving you quietly for so long, I don’t know how to stop.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

You reach out, almost without thinking, fingers brushing his wrist. “I think I’ve always loved the way you love me,” you whisper. “I just didn’t realize that’s what it was.”

He exhales shakily.

And then — like gravity pulling him forward — he leans in, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is soft, barely trembling:

“I’ve been yours for a long time.”

You whisper, “Then maybe it’s time I caught up.”

౨ৎ Ni-ki - Not just a phase

The rain has stopped by the time you make it to his place.

You’re soaked anyway — not just from the weather, but from the date that ended in a fight over whether your standards were “too high.”

You didn’t cry this time.

Not until you walked home in the drizzle and realized how tired you were of pretending the bare minimum was enough.

You’re still blinking away the sting when the door swings open.

Ni-ki stands there in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair messy from sleep, one wireless headphone still in. He blinks once. Takes in your face.

Then without a word, he grabs your wrist and pulls you in.

“You look cold,” he mumbles, already guiding you toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll get the fluffy blanket.”

You don’t even argue. You just drop onto the cushions and watch as he disappears down the hall.

You don’t remember when it started—this instinct he has. This quiet caretaking. One second you’re friends who bicker over cereal brands and game scores, and the next he’s handing you tissues without asking. Wrapping you in the same blanket he used to cocoon himself in during movie nights. Like you’ve always belonged here, even if no one ever said it.

Ni-ki returns with the blanket and throws it over your shoulders, his hands lingering for a second too long.

He doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits beside you, legs sprawled out, staring ahead like he’s waiting for you to speak.

So you do.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for dating.”

He glances at you. “That bad?”

You nod. “It’s like… I want something real. But everyone I meet makes me feel stupid for asking.”

Ni-ki stays quiet for a second.

Then: “They’re the stupid ones.”

You glance over. “What?”

He shrugs. “For not seeing it. For not recognizing you’re the kind of person people should want.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. His eyes are on the floor, hands fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie.

You laugh weakly. “Why can’t I just date someone like you?”

His whole body stiffens.

You blink. “Ni-ki?”

He moves too fast. Reaches for the glass on the table. Misses. Knocks it over. It clatters loudly — empty, but loud enough to make you jump.

“Shit—” He rushes to grab it. “I—sorry, sorry. I wasn’t expecting—”

“What did I say?” you ask slowly.

He freezes with the glass in his hand. Doesn’t look at you.

You sit up straighter. “Ni-ki.”

He exhales hard, then sets the glass down. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair.”

You stare. “What do you mean?”

Finally — finally — he turns to you. And his eyes are bare.

Not guarded. Not teasing. Just real.

“Because I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that this—” he gestures between you “—was just a phase. That eventually you’d stop showing up at my place with tears in your eyes. That I’d stop wondering what it would be like to be the one you chose.”

You go silent.

Ni-ki lets out a small laugh, bitter and soft. “But I never got over you. I don’t think I ever will.”

Your throat tightens. “You never said anything.”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you just because I caught feelings first.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

The Ni-ki who made fun of your bad taste in ramen. Who used to walk you home in high school just because. Who showed up at every breakup with your favorite snacks and a movie cued up. That Ni-ki has been in love with you this whole time?

“I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same,” he murmurs.

You whisper, “What if I do?”

He stops breathing.

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his — slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“I think I’ve been trying to find pieces of you in everyone I’ve dated,” you say quietly. “But no one comes close.”

Ni-ki swallows hard. “You’re serious?”

You nod.

The quiet between you stretches — long and full of something new. Something changing.

Then he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod again.

So he does.

And it’s everything — every unsaid word, every held breath, every day he stood at your side wondering what it would feel like to be wanted back. His hands are gentle. His lips are soft and searching. And when he pulls away, his voice is the quietest it’s ever been.

“I’ve always been yours,” he whispers.

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